 
### Hammering

### Nails

### Can be

### Murder

### It Was A Helluva Funeral

The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series

Copyright © 2015 EDWARD G. WEISS All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Pablo Aguirre Fey

Published by Ed Weiss at Smashwords and he Largest Lake Press

ISBN 9781370525515

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.

### Also by Ed Weiss

### Coming Soon

### Felony Murder

### Sometimes the Innocent Pay

### The Droopy-Eyed Bank Robber

### The Gringo Mayor of Ajijic

### Non-Fiction

### Why I Am A Democratic Socialist

Hammering _Nails_ is a work of fiction and is a result of my sick imagination. Nothing in this story is meant to be real including references to living people, living or dead, events, and locales. All are used fictitiously and included to give a sense of authenticity to the story. All of the characters, fictitious or otherwise, are creations of my imagination. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. I hope that anyone who thinks they maybe might see themselves herein believes that I have portrayed what they see as I intended to, in the best light imaginable.

Copyright © 2015 EDWARD G. WEISS

All rights reserved.

Published by The Largest Lake Press

Cover Art by Pablo Aguirre Fey

ISBN

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

About EDWARD G. WEISS

Coming Soon

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.
3

### Tribune John

### Still July 22, 1968

The Hyde-Out Inn, located in the East End of Hyde Park, along the Lake Michigan South Shore in Chicago, is my bar. I also own several other businesses. All are right next to one another on the ground floor of two of the three three-story apartment buildings I also own. None of this stuff I now owned was earned by me. Three years ago, I inherited the three _The_ businesses from Charles, the previous owner, my previous employer. He was much more than just those things. He was my mentor. He was also my friend, my best friend ever. Charles had been an important man in my life.

His will, leaving everything he owned to me, asked that I keep the _Thes_. He never insisted on anything. He didn't have to. People usually did what he requested. Besides being adored and respected, he had a compelling presence.

What he had meant by keeping the _Thes_ was that the names of all three of his businesses begin with _The_ : _The_ Hyde Out Inn; _The_ Dill Pickle Delicatessen; _The_ Bottles and Cans Package Liquor Store _._ The other three business, the ones I started two years ago in the building down the street that I had purchased on a sweetheart deal, also began with _The_ : _The_ Book Place, _The_ Cleaning Place and _The_ Food Place. I carried on his _motif_ of naming _The_ businesses.

Charles also left me John-John. That was OK! I loved John-John and would have done my best to take care of him, even if Charles hadn't asked. Charles never requested anything that wasn't reasonable.

With the original three businesses, he had scored the trifecta. The regulars, and there were many, they all loved him. They drank in The Hyde Out. They ate at The Pickle, and, more often than not, they went home with a bottle or a six-pack from The Bottle _._ Now, they were reading my books in _The_ Book Place, washing their laundry and getting their clothes dry cleaned in my _The_ Cleaning Place and buying their staples and snacks in my grocery store, _The_ Food Place.

Charles told me, "Always take care of your clients, and _always_ provide them with the opportunity to do with you the business they have to do anyway. They will always be your best source of new legitimate income."

John-John was just one of the many Johns in The Hyde Out. There were so many regulars named John that they started giving themselves Nicknames to sort themselves out. John-John was the janitor and cleaned the _johns_ , so naturally he became John-John. He had worked for Charles for many years, more than anyone around here now could count. He worked for me now.

There was also Tribune John, City Manager for the distribution of the Metropolitan Tribune. Tribune John was particularly hard on me for being a _loser_ Cubs' fan. I think Tribune might be the most loyal Sox fan, the most loyal fan of anything I ever knew. He defined the term fanatic.

Then, there was Fish John who worked at the City Fish Market. There was Stinky John who worked for the City of Chicago Department of Sewers and Sanitation and stunk even more than Fish John did. There were also White John and Black John. Both of them were black, but one couldn't have two Black Johns, could one? Fortunately, one of the Black John's last names was White, so naturally, black John White became White John. Then, there was Just Plain John, so named because there wasn't anything anyone knew about him to give him a name _before_ John. Except Just Plain John was always there, always in the bar, and I do mean _always_. I often wondered why they didn't call him Always There John instead of Just Plain John.

There were also a lot of Jims and Joes, so they got names to. There was Horse Jim who had a horse carriage business, Jimmy Hat, who obviously always wore a hat, Good-to-see-ya Joe, who always greeted people with that salutation, Father Joe, not a priest, but a fallen Catholic who nonetheless retained enough of his early teachings to sire nine legitimates, Taxi Joe, who so many of us loved if he were working those early morning hours we needed him at our closing, and so on. And so as not to discriminate against those who were not named John, Jim or Joe, a lot of others received a moniker as well, English Dave, Evil, Phil Bill, a philosophy professor at the University, etc.

Most of the nicknames like John White were obvious. Others were given based on what were easily seen character flaws. If you're going to hang out in a _dive bar_ , never, I mean never, let anybody know what you don't like. If you do, you'll be sure to get it! Unceasingly!!! All the time!!! The same goes for nicknames. There were _Bitch Carl_ and _Bitch Craig_. Guess what their character flaws were. They were both nice guys, but neither of them ever met any fact or event in their entire lives with which they would or could agree. It was a constant _bitch, bitch, bitch_ with both of them.

It was the same with _Lyin' Leo_. Leopoldo was a Mexican Service Processor for the City. Lyin' Leo wasn't just dumb. He was downright stupid. More than once, the stupid fuck served papers to the wrong person, once a woman instead of a man. She just happened to have the same address. The asshole later said, "It sure looked like the guy."

Worse, Lyin' Leo was a liar. He couldn't get out a complete sentence without his tongue twisting the truth right out of it. So instead of Lion Leo, he was Lyin' Leo!

Everyone quickly picked up on the nicknames since it enabled them to tell themselves apart when speaking of the others. Charles, of course, was one of the exceptions. He had to be. Charles was always just _Charles_.

My full name is Edward George _longer-than-any-last-name-needs-to-be-spelled-with-almost-nothing-but-consonants-Polish-last-name-that's-mostly-unpronounceable-even-by-me._

Charles once jokingly referred to me as Eddie G. However, he never called me that. To Charles, I was always _kid._ Somehow or another, John-John picked it up. He was an Edward G. Robinson fan. In the middle of the bar, in the middle of the afternoon, he'd fall down on the floor and attempt a mimicking mutter of "Mother of Mercy. Is this the end of Rico?"

Then, he'd laugh!

But, whatever John-John wanted to call me was OK! Whatever John-John wanted was OK. A few others picked up the nickname as well, so sometimes I was _Eddie_ G. For most people around here, however, I was mostly simply _Eddie_ which was my preference.

Charles taught me a lot. He taught me what "A penny saved is a penny earned" really meant. He said, "Kid, we are in business to make a living. Maybe, if we're good and we're lucky, we'll earn a lot more than just a living. But, never forget why we're here. Yes, we have to provide a good product or service at a fair price. Yes, we have to keep our clients well satisfied. However, we are not here for them. We are here for ourselves. We have to make a profit or we won't be here. Profit comes not from just selling, no matter how high the price. Profit comes from the difference between what we pay on one hand and what we receive on the other. For every penny we save on the _what-we-pay_ side, assuming the same selling price, our profit goes up the same number of pennies we saved on the _what-we-pay_ side. You cannot get a dollar with ninety-nine pennies. You need the full one hundred. It doesn't matter if the missing penny is the first one, the last one, or one somewhere in the middle. You need it to get to one hundred. That damned single penny is absolutely necessary if one is to make a profit."

Charles wasn't a cheapskate. He was teaching me not to be one either. Charles wasn't trying to screw his clients. He never did. Neither did I. Charles was teaching me that running a business took paying a lot of attention to both sides. Buying and selling. "A penny saved is a penny earned."

John-John was never a financial burden. It was really the other way around. He saved Charles, and now me, a lot of pennies. He was always _on-the-job_ and didn't need much in the way of supervision, a skill of which I possessed little of anyway, so his being always _on-the-job_ was a great blessing for me. In a previous life, I had been an officer, a Captain, in the United States Air Force, so I knew all about giving and receiving orders. I was quite good at the giving of them. Giving orders, however, was not the same as supervision. Thus, he was largely left to his own devices. Without any assistance from me, he kept the premises clean, neat, orderly and usually in a semblance of working order. It was a great thing not to have to worry about.

Except when it was a job he didn't understand, he always knew what he was supposed to do, and he did it. If he didn't, there was always a good reason. If he couldn't handle the job, he just went to one of The Hyde Out's tradesman regulars to get it done. He knew better than to come to me for help. I couldn't fix anything either. The tradesman who helped him with whatever he needed help with was then liberally compensated at the bar or at The Pickle which was located right next door to The Hyde Out, connected by two inside doors.

According to The Hyde Out's regulars, who had known him longer than the eleven years I had known him, he was now about 50 years old. No one in The Hyde Out knew for sure exactly how old he was. As I was keeper of the business records, I probably had that information somewhere. I had just never looked.

John-John looked old. When I first met him, back in '57, he looked old. He wasn't tall, but, he wasn't short either, around five-foot-eight. His weight was about the same as mine, one-hundred and sixty pounds, but since he was three inches shorter, he looked a bit pudgy at that weight. He had droopy eyes and usually kept his head down, canted to the left. But, he didn't look at all unhappy. In fact, he usually had a quirky smile on his always clean-shaved face. If the smile was missing, it was usually because he was thinking about something. When he was doing this thinking, he looked quite pensive, possibly the result of his lower IQ.

He always wore a pair of large, black-rimmed eyeglasses. Each pair he owned was taped in one or more of three places, the nose bridge or one of the ear pieces. His eyeglasses were Charles' old, broken discarded ones. I always hoped that his prescription was the same as Charles', or at least close. It wasn't like he, or Charles, or now me, couldn't have afforded to get him new glasses. Wearing Charles' old glasses was what he wanted. Soon, he would probably be wearing my discarded glasses. What John-John wanted, let no one try to circumvent. John-John was John-John.

He also always wore normal work clothes, blue jeans and a Heileman's Old Style Lager Beer t-shirt in the summer, blue jeans and a flannel shirt over the Heileman's t-shirt in the winter. A few years ago, our Heileman's delivery man had given him a dozen or so of these shirts. He wore one every day. He always wore high top black sneakers, what I called _gym_ shoes, even in the winter, but if the snow required it, then he wore them inside a pair of huge galoshes. In the cold and in the rain, he wore a Chicago White Sox warm-up jacket. Sunshine, rain or snow, he always wore his White Sox baseball cap. He was a White Sox fanatic in every sense of the word, probably as much as Tribune was. He just wasn't as sharp Tribune was in rubbing in to the non-Sox fans' noses, but was sharp when it came to rubbing it in mine. He thought my Cubs-fan discomfort was funny. So, I played along and acted discomforted even though I wasn't. His now somewhat grey hair was worn in a military buzz. I'm not sure if I remember correctly, but I think he adopted that hair-style when he saw me on my return from my first Air Force summer camp. He had bought a home barber kit and cut his own hair. The result showed he had become quite good at it. He always looked the same. His appearance never changed except for the graying of the hair and a few facial wrinkles.

Of all the things he was, however, the most important was that he was my friend. He was as loyal to Charles, and now to me, as he was to his beloved White Sox. He lived in the other two-room apartment on the second floor of the building in which _The_ businesses were located. His apartment adjoined mine in which I had spent my college years and still keep as a fallback for those times I either don't wish to, or can't, make it to my mile away apartment. Living like that, working together as we did, we soon became quite close, not quite as close as he was to Charles, or as close as I was to Charles, but pretty close nonetheless. Now that Charles was dead, our closeness was as tight as tight could be.

