Authors: Len Norman
Football and Dima Mudak
1985
R
eg was working New Year’s Day and he was all snuggled in with a cup of coffee as he read an anthology titled
The Fiend in You
. Charles Beaumont was the editor and he also wrote the introduction as well as a nifty nine page short story called “Perchance to Dream.” Reg was a big
Twilight Zone
fanatic and had watched all of the original episodes. He loved to read Charles Beaumont’s short stories. Not just the twenty or so
Twilight Zone
episodes he wrote, he read all of Beaumont’s stuff. The story Reg was reading was a
Twilight Zone
Episode that aired in 1959, a year after it first appeared in
Playboy
. It was a story about a man with a heart condition who had really cool dreams: He dreamt in episodes not unlike a movie serial. He knew if he returned to the dream he’d have a heart attack and die…then again, if he stayed awake too long the burden on his heart would kill him.
Reg loved the ending best. In his dream the man jumped out of the psychiatrist’s window and died and in reality the man fell asleep on the shrink’s couch, let out a scream, and died. Lose-Lose proposition, Reg reasoned. Charles Beaumont was a truly gifted writer, maybe the best ever, or so Reg thought. It was a crying shame that Beaumont died at the age of thirty-eight. He believed a prolific writer like Beaumont had hundreds of good stories left to share. Whatever took him that early was living proof the body really was a traitorous bastard.
Reg was making good money as he sat in his patrol car with the heater on low. Holiday pay was the best of times for him, making double-time-and-a-half on a morning shift when all of the town drunks were sleeping off the usual New Year’s Eve party aftereffects. Their resolutions would be broken within days and the absurdity would resume. Reg never made resolutions; the way he saw it, there was no sense in setting yourself up for failure.
The weather was chilly and the roads were icy and that would keep people in their homes where they belonged. He was annoyed when the dispatcher gave him his first call of the year, an accident at an intersection near the river. Reg fumed as he agreed to see what was up.
He capped his coffee and placed the paperback in his briefcase along with a few other good reads and a wide selection of candy bars and other assorted treats. When he reached his destination there was only one car in the area. The 1980 Bentley Corniche convertible was resting in a ditch. Reg got out and surveyed the scene. The Bentley was abandoned and there wasn’t a soul to be found in the area. It was clear the driver had lost control of his car on the icy pavement. There was no real damage as far as Reg could determine, other than being stuck in the ditch. He figured the driver probably left the area to make a call, so Reg ran the license plate.
“That plate comes back to Dima Mudak on a 1980 Bentley,” the dispatcher said. He advised the dispatcher that he’d wait for the owner to show up and got his book back out and read a few more pages.
A minute or so later the dispatcher was back on the radio and she said, “Mr. Mudak just called and asked for a wrecker to tow his car back to his office. He said you could speak to him there.”
Reg didn’t like Mudak’s attitude and he immediately told the dispatcher, “Negative. You can advise Mr. Mudak to come to my location and tell him I said right away.”
The dispatcher giggled over the radio and she said, “You bet, Reg.”
Reg was aware of who Dima Mudak was, and he wasn’t impressed. Mudak owned a lot of property in Riverside and it was all bought on the cheap. He’d hold onto the property and sell it years later at a profit. The City Commissioners were inclined to give Mudak tax abatements on his land and building acquisitions with a promise he’d create jobs and such. His Bentley was currently out of commission within a few blocks of an industrial park full of promises and fulfillment. Dima made the promises and had plenty of jobs that were fulfilled by ex-cons willing to remove hazardous material for little money and great risk to their health. Riverside’s finest all agreed…Mudak’s employees would soon glow in the dark with the crap they were taking out of abandoned buildings and warehouses all over the state.
Many believed Dima was affiliated with the Russian Mafia. This idea was supported by the Russian Mafia’s “Thieves Code.” Rule number one in the code was:
Help other thieves! Help them with moral and material support, utilizing the commune of thieves.
The Regulators believed that was exactly what Mudak was doing; utilizing the commune of thieves. Reg didn’t know what to make of him. He figured he was part-time asshole and part-time entrepreneur. Dima was currently making a name for himself with gimmick wrestling matches. The stunts ranged from barbed wire steel cages used to contain the contestants to the ever-popular Lumberjack match. The “Lumberjacks” were wrestlers who prevented the main event wrestlers from leaving the ring. This was extremely popular in Riverside, a city with a history of lumberjacks.
