 
### God and The Saber-Toothed Tiger

### &

Other Short Stories

(Including excerpts from The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series Novels)

Cover Art by Gustavo Rodriguez and Ricardo Fey

Copyright © 2016 EDWARD G. WEISS

Published by EDWARD G. WEISS at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
About Ed Weiss

In another life, Ed was a Full Professor of Economics and Business Ethics at National-Louis University, Chicago, IL. He was responsible for the development of his University's MBA Program and one of the world's first on-line Business Administration Programs. He has taught for Bethel College, North Newton, KS, a Mennonite school, Aquinas College, Grand Rapids, MI, a Catholic one and the University of Maryland, University College in Europe. Before his academic career, he had been a NASD Principal, as well as a Home Office Life Insurance Underwriter, and then a Brokerage Field Underwriter. He was also the host of Ed-Itorial Weiss-Cracks on WELM-TV in East Lansing, MI. Presently, he is just a retired old-fart and an author in sunny Ajijic, Mexico. Further information including his vita, can be obtained at http://eddieg.theblogpress.com. He can be contacted at eddiegTHOI@gmail.com.
Table of Contents

Title Page

Short Stories

God and the Saber-Toothed Tiger: Pay Attention

The Toilet: Up is wrong! Down is correct!

Politics and Self-Interest in Smalltown

The Low-Down Librarian

Lake Michigan's Other Shore

Pinochle

Our Last Christmas

Their Existence Was A Result of Bigotry

I Was a Murder Suspect

Excerpts from Novels

Hammering Nails Can Be Murder: It Was A Helluva Funeral

Felony Murder: The Grandson Apple Didn't Fall Far from the Grandfather Tree

Sometimes the Innocent Pay

The Droopy-Eyed Bank Robber

The Gringo Mayor of Ajijic

Stosh the Cop's First Case

About the Author
Short Stories

God and the Saber-Toothed Tiger: Pay Attention

Not one of the three people in front of me was paying enough attention to their present task to be ready to pay the grocery store cashier after their purchase had been rung up. Each of them in turn appeared as a startled dear in headlights when the cashier announced the price of their purchases. It was only then that each of them reached into their pocket or purse to extract either money or a checkbook so that they could pay their bill. This was in spite of the fact that we were all in the Express Check-Out line.

At least the two who paid cash didn't delay the rest of us any longer. The one who paid with a check, of course, had to fill it out while the rest of us waited.

It doesn't do any good to point out to these people the errors of their ways.

If one has the bad sense to try to do so, what one would get in return is a "Mind your own business!" or a "What? You in a special hurry or something?"

That's if you're lucky. It is quite possible that you would receive a vulgarism or even an offer to enter into a physical confrontation.

A "This is my business!" retort to the first and a "Why do you think I am in the Express Check-Out lane?" to the second does absolutely no good.

There's little one can do if the latter two possibilities occur.

It is just best to grin and bear it in the first place.

It isn't much different in the aisles.

There are many shoppers who seem to have taken a course in how to abandon their shopping cart exactly in the middle of the aisle slanted in such a manner while they meander looking for, I am sure, they know not what. Such a clever maneuvering of their abandoned shopping cart makes it impossible to push your cart forward on either side of the one that has been so abandoned.

Any mention of this by you to them is more than likely to receive a response similar to the ones already mentioned.

Again, it is just best to grin and bear it in the first place.

Now that we have cell phones to make already horrible drivers even worse, to enable them to drive as poorly as if they were intoxicated, defensive driving has become more of a chore than it already was.

Walking behind an obtuse threesome stretching across the entire sidewalk has always been a problem. Walking towards that threesome who seem to be enjoying themselves and each other so much that even when they look up and see someone approaching them, they still continue on their path as if it had been preordained that they should be allowed to do so and the approaching party should be obliged to merge with the wall of the adjacent building.

Now, one has to practice defensive walking like never before. Not only young people, a goodly proportion of them walking like they're drunk, looking down instead of ahead. They're not only texting or receiving one, they are deaf as well due to their headphones which enable them to either talk to a third party while texting or be listening to music loud enough to prevent them from hearing an "Excuse me!" Worse yet, they probably couldn't hear a car horn warning them that they were about to be disenabled.

The first time I saw someone talking to themselves like that I suspected that it might well be a person with an addled brain. Now, I am sure of it!

Still waiting in that Express Check-Out line, there was an announcement over the store's speaker system. The voice was reminiscent of George Burns, the actor.

"Attention! Attention, please! I suggest that you all pay close attention. This is God speaking. I have been watching all of you, and I have come to the conclusion that the ability to pay attention seems to have been bred out of almost all of the members of the human race. That is not the way I created you. I intend to correct this evolutionary flaw. At exactly noon Greenwich Mean Time tomorrow, I will be releasing several millions of saber-toothed tigers around the world. They will be wandering this planet of ours for the next seven days. For the next seven days, I suggest that you all pay close attention."

"I repeat!"

"At exactly noon Greenwich Mean Time tomorrow, I will be releasing several millions of saber-toothed tigers around the world. They will be wandering this planet of ours for the next seven days. For the next seven days, I suggest that you all pay close attention."

I was sure that a goodly number of people weren't paying attention and didn't hear the warning. Maybe next week, I would not have to pay so much attention to those who didn't pay attention.
The Toilet: Up is wrong! Down is correct!

She heard her husband urinating on the top of the toilet seat. It was the middle of the night, but he was still drunk from the evening before.

Tomorrow morning would be their seventh wedding anniversary, 2556 days counting the one leap year, twice or more that many fights, both in public and in private, almost always about that damned toilet seat.

He insisted that "It should be left up, damn it!"

In the beginning, she had thought it just one of his idiosyncrasies, and while she insisted on holding her own, she didn't think much of it, this in spite of her all too often sitting down on the cold porcelain and slipping down and getting her bum wet.

Her response was, "If there was just the one part on which one sat, I could see an argument either way even if I still believe common courtesy weighs in a woman's favor in that she faces discomfort if the seat is up in her attempt to use the toilet while a man only faces a bit of a mess if the seat is down and he urinates on it. However, a toilet seat consists of two parts, the lid in addition to the seat. The only possible use the lid could have is to not be left up. Otherwise, there is no need for it. So, its natural position must be down, and if it is down, the other part must be down as well. Therefore, it should be obvious that the alternatives are not equal. Up is wrong! Down is correct!"

Her husband's position was not, however, idiosyncratic! It was downright nasty! He bitched at her at home whenever he went to urinate which was quite often since, if he wasn't an alcoholic, he was a near one. Then, he bitched about her to everyone he spoke to everywhere he went.

She asked herself, "Why do I stay? Of the two of us, I am the smartest! Why do I stay? Of the two of us, I have the best education! Why do I stay? Of the two of us, I have the best job! Why do I stay? Of the two of us, I make the most money! Why do I stay?"

The next morning on their seventh wedding anniversary, she would be able to handle that question. She would announce, "I am leaving!" and never again have to face her inquisition.

When she awoke, her husband was in the shower. He saw her as the same time she saw him.

He immediately bitched, "You left the seat down. I pissed all over the top of the toilet seat!"

Before she could respond, he stepped forward in the shower, slipped and fell. He grabbed for the now upright toilet seat as he fell which did him no good at all as it accompanied him down on his abject decent. He hit his head on the base of the toilet.

She ran to him and felt for his pulse.

There wasn't one.

Her husband was dead!

She used the bedroom phone extension to call 911 for the now non-emergency. She gave the person on the other end the necessary information, hung up the phone and glanced back at her dead husband.

She began to laugh, hysterically.

She was still laughing when the paramedics arrived.

For the first time in the bastard's life, he had finally put the toilet seat down when he was finished.

And now, the bastard was truly finished.
Politics and Self-Interest in Smalltown

Smalltown could have been a small town anywhere in the country. This time, it was between where the young man had been and where he was going.

The car he was driving was a non-descript, black, late model four-door sedan. He was exiting the expressway after several hours of driving, always obeying the 70 MPH speed limit within a mile or two. He was tired and thirsty, a mite hungry as well.

The young man knew he had better slow down because the speed limit would be dropping to 50 MPH as soon as the exit ramp ended. He was down to 51 or 52 when he saw the sign read 40 MPH, not 50. He hit the brake rather hard. He was down to 39 when another sign popped up. It read 30 MPH.

A speed trap!

The young man no sooner passed that latter sign when the red and blue lights went on.

They had him!

The young man was knowledgeable of the correct behavior when trapped by authority, particularly an authority with a gun: Behave! Be silent! Acquiesce in all things!

If there was ever any justice to be had, it was to be had later, after you were no longer trapped by that authority.

The young man pulled over to the shoulder. The lights pulled in behind him. The officer exited the car, walked to the young man, and through the already rolled down window, said, "License and registration, please!"

The young man already had them in hand and gave them to the officer.

The officer said, "Please remain seated in your car. I will return in a few moments."

A few moments later, after doing whatever it is that officers need to do in those few moments, the officer returned to the young man's car. He handed the young man a ticket and said, "Please follow me into town where you can pay the fine."

The young man looked at the ticket, and read aloud, "$328 fucking dollars?"

The officer replied, "I'd watch my language, sir!"

"How can the ticket be $328? The speeding fine for less than 10 over in this state is $109."

"First of all, I clocked you at 42. That's 10-15 over. That adds on an extra $55. In this county, all fines are doubled. Now, please follow me into town where you can pay the fine and be on your way."

The young man knew how much money he had and knew it was less than $328. It was $272 and change. He would be $50 short.

The young man said, "I'll need an ATM!"

"No ATM in Smalltown. So, you can't pay the fine?"

"I can pay the fine. I just need an ATM!"

"I told you, "No, ATM!"

The officer added, "Please step out of the car, sir!"

The young man obeyed and was surprised by what followed.

The officer put his hand on the young man's shoulder and said, "Please, turn around, sir! And, assume the position!"

The young man already being spun around, sputtered "What?"

The officer pushed the young man down on the hood, frisked him, found nothing, and cuffed him.

The officer then said, "Come with me, please, sir!" He led him back to the patrol car where the young man was semi-gently inserted into the back seat. The officer then stepped back towards the road and waved towards a copse of trees about 100 yards away. A tow-truck pulled out and drove towards him. The tow-driver hooked up the young man's car and pulled away. The officer got into his car and followed the tow-truck saying to the young man, "It's too bad you didn't have enough money to pay the fine. This is gonna cost you an extra $250 for the tow, $75 for your overnight stay in jail and another $25 for tonight's dinner and tomorrow's breakfast."

"What?"

"You needn't worry if you have good credit. I'm sure you'll be able to work something out with the Judge tomorrow morning when you get to Court."

"For $50 fucking dollars, you're going to put me in jail and charge me an extra $350 fucking dollars?"

"I warned you to watch your language, young man. That second trip to your foul-mouth faucet is going to get you a charge of resisting arrest. That's a felony in this county. You'll surely end up doing hard time."

The young man quit while he was ahead. He still had his phone call coming.

The tow-truck pulled up in front of what the young man assumed to be Police Headquarters. The tow-truck driver was already unhooking the car when the officer escorted the young man to the jail. The officer said, as he was uncuffing the young man, "Now, behave yourself before you get into even more trouble."

The young man responded, "Just let me use the phone!"

The officer said, "The phone is on the desk over there where the Sheriff is sitting. But, don't try to talk to him. He doesn't want to hear it. Save it for the Judge tomorrow morning."

The young man walked quietly to the desk, picked up the phone, dialed zero and asked for long distance.

The operator said to him, "I'm sorry. Sir! This is a local phone only. Long distance is not allowed."

He heard the click as the operator disconnected.

Now completely exasperated, the young man said, "What the fuck is it with this town?"

The Sheriff stood up and asked the officer, "Did you warn him?"

"Yes, I did. This is the third time. I told him he would also be charged with resisting arrest."

The Sheriff turned to the young man and said, "Young man, you don't seem to know when you got it good. I think I'm going to have to teach you a little lesson."

The Sheriff opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pair of gloves. They were thick enough to stop any damage to the hitter's hands. They were thin enough to allow maximum damage to the hittee.

The young man said, "Holy fuck!" and darted behind the desk.

The Sheriff laughed and said, "You're about to find out!"

The Sheriff circled the desk as did the young man.

The Sheriff laughed again and said, "Stand still, young man! All I have to do is to come over the top."

The young man knew his situation was desperate when he had a thought. The arresting officer was behind the Sheriff.

The young man said, "Officer, don't put that gun down. Touch it up to the Sheriff's head so he'll know what's behind him."

That was enough for the Sheriff to turn slightly. In that split second, the young man picked up the lid-lifter from the top of a pot-belly stove and threw it at the Sheriff's head. The lid-lifter solidly hit the back of the Sheriff's head. The young man knew that would not be enough. He also knew his ass was really grass if he didn't do more and do it quickly.

The young man got on the desk and jumped on the semi-squatted down Sheriff and landed cowboy boot heels on the back of the Sheriff's neck. The jumper tumbled down, but the Sheriff was on the floor and disoriented. The young man picked up a small metal desk chair, lifted it over his head, and then back down in the Sheriff's face.

The Sheriff was down and out and as bloody as a decapitated chicken.

The young man walked over to the phone. He picked it up and told the operator, "Connect me with the local newspaper, and stay on the line"

Since the proposed call was a local one, the operator complied.

When the call was answered, the young man said, "Send a reporter and a photographer over to Police Headquarters. Do so immediately. The Sheriff tried to kill me and the deputy smashed a chair over the Sheriff's head to stop him. The deputy saved my life. The deputy is a hero."

The young man said into the phone, "Now, connect me to the State Police!"

The operator said, "But, that's a long distance call!"

"Operator, you listened to what I have reported to the local newspaper. I think you'll agree that what happened here constitutes an emergency. Now, connect that call."

The operator complied.

The young man again reported what he had reported to the local newspaper. He added "I don't think the deputy will insist on enforcing the speeding ticket he mistakenly gave me particularly after he saved my life, but if he does, please be ready to take me into your custody until this mess gets straightened out."

The young man hung up the phone, turned to the deputy and said, "Better you back up my story and you be a hero and get to be the next Sheriff of Smalltown than I argue self-defense."

The officer hesitated, but smiled and dropped to one knee as he handcuffed the Sheriff to the jail cell door.
The Low-Down Librarian

She was married to her high school sweetheart, a well-established Jewish attorney. They married right out of college. In 1947, pre-marital sex was frowned upon so they were both virgins, well sorta! They hadn't even petted, but she had had other experiences. She discovered on her wedding night that her husband was asexual, unable or unwilling, but clearly uninterested in, to become erect.

She tried everything that she knew. She tried everything that her female friends told her they knew. She tried everything that she could learn from her library research. She tried manual stimulation. She tried oral simulation. She tried anal simulation.

He was still a virgin. She was not.

She still loved her husband but knew that she had to look elsewhere if this part of her life was ever to be fulfilled.

She was now a librarian at a prestigious university where she had taken lovers in a serial monogamous manner. They had all been freshmen students.

The latest and current freshman was successfully taken in 1957. He was also only the fourth and had been only seventeen though the others had been that extra year older. She liked them young because after their initial bout with premature ejaculation, they lasted long and wanted often. She stayed with each of the previous three until they graduated and left for other pastures. That was four years each. The middle freshman graduated in three years.

Her husband knew of this activity and while never directly stating his approval, he never discouraged it either.

It was now twenty years later, and she was still involved with that last freshman. He had stayed in the university neighborhood and in her life. They met three or four times a week. For the past five years, he had been involved with another woman who, until a few months ago, also shared his apartment.

The live-in knew of the freshman's relationship with the librarian and seemingly approved. Like the librarian's husband, while never directly stating her approval, she never discouraged it either.

The librarian, however, did directly state her approval of his live-in status. She had both met and liked the young lady in question. She had also inquired of her freshman about the possibility of a threesome, but the live-in had said No!

Since the librarian's husband was now President of their Schull, the Sabbath had to be kept. She left her library an hour before sundown every Friday only to return an hour after Saturday sunset to spend the rest of the weekend with her freshman. At least, that had been her plans.

Though the librarian was sorry to see the freshman's relationship end, she also thought it might give her more time with him.

The freshman's plans, however, while not directly of his own making called him out of town for most of the week immediately after his ex-live-in had departed. That limited the librarian's visits.

Her freshman had also taken a new out-of-town lover during his out-of-town visits. He had told his librarian all about the new woman as he always did when he became involved.

She did not reciprocate in this openness. Her freshman had asked her once about her husband. She had responded, "Don't ask!"

He never asked again. He had told her he loved her in the same way that she loved him and if her relationship with her husband was satisfactory to her, it was satisfactory to him.

It was a Saturday night, several weeks after he began his solitary living and his out-of-town trips from one of which he had just returned. They had just finished a rigorous sexual joust and were lounging naked on the couch when his doorbell rang.

They both put on their robes, and he answered the door. When he opened it, there was a beautiful black lady standing there. As she was already inside in the building's hallway, her outer garments had been removed and draped over one of her arms. She was strikingly tall, made even more striking by her four inch heels. Her skirt was as high as it could be over her stockingless long legs. It was obvious that she was large, full breasted and braless in her sheer see-through blouse.

She said, "Hi, freshman! I'm sorry! I should have called first."

The librarian knew that this woman was her freshman's out-of-town lover even before he turned to her and introduced them.

The out-of-town lover was still standing in the doorway when the librarian said, "Please, come in and join us!"

The out-of-town lover entered and the librarian walked her over to an easy chair where she pointed and politely said, "Sit! Please! Would you like a drink? I'm having white zin!"

The out-of-town lover said, "Thank you! That will be fine."

The librarian reached for the wine bottle, poured and handed the out-of-town lover a glass.

The freshman still hadn't said anything.

Now that the out-of-town lover was sitting, her skirt was even higher above her knees than it had been previously. The librarian could see that the out-of-town lover was more than prepared for the evening. Her bottom portion was as revealing as was her upper. At the same time, she could see her freshman's robe rising in front, this in spite of their previous hour of rigorous sexual activity.

The librarian said, "When I asked you to join us, I meant us. Would you like that?"

"Yes, I would. It will be much more than I anticipated, but yes, I would!"

Curiously, the librarian asked, "Will it be your first time? I mean the me part of the us?"

"No, it won't be! I was married to a man who was in the down-low life."

The librarian knew what the down-low life was and explained it to her freshman. "The down-low refers to black men who are in committed heterosexual relationships and then slip off to have sex with other men on the sly."

The out-of-town lover said, "It was OK with me. When he went off and did his thing with a group of guys at their thinly disguised monthly poker night, I met with their wives. We did our own down-low. The first time I had an orgasm from oral sex with a woman who really knew to give the real thing, I thought I'd never experience such an orgasm any other way. That only lasted until my man got home, and I jumped his bones. It was the best sex I ever had. We had it better than they did cuz when the men got home we got to engulf their still ready thing which after all the coming they did with their buddies was ready to last forever with our over-excited things. I thought I would never stop screaming. All of us ladies encouraged our men to go down-low every week instead of once a month."

The librarian said, "Holy shit!"

The out-of-town lover asked, "Will it be your first time? I mean the me part of the us?"

"No, it won't be! Not for me either!"

The freshman was surprised.

The librarian continued, "I was in college during the mid-forties. We weren't supposed to have sex with our dates. Besides, we had no place to go. The colleges thought they were loco parentis. We were watched like hawks. Except in our dorm rooms. I remember the first time I got home from a date. I was dripping wet. I told my roommate. She said 'Me too!' we looked at each other, reached out a hand, hugged and kissed. We went all the way that first time. After that, it was a twice a weekend occurrence. It wasn't long before the rest of the girls on our dorm floor got wind of it, and we all tried it with each other, now not just after date night, but every night, and daytime too. It's been thirty years and I miss it."

The out-of-town lover said, "Well, not anymore."

She stood up, as did the librarian who dropped her robe as the two walked towards each other. They open-mouthed kissed as they entered into a passionate embrace.
Lake Michigan's Other Shore

The younger professor had come to visit the older professor, both associated with a Chicago university, at the older professor's new lakefront home on the Michigan side of the lake. They were colleagues, not really friends, but still friendly as male colleagues tend to be. Later, they would become very good friends.

The older professor was a Full. The younger professor would be one the following year. They were to spend the weekend collaborating on a new project, not just new to them or their university but to the world. They were designing the first ever on-line MBA program.

