Bad Reputation: The Complete Collection

by Matt Hader

  “Danny, talk to your father before you do that, okay? Danny?”

  And then it hit her.

  She had not actually considered anyone but herself for the past couple of days. No real thoughts of her cheating, soon-to-be ex-husband. No thoughts about Danny, or her more troubled patients. Even while she painfully recalled Dougie’s exploits and the near legal fiasco that he’d gotten her into, her mind was mostly clear of her own personal troubles.

  Definitely, the way she ultimately attained her goal involved felony-level crimes, but hell, that was okay with her right now. She could live with that.

  Dougie was a total moron, that was a certainty, but she had been able to finally let go and do only for herself. She never realized how freeing the achievement could feel, no matter how illegal her activities were.

  She shook that warm, and pleasant, thought away, and spoke into the cell phone once again, “Okay, honey, I love you.” She rang off the call and took a deep, and cleansing breath.

  As the captain stood, Sharon reached out and grasped the pinky of his left hand -- the hand without a wedding ring on it -- and gently tugged the captain back into his seat.

  She said, “I’m Sharon.”

  ###

  Fearless

  9 months after Bad Reputation

  Keith Michaels watched in stunned silence as a female realtor, dressed in a perfectly tailored skirt suit, placed a Sold placard atop of the For Sale sign on the property directly across the street from his own home.

  Keith’s nose crinkled as he took in the sight, and he exhibited all of the neurotic and twitchy mannerisms of a 147-pound human marmot. He wondered who actually purchased the 100-year old house with the beautiful, tree-filled, double-sized lot. The property had only been on the market for one day. He worked for the past fifteen years as a realtor in the Northwest suburbs of Chicago and never experienced any house of his ever selling in less than a week or two.

  Keith’s financial life still hadn’t rebounded after he purchased what he thought was a gold mine of a commercial property on the popular, and quite busy, Randall Road retail shopping corridor in nearby McHenry County. It turned out that the land was not properly zoned, and he lost his monetary ass in the deal. But more importantly, Keith nearly lost his life when he was unable to repay the interest owed to the mobster who loaned him the cash to purchase the land.

  “Keith? Hey, Michaels, you with me? Dude, snap to,” said the sharp female voice.

  “I’m sorry, Crystal, but I just don’t see it,” he said, as he turned away from the realtor and placed his hands on his hips. He tried to do his best to remain good-humored as he attempted to locate the problem with his next-door neighbor’s lawn.

  Crystal, dressed in extreme form-fitting active wear, huffed her way off of her front porch, marched closer, and pointed rather, well, pointedly, at the grass bordering both of their front lawns.

  “Plain as day, dude. I can’t have that happening this early in spring. What will it look like come August, huh? Do something about it,” she said as she edged sideways to get a better look. She purposefully and rudely nudged Keith with each half step. “I hope it doesn’t become permanent.”

  He silently seethed as she took short sidesteps to get a better 360-degree look at the lawn problem. Keith rolled his eyes but allowed her to push him in a slow semi-circle.

  Keith had to gather all of the constraint he could. It wasn’t that he didn’t daydream, from time to time, about cold-cocking another human being with a right hook, but he really wasn’t one for physical confrontations. He simply lacked the muscular body mass for sustained battle. He did, however, admire people who could instantly throw punches if they were ever confronted with danger -- or in this case a shapely woman who forcefully and aggressively invaded their personal space. Those who could violently protect themselves, in a strange way earned Keith’s respect.

  Early in life, Keith learned that it was much easier, all-around, if he just curled up into a tight ball, like a Texas-highway-skirting armadillo, when faced with any sort of physical threat. He discovered this about himself through trial - and mostly error. By the time he entered high school, he was an expert at blending into his surroundings, where he slunk along the edges of his school’s tangible and social structures. Hiding in plain sight. Staying clear of confrontation.

