Read Online Windy City Blues by Marc Krulewitch - Free Book Online

Hopper painting
Nighthawks
. I decided his name was “Philly.” A few of the tables had a male occupant bent over a glass mug. The only sign of life came from a table in the far corner where four men of ample girth, each wearing a different colored polyester sport jacket, chuckled and snorted around three pitchers of beer.
    I stepped up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud. In one fluid motion Philly reached under the counter, popped off the lid, and slammed down the bottle. “Two bucks,” he said in the unpolished accent one expected from an old guy named Philly.
    Even though I rarely drink alcohol, I sat at the table closest to the four men and sipped from the bottle as if I were just a regular Joe kicking back with a cold one. After struggling a moment with my gag reflex, I caught bits of conversation from the raucous table evoking a reminiscent tone as the men took turns asking “Remember when?” Their overhanging stomachs and patterned sport jackets demonstrated why stereotypes linger through the generations. With references to ’Nam, hippies, and the 1968 Democratic Convention, I safely guessed their age group as late fifties to early sixties.
    I waited for a lull and said, “Gentlemen, may I interrupt a moment?”
    Two of the men glanced at me. The other two tipped their heads back and drained their glasses. After a refill from the one full pitcher, the group ignored me and returned to stories of their gloried past.
    I slid my chair close. They reacted as if strangers often joined them as they got plastered at two o’clock in the afternoon.
    “Hey, guys, I’m looking for Detectives Calvo and Baker.”
    At that, they all glanced up. A Latino-looking cop in a brown polyester sport coat that probably fit him in 1980 said, “So are we,” provoking a collective roar of laughter.
    “Guys, please. I just have a couple questions about a murder investigation.”
    Another cop with closely cropped gray hair and wearing an orange “Illini” sport coat stood and said, “I’m Calvo.” Then another stood and said, “No, I’m Calvo.” Then the same routine took place for Baker and the four stomachs jiggled with joy.
    I tried not to be disgusted by watching veteran cops straight out of an old TV sitcom howling like fools in a dive bar. While I waited for calm, the violent aspect of my genetic profile leaned over the table and swept away the glass mugs and half-full pitchers, transporting the mess either across the room or into someone’s lap. The Latino cop lunged at me. A sidestep and shove—barely a nudge—sent him to the filthy tile floor. The other three stared at the scene, looking confused. Philly and the girls watched impassively.
    “Listen, assholes, you’re all fat and shit-faced, which means I’m in charge. I need to ask Calvo and Baker a few questions. If one or both of them are present, squeal for me.”
    “The one on the floor is Calvo,” orange jacket said. Then the same man said, “I’m Baker.”
    Calvo struggled to his knees and managed to push himself up to a chair. The seam on the back of his jacket had opened up. I almost felt sorry for the slob.
    “Hey, tough guy,” one of them said, “one day we’ll see how tough you really are.”
    “I’m not tough. I’m sober. How about Calvo and Baker join me at that table over there?”
    “How about you go fuck yourself,” Calvo said.
    “I didn’t come here to piss you off. I just need some info.” I walked over to the bar and held up a fifty-dollar bill. “Here’s fifty bucks for the bartender. It’s a prepayment. Fifty bucks’ worth of booze in exchange for ten minutes with Calvo and Baker.” I put the fifty on the counter. Philly glanced at it, then looked back at me.
    I walked to a table on the other side of the room. My four friends stayed put. They looked exhausted.
    “C’mon, Ray,” Baker said. “Let’s see what the little shit wants.”
    My two new buddies wobbled over to the table. It amazed me how booze turned a