Another favorite was, “Fans bring the weapons match.” There was always plenty of room for creativity when that event was held. A few years earlier a man was arrested when he actually brought dynamite to the main event. He wanted to pass a little boom-boom to his favorite wrestler, Danny “Detonation” Demon.
Dima even catered to the ladies. Every Memorial Day weekend he held an annual Pillow Fight competition. Scantily dressed young ladies were able to use pillows to best their adversaries. Dima always made it worth the local talents’ time. The prize was five thousand dollars and the matches went on for hours. Dima was famous nationwide with his outlandish wrestling promotions.
The dispatcher was back on the radio. “Mr. Mudak is on his way,” she said. Moments later a car pulled up and Dima Mudak got out of the passenger side. Reg pointed at the ditch and said, “How’d you manage to get your car to do that?”
“It’s icy. The trucks should be out throwing salt on the streets before somebody gets hurt.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I was only going fifteen miles an hour. You can see my tire tracks in the ice.”
“Can I see your license and insurance as well?”
Mudak shot Reg a dirty look as he opened the glove box in his Bentley and then produced the paperwork. Reg told him to have a seat in the back of his patrol car.
“You look familiar. I believe I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper a time or two. You played football in high school, right?” Reg asked.
“No football. Wrestling.”
“I’m pretty sure you played football and that’s where I saw your picture.”
“No football. Wrestling!”
“I could’ve sworn it was football.”
“You aren’t from around here? You’re new in town?”
“No sir! I’ve lived in Riverside all my life and I’m a big football fan. You played quarterback?”
Dima glared at him. He was livid. “No football! Wrestling. I know the Mayor of Riverside very well.”
“Me too. I voted for the other guy, because he wasn’t a crook. How fast were you going when you lost control of your car?”
“Ten miles an hour.”
“A few minutes ago you said you were doing fifteen. We should split the difference and call it twelve and a half?”
“The Mayor will not be happy.”
Reg gave Mudak a ticket:
Speed Excessive for Conditions – Estimated Speed Twelve and a Half Miles an Hour.
“There you go big boy, you should slow down next time. You could get hurt and ruin your throwing arm. I’ll never forget the big game when you threw all those touchdown passes against Franklin High.”
“No football. Wrestling.”
Reg opened the back door and let Dima out. The wrecker driver was pulling the car out of the ditch and Reg told him, “This is Mr. Mudak and he was a great football player in high school. You better not overcharge him because he knows the Mayor very well.”
Happy Valley Trailer Park
1985
I
t was a hot and humid evening in Riverside. Quentin was working with Reg and things were busy. They were going from call to call and the dispatchers had plenty more calls stacked up and waiting for the likes of Quentin and his good buddy Reg.
“This is surely one bitch kitty of a hot night. I’m thinking of taking my vest off.”
“You better not Quentin. The criminal element voted you as the number-one Riverside Bull’s-eye-wearing motherfucker.”
“My luck? They’ll get me in the head and all of this sweating will be for nothing. ”
Reg was just about ready to crack wise and say something snotty to Quentin when they were nearly broadsided by Ace Stillwell. Quentin was able to swerve just in time. Had there been a collision it would have been Quentin’s fault. He had the yield sign but was too busy looking at other things. One of the fast-food chains was advertising burgers as buy one get one free and Quentin had both eyes on the sign when Ace hit his brakes.
“That dink nearly hit us,” Quentin said as he turned on his overhead lights and hit the siren. “Tell dispatch were gonna be a little tardy on the next call.”
Before Reg could even remind him about the yield sign, Quentin was at Ace’s 1972 Buick Electra. This particular model featured the “225” emblem but Reg opted for the “street name” and told dispatch they’d be out with a deuce and a quarter. Before he could get out of the car, Quentin was already yelling at Ace, “What in the hell were you thinking? We had the right of way!”
Ace and Reg were both looking at the yield sign when Quentin ordered Ace to produce his license and told him he’d been speeding. “You lost that right away when you went too fast,” Quentin said.
Ace had plenty of dealings with cops like Quentin and Reg. He was street savvy and not inclined to sit there and take the particular horseshit Quentin was shoveling.
“I was doing twenty-five but you were too busy looking at the fast-food sign. I think your partner should give
you
a ticket.”