  Of course, like most adults, he furthered his adaptation to modern life by training himself to control his anger so that he wouldn’t get his ass kicked. Adult ass-kickings usually involved expensive hospital visits.

  And with his neighbor Crystal, he didn’t want to suffer the additional psychological wounds and embarrassment of getting beaten up by a sexy lady wearing what appeared to be a painted-on purple, ultra-sheer body suit.

  He finally noticed what would best be described as a two-inch wide bruise angled across the first 12-inches of Crystal’s grass near the sidewalk. Keith moved away from Crystal, stood over the top of the lawn blemish, and contemplated his next move in quelling the problem. He pretended to consider deeply the difficulty, even though it wasn’t really a problem at all – for him.

  Crystal was an attractive and quite shapely 35-year old yoga instructor, but she lacked several of the psychological components that made up the verbal filter most humans possessed.

  “That kid of yours needs to get better with his wheels. He’s tearing this place apart. Holy hell. Look at your piece of shit lawn. We can’t have that here,” she said.

  “I’ll make sure Kenny knows to take a wider turn.”

  “There you go.” Crystal smiled and moved to slap Keith on the ass.

  “Whoa. Hey!” said Keith as he jerked his body sideways to avoid the spank.

  “Grow a pair, Michaels,” said Crystal, as she walked back onto the porch of her recently-rehabbed and stunningly beautiful 110-year old home. “My girlfriend has more balls than you.” She gave him a toodle-oo wave and stepped into her home.

  Keith surveyed his own lawn, which was trashed from an array of crisscrossing, two-inch wide muddy wheel marks. He didn’t care about the lawn damage one little bit. He was just glad that his wheelchair-bound ten-year old son, Kenny, was happily making new friends and discoveries in their new neighborhood.

  Before they moved into the town limits of Balmoral, little Kenny Michaels, who was injured in a pool diving accident a few years earlier, was usually holed up in the huge home on the cul-de-sac where they used to live. But the young boy’s typical downbeat persona began to blossom into a jovial, warm and outgoing nature directly after the move. And that, more than almost anything in the entire world, made Keith’s heart soar.

  Keith’s lawn was the least of his problems. He had house rehab troubles on his mind and he needed to hit the home improvement center on Route 12 to get the materials required to fix things. The new shower stall he built into the second floor bathroom of his 100-year old Sears Craftsman on Ray Avenue was slowly leaking into the living room below.

  In all actuality, the minor leak wasn’t any trouble whatsoever. It was a challenge that he took much delight in handling.

  Keith, aside from his own realtor job, was also a local Balmoral village council member. He typically feared his customers and constituents alike -- their constant bitching and moaning over this, that, and the other. It was amazing that he ever got anything done in life for fear that he would make someone angry with him.

  But that all changed when he found some spine back in June of 2010. His life did a ‘180’ when the very prolific criminal known as the Baby Face Robber confronted Keith over missing money -- donated funds earmarked by the robber to help his community -- that Keith had, indeed, stolen.

  In the face of his potential demise by the armed and dangerous baby-face-mask-wearing man, Keith, for the first time in his adult life, truly stood his ground without backing down. He verbally vomited a
ll of his troubles away. Keith, like a talkative salmon needing to spawn before dying, just had to tell another human about all of his shortcomings as they related to his family and business lives. Everything. The cash he stole from city hall, the mobster who would kill him if he didn’t pay back money owed, etc. It was his destiny to vocally spew forth. And the Baby Face Robber, inexplicably, stood pat and truly listened to all the sordid details.

  It turned out to be a significantly cleansing moment for Keith, and his life changed dramatically afterwards. Mostly because, after their confrontation, the Baby Face Robber generously left behind enough cash to help Keith get closer to the break-even point of his financial troubles. Keith Michaels saw it all as a sign from above that he needed to be stronger in his daily life -- to stand up for himself -- to not back down so easily.

