Bad Reputation: The Complete Collection

by Matt Hader

  “Ask for Ms. Lilly. Give this to her. Say it’s from Arthur. She’ll understand,” said the old man, excitedly.

  “Wait, why aren’t you coming inside?” asked Larry, feeling a ring inside of the purple felt bag.

  “You obviously don’t have a romantic bone in your body,” said Mr. Herman. “If she’s willing to take what’s in the bag, you come and get me. I’ll be waiting across the street there by that pear tree and the park bench. I know this may seem silly to you, but humor me, okay?”

  The lobby was occupied by a few bored elderly people, most dressed in robes. The front counter receptionist, a tough-looking large woman in her forties, looked up as Larry approached.

  “May I help you?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “I’m here to see Ms. Lilly,” said Larry.

  The woman’s face froze for just a moment, and then she sized Larry up and down. “It’s about time someone got here”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You’re here for her things, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Larry’s heart sank as he quickly grasped the situation. All he could say was, “Here for her things. Yes.”

  In the third floor room formerly occupied by the late Ms. Lilly, the front counter woman pointed to a box sitting on the bed. “Well, that’s it.”

  The room had a closet, a bed, an over-stuffed chair and a small table sitting between the two pieces of furniture. There were no pieces of artwork on the walls or photographs displayed.

  “We have to get the room ready for our next occupant,” said the woman. “We got a two week rule. You gotta pick it up in time. It’s a good thing you finally got your ass out here, ‘cause I was going to toss all of this shit-”

  “I’ve got it. Thanks,” said Larry, cutting her off, as he stepped over to open the box. The woman huffed from the room.

  Inside the box Larry could now see framed photos and knickknacks. The photo on top of the stack showed a 70-year-old Ms. Lilly and her bald husband smiling warmly and seated properly in a living room. That’s when Larry noticed the corner of a colorful canvass painting – identical to the paintings lining the walls of Mr. Herman’s home, peeking out from under the stack of photos. He made sure the front counter woman was gone before lifting the stack of photos off of the canvass.

  As he pulled the one-foot square sized canvass from the box, he smiled. Ms. Lilly had painted her and a uniformed version of a young Mr. Herman, standing outside Mr. Herman’s house shown in better times. In the painting, they smiled and held hands. Ms. Lilly’s signature was plainly seen at the lower right corner of the piece along with the year it was created – Beth Lilly, 1997.

  Larry replaced the canvass into the box, and without another word, he left the facility.

  Out in the parking lot, Mr. Herman lowered his head when he saw the expression on Larry’s face as he carried the lone box to the car’s trunk. Larry put the box away and got into the driver’s seat. Mr. Herman said, sullenly, “Let’s go, kid.”

  After driving for twenty miles, Mr. Herman finally broke the silence by asking, “How long ago?”

  “Two weeks,” said Larry.

  “She had no other family. Kid, I know you’re not one for talking much, but could you give this old man a few minutes to get something off his chest? Would you do that?”

  For the next thirty minutes Larry sat in for Mr. Herman’s priest, listening as he confessed his shortcomings in regard to the lovely Beth Lilly.

  Arthur Herman and Beth Lilly lived right next door to one another for the majority of their childhoods. She and her family moved next door when Beth and Arthur were both five years old.

  “She lived in the exact home that Peter the putz lives in now,” said Mr. Herman with a sad chuckle. Arthur and Beth were inseparable, and as they came of age, fell deeply in love with one another.

  “Before I was shipped off to Europe with the Army, I made a horrible mistake,” the old man said. “I had a fling with one of Lilly’s and my former classmates from Balmoral High. It was a drunken and stupid thing to do, is what it was. We couldn’t overcome my screw-up. We tried getting back together but it never took. We were over. A few months after our break up, Beth got engaged to a medical student at the University of Chicago. He was a real smart son of a bitch, too. Book smart, you know?”

  The medical student was a solid individual; trustworthy and exceptionally intelligent. In a fit of jealous pettiness, Arthur Herman got a female friend of his to call Beth on the telephone and tell her that she was also seeing the doctor-to-be.