The younger professor was quite brilliant in his field of computer system design, but he was a bit amiss when it came to having a sense of direction. He had gotten lost several times on his way from Chicago and had arrived much after dark, pitch dark actually on the desolate lakefront.

He was exhausted from his self-caused long drive and badly needed a drink. After three beers, the two walked towards the lake. The younger professor was carrying his fourth beer.

As they reached the western limit of the property, the older professor put his hand on the younger professor's shoulder and pulled him towards him. After the younger professor steadied himself, the older professor removed his hand.

This process happened again several times.

Finally, the younger professor left the older professor behind and walked back to the house.

After a short time, the older professor followed him back. He found the younger professor passed out on the couch.

The next morning the older professor awoke and looked out his bedroom window. He saw his young colleague walking back and forth along the grass. The older man slipped on his pants and walked out to join the younger man.

As he approached, he heard his colleague, still pacing up and back, muttering "Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!"

As the younger man heard his older colleague approaching, he muttered again, "Holy shit! I thought you were queer last night the way you kept putting your hands on me and pulling me towards you."

Looking down the seventy feet or so high cliff to the beach, the young man muttered, "You probably saved my fucking life!"
Pinochle

Ergo cognito sum!

I think, therefore I am.

I am sure of this.

I was also sure of it before I encountered this philosophical falderal.

I knew I was here in the world. I didn't need a Cartesian or Husserlian method to further cement my position of the matter.

I also didn't need philosophy to tell me I was not an ordinary person, but a special one, a very special one. You see, I don't care about you. I don't care about anyone except one very special person, me!

Solo yo!

I'm also a professional pinochle player.

Not a professional poker player. Neither am I a professional pool player or pool hustler. I earn my living, and a damned good one, playing pinochle. Neither am I a card sharp. I'm just a damned good pinochle player, probably the best in the world. I seldom lose even when playing against the best of the others.

Even though I don't give a damn about you or anyone else, I sometimes feel a bit badly for Fast Eddie and the Cincinnati Kid, fictional characters though they were.

I was never in such a dramatic setting as they, buy I still never lost, or lost it!

Until one night when I might have if I had had it that night,

Confusing?

Well maybe!

Let me try to explain!

There are a couple of dozen cities around the country on what we call The Circuit, though a few of these locations are actually in small towns. Each location on The Circuit has a Boss. That's not a Boss in the normal sense, but an Organizer who takes care of things. It's largely an honorary thing, not necessarily given to the best player in that location, but to the best able to manage things, to set dates, obtain locations, etc. For these chores, the Boss gets five percent of the house off the top. Not a lot, but enough to provide the incentives necessary to do the job and keep the location secret to all but the known players.

My location on The Circuit is Chicago, the Northwest side to be exact, Polish Village to be even more exact. I'm the Boss here, again, not because I'm the best player in this city as well as the world as I have already said, but because I own forty-plus houses in the area, all two-flats or more and all with full basements. They're not all paid for, but the mortgages are easily manageable. I try to be prudent with my investments. These particular investments allow me to always have a location for our every other week events, locations not known to anyone in advance, especially to the cops who like to bust high-stake games, though they know little about us because we don't play poker or craps, plus we're in a largely middle-class residential neighborhood not known for nefarious activities.

Two weeks ago, the evening after my last event here in Chicago, a Circuit location in Nashville was held up. Two masked gunmen broke into the game and absconded with over sixty thousand dollars. The minimum buy-in on The Circuit is five thousand. This particular event had a dozen players, a fairly large one as our usual is just three tables of three. We don't often play tables of four as that necessitates partners. I never play partners. Somebody else's interest is seldom mine. I don't trust others as much as I don't like them.

Word was later put out and spread quickly to me in Chicago. These two gunmen were completely covered, no Locard-dust on those guys, and completely silent as well. The heist went off as smoothly as they had surely planned it. In and out, grabbing the money which was in plain view on a counter top in the game room, the only thing that was time consuming was the searches of the twelve players. Anyone with a five thou buy-in was sure to carry more. Even with that, the report was the two were gone within five or six minutes.

I was forewarned. I took the time to ensure that if they hit one of my games, I would be prepared to leave them bewildered with their empty pockets.

I didn't really expect to get hit. The odds were against it. But, our next game was hit. Two completely covered masked gunmen broke into the basement of the building in which we were playing. There were nine of us. We had three tables of three.

Completely silent!

Until they couldn't see any money.

"Where the fuck is the money?"

"There isn't any. It's all in the bank.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, asshole. Where the fuck is the money?"

"I told you. There isn't any money here. It's in the bank."

"I hate to use the cliché asshole, but Your money or your life!"

I may be special, but I'm not stupid. Only class A-1 dummies argue with guns. I had to explain.

"Look! I heard all about the heist in Nashville two weeks ago. I made plans so it couldn't happen here. All these guys here," there were a few women on The Circuit, but not here, not tonight, "put their buy-in in the bank. There ain't no money here."

"Fuck!"

They ordered us down on the floor on our tummies. They searched us, took what they found and left.

At that time, both the ordinary and the special had one thing in common. We were shaking and hoping we didn't have any brown spots on our underwear. I totaled up the scores up to that point. None of us wanted to continue our game. Then, I totaled up what each of the participants said they lost, twelve grand, only fifty bucks from me as I was on my home turf, or so they said, and some miscellaneous watches, rings and other jewelry.

I told them I would make arrangements for them to withdraw their buy-in plus or minus their winnings or losses for the night.

Everyone left.

I, of course, stayed behind. This particular location had a vacant apartment so I went upstairs to it. The fridge was liberally stocked with German beer the only alcoholic beverage I consume. I did my best to relax. It wasn't easy. In fact, I don't think that I ever did. I just fell asleep after however many beers it took to make me get there. I may be special, but not in that way. I still get scared shitless!

I awoke in my recliner with the first sunlight. I wasn't feeling too bad, so I guess I hadn't drunk too many beers.

Even though I lost nothing in money, I had lost some of my dignity and probably a lot of my reputation. I was pissed. I was going to get those two guys.

After coffee, a fried egg and a piece of toast, and, of course, my morning ablutions, I called the Boss in Nashville.

I told him what had happened and the participants. I also told him I would figure this fucking thing out, but needed his help. First, I needed the names of the participants the night he was heisted.

He gave them to me.

None of them matched with mine.

I told him I would call back after I gave this thing some more thought.

I thought. All day and evening.

The only other thing of consequence that I did all day was to get ahold of my eight players and give them the info on how to get their money.

Then, I got a Eureka plan.

Where did Nashville Boss' players buy-in the time or two before the time they were robbed?

I called him back and asked him to check with the five of the eleven that I either didn't know or didn't know well to get that info.

I called the other six as well as my eight.

It took three days to get ahold of all of them. The Boss in Nashville probably had the same difficulties as he didn't call me back until the afternoon of the third day.

After collating all the information, I think I found the answer.

One of my players and one of the Nashville Boss' players played together in Detroit a few weeks before the first heist.

I called the Detroit Boss. I explained what I was trying to accomplish and he gladly provided me with the names of the other players from that night.

There were only four in addition to my guy, the Nashville Boss's guy and the Detroit Boss himself. The Detroit Boss was a partner's advocate, so he had his table plus another of the more normal three. He said that he and his partner played against their normal opponents as they had for several years. The table of three was the two guys we knew plus another who was well known as a novice who was in over his head but kept coming back for more each time he was able to replenish his bankroll, from which he was immediately separated.

The assumption was, and we both agreed it was a good one, that this asshole had finally found a way to beat The Circuit. He identified a couple of players, obtained as much of their personal info as he could and then tracked them down so he could follow them to a game in another city in which he would not be a player. In addition to sending in his gunsels to obtain his winnings, he was also able to find out who the other players were so he could continue his scheme indefinitely.

Sorry, fucker! Gotcha!

We put out the word to all The Bosses on the rest of The Circuit. All of us spread the word to the players.

Some of our players weren't as good a bunch of guys as some of the rest of us. Some of them were suspected to be connected.

About a week later, another word was spread.

The loser had lost his last hand. As had the two gunsels who turned out to be his sons.

I had to assume that our initial assumption had been a correct one. There were no more hold-ups.

In this particular situation, I imagine there are more there a few of you out there who don't care about these others any more than I do.
Our Last Christmas

A falling snow glistening in the sunlight is really beautiful, particularly when it is falling on open land as it was this morning. I was on the bus headed south on Lake Shore Drive to The Hyde Out Inn to spend Christmas with Charles and John-John as well as with the regulars who didn't have any place else to go on this day of families. On this day of families, we bar people were each other's family.

I had arrived in Chicago yesterday, but I had spent the night with my biological family. However, it has been six months since my last leave. I had to see Charles and John-John.

I got out at The Hyde Out Inn and said as I walked in "A cup of Charles's Blend and a bagel with, bitte."

John-John came running out of the back yelling, "Charles! Charles! Eddie G. is here! Eddie G. is here, Charles!"

John-John threw his arms around me in a great big hug and said, "Hello, Eddie G. Hello! Welcome home, Eddie G. Welcome home!"

Mentally, John-John was a bit slow. Not a lot, but a bit. He was, almost, but not quite, normal. Emotionally, however, John-John was far above normal. That made up for a lot. At least it did for me.

Charles said the same thing when he saw me, except he didn't repeat himself as John-John had.

Charles owned The Hyde Out Inn as well as the connecting The Dill Pickle Delicatessen and The Bottle and Can Package Liquor Store and the four-story apartment building in which they were domiciled.

John-John was Charles' ward, janitor and son, in all but in biology, as was I.

The bartender brought me my Charles's Blend, the best Arabic coffee this side of Europe as well as my bagel with, with for me being dried tomato cream cheese. She repeated Charles's greeting and went back behind the bar.

The three of us spent an hour filling each other in. There really wasn't to say since Charles and I talked on the phone briefly twice a month, and we regularly exchanged letters. We repeated it anyway.

When we were satisfied we had caught up, John-John being the most difficult to satisfy since he was so excited, I went up to my room. John-John and I each had half of a four room apartment on the second floor. He kept my bed made.

When I got back down, I could smell the turkey. I didn't know how many turkeys there'd be, but a dozen wouldn't surprise me. The Hyde Out family was large.

I had a pair of beers. John-John also had one. If John-John stuck to form, this would be the first of his three daily beers, noon, dinner and bedtime. If I stuck to form, this would be the first of it's-my-job-to-drink-them-not-to-count them.

We bullshat for another hour or two until Charles shouted, "Soup's on!"

We both got up to help do the serving. By the time we got to sit down to eat, we were down to our last turkey. We were glad that Charles was a good counter.

The other finished-eaters were all busy at the bar, but now they were paying. Even for generous old Charles, freebies only went so far. Charles probably made as much money the rest of the day and evening off the drinks as he spent on that afternoon's freebies. Charles was quite generous when he had to butter bread, but he always knew on which side to butter it.

Unlike most of the others, I was done drinking. For some strange reason, eating and drinking beer never went together for me. It was always one or the other.

The rest of the week progressed without incident. I spent a lot of time with Charles. I had worked for him for my college years and we both took for granted I would return next July after I was discharged.

Still, I thought Charles was pushing this work thing a bit far. It wasn't a lot of work or even hard work, but I was on leave and wanted to see people and do things. Charles never interfered if I had made plans or stopped me from going elsewhere. But, when I did so, I could feel his discomfort. He wanted me to stay with him. I wasn't like possessive, but he was acting as I had not previously experienced.

I did what any loyal son would have done. Except for a couple of trips to see my family, I spent as much time with him as I could. I even spent my two dates at The Hyde Out, with Charles's blessings, and contrary to his oft repeated advice. Keep your private life as far away from your business life as is possible!

New Year's Eve at The Hyde Out was the best I ever had, even if I was stag. I didn't have to drive. All I had to do was to crawl upstairs, and John-John was there to help me.

The next day there was a Bowl Game Party as there was every year. It was also my last day in the States. I had a morning flight out of O'Hare back to Germany. Getting me to the airport would be John-John's job. He assured me he had the car all gassed up and ready for travel.

The Hyde Out was filled with football fans, the normal crowd, and even a few people who made the special effort to come just to see me on the last day of my visit.

The evening progressed as an evening in a bar usually does. A lot of people. A lot of noise. A lot of beer. I, however, was drinking cream soda. It was almost ten PM, and I wanted to get upstairs for a little bit of last minute packing and a lot of sleep. I wanted, however, to say Good-bye! to Stosh the Cop. More than Good-bye! I wanted him to keep tabs on Charles. I didn't know what was causing Charles's slightly eccentric behavior, but I wanted to. Maybe if Stosh paid extra attention, he would figure it out and let me know. Stosh was a detective, after all.

Stosh came in a little after ten. It was his regular time. Officer Gilly was already there drinking his Charles's Blend. Stosh sat down next to me. They both knew I would be leaving in the morning. Both of these guys were a lot older than I was, but they were good friends. They saw me through some awkward growing up years. Even so, there would be no mushy Good-byes! Just the normal manly hugs.

After I mentioned my concerns to Stosh, he shrugged them off.

"Charles is getting on in age. He worries a bit more. It's natural. I'm starting to get that way as well."

That's what Stosh said. Gilly agreed. But, that was not what they were thinking. They were both thinking the same thing.

"Charles is sick. I don't know how bad it is, but I do know he doesn't want to bother you with it. You have too many other things to worry about. Charles is a big boy. He can take care of himself."

Stosh threw back the last of his beer, got up from his stool and walked towards the door. He stopped after a few steps, turned and walked back to me. He stuck out his arms for that normal manly hug. I got up and did the same. Stosh hugged me good-bye.

Charles walked over to us laughing.

Even though Charles had been an accountant, I kept the books. He said he was tired of it and didn't want to be bothered. So, he trained me and I did them.

When I left for the military, Charles hired this guy, Robert. I don't think Robert was a thief, but I wouldn't want him to handle my money ... if I actually had any. Further, he wasn't nearly as smart as he thought he was. Everyone knew I never liked him. I am sure that the feeling was reciprocal on his part.

I don't think anybody else liked him either.

Robert was in The Hyde Out on this my last night. I didn't like it. I said to "Charles, what the fuck is he doing here?"

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. I added, "I'm, sorry Charles. I was out of line. It's none of my business."

Charles said "Don't worry about it, kid. No problem!"

That's what Charles said. I heard something more, however. I thought that Charles was thinking more than he said. But, I couldn't figure out what it was.

When I returned that summer, Charles was dead. It was then that I learned what that something more I heard must have been. "It is your business, kid. You're gonna get it all anyway. I might make it until you return in July. I probably won't. You needn't be burdened with all of this now. But, kid, this is our last Christmas."
Their Existence was a Result of Bigotry

It was a Monday morning in mid-July 1985. I picked up the phone to call from my Lansing, Michigan residence to Limestone College in Gaffney South Carolina. The purpose of my call was to make arrangements with the Chair of my Hiring Committee to make a trip there to obtain housing for the upcoming Fall Semester. I was a newly minted PhD from Michigan State University and had accepted Limestone's offer of the position of Chair of the Business Division. Lest you be concerned about a newly-minted PhD receiving such as offer, I was forty-five years old and an experienced businessperson.

The important thing about this phone call, however, was that I was immediately told that the position had been withdrawn.

"Withdrawn?"

Wait a minute!

Wait a gol dang minute!

I had already been hired the previous March and since then had turns down a half-dozen other offers.

I hadn't known then, and probably should have, that the hiring isn't official until approved by the ruling body. And, for whatever reason, the ruling body hadn't convened to do the necessary authorizing until that previous weekend.

The conversant on the other end of the phone told me that he had just been told of this decision and was in the process of reaching for the phone to call me and to tell me of what had happened. He also said he regretted the decision and that he thought I had been screwed and that he had been coerced into making the call as no one else had the gumption to do so.

It took several minutes of cajoling the conversant on the other end of the phone, but he finally told me what had happened at the Board of Trustee's meeting that had convened to authorize my hiring, but hadn't.

One of the listings in my vita under service to the community was my position on The Board of the Greater Lansing Area America Civil Liberties Union.

The conversant on the other end of the phone told me that when one of the Trustees saw this he went apoplectic and that reaction was repeated by each of the other trustees as they read this item.

It appeared that 1985 still saw a large amount of Deep-South thinking,

Unbeknownst to me, there had been a murder trial of a young black man, read nigger by these Jewels of Honorable Southern Manhood, Edward Lee Elmore, and that said Edward Lee had been convicted of raping, murdering and otherwise defiling of Dorothy Edwards, a 75-year-old white woman, read Belle of the South.

And, worse yet, Northern agitators in the form of death penalty appellate lawyers, possibly some from the ACLU, were keeping the story alive in the local newspapers, radio and television with their constant filing of motions delaying the justifiable implementation of the death penalty verdict.

And, it was clear that I was of those Northern agitator's ilk, and that these Jewels of Honorable Southern Manhood were not about to allow one of these Northern denizens onto the southern campus.

Deep South bigotry was still alive in 1985.

The University and College professorial hiring season had been over since at least April, so here I was sans job. So naturally, I checked out my legal options with the legal representative of The Board of the Greater Lansing Area America Civil Liberties Union.

The advice received was forgetabouddit!

The lawyer, Zolton Ferency, was also my friend.

He said, "Eddie, you most likely have a clear victory in front of you. The problem is that the case will drag on for a few years if not more, and there will be pretty hefty legal fees on your part that you will be expected to pay since no lawyer in his or her right mind is about to take such a case on contingency. The reason I say such a case is that if you should ultimately prevail, and you probably will, your award will almost surely be limited to the difference between the income you actually earned in the period between filing and decision. It's unlikely there will be an additional damages awarded, so there would be nothing to pay the attorney who would handle the case. And knowing you, you'll probably earn more during this period, so there wouldn't be any monetary damages at all.

"Sorry to say this, old friend, but Suck it up and move on!"

Talk about being pissed. But upon sober reflection, and I was sober since this meeting with Zolton was taking place before noon, I took his advice. I would suck it up and move on!

When I got home, my then current live-in handed me a note and said, "Eddie, you received a call while you were out."

It was from the University of Maryland University College European Division.

I called.

They said that they had a last minute opening in Germany and was I interested.

Oh boy was I interested.

We made an appointment. My then current live-in, who was in the process of completing her Master's Degree and I drove out.

They hired us both.

It was not only the luckiest job I had ever been offered, for many reasons it was the best job I had ever held.

A year later, my daughter, Elizabeth, was completing her master's degree.

We talked and she said, "Dad, I have no idea what to do next."

I told her, "Why don't you apply for a job over here with me?"

Her response was quite a bit less than enthusiastic. However, since she hadn't put a complete Kabash on my suggestion, I followed through and requested an interview for her.

I was told that the College needed experienced teachers, not kids, but as a favor to me they'd talk to her.

My daughter acquiesced to an interview. The people who met with her loved her, absolutely loved her. They offered her a job. Being my daughter might have gotten her the interview, but it was her skills and education that got her the job.

She joined me in Germany the that summer. I was an experienced hand. I had been there a full year.

We were never really geographically at the same place, but always close enough for weekly visits.

A year or so, she introduced me to a United States Air Force Captain that she had been seeing.

They married in the Summer of 1989.

I had already left Europe for a job Stateside, but I flew back for the wedding.

Subsequently, that marriage bore two issues, my grandson, Jordan, and my granddaughter, Jennica. Hoping not to sound like a proud grandpa, these two youngsters have grown into magnificent adults.

Upon reading this, it will be the first time that they have learned that they both owe their existence to the bigotry of Jewels of Honorable Southern Manhood rejecting me as a Professor with the resultant landing of myself and their mother in Germany where she would meet their father.

It was just this past month that I had been reminded of this long ago occasion by my reading of the book Anatomy of Injustice: A Murder Case Gone Wrong by Raymond Bonner, an excellent read and a reminder of why I have always been proud of my ACLU affiliation.
I Was a Murder Suspect

She wasn't there when I got home. Home was East Lansing, MI. It was late and I was drunk from the all-day Office Golf Outing. She wasn't a regimented woman, but she was dependable. Her not being home was abnormal. Plus, her recent behavior, while not exactly abnormal, hadn't been all that dependable either.

I was worried. I called her work number. It was a university research laboratory, and there was always someone there. Whoever of her nerdish co-workers who answered the phone said, "She left early today, before lunch. Said she had some personal stuff to attend to. Never returned. Sorry!" then, hung up.

I was more worried than before, but I still didn't know what to do. Besides, I was much too drunk to go driving around town. Besides, I didn't have a car. Someone drove me home from the golf course where my car was still safely and soberly stationaried.