  He also made a concerted effort to quickly get over the fact that what amounted to his snot-soaked sniveling had benefited him in a financial manner. Keith was overly grateful but never able to directly express his appreciation to the Baby Face Robber for pushing him closer to moving into the financial black.

  In all actuality, Keith really did know whom to thank, but he chose to never divulge his knowledge to anyone. Who was he to look a gift horse like John Caul, a Balmoral town outcast and the actual robber, in the mouth?

  Keith decided, instead, to pay back his debt in small increments to the world at large, evident by his interaction with his dominant neighbor Crystal. He could’ve easily said, “Look, lady, what in the hell is wrong with you? My kid is in a goddamn wheelchair and not in control of all his movements,” but he didn’t do that. He let it slide. That’s how he showed strength these days. That and she would’ve probably kicked his ass if he had spouted off, but more the former than the latter.

  That kind act by the baby-face mask-wearing John Caul in 2010, when he left behind $45,000 in cash, allowed for Keith to ultimately get a ruthless loan shark named Franky ‘Five Bucks’ Gregers off his back. The loan shark had taken advantage of Keith’s desperation as he tried to lock down that hinky Randall Road land development deal.

  Keith needed for the deal to work so that he could finally get out from under his controlling father-in-law’s thumb. Keith’s father-in-law owned an extremely successful HVAC company in the Chicago area. He serviced the heating/air-conditioning needs of major building sites from the south side, through the Loop, and all the way up to the Wisconsin border. His father-in-law blithely used his riches to figuratively neuter Keith whenever he had the chance.

  Keith simply wanted to take care of his family on his own terms, but the going was tough, mostly because his father-in-law undermined him at every turn.

  After he paid back the loan shark his initial $50,000, Keith stepped way out of his avoid-danger-at-any-cost comfort zone. He threatened Franky with death to compel him to back off his repeated requests to pay an additional $100,000 in vig. Keith warned the loan shark that he was willing to die in order to take him out. And his plan worked.

  Franky ‘Five Bucks’ Gregers begrudgingly forgave the additional amount owed and asked that Keith never contact him again.

  And it all wound up not to matter all that much in the long run because a few months later, the loan shark dropped dead from a massive heart attack. Keith’s confidence had immediately skyrocketed to new heights.

  Shortly after he frightened away the mobbed-up loan shark, Keith moved his family out of the million-dollar home that his overbearing father-in-law had purchased for them. The same father-in-law who, of course, deemed any home Keith could afford would never be good enough for his daughter and his grandchildren.

  When he was not working his day-gig as a realtor, or as a council member, Keith dove right in to fixing up the old house on Ray Avenue that he, himself, had purchased all on his own – with some creative financing help from a local banker friend. The first house repair project he tackled was installing a wheelchair ramp onto the back of the home. He then moved on to widen all of the doorways on the first floor to allow Kenny’s electric chair to pass more easily. Keith also installed electronic touch pads that automatically opened the back porch and the garage doors with the tap of a wheelchair footplate.

  The majority of homes on his street were really coming along, too. Gentrification was in the air. Balmoral had recently proclaimed the area as part of their thriving and expanding historic district, and most of the homes were already fixed up or in the process of being rehabbed back to their original glory. It was quite a sight to behold. Some of the homeowners even went all “painted lady” on their structures. The meticulous handiwork managed to make the neighborhood look more like areas of San Francisco than Balmoral, Illinois -- minus the steep hills, of course.

  As the springtime weather warmed, families would take nightly strolls along the sidewalks where they would admire their safe little community and the beautiful homes that lined the avenues.

  Balmoral was a modern day Mayberry right there on the outer edges of the Chicago area. Keith, his wife Rebecca, and their two children, Kenny, and six-year old Sarah, simply cherished living in the burg.

  ***

  As Keith drove towards the home improvement center, he passed through the downtown area of Balmoral. Other area-dwellers waved and affectionately honked their car horns at him.