“Sit tight stupid. I’ll be right back.”
Quentin walked back to the patrol car and sat down behind the wheel. He pulled out his ticket book and started writing. Reg was curious.
“Whatcha doing? He had the yield sign,” Reg said.
“Anybody that doesn’t yield to a cop car is looking for trouble. He’s getting a ticket for careless driving.”
“If you say so.”
“Ace Stillwell is a piece of shit. A couple of months ago he beat up his girlfriend. She claimed she fell down the stairs before I arrived. She was afraid to tell me what really happened. The neighbor said Ace beats her on a regular basis. When she lied about how she was injured that craphead was grinning at me from ear to ear. She ended up going to the hospital,” Quentin said.
He finished writing the ticket and got out of the car and told Reg to sit tight. He walked up to Ace and handed back his driver’s license. The ticket was on Quentin’s clipboard.
“You’re getting a warning. I was going to write you a ticket but I changed my mind. Start paying better attention before you end up hurting somebody. I know you’d feel bad if anyone ever got hurt and it was your fault.”
Quentin got back in the patrol car and placed the ticket above the visor after he ripped up Ace Stillwell’s copy of the ticket. He smiled at Reg and said, “The next time I see that hound fucker, the warrant will be out for his failure to appear in court on this here careless driving ticket.”
“Good thinking, Quentin. You could even wait until after hours on Friday and the dipshit can cool his heels all weekend before he appears in front of the judge on Monday morning.”
“That’s right and a few months after that? I’ll tell him that his copy of the ticket must have fallen down the stairs.”
They cleared the traffic stop and continued onto the next call. Brad Masterson and his girlfriend were fighting again. Quentin pulled up left of curb in front of their place and got out of the car. He parked illegally so he could save himself another fifty feet of walking. It was that hot. Reg knocked on the door but the two lovebirds screaming at each other prevented them from hearing. He began pounding on the door and Brad finally opened it and let them in. He was huge…at least three hundred pounds. Everyone called him “Fats” Masterson. The humor was not lost on the cops.
A few years earlier Brad gave Calvin some sass at a bar fight. Calvin singled him out and said, “Hey Masterson, check out my nightstick. Looks just like a cane, huh? Bat Masterson had a gold-topped cane. You any relation to Bat Masterson? I bet you are, right fatso? That’s it!! Fats Masterson. Hey everybody…this cock knockers name is Fats Masterson.”
Brad charged Calvin like an angry bull. Calvin sidestepped him and slapped him silly with his nightstick, which was shorter than a cane but certainly did the job. Brad ended up in the emergency room and the doctors stitched him up before he spent the entire weekend in jail. The correction officers called him Fats Masterson every chance they had, and the name stuck to him the way stink clings to shit.
Fats Masterson was now standing in the doorway and sweat was dripping down his forehead. He looked more than a little agitated. Reg said, “Hey Fats, the neighbors are complaining about the noise. You think you and Shelly might be able to tone things down a little?”
Before Fats could answer Shelly appeared and began bellowing, “I want that fat cocksucker out of here right now. We’re through with one another! He threatened to beat me up. Do your duty officers! Make him leave.”
Shelly was as skinny as Brad was fat. They were both drunk. She was dressed for the heat wave, wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed, “Mean People Suck.” Her red shorts were several sizes too large and she was holding them up with one hand while shaking the finger of her other hand at Masterson.
“Fuck you, Fats. You’re out of my life for good and don’t ever come back. I pay the rent and this is my place. You’re dead to me.”
“C’mon Shelly, you don’t mean it. I love you babe.”
“The hell I don’t. Maybe your wife will take you back.”
Quentin intervened. “Let’s go, Fats. We can give you a lift someplace. It’s too damn hot to stand here and argue. Our squad car has the best air conditioning in the entire fleet.”
“If you say so.”
He got in the backseat and Quentin started the car and turned the air on high. Reg said, “What’s your pleasure Fats, your wife’s place? Maybe a buddy will let you spend the night with him? Just give us an address.”
“My other girlfriend will let me stay at her house. She lives on Sycamore Street.”
“You sure she’ll put you up for the night?” Reg asked.
“I’m positive, we get along great.”
They drove to the address Fats gave them and Reg got out of the car and knocked on the door. A lady opened it a little and peered out and Reg asked her if she knew Fats Masterson.