She still hadn't come home by the time I awoke the next morning. I didn't drink coffee, but poured a large glass of freshly-squeezed-the-day-before orange juice. Then, I left for campus, a bit more than a mile away.

Her boss hadn't yet arrived in the now empty lab when I arrived, so I sat outside his office and waited, only ten minutes or so.

I told him the story.

He said he didn't know anything about it and had not noticed anything strange about her behavior. She was still doing her normal excellent job in the lab.

I was about to leave when another fellow lab-rat came in. I asked her the same stuff I had just asked her boss. She said about the same thing I remember hearing last night. "She left early today, before lunch. Said she had some personal stuff to attend to. Said she went to be with her sister."

Shit! Her younger, by five years, sister had committed suicide several years back.

"But, I saw her later. I was having my own lunch at the outside café across from campus and I saw her walking on the campus side of the street towards the center of town. That's all I know. Sorry!"

My suicide scare quickly dissipated. I left and tried to follow her route knowing only the one point of it. There was a small art fair in town this week, and as I got closer to town, I saw the couple who own the local art shop setting up a table on the sidewalk in front of their store.

I asked them the same stuff I had been asking.

They both said they had seen her walking on the campus side away from them past the center of town.

I continued on my way until I got to the Bus Stop Coffee Shop where I guy I knew worked at the Bus Stop ticket window. I walked in said, "Hello!" and then asked him the same stuff I had been asking.

He told me, "Yeah, she was in here yesterday somewhere around lunch. She bought a ticket to somewhere."

"You remember when and where?"

"Sorry, it was really busy yesterday because of that art fair downtown. I don't remember much of anything."

I went home.

I called a friend for a ride to get my car.

He did.

I did.

I went to the campus police to report her as missing and told them what I knew.

The next day's mail contained a small envelope from her. I opened it and found a post card inside saying "I'm OK! I'm sorry! Don't worry! I'll be in touch when I think I can handle it."

That was all!

Then, I called her mother in Detroit and told her what had happened. I said, "I'll fill you in with what I know as soon as I know it." I asked her to please do the same if she heard from her daughter.

Afterwards, I drove again to the campus police to show them the postcard.

When I did, the officer asked where the envelope was.

I told them, "I threw it in the garbage. There was nothing else in it."

He asked if I could retrieve it.

I said, "I'd try."

When I got home the kitchen garbage had been taken out and the outside garbage had been taken away.

I called the officer and told him.

Late that afternoon, I received a phone call from her mother. She said that she and her husband had just returned from the round trip drive to the campus police. That round trip drive was just short of two-hundred miles.

She informed me that the officer wanted us to identify the handwriting on the postcard as their daughter's. It was, so they both did. She added that the police were suspicious because the postcard that you gave them had come without a stamp in an envelope which you said you no longer had. They thought you might have written the postcard yourself to cover something up.

I thanked her. We said "Good-bye!"

I drove to the campus police.

The officer could see that I was livid.

He told me, "You have to admit that an unstamped postcard was suspicious."

"Yes, I agree. If I hadn't been so upset at her being missing, I would have thought of it myself and would never have thrown that envelope in the garbage. That's not what bothers me. What bothers me is your stupidity. She had worked at this university for the past four years after having graduated from here after four years of attendance. That's eight years of university records you could have reviewed to assuage your suspicions. Instead, you had to bother a pair of already worried parents and impose a two-hundred-mile round-trip drive on them in their harried state. I think there ought to be a rule, "No Stupid Cops!"

I didn't give him time to apologize or fight back. I just left.

I would tell her all about it next time we spoke. I was sure, however, that she already knew I hadn't murdered her!

It was several days past a week when I next heard from her. She told me where she was, a small town around a couple hundred miles north of us. She also told me she had found a job, an apartment and wasn't coming back, but that I was welcome to come for a visit. I asked her about what her coworker said about her "going to be with her sister."

She laughed into the phone.

"I guess I'm a failure at everything. I took a large bag of dry ice and went outside to sit in the grass. I tried to breathe in the fumes from the dry ice, but I couldn't do it. So, I said 'Shit! and walked to the bus station."

Then, I laughed into the phone.

That next weekend, I made myself welcome for a visit.

I drove up. When I saw her standing outside the restaurant she had instructed me to go to, I already knew that I hadn't murdered her, but I also was glad to see that she hadn't committed suicide those two weeks ago now either.
Excerpts From Novels

### Hammering Nails Can Be Murder: It Was A Helluva Funeral

The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series Published December, 2015

### 1

John-John

July 22, 1968

Monday

"Hey, Eddie G. Hey! It's about time! Where you been? Where you been? I need to talk to you, Eddie G. I need to talk to you right now, Eddie G. Right now! It's important, Eddie G. It's important!"

Eddie G., that's me, that's what John-John calls me. To most of the others here at The Hyde Out Inn, a bar I own along with several other things here on the Southside of Chicago, I'm just Eddie. Following the Eddie G. is followed by a longer-than-any-last-name-needs-to-be-spelled-with-almost-nothing-but-consonants-Polish-last-name-that's-mostly-unpronounceable-even-by-me.

It was not quite noon and I was just getting to the bar. Downtown business had kept me busy until now. I had left word yesterday that I had things to do this morning and wouldn't get in until around lunch time, maybe even later. I guess word hadn't gotten around to John-John, or if it had, he was just too anxious about whatever it was with which he was concerned to let it interfere with the ants he had in his pants.

John-John is the janitor here at The Hyde Out Inn as well as my general go-to-maintenance-guy. More important, he is also my friend as well as my lookee-after. He wasn't retarded, but he surely wasn't quite normal. I would guess his IQ was about ninety or so, maybe a bit less. In addition to his squeaky voice, he has this habit of repeating himself a lot, as well as using the dive-bar nickname of the person to whom he is speaking in almost every sentence. When I spoke to him, his habit sometimes rubbed off on me.

Even at a distance and the unusually loud, for him, volume, I could see that his approach was hesitant, but he kept on coming. It was clear that he was excited about something. We came together far closer to the door through which I had just entered, which hadn't even closed yet, than to where he was originally standing when he first saw me. Besides his rushing towards me, it was also that his squeaky voice was a lot louder than his usual timid self that led me to the astute conclusion that it really was something important, at least important to him. With John-John, really important and important to him were sometimes far apart. No matter! Either way, it would be important to me. John-John was my friend.

He stopped just a few feet in front of me and repeated himself, this time in his more usual quiet voice. "It's about time, Eddie G. It's about time! Where you been? Where you been? I need to talk to you, Eddie G. I need to talk to you right now, Eddie G. Right now! It's important, Eddie G. It's important!"

"Sure, John-John, go ahead. What's so important?"

"I know you are always there for me, Eddie G. I know you are always there for me. That's why I come to you, Eddie G. That's why I come to you. I want you to look at this, Eddie G. I want you to look at this.

"While I was cleaning up yesterday, I found this old newspaper in the women's john, Eddie G. I found this old newspaper in the women's john." He handed me a wrinkled article from the Hyde Park News. "I put it in my back pocket to read later when I went to bed and had the television on. I always read better with the television on, Eddie G. I cut this article from the paper so I could show it to you, Eddie G. I cut this article from the paper."

The article was dated May 13, about two months ago. It was a What Happened To? type of article. A quick speed read told me it was about Samuel "Nails" Morton, a Chicago Jewish gangster, who died in a Lincoln Park horse riding accident on May 13, 1923, forty-five years ago.

Then, he said, "I know I don't read all that good, Eddie G., but I was there when this happened. I was there when this happened. I don't remember much, but I know I was there. This man's last name was Morton, and my last name is Morton, John-John Morton. What do you think about that, Eddie G? What do you think about that?"

Whatever this was about, it made my friend highly disturbed. I needed to help him if I could. I said "Wow, John-John. That's really interesting. Do you remember why you were there? Who you were with? Do you remember anything else?"

"I know I was there, Eddie G. I was with my nanny, Eddie G. I was there with my nanny. I heard a loud noise, like a gun shot. The horse jumped around, and the man fell off. The man fell off, Eddie G. And, the horse finally fell over and landed right on top of the man. The horse landed right on top of the man, Eddie G. I have been trying to remember more, but, that's all I can remember, Eddie G. That's all I can remember."

"You say you were with your nanny, John-John. What was your nanny's name?"

"My nanny's name was nanny, Eddie G. My nanny's name was nanny. Why are you asking me all these questions, Eddie G.? Why are you asking me all these questions? I want you to help me, Eddie G. I want you to help me. I want you to help me remember, Eddie G. I could hardly sleep last night thinking about this thing," he said pointing to the article. "I usually sleep good, Eddie G. I usually sleep good, but I didn't sleep good last night after I read this story. I work hard and I always sleep hard. I don't want to not remember and not sleep good. Don't you believe me, Eddie G? I remember this. I really do, Eddie G. I really do. Why don't you believe me, Eddie G? Why don't you believe me? Charles would have believed me, Eddie G. I know Charles would have believed me. Why don't you believe me? Please help me, Eddie G. Please help me."

Charles had been an important man in both of our lives. Charles died three years ago today.

Even though I felt for John-John, I guess my questions were upsetting him more than he already was. His repeating himself had become even more intense than usual. I tried again, but more smoothly this time. I put my hand on his shoulder. I talk a lot, but I'm a toucher at heart.

"Yes, John-John, Charles would have believed you. And, I believe you. But, I have to ask these questions so I understand what you're telling me. I have to get my ducks in a row."

"OK, Eddie G. Ask away. I'll help you get your ducks straight, Eddie G. I'll help you get your ducks straight."

My friend's dilemma confused me. After all, the thing upsetting him happened over forty-five years ago. But still, I knew I needed to help him. That responsibility has always been part of my love for him. But, I needed to understand a lot more if I was going to be able to do so.

"Part of my problem is that I never knew you had a nanny. You were about five years old when this thing went down, right?"

"Yeah, I guess that's about right, Eddie G. I guess that's about right. I never remembered having a nanny either, until I read this story, Eddie G."

"Who else do you remember being there, John-John?"

"I don't remember nobody else being there, Eddie G., except the two policemen who came right after the horse landed on the guy."

Of course, I wanted to help him. I had to help him. John-John was my friend long before I inherited him from Charles as my employee and lookee-after. Besides that, I loved him. Just as Charles would have, so will I, do anything possible to help him with his agitation. I didn't know yet what to do. Neither did I know yet what he wanted me to do. Hell, even if he knew what he wanted me to do, I didn't know if I could do it. I just knew I would try. Anyway, I asked him.

"John-John, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to help me remember, Eddie G. I want you to help me remember."

"OK, John-John, I'll do my best to help you."

He still looked hanged dog. His finding this article was causing him an unusual despair in contrast to his normal happy self. I knew it was important for me to do something, though I still didn't know what it could be.

"Be sure you don't forget, Eddie G. Be sure you don't forget. I really need you to help me, Eddie G. I really need you to help me."

"I won't forget. But, this thing happened over forty-five years ago. Right now, I don't even know where to start looking for answers. So remember, John-John. I want to help you. But, I don't know how to do it. You know I am as busy as a one-armed wallpaper hanger."

"A one-armed wallpaper hanger. That's funny, Eddie G. That's funny. But, I understand, Eddie G. I understand. Maybe, you won't help me, Eddie G. Maybe, you won't help me."

"Not won't, John-John. But, maybe I can't. This thing happened forty-five years ago. But, I promise you. I'm gonna try."

"OK, Eddie G. OK! Now, I gotta go eat, Eddie G. I gotta go eat. It's late for me. I have a lot of important work to do, Eddie G. I start my work early. I am hungry early. I have to eat before The Pickle gets too crowded, Eddie G. I have to eat before The Pickle gets too crowded. If I don't eat early, I lose a lot of time waiting for everybody else to eat. Then, I don't have enough time to do my important work, Eddie G. I don't have enough time to do my important work."

John-John wandered away to get his lunch.

I didn't yet know what to do or how to do it, but I knew I would try to do my best for him. I had to figure out what to do next. To do first, really. Tribune John would be in this afternoon, as he was every afternoon. Maybe, he could get copies of the old original newspaper articles from his newspaper's morgue so I could get a better handle on this thing. Until then, who knows?

In any case, John-John is a blessing. I sat down and reread the article, more slowly this time.

### 2

What Ever Happened To?

Hyde Park News

May 13, 1968

Forty-five years ago today, the gangster, Samuel "Nails" Morton, died on a chilly Sunday afternoon. Nails was called Nails allegedly because of his superior qualities in gang fights. He was said to be tough as Nails. Nails went for a morning canter in Lincoln Park, just off of Clark Street, near the statue of Benjamin Franklin, when his nervous and meddlesome horse reared up and threw him. Morton landed on the grass with a thud. The horse landed a bit softer. The horse landed on top of Nails, hammering him in the head. The horse pounded. Morton died. That gave rise to the gruesome joke 'For the hammering of a horseshoe, Nails was lost.'

Another story reported that a few days later, a 'firing squad of morons' composed of Morton's henchmen returned to the stable. They rented the same horse that had hammered Morton, took the poor animal out to the same location in Lincoln Park and bumped it off in accordance with gangdom's code. They, then, sent a legendary message to the stable's owners: "We taught that fucking (expletive deleted in both this article and the original one) horse of yours a lesson. If you want the saddle, go and get it."

Morton was well known in Chicago. A year before the accident, the bootlegger gangster and a partner had both been acquitted in the killings of two Southside Chicago Police Detectives.

Morton's funeral was a spectacular one. As a World War I hero, the American Legion buried him with full military honors. As was always the case with gangster funerals, there were more flowers than one could count. Morton's alleged occupation was a florist, as was Dion O'Banion, his fellow gangster and friend, a real one. All the bad guys in all the gangs were there, including all the enemy gangs as well. That meant that the attendees included Johnny Torrio and Al Capone. Supposedly, twenty-five thousand, thousand, not hundred, showed up.

It was a helluva funeral.
FELONY MURDER: The Grandson Apple Didn't Fall Far from the Grandfather Tree

The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series Scheduled to be published September, 2016

### 1

I Never Thought I'd See This Guy Again

December 20, 1976

Monday

"Eddie! Eddie G.!"

Eddie G. That's me. It's what some people here in The Hyde Out Inn call me. Mostly, however, I am just plain Eddie.

When I heard myself being called, English Dave and I were having a nothing conversation along with our cups of Charles' Blend and bagels with in my bar, The Hyde Out Inn. It was ten in the morning.

The voice of the interrupter was one I recognized. It was a nighttime voice. I looked up. What the hell was Stosh the Cop doing at The Hyde Out at this, for him, ungodly time of the day? And, what was he doing calling me Eddie G.? to him, it was always just plain Eddie.

"Eddie, I got someone outside who wants to talk to you, someone you don't want to see."

"First, close the fucking door, Stosh! It's fucking freezing out there and you're letting all that fucking freezing in here!"

Today, it was even colder than yesterday. The WGN-TV morning news said it had warmed up to over freezing during the night, but since early morning, the temperature had continually dropped until now it was only six degrees at the airport. Here at the lakefront, it had to be colder. To make matters worse, there had also been an overnight drizzle which was, of course, now frozen. On top of that was a light snow which would continue falling all day. Chicago winters suck!

"Second, Dracula, ain't you afraid of the fucking light? Lastly, if I don't wanna see this fucking someone, what the fuck are you telling me this someone is here for? If I don't wanna see this fucking someone, tell this fucking someone what you should have already told this fucking someone, I don't wanna see this fucking someone."

Stosh the Cop had been a regular at The Hyde Out long before I owned it. He had been a client and friend of the bar's first and only other owner, Charles. Now, Stosh was my client and friend, emphasis on the latter. But, he was a ten at night regular not a ten in the morning regular, or even a ten in the morning irregular.

Stosh was a high-ranking, highly decorated Homicide Detective on the Chicago Police Force. Irrespective of the time of day, he looked as if he were straight out of central casting, just like the proverbial Hollywood B movie homicide dick. He looked like a cop's cop would look, big, brawny and weather-beaten. He was a big guy, a real big guy. tall, an inch or two over six feet, heavy set, but not at all fat or otherwise overweight, big and broad shouldered! Suited, but frumpily so! His dark eyes recessed in his face gave craggy a new and more intense meaning. Surprisingly, for a man who spent most of his waking hours in the dark night or inside a pub, his skin appeared as constantly tanned, even now in the winter. It must have been the result of a genetic overabundance of melanin. His deep bass, but often whispering, voice completed the Hollywood image. He hadn't been physically miscast in his chosen vocation!

He hadn't been miscast intellectually or emotionally either. He was my idea of a perfect cop. His arrest record, commendations and lack of citizen complaints supported my judgment.

I had just seen him the night before, when he had told me that he would be putting in his papers right after the first of the year. After thirty-plus, he was finally fed up with the bureaucracy and its accompanying politics.

But, what was he doing here when the sun was still shining? At ten in the morning instead of ten at night? Even though Stosh was a good friend, I can't remember the last time I saw him in the daytime, if I ever did, other than an afternoon ball game at Comiskey or Wrigley.

"I'm sorry about this, Eddie, but I think you should see him. Else, I wouldn't have brought him."

"Well, now we know this someone is a him someone. OK, Stosh! Who is it? And, what's so fucking important?"

"It's our friend, the ex-judge!"

"What??????? First, what the fuck does Timmy Jimmy Kimmy want with me?"

Timmy Jimmy Kimmy was Timothy James Kimmons. Until Stosh and I, and several others, brought him down, he had been a Chicago judge.

For those of you who don't know the story, I was a newly-minted lawyer and was helping my good friend John-John figure out what his relationship was to a long dead gangster, Samuel "Nails" Morton. It turned out that Nails was John-John's father. But, that's a whole other already told story.

Another whole other story is that John-John, sad to say, has been dead these last few months. His huge and generous heart had just given out at his early age of fifty-eight. I missed my friend! He always thought of me as the only brother he had never had. I thought the same as he, except for the only part since I had three other brothers. For the last several years of his life, he also had thought of my mother as the mother he had never had. He called her Eddie G.'s Ma.

In the pursuit of uncovering his relationship to his previously unknown biological father, biological because Charles had been John-John's real father, I discovered that the unhonorable Timothy James Kimmons, fifty-three years earlier, while still a twelve-year-old kid, attempted to shoot and kill Nails. He accidently succeeded when the horse Nails was riding reared up, threw Nails to the ground and used one of its hooves to hammer its ex-rider's head into the ground.

The sick joke at the time was 'For the hammering of a horseshoe, Nails was lost.'

That made the kid guilty of not only attempted murder, but actually murder itself since the death occurred during the commission of a felony, attempted murder. Technicality? Maybe! But, murder nonetheless!

Even if the asshole's connections, asshole is the polite term I use when I refer to this asshole, couldn't save him from being tried, there was no way he would have been convicted if he had been tried. He had been a juvenile at the time of the crime and juvenile law back them was way different than it is now.

Also, back then, if his dead policeman father's friends couldn't have saved the kid from his fate, at worse he would have been sentenced to a juvenile facility until his twenty-first birthday, then released. Since he had been fifty-nine years old when I figured the John-John situation out, he would have been released thirty-eight years earlier.

Even if he were tried in the present of seven years ago, nothing would have happened to him even if he had been found guilty. Besides, a plea bargain would have assured his continued freedom. After all, why try an honorable judge now for such an ancient crime, particularly one that helped the city rid itself of a notorious gangster?

I took my only alternative. I forced the guy to resign from the bench.

Since he had been a life-long Democrat, at least in his Chicago life, and a card-carrying member of the Hizzoner Daley political machine, I used the threat that if didn't resign from the bench, I would expose him to impeachment by the newly elected Nixon crowd, who hated Democrats, particularly those in any way connected to the truly-hated Kennedys, of which any Daley-connected Democrat surely was.

A few of the people who knew the story believed that I had been too hard on him for a youthful indiscretion. Indiscretion? Bullshit! Since when is being responsible for the death of another an indiscretion? Or, a technicality!

Indiscretion? Technicality? He had been a fucking judge!

Besides, that was only part of the story. Even though I had never met him before this John-John stuff began, he was still one of the reasons I never practiced law.

Timmy Jimmy Kimmy was a fucking political hack judge. Timmy Jimmy Kimmy was a fucking bad judge. Timmy Jimmy Kimmy was a fucking arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He was a fucking asshole!