  Keith was a minor celebrity in town nowadays, especially after he was chosen, and entrusted, by an anonymous donor to oversee the funds for the perpetual funding of the famous 4th of July festival -- which was nearly canceled for lack of backing in 2010.

  The contributor also deposited a crinkled baby-face mask in the envelope so that Keith would know exactly whom the money came from. The Baby Face Robber, John Caul, was not the most popular guy in Balmoral, particularly after burning down the high school gymnasium back in the 1990s when it was brand new. Balmoral residents recently began, though, to cease their snide comments toward Caul, but they weren’t exactly welcoming, either. Maybe they did know who provided the funding for the festival after all, but were too proud to admit to it outright.

  Not a soul knew about the baby-face mask that arrived with the money, only Keith, and these days, he kept it locked away in his home filing cabinet as a trophy. When he had an exceptionally bad day, he would take the mask from its concealed location and study it. He’d be instantly transported back to the day when he met the masked criminal and his life changed for the better.

  As his van crossed over the freight train tracks on the edge of town, he heard the boom of a shotgun blast. Instead of fearing the sound, Keith knew what it meant -– that the owner of the heavily wooded property, just outside the town limits, was back from his winter home in Riverview, Florida.

  The land owner, a cantankerous 83-year old man named Jenkins, always struck-up lively conversations whenever he saw Keith at the local Gemstone grocery store on Main Street. He was an extremely patriotic ex-Marine and he respected that it was Keith who facilitated the perpetual funding for the famed 4th of July festival.

  Keith slowed his van, stuck his hand out the window and waved to Jenkins. The old man, decked out in mangy coveralls, responded by racking another round into his 12-gauge. He spun and expertly blasted away an aluminum can placed at the base of a 10-foot high earthen berm. Keith repeatedly beeped his horn as applause and drove on.

  ***

  Keith carried a small plastic bag that contained a new rubber gasket, a PVC drain body, and solvent welder to his van in the Home Depot lot. He opened the driver’s door and placed his purchases inside.

  “Hey. You’re Keith Michaels, right? The village councilman.”

  Keith spun on his heels with a ready smile and noticed the professional looking young man who stood only five feet away.

  The man said, “Thanks for everything you’ve been doing for the town.”

  Keith stuck out his hand. “You’re very welcome, but
I’m really not doing anything special.”

  “You’re too modest,” said the young man as he completed the handshake. Keith guessed him to be about 30-years old. He was well dressed in a tailored suit, large and a physically fit man, who exuded a calm and cool demeanor. He looked like he could be an off-duty NFL linebacker.

  “I’m sorry. My name is Gregy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gregy. You look familiar. I must’ve seen you around town.”

  “I’m on TV a lot,” said Gregy with a sheepish smile.

  Then Keith got it. “The window treatment guy! Sure, my wife and I see your commercial spots during the news. Gregy’s Window Treatments.”

  Gregy, “The Window Dude,” as he was known in the city, was a local television celebrity, and a fan favorite of housewives all over Chicago. And it wasn’t because of the fantastic deals he offered through his fifteen stores in the area, either. His TV escapades always revolved around him dressed in comical, yet barely there, wardrobes as he hawked his window treatments. His painfully sophomoric ads -- like the one where Gregy mimicked the dress and moves of a Chippendale dancer -– were audience pleasers. His sales, as well as his love life, were booming.

  “Business has been good, but it could always be better. Hey, who couldn’t use a little extra cash, huh? Am I right?”

  Keith laughed, and said, “I hear you, Gregy. I have to get going. Got a leaking drain to repair. But it was nice to meet you. And thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Having troubles at the house on Ray Avenue?”

  This stopped Keith cold for just a moment. His smile froze when the man stepped even closer and leaned in.

  “Sorry, I didn’t give you my full name. It’s Gregy Gregers. I think you knew my dad, Franky ‘Five Bucks’ Gregers.”