Charles taught John-John as well, at least as much as he was capable of learning. He ended up being even more frugal than either of us. Other than for toothpaste and soap, I don't think that he ever spent any of his pay check. Charles, and now I, provided his meals at The Pickle, three beers a day, his self-imposed limit, one at lunch, a rare exception to the bar's _no-drinking-until-two-hours-before-quitting-time_ rule, one at dinner, and one while he watched the ten o'clock news before he went to bed in the upstairs apartment provided for him. I know he had an account at The Hyde Park Bank. He went there every payday so I assumed he had an account there. If I am correct in my surmise of his spending habits, he must have quite a sum in his savings account, considering all of the years he has worked for Charles, and now, me. In any case, John-John is a blessing, dependable, honest and loyal. It's not realistic to expect much more than that from anybody.

After my encounter with his agitated self, I spent the next couple of hours having lunch and generally goofing off as bosses are wont to do. I had already read the paper on the bus to downtown this morning. The Cubs had beaten the Dodgers on the coast the day before, 7-2, to pull within two games of .500. Hands won his tenth, Beckert had four hits, and Billy Williams drove in five. Even after watching the game on one of The Hyde Out's televisions, assuming it doesn't conflict with a White Sox game, which always has priority in the Southside establishment, I still enjoyed reading the box score. The White Sox were currently nine games under, so this year I wasn't getting _the-more-than-my-share_ of razzing from these South Siders, who were _as-loyal-to-their-team-as-the-North-Siders-were-to-theirs_ , Sox fans all, as I did a few years ago when the Sox were winning.

So with no newspaper to read, I pondered over _My John-John Project_ , as I had just come to call it. There also was still the normal work to be done. After lunch, I went upstairs in my office to review stuff my mom thought important enough for my attention. To tell the truth, everybody always thought I did more work than I really did. It was to my advantage to let them believe it. Actually, Charles had left me and such an efficient operation with so many good people, to which I had added my _sooper-dooper_ , in more ways than one, mother, that I still had more free time than anyone else I knew. Of course, a lot of that was because I prioritized things in my life.

Charles had always told me, " _Kid,_ if you ain't got the time to do what you want to do, it's because you ain't smart enough to figure it out. Time is important. It's the only thing we really got. All the rest is _pizzazz_ , nothing more than window dressing. Use your time the way you want to use it, not the way others might want. Prioritize! If you don't, you'll always end up neglecting what you really want to do, what's really important to you. You'll end up being fucking miserable." I believe I learned that lesson well. I always make time for what's important to me.

My mom wasn't in the office. She had a lot of outside work to do, mostly mollifying those tenants who weren't somehow or another connected to the business as employees. Besides her doing an outstanding job, it was more work that I didn't have to do.

Now, it was almost two in the afternoon, and time to see Tribune John. Tribune came in early, just about the same time, just a little after two in the afternoon, every day of the workweek. He seldom varied from it. He came in right after work. Right after work was earlier for him than it was for most people. Most people worked more normal hours. Trib, as City Manager for the morning distribution of the Tribune, a _morning_ paper, started his day before the robins did.

I got back downstairs just as he was coming in the front door. Trib was an average looking guy with an average build, and he had the greatest impish smile on his face. It was there all the time. He lit up the room when he entered. Trib was, in spite of being a Sox fan, a happy guy. Like me, I think he was born with an abundance of happy genes.

By the time Tribune got to the bar, his beer was already there waiting for him. Seldom did one of the bartenders miss beating the regular customers to the punch. I was there as well, but a few bar stools down. I always tried to stay as far away from the smoke as was possible.

I said, "Hey, Tribune! Can you join me over here for a minute?" Few of us use the entire complete appellation when speaking directly to each other or when the person referred to is right there. John-John was an exception.

Neither was Tribune John an exception. However, Tribune never called me _Eddie_. To him, I was always _Special Ed_. When Trib first called me that, I thought he was being sarcastic because of my academic endeavors being reserved for those who, like John-John, needed special attention. Far from it, he really thought I was special. It was reciprocated.

John turned, walked over, and said, "Sure, Special Ed. How are you this fine day?" Unless the White Sox had lost or were losing badly, he was almost always in a good mood. He wasn't just a good guy. He was about as good as they came.

"Fine," I said. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure!"

I then showed him the article John-John had given me and asked him if he could get copies of the 1923 stuff about the horse accident, and also the 1922 stuff about the cop killings, and any other relevant stuff from the Tribune morgue. I didn't tell him about John-John's involvement.

"Sure, Special Ed. No problem. You doin' some special research for a law case?"

"No, Tribune. It's a personal matter. If it was a case, I'd be offering to pay."

"OK, Special Ed. Can I use your phone?"

After an "Of course," he reached over and under the bar where the phone that I kept for the use of my regulars and special occasions was located. He dialed, asked for an extension, repeated my request, said "Thanks" and hung up.

Then, he said to me, "With a bit of luck, I'll have it for you when I come in tomorrow. If not, the day after."

"Thanks, Tribune. I appreciate it. Your tab is on the house today. And, tomorrow."

"Not necessary, Special Ed. But, your generosity is much appreciated anyway."

Tribune wandered back over to his usual stool amongst his regular drinking buddies. I was about to go back upstairs to talk to my mom and to do some more pondering about my John-John Project, when I saw her come down to the bar. She must have snuck back into the office while I was meeting with Tribune.

My mother's name is Jeanette. The moniker The Hyde Out guys hung on her was just plain _Eddie's Ma_. She liked that. It gave her an early feeling of acceptance. She had recently divorced my father. On good grounds, I might add. Even though I thought my father really was an extra nice guy, he was also a real asshole.

My father suffered from frequent severe bouts of depression. If he had any happy genes, they had to be _ultra_ recessive. And from what my brothers told me, his depression had gotten much worse and more frequent since I left home eleven years ago.

After twenty-nine years, my mom finally had had enough, and found the courage to leave.

Until a few years before that, my mother had not worked outside of the home since I was born. Believe me, however, when I tell you that inside the home, she worked. She really worked. She had raised four boys, all good kids, but boys nonetheless. That proved she worked.

It was five years ago when my brother, Walter, started college. Even though he also had a full ride, times had changed. New financial aid rules dictated that the money he received would have to be supplemented by his summer income and from our parents. There were still two other younger brothers at home: Donald, a year younger than Walt and five years younger than me, and James, four years younger than Don. Jimmy was old enough, however, to look out for himself after school, so my mother went to work to deliver the additional money Walt needed.

My mom had had only two years of high school and that had been thirty-six years earlier, so she didn't possess what would be called marketable skills even though she had the experience of running a busy household for all those years. She was, however, a very intelligent woman. After all, I have her to thank for half of my smarts.

She went to work at a hardware warehouse where my Aunt Adeline had worked as Head Bookkeeper for a long time, as long as I could remember. I used to stuff envelope mailers there when I could barely reach the top of the desk.

My mother was now my Head Bookkeeper and _go-to-person_ for all the things in which I was involved. Again, one couldn't be better off than having one's own mother take care of your money. Charles would be proud of me.

My mother has been with me for only a few months. She had been reluctant to leave her job with Aunt Addie. My mother was still adjusting to the new methods, personnel, location, etc. at my businesses, as well as her new home in this apartment building. At least, she'd never again have to face a Chicago winter commute. Besides the cold and the snow, after a few hours on the street, the fucking snow was filthy.

She still already knew the business stuff as well as I did, better actually. And, I had been running the businesses for the past three years, plus the time I spent working here part-time while in college.

In addition to the books, my mother had already taken over inventory control and rent collection. She was proving to be a more than adequate replacement for her predecessor who also had been a star.

Thus, my mom gave me enough extra time such that I might even find a life outside of school and work. This coming autumn will be the first time in my life I did not face being a student.

Because of always attending summer school, I had graduated with my bachelor's degree in three years and then I earned my Masters, both in _philosophy_ , the next year. I immediately went on active duty. The following year, I began doctorate studies in political economy at the University of Heidelberg in Germany. The German system of not requiring class attendance, but of passing exams, and the lightness of my Air Force duties, enabled me to complete my studies and receive my Ph.D. shortly before discharge. And again, shortly after I returned home, I began law school, a just completed endeavor. Maybe, along with my mother's help, I will discover that there is life after education. Maybe, one of Chicago's most educated bar-owners can do something with his life.

My mom was sitting at _The Holes in the Wall Booth_. I joined her there.

The Hyde Out had been The Speakeasy before Charles owned it. During Prohibition it had been the scene of more than one gang shootout. The Holes in the Wall was one of the results. Legend has it that some of the Holes were made by bullets that Eliot Ness, the famous _untouchable_ , incidentally a University of Chicago graduate _,_ had dodged. Different legends say that some of the Holes were made by bullets he had shot. We here at The Hyde Out prefer the first school of thought because it makes a better story that he _dodged bullets_ as opposed to his missing when he shot them.

Charles never had that wall repaired. Neither would I. The Holes in the Wall was a famous tourist attraction in the University community, as well as around the city, maybe even the country and even the world as it had recently been added to a Chicago Guide Book. Tourists came to hear the story. The Holes in the Wall brought in business.

I filled in my mom about what had happened with John-John. Like everyone else, my mom really liked John-John. She more than liked him. She adored him. She was taking to him as Charles had taken to me. I asked her to keep the story to herself until I knew more about it. I also told her that I had already asked Tribune John for his help.

Charles told me to always keep my own counsel. Yes, one could gather insight from discussing issues with others. I knew this from Socrates. But, he said, "It ain't worth the price. It's almost like politics."

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."

Charles did, however, understand that "Sometimes, verbalizing your thoughts and ideas with an intelligent other, helps you to see your own thinking more clearly. However, the more other people there are who know about your inner stuff, the more they are also able to hinder you, wound you, hurt you, or otherwise abuse you. Friends shouldn't do those kinds of things. At least, you don't think they should or will. You hope they won't. But, they will. It will happen. More often than not, sooner rather than later.

"If you feel you absolutely must engage your thinking with others, keep those engagements limited to puzzles. Nothing about yourself. You can never be careful enough."

I knew, and I knew Charles would know, Eddie's Ma wasn't one of those people. I didn't have to be careful here.

My mom asked, "What are you going to do?"

I replied, "I don't know, ma, except to try to help him."

"OK! Let me know if you need me for anything."

We had about finished our conversation when John-John returned from his daily duties and wandered over behind the bar to get a cream soda. He was one of the few people besides the bartenders on duty allowed behind the bar. Even I had to clear it with whoever the bartender was before I was allowed behind the bar. It was part of the _watch your money, kid_ philosophy Charles had drilled into all of us. John-John was the exception. He didn't have to ask.

Then, he came over to where my mom and I were sitting. He said, "Good afternoon Eddie's Ma, and you too, Eddie G. Good afternoon! Can I sit with you, guys? Can I sit with you?"

My mom said, "Sure, John-John. But, we're about finished and I have to get back to work. But, sit. I have a few minutes."

A few minutes later, I followed her upstairs to finish up some much needed, and much delayed, paperwork. I also made a copy of the Tribune article and left it on my mother's desk in our shared office.

Then, instead of attacking that paperwork, I went upstairs to my small apartment. I stripped down and threw the _shitty-smoking-smelling_ clothes in the hamper. Laundry bills were a real drawback in the bar business. It wasn't even that one could never wear the same clothes twice in a row; it was that one had to change clothes two or three times a day. Luckily, I was the opposite of a clothes horse. When the military, or the law school, or the courts didn't demand it, I wore next to nothing, a shirt, almost always a dashiki, sometimes a _guayabara_ , cut-offs and Birkenstocks, the sandal habit I picked up in Germany where they were made, not from the hippies, with whom I shared much sympathy, but from the sandal's comfort. I just didn't like to wear shoes, ever, even in the winter, though the snow and sleet dictated their own rules. When it was cold, I did, of necessity, and reluctantly, add socks, and traded the cut-offs for sweat pants. Sometimes, the weather dictated that I wear galoshes just as John-John wore.

During those years in the Air Force, I had limited my suit-wearing and my shoe-wearing to when I was on duty. Now, there was no more duty. There were no more reserves. There were no more suits. There were no more shoes.

Thinking about John-John's story kept me busy while I showered. I read the article again for the _umpteenth_ time, not in the shower, but when I got out of it.

Finally, those 1922 killings caught my attention. They should have done so the first time I looked at the article. O'Bannion and cop killings!