I may be arrogant as well. I might even be a son-of-a-bitch and an asshole. But, I'm not on the bench able to exercise judicial power that I shouldn't have! Judicial power that arrogant, son-of-a-bitchin' assholes misuse, often just because they can! Misused judicial power hurts! Misused judicial power fucks up justice, whatever that might be! Judicial power that arrogant sons-of-a-bitchin' assholes shouldn't have!

At the time when John-John first came to me with his conundrum, I was a newly minted law school graduate who already knew he would never practice. I hoped I was a philosopher. I went to law school because I was interested in the philosophy of law. I already knew enough about the practice of law to know I would never want to do it. I already knew enough about the system to know I would never want to be a part of it. This asshole just reinforced that already made decision. There were way too many just like him in the system.

Change the system? From the outside? Are you fucking nuts? Get inside and change it? Are you even fucking nuttier? There're a lot of people in the system. They don't want it changed. They like it just the way it is. They like it just the way they benefit from it. They like the way the Peter Principle works for them in the system. That way they can all reach the position where they are nincompoopetents! If you tried to alter their exalted status quo, they'd try to fuckin' destroy ya. If they couldn't accomplish that, they'd fuckin' kill ya or die trying. And, one's destruction or death could be more easily arranged if you were inside the system where they would have better access to your body.

I'd stay outside the system as much as would be possible.

"And second, why the fuck are you bringing him here? He knows the fucking rules!"

The rules were that I had promised him that I would never reveal why the asshole had resigned, he

had given some bullshit reason of his wife's health, as long as he stayed away from me and mine. I hadn't ever broken those rules! Now, he was breaking them!

"Eddie, he knew that a detective was involved with your investigation of him. He still has enough contacts in the Daley Machine to get information."

Stosh had known this, of course, when he went out of his way to get me the otherwise unobtainable information to help me with John-John. There wasn't any way his participation wouldn't come out if someone wanted it to badly enough.

That's the way The Chicago Way is!

"The guy asked around. The guy searched me out. The guy reached me first thing this morning, ringing my fuckin' bell, poundin' on my fuckin' door, and explained through my fuckin' fog why he needed to see you. Even in my stupor, I had to agree. That's why I brought the guy here. Let me bring the guy in. I think you'll understand."

"OK, Stosh! If you say so, I'll do it!"

I asked Davey to excuse himself. He knew much of the John-John story because he was here when it was unfolding, so he was a bit surprised at my request. But like I had promised, I hadn't told him, or anyone else, anything of the details. Only a few of us knew about the asshole!

Charles had taught me about promises and secrets. He said, "Eddie, one shouldn't make too many promises. They're usually too hard to keep. If you don't know absolutely for sure that you will keep a promise, don't make it. Promises to keep a secret are even more difficult to keep, particularly if the secret is really an important one, which few things people want to keep secret really are. Most things most people want to keep secret they want to keep secret because those people believe both themselves and the information about themselves they want to keep secret are important enough for other people to give a shit about them. These secrets usually ain't all that important and the others usually don't give a shit. But even so, as a rule, don't make these promises."

"If, however, one does decide to make such a promise to keep a secret, one is better off if one doesn't even think about the secret. If one thinks about a secret, it is only a matter of time before one begins to speak of it, even if just only a little bit. If one speaks of it even just a little bit, even to one whom already knows part of the story, it is usually only a matter of time before one speaks about it more, about parts of the secret that the other doesn't know. Worse yet, if one speaks of it just a little bit, even to one who already knows the whole of the story, it is usually only a matter of time before one speaks of the secret to one who doesn't know anything at all. It is better to just keep one's mouth shut!"

Loose lips do sink ships!

"Davey, maybe, it's nothing! If it isn't, I'll fill you in later. If it's something important, which I suspect it might well be since otherwise I doubt the asshole would have bothered Stosh or shown up here at all, I might not be able to let you in on whatever it is."

Davey was a little put out. There wasn't much we didn't share. Davey was another of my very few friends, and he was a damned god one. But, he understood. At least, I hoped he did. He picked up what remained of his breakfast and walked over to the far end of the bar.

Stosh walked back to the door, made a beckoning sign, and almost seven years after his previous and only visit to The Hyde Out, his ex-your-honor walked in the door, his too much hot air accompanied by too much Chicago cold air. He saw me right away and walked over.

He stood there at the edge of the booth.

"Please, pardon this intrusion Doctor, but it is imperative that I talk to you."

In the interests of civility, and at my insistence, we had agreed to address each other in this formal way. It was better suited to avoid the epithets we both really wanted to say.

I said nothing and he still stood there.

I looked up. I didn't say anything. I just took him in. When he had been on the bench, he had looked more regal and much younger than his years. Now, he looked like an old piece of shit! It wasn't just the grey hair and the pale wrinkled pallor. He was heavily weathered. He was beaten down. These last several years had not been kind to him. Like I cared!

Finally, he said, "May I please sit?"

Though his voice sounded old and broken, it still had enough of an Irish lilt in it to make one think he might break out into a rendition of Danny Boy! at any moment.

I motioned at him!

I said, "OK!"

He sat.

I asked, "What do you want, Mr. Kimmons?"

Mr. Kimmons! Not fucking asshole! I would follow our long-ago agreement. My colorful to some, vulgar to others, language was another reason I didn't practice. Sooner or later, I would tell another courtroom participant, probably another asshole Daley-machine judge, what I really thought of him or her. I've never been known to suffer fools gladly. Hell, I've never been known to suffer fools anyway at all ever! It would make little difference to the outcome of the verbal exchange that my language was only an honest expression of my impressions. Too often, I would be paying the price for my honest sincerity. I would spend too much time looking out, instead of looking in. Eventually, I would most likely even lose my license.

"You might not remember, but I have a grandson."

I remembered. It was when I first serendipitously saw that twelve-year-old redheaded kid running around the Courthouse hall just after the Chicago Seven verdict had been handed down that I first became aware of this guy. During my work for John-John, I discovered that the witnesses of the then-believed horse accident had seen a twelve-year-old redheaded kid running away from the scene. Of course, it was a different twelve-year-old redheaded kid I had seen than the one of whom the witnesses spoke. It was the asshole's grandson whom I had seen. But, seeing that kid lit up all the Eureka light bulbs!

I said nothing!

"Well, my grandson has a problem, a real problem, a legal problem, a criminal problem."

"Wait a minute! First of all, you're breaking the rules. Second of all, I don't give a shit about you or your grandson. Third of all, I don't practice law. You know all of this. So, why the fuck do you cause Stosh problems searching him out? Why the fuck do you cause me problems? Why the fuck are you here? You have really pissed me off, Mr. Kimmons. Maybe, I should just defuse my anger by calling Mike."

Mike as in Royko, the Chicago Daily News columnist. All those years back, I had threatened to use Mike to expose the judge's history if he didn't capitulate to my demand for his resignation from the bench. The asshole knew the threat was still there and always would be as long as he wanted his secrets kept secret.

"Just hear me out! Please! Just hear me out!"

"Eddie, I brought him here! I believe I had good reason! We've gone this far. Please! Just hear him out!"

"OK! Go on! Get going!"

"The kid got mixed up with the wrong crowd."

I was hearing him out. I was really hearing him out. I was already really tired of this bullshit! Everybody in the wrong crowd got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Who the fuck started this wrong crowd shit for every otherwise innocent to get mixed up in?

"My grandson has been arrested. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Wrong crowd! Wrong place! Wrong time! Who the fuck makes it the wrong crowd? Except the people who are there that makes up the crowd? Who the fuck makes it the wrong place? Except the people who are there at that place? Who the fuck makes it the wrong time? Except the people who are there at that time?

All this and Indiscretion, Technicality too.

Bullshit!

"There was a shooting. My grandson was just an innocent bystander. He was making a buy. Just a small one. Just for his own personal use."

Yeah! An innocent bystander in the act of an innocent purchase of an illegal substance.

"Some guy jumps out from the bushes and shoots the dealer. Twice! Once, in the chest! Again, right in the side of his head! He aims the gun at my grandson, but it misfires and the guy runs away. Right into the arms of a squad car coming around the corner. They jump out of the squad. One grabs the shooter. The other grabs Jimmy III. That's what we call him! Jimmy III. His father, my son, was Jimmy II. Timothy James Kimmons, same as me. Jimmy III's father, my son, Jimmy II, died when Jimmy III was twelve years old, right after I had to resign."

I know there ain't no Jimmy who's a real I at anything except being an asshole, at least in this booth.

"OK, I listened! Now, tell me! What the fuck does all this shit have to do with me? What the fuck do you want from me?"

"I really don't want anything from you. I want something from Ms. Knives."

Knives is pronounced Knee-veys.

"I want Ms. Knives to represent my grandson in this matter. My grandson was charged with possession and released on his own recognizance. I handled the night court arraignment earlier this morning. That has to be the limit of my participation. I believe the old bromide that if one represents oneself, one has a fool for a client. I also believe that that old bromide also applies to family, only in that case, the fool would be the attorney. I do not wish to avail myself of that title or to put my grandson in more jeopardy than he already is."

I thought, but didn't say, You already own that title!

In the last five years or so, Ms. Knives, Ms. Jordan Knives, my live-in paramour for about the same amount of time, had made an outstanding name for herself in the Chicago Criminal Courts. Unlike me, she practiced. She practiced so well that now, even at her quite young age, she was the go-to criminal defense attorney in Chicago.

"I thought about going to Miss Knives directly, but I was certain that she pretty much had to know our story. I don't mean to say she doesn't make her own decisions, but I was also fairly sure that her knowing about us meant she would come to you to ask for your input as to what she might do. Assuming you'd tell her to forget it, as I did assume, I thought it best to come to you directly. Well, indirectly. Through a third party. Through Stosh here."

I could have made a brouhaha here, but I thought it best to get this shit over with.

"I don't know why you would assume that Ms. Knives would know anything about you."

She did know a lot about the John-John situation because she was somewhat involved on the periphery of the investigation, but she didn't know anything about the asshole! I never told her anything about the ending of the John-John situation and this asshole. She had no need to know!

"I gave you my word that I would never say anything about you to anyone as long as you kept away from me and mine. I kept my word. The only parties who know anything about you are those people that were actively involved in the investigation. Like Stosh here and a few others. That's all, unless you yourself let it out."

Actually, a bit more than a few others knew what had gone down. But, I had never informed the asshole who they were, and I wasn't about to do so now.

"Anyway, go see her! I'll call her right now and, as I always do, I will advise her to use her own judgment. What there was between you and me has nothing to do with her defending someone else, your grandson or not. Now, you may leave."

With a perfunctory "Thank You!" he did.

Stosh said, "See you tonight, Eddie!'

"Yeah! See you tonight, Stosh. I'll be looking forward to seeing you with only one asshole!"

He left with the other asshole! I guess they had driven down south together.

They left me alone with my thoughts. They were all over the map, but mostly they were to be laughed at, ironically, but still to be laughed at. Who'd have thought this asshole would ever be back into my life, let alone in a situation like this one?

I called Jordan and told her about my visit with the asshole and his request!

### 2

English Dave

Still December 20, 1976

After Stosh and the asshole left, David rejoined me in The Holes in the Wall Booth, a booth which had become a citywide attraction. The holes in the wall were left from a bootleggers' shootout with Eliot Ness when The Hyde Out had been a speakeasy, before Charles had bought it over forty years ago.

We each had a refill of our Charles' Blend. Charles' Blend is our special Arabic coffee that Charles had perfected long before anyone in this country even knew there was a coffee other than the green shit most people drank. Charles, dead these past eleven years, had been my mentor, benefactor, father-figure, but mostly my friend. I went back to my bagel with. Davey had finished his while he was waiting to be allowed to return. A bagel with, is exactly what it sounds like, a bagel with something. The usual something is supposed to be lox. My with was dried tomato cream cheese. Call me a heretic, but I didn't like lox.

He asked, "So?"

He had broken my reverie. I looked up!

"Sorry, David! It's got to do with Jordan's practice. You know the rules, but it was no big deal. Just wanted to let me know he would be contacting her"

He did, know the rules. He had been with me a long time. Legal stuff was different from business stuff. After all these years with me, he probably knew as much about the law as most of my law-student employees. David might not have had much of a formal education, but he was one of the brightest people I knew.

David was a shorter guy, about five-foot-seven and slight as well, probably about a buck-thirty give or take a penny or two. I didn't think him all that high up in the looks department, but the ladies did. They always hung all over him. His face sported one of those not-really-a-beard-but-too-much-for-just-having-forgotten-to-have-shaved-for-the–past-three-days-or-so-stubble, what I call a grunge look. Maybe, the ladies liked English stubbly grunge!

We went back to our nothing conversation. I had been reading the Chicago Tribune Sports Section. Today was the day after the first 1976 NFL Playoffs weekend. Davey and I had been discussing what was more important! That the Steelers won their playoff game 40-14 against the Colts in Baltimore or that a plane had crashed into the stadium several minutes after the game had ended. We never did get around to talking about the Rams 14-12 victory over America's Team!

I argued that it was the plane crash that was the more important. Besides the drama of such an event and the possibility of so much possible death and injury, the story was on the front page above the fold. That's where all the most important stories are located.

Davey argued that the Steelers win was more important. As usual he had won his bet on the game. I didn't. I had only bet one dollar, my normal bet, never more, so the loss didn't bother me much. David had won a lot more than a dollar.

His argument was where the story appeared in the newspaper wasn't what was important. That was only the judgement (David included the first e. He was, after all, English.) of others. What made their judgement more important than his?

His judgment (No first e. Having Davey for a best friend didn't make me English.) favored the winning of his bet.

David was a funny kind of a guy. He was able to phrase an argument so he could take either side as the mood struck him. He hadn't been anywhere near that crashed plane, but he had been near his bookie when he collected his wager. That made the football game much more important.

English Dave had already been a bartender here at The Hyde Out when I had first met Charles, almost twenty years ago now.

Mostly because of Charles, I was quite well-off financially. I did some of it myself since I turned out to be a pretty good business person. However, I would never have achieved so much in so short a period of time without the huge stake Charles had left me. Maybe, I wouldn't have achieved anything at all without that start because I otherwise probably would have never even begun heading in such a direction.

One thing I surely wasn't, however, was a bartender. The in joke at The Hyde Out was that the world's second worse bartender had nothing to fear from me about rising above my grade.

Among the first things I did when I took over The Hyde Out was to hire David, Charles' best bartender, as my bar manager. Unknown to me at the time, though I later figured it out, that before Charles died he had prearranged that Davey stay on with me. He knew how much help I would need.

Besides my knowing that David was at least one of, if not the, the world's best bartenders, he had the magic! When it came to operations of a bar, he saw everything correctly and all at once. Most of us can study something and work extra hard to figure it out, and if we get it at all, we just barely get it. We can do it, but even after a long time of just barely doing it, we always have to work our way through it each time we do it. Others, not all that many others, but some, have the magic! They just know! After that, even if new stuff comes up, they know right away. They can see, they can tell us if pressed, all the things that are just impossible, all the feasible alternatives, all the things that the rest of us have to work so hard to think through before we reject them because we just don't understand the basics. Davey had that about the bar business. Davey had the magic!

Stosh the Cop had the magic as well. He had it about being a homicide detective.

Officer Gilly also had it. He knew his neighborhood better than the people who had been born there, and the people in it better than their families knew them.

Charles had it most of all. Charles had the magic of life. Charles knew all the best ways to live, all the best ways to deal with people, those he loved, those he liked, even those he disliked, all the best ways to do things, all the ways not to do things. If there was something that would make life better for the person who knew it, Charles knew it.

I hoped that I had some of that magic as well. I think I did. Mine was the magic of thinking straight, thinking with the logic that enables one to avoid the avoidable, the pitfalls of not paying attention to what others didn't see even if those things were right in front, open to easy view if one would just look.

If you don't understand what I mean, you're probably one of those people who wait until the grocery cashier has rung up your large purchase before you reach for your wallet or checkbook, or open your purse. Or, you're one of those people who walk slowly in a line of three down a crowded narrow sidewalk oblivious to those behind you who have to maneuver to get around your unsuspecting and selfish self as well as to those in plain view who are walking towards you, who then have to step into the street because you don't move.

Of course, you would also get self-righteously angry if anyone had the effrontery to point out your selfish self-absorption to you.

For a long time, I thought everyone thought clearly. It was only a couple of years after I had met Charles that I discovered otherwise, when an acquaintance came to a steadfast conclusion which was incontrovertibly contraindicated by the obvious facts of the matter. I wasn't involved in the issue other than as an uninterested observer, which I ceased to be, uninterested that is, as soon as it became apparent to me that the mistaken party was as sure of their clearly erroneous conclusion as the mistaken party was of their own name, which will here go unmentioned.

What the hell? We all know I'm referring to Leo the Liar!

The tripe that that mistaken party spewed out to argue that mistaken party's position was even more clearly erroneous than the mistaken party's conclusion. Further, that spew included all the logical fallacies known to man and woman.

Shame on you!

Shame on me if I ever fall for that one again!

The magic, if that is the correct designation, came to me shortly thereafter. I suppose, I was finally ready for it. It was like the fog disappearing and the sun shining through. I know I will never be an Einstein or a Doctor Spock, but neither will I ever be a Gomer Pyle or a Curly!

The important thing about Davey, however, is that he is my friend and one of the most honest people I ever knew. The only other person whom I knew who gave him a run for his money was his wife, Evil. She worked for me as well.

Well, not really the only other one! There was also my mother. Not just honest to me, but to one and all. She also worked for me.

I first spoke to English Dave as an employee shortly after I was told that I had inherited all of Charles' assets. I had already known David for eight years. I thought I would be interviewing him to learn what he did. It turned out he was interviewing me to see if he wanted to keep doing for me what he had done for Charles.

At that interview, he told me, "I'm going to teach you how to become a good bar manager. Charles asked me to do that. Watch me! Watch me tend bar.! I know how to do it! I've been doing it for twelve years now! What I didn't know before I started here at The Hyde Out, Charles and experience taught me. What I do now is what every other bartender should be doing. Watch me. Watch the others. Bartending is the one job Charles had a difficult time filling with real long term, loyal people. But, I think Charles was satisfied with the ones he now has. I mean you now have. Many of them have been here for a while and will probably stay. But, one can never tell. It's the nature of the beast. Our kind is restless, and sooner or later, most often the former, we move on. Or, we get caught stealing, and for sure, we move on. That will be your number one problem: Theft. I never did it to Charles, but I know how. Trust me, I know. I know all the ways. I'm good at it I might even be the best.

"Charles taught me a lot. He always told me, 'Davey, the owner of the bar has to consider himself lucky if he doesn't have to worry about how much the bartenders are stealing, but how little they are taking. Irrespective of what the bar owner does or doesn't do, the bartender will take. It's really hard not to have some of that money stick to your fingers when you handle so much of it and none of it is yours. The temptation to make some of it yours is almost always too much for anyone to resist. So, Davey, help me keep it a little worry about a little money.'

"The money, after all, was his. And he knew how to watch it. Now, that the money is yours, you have to learn how to watch it as well. If you don't watch it, other people will. They'll watch it as it makes its way from you to them. I'll teach you how to watch. I didn't steal from Charles. Maybe a drink or two here and there, but that's not stealing. It's a normal part of the bartender's packet. I won't steal from you either, Eddie."

Then he added, "Unless you turn out to be a fucking asshole!"

"Thanks, Davey. I appreciate it. I'll try to learn. But if you would, I would also appreciate it if you would continue to train and generally oversee these people. They all know I suck behind the bar. They'd listen to the bar stool before they'd listen to me. After things settle down here, come up to the office and we'll talk remuneration. OK?"

"OK! Don't worry! I'll be here for you."

It had been one of my better decisions! Well maybe, one of Davey's better decisions. We both thought it was a helluva deal. We were both correct, but I knew I was more correct!

Davey was my friend as well as helping me become a better business person. He taught me a lot as well as earning more than his share.

My mother didn't raise any stupid kids that lived! I listened to Charles when he told me to try to surround myself with the smartest and most honest people I could.

And, Davey never did steal from me. I guess I didn't turn out to be a fucking asshole! Davey stayed on for a few more years and taught me the ropes. Even after he left full-time for a few years to work with Andrew Prewt for a while, he stayed with me as part-time bar manager, but in a sort of, well not sort of, but absolutely, in a secret way.