  Mr. Herman said, “It was a horrible lie to pedal, but the ploy worked. Beth broke off their engagement after the phone call.”

  The guilt over his ruse ate away at Arthur, though, and while stationed in England he wrote Beth a letter of admission. He said, “I was never sure if she received the letter or not, but after I got back from the war, I learned that she did ultimately marry the medical student.”

  “I’m not proud of this, but over the years I kept track of her. She never did have any children. That doctor husband of hers passed away in the 1990’s. I’ve thought about this day for nearly twenty years. The day I’d make her my own. An old friend of ours told me a year ago that she’d been suffering from dementia, but I don’t care about all of that. I still love her. It took me this long to get up the nerve to come out this way. I figured the anniversary date of us first meeting all those years ago was a good day. Figured wrong.”

  Arthur Herman never married or had another meaningful relationship for the rest of his life. He stayed in the house that he was raised in after both of his parents died in the 1960’s. He said, “I just kept my head low, and lived my life as best, and as honestly as I could. I’ve been living inside of my own head ever since.”

  While listening, Larry couldn’t help but see the parallels between Mr. Herman’s love for Beth Lilly and his own for working to create vibrant plates of food. He knew that it wasn’t a perfect parallel, but after the old man’s last statement, Larry felt a sharp verbal hit to the gut.

  It was dark when the Packard rolled back down Mr. Herman’s driveway and pulled slowly into the open garage. Officer Jimmy Caul and Peter, the asshole next door neighbor, stepped from the shadows of Peter’s yard and fell in line behind the vehicle.

  “See, I told you. You had just told the old nut not to drive, and thirty minutes after you left this afternoon, he took off like a shot,” said Peter.

  “Let me take care of this” said Jimmy.

  “Sure. Sure. Whatever you say.” A flicker of silence, then Peter continued, “He bumped the car parked across the street when he backed out, too. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure I heard it. I bet there’s paint transfer or something that you can look at. And did you smell his breath when you were here before? I think he’s been drinking!”

  “Uh, huh.”

  Larry pulled the Packard into the garage. Mr. Herman was asleep in the passenger seat, and Larry figured he’d let the old man rest a while longer while he unloaded the box from the trunk.

  “Mr. Herman, turn the car off and step out of the vehicle,” said Jimmy, with a commanding voice.

  Larry checked the rear view mirror, and in the darkness he could barely make out the image of the tough Balmoral cop standing directly in back of the car with his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “What the hell?” Larry asked no one.

  “Do what the officer says, old man!” screamed Peter.

  And that’s when Mr. Herman woke from his nap. He looked at Larry and groggily said, “What the hell?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering, too,” Larry said as he turned the engine off, opened the driver’s door, and stepped out.

  The old car had no dome light, and when the driver’s door opened, Jimmy saw movement in the darkened garage and said
, “Step towards my voice with your hands above your head, Mr. Herman. Do it now,” Jimmy said in a firm voice. “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  “I warned you this would happen. Serves you right.” said the asshole neighbor Peter, who was standing a few feet behind Jimmy with a big smile on his face. “I told him but he never listened, Jimmy. Stubborn fool.”

  Larry did as he was told and moved towards Jimmy. “You scared the hell out of me, man,” said Larry as he appeared from the shadows.

  Jimmy and Peter stood in silence, visibly confused for a moment, broken by Peter, “Where’s Mr. Herman?

  “I’m right here, you idiot,” screamed Mr. Herman as he stepped from the passengers door and bee-lined right up to Peter’s nose.

  “Just a mix up, Mr. Herman. Everything’s fine now,” said Jimmy. He patted Larry on the shoulder and added, “Sorry about that, sir.”

  Larry would have loved to tell off the cop, but instead he nodded a ‘no problem’ and leveled his gaze on Peter, the real culprit in this entire fiasco.

  “They switched places. That’s the only logical explanation. Arrest him. Arrest him!” said Peter.