At first, the only thing I could think of doing right away was to search the newspaper morgue for as much as I could find about Samuel "Nails" Morton. Now, it was obvious that the story behind the killing of the detectives and Nails' relationship with O'Bannion had to be fleshed out as well.

I knew about O'Bannion from the 1959 Rod Steiger movie, _Al Capone_ , _The Untouchables_ TV program starring our famous alumnus _,_ and the more recent _St. Valentine's Day Massacre_ , but that was enough. He was a 1920's gangster and mentioned in John-John's article.

Another thing: The article did not mention any shot at the _Nails_ death, not even a mention of a loud noise. What could that mean?

Before I went back downstairs, however, I stopped in the office to see my mother. I said, "Ma, I have been thinking of this John-John stuff. You read the article, right? What do you think?"

"Yes, Eddie, I read it. Nails was a gangster. Murderer or not, he killed two police officers. He was involved with O'Bannion, the biggest gangster on the North Side." My mother had lived through Prohibition. She had only been a teenager, but had read all of the newspaper stories. She was a movie buff as well. It was mostly with her that I went to as many movies as I did when I was a kid. She was a walking movie encyclopedia, as well as almost everything else as well. My mother was a true _Jeopardy_ killer. "John-John heard a loud noise, maybe a gunshot. I think he remembers what really happened there, stuff that isn't in this article. What do you think?"

"I don't know, ma. I'm still trying to figure it out."
4

Meeting Charles

### June 23, 1957

### Sunday

It was on my first full day in Hyde Park that I met Charles. I was not yet quite seventeen years old. There was only a month to go before that additional year would be tacked on. I had just graduated the previous Thursday from Carl Schurz High School, on the Northside of Chicago, where I was born and raised. I graduated a year early, the result of two double-grade promotions while in grammar school. I seldom left that Northside Polish Village neighborhood, except to visit my mother's family, only three and a half miles, but at that time, it was considered _far away_. Chicago, even though a big city, consisted of many small neighborhoods.

The North and South Sides of Chicago maintained a sometimes not too friendly rivalry. I was never exactly sure why, but I guess it was the Cubs and the White Sox that did it. Maybe, the Bears and the Cardinals as well, even though the Cardinals with their dismal losing record had been so overshadowed by the Bears, that hardly anyone knew they still existed.

The previous evening, I had moved to the East End of Hyde Park. My parents drove me down, and as soon as they felt comfortable that I was secure, they announced I was secure and left back North for home.

Since I wasn't yet quite seventeen, I couldn't get a summer job, other than delivering newspapers, so rather than continue in a _kid-stuff_ job, I decided to start at the University of Chicago a term early. Summer term was starting the next day. So was I.

I had been awarded a full-ride scholarship, tuition, books, room and board, but the latter, not for summer term. I had some dollars saved from my paper routes, baby-sitting and general _kid-stuff_ jobs. I thought this early start would be a good use for those dollars. My parents agreed, though they were a bit worried since I had never been way from home before. In the end, I guess they figured that there wasn't much of a difference between my leaving in June or in September, when I would be leaving anyway. Besides, many of my fellow high-school graduates were leaving Chicago to attend college. Some were even leaving the state. I would only be sixteen or so miles away.

Even though my parents also had only a few dollars of their own, they chipped in to help with the ten weeks' rent I needed. I knew I would be eating a lot of cereal and fruit that summer unless I went home on weekends, which meant bus fare I didn't have. It wasn't until several years later that I discovered I had been raised in a working-class poor family. Translated for those who grew up differently, that means not poor enough to starve or live on the streets, but poor enough that it was usually meatless meals the two or three days before the next payday. When I told my older half-sister, Delores, of this discovery, she said that she had had the same epiphany when she had been in her early twenties.

My dad was a bus driver for the C.T.A., Chicago Transit Authority. One of his bus driver friends had a second job as a maintenance man at The Hyde Park Arms on South Harper Street, a hotel obviously in Hyde Park, but near enough to the University so I could walk or ride my bike to classes. There were always vacancies in the summer. My dad's friend and the reservations guy gave me a small, furnished room for a cheap price, probably off the books. It was clean enough, but it was a backroom with but few windows, and even less light, too dark most of the day for studying. I would have to figure out a way to find the money for stronger light bulbs. It wasn't exactly a dump, maybe that's why the lighting was so dim, but I wouldn't want to stay here too long. If I was off the books, it was only the Chicago Way.

Previously, I had only been to the University a few times for investigative purposes, and never had the opportunity to walk around in the Hyde Park neighborhood, which I was now doing. This Sunday morning, I got up early. It was just after six in the morning. I headed south to 55th on my way to Promontory Point Park on the Lake Michigan shore. Chicagoans called our Lake Michigan shore the Third Coast. I loved Lake Michigan, but had never before been to Promontory Point Park, so it was to there that I was headed.

My parents had left me a late Saturday night edition of the Sunday Tribune. My parents read the Herald-American, the afternoon paper I had delivered for many of my teenage years, though I could never figure out why, not why I delivered it, but why they read it. I never thought it to be much of a newspaper though I did love their comic section. Last night, however, before they drove home, they left me the paper they knew I read whenever I could get my hands on it. Being as short of money as I always was, that wasn't as often as I would have liked. Sometimes, I read it on Mondays at the local Chicago Public Library. This time, I guess my parents left it for me as a small going-away present.

Thinking about the Tribune reminded me that I would have to find the local Chicago Public Library here in Hyde Park. Besides using the library, as I normally did, for the Tribune as well as for the popular crime and mystery literature I read, though many wouldn't call it _literature_ , I would probably be there to do a lot of studying, there or at the University Library, since my new abode and its absence of readable lighting didn't appear to be all that conducive to spending much time there for anything but sleeping.

I was thinking about an article I had read last night in the near dark before I finally got to sleep. That Tribune article said that the Supreme Court would announce its decision tomorrow, Monday, morning on the obscenity case it had heard a few months previously. Even back then, maybe mostly back then, I was interested in the law.

The Federalist Papers had been a particular favorite of mine I had read it more than once, and I believed in free speech. Maybe it was because I was still a kid, but I had learned in my short life that if it made sense to me, the _powers-that-be_ would almost always be on the other side of the issue.

Several years later, after many explanations from Charles, I finally figured out that the reason it worked that way was because _they_ had _it_ , and _they_ wanted to keep _it_. I was naïve enough then to believe that I had a chance to get _it_ when I grew up into their world. Not some small part of _it_ I saw some neighborhood business people have, but the large part of the _it_ I saw in the movies. Naive! Naive! Naive!

The Court's pending decision, when made, could prove me wrong. I hoped it would, but there really was little doubt in my mind that they would decree that obscenity was not protected as free speech. I was also sure that that would be a wrong decision. We young guys and gals could make our own world. We didn't need these old guys to make it for us. One could only hope that these old farts would die soon and we would be given our head. Little did I know that in the _not-so-distant_ future, beginning today even, one of these _old farts_ would become my best friend and mentor.

That was where my mind was as I walked by The Hyde Out Inn, a pub across the street on the south side on East 55th. I was on the north side, the sunny side, of the street. I sensed, but barely heard, a voice call out, "Hey, you!"

I looked around. There was a tall guy, about six-three or four across the street. He looked like a white guy, but as he was standing in the shade, the summer sun being southerly, I wasn't sure. I thought maybe not white, maybe light-skinned black, as Hyde Park was a highly integrated neighborhood, something that somehow made my father worry about my safety even more. When the guy stepped out from under the awning, into the early morning sun, I could see he was a white guy, a fairly well built, big shoulders and chest, but thin waist and hips, white guy. He stood rail-rod straight and looked about my dad's age which at the time was fifty-three. Later, I would discover that this guy, Charles, was four years older than my dad and looked even younger than his years, than my dad did.

In spite of this guy's age, his hair was dark and fell, a bit longish for the time and his age, loosely down over his face, almost touching his large, black-rimmed eyeglasses. His dark complexion matched his hair and his glasses. He was a _movie star_ handsome man.

I thought the guy was calling to me, but I wasn't sure. So, I asked him, "You calling me?"

He answered, "Yeah! You! The kid who has hair longer than mine. You wanna make a couple of bucks?"

At the time, I wore my hair in an Elvis style D.A. and it was long. If combed down straight over my eyes, it hung a bit below my chin. The back was not much shorter, but box-trimmed.

I answered him, "Yeah!" and crossed the street. I ended up helping him unload his pickup truck and carrying the stuff into the bar. There wasn't a lot of stuff, but it was heavy and, at the time, I barely weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. And even later, when I was fully physically mature and somewhat heavier, I was never all that strong. But, I knew how to work hard. And, I did.

The job only took about twenty or twenty-five minutes, but I was sweating like a pig. Even though it was still fairly cool on the lakefront that early in the morning, I was still hot. As I said, I worked hard. It wasn't yet even close to being the ninety degrees it would eventually be that day. The summer of was a scorcher.

When we had finished, the man called me over to the bar, which, being Sunday morning, was, of course, closed. He told me to sit down. I did. He put a large ice-filled glass, filled with cream soda, in front of me. I could see the guy more clearly now, even in the dim, early morning darkness of the unlit bar. The man had a _clean-_ looking face, without any apparent blemishes, and was freshly shaven. His hands, however, were the hands of a working man, a few bent fingers and a lot of marks on all the fingers and on up to his elbows where his short-sleeved shirt started.

He said, "You work damned hard, kid. How old are you? Fourteen?"

Obviously, I looked quite young. I said, "No, I'm sixteen, going to be seventeen next month."

Charles said the obvious, "Hell, you look like you're still in grammar school. You look damned young for your age. But like I said, you work hard. What are you doing here, walking the streets before seven o'clock in the morning? What are you doing in this neighborhood? I ain't never seen you around here before? You want a bagel _with_?"

There was a delicatessen next door. It was connected to the bar, and it was about to open for business even though the bar was closed.

"Hell, kid! Don't get nervous. I know that's a lot of questions at once. I'll slow down. No, I'll stop. You just take your time. You just tell me what you want to tell me, and I'll wait for you."

So, I told him what I had just finished telling you. I had just moved to the neighborhood, and I was to be a student at the University.

Charles said, "Damn, kid! A grammar school kid in the University. You must be a real smart one, a _brain_ , a real _chochem_."

Sort of angrily, I said "I'm not a grammar school kid." Then, after a little hesitation, "I must be a real what?"

"Don't get your bowels in an uproar, kid. I was only teasing you. A _chochem_. It's Yiddish for a _wise man_. You seem to be a smart kid. I hope you will grow to be a wise man. You want a job? But, hey, kid! What's your name? You never said."

"My name is Edward, but most people call me Eddie."

"Is that with a "why' or an 'eye-ee'?"

"It's _eye-ee_!"

"And, the rest of the name?"

"My first name is _Edward_. My middle name is _George_. The last is _longer-than-any-last-name-needs-to-be-spelled-with-almost-nothing-but-consonants-Polish-last-name-that's-mostly-unpronounceable-even-by-me_!"

With a little laugh, the guy said, "Hell that makes you _Eddie G_. Eddie G., are you just Polish? Or, is that a Polish one of us?"

I just have looked stupid at the asking because he then said, "One of us? A member of the tribe? A Jew?"

Besides, no one had ever called me Eddie G.

"A Jew? I ain't no Jew! Do I look like a Jew?"

Even though I had no idea what a Jew looked like. All I knew about Jews was that Charley, our neighborhood grocer when I was still holding my mother's hand when crossing the street, was a Jew. His daughter, Thelma had been my best friend in kindergarten, and my father hated it!

"No offense, kid. I'm a Jew! I know a lot of Polish Jews with long last names like yours. I didn't think it would hurt to ask."

I could tell that he knew I was thoroughly confused. He understood what I didn't, that my latent prejudices, not real, but still there, needing to be shed. He said, "OK, kid!"

To him, I was always _kid_.

"Well, what is that last name?"

"Włotrzewiszczykowycki!"

"OK, I understand! We needn't mention it again."