His continued work for me was as a customer, which wasn't exactly a normal way. Once or twice a week, he came in the morning for Charles' Blend and a bagel with. Once or twice a week, he came in to The Pickle for lunch. Once or twice a week, he came in late afternoon or evenings for a drink or two. He also kept his Friday night shift. In these ways he could check the bartenders and the rest of the on-duty crew. When he came in as a customer, he signed the bill, but always left his tip in cash. Bartenders and waitresses appreciate cash. It keeps the IRS at bay.

Every Wednesday or Thursday and every Sunday, he checked over The Hyde Out books, the orders and the stock.

I paid him well for his secret work. No one here but I and my mother knew of his surreptitious duties. The staff always assumed I just deducted his tab from his Friday night wages. The fact of the matter was that I just filed the tabs and reimbursed him for his tips. It was another one of those we both thought it was a helluva deal. Again, we were both correct, but as in all of these deals, I knew I was more correct!

Eventually, David returned fulltime. A few months ago, after John-John died! David wasn't exactly a maintenance man! I hired him back as a general factotum. He had just also assumed control of maintenance and housekeeping. He knew The Hyde Out and managed people well. He also knew who could get almost anything fixed and could do it himself if he had to.

I had begun to develop other interests. I needed someone I knew I could trust to help my mother with The businesses. A few years previous, I had taken a position as an adjunct instructor at the University of Chicago. In addition to that, I was spending more and more time not practicing law. Jordan's success resulted in my increased consulting, and research was starting to develop a mind of its own.

I knew that that someone I needed had to be English Dave. Plus, I would still have Evil though she would now be even more valuable to The Hyde Out with her husband in charge of a lot of stuff.

I made him an offer he couldn't refuse.

Again, we both thought it was a helluva deal and each of us again thought he was getting the best of the deal. We were both correct, but again, I knew I was more correct! These kinds of deals are always the best kind of deals.

I changed the topic of conversation back to an article that had appeared in last Sunday's Tribune. There had been a gambling raid story on a Westside tavern. The cops had busted a bookie sitting at the bar taking pretty big number bets on the NFL playoffs.

Davey said, "Not in our bar! Not in The Hyde Out!"

Like the goofy smoke, any bet over a dollar was verboten! Like most other bars, we had a Football Gambling Squares most Saturdays and Sundays. A buck a square! Never more!

A bar owner has to be a real asshole or real connected to risk his or her liquor license on that stuff. Unless, of course, the place isn't worth anything.

After that, we finished what we were doing in The Booth and went back to our respective chores. Me upstairs! Davey out the door!

I worked the rest of the morning. Mondays were always a bitch. This one, being, just before the holidays, was more of a bitch than was usual.

When I came back downstairs for a late lunch, the bar was abuzz.

"Holy shit!" Hizzoner Richard J. Daley had died this afternoon.

A major part of the cause of the 1968 police riots!

The Boss would have this afternoon's news and also that of the rest of the holiday season.

Mike had had a ball writing his columns and book about Hizzoner. In spite of what most thought a tragedy, others thought the event to be a chance for the city to rid itself of the Machine. About those others, I thought "What are those guys smokin'." I was sure Mike would have several more fun columns along the way as well.
Sometimes the Innocent Pay

The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series Scheduled to be late November, 2016

### 1

April 23, 1977

Early Saturday Morning

Alicia mismo policía

"Oh, Eddie! Oh! Gee! Oh, Eddie G.! Oh, god! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

With the last Oh! a bit of an elongated one, Alicia mismo policía, meaning the Alicia was pronounced the same as the Spanish policía, po-lee-ce-a, all 5 foot ten inches and 170 pounds of her, collapsed on the top of my chest. Those 170 pounds of her were, of course, heavy upon me, but were shapely constructed around a staple in her navel. Alicia mismo policía, was built, as they say, like a brick shithouse. Her breasts were the living instantiation of voluptuous. She was often described as drop-dead-gorgeous. There was little argument that she was quite easy on the eyes, but I think most of the drop-dead-gorgeous describers have their eyes focused on her chest.

"Oh, Eddie! That was great! Absolutely great!"

Yes, it was. The thing still worked, three and counting. I had been fixed less than 72 hours previously. Dr. Harry, as he was known in The Hyde Out Inn, my dive-bar, in reality Dr. Harebottle, my personal physician and friend, told me to give it four full days, knowing I would not be able to last that long, though I did last pretty good tonight, and again ... and again, this morning.

I don't have the vaguest idea why these kinds of operations are called being fixed. What they did was they broke it. It worked perfectly well before they broke it. Now, I had to wait three days before I was able to find out if this broken thing still functioned like it had before Harry broke it.

Alicia mismo policía and I had been at it since about ten the previous evening. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. The dim light read 3:06.

We had finished eating, pizza not each other, that came later, we did as well, last night around nine, and I was now more than a bit hungry. Even a phenomenal Rocco's pizza stayed with one for just so long. With some effort, I crawled out from underneath her and out of bed and stumbled into the shower. Alicia mismo policía stumbled in right after me.

We hadn't slept yet this evening though one or both of us might have caught a few minutes of Z's, so the bracing hot shower water didn't have to wake us, but it seemed to wake something in Alicia. Between her and the bracing water, they seemed to wake something in me as well.

After that something in me went back to sleep, I washed and headed for the kitchen, naked and wet.

Alicia yelled after me, "Aren't you going to dry?"

"I hate towels! Besides, I'll be dry soon anyway."

Neatly sidestepping the puddles I had left behind me, Alicia followed, but clad in a large towel as only women can thus be clad. The large towel, however, looked quite skimpy on her even larger construction.

I had started frying some eggs. I might add that mine are amongst the world's better fried eggs, much butter as hot as one can get it and then low heat as the hot butter fried the eggs. Alicia sat at the table in front of the two mimosas I had poured.

She said, "Eddie, I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I really wanted to be with you. And, I still do. But, there's something I need to ask of you. A favor! A big favor! A big fucking favor!"

Dreading payback for a night in the sack, I said, "Go for it!"

"I have a brother. His name is Danny. He's in prison for armed robbery, four of them. He's innocent. He never did a criminal thing in his entire life, those ones or any others."

"And, the favor?"

"Get him out! You can do it. You and Jordan won the Kimmons case. You can win this one as well."

"And, how do I do that?"

"Prove he didn't do it."

"I assume he had counsel during his trial."

"Yes, but it wasn't any good. It was a Public Defender who just graduated some lower level night law school."

"And, the appeal?"

"It was denied because they said it was not timely filed. It took me and my mother too long to raise the money to hire an appeals attorney. My other younger brother and our sister were still in high school. None of us wanted the Public Defender who had just had Danny put in prison."

"Your dad?"

"He's dead! Has been for over ten years. My mother worked hard to raise us. She has a house, but she owed too much on it to raise any money for bail when Danny was first arrested."

I turned off the stove when I smelled the burning eggs. I sat down. I drank my mimosa.

"Alicia, do you have any idea what you are asking? The odds against getting any judicial review are astronomical. That's not even considering the cost which should also prove to be astronomical. Plus, I'm not an experienced attorney. I'm just a guy who owns a bar who happens to have a law license. I dabbled in research for Jordan, but I've never been in a courtroom."

I didn't add "And, I never will be. I don't practice, with an emphasis on the don't."

Trying not to disappoint her too much, I added "Where did all of this take place?"

"Lansing, Michigan."

"Oh, fuck! Nothing like dealing with a case 250 miles away in another state,"

"240!"

"What?"

"240! Lansing's only 240 miles away. It's only 220 from Hyde Park, an easy three-hour drive."

"Well, that's OK then!"

I smiled.

She might not have wanted to, but she smiled as well.

We skipped the eggs and went back to bed. We lay apart and still for a while, then she rolled over to me. We cuddled and fell asleep.

It was after ten when I heard the shower. I didn't go in. I waited until she came out wrapped in another of my large towels.

We exchanged good morning greetings.

I didn't want to go to either my bar, The Hyde Out Inn, or to my deli, The Dill Pickle, with a girl I now suspected I might never see again, particularly one as beautiful as this one. Besides, I do try my best to follow the advice Charles gave me all those long years ago: "Keep your personal life personal and out of your places of businesses!"

After I finished my shower and other sundry and assorted morning ablutions, I went to the kitchen to start some Charles' Blend, that's the great Arabic coffee blend that Charles had developed years ago. As I was famished and sure Alicia was as well, I decided to give some eggs another try. This time they were their usual great. I toasted a couple of bagels. We spoke little as we drank our Charles' Blend and ate our eggs and bagels with. Alicia was a traditionalist. She had lox with hers. I had sun-dried tomato cream cheese with mine.

Finally, I said "Well?"

"Well what?

"Well, are we going to see each other again?"

"Why wouldn't we? Why do you ask that? Did I do something wrong? Oh, Eddie, you misunderstand. I didn't come here because I wanted your help. I came because I wanted you. I wanted you when you first came to see Archie. Hell, I sent enough signals. And, I know you received them. And, I know I was on your radar as well. I was disappointed you never called. Then, someone told me about Jordan. I was sorta glad you hadn't called, not a cheater kind of guy. I was going to call you about my brother this past week when I heard the Kimmons' trial was over. But, you called me before I had a chance. I was excited. Maybe, probably, I should have waited until later to ask you about Danny, but I have been so damned anxious about him for so long, I guess I jumped the gun, huh?"

"Maybe, but don't worry about it. I'm really glad you just said what you just said. I had already decided that you wouldn't want to see me again because I wouldn't help you and your brother. But, you were wrong there as well. If you had said you didn't want to see me again, I would have told you the same thing I'm going to tell you now. Except now, I won't have to say 'Except we will be doing everything by mail since I won't want to see you again under these circumstances.'"

"I will do what I can, but that might turn out to be very little. First, I want all the papers you have on your brother. That way I'll know what other papers I'll need to get. Whatever you might have will make my life a little easier. I'll review the case, but I don't think I'll be able to do much more. You say the appeal filing has been denied. I'll do some research on that and see what I can come up with."

"Strangely enough, I am licensed to practice in Michigan. When Jordan graduated law school here at The University of Chicago, she took the bar exams in both Illinois and Michigan, the latter because it was her home state and I guess she thought someday she might return which she just did four days ago now. I drove her to Lansing to sit for the bar exam and since I was going to be there anyway, I boned up a bit and took the Michigan exam as well. Needless to say, we both passed, she with flying colors, me just barely, the result of too little study, at least that's what I like to think."

"So, let's get today's show on the road."

We did, got today's show on the road, but not until after we both got one last today's show on the bed.

The WGN-TV news said it would be 58° today, not really warm enough for a ballgame, but my brother Don is in town on leave from Germany, and it'll be his birthday tomorrow, and he's as big a Cub fan as I am, so today is Wrigley Field time.

I drove Alicia to the loop. She said to drop her there as she had shopping to take care of. I continued north to the On the Same Street Tavern, the name being derived from being On the Same Street as Wrigley Field, just a few short blocks to the west. The bar was owned by one of my ex-employees, Tom DeSutter of Tom, Rich, and Harold fame, now a practicing attorney on the Northside. Maybe, he figured that since I was an attorney and owned a bar, the bar he had worked at when he was in law school, he should do the same. The big difference, however, was that I had been a non-practicing attorney all those years and had owned the bar before I had passed the Bar.

I had called Tom a few days ago to reserve one of his special off-street parking spots for today's game. I drove the Olds. Parking up here on game days, even in a somewhat protected spot, would not be protected enough for that '41 DeSoto I inherited from Charles.

I arrived a bit before one. My brother was already there. I hadn't seen him for over a year. After a hug and one quick one, a Heileman's Old Style Lager Beer, not a great beer but the Cub fan's local brew of choice, we walked to the ballpark where we enjoyed a quick 2:13 2-1 Cub's victory over Cincinnati. It was early in the season, and the Cubs were already trying to get back to .500. Even after only eleven games and today's victory, they were still one game under.

We walked back to get the car. Don had another beer. I didn't. The one o'clock beer was only three hours ago. I would spend another hour with my brother and Tom before I drove home. I don't drink and drive. It's not only dangerous, it's risky. Who wants to get involved with the legal system when there are taxis to substitute for driving under the influence when one's feet won't do the job? Bar owners seemed to know this better than their patrons.

Don and I talked about Germany, I had spent three years there myself, sports and marriage. Tom and I talked about 1968 and Abbie. I didn't mention my recent visit with the underground Barry Freed.

Rather than drive through heavy after-the-game traffic, even one hour after the game, Don suggested he just take the bus. He did. He took the Addison bus past the old neighborhood to his in-laws' house where he and his wife were staying during his leave.

I fought my way to the Drive and headed south when I had finally succeeded in having done so.

### 2

Still Saturday

The Start of A Plan

I got back to The Hyde Out about six. I strategically chose a table in the back where there were not any smokers and the most likely location where there wouldn't be in the two hours I would be there waiting for Geri. She had been, and still was, a librarian at The University of Chicago, now a researcher at their Law School Library. Geri was my long standing paramour. She was one of the first people I had met in Hyde Park when I moved there to start my freshman year. Was 1957 really so long ago? Twenty years ago.

Holy fuck! Has it been that long with Charles dead these last twelve? He had died of lung cancer even though he had been a lifelong non-smoker. The consensus was he had been struck down because of all of the second hand smoke he had inhaled in the thirty years he had owned The Hyde Out. I had smoked a couple of years before I first met Charles. He had been wise enough not to chastise me, but to direct me. In just a few months, he had converted me from a total asshole who smoked to an only-close-to-a-total-asshole who no longer smoked.

I was starved and thirsty. I ordered my special, meat loaf and mashed potatoes with corn on top with too-oo much butter. I had already finished my first Bitburger Pils. The backup was already in my hand and moving upwards. I wouldn't have to worry about driving now. I still had my upstairs apartment that Charles had provided for me twenty years ago now.

While I was waiting for my food, I thought about Alicia and her brother, mostly about Alicia. If I didn't keep my wits about me and fight the good fight, I might make a living arrangement mistake. I didn't need that. It wasn't that long ago I was lamenting having to spend so much time with Jordan that I was neglecting my friends and my The Businesses. Well, my friends anyway. With my mother and English Dave handling things, I had little to worry about in the business department.

Alicia's brother, Danny was his name? was another matter. I didn't need this one. I had just finished with a bastard of a case serving as Jordan's researcher and co-counsel, but not in the second chair, I sat behind her and the rail, on the Kimmons case she just won this past Tuesday. Has it been that short of a time? Only four days?

That case had been an emotional one for me. The client's grandfather had been a sore spot for me for six years. Hopefully, I was over him. I was trying to follow Charles' advice on the matter. He told me when Jordan first got the case that I needn't concern myself with the asshole. First, the case was Jordan's, not mine. And second, the case was about the kid, not the grandfather.

Lest you think Charles' isn't really dead, he is. That doesn't stop me, however, from conversing with him when I need to. There are some problems that even at my approaching middle age that I need the advice of my old mentor. As many take their problems to bed with them, so do I, but, I have the advantage of being able to talk them over with Charles before I get to sleep.

I know I'm really talking to myself, but it helps to clarify my thinking if I imagine the answers to my questions coming to me as only Charles could phrase them. And, he made me answer his questions as well as to whether or not I really understood the issue at hand. I do the conversing with him a lot less now, only every other month or so, than I did when he first died. Most of the stuff I finally have figured out. Like whether or not to consider Alicia a future live-in.

Charles would ask "Are you fucking nuts?" I don't need to embarrass myself in front of him. Besides after getting reamed out, I'd probably never get to sleep.

I had thought about the brother enough that I knew what steps need to be taken by me. Alicia had said she'd messenger all her papers to me first thing Monday morning. In the meantime, I needed to get to Tribune John and Stosh the Cop.

I asked the bartender for the bar's phone and the client info list. We were getting ready to computerize a lot of stuff, our client base being one of them, so we had just collected and updated all their info. I found Tribune John under T, exactly where he should have been.

I called.

"Trib, this is Eddie."

"What can I do for you, Special Ed?"

To John, I was Special. Needless to say, to me John was special as well.

"I need your morgue skills again. I got another old case. This one is out-of-state though. Can you still take care of it?

As Tribune John's name implies, he worked for the Chicago Tribune. He was their Circulation and Delivery Manager and had been ever since I knew him going on twenty years now. He had more contacts than I did.

"Out-of-state where, Eddie?"

"Lansing, Michigan!"

"The Lansing State Journal, a Gannett paper. That should be easy. I know a guy who knows a guy. But, it'll take a week or so to get it all to you. What's the scoop, names, dates, events, etc."?

"The name of the person in question is Danny, Daniel," I assumed, "Dow. The event was four armed robberies, I also assumed, "in Michigan, probably the Lansing area. The dates? Probably sometime last year. Sorry I can't be more specific, but that's all I have right now. If it doesn't work, I guess I'll have to wait until I can get more info."

"No, that should be enough. All of us now have a pretty good morgue system."

"I'll probably be driving up to Lansing Tuesday. Can you arrange for me to pick it up there?"

"I believe so. If I don't make brunch tomorrow, I'll let you know Monday after work."

"Good enough. By the way, this is a paid job. Your brunch and dinners are on me for the next month."

Tribune was a regular and had been since time began. He had a take-out dinner every night of the work week, sometimes Saturdays as well.

"The pay must be good for you to be so generous."

There wouldn't be any pay, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be expenses that I would have to endure. Even friendship needs reciprocation, maybe particularly friendship.

"Thanks. John! Keep in touch!"

"Will do!"

Stosh the Cop would have been my next call, but he had just walked in the door as I was finishing up with John.

Stosh walked over to where I was sitting. Of course, his beer was there in front of him when he arrived. It was policy in The Hyde Out to get a regular's drink in front of him if at all possible before he arrived at his seat. Our bartenders knew all of the regulars and what the regulars' regular drank. Once in a while, a regular would come in at an irregular time and be faced with a bartender who didn't know the regular or was not familiar with what the regular's regular drink was. Not a big deal, but it often caused the regular to frown. At least it gave the regular something to talk about with another regular or anybody else who would listen.

Stosh said, "Tell me, Eddie. What happened with Jordan?"

"It's all over between us, Stosh."

"Details, Eddie, details!"

Ordinarily, I'd tell such a questioner to Fuck off! but Stosh wasn't just a regular or a bar-friend. In spite of our age difference, Stosh was twenty years older than I, he was one of my few real friends.

Instead, I said, "Geri will be here soon. Then, we'll go over to Rocco's for pizza. I'll be explaining everything to her. Why don't you join us and listen in so I don't have to travel those troubled waters twice?"

"OK! Anything else exciting going on since we won the asshole's grandkid's case for a guilty fuck?"

Stosh was, of course, referring to Jordan's victory of last Tuesday. After she received her justly won Not Guilty verdict for an absentee defendant who we shortly thereafter discovered had been shot and killed by a different killer, but a member of the same drug gang, than the one that the absentee defendant had been accused of being a party with to a murder that the absentee defendant had nothing to do with.

I know that that explanation is confusing. But, that's a story already told. If you're interested in becoming unconfused, I suggest you go back to where that confusing story was first told.

"Yeah, Stosh! There is! I'm probably going to have some time on my hands in the near future. I'm not teaching this term. Jordan's case is over and she's left the firm. Most of those downtown suits will be happy they don't have me around anymore. You'll be OK cuz they love the work you've done for them since you've joined them."

Stosh had been a decorated Chicago Police Homicide Detective these past thirty years. He had pulled the plug on the job the first of this year. To quote him, "I'm tired of the fucking bureaucracy, the fucking politics and the fucking paperwork. There's no fucking joy left on the job any longer!"

Jordan had her firm hire him as an investigator immediately after that. He had been, along with Iron John, another Chicago cop, a major part of our figuring out what happened with the Kimmons kid. I believed that his help in winning this case endeared him to the firm. He did his own style of investigation, and ultimately the firm would not like that maverick style. But, it was his results that the firm endeared.

I had always provided them with the same successful results on the research I did for them. But, the downtown suits disliked me, some of them a lot, actually that some was really a most. They hadn't yet had time to turn this unlike of me to dislike of a friend of mine. They'd keep him on. I doubted whether I'd ever hear from them again except maybe to return some files or other papers of theirs that might have been left in my possession.

Too bad! Even though I didn't need the money, I had had some moderate billings from them. Mostly that meant I could stay a non-practicing attorney and still be active in some of the more exciting aspects of being an attorney.

"But, I am on to something else. Again, let's wait for Geri so I only have to tell the story once."

My food came.

Stosh said, "And, you're going to eat pizza!"