  Jimmy let out an audible sigh, and his face screwed up in exasperation.

  “You’re an asshole. And you will always be an asshole, Pete.” said Mr. Herman, snickering.

  “It’s Peter.”

  Through a crooked smile, Jimmy said, “Good night, gentlemen,” and he walked from the rear yard. Peter followed behind him softly pleading his case. No longer in view, Jimmy could be heard saying, “Mr. Herman’s right, you are kind of an asshole, Pete.”

  “It’s Peter!”

  Larry opened the trunk, picked up the box and said, “I was caught vandalizing a garage.” And without another word, he carried the box into the kitchen. Mr. Herman followed slowly as a smirk crossed his wrinkled face.

  “That’s it?” said Mr. Herman breaking the silence. “My Sergeant issued a warrant for my arrest in 1944 for going AWOL.” laughed the old man as he shuffled to the fridge. “You want some coffee, or something to drink?” he asked, his voice breaking.

  Larry smiled, “Thanks, but I have to head home.”

  Mr. Herman sat at the kitchen table and nodded at the floor. He said, “Okay. You have a wife or girlfriend waiting?”

  “Don’t have a place of my own yet. I still live at home with my dad,” said Larry.

  Larry placed the Packard’s keys and the small felt bag on the table, turned to leave, and said, “Good night, Arthur. And man, I’m sorry…”

  Mr. Herman said, “Before you go, would you mind taking the box into that side room. Oh, and this too,” he added, sliding the felt bag across the table. “And I still haven’t paid you.”

  Larry said, “Don’t worry about that. We’re good.” He didn’t want the old man’s money now, not after the day they just experienced together.

  Larry grabbed up the felt bag and box and walked it into the side room. He could feel the ring again inside the felt bag as he gently placed it on the desk. He noticed that one of the deep, built-in, drawers under the windowsill was open. He leaned over to get a better look inside and that’s when he saw it.

  It sat inside of an opened felt covered box and it was very impressive looking – a blue, star spangled ribbon over the top of a gold medal. It was a Congressional Medal of Honor awarded to Arthur Eugene Herman, Army Ranger.

  Larry edged in even closer to the drawer and reached under the felt covered case that housed the medal. He pulled the written official citation out of the drawer and held it close.

  It read: ‘Where as Arthur Eugene Herman, operating singularly and without regard for his own safety, advanced forward into enemy lines engaging a fifteen man enemy machine gun squadron. Using his Thompson sub-machine gun, his .45 caliber sidearm, and ultimately the fallen enemy’s weapons after his own ran out of ammunition, he singlehandedly prevented the inevitable ambush of his unit.’

  “That’s what happened when I ran away from my sergeant. He didn’t know where I went, so he issued that AWOL warrant,” said Mr. Herman, now standing just inside the doorway of the room. “I put her through so much hell, and I wanted to be punished for what I had done. All of that happened instead,” he said sadly, pointing to the citation in Larry’s hands. “It wasn’t bravery, it was anger. I was angry with myself and wanted it all to stop. Those unlucky bastards just got in my way.”

  “I’m glad you made it back,” said Larry.

  Mr. Herman looked at the box sitting on the floor and immediately saw the colorful canvass painting inside. A smile creased his lips.

  The old man said, “I know what it’s like to flounder through life, son. You’ve got it all over you. Believe me, it’s no way to live.”

  ***

  As Larry drove home that night, he noticed a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window of a closed diner on Balmoral Road. It was a place called Dink’s Diner. He was so wound up in his own inner turmoil on the ride to Mr. Herman’s home earlier that day that he didn’t even see the placard.

  In the bright sunshine of day, Larry didn’t spot it, but illuminated at night by a single old bulb above the restaurant’s door, he saw the sign.

  The very next day Larry stood on Mr. Herman’s front porch and rang the doorbell.

  The old man opened the door and said, “I got plenty of food, son.”

  “Any chance you can rent a room to a dude until he finds his own place? A dude with a job?” asked Larry – beaming.

  “Nope!” And with that, the old man slammed the door closed.