He didn't. Neither did I.

Then, Charles said, "I'm Charles. That's what you are to call me, not Mr. _Something-or-other_ , but Charles. That's my name. That's what all my friends call me. And, I think we are friends already."

I soon found out, he was correct about his name. Charles' name was _Charles_. Everybody knew Charles and everybody knew his name was _Charles_. Charles was also correct about our being friends. It was a quick bonding. It was easy being friends with Charles. He made it that way.

Charles asked me if I had had breakfast yet. When I responded in the negative, he offered to get me a bagel _with_. I knew what bagels were, something that the Jewish people ate. I later found out that everybody on the east coast ate them, but I had never even seen one, let alone eaten one. I had hardly ever left the small Polish neighborhood in which I was born. At home, we always ate poppy-seed hard rolls.

_With_ was also something I knew nothing about. Charles explained _with_ to me. "It's a _schemer_ , kid!" After explaining that to me as well, he told me I should have my bagel _with_ with lox. When he told me what that was, I said, as I shuddered inside, "Thank you, but not that, please." Eaters in my family never tried anything new. Hell, I was still worried about the bagel.

After a few more suggestions, Charles said, "Anything you want, but no PB or J." After he gave me a list of possibilities, I told him I would try my bagel _with_ dried tomato cream cheese. Charles, of course, would have his _with_ lox.

He asked, "Do you drink coffee, kid?"

After receiving a negative from me, he went next door to The Pickle, which he also owned. He brought me a bagel _with,_ like I had requested, _with_ dried tomato cream cheese. It was my first ever bagel. It was absolutely phenomenal.

We sat and ate, and talked for quite a while. Charles asked me several questions, not about kid stuff, but important stuff, like my beliefs. I told him of my concerns about the upcoming Supreme Court decision on obscenity and how we young people didn't need all these old farts making the world for us. I guess I talked more than I listened, about normal for a _not-quite_ seventeen-year-old.

Charles knew all about the case. That surprised me as much, I suppose, as he was surprised that a young kid like me, particularly one who just a few minutes ago he thought was fourteen, cared as much about the Supreme Court, even in Hyde Park. I was used to my neighbors in Polish Village. They never knew anything about anything that was out of the neighborhood, or at least acted like they didn't. It wasn't that they were stupid or anything like that. They weren't. Most of them were quite intelligent. It was just that most never had any kind of formal education. Hell, they had never had the opportunity for school. They all had had to work hard and long hours for a living, and seldom at what might be called a white-collar job. Even if they had a few hours to spare, they were too worn-out to spend it sitting in school. They just didn't have time for stuff like this. Later, I would learn that almost everyone in Hyde Park had the time, or made the time. These topics were common in this neighborhood.

Charles had even followed the case since it was first filed. He told me his neighbor, in the co-op where he lived, was an attorney interested in this Supreme Court stuff, that the guy had even worked there once. The attorney explained a lot to him. Charles explained a lot to me. He didn't change my mind on that case. He didn't even try. That surprised me. Most _old-farts_ couldn't wait to tell you everything they thought they knew, and of course, everything they knew was true, accurate, and beyond reproach.

Though he never directly said so, I think he agreed with my free-speech position and had reached the same conclusions about the case that I had. However, I no longer went around saying that "We young people don't need all these old farts making the world for us."

It shouldn't have taken a genius to realize that that was exactly the case: These old farts were making the world for us; the good, as well as the bad. And, I had to admit, more good than bad. It would be up to us to change what needed to be changed after we inherited their world. Thomas Jefferson had said, "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."

I believed my generation would find that it was time. Life was pretty good, but there was so much bullshit that needed to be shoveled away. So, it was up to us, not the _old-farts_ , to get ready for that future chore.

All it took was for Charles to pass on to me his insight, his wisdom. This was the first, but far from the last, time he did so. The second time quickly followed the first.

Charles asked me a lot more questions. We got on the topic of high school. I told Charles, I thought I was the smartest kid in the class. Hell, I thought I was the smartest kid, period. I soon learned that that wasn't the case, far from it. Life at the University, and living in Hyde Park, introduced me to many people much smarter than I was. I wasn't even close. Even thinking the way I did about being the _smartest_ was _batshit_ crazy. It ain't about being the smartest. It's about being smart, and sometimes, even that isn't enough.

Nonetheless, I never received the higher grades I believed I deserved. I missed by one student, even finishing in the top ten percent of my graduating class, thirty-fifth out of three-hundred-forty-seven.

I told him "I don't have brain problems. Maybe I wanted to play too much sports, baseball, softball and basketball, so I didn't always study as hard as maybe I should have. Maybe, I ain't a good enough student. But, I don't think that's it.

"It's a shitty world when teachers are able to reward their _pets_ with better grades than they deserved, and punish those, who for some reason or other, they didn't like, or worse yet, as judge and jury, thought deserved to be punished, punished with the only weapon they had, bad grades. The _nicely behaved_ , usually girls, accomplished _B_ or _C_ work and received _A_ grades.

"I did _A_ work. I received a _B_ grade. They couldn't give me a C, though one or two tried. My test scores were always too high for them to go that far. Their excuse was always, 'Eddie can be disruptive. He must learn to behave.' While that may or may not have been true, it probably was, it was still bullshit. Behavior shouldn't be part of a grade. Making homework part of the grade was even worse. I seldom did it because I seldom needed it. This fucking _show-your-work_ shit was for those kids who didn't understand how to get from one place to another. Almost always, I looked at a problem and knew the answer. There wasn't any fucking _show-your-work_ shit to show. It was all done in my head. I didn't even know there was _show-your-work_ shit until they asked me for it. When they did, I didn't even understand the question, so I asked, 'What is that?' I did it in my head.

"They said that that wasn't acceptable.

"My response was 'What part of your body do you use to do your thinking?'

"That just made it worse. In addition to being disruptive and not _showing-my-work_ , I was branded a smart ass. Three strikes, I was out. The worst part was they were correct all three times.

"I wasn't just bitching or crying. I knew I probably deserved half of the _B_ grades I received. Early on, I learned that some classes I liked and I did _A_ work. There were other classes I didn't like, but were easy, so I did _A_ work. And then, there were classes that I didn't like and the work would be too hard for something I didn't like, so I did _B_ work.

Then, Charles explained my second lesson from him that morning.

"You gotta understand people, kid. They usually see what they want to see, and they can only see what their own peculiar brain, even if it ain't exactly in their heads, allows them to see. Seldom does that allow them to see what other people see, especially the way that those other people see it. And what one sees for one's self must not only be correct, but the only way to see it, since the way they see it is correct.

"People are confusing? Maybe! No maybe about it. But, they are the way they are!

"I guess I knew that before I bought this bar, but believe you me, I really learned it here. Drunk, high or sober, people see what they want to see. Hell, drunk or high, they see what nobody else could see unless they were drunk or high as well. It took me a long time to learn my lesson about the perceptions of others. These perceptions were all too often either through rose-colored glasses or through dark ones. If one was predisposed to see the other guy as _good_ , they usually saw the other guy as _good_. If one was predisposed to see the other guy as not _even-a-little-bit-good_ , they seldom saw the other guy as _even-a-little-bit-good_.

"What some of these teachers you refer to mean by _behave_ is that you, the student, should be learning to be a good employee for his future employers. The school system is not designed to educate young people to become thinkers. It's designed to teach them how to punch time clocks and be docile about it. A student who actually learns is an accident of the system, an unintended consequence and an unwanted one, seen as a threat to be undone or otherwise neutralized. If you stick with me, kid, you won't ever be a time clock puncher."

Then, Charles said, "Withholding earned grades for an inconsequential reason is one of their neutralizing tools. Homework, in particular, is designed to bend you to their authority so you'll eventually accept the authority that makes you punch a time clock.

"You remember Huxley's _Brave New World_ , right, kid? The _Deltas_ and the _Epsilons_? That's who these teachers turn themselves into. The longer you are in the system, the more you become part of the system. You, yourself, become a _Delta_ or an _Epsilon_. The crazy part is that it isn't even a conspiracy. It just happens. One gets sucked into it. So, it's only natural that one should try to make everybody else like one already is. That's what too many of these teachers are trying to do, to make their students into _Deltas_ and _Epsilons_. That's why behavior is part of their grading system. The dumber ones, the lesser than normal ones, learn to go along. They have to. It's the only was they can get along. The smarter ones learn to go along. They come to see it as the accepted way to get along. Sooner or later, the pretenders' fakery becomes habit and they go along without even thinking about it any longer. _Everyone_ goes along to get along. Except a few, like you and me. We know better, and in spite of the temporary grief, we are better off."

Even after all my experiences with this bullshit, I never saw it that way before. Hell, I never even considered it that way before. It took Charles to finally teach me to recognize that it is not accomplishment, but, more often than not, perception that rules the day. I could see my accomplishments, but I couldn't see the perceptions of others. It took many more mistakes and misunderstandings on my part to deal with it. Eventually, however, I did learn.

Charles said "What you want to be is an _Alpha_ , kid. An _Alpha_ knows the most important thing about intelligence. One must know what one doesn't know. If one knows what one doesn't know, one can correct the situation. If one doesn't know one doesn't know, one will find it quite difficult to rectify one's ignorance. We are all ignorant, without specific knowledge, about something. To stay ignorant is quite easy for the lazy, until the ignorance, eventually through disuse of the brain, becomes plain stupidity. If one is wrong, denying the error keeps one ignorant, and much more often than not, stupid as well. Learning from being wrong means that one will _never_ be wrong about that thing again. If you want to see the result of always going along, of not questioning, of reading nothing other than Hollywood and romance, or sport bullshit magazines, just listen to the conversation at this bar. Everybody here knows everything there is to know about everything. Yet, few of them ever agree on anything, even though much of the time they are in agreement and don't even know it. They are always arguing about everything at the drop of a hat. You don't ever want to be like that. You appear to be quite an intelligent person, particularly for a young guy. Be an _Alpha_ , kid. Be an _Alpha._ "

Then, Charles said, "Hey, kid! You never answered me about wanting a job."

I said, "Yes! But, I need time for my school."

Charles gave me a two-dollar bill, and said, "Here's a couple of bucks, just like I promised. When you get your school and study schedule all worked out, come back and we'll figure something out."

I wanted to say two dollars _and_ breakfast was too much for less than a half hour of work. Hell, either one of them was too much for that amount of time. But, I didn't balk at all. All I said was, "Thanks!"

Then, I looked at the _only_ bill he gave me. How could one bill be two dollars? I had never before seen a two-dollar bill. "What kind of money is this?"

Charles laughed. "Don't worry, kid. It's real. It ain't bogus. You can spend it anywhere. It's racehorse money. I use it to bet at the two-dollar window. But, any store or bank will take it."

Charles added, "I like you, kid. Mostly, you know how to think! Most people think the same, that they can think, but they're wrong. Each of us learns how to think, some more, some less. Most less than more! The problem is most of us think differently than the rest of us. We are born genetically different. And, we also have different environments. Particularly in the first few years, that's real important because the brain still has a lot of wiring to do after we are born. That additional wiring makes us even more different.

"The trick to being smart isn't only having had better luck in those two games of roulette, but in realizing that since there are many other ways of thinking, one had better learn them. That ain't easy. Besides too many people thinking they're always right, they also think that their process of getting there is the only one. If the other guy ain't doing it _their_ way, the other guy ain't doin' it right.

"We've only been talking for a little while here, but I think you're one of those guys who can learn this stuff. I want to be there to watch you do it.

"We're already friends. I think we will become better friends. I think we'll make it work."

We did.

That's how I first met Charles. In the next eight years, Charles would become more than another father to me. Charles would become my friend, my best friend, my best friend ever, before or since, something my real father never was, something I guess few fathers ever are. Maybe, it was that one knew immediately upon meeting Charles that he possessed wisdom that the others didn't, wouldn't and couldn't ever possess.

Like most, if not all, young people, I resented when the old farts started telling me what to do with an assumed right they had that grew out of their being old farts, which I wasn't. What fucking _chutzpah_! I learned that word, among many others, from Charles.