"Two things, Stosh! One, I am fucking starved. Two, fuck you!

I ate!

We rehashed the Kimmons case a bit more waiting for eight o'clock and Geri.

It was a few minutes before eight when Geri walked in the door. By then, English Dave, my major factotum, had taken over behind the bar. He had a glass of white zin in front of me before Geri got to us. I picked it up and handed it to her as I got up to give her my seat. Stosh did the same, not with the zin or the giving of his seat, but with the getting up.

Geri took the wine and still holding it, put both arms around me and gave me a big hug and a cheek kiss. She said, "Poor baby!"

The Poor Baby! was for Jordan leaving. I had told her that much, but not much more when we spoke on the phone earlier in the week to firm up arrangements for tonight.

Geri was my sexy librarian! As she had been long before I met Jordan. She still is. Jordan who had known all about the affair and approved of it, at least that's what I thought then, but I surmise now that it was but mere acceptance on her part. However, Jordan had had a soft spot in her heart for librarian. She was a veracious reader and while growing up spent most of her time in a library when she wasn't swimming. She also had been a librarian in Viet Nam when she was in the military.

No, there had never been a threesome though Geri had once suggested it and I more than once thought of it. Jordan had said "It would really be exciting, Eddie, but I have enough of a problem thinking and feeling as it is. Knowing Geri as I do and your relationship with her, I don't think I could handle it. Let's let well enough be. If I ever feel any different about it, I'll let you know."

She never did.

Geri's husband was president of their Schull so she had to play the role of wife of the President of the Shull. I don't understand their relationship. Long ago, I asked her about it. She said, "Don't ask again!" I haven't. She says she loves him and has ever since they met in high school.

Irrespective of their actual relationship, Geri says they must attend together. They do. I don't know how much of the stuff she has to do she actually believes. I don't understand that part either. I really don't have a need to. Their lives together and her relationship with me seem to be able to coexist for her. It might be complicated, but I see no reason why they shouldn't for me as well.

Besides, I'm not stupid! I won't ask a second time.

Tonight, as was last night, was Jazz Night at The Hyde Out. The bar had already started to get crowded, and it would soon get much louder in here than normal so Geri finished her white zin and the three of us left for Rocco's. I followed Charles' advice even now twelve years after his death. He had advised me that it would be a good thing if I developed a life out of The Hyde Out and out of Hyde Park as well. Not only was being insular usually not a good thing, it was always better when the fewer people the better, particularly your customers, knew your business. And too many would if you lived your love life in a bar, any bar, but particularly one you owned. It wasn't the same as not dipping your pen in the company ink, but it was close. That was why I had not brought Alicia here. Maybe later, for an occasional Sunday brunch, but never much more than that.

So, one or two drinks once or twice a month was all The Hyde Out ever saw of Geri. Maybe, tomorrow's Sunday Brunch, and probably a few more after that since I no longer had my usual brunch partner. But, this would be an exception.

Rocco's was only a half-block down the street, so soon after leaving The Hyde Out, the three of us were in our reserved booth as far away from the rest of their Saturday night patrons and their smoke as we could get.

In spite of all the evidence against doing what he did, Stosh was a smoker though a considerate one. He had had a cigarette outside as we had walked to Rocco's after going over an hour without one in The Hyde Out. He would now have another hour or two of withdrawal suffering. He might have been considerate about the smoke, but there was little he could do about the stink that was always adhering to his clothing.

Rocco Sr. was at the door when I walked in. He did the best part of his job. He called to the bartender for a bottle of Bitburger Pils for me. He knew what I drank. So like a good restaurateur, he kept a case or two on hand for me. He also knew that I wanted to be seated as far away from any second-hand smoke as was possible. Having been a good friend of Charles' long before I entered the picture, he also knew that it had been second-hand smoke that almost surely had caused the lung cancer that had killed Charles.

Rocco Sr. and I went back a long way. Not as far back as he and Charles, but still a long way. Charles and Rocco Sr. went back long before there was a Rocco Jr. in the picture and Rocco Sr. was still just plain Rocco.

He also called for a domestic for Stosh and a white zin for Geri. He walked us to a table in the back.

We made some small talk. I guess he didn't know about Jordan leaving yet as he didn't bring it up. Or maybe, he was being polite since I wasn't alone. It was hard to belief that the bar grapevine hadn't sprouted the information over such a short distance.

English Dave, like Stosh, being one of my few best friends as well as my major factotum, knew the whole story. Of course, I also had confided in my mother. And English Dave's wife, Evil, short for the English pronunciation of Evelyn, E-vil-in, knew as well as she was the Tuesday-night–abruptly-needed-bartender-substitute for which Jordan had arranged.

Hell! By now, the whole neighborhood and most of the city bar scene was probably privy to my private affairs.

Bars, including my The Hyde Out Inn, and their regulars, even a few of the not-quite-so-regulars, were like a family, a dysfunctional family of course, as are all families, but a family nonetheless, and like all families, there just ain't no secrets.

I learned that from the John-John situation and the Kimmons case. I started out knowing the inside skinny on these matters would eventually leak out. They did. I was surprised and shouldn't have been. I knew better. I just didn't want to believe better. It seemed as if only Tribune John and I had stayed quiet about the stuff we knew.

Dysfunctional families are still families, I guess!

We didn't order our pizza telling Rocco as he was leaving the table to have someone bring us a second round. Stosh ordered a side shot of bar whiskey with his. Stosh was of the school that if one drank as many as he did, it was a waste of money to drink anything but domestic draft and bar stock though he could be a connoisseur of Jameson's.

Stosh then said, "Alright, Eddie! Spill!"

I spilled!

Jordan had been the go-to-defense attorney in Chicago. She and I had lived together in my Powhatan Co-op for five plus years. She had just won a big murder case, finding a somewhat guilty client not guilty. All of this they both knew.

I showed them, Geri first, the note Jordan had left me when she left.

Dear Eddie,

I'm sorry to have to do it this way, but I'm too afraid to do it face-to-face.

I'm leaving you and Chicago.

I didn't go to Detroit for a conference. Yes, I did deliver a paper, but it was for a job interview. Wayne State University Law School made me an offer and I accepted.

But, that wasn't the real reason I went to Detroit. I went to have an abortion.

I know you don't ever want children. You have made yourself perfectly clear on the issue. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to have you feel I was forcing you into anything.

I do want a child, but not by you because you don't want one with anybody.

So even though I still love you so much and probably always will, I have to go.

I just want to be free of you so I can start over and someday have the child I have always wanted.

Please, don't follow me or otherwise try to contact me.

If I ever feel I can talk to you again, I will make the contact.

J

Jordan was correct. I didn't want children. It wasn't that I didn't like kids. It was the other way around actually. I loved them. I just didn't want the burden of having my own. I loved my life. I didn't want it changed by having children. Even more than not wanting my life changed by the burden of raising them, the truth be told, it was much more the responsibility than the burden.

I see babies as born pure only to be immediately infected by the world. A parent can mediate that infection, but never eliminate it.

I didn't have the strength of character that my mother had, or a Charles had. I didn't want to be a party to that enablement.

I held the same position on marriage. I was quite happy without it.

While being agreeable, at least on the surface, to my position on marriage, she wasn't agreeable to my position on children.

Less one might think less of me because of my positions on these positions, know that while I don't think of you at all, I think less of you for having the audacity to consider yourself in a position to judge my decisions on these matters, matters you know nothing about and that don't concern you in the least.

I'm not sure, but I think I'm glad that at least some of you want children. The world would be in a helluva fix if everyone thought as I did.

Maybe not: A lot less biological time bomb and pollution. Less war, as well.

In any case, I won't judge your decisions on these matters.

Your life is your life. As such, you and you alone have the sole responsibility for deciding how to live it.

Grant me the same privilege.

All in all, I'm a pretty good guy.

A pretty good guy with a thing that still works.

I had met Alicia while doing some investigative work on Jordan's murder case. Alicia had been a secretary to the guy who handled Jordan's client's financial affairs. When I met Alicia, she gave me every sign of being receptive to my approach. I did nothing. While I could arguably be called a dog, I was faithful to Jordan. Faithful, of course, includes my twenty-year affair with Geri, a relationship which Jordan understood and accepted. At least I thought that she did. Now, I'm not so sure. Maybe, tolerate is a better word.

I didn't call Alicia until I had finished reading Jordan's note and having made my appointment with Harry.

Geri again said Poor baby! while she slid over to give me another hug.

Stosh said, "Wow, that's a tough one!"

"Guys," that included Geri as both of them knew that my guys was a gender neutral guys, "I am still here. Jordan is not. Jordan is there. I am not. So, here we are and there, there being Detroit, she is, most likely ne'er the twain shall meet."

Stosh had known Jordan fairly well over the five years she and I had cohabited and the three years before that while she was in Law School and worked for me at The Hyde Out.

Less someone think about company ink here, we never even dated, let alone anything else, until after she had left my full time employ and begun her career as an attorney. I say full time because Jordan insisted on keeping her Tuesday night bartending gig at The Hyde Out. She said she had built it up. She wasn't about to give it up. Besides, she said, it gave her relief from the bullshit fucking suited world.

I beat them to the punch by saying, "Yeah, I cried. Yeah, I felt like shit. Yeah, I probably felt worse than I have ever felt in my life. But, life goes on. The longer one wallows in shit, the stinkier one gets. I don't like stinky. I called Harry. The next morning, I got fixed, or broken, depending on one's perspective. I spent Friday night and this morning with Alicia, Archie's secretary if you remember him."

I turned to Geri and said, "And yes, it still works. I know I could have waited until tonight, but I didn't want to take the chance of disappointing you if it didn't want to go along with our intentions."

Stosh said, "OK, Eddie! You're right, enough of this maudlin stuff. Let's get on with it! What's this new something else that you're up to?"

Carole murmured another Poor baby!

"OK! Three things up front. First, there may not be any there there. My present thinking on the little I know about this case is just that. There's no there there. After my, our, initial efforts of gathering the requisite information, I, we, will probably decide to shit-can the whole thing as undoable. Second, this new something else that I'm up to concerns Alicia's brother ...

They both interrupted, Alicia mismo policía, huh?"

"Yes, Alicia mismo policía, duh!"

I continued, "...and there's not going to be any money to be had here. It's total pro bono including expenses. But as usual, I'll put your bar tab on the house, Stosh.

"And, not to worry! This isn't about that. I have some time on my hands. I want to do this. She hasn't got to me that far so fast. And, she never will. Yes, I liked the idea of living with Jordan. It was comfortable. But, I always had the misgivings of the trade-off necessary to maintain the relationship. I enjoy being with my friends, something I hadn't had much of an opportunity to do. Yes, I missed Jordan. But, I didn't realize how much I also missed my freedom. Being part of a couple has its price. I didn't spend enough evenings at The Hyde Out. I didn't go many other places often enough either. I didn't read enough. I didn't play enough softball or basketball. But, I did fuck a lot! There's always a trade-off! There's always a cost! My cost, I guess, no, it's for sure, not a guess, was anything it took to be with Jordan. But, Jordan was special. I must have thought she was worth it or I would never have done it. But, Jordan is Jordan. Alicia mismo policía, is no Jordan."

"If I can't fight the urge to cohabit strongly enough, I'll talk to Charles about it." They both knew of my sometimes night-time conversations with out dearly departed friend. Geri hadn't known Charles all that well, but Stosh had known and loved him many years longer than I had. "He'll keep me straight. If he doesn't, I know I'll always have you two butinskis to keep me on the straight and narrow."

"OK, poor-beleaguered-little-buddy, let's get on with it."

"Alicia's brother, Danny, the last name is Dow, is in a Lansing, Michigan jail for four armed robberies, she says he says he had nothing to do with. We've all heard the story many times before. She says he never did a criminal thing in his entire life, those ones or any others. You, Stosh, have heard this enough times to have hearing it again make you sick."

"I assume he had counsel during his trial?"

"Yes, Stosh, but according to Alicia, it wasn't any good. It was a Public Defender who just graduated some lower level night law school."

"And, the appeal?"

"It was denied because they said it was not timely filed. The family just didn't have the money to hire an appeals attorney. It took her and her mother too long to raise the money to hire a competent appeals attorney. Her dad had been dead for ten years and her other younger brother and sister were still in high school at the time so there was no one but the mother and Alicia to help."

"I told her she should deliver all the paper she has on the matter to me, and I would take her problem under advisement. Unless either of you have any objections, I'm going to follow the same approach I followed with John-John. I have already called Tribune to have the Lansing, Michigan newspaper morgue search. Geri, I'd appreciate your doing the same at the Law Library. Find what you can."

"I'll get on it first thing Monday morning."

Turning to Stosh, I continued, "What I need from you, Stosh, is if you have any Lansing, Michigan, or even just plain old Michigan, police contacts."

"I'll look through my stuff, but I think I might have both, an East Lansing patrolman and a Statie as well. I'll try to get it all to you ASAP."

"No rush. I need to see the papers first."

"Enough," I said as I waved for a waitperson, "let's eat!"

We ordered our usual, an extra-large. Even though I had had a dinner less than two hours ago, there were still three of us. As usual, we had double cheese, Italian sausage, onion and 'schrooms, double everything! Green peppers, one of the few foods which I really dislike, on Geri's half.

Rocco's has absolutely the world's best pizza, though New Yorkers will surely protest. Rocco Sr. once told me the reason his pizza was considered to be the best in Chicago was because he used the best mozzarella cheese for which he paid a 50% premium. Since I never ate mozzarella except on pizza, I wouldn't know the difference. But, I am sure he was right about the cheese statement since he was right about everything else pizza.

The pizza came.

We ate.

Me? A little bit less than usual.

We left.

Stosh walked back to The Hyde Out.

Geri and I got a taxi to The Powhatan.

She and I were both delighted. It still worked.
The Droopy-Eyed Bank Robber

The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series Work in progress. Publication date expected early 2017.

### 1

Back in ELMI

June 20, 1980

Friday

"Eddie! Did you watch the news today?"

I looked up from my book and saw Ben Hart. As was his wont, he was wearing a long-sleeved, buttoned all the way to the top, flannel lumberjack shirt, this in spite of it being a hot summer afternoon. His long red hair, full blazing beard, slacks and shoes covered the rest of him. Ben had to keep his porcelain white skin covered whenever the sun was out.

The only news I knew this day was what I had earlier read in The Chicago Tribune before I left for the three-hour + drive to East Lansing: "The Equal Rights Amendment ain't gotta chance!"

So I responded, "No, I didn't.

He said, through his smiling, barely visible because of his bright red full beard, mouth, "It's on right now. Look!"

With that, I did look up at one of the Peanut Barrel's five televisions. There was a caricature of a droopy eyed, sleepy-looking, face. There was as little doubt in my mind as there apparently also was in Ben's. W we both knew who the guy in the sketch was.

I said, "Holy shit! That's your friend!"

"That's what I think as well. My friend, Eldridge Horowitz, is The Droopy-Eyed Bandit."

Ben walked over to the bar to retrieve the remote. He turned up the sound on the TV nearest us.

We heard, "The sketch you are seeing now is a police artist's representation of witnesses' descriptions of the man who held up the Jackson branch of The First National Michigan Bank earlier this afternoon. Today's armed robbery was the twelfth in a two month-long series of bank robberies committed by this man along the I-94 corridor between St. Joe and Detroit. Police have had his description, and they have all been identical since the first holdup about nine weeks ago, but have been unable to locate him, as Droopy-Eyes continued his unprecedented spree."

Ben said, "I hadn't seen a sketch before, but that's El."

I had only met the guy once on my initial visit to East Lansing three years ago, but I thought again now, as I had back then, I ain't never seen a guy with droopy eyes like that before.

I haven't since and don't think I ever will.

That guy they're showing a sketch of has to be the guy introduced to me as Eldridge Horowitz.

I turned back to Ben, who was the spitting image of Rob Roy from the neck up with his long bright flaming red ponytail length hair to go with that full red beard. No Scot or anyone else I had ever known dressed like Ben.

"What are you going to do?"

In addition to looking like Rob Roy, Ben had the character of Dudley Do-Right, nothing was trivial enough not to report if it infringed upon his heightened sense of morality. He wasn't a snitch, just a man of high morality and principle.

I was surprised to hear "I don't know!"

For Ben, doing nothing was tantamount to a venal sin, though Ben was of the Evangelical, not Catholic, persuasion. His now-dead father had been a minister, a fire-and-brimstone, hell-bent-for-heaven one. Thus, Ben had been raised in a strict religious household.

Then, he made a quick change of topic, maybe to give him time to weigh the right-thing-to-do against his friendship with his suspicions.

"What are you doing back in town?"

It had been three years since I originally had been here in Lansing on behalf of a kid, Danny, who had been falsely accused of four armed hold-ups of bars and restaurants. It had actually started with the kid's beautiful sister, Alicia-as-in-policía, who became history shortly after I started the investigation. I got lucky getting a great team of local people who helped get this kid released.

I also got lucky meeting these and other great people here which led to my frequent visits back here since then, they and my work with the foundation set up by Zolton Ferency and Carolyn Ardent, Get the Innocent Guys Out, GIGO for short. Miss Lindy, however, was really the main reason for my semi-monthly round-trips from my bar in Hyde Park. I drove if it the trip needed to be a quick one. I took the train if I had more time to be away from my The Businesses.

Miss Lindy and they were also the major incentives in my decision to accept an offered one-year temporary Associate Professor of Philosophy here at Michigan State University to fill in for one of their own on his sabbatical year.

I explained this to Ben. I also explained why I was here early. With Ben, one had to explain everything. The penalty for not doing so was to either undergo a severe cross examination by him until he had what he wanted or run the risk if losing a friend by losing one's temper at his inquisition.

Ben was a fine gentleman, a real Gentle Ben. However, he could also be, and often was, a real pain-in-the-ass with his slow-step-by-step manner of questioning in his search to hear what he needed to here said in the manner in which he needed to hear it if he was to fully understand what he believed he needed to know.

Thus, I explained everything. It was better than either of the other two alternatives.

"That's what I'm doing here."

Actually, what I was doing here when Ben came in was feeding my face with one of The Peanut Barrel's great a-heart-attack-about-to-happen-on-a-plate-hamburger while reading the justice portion of Plato's Republic preparing for my first class of the shortened first summer term. I would have just five short weeks to get through a lot of stuff in Philosophy 101 with a bunch of students, I am sure, who would rather be elsewhere, especially in this great summer weather East Lansing was enjoying.

"And now, I have to get back to my apartment to meet a friend."

"Are you staying at Herb's again?"

"Yes, Mr. Shinberg," as I referred to who everyone else called Herb, "offered it to me for the academic year even if I am here a bit early. See you later tonight, Ben."

I walked back to the apartment over Mr. Shinberg's garage. He had originally built it as an over-the-garage-teenagers'-home-away-from-home-apartment-when-they-had-a-fight-with-a-parent-or-two-or-just-needed-to-see-grandpa-and-grandma-for-awhile. I stayed there for a couple of months when I was here a few years ago and these past few years on my semi-monthly visits. Mr. Shinberg wouldn't accept any rent the first time or any time since. He was still insisting that he would not accept any now either.

He said to me, "Eddie, please accept the largesse of an old man. I know you have a pretty large largesse yourself. But, humor me! It's what I want to do."

I had little choice if I wanted to avail myself of a pretty nice, convenient to the University and the bars, apartment. Much of the time, he even threw in off-street parking.

If I thought I could take him and his wife out for a special dinner, I was mistaken there as well. The first time I tried it, he had already arranged with the restaurant to put the bill on his tab. When I asked the waitperson for the bill, he said, "Not to worry, sir. Herb has already taken care of it."

When I attempted to utter an opposition, the utter turned into a sputter as Mr. Shinberg said to me, "Eddie, please accept the largesse of an old man. I know you have a pretty large largesse yourself. But, humor me! It's what I want to do."

### 2

What I Had Explained to Ben

Around Mid-March, 1980

I had been in East Lansing visiting Miss Lindy, as usual staying at Mr. Shinberg's over-the-garage-teenagers'-home-away-from-home-apartment-when-they-had-a-fight-with-a-parent-or-two-or-just-needed-to-see-grandpa-and-grandma-for-awhile. I wanted to get an early morning train back to Chicago. Even with my mother and Davey in charge, I needed to get back and stick my nose back into what was probably the smoothest non-boss running enterprise of all time.

However, Z had called the evening before, a true coitus interruptus moment, and asked me to stay over for lunch. I demurred and asked if it wasn't something which could be handled by phone. He said not.