  Larry was completely in shock. As his confusion turned to anger, the door opened, and Mr. Herman stepped out, smiling.

  “Still can’t take a joke. You’ll have to work on that if you want to stay here.” As Mr. Herman led Larry inside, he added, “I can’t wait to formerly introduce you to our son of a bitch neighbor, Pete.”

  ***

  Late one evening, after all the neighbors had gone to sleep, Larry and Arthur crept from the old man’s house and onto the neighbor’s property. Larry quietly instructed Arthur on how to spray-paint the perfect jagged teeth on the six foot tall rendition of Godzilla that they had created on the side of Peter’s garage. Larry then began working on spray-painting a stacked female version of Mothra to finish up their masterpiece.

  ###

  The Core

  Concurrent with events in Bad Reputation

  A bead of sweat trickled over the bridge of Jack Enright’s nose and into his left eye as he scanned the street from the second floor bedroom window. He’d only been at the home for five minutes but he needed to perform this burglary as quickly as he could and get out. It had taken much longer than he had expected and the woman could return home at any moment.

  This Maggie Lopresta, the lady who owned the house where he stood, had done something that would hurt Enright, he was sure of it. The weekly article that she wrote for the local rag was supposed to be about the lighter side quirks of everyday suburban life, but recently she had written about a family secret that was revealed to her after she performed a seemingly innocuous genealogy search. Apparently, a close relative of hers was a former member of the Chicago mob, or ‘Outfit,’ as it is known. The discovery had unsettled her and made her doubt everything she knew about her family.

  The weekly updates began shortly after Maggie made the error of divulging to the newspaper’s editor the details of the discovery. The opportunistic editor was the one who coerced her into crafting the family secret into an ongoing series for her weekly column. Times were very tight at the newspaper, and Maggie’s boss more than insinuated that her job lay in the balance if she didn’t come up with fresh material for her column.

  With every new portion of her family’s dirty laundry sent wafting into the public air, Maggie’s readership grew exponentia
lly. You could always count on human nature.

  The trouble for Enright started when a man named Vasily, a new criminal cohort of his, noticed Enright’s family name in one of Maggie’s columns. A couple of nights ago, while he was drinking at one of Vasily’s night clubs, Enright made a major faux pas and overreacted to Vasily’s initial, well-intentioned questions about the connection. The nervous Enright spewed, “Back off. There are a shit-ton of assholes in the Chicago area with the name Enright whose relatives worked for the cops. So what? I told you. It’s not my family. I think I’d know about something like that.”

  But it actually was Enright’s immediate family whose name began to surface in Maggie’s weekly article. Enright had to do everything in his power to keep Vasily from finding out.

  Vasily, at first, seemed rankled by Enright’s unusual response to his harmless questions, but the men laughed it off and moved on with their business meeting.

  Enright was hired by Vasily, a recent immigrant from Eastern Europe, to ferret out prospective victims for his and his Russian mob associate’s “Bar Girl” scam. Vasily reasoned that Enright, with his not-quite-legal private detective experience, knew the local area, and had a nose for sighting likely targets. Enright would meander among the classier hotel bars in the O’Hare airport area, locate wealthy men for the Russian mob’s alluring “Bar Girls” to approach, drug, and steal from. Enright would receive 10% of whatever dough the Bar Girls siphoned off their marks. If things worked out, the new side gig could become a very lucrative arrangement for Enright.

  Maggie and her god damn weekly article could screw it all up, though.

  The Bar Girl scam was a high-percentage winner used the world over. Once drugged, the Bar Girls would limo their male victims, who all sported wedding rings (a prerequisite for the scam to be effective) to Chicago-area clubs and nightspots owned by Vasily and his friends. While at any of the Russian mob-owned businesses, the Bar Girls would proceed to run up hefty phantom charges for fine wine and liquors on the victim’s credit cards. The drugs used on the unaware men didn’t completely knock them out – it only blurred their judgment and memories. All of the interactions with the Bar Girls and the victims would be caught on the businesses’ surveillance cameras for later use.