Howard - Hard City

HARD
CITY

by Clark Howard

Also by Clark Howard

The Arm
A Movement Toward Eden
The Doomsday Squad
Last Contract
Siberia 10
The Killings
Summit Kill
Mark the Sparrow
The Hunters
The Last Great Death Stunt
Six Against the Rock
The Wardens
Zebra
Traces of Mercury
American Saturday
Brothers in Blood
Dirt Rich
Quick Silver

Contents

For the next generation

Robert Clark Howard
Scott Ryan Howard
Kyle Steven Howard

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

Hard City is a book that I did not want to write.

Because much of it is based on my life as a wayward boy on the mean streets of Chicago's lower West Side, a life frequently fueled by truancy, petty thievery, gang membership, and other disreputable behavior, I had, as a respectable adult, left those bleak days far behind and buried them deep in my memory. The things I had done back then, the life I had experienced, as well as vivid recollections of my mother's drug addiction and my father's incarceration in federal prison and subsequent disappearance, had all melded together into some dark recess of my mind and, I thought, been locked away forever.

But my beloved wife, Judith Mary Howard, and my longtime mentor and editor, Joyce Engelson, both of whom knew entirely what my background had been, began suggesting, then encouraging, finally nagging me into considering it as a project. Despite knowing all the details of my ignominious past, they were nevertheless convinced that I should preserve it in book form not only for the enlightenment of my three sons, but also my grandchildren, and future generations as well.

I held out for several years, pleading other projects to which I gave priority, but eventually capitulated to these two most important women in my life and began to dredge up all those old memories I thought I had locked away forever.

Hard City is the most difficult book I have ever written. But in the end, I am glad that I wrote it. What I am today as a writer is a result, in part, of what I was as a boy, and it no longer has to be buried deep in my mind. Those old memories have now been shared with everyone.

I no longer have any dark secrets.

Clark Howard
March 30, 2011
Palm Springs, California

Richie stared at his mother. His twelve-year-old eyes had seen a lot, but never anything like this.

His mother was on her knees, alternately clawing the wall with her fingernails and pounding the wall with her forehead. Several of her fingernails had torn and were bleeding. An ugly spot on her forehead was beginning to darken. Richies throat constricted and he fought back tears.

Dont, Richie pleaded. Stop it now. Please.

From behind, Richie clutched his mothers wrists and held her back from the wall. It was not difficult; as thin and undernourished as he was, Richie was stronger than the skeleton his mother had become. Richie tried not to grip her arms too tightly; he was afraid her skin, which looked like old paper, might crack if he did. Slowly pulling her away from the wall, Richie drew the frantic woman to her feet and walked her toward the apartments tiny bedroom. She turned an anguished face toward him.

Richie, get me something. Please get me something....

The only color in her face, Richie saw, was the almost artificial looking dark circles under her eyes; the rest of her face was that same fragile papery tone, the shade of dying skin or proud flesh. Even her lips looked that way. Under her chin some of the flesh hung down to her neck, and on each of her upper arms it draped down in little folds. Her breath was putrid from several rotten teeth that she had not yet pulled out. Patches of hair were gone from her head, and what was left had creeping streaks of gray in it. She looked much older than her thirty-four years.

In the little bedroom, Richie guided her onto a creaky, unmade bed. Lie down and rest, he said.

Richie, get me something, please, she begged again.

Okay, Ill get you something, he said.

Richie hurried to the side of the other room that was the kitchenette. Turning a porcelain knob on the stove, he lit a stick match and touched the flame to one of the grease-caked burners. Removing the top from a chipped, dented percolator, he poured its old, dried coffee grounds into a little brown-stained sink and pulled back the chintz curtain of a cupboard for the coffee. Twisting the lid off the can, he saw with despair that there were only a few grains left.

Richie... , his mother called agonizingly from the bedroom.

Desperately Richie turned to the sink and began to scoop the used coffee grounds back into the percolator. At least itll be hot, he thought. The stark little apartment was like an icebox. Every few minutes he could hear the sound of some tenant pounding the radiator pipes with a skillet or hammer to get the landlord to fire up the furnace a littleall the while knowing that he would just continue to dole out coal like the miser he was, keeping his own apartment warm with an electric heater.

While Richie was filling the percolator with water, the grease around the gas burner caught fire and he quickly had to find a towel to beat out the flame. He knew better than to throw water on it. He had done that once at the age of ten, in another little apartment; the liquefied hot grease had splattered on his arms. An old woman in an adjoining apartment had put ointment on his burns and told him philosophically, Poor people learn hard lessons.

As Richie relighted the burner, after wiping off the grease, he heard his mother again.

Richieee... !

He put the percolator on the burner and hurried to her. Im making you some coffee

Richie, I dont need coffee! Forcing her head up a few inches, she looked fiercely at him. You get me something right now!

I cant.

Why not?

I dont have any money.

The fierce eyes turned angry. Goddamn you, why not? she demanded, outraged at this new particular of her torment.

You took it the other day, Mother

That is a dirty lie! I never did! Paper-gray lips peeled back over the rotting teeth. Youre a dirty liar, just like your lying father! Get out of my sight! Get out!

Richie went back into the kitchenette and stood staring at the percolator, waiting for it to bubble, thinking about his father. It was the same thought he always had: Where are you? Whereareyou!

From the bedroom he heard a thudding sound being repeated like a slow knock at a door. Going back there again, he saw his mother once more on her knees, clawing and pounding her forehead against the wall.

Shaking his head, Richie returned to the stove and turned off the burner. Coffee, even if it had been fresh, wasnt going to help. What his mother needed was the kind of help he could not give.

He hesitated, fearful, then made up his mind. Beginning to cry, Richie went over to his folding cot. From under it he pulled a cardboard box that held his few extra clothes. There wasnt much to take, he thought, wiping away the first tears, but he knew hed better take what he had. Removing the thin case from his lumpy pillow, he stuffed into it the few things from the box, all of them pitifully threadbare, some even ragged. Crying harder, his nose beginning to run, he pulled out a loose baseboard and retrieved a tobacco can from which he removed a few coins, less than a dollars worth. Pocketing the money, he quickly put on his jacket and cap; sobbing, he tried to ignore the thudding sound coming from the bedroom. But it was like a jackhammer in his head. Twisting the top of the pillowcase tight, he put it under one arm and quickly left the apartment.

As Richie hurried along Damen Avenue, the relentless Chicago wind whipped its January cold against his legs and chest and tear-streaked face. It was past mid-afternoon, the day already beginning to wane toward its early darkness. Shoulders hunched and chin to chest, Richie headed purposefully toward Jackson Boulevard. There, on the corner, he got into a freestanding glass-and-wood telephone booth and quickly closed its folding door against the wind. Immediately it was as if he had entered a tomb: quiet, still, suspended.