It was difficult to ever turn Z down. Outside of your votes, political donations and time for his campaign, he never asked for much. I could hardly refuse. I agreed to come. He agreed to make it an early eleven o'clock lunch, so I could easily catch the two o'clock train.

We met at The Beggar's in the fancy room. Z hadn't explained why he wanted this lunch, even after I pressed him. I just assumed it would be something to do with GIGO.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

King Hal and Winston and two other older guys, one of whom I know I had seen around but didn't know were already seated when Z and I walked in.

Z said, "Eddie, you already know Hal Walsh and Winston Wilkinson. These other two gentlemen are Dr. John Henderson and Dr. Charles Larrowe, both econ profs here at State. The latter, the guy in the Hawaiian shirt, who I think is in step with your wardrobe, is known as Lash."

I had seen Dr. Henderson at The Beggar's many times. He was a regular. He wore a severe leg prosthesis on his left leg which was several inches shorter than the other. I later learned, like Winston, he had suffered a severe case of polio as a child.

The other guy, Lash, I had heard of but never seen nor met. He was a local celebrity like Z, though of a non-political, while still being of a very political, persuasion. That is, Lash was not a politician seeking elective office or other appointive position, but an outspoken political commentator often, many say, bordering on the outlandish.

I shook hands around the table amidst a few "Nice to meet you!'s.

King Hal started the conversation. "Eddie, Winston and I, as well as Zolton there, have had quite an experience getting to know you these past few years. The university's Professor of Political Philosophy is taking a sabbatical this coming term. We have been interviewing candidates and were about ready to make an offer when Winston suggested you. We made excuses and have not yet offered the position to this other candidate. We wanted to look more deeply into what you had to offer. We did. I called your Chair at The University of Chicago where you had been doing adjunct teaching as well as a couple of your previous Professors and colleagues. John and Lash called some Econ people who they thought might know of you. They did. All of our feedback backed up my, Winston's and Zolton's impression of you. We, that is the MSU Philosophy Department, have an offer for you. We want you to teach for us this coming academic year."

"Holy shit! That's sure a shot out of the blue!"

"For you, maybe. For us, it's what we want."

"I have several businesses to run. I can't be gone for a whole year."

"Well, maybe you can, that is if we can arrange your schedule so you'll only be gone from them a few days a week."

I was impressed and maybe, my resolve was weakening a bit.

"What do you have in mind?"

After a response which was more than workable for me, I asked "How much?"

Winston's response wasn't workable, not nearly so.

I asked, "Is that how much the guy I'm replacing gets?"

Winston again, "No, our offer is an Instructor's salary. The person you would be replacing is an Associate Professor."

"He has a Ph.D. of course."

Still Winston, "Of course!"

"He has a law degree and an M.B.A. as well?"

"Well .... No ..."

King Hal laughed. "I told our Chair you wouldn't bite on that offer. He said, 'The guy's here working for nothing, isn't he? GIGO doesn't pay him!' I told him, 'Yeah, pro bono is what lawyers do now and then. And, it's usually for a cause. MSU's Philosophy Department isn't that kind of a cause and an academic year is not now and then. He didn't like it. He thought the savings on salary would help offset some of his budget deficit. He asked "Why not the other guy then?'

Winston and I convinced him the other guy would just be a fill-in but that you would provide a lasting contribution. He wanted to save the money, but he agreed. We are ready to offer you exactly what the sabbatical guy would be getting."

There would be more to work out, but we would do it.

They had me. I agreed.

Starting next fall, I would be spending three days a week in East Lansing.

This is what I had explained to Ben.

I also explained that Hal had gotten stuck with a first-half Summer term class that he had tried his utmost to avoid. Being the clever guy he was, he had an epiphany. He knew I would be commuting from Chicago and that the Indiana corridor between Chicago and Michigan was a hellacious place to be driving during the frequent winter snowstorms. So, he came up with the idea that I should teach his unwanted first-half Summer term class which meant one less Winter term class and less of a possibility of getting myself screwed over in that hellacious Indiana corridor between Chicago and Michigan."

Several others besides ben were to later get the same explanation.

### 3

Droopy-Eyes Gets Caught

Still June 20, 1980

Friday

I still was driving the 1976 Oldsmobile 98 that Mr. Shinberg had arranged for me to buy on a sweetheart deal when I was here three years ago. I parked it in his neighbor's garage, the same garage I had used those few years past. Mr. Shinberg's neighbor was off somewhere again and the garage wasn't being used, at least that half of the double. Garages were a near-necessity in East Lansing because the city did not allow overnight street parking.

Even though it wasn't that much after noon, I used the garage because I knew I would have at least one beer with my heart-attack-about-to-happen-on-a-plate-hamburger. I actually had two, beers that is, not heart-attack-about-to-happen-on-a-plate-hamburger. One of those was more than enough. I had a rule: Never drive after drinking even if it was only one beer. The rule was hard-and-fast as it would be easy to have a beer and then change the rule to Never drive after more than one beer. The time after that, it would change again, that time to Never drive after more than two beers.

The rule was Never drive after drinking even if it was only one beer. The rule would always be Never drive after drinking even if it was only one beer.

I walked by the City parking lot on my way back. I saw Miss Lindy's car in the lot. She didn't want to worry about East Lansing's no on-street-parking between 2 AM and 6 AM. With the car there, I knew she was waiting for me as planned. I also knew she would be spending the night. Otherwise she would have parked on the street. Miss Lindy was an associate at Mr. Shinberg's Insurance Agency. Since I had absolutely no connection at all with the business, I didn't have to worry about another rule Charles taught me: Never mess around with the company ink. Miss Lindy might have been black ink, but she wasn't black company ink.

I always took seriously what Charles had taught me. Well, almost always!

Miss Lindy was sitting on the front stoop of Mr. Shinberg's home. Mr. Shinberg was sitting next to her.

I was greeted by two hugs and one kiss. The first hug and the kiss were bestowed on me by Miss Lindy. Mr. Shinberg and I didn't kiss.

It was a great greeting from two great people whom I didn't see as often as all of us would have liked. I saw Mr. Shinberg most of the times I saw Miss Lindy, but usually not long enough for an extended conversation. Usually, I was in-and-out of town quickly on those semi-monthly visits to be in-and-out-but-not-quickly visits to be with Miss Lindy.

Even so, Mr. Shinberg knew when he wasn't wanted, so he said as he was going up the stairs to the door, "Eddie, come visit tomorrow morning for coffee and a bagel with."

"Yes, sir! Tomorrow AM it will be."

Miss Lindy and I went around the side of the house to the back of the garage where the door to the over-the-garage-teenagers'-home-away-from-home-apartment-when-they-had-a-fight-with-a-parent-or-two-or-just-needed-to-see-grandpa-and-grandma-for-awhile was located.

We both went in. We both went up. Then, we both went down.

After a shower and another going down and then another shower, we walked over to the Beggar's Banquet for dinner. When we entered, we encountered the large Friday night drinking crowd. But, there wasn't the usual din or buzz created by that many people in a bar. Everyone was staring at one of the television screens.

"We interrupt this program for a Special Bulletin. Eldridge Horowitz has just been apprehended and identified as The Droopy-Eyed Bank Robber who has committed the armed robberies of twelve banks along the I-94 corridor in the last month. More to follow at eleven."

I said to Miss Lindy, "Well, that takes care of Ben's conundrum."

After clarifying that conundrum for her, I continued, "His problem is now moot."

Bob Adler, one of the owners, was working the floor tonight. After we worked out way through the bar crowd, waving to, and saying Hello to a few people I had met on my previous, sometimes frequent, visits, Bob greeted us and took us into the formal dining area which was, of course, crowded on this Friday weekend night in his gourmet restaurant.

We requested to sit there mostly to be as far away from the bar din and smoke as we could get. Some eaters in the fancy dining room smoked, but the percentage of smokers in any given group is largely a matter of education and economic class. Those who patronized the fancy dining room usually ordered the more expensive items on the menu because their education and success in life allowed them to afford them. Thus, the overhanging cloud of smoke in that room was less dense than elsewhere in the establishment.

When we walked in, one of Mr. Shinberg's sons-in-law, greeted us. Over the years, Cy had turned out to be a pretty good friend. By-the-by, he was also Miss Lindy's boss. He did ask us to join him, but I politely declined with the true excuse that Miss Lindy and I wanted to be alone.

Bob, who knew Cy well, stayed with us for those few minutes, then led us to our table in the far back of the room where I requested to be seated because I knew that there the smoke cloud was substantially less dense, sometimes non-existent as it was tonight.

Miss Lindy and I caught up over a full dinner for her and just a small one for me. My insides were still dealing with the heart-attack-about-to-happen-on-a-plate-hamburger I had consumed just a few hours earlier.

When we finished our food, we had our after-dinner drinks in the bar. By the time we arrived there, it was a bit after ten and Phil Ballbach was already there as a ten o'clock arrival was his normal bar time.

He saw us, waved us over, and said, "Welcome back, Eddie. I assume you have already heard about Eldridge?"

After my Yes, I told him about my encounter with Ben.

He told me that he already knew about it. Ben had called him about his conundrum and that he already knew what he had to do. He also told us that Ben had solved his conundrum before the arrest which was pending before Ben had acted and which actions had absolutely any effect at all on the eventual arrest.

His action?

While I was otherwise involved with Miss Lindy, Ben had walked over to the East Lansing Police Department Headquarters where he met with Officer Charles McCrimmon, a member of the investigative team those three years past, and told him of his suspicions.

Ben was as true to himself as he needed to be. He acted in his principled way irrespective of the consequences. That was Ben. Above all, principled to the end.

Before Phil gave me chapter and verse on Eldridge Horowitz, he told me Ben had also told him about my teaching position across the street.

Phil was a walking pre-computer data base of almost every voter in Ingham County. He did keep index cards on them which he constantly updated, but the amount of knowledge he had about so many people that he kept in his head was unfathomable. He was also an unpaid political consultant, mostly for Zolton Ferency

"When you met Eldridge, he had only been back in town for a year or so. He had been in Kenya for several years as Director of the Peace Corps in that part of Africa. He mostly supervised other Peace Corps volunteers but did some actual teaching himself. He came back in '75 to work on Jerry Brown's presidential campaign. Obviously, he didn't get the job reward he was looking for. Backing losing candidates carries with it its own built-in punishment.

"He does have an Ed.D. and had previously been a mucky-muck in the State of Michigan Department of Education, so everyone expected him to land on his feet. He has a vita as long as your arm. It's mostly political stuff and presentations at political events, but he has his share of publications as well. He was going places statewide before he got national ambitions. This is a guy who was well respected, both professionally and socially.

"But, he landed on his butt. I haven't heard a thing about him working since Jerry lost out to Carter. That's four years ago now. Everyone assumed that El had some money stashed away and sooner or later would be able to reclaim some of his State of Michigan status.

"You met him when you were first here three years ago. What did you think?"

"Not much. We barely spoke. He was literate and well-spoken, but that was really my only exposure to him. I guess I won't be getting anymore, will I?"

"Guess not."

I inquired after Zolton who also had been a member of that investigative team. I had been impressed to the utmost with the man. He was on the right side of all the issues. Plus, being around his happy-face presence was always a joy. We have since worked on several cases together at GIGO.

"It's early yet, but you know Zolton will be running for governor again next year. He got his butt kicked when he ran against Romney in '66 and every four years since then, but Z's a fighter. He believes in people and what they need and want. He doesn't give up. This year he's backing the campaign of Barry Commoner the Citizen's Party candidate. If you're interested in helping, let me know."

I knew about this guy. Studs Terkel, a Chicago-local celebrity I knew slightly, had been one of the Party's original members. I was more than interested, but I thought of what Charles had told me many years ago, just about twenty now.

Except for voting, something he took very seriously, he admonished me to stay away from politics. "In politics, there is always someone pandering to someone else. You're good enough to never have to pander to anyone else. You never want the disgust you'll have of having someone else pandering to you. That's all politics is about, pandering. Every fucking politician there ever was, was a fucking pander bear. One's participation in politics seldom pays off unless one is a fucking crook. The Chicago Way."

And, he was, of course, correct. It was The Chicago Way!

So, not knowing exactly what to say to get myself out of this, I said, "I'm a registered voter, Phil. But, that registration is in Illinois."

"Doesn't matter, Eddie. You might not be able to vote her, but that doesn't mean you can't help Z and me on this campaign, does it?"

"Guess not, let's talk about it. I have a lot on my plate right now with the new job in a state other than where my businesses are. But, we'll talk."

Miss Lindy and I walked home.

We got home where we stopped walking, but we didn't stop moving.
The Gringo Mayor of Ajijic

(Completed with hoped for publication by end of 20916 or early 2017)

### 1

Love and Hate

It was the most horrible of feelings. The nervousness he always felt made his entire body shake. It was like he was always walking on eggshells. This constant nervousness and shaking was the result of the apprehension he felt afraid that he might make another mistake and have to pay the penalties his wife always imposed on him for his transgressions, real or imagined. These supposed transgressions were seldom real, that is they were seldom real to a normal person, but to her unimaginable imagination, they were real and always happening. Even though he thought, he knew, he really wasn't making these mistakes, he knew that her wrath and the penalties that followed her wrath would inevitably follow.

These eggshell feelings were always with him to some degree or another, but always were much exacerbated, as they were now, when he was awaiting the imminent appearance of his wife, the Jewish American Princess.

He had been married to the JAP for a little more than nine years. Today was August 15, 1992, the day their marriage would end. He didn't know this at the time, but he would know it soon, very soon. And, so would she.

He was home early that day, doing some household chores which his wife had ordered him to do.

"She never suggests, or even requests. She always orders, though she always insists that all she does is make suggestions, mere suggestions. When she really gets into it, always when there is not anyone else around, and the kids are far out of earshot, she begins to scream, not yell, but scream, and sometimes so quietly one can barely hear it:

"Asshole! Asshole! You are an asshole! You are a stupid asshole! You are an incompetent asshole! You are a stupid incompetent asshole! You are an absolutely stupid incompetent asshole!"

"The judges in front of whom I appear in my professional mode never treat me with anything but dignity, even when I sometimes get out of line which I have been known to do. Those judges can be stern, even punishingly so sometimes, but they are never disrespectful. She and I are two successful professionals, both of us, and she orders me around. She screams at me! She treats me worse than one could ever treat shit. Why does she do this to me? Doesn't she love me anymore? Did she ever love me? Who does she think she is?"

Today's chore was to fix the kitchen drain, only one of many on the list she made him keep and made him carry around with him. He had to always have the list with him in case she thought of something more that must be added to it and she had to have him make that addition by telephone. He had damned well never be without his cell phone either.

This morning, she insisted that he leave work early and get his sorry butt home to fix the drip in the kitchen sink. "The drip! The drip! Ha-ha!" He couldn't help seeing his helpless self as the drip.

He could not understand why she had demanded these things of him. He was a lawyer not a plumber. And while he was still young and not truly wealthy, he earned more money than they could spend. Well, not quite! He earned more money than most young couples could spend, if, unlike the JAP, both parties were anything near to being reasonable spenders.

The bitch could spend more than his monthly income, as substantial as it was, in just a few days, and never on anything of worth or need. All her friends, everybody who knew her knew her as the shopper-from-hell. In that regard, if in no other, it was fortunate for him that her wealthy parents gave her whatever money she wanted. This damned house was just an example, though, for sure, the biggest one.

Yes, this house was an architectural delight. Yes, this house was gigantic. Yes, this house was everyone's dream house. Yes, this house really was a million-dollar house. Yes, it was a house he might otherwise not have had. But, the bitch designed it. The bitch even served as her own contractor. And, of course, the bitch drove everyone involved crazy. The bitch couldn't hold onto a crew for more than a week or two at a time, more often less. As the bitch always did, she insisted, and insisted, and insisted. There were huge cost overruns because of her constant bitching. But, damned daddy and damned mommy paid as they always did. This damned house. Those damned in-laws. That damned bitch.

Earlier in the afternoon, there had been two cabinetmakers there with him. She had been there as well. She was supervising them. They were doing warranty work on the cabinets they had installed. He didn't even like these damned cabinets she had designed, but there wasn't anything wrong with the installation. She thought there was, however, and that was all that mattered. He remembered those guys asking him, "How can you stand living with that bitch? She complains about everything except herself. Why should she complain about herself? After all, she's perfect! What a bitch!"

At about five o'clock, they all left him under the sink. The workers left. Then she left. To get take-out! She left the kids at home with him. She sent them upstairs to their rooms to play. That damned car of hers was a two-seater, and she would never endanger the kids in it. No back seat. No car-seats.

The two cabinetmakers were right, of course. Nobody except him could take it. He loved that damned bitch so much. He didn't always know why. They fought all the time. But, he knew he would do anything to keep her even having to always give in, even knowing that the way they lived was surely making a physical and emotional wreck of him.

Even though plumbers made almost as much as attorneys made, he could still afford to hire one. But as she always did, the JAP insisted and insisted, and insisted. She insisted that he do the work. Why him? He didn't know a damned thing about this kind of stuff. He had trouble knowing which way to turn a screwdriver. There were only two ways, but inevitably it took him a minimum of three tries, usually four, before he figured it out. And here he was now, a damned plumber.

As he always did, he gave in. He had to. It was the only way he could keep her. And even then, she didn't shut up. She just started in anew insisting and insisting, and insisting on something else. Was there no way to shut her up and gain some piece even if only for a few short hours?

He had been down under that kitchen sink for over two hours now. He had accomplished next to nothing, actually less than nothing for he had destroyed the threads on both pipes. At least none of the many slips he made with that damned wrench had cut or otherwise left any bruises or marks on him. How would he have explained it to his fellow lawyers? Even the secretaries would have laughed at him.

Exasperation wasn't the word for what he felt now. His anger was always there, but this time it seemed to grow, exponentially each time he thought of that bitch. He could have earned a lot more money in the time he had spent suffering here trying to figure out how to use that damned wrench, a lot more than it ever would have cost to hire a plumber.

How he hated that fucking wrench! Wench! Ha-ha again. Though his mental slip of the tongue was funny, he didn't hate her. He loved her. He only hated how she treated him, how it made him feel. Even now in his horrible state of mind, he could not avoid laughing at his cleverness with words, in general, in almost everything. He knew that he wasn't always the smartest kid on the block, but when he wasn't he was always close. Even then, he knew that he was almost always the cleverest. He could do more with less than any of the other lawyers in his father-in-law's firm.

He knew several of the firm's other attorneys said it was all nepotism. Maybe some, but not much! Yes, her father had paid his way through law school. Yes, her father had even supported them through his studies. But, his rapid advance in the firm was due more to his cleverness and hard work than it was that he was married to the boss' daughter.

His father-in-law! He liked him. He liked him a lot. But, it was him and her mother who made her the way she was. They gave her everything she wanted. They gave her everything she needed. They even gave her everything she didn't need. They still do.

He heard her arriving now. That damned loud car of hers, another of mommy's and daddy's financial provisions to the bitch's extravagances. The bitch couldn't drive a normal car. She had to have a restored Triumph Spitfire, blazing red, of course, probably the loudest car ever manufactured. Its sound was a nightmare when you were in it, or when you were not. Only rain, or snow, or sleet, or hail could stop the bitch from driving that car with the top up. The bitch wouldn't use the top unless there was a chance she would get wet and even then, not always. The top didn't do any good for those who were outside the car and had to listen to it. But inside, the top being down helped a little, as long as you weren't inside with her. How he hated that car, and that ear-splitting, brain-numbing noise. That damned car. Those damned in-laws. That damned bitch.

But, he loved her. He was still, however, on pins and needles, in an emotional torment. In just a few short moments, the car's engine noise would be replaced by her voice.

And now, that damned bitch was here. That damned bitch's voice noise was also here with her.

Many people thought her voice was sweet. He thought it dripped with sarcasm and phony honey. Many people thought her voice was musical. So did he, a combination of hard, acid rock and hip-hop rap. He hated that grating sound. He loved her. He just didn't love the grating, the grating and the grating, the insisting, the insisting and the insisting.

He hadn't even heard the door close before he heard her start in. "Is the sink fixed yet?" Insisting, insisting and insisting. Grating, grating, and grating. Painful, painful and painful.

He responded, "No, love. I'm sorry, but I messed it up. We'll have to call a plumber after all." He expected some kind of explosion, and he got it!