Those old farts thought they had the same thing that Charles really had: wisdom. What they really had, were many experiences, some of them over and over again. Their problem was that these experiences were almost always seen as the same experiences even though many of them differed in some aspect or another from the others, these differences were seldom noticed. Further, none of them were understood or analyzed. Other than to be filed away, they were seldom thought of again, except to tell me about them.

Charles was different. His wisdom is what made me and others listen to him. Charles was never arrogant or pompous. Charles never told me or anyone else what to do. Charles just told it like it was. After all, Charles really knew what it was like.

My parents had mixed feelings about Charles and my relationship with him. At first, I thought maybe it was some kind of jealousy. My father didn't really care all that much, but my mother sometimes did. I think she felt some kind of competition for my love, a competition which she had never experienced from me before because, except when I was a baby, my relationship with my father had always been a luke-warm one. As my dad's first son, I had a lot of early bonding with him. Maybe that was what caused me to never stop loving him. In spite of our on-going deteriorating relationship, I kept on loving him. The love and devotion I developed for Charles, however, was a new experience for my mom. I guess it made her feel uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough for her to say anything or to display bad behavior towards Charles. Besides, my mother never displayed bad behavior towards anyone.

I don't believe my parents' conflicted feelings arose because Charles was Jewish. At first, maybe a bit on my father's part, but that really wasn't him, just a part of his family and neighborhood culture. He and they weren't really bigots. They just grew up in a time when _wop_ and _bohunk_ were acceptable epitaphs, as were _spic_ and _nigger_ , depending on the neighborhood in which they were used. It mightn't be an adequate excuse as it fertilized the racial and ethnic hatred of the times, to say nothing about the hatred of homosexuals and the second-class citizenry of women, but it was some kind of an explanation.

Even though, _kike_ was almost always frowned upon, my dad used it often enough. Many white people, who thought themselves _at-least-somewhat_ liberal, had Jewish friends, so to them _kike_ was an ugly and insulting epithet. My father and people like him learned who these people were and watched their tongues in those people's presence. It wasn't because my dad thought he was wrong, but because it was the easiest way to avoid the _for-sure_ ensuing argument.

These same white _at-least-somewhat_ liberals, however, seldom had any black friends or acquaintances, so _nigger_ was usually acceptable to them. So, people like my father didn't have to be so careful with saying _nigger_. Few ever objected to it. I always did. My father and the others ignored me or said, "What the fuck do you know, little boy?"

My father might have worked with a few Jews or blacks, but those relationships never rose to the level of friendship. So, I often heard _kike_ and _nigger_ in my house.

My mother, on the other hand, didn't have a bigoted bone in her soul. In spite of negative reactions from her family and friends, she would often boast quite proudly of her son's new friends and experiences at the University of Chicago and in Hyde Park. It never embarrassed my father, but he never said anything about it either.

Neither did I believe my parents' conflicted feelings arose because Charles was an atheist. I knew my _Faux-Catholic_ father didn't care. He had married twice, both Protestants. The Catholic Church didn't like that, even though he did marry the first one in the Church. I don't remember my father ever going to Church, except for a wedding or a funeral. I'm not even sure he went to any of those, except maybe, my sister Delores' wedding. My mother, on the other hand, was a believer and part of her local Lutheran Church community. I don't think she knew or even suspected that I was now wayward. When I left home, I wasn't yet quite an atheist, but I knew I didn't really believe that stuff anymore. I don't think she cared about Charles' being an atheist either. I'm not even sure she knew. After all, neither a Jew nor an atheist was a Christian.

If my parents had conflicted feelings about Charles, it must have been because they thought Charles might be a homosexual. He was. When I first found out, or suspected anyway, not all that long after I started to work for him, I thought for sure he would start hitting on me. I thought seriously about quitting and moving on. Two things, however, stopped me. I needed the job, particularly the perks, like the food, and later, the apartment. Mostly however, I really liked Charles.

I had never before met a _queer_ or a _faggot_ , as homosexuals were then called. Having just turned seventeen, I guess I was a bit scared. I know I was confused. I wasn't confused about my sexual feelings. I knew I liked girls even though I haven't yet had my first sexual experience with one. That, however, would come shortly. After all, this was Hyde Park, a university community, and the pre-'60s. Well maybe, I was a bit confused. I was only seventeen. That confusion, however, left me rather quickly. Charles kept on being Charles. He was always a great guy to me. He never even hinted at something _queer_ with me.

It was only two months later when he was offering me an apartment above The Hyde Out that he himself first broached the subject of homosexuality. Before that, all I had were suspicions from the rumors I heard around the bar.

"Kid, by now, being the bright lad you are, I'm sure that you have figured out that I am a homosexual. I don't know why I am the way I am. I don't care anymore why I am the way I am. I just am the way I am. To me, it is normal. You don't have to worry about me, kid. I think you know me well enough now. I'm an easy guy, not ever very aggressive. I only go with my own kind. I have no desire to change anybody else's ways.

"Hell, I didn't even try to talk that one-eyed black guy out of becoming a Jew. Actually, I never even knew the guy, but if I had, I wouldn't have tried to talk him out of adding another ton or so of bullshit to his shoulder. It's none of my business. Being black in today's world might be as bad as being Syphisus, but a black Jew? That's gotta be worse, even if he is attracted to women. And, he has to make it white women.

"The guy didn't choose to be black anymore than I chose to be a homosexual. We are what we are, even though it might appear we choose some of it, like he chose to be a Jew. I'm a homosexual Jew. You are neither. The black guy is one of the two now. Who has it better? Who's to say? It's none of their fucking business anyway.

"So when I am now offering you an apartment here in The Hyde Out building, it has nothing to do with anything other than that I want you to stick around. You're a fine young man. I want to be there to see you learn and get better. I know you are about to move into a dormitory at no charge. So, I'll make you the same offer. No charge. The same goes for food. Eat at the University when you want. Eat here at The Pickle the rest of the time. The apartment is empty, so I'm not getting any rent for it anyway. It's right next to John-John's," who, by then, I knew since I had been working with him, "and I would never rent it out. The only use it gets is sometimes if I'm at The Hyde Out too late or too drunk. I can easily make other arrangements for those times. What do you say?"

I had met many more homosexuals at The University of Chicago and in Hyde Park than I had ever met previously, the previous number being zero. Or maybe I had met some, but in my neighborhood, they were all still in the closet. Hell, I was so backward growing up that I don't even think I considered the possibility they even existed. The University and Hyde Park had a different culture. Here many were _out_ , or at least _out_ here, even if not _out_ when they weren't _here_.

So, I wasn't in the least bit worried. I accepted Charles' generous offer. I lived in that apartment for four years. Charles even kept it for me, undisturbed, for the four years I was in the Air Force. Every time I returned home on leave, and I considered that apartment my home, it was there waiting for me just as I had left it on the previous visit.

Now in addition to paying me too much, as well as feeding me, he was giving me a studio apartment. Charles took care of me, all the while he was learning to trust me as much as he loved me. And, I loved him.

I lived a pretty good life for the four years I was at UC, good enough to get my undergraduate degree in three years and a Masters Degree in the last one. I started out wanting to major in math and chemistry. It was in these two subjects I discovered I wasn't nearly as smart as I _thunk_ I was. In the chemistry lab, I was an absolute slob. I could never get an experiment properly done. In calculus I discovered I was a whiz at arithmetic and obtuse about abstract math. I took my first philosophy class only because it was the only open class available at a time I needed a class. The rest was history.

On my seventeenth birthday, I enlisted in the Air Force Reserves. At first, my mother was a little squeamish about it, but knowing one's draft status at the time was an important thing, she quickly relented and signed the paper for me, knowing that in one more year, I could, and would, sign for myself. My father, as usual, said nothing, at least to me, though I'm sure he discussed it with my mother.

So rather than live with just a student exemption, an exemption one could lose at any time, I opted for the Air Force Reserves. I knew the Air Force also could put me on active duty at any time, but they pretty much didn't do those things, mostly because if they did, word would get out and their pool of recruits would quickly dry up to nothing. Thus, in addition to the University and Charles, I was an airman last class one weekend a month and two weeks' summer camp. There was also the small, but always, in spite of Charles' generosity, useful, monthly stipend. It was a busy life.

That enlistment turned out to be a good thing. I didn't stay airman last class for long. Again, I was lucky. I seemed to be in the right places at the right times, and made rank quickly. I guess they needed people with my skills in jobs that demanded a certain rank. In any case, in those four years, I was an E-5, a Sergeant, three chevrons on my sleeves, which, of course, meant more money each month. But even more importantly, when I went on active duty after my university time, they sent me, in their infinite wisdom, directly to OCS, Officers' Candidate School. By the time Christmas and my first leave came around, I was a Second Lieutenant.

By the way, the day after I met Charles, the Supreme Court did rule in Roth vs. the United States, by a six-three vote, that obscenity was not "within the area of constitutionally protected speech or press." Six old men decided that the First Amendment was not intended to protect expressions that were "utterly without redeeming importance" or whether they had "appeals to prurient interest." What did these old men know about prurient interests?

They didn't know it then, and neither did I. I was much too young. But, these, _old farts_ , with this decision, more or less, defined the more than decade long fight of the 1960s.
5

### Tribune Delivers the Stuff

### July 23, 1968

### Tuesday

Today, I am twenty-eight years old. Yesterday, I wasn't. Those days, referred to as birthdays, have ceased to matter to me. Lewis Carroll was right about _unbirthdays_. There are many more of them to celebrate, especially, if one owns a bar. But, today was my birthday and it was still important to my mother. She was there, after all, when my whole thing first started.

Today, I am also a lawyer. Yesterday, I wasn't. Well in some sense, I guess maybe I was a lawyer yesterday since last month I had graduated The University of Chicago Law School. Now, however, I really was a lawyer. It was in this morning's mail that I received the official notification that I had passed the Illinois Bar examination. I say _official_ because I knew when I was taking the exam that I would pass. It was an easy examination for me, not because the exam itself was easy, but because all the questions were exactly what I had studied, long and hard, months before sitting for it. As usual, Charles had been correct: Luck is where preparation and opportunity meet!

Even though I am now an official lawyer, I do not plan to practice law in the near future, or possibly, even probably, ever for that matter, even though I am already _sort-of-associated_ with a law firm here in the neighborhood. I have never believed that calling the so-called _best-legal-system-we-could-have_ the _best-legal-system-we-could-have_ was sufficient justification for the lousy system we did have. I didn't get a law degree to join the system. I got a law degree to help me understand it. I was a philosopher, maybe by nature. My mother said that when I was a baby learning how to talk, the first word I said was a question. _Why?_ The second was _not_. It often followed the _Why?_ I always wanted to know _Why?_ and _Why not?_

The concept of the _law_ was important to me. I believed in it. I wanted to know _why_ the law was the way it was. I wanted to know _why_ it had to stay that way. I wanted to know _why_ it couldn't be changed, _really_ changed. In some respects, the law for me was just another thing, _albeit_ an important thing _, about which_ to ask _Why?_ and _Why not?_

The second worse bartender in the world has nothing to fear from me. His or her position in the hierarchy was safe. I'll never pass him or her. I don't want to. I won't even try. Yet, here I was tending bar this morning, something I try to avoid, birthday or no, because I stink at it. I try to hold the orders to bottled beer cuz I can't draw a draft and straight shots cuz I don't want to fuck with anything complicated or needing the blender. Lucky for me, it was morning and there were only _straight_ drinkers in the bar. When I have to, like today, I don't always pay a lot of attention to what I'm supposed to be doing. I do not suffer fools gladly. I do not suffer drunken fools at all. That's what a bouncer is for. Not a mean guy, just an order enforcer. I have one on duty at all times. Maybe, that is what the _law_ is all about!