“I sure do. That son of a bitch dated my daughter until she found out he had a wife and another girlfriend. She told him to get lost months ago. Is that him in the backseat of your police car?”
“It is. We’re looking to find him a place to spend the night.”
“My best advice is the county jail. He sure as shit ain’t welcome here.”
Reg walked back to the car. Once inside he turned to Fats and said, “You got one more chance before I cart your ass off to jail, any other bright ideas?”
Fats put a great deal of thought into it and finally said, “My wife will be happy to see me. She’s at Happy Valley Trailer Park.”
Quentin made the drive across town and into a neighboring township. The trailer park was a dump. Trash bags all over the place and Quentin thought he saw a raccoon feasting on something inside one of them. He shined the spotlight on it, then hit the siren and watched it scamper away.
Josefina Masterson lived in a forty-five-foot trailer with a small expando that gave the kitchen/living area a little more breathing room. It was one of the shoddiest trailers in the park. The trailer lacked mobile home skirting and that gave vermin an opportunity to take shortcuts from one “home” to another. The house trailer sat on a few concrete blocks placed strategically underneath. Reg shined his flashlight under the Masterson estate and saw a skunk.
He walked up to the front door and the porch was a single wooden pallet with three more cement blocks that served as a stairway. It reminded Reg of a family vacation as a child when he was fifteen and visited Kentucky with his parents after a distant relative died and reportedly left money to his mother. They went home with nothing but a lasting impression of Kentucky rural living.
Reg looked back at the patrol vehicle and it appeared Quentin was yelling at Fats, who was still seated in back. It was Reg’s deepest desire that Josefina would take Fats off their hands. Reg stood on the pallet next to the cement blocks and knocked sharply on the door with his nightstick. Josefina answered the door, and Reg’s first reaction was the ghastly trick nature had played on this woman. She was a giant and her abnormal body growth clearly distorted her facial features. Josefina’s jaw protruded in a way Reg never thought possible. She suffered from failing eyesight as well as joint and muscle pain. Her untreated Acromegaly led to excessive perspiration and offensive body odor. She was barrel chested and honestly made Ma Kettle look like a knockout. Another thing, Josefina despised her estranged husband Fats with a passion.
“You must be Mrs. Masterson?”
“What of it?”
“We have your husband Fats in the backseat. He’s been drinking and we were hoping he could spend the night with you. He said you wouldn’t mind.”
“That bastard! I’ll kill him.” She vaulted over the wooden pallet and ran toward the patrol car. Within a few seconds she was beating her mammoth fists on the window near Fats. “Let me at him!”
Fortunately for Fats the back doors were both locked. Reg opened his door and dove in the front seat, fearing whatever Josefina had might be contagious. “Get us the hell out of here right now.” He turned around and looked in the backseat. “You lying dink, you’re under arrest!”
Quentin placed the car in drive and gave it some gas and the left rear tire nearly ran over Josefina’s foot. He continued driving and she was actually trying to hang on. She was beating the trunk of the squad car before falling face first on the dirt path called Happy Lane, which served as the main thoroughfare of the trailer park. They passed a sign promising cheap monthly rates and plenty of vacant lots for galvanized condo living.
By the time they reached the police station Reg had calmed down and they walked Fats into the booking room. Reg told Fats they should’ve arrested him in the first place instead of wasting valuable time.
“You probably should’ve. At least then the arrest would have been legal. You guys really screwed the pooch,” Fats said.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Reg asked.
“You dumbasses placed me under arrest outside your legal jurisdiction. Happy Valley Trailer Park is in the township about a mile or so outside of Riverside.”
“Horseshit! You were in the car the entire time, which happens to be city property. The rubber tires insulated you from ever being outside of Riverside. The only one that was in the Township was me when I walked to the trailer. The arrest was legal. Anybody with a lick of common sense knows that much.”
“I want to call my lawyer. I get one call. Can I see a phonebook?”
Quentin pushed the phone across the desk and handed Fats the phonebook. He didn’t call a lawyer, having already decided he’d plead guilty to the chickenshit drunk charge. Fats was a comedian. He’d just dialed his friend’s number and was listening to the phone ring. He figured Speed McCullough would be home and he was right.
“Hello,” Speed said.
“Hey! I wanted to let you know, I just got arrested. The cops are looking for a bad motherfucker and a retard. They got me so you might want to grab your crayons and your helmet and run like hell!”