She came into the kitchen, looked to see that the kids weren't there, and muttered: "Asshole! Asshole! You are an asshole! You are a stupid asshole! You are an incompetent asshole! You are a stupid incompetent asshole! You are an absolutely stupid incompetent asshole!"

She stomped off and went into her studio-office. She yelled out through the open door, "I left the takeout in the car. Go get it, asshole!"

A bit later, she called their two kids, and the four of them had, for them, a relatively peaceful meal. After they finished, he took the kids upstairs for a bit of fatherly love, helping them with their homework, reading a silly story to them, and tucking them in to bed. He loved these kids. He tried to attend to their bedtime routine every night. She went back into her studio-office.

### 2

Accident

When he came back downstairs, she was in the hall waiting for him. She said, quite calmly for her, but still quiet screaming as far as he was concerned, "What's with this sex and payoff shit?"

Before he could respond, her feet were up in the air, bass-over-ackwards. She had slipped on a wet spot he had left near the sink where he had been working. He ran to her and lifted her head. There was blood all over her head, all over the wrench on which she had hit her head, all over the floor and all over his hands.

He reached for his wife's hand. He felt for his wife's pulse. His wife didn't have a pulse. His wife was dead!

"Oh, Christ, how the hell am I ever going to explain this? No one will ever believe it was an accident."

Now, however, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't nervous. Now for the first time in a long time, he wasn't in pain, the physical and mental distress abated. Now for the first time in a long time, he wasn't apprehensive about her arrival.

However, now, for the first time in a long time, he was scared. He was scared shitless! What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do now?

What if he just called the police and told them the truth? She slipped and fell. I had nothing to do with it. I never touched her.

What if he just called the police and reported the incident? But, would he be believed? After all, they had been having severe marital problems lately, and everybody knew about it. He hadn't want a divorce. She had. He didn't have any confidants. But, she did. Plenty of them. When he said everybody knew about it, he meant everybody she knew. And, they all knew how serious she was about obtaining the divorce.

If that wouldn't be bad enough, there was her father. That old bastard would hate him, and that old bastard had the power and standing in the legal community to do almost anything. He knew he would never be believed if that old bastard didn't want him to be believed.

Not being believed meant second-degree murder, or worse! He would get a long term in prison, a very long term, twenty years or more. He'd be inside over ten years, probably over fifteen. That was unacceptable!

Think and be sure! What should I do? Call my attorney? No! As soon as I do that, I am informing an officer of the court that a death has occurred. Anything I might say to him would be privileged and confidential, but not the death itself. As an officer of the court, he would be duty bound to inform the authorities. After that was done, I'd be in the same place I would be in if I had just called the police myself, probably worse off since the police would assume that the reason I called my attorney first was that I need help to protect me from my guilty act. The police would then correctly single me out as the culprit of a crime that hadn't happened and that would be that. Murder in whatever degree as surely as she is dead! That would be unacceptable!

What the hell was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do with the body? There wasn't much blood and what there was was all on the drop-cloth. But, he still had to get rid of the body. What was he going to do? He knew he was smart, smarter than most. But, this was different. He knew it was him alone against that old bastard and the entire Police Department. And, he knew he had to win, or else!

### 3

Manslaughter

When he came back downstairs, she was in the hall waiting for him. She said, quite calmly for her, but still quiet screaming as far as he was concerned, "What's with this sex and payoff shit?"

She thrust her hands towards his face.

Before he knew what had been happening, the damned bitch was on the floor. He bent down to touch her. She wasn't breathing. She had a bruise beginning to form on her neck where he had apparently hit her with a deadly karate chop. He hadn't worked on his karate for a few years now. Yes, he was a black belt, but he assumed he had lost his force, lost his timing. Apparently not! What had happened? He didn't remember. Maybe, it would come back to him later.

He reached for his wife's hand. He felt for his wife's pulse. His wife didn't have a pulse. His wife was dead!

Now, however, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't nervous. Now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't in pain, the physical and mental distress abated. Now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't apprehensive about her arrival.

However, now, for the first time in a long time, he was scared. He was scared shitless! What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do now?

What if he just called the police and surrendered? His legal mind told him what had happened was arguably manslaughter. If he called his attorney before the police were called, and then surrendered, maybe a suitable plea could be worked out, perhaps three to eight years. He knew that he would only have to serve about a third of that, out in maybe a year, maybe a year and a half, at the outside two in the inside. Again, he laughed at his word play.

But, would he be believed? After all, they had been having severe marital problems lately, and everybody knew about it. He hadn't want a divorce. She had. But, he didn't have any confidants. But, she did. Plenty of them. When he said everybody knew about it, he meant everybody she knew. And, they all knew how serious she was about obtaining the divorce.

If that wouldn't be bad enough, there was her father. That old bastard would hate him, and that old bastard had the power and standing in the legal community to do almost anything. He knew he would never be believed if that old bastard didn't want him to be believed.

Not being believed meant second-degree murder, or worse! He would get a long term in prison, a very long term, twenty years or more. He'd be inside over ten years, probably over fifteen. That was unacceptable!

Think and be sure! What should I do? Call my attorney? No! As soon as I do that, I am informing an officer of the court that a crime has been committed. Any confession I might make to him would be privileged and confidential, but not the commission of the crime itself. As an officer of the court, he would be duty bound to inform the authorities. After that was done, I'd be in the same place I would be in if I had confessed directly. The police would correctly single me out as the culprit, and that would be that. Murder in whatever degree as surely as she is dead! That would be unacceptable!

What the hell was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do with the body? There wasn't any blood, but he still had to get rid of the body. What was he going to do? He knew he was smart, smarter than most. But, this was different. He knew it was him alone against that old bastard and the entire Police Department. And, he knew he had to win, or else!

From Soft Touch by John MacDonald: "She is dead. Gone. Finished. Take your choice. Phone the cops right now and take a chance on some justice and mercy and maybe a minimum of three years for manslaughter. Or bitch up the evidence and take a chance on getting out whole." (p. 81)

### 4

Murder

When he came back downstairs, she was in the hall waiting for him. She said, quite calmly for her, but still quiet screaming as far as he was concerned, "What's with this sex and payoff shit?"

She thrust her hands towards his face.

He grabbed the wrench off the kitchen counter and swung.

Before he knew what had been happening, the damned bitch was on the floor. He bent down to touch her. She wasn't breathing. She had a bruise beginning to form on her neck where he had hit her with the wrench.

He reached for his wife's hand. He felt for his wife's pulse. His wife didn't have a pulse. His wife was dead!

Now, however, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't nervous. Now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't in pain, the physical and mental distress abated. Now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't apprehensive about her arrival.

However, now, for the first time in a long time, he was scared shitless! What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do now?

What had happened? He didn't remember. Maybe, it would come back to him later.

He knew he had just committed second-degree murder, or worse! He would get a long term in prison, a very long term, twenty years or more. He'd be inside over ten years, probably over fifteen. That was unacceptable!

What if he just called the police and surrendered? That was unacceptable!

If he called his attorney before the police were called, and then surrendered, maybe a suitable plea could be worked out, perhaps ten to fifteen years. He knew that he would only have to serve about a half of that, out in maybe five years, maybe at the outside eight in the inside. Again, he laughed at his word play. With or without the word play. That was unacceptable!

He had to think

What the hell was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do with the body? There wasn't any blood, but he still had to get rid of the body. What was he going to do? He knew he was smart, smarter than most. But, this was different. He knew it was him alone against that old bastard and the entire Police Department. And, he knew he had to win, or else!

But, would he be believed? After all, they had been having severe marital problems lately, and everybody knew about it. He hadn't want a divorce. She had. But, he didn't have any confidants. But, she did. Plenty of them. When he said everybody knew about it, he meant everybody she knew. And, they all knew how serious she was about obtaining the divorce.

If that wouldn't be bad enough, there was her father. That old bastard would hate him, and that old bastard had the power and standing in the legal community to do almost anything. He knew he would never be believed if that old bastard didn't want him to be believed.

### 5

Accident

When he came back downstairs, she was in the hall waiting for him. She said, quite calmly for her, but still quiet screaming as far as he was concerned, "What's with this sex and payoff shit?"

Before he could respond, her feet were up in the air, bass-over-ackwards. She had slipped on a wet spot he had left near the sink where he had been working. He ran to her and lifted her head. There was blood all over her head, all over the wrench on which she had hit her head, all over the floor and all over his hands.

He reached for his wife's hand. He felt for his wife's pulse. His wife didn't have a pulse. His wife was dead!

"Oh, Christ, how the hell am I ever going to explain this? No one will ever believe it was an accident."

But, now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't nervous. Now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't in pain, the physical and mental distress abated. Now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't apprehensive about her arrival.

However, now, for the first time in a long time, he was scared shitless! However, now, for the first time in a long time, he was scared shitless! The body, the blood, what was he going to do?

What the hell was he going to do now? What the hell was he going to do with the body? There wasn't any blood, but he still had to get rid of the body. What was he going to do? He knew he was smart, smarter than most. But, this was different. He knew it was him alone against the entire Nashville Metropolitan Police Department. And, he knew he had to win, or else!

What if he just called the police and reported the incident? But, would he be believed? After all, they had been having pretty severe marital problems lately, and everybody knew about it. He didn't want a divorce; she did. But, he didn't have any confidants. But, she did. Plenty of them. When he said everybody knew about it, he meant everybody she knew. And, they all knew how serious she was about divorce.

If that wouldn't be bad enough, there was her father. That old bastard would hate him, and he had the power and standing in the legal community to do almost whatever he wanted to do. He would never be believed.

Not being believed meant second-degree murder, or worse! He would get a long term in prison, a very long term, twenty years or more. He'd be inside over ten years, probably over fifteen. That was unacceptable!

Think and be sure! What should I do? Call my attorney? No! As soon as I do that, I am informing an officer of the court that a possible crime had occurred. Any statement I might make to him would be privileged and confidential, but not the occurrence of the incident itself. As an officer of the court, he would be duty bound to inform the authorities. After that was done, I'd be in the same place I would be if I had reported the accident directly. The police would surely determine homicide, not accident. They would then single me out as the culprit, and that would be that. Murder, in whatever degree, as surely as she is dead! That would be unacceptable!

### 6

Missing Person

The only possible solution is no death! No homicide! Clean up! Get rid of the body! Make it a missing person case! If you get caught then, it would be almost impossible to argue manslaughter. Not reporting the event, hiding the evidence. It's all consciousness of guilt, obstruction of justice. You wouldn't stand a chance. You must be ultra-careful!

Now that that has been decided, don't do anything, anything at all, until you have relaxed! Breathe deeply! Think, think again, and again, and again! This is not a game. This isn't moot court! This is all real, very real. Your life, at the very least, your freedom, depends on doing everything correctly, no mistakes, no loose threads!

OK, now! Let's look at the scene. Wow! It looks pretty good. There's not any blood. The body is completely on the tarpaulin that I used so the bitch's floor wouldn't get all wet with dirty water. But, I will have to be very careful when I try to move the body. If I am, forensics won't find a damned thing!

Do it now! Do it before rigor mortis begins to set in. I don't remember exactly, but I think it is usually within the first three or four hours after death. After that, I think I remember it is very difficult for one person, even a quite strong one, to move the dead body. So, let's get to it! Roll her up! Be careful! Take your time! That's the way! One side at a time! Overlap the ends! Now for the duck tape! Use a lot! This is not the time to be frugal! Make sure the ends overlap and are secure before you use the tape. That's it! Now, the other end! Now, do the middle! Wrap until the tape is gone! Then, torn ends can't be matched. That's it!

Now, look around. Be sure that there is nothing to see! Looks good! Now, to get her out of here! How much time is left? It's only been an hour! It's only a bit after nine. OK! Time for a rest!

Relax! Think! You have to establish some kind of story. You have to establish some kind of a reason she has left. Hell, that's an easy one. You've been having all kinds of problems in your marriage. She finally decided she needed to decide once and for all. She needed time to be alone to think it out. She packed a suitcase, told me she was on her way, and off she went! To think! To decide!

Yeah, that was it! That would be the story. It would work. Everybody who knew her knew about her problems. Anything that bothered her, anything at all, she had to tell her parents, her friends, and then the entire world! Everybody knew!

So, tell someone! Who? Not her parents! Not yet, anyway! They might want to come over to see me. That can't be allowed. Not yet. Not until I'm done here. Then who? Not my dad either. The call to Mexico would take too long to make the connection. Besides, he's probably out at the cantina. Worse yet, I'd have to tell him the truth. I know I couldn't fake out that old codger. He'd know right away I was hiding something. He always knew. I can't call him until I'm ready to deal with telling him the truth.

My brother! Then, my sister!

"Hey, bro! How are you?

"Not so good. She left me! Not for good, at least I hope not."

"She said she needed time to think, to make decisions. She just loaded her stuff into the Volvo and off she went."

"No, I'll be OK. At least, I think so."

"Yeah, but look! I have to go. I'm a bit upset. I'm going to call sis, and then go to bed."

"No, I'll call dad tomorrow when I feel better. You know dad. He'll interrogate me like he's a police detective. I can't handle that right now. Maybe, I'll call him tomorrow, but only if I feel better."

"No, don't call him until you hear from me."

"OK, I love you too."

"Sis, how are you?"

"Not so good. She left me! Not for good, at least I hope not."

"She said she needed time to think, to make decisions. She just loaded her stuff into the Volvo, and off she went."

"No, I'll be OK. At least, I think so."

"Yeah, but look! I have to go. I'm a bit upset. I'm just going to go to bed."

"No, I'll call dad tomorrow when I feel better. You know dad. He'll interrogate me like he's a police detective. I can't handle that right now. Maybe, I'll call him tomorrow, but only if I feel better."

"No, don't call him until you hear from me."

"OK, I love you too."

Well, that's that. I'd better get back to work!

Don't exhaust yourself! Time is important, but carefulness is even more important. Don't fuck this one up!

Do it again! Lift the four corners of the tarpaulin!

Now, look around. Be sure that there is nothing to see! Looks good! Now, to get her out of here!

The Volvo, not the Triumph! Good thing I said that on the phone! I need the size of the Volvo trunk to hold the body, and the backseat to hold my bike!

OK, the bike first! Look around to be sure there's nobody around. We're secluded here, so there never is, but this is the time for special care!

Now, the body! Look around again to be sure there's nobody around. We're secluded here, so there never is, but this is the time for special care!

OK, the kids are sound asleep. They never get up. But, I'd better check.

OK, time to get out of here!

Not anywhere on our property, or near here. No matter how convincing I might be about a disappearance, they'll search the hell out of the general vicinity, dogs and what-have-you. So, it has to be some distance away.

But, I only have about two hours. I need to call her parents about midnight. They seldom go to bed earlier than that, and I don't want to wake them, particularly since it will have been about four hours since I will claim that she left.

Two hours limits my distance, less than one hour each way, since I will have other things to do: hide the body, ditch the car far enough away. A mile or two further out won't make that much difference time wise. I have my bike to ride back home and I'm a helluva biker.

The Poseidon Dive and Ski Club! It's only about twenty minutes away. They have diving during the summer, but only until about dusk at the latest. So, they're closed for the day. The ski shacks are scattered all around the lake. They're never used unless there's skiing! One of the more deserted ones will make a perfect temporary hiding place until I can make the disposal more permanent. A minimum of three days, until the rigor wears off and I can more easily move the body again.

That will be Sunday, and the Club is closed on Sundays. Perfect! Now, let's get this show on the road.

That was easy! This very isolated shack was easy to find. It even had a rusty lock, very easy to break. The body's inside now. Nobody is going to look inside, let alone even to pass by the shack, at least for a few more months. It might have been a bit dangerous, but I replaced their lock with my secondary, back-up bicycle lock. It's the summer! It's the weekend! No one will even notice the change, and if they do, so what? No one will do an anything until Monday morning anyway, and by then I should have the body out of here.

This shack is on the edge of a Catholic cemetery. A germ of an idea is coming to me. Maybe, I won't have to move the body a few hundred miles, just a few hundred feet or yards. Talk about luck!

But in the meanwhile, I'll have to be sure her parents don't go to the police for a few days, at least until I get this ugly job completed.

Now, I have to get rid of the car. The Bricks and Mortar Apartments are just a few miles from our house! It has a large, almost always near-filled, parking lot! The car won't be noticed as out of place for a long time. And, it is just a few miles from the house with a connecting bike path through the woods almost directly to our house! Great!

It's after eleven, so hardly anybody is about. The bulbs are out at the light pole in the back right by the bike path entrance. Luck it seems is still with me. Did mom lie to me when they said I was Jewish? With all the luck I'm having tonight, I'm sure I must be Irish and the leprechauns are looking out for me.

Good! I'm home and it still isn't midnight. I'd better check on the kids before I call her parents. Everything's normal. The kids are fast asleep!

"Hi! Sorry to bother you so late at night, but something has come up. She left me. She left the kids. She left all of us. We had an argument and she said she was going on a trip, and wouldn't be back until your grandson's birthday."

Her mother replied: "Don't worry about it. I'm sure that if you had an argument, she's upset. She's probably driving around to cool off, and she'll be back. Call me when she comes home."

"OK!"

"Good-night and sleep the best you can!'

Wow! I'm sure I must be Irish! I hope I will still be Irish tomorrow!

He couldn't call his dad too early. His dad was retired and lived in Mexico and he knew he'd be out for his morning coffee and bull-session with the guys. When he reached him that afternoon, he didn't tell him anything except that she had left him alone with the kids. His dad said he'd leave for the States the next morning and be here in a few days. His dad was a great guy. He knew he'd do anything for him and the kids. Leaving Mexico Saturday morning meant he wouldn't get here until Monday night, at the earliest.

Good! That means if everything works out, I'll have time to do what I need to do Sunday night.
Stosh the Cop's First Case

### The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series

(Work in progress. Publication date expected mid to late 2017)

### 1

April 23, 1977

Saturday

Sister Andy

"Stosh, she says her daddy didn't have anything to do with that murder of Qwerty those thirty-one years ago. I know that's what they all say, but I believe her and I think you do as well."

That was Sister Andrea Katarina Izraelewicz Oi telling me, Stosh the Cop, all about what a colleague of hers, Sister Bernadette, believed was the erroneous result of my first homicide investigation. Actually, it wasn't my first homicide investigation. That has been about thirty years ago now. I had received my promotion to detective the day before my twenty-forth birthday.

I walked into the Homicide Division, a veteran of the force for only three years, and was immediately jeered at as Ein Wunderkinder. Seldom does a short-timer punk like me get a to where I was.

I was a big guy and when I tried to enlist after Honolulu, I was turned down as too big for my flatfeet. After the Army turned me down, I tried the Marines. They turned me down as well. I didn't try the Navy. It wasn't just that I was scared of so much water. Though I was afraid of so much water, I was also afraid that the military in their infinite wisdom, would take this big guy, if they took him at all, who the Army and Marines had both rejected, and put him into a submarine. If they did, I knew I'd have to desert. So, I decided one of the only ways left for me to serve my country was as a flatfoot.

So, I joined the Chicago Police Department on my twenty-first birthday. Then, a day less than three years later, I was promoted to Homicide. There were good reasons that I was there, however, and none of them were political or incestuous.

The main reason was that I had been a good cop, a really good cop, this on a police force where so many of the good cops were overseas in Europe or the South Pacific. Not only was the force missing so many veterans, there weren't all that many new recruits. Most of the other potential recruits, such as me, a community college graduate, were with those good cops overseas in Europe or the South Pacific.

The recruiting pool was a small one and was also shrinking all the time, and it was a time that bigotry didn't allow Negroes to do anything on the city or county payroll except sweep the floors and take out the garbage. Women were treated largely the same, except they were allowed to be secretaries and filer clerks. Many saw the Zoot Suiters as lower on the ladder than the city's blacks, who had least been here a while.

So, there I was.

One of the Senior Detectives, a real long-timer, Joe Monday, grabbed me first. After the Wunderkinder stuff sorta died out, for the short time being at least, it would start again and keep up for about three months which was when I solved my first case, a case given to me to be lead detective because everyone else, including the Squad Commander, believed it to be unsolvable, Joe gave me a list of shit-chores that needed to be taken care of. On almost every case there was a shitload of shit-chores that had to be attended to.

All of the stuff given me was routine. However, a routine that allowed us to solve a lot of crimes that would have gone unsolved if we had not done these shit-chores.

My shit-chores were to canvass a one-block-in-all-directions square section of the neighborhood in which a young single woman, Dorothy Burnette had been raped and killed. We called it the Qwerty Case because she was a typist.

###