University of Chicago athletes always need a few extra dollars. I pay them minimum wage to sit in my bar and study. Some of them, those without a full scholarship, also rented an apartment from me, at cut-rates, of course. The U of C athletes are all intramural student-athletes since the University no longer participates in inter-collegiate sports. In 1946, the University withdrew from the Big Ten Conference, allegedly due to their inability to provide a _reasonable equality of competition_. It was the U's way of saying _enough is enough_ to the phoniness of so-called _student-athletes_. They were replaced in the conference by Michigan State College, later Michigan State University, where _professional_ student-athletes became the prototype for all other universities who used them.

From 1946 on, the University of Chicago's student athletes would really be student-athletes. I hired them. They kept the peace. They were all smart. After all, they were University of Chicago students. Even though few of them were really big, they could all move faster than the sometimes larger patrons could fathom, especially when those larger patrons could barely fathom. Everybody knew why they were in The Hyde Out. Everybody either liked them there or respected their being there. I had the most peaceful bar in Hyde Park. I probably had the most peaceful bar in Chicago.

The Hyde Out's patrons weren't all the world's best. Some of them I couldn't stand. Some of them couldn't stand me. The two groups, the ones I liked and the ones that didn't like me didn't always overlap. The Hyde Out, however, had substantially less trouble than most bars. Charles having run it for over thirty years was, of course, one reason. Since I took over, my _bouncers_ were another. Plus, most of our regulars really liked each other, even the ones who didn't like me. There was also the _diveness_ quality of the bar. Everybody protected that quality along with each other. And of course, there was Stosh the Cop and Officer Gilly, both regulars.

The reason I had to be tending bar Tuesday morning was that the regular bartender had stopped in late last night to say he couldn't make it the next morning because a special group study session had been called. It was too late to find a replacement other than myself. It was something one had to learn to live with when most of one's employees were law students or recent graduates who were still waiting for their first real job. I learned.

Say what you wish about lawyers. Whatever it is, it is probably true about most of them. When I started law school, one of the regulars, Ernie Kraut, a National Merit Scholar, from Germany of course, said to me, "Eddie, Henry VI wasn't all wrong when he said 'Kill all the lawyers.' When he said it, his intentions were to remove the guardians of independent thinking. Today, most of the lawyers are the guardians of unrepentant stinking. So maybe, we ought to leave the ones who aren't. Still, if we go to the trouble of rounding them all up, we probably should kill them all."

Bartenders have to touch my money. If while touching my money, some should stick to them, they knew I was always watching. When they were there, my mother, John-John, and English Dave were watching as well. Even when I or the others weren't there, they felt it. They knew I would push charges to the limit. Besides I paid them well, gave them cut rate prices at The Pickle and my other _The_ businesses, as well as on their apartment rent, if they also rented from me, which most of them did. And, they liked me. I hoped. You can trust in good or god if you wish. Charles taught me when someone was touching your money, it was best to believe in _fear_. I absorbed as much of Charles' wisdom as I could.

There is one thing that all lawyers really fear, that's disbarment. Since law students aren't yet lawyers, they can't be disbarred. However, they can be prohibited from sitting for the bar exam in the first place. So, these future lawyers, law students, have that fear as well. Stealing is a felony and serious grounds for disbarment.

Except when I'm tending bar, I pay attention to everything. When I'm tending bar, I only pay attention to my constant fight to avoid the massive clouds of smoke that hover around most of my patrons. I'm a non-smoker in a smoker's business. I, along with the few other non-smokers who spend too much time in The Hyde Out, have to suffer this, in spite of my having spent a small fortune the year before to install a state-of-the-art air conditioning and air circulation system. At least, I have been successful in banning cigars and pipes from my bar. Even most of the cigarette smokers accept this as a good thing. Marijuana is also a no-no in The Hyde Out, though many sneak outside, sun, rain or snow, to share a toke. It is the '60's, after all. It isn't the morality of it that caused me to ban it in the bar. I really didn't care. It was the illegality of it. I was running a business, not trying to make social statements.

Even so, I didn't indulge. I tried it once. I inhaled a lot. At the time, I was also drunk on too much beer. I was never so discombobulated. No one but me knew what I was saying, and even I didn't understand my own words. For me, it was either beer or grass, never both. I have always loved my beer too much. So, no more grass.

On the bartender's side, I have to go where the order comes from, and believe me, it always comes from a smoker who feels an unconscious need, or is it really a conscious one, who wants to blow smoke in my face. When I'm on the other side of the bar, the patron's side, at least there, I can strategically select my location and move it if I have to.

Luckily for my lungs, the bar was lightly patronized this morning; not so lucky for the cash register. I was eating my usual, a lightly toasted bagel _with_ and drinking a Charles' Blend. We also serve Danish and poppy seed hard rolls now. Sometimes, I have the latter as I did when I was a kid, but I have really gotten hooked on bagels. We also serve corn-beef hash and _latkes_ , potato pancakes to the non-initiated. Charles had his with sour cream. I had mine with applesauce. But, I usually saved whichever one of them I was looking forward to consuming for a late morning snack. The Pickle made them fresh every morning. Everything we served at The Pickle was fresh. Charles always insisted on it. Now, so do I.

I didn't drink American coffee. It's green. Charles never drank it either, even in a pinch. The Pickle did, however, serve it to most people. That's what most people really want when they just asked for _coffee_. If one wanted Arabic coffee like I did, one asked for Charles' _Blend_.

I had already straightened out the liquor bottles on the back bar from the night before. Charles wanted the bottle labels to always be facing front so that the patrons sitting at the bar could see what was back there. He had told me that many people just sitting at the bar with nothing else to do would read those bottle labels. Charles figured that the easier he made it for those bottle labels to get read, the more likely someone would want to order something from one of them. Charles also wanted those bottles on the bottom shelf to be the most expensive brands. After all, if someone was going to be induced to buy something, that something ought to be a higher profit item. It would, of course be high value as well, but still a high profit item.

The bartenders didn't appreciate the placement arrangement. They wanted the cheap bar whiskeys kept on the bottom shelf. They figured the cheap stuff was ordered more often, and they wanted the reaching for them to be made as easy as possible. Besides knowing what he was doing, Charles was the boss. The more expensive bottles were kept front and center on the bottom shelf. I was boss now, but I still did what Charles did. I kept those expensive bottles front and center on the bottom shelf.

It has now reached the point for me where the labels of anything anywhere have to be facing front, even the peanut butter jars in my kitchen cabinets at home. If they are not, I don't get nervous or anything like that. It isn't quite an obsession. But, I think about it until it is remedied. I don't remember if I was like that before I met Charles. I don't think I was, but I surely am now.

I was nursing my second cup of Charles' Blend, or was it my third? I had finished my lightly toasted bagel _with_. I had finished checking out today's weather forecast. It was going to be a cool seventy-nine degrees, even cooler along the Lakefront. John-John came over.

"I just came in to look at the clock, Eddie G. I have to be at the hardware store when it opens at nine, Eddie G."

The bar clock read nine-fifteen. But, it was set twenty minutes ahead at bar time. John-John left and a relief bartender finally showed up: Another law student, of course. So, I would be able to get a nap and still spend most of my birthday afternoon with my mother.

I went to my upstairs apartment. I did what I went there for. I took a nap. Actually, I took a hot bath and napped in the bath tub until the water cooled down. Not exactly an alarm clock, but it gave me an hour, an hour that I really needed.

When people learn how much I love bath tubs, they always ask me the same thing. "How can you get clean in a bath tub lying in your own dirt?"

My answer is always the same as well: "Bath tubs are not for getting clean. That's why god invented showers. Bath tubs are for reading, sleeping and contemplating."

I think that the large percentage of Eureka! moments I have had, came when I was in a hot bath tub. That was one thing I hated about being in the Air Force: No bath tubs, hardly ever; almost always, showers. Luckily for me, I spent most of my Air Force years in Germany, famous for their many _Bad_ s.

There hadn't been a bath tub here when I moved in, only a shower. The two-room apartments in which John-John and I lived, were originally a single four-room apartment. His had the tub. John-John, however, never really used it. Previously to my getting a bath tub in my apartment, he had been a shower person.

But, Charles knew from my mother what a bathtub meant to me, so he had one put in while I was away at my first Air Force summer camp. I loved him all the more for it. Now, that I had a bathtub, John-John fell in love with his. He went around telling everybody that Eddie G. had gotten him a new bath tub. In his newly found enthusiasm for bathing, he had forgotten it had always been there. So, I received his credit for the installation of a tub that had been installed forty or more years before I had been born. Charles didn't care, just so his two live-in boys were happy.

John-John told everybody who would listen, as well as everybody who wouldn't listen, "You might think I try to get clean in my new bath tub, _Tribune John_. You might think I try to get clean in my new bath tub." Or _Stosh the Cop_ , or _Officer Gilly_ , or _English Dave_ , or _Joey B.,_ or _Evil_ , or.... "Well, I don't try to get clean in my new bath tub, _Stosh the Cop_. Well, I don't try to get clean in my new bath tub. I am already clean before I get into the bathtub, _Officer Gilly._ I am already clean before I get into the bathtub. Bath tubs are not for getting clean, _English Dave_. Bath tubs are not for getting clean. That's why god invented showers, _Joey B_. That's why god invented showers. Bath tubs are for reading, sleeping and contemplating, _Evil_. Bath tubs are for reading, sleeping and contemplating."

An hour later, the water had cooled. It woke me up and I got out and dressed. I didn't dry, only dabbed at my face. I liked the way it felt when the water evaporated from my skin. I didn't often use towels. I didn't like the way they felt on my skin. If I really needed to dry, one of my authentic Turkish robes would do the job.

I had several. Living in Europe is not the same as visiting there. Stuff was cheaper on the Base. Or if not available there, I had the benefit of waiting for sales, which I did. Waiting for sales along with the VAT, Value Added Tax, reimbursement for military personnel made many desirable items even more desirable. Each time I returned to the States, I brought as much stuff as customs would allow. I always included a new robe and a few pairs of Birkenstocks.

It was a little after two in the afternoon. Tribune John was already there. My mom was sitting in The Holes-in–the-Walls booth. Tribune and I converged on it simultaneously.

"Hey, Special Ed, and Special Ed's Ma! I got the stuff you asked for. My buddy down at the morgue went the extra mile. He has good friends at the Daily News morgue and the Sun Times morgue as well, and he got me their clippings. He said, "Here's the stuff," as he dropped a pile of papers about four or five inches thick on the bar in front of me. If I got right to it, I was going to have a long afternoon.

John-John came in after a morning of chores, and said, when he saw the three of us, "Hi, Eddie's Ma! Hey, Eddie G! Hi, Tribune John! What's all that stuff? What's all that stuff?" pointing at the stack of paper.

"Not to worry, John-John. Just some stuff I need to work on." I didn't want to tell John-John exactly what I was doing, not yet anyway, at least until I knew what I was doing.

By then, however, Tribune had left The Holes in the Wall Booth, and was telling the others at the bar as much as he knew about what he thought was going on and what he had done. Trib wasn't bragging. He was simply doing what everybody in every bar does. He was spinning a good story.

John-John heard Tribune and went over to join him and the group. He said, "Gee, thanks for helping me, Tribune John. Thanks for helping me." John-John turned to me and said, "Thanks for believing me, Eddie G. Thanks for believing me. Maybe, soon I can sleep good again, Eddie G. Maybe, soon I can sleep good again."

After now hearing from John-John why I had wanted the papers, Trib came back over to me and suggested that maybe I should get Stosh the Cop to help. My response was short and noncommittal: "That might not be a bad idea." I was waiting until I had more to offer Stosh. I knew he would ask for more than just the one article describing a forty-five-year-old event. Now that I had all this stuff, I had to read it. I would get to Stosh in good time.

My mom and I had an early dinner, spoke about the businesses, generally commiserated and acted like the loving mother and loving son that we were. A couple of hours of that and I grabbed the stuff Tribune had brought, said my farewells and went to my further away, apartment at The Powhatan, which I also inherited from Charles, to read. It was just past five, but I wanted to, needed to, get started reading.

I stacked the papers on the toilet seat, did a quick restrip of my _stinky-smoking-smelling_ clothes, only worn for a hour or so, and got into the hot water and began to read.

I know what's running through your mind: "How can you read this stuff in the bath tub? You're going to drop it and get it all soggy wet." Rest easy! No, I won't. I have practiced this over the years until it has become second nature. Never happened. Never will.

Samuel "Nails" Morton was an interesting guy. The report of Morton's death was straightforward in all three newspapers, the Tribune, the Sun-Times and the Daily News, just as the article John-John had found reported it. The death could have been anyone's, except it wasn't. It had been the death of a notorious gangster. Thus, the inevitable sidebars of Nails' biography and exploits, particularly the murders of the two Chicago police detectives, William _Billy Pluck_ Hennessey and James _Jamie Spike_ Mulcahey.

These killings, it was difficult to call them murders after not one, but two, acquittals, were by far the most interesting thing I found in these clippings. How a well-known Jewish gangster could be acquitted of killing two Chicago policemen was a stretch to believe, particularly during the Prohibition era. On top of that, I was expected to believe the coincidence of an accidental death a year later by the killer? The Chicago Way was surely in play. Maybe, John-John's vague remembrances had something to them after all.

I got out of the tub. It was hot out, and so had the tub been, so I didn't put on my robe. I just drip dried. I gathered up the clippings and went out to my home office. Neither did I bother getting dressed. If god didn't love the naked, we all would have been born fully clothed.

Being his own boss, except for the _on-time_ stuff for his businesses and employees, Charles worked when he wanted to. He worked a lot of hours, but at least, he had the privilege of choosing when they were to be. I operated with his same wisdom. This time, as I reread the material, I kept notes, something even I couldn't do in the bathtub.
6

### _Nails_ Morton

The Jewish gangster's full name was Samuel Jules Marcovitz, later changed by his father to Morton. Nails' birthday was sometimes given as July 3, 1893. Other times, it was given as sometime in 1894, month and date omitted. He was the oldest of seven children of poor Jewish, Yiddish speaking, Orthodox, Russian immigrants.

Though born in New York City, Nails grew up on Chicago's west side Jewish Maxwell Street neighborhood. At the time it was known as the 'Bloody Twentieth.' His date of death was May 13, 1923. So, Nails was twenty-eight or twenty-nine, depending upon his actual date of birth, quite young in any case, but not unusual in the case of a gunman-gangster. His crime boss, associate and friend, Dion O'Banion, born two years before Morton, was killed seventeen months later. As with Morton's birthdate, it was the same with O'Banion's name, sometimes Dion, sometimes Dean, sometimes O'Banion, sometimes O'Bannion. For what it's worth, his tombstone reads Dean C. O'Banion.

Almost all of these newspaper articles gave different dates and different spellings of the cast of characters' names. This was particularly true in articles from different papers and those with different by-lines. If it proved to be necessary, tracing information through government channels was going to be more difficult than would normally be the case.

While still a kid, Morton formed a neighborhood Jewish gang, allegedly to defend his fellow Jews, merchants, peddlers, old bearded men, young girls and community as a whole, against other neighborhood non-Jewish gangs which seemed to like invading, what they considered to be, foreign territory. It is said that _Nails_ got his name from being _tough as nails_ in the many juvenile gang-fights that seemed to be a constant at the time, the result of a lot of ethnic and religious hatred existing at a time of massive demographic change in the country. Xenophobia was alive and well in America.

In 1917, Morton was convicted of severely beating several members of a Polish rival gang. It was around the time the United States entered World War I, which we didn't call it then. The trial judge gave him a choice of sentences: Jail or the US Army. He chose the army.

Morton served with distinction in France, was promoted to First Lieutenant and won a decoration.

When he returned to Chicago as a war hero, he started a few gambling parlors. However, he soon hooked up with boyhood friend, Dean O'Banion, North Side crime boss, as lieutenant in charge of liquor distribution.

Morton, said to be making two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars a year, was a real classy dude, a fancy dresser, a high-stakes gambler, and a general well-known man-about-town. He lived in a suite at The Congress Hotel, one of the fanciest of the downtown hotels. He didn't hide his life style. On the contrary, he flaunted it. Women flocked to him. He also had at least one, usually two or three showgirl types with him as he night-clubbed around Chicago.

If one wishes to see what he looked like, his appearance, not his face, one should watch the Oscar nominated 1931 movie, _The Public Enemy_ , starring Jimmy Cagney. It is the movie with the famous _grapefruit-in-her-face_ scene. One of the characters in the movie is _Nails Nathan_. The actor, who plays Samuel, Leslie Fenton, appears in the movie just as the papers had described Nails: A real classy dude, a fancy dresser, a high-stakes gambler, and a general well-known man-about-town.

In 1920, Morton, along with his associate, Hershie Miller, a prize fighter, probably owned or managed by Morton, were at the Pekin Beaux Arts Café, a Near-Southside speak, a tan, meaning black and white, jazz club. Miller was also a Cook County Court bailiff, as well as a low-level politician.

While at the café, Morton became involved in an argument with Chicago Police Detective Sergeant, James _Jamie Spike_ Mulcahey. Then, fellow Chicago Police Detective Sergeant William _Billy Pluck_ Hennessey and Miller became involved. The two cops ended up shot dead.

What actually happened has always been a matter of controversy. Both cops, however, lived long enough to make deathbed statements implicating both Morton and Miller. Both of them were indicted for the murders of the two detectives. Police suspected Morton of six other murders, eight in all. The prosecution thought they had a slam dunk.

At the trials, the slam dunk hit the rim. Evidence was given that both cops were dirty and served as messenger boys to pass money up the ladder. Again, The Chicago Way.

Both Morton and Miller gave what were supposed to be honest versions of what had happened, Miller admitting to the self-defense shooting of both detectives, while they were literally kicking the shit out of Nails. Both Morton and Miller were twice acquitted of each killing, being tried separately thus, hopefully, increasing the odds of obtaining a conviction.

Many alleged that the acquittals were the result of bribes and threats, and that the acquittals happened because it was The Chicago Way.

However, allowing anyone who killed a Chicago cop to live, let alone two anyones, was not The Chicago Way. Morton _getting it_ a year later, was the way it should have been. That was The Chicago Way, so maybe this horse thing wasn't an accident after all. Miller got to live, probably because he had three brothers who were cops. He was forty-seven years old when he died in his bed of a heart attack in 1939.

The horse accident happened April 29, 1923. Morton, along with O'Banion, his wife, and a friend; merchant, Peter Mundane, had rented horses at the Lincoln Riding Academy, 3008 N. Clark St, a half mile north of what would be in 1929 the location of the St. Valentine's Day massacre.

One version, in the article given to me by John-John and other sources, was that Nails was riding and fell off the horse. Another is that the horse kicked Nails while still in the stables.

In any case, the _sick_ joke that 'For the hammering of a horseshoe, Nails was lost.'

If there was really a shot fired, could O'Banion have been the target. More confusion! How am I ever going to figure this out?

What may or may not be an urban legend is that a few days later, others say weeks or months, henchmen of Nails' rented the same horse again, took it out to a semi-deserted area on the bridle path and shot it in the head, one shot each. Afterwards, one of them called the stable and told them, "We shot your fucking horse. If you want the saddle, go get it."

The horse-shooting was also a scene in _The Public Enemy_ , Jimmy Cagney's character doing the shooting to avenge his friend Nails.

Morton's funeral was as spectacular as other gangster funerals of the era. The American Legion buried him with full military honors. There were more flowers than one could count. Morton's alleged occupation was a florist, as was his associate O'Bannion's real one. All the bad guys in the gang were there, as well as enemies Johnny Torrio and Al Capone. Supposedly, twenty-five-thousand, neighborhood residents showed up. Yes, _thousands_ , not _hundreds_.

It was a _helluva_ funeral!
7

Charles is Dead

### July 22, 1965

### Thursday

Tomorrow would be my twenty-fifth birthday. Earlier this morning, I had been discharged from the United States Air Force. The discharge was a month early as it was a medical discharge. Last February, I had almost died on the operating table due to a thyroid storm. I had suffered from an extreme case of hyperthyroidism. Luckily, if one can say such a thing about such a life-threatening occurrence, the storm occurred just minutes before the surgery was to begin. So, it never did begin, the surgery not the storm. If it had, the surgeon told me that I would surely have died on that table. After a couple of months of palliative care, I was given a small dose of radioactive iodine, a treatment that was not usually available for a twenty-four-year-old since there was concern about the long term effects of the iodine treatment, which were not yet known. Possible cancer causing effects were feared, but now not as much as was the fear of my continued living with, or not living because of, this severe hyperthyroidism. So, radioactive iodine it was.

Just three months after the iodine, I was still here. There was now, however, much more of me. That hundred and six-pound skeleton I was before treatment; now weighed one hundred and fifty pounds, ten more pounds than I had ever before weighed.

My flight home was a civilian flight out of Frankfurt. I had been lucky enough to get Uncle Sam to pop for a civilian flight non-stop to Chicago O'Hare, rather than making me fly military out of Rhein-Main, never a pleasant experience. Due to the seven-hour time difference, I landed, on-the-clock, only a few hours after take-off.

Getting that medical discharge meant no more military obligations, as well as a hundred percent disability pension. Since my rank at the time had been Captain, the pension was no small potatoes. Along with the GI Bill and the job I would have with Charles, it would be more than enough to see me through law school at my _alma mater,_ which I was to begin in about two months. Actually, I would be living like a king.

For my entire three-and-a-half-year European tour, my duty station had been USAREUR, United States Army Europe Headquarters, in Heidelberg, Germany. I was the Air Force liaison to the massive Military Library located there. It was great duty. It was a bit scary during the Berlin Crisis, but except for the fear of another global war, the crisis never touched me in Heidelberg.

Heidelberg had been spared the bombing blitzes during the World War as it had already been decided that that was where the occupying forces would set up their headquarters. The United States wanted an intact city for its post-war use. Heidelberg was truly one of the world's most beautiful and most livable cities. It had everything: Opera, theater, museums, and _Doctore Floette's Beer Museum_ , with over one hundred German beers on draught. Without question, German beer was the best beer god ever gave us, even though Heidelberg's local brew, _Schloss Bier_ , wasn't amongst the better ones. It was, however, better than anything the United States brewed.

Making my tour of duty better still was that I was quite frequently sent TDY, temporary duty, all over Europe as well as several times back to the States.

It had only been two weeks earlier since my last phone call from Europe to Charles. Since I had access to the AAFES, Army and Air Force Exchange Service, telephone line, the calls were free. I called Charles about twice a month, so maybe one would say I was taking advantage of my rank, but the calls seldom exceeded a minute or two. Neither of us were much for small talk, on the telephone or otherwise. Besides every week or so, we exchanged longer letters.

Since I had written Charles several weeks previously, advising him of my arrival date and asking him to have my old apartment available for me, which he would have done anyway without my having mentioned it, he knew quite a bit in advance that I was coming.

My flight landed in the early afternoon. Since I was now in civilian clothes, the clearing of immigration and customs wasn't quite as easy as it usually was, but I did have my military orders which helped ease the way. Everything about the flight, the landing and its subsequent requirements was either too long or too tedious. It was an ordeal sufficient to make one even as young as I was tired.

I bought a Tribune. The _Stars & Stripes_, a decent enough away from home newspaper, just didn't cut it. I missed my daily newspaper. I took a cab to The Hyde Out. It was expensive, but I was anxious to get home.

Frank Sinatra says Chicago is his kind of town. A great song, but what does he know? He was born in Hoboken, New Jersey. Hell, that's not even the Big Apple, let alone Chicago. What does he know about Chicago? He comes here to earn money. Maybe, he knows the Chicago Theater. Maybe, he knows Mr. Kelly's. Maybe, he knows the Ambassador East. Maybe, he knows the Twin Anchors. But, he doesn't know Chicago.

I know Chicago. I was born here. Chicago is _my_ kind of town.

The ride south only gave me enough time to check the weather and the Sports Section because I spent most of the time looking out the taxi cab window daydreaming about being home, this time for good. It would be a hot one today, ninety-two degrees. Hell, it was already a hot one. The Cubs had beaten the Phillies yesterday, ten-six, at home. I was looking forward to seeing a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. It had been two years since I had been there. Maybe tomorrow for my birthday, Charles, me and John-John, if he admits he loves baseball and not just the White Sox. He'll admit it. For a ball game, any ball game, he'll do what he has to do.

John-John saw me when I was paying off the cabbie. He ran out of the bar yelling, "Eddie G. Eddie G. Charles is dead, Eddie G. Charles is dead!"

It was the previous Christmas when I was home on leave that I had last seen Charles. Again, I got lucky. I was TDY to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio. From there, it was an easy, and inexpensive, train ride to downtown Chicago. My trip to and from Europe was on the Air Force. Nothing fraudulent. Just good planning.

Of course, I stayed in my old rooms as I had on all my other visits. Charles kept them for me when I went on active duty in 1961. Charles never rented them out, ever. Those two rooms had been my home for a long time, just a couple of months after I had met Charles and went to work for him. In that summer back in 1957 when I had first met Charles, I started out doing tedious, manual labor at his two buildings helping John-John, depending on the season, mow the small lawns or shovel the snow. After a while, Charles had me working in the deli. I ended up helping him keep some of the business books. He had a simple system, so simple even I could understand it. I learned stub accounting.

It came easy to me. I was good at it. Even my Aunt Addie, a professional bookkeeper, had to agree.

Charles had been fine during my Christmas visit, at least I had thought so. Even though I thought he acted a little strange, always trying to keep me nearby, I hadn't suspected he had already been dying from pulmonary cancer. Even though he had never smoked, he had, it was assumed, been under the clouds of too much second hand smoke from the bar. He knew that Christmas that it was going to happen soon, but, he never said a word, to me.

Charles had been the main influence on my not smoking. It was shortly after my fifteenth birthday that I had started smoking. Just about two years later, I met Charles. Within the year, I had quit.

One day, soon after I started working for Charles, I stopped whatever it was that I was doing for a minute, to light up a cigarette. Charles said to me, "You know that fucking shit will kill you."

My response was typical of a seventeen-year-old to an old fart. Verbally, it was, "Yeah! Yeah!" Thinking, it was, "Shut the fuck up, old man, and mind your own business."

Charles said, "I'm going to get you a few things to read. You're a smart guy. You make up your own mind."

Verbally, it was the same, "Yeah! Yeah!" This time, however, the thinking was different, "This guy's not trying to be my boss, except for working for him. Something new."

Charles never said another word to me about my smoking, except now and then, he'd remind me not so smoke around him. "Besides being a health hazard to me, the fucking shit stinks!"

A few days after his first telling me that "You know that fucking shit will kill you," he gave me a couple of medical articles on smoking. I knew he would prove correct so the information in these articles wasn't surprising. The pictures of those filthy fucking black lungs, however, were another matter. Those pictures scared the hell out of me.

Unfortunately, the scare wasn't enough to make me stop smoking right away. Between then and the time I finally did stop smoking for good, after several aborted attempts, still several months off, without ever saying anything more, he left several other articles laying around. He never gave them to me directly, but he left them in places he knew I was bound to bump into them.

That was more than seven years ago. Even in the military, where everybody smoked, I haven't smoked since. It was worse in Europe, where more people than everybody smoked. It was even more difficult when I was chasing a woman which I was almost always doing. All the European women smoked.

Now, however, Charles was dead most likely from other people's smoking. Sometimes, the world can be a shitty place. More than sometimes.

For a bar owner, Charles didn't even drink all that much, maybe three or four fifth bottles a week, maybe a bit more. That might seem like a lot for some people, but for a bar owner, three or four fifth bottles a week amounted to not drinking very much. Charles drank Hennessy Cognac VS, not quite the best brandy in the world, but for its price, it was close to it. He kept a bottle stashed away in the bar near the stool he sat on when he was holding court, a case in his office upstairs from The Hyde Out, and a case at home. At least, I assumed it was a case. It turned out to be over four hundred cases. Charles must have gotten a good buy. When he did get a good buy, he wasn't hesitant about stocking up. After learning it from Charles, I, now, did the same thing.

I suspected Charles might have confided in one or two others about the declining condition of his health, but Charles, being Charles, saw no reason to burden me with the painful knowledge of his impending death before I needed to have it.

Charles and I had had a great visit that Christmas, in spite of the damned snow and cold. It was always great to be with Charles. I visited with my parents, of course, while I was back in Chicago. I love them both, particularly my mother. I love her as much as I love Charles. But, it's different between a young man and his mother, and a young man and his father. And sad to say, my father wasn't Charles. My father, also Edward, but _Alois,_ not _George_ , was a good man. He just wasn't a particularly good father. In his own way, he wasn't a bad father. He always provided. He just didn't do those things it takes to be that kind of a good father, like talk to me, the things that Charles could do and did do.

That day I left the Air Force, that day I returned from Germany, that day I was told that Charles had died; even though it was the shittiest of days, was a day I had to be in The Hyde Out. It was expected of me by all of the patrons and all of Charles' friends. They all knew where I had fit into Charles' life. I expected it of myself. Besides, I really had no other place to go.

Even though Charles had been an accountant, he hired another one, actually a bookkeeper, when I left for the Air Force. Charles told me, he just wanted more time for himself. Charles had been, like me, rather I had been like Charles since he was older, an avid reader of pop mystery and crime stuff. I didn't pick this up from Charles. I had been that kind of reader of low-brow stuff before I met him. For some reason or other, I had read that stuff since I learned how to read. I also read a lot of the good stuff, Verne, Hugo, Cooper, Huxley, _etc_. But, I loved the low-brow long before it was considered not to be. Charles showed me a lot of new, to me, authors I had never heard of before: G. K. Chesterton, Georges Simenon, John Carr, and Patricia Highsmith among others. I was young. I would have found them all eventually. But, Charles gave them all to me early.

This bookkeeper guy's name was Robert Skemes. Robert looked after things, sort of, I guess. I don't think he actually was a thief, but like all people who handle other people's money, there is a tendency, whether it actually happens or not, to want some of it to stick to their own fingers. Further, like most people, Robert wasn't nearly as smart as he thought he was. In Robert's case, the _nearly_ was much further away from him than it was from most people.

Everyone knew I had never liked this guy. They also knew it wasn't jealousy on my part just because he sort of replaced me. Nobody else liked him either. I was pretty sure that even Charles hadn't liked him. But as always, I know Charles had his reasons for keeping him around, even though I might not have known what they were. Still, I knew, rather than felt, that Robert was not a person to be trusted.

Robert was in The Hyde Out, as I guess he should have been. For the day, at least up to now, he had assumed the roles of general manager, major-domo, super-duper factotum, BMOC; which he should not have, since he wasn't any of them. He was just a flunky trying to be more than he was. He enjoyed being boss as much as I didn't enjoy the pain I felt having lost Charles.

It might have been my prejudice, but I always thought he looked like a weasel. He had a long pointed nose and his chin jutted out such that you knew he was coming before he turned the corner. I don't even like thinking of him, let alone of his face.

Robert believed he was the only principled being on this earth, and his principles, of course, were the only correct ones. I was sure he believed that god had handed them down to him carved in stone.

I believed he was an immoral moralist. His way or the highway, and his way was loaded with detours, all of which were meant to benefit him. Surely, I wasn't in his favor either.

As I have said, I don't think anyone here liked him either, else they wouldn't have named him Bobby Schemer. He always insisted on being called Robert. It was a dumb move, particularly in a dive bar where it was everybody's job to rag on everybody else. All you have to do to get everyone to bother you with something you don't like is to tell them you didn't like it. Robert became Bobby the first time he said he didn't like being called it. Schemer was added soon after, when people got to know him. I always called him _Robert_ in the hopes my courtesy in not following the others, in what he surely perceived as insulting, would piss him off.

His playing majordomo at a time like this was a bit much even for him, however, and surely over the top for me.

Robert didn't see me when I entered the bar. I said, "Hello, Robert! I'm sure you are happy to see me so I can relieve you of your burdens here in the bar." I walked past him and behind the bar. Robert didn't say anything.

I said, "Hi, guys! I'm happy to be back home, but this is a real shitty homecoming party Charles decided to have for me." A few snickers behind the tears, but a chorus of "Hi Eddie G."s, "Welcome home!"s and "Fuck!"s.

I didn't quite know what to do, so I just took things over. There were others who could have done the job, and still allowed Robert to think he counted. I didn't think he did, so I wouldn't allow it. I said, "Have a drink on Charles, guys," and I started to draw and pour.

Today was no exception to Robert being the real asshole that he always was. He said, "Hey, Eddie, I already did that." I gave a quick response, as usual without thinking, "So what, asshole! Charles can surely afford it, and if he can't, he's beyond caring about it. Besides, I can afford it."

With that, Rocco came in with his young son, Rocco Jr., carrying six or seven large pizza boxes. Rocco owned the local pizza parlor. It also had a bar so it was one of Charles' competitors. But, Rocco and Charles had been friends since before time began. Besides, Charles kept Rocco's books as well.

Rocco Sr. saw Robert first and said to him, "On the house today for old Charles. Eat up, guys! If we need more, I know a place around the corner that can help with that little problem."

Robert, of course, said nothing, except, "Hi, Rocco!"

Then, Rocco saw me. "Eddie, a helluva welcome home. I know how shitty you must feel. We all do. Me and the kid as well."

The rest of the day was more of the same. It went on that way until dusk when we left for the funeral parlor after closing all three of the businesses.

Charles was a Jew, but an atheist at the same time, so there would not be any religious pomposity, as Charles termed it. He did, however, follow Jewish non-religious traditions. Charles would be buried the next day.

Charles often told me that a non-Jew, even a truly understanding non-Jew like I was, would never be able to understand what it was to be Jewish in a _Goyim_ world. He said that it was because so many could never understand that he kept to most of the non-religious Jewish traditions. He once told me, "You know Saul Alinsky, also a Chicago graduate, the hard way, working his way through, was a good friend of mine. Anti-Semitism was so pervasive when we were growing up, we really didn't even think about it. We always just accepted it as a fact of life. It's better now, particularly here in Hyde Park. But, it's still out there. Maybe, it always will be. I'll tell you one thing about identity. Whenever anyone asks me my religion, that's why I always say _Jewish_."

If everybody else was implored to "Never forget," it was also necessary that every Jew, religious or not, "Never forget."

After we closed the funeral parlor, we went back to the Hyde Out and reopened the bar. For the rest of the night, his friends would drink and commiserate. There were a few strays who came in for the free party, but not many. Almost everybody here really believed that they had belonged to Charles. We stayed open until the last guy left.

The next day we would bury our friend. Actually, it would only be later this morning. It was after four in the morning Friday. Charles had been dead almost a complete day. Being four in the morning Friday also meant it was already my twenty-fifth birthday. A helluva welcome home! A helluva birthday present!
8

My Inheritance

### July 23, 1965

### Friday

Today is my twenty-fifth birthday. I will not celebrate my birthday this year. Actually, I haven't celebrated my birthday since my twenty-first. This year, however, I won't even allow anyone else to celebrate it. Instead, I will celebrate Charles' life. In the eight years that I have known him, worked for him, learned from him, been his friend, I have found much to celebrate. The celebration will take more than a single day.

Charles' personal attorney, Leticia _, an even-a-bit-taller-than-I-was_ , five-foot-eleven-inch, woman, somewhat of a rarity in those days, both the occupation and the height, was, of course, at the funeral. Tish, short for Leticia, was Charles' personal, not business, attorney. She always dressed well, to the nines. Today was no exception. While not really beautiful, she was quite attractive, and always drew the male glances, even many of the female ones. Today, Tish was stunning in her black funeral garb.

After the brief service, she approached me, and said, "Eddie, I know today is your birthday, but I won't wish you a _Happy Birthday_. I know better. Instead, I offer you my condolences. I know how close you and Charles were. We will all miss him." Tish was quite close to Charles as well.

Tish was also a Northside transplant to Hyde Park. She and I had known each other since we were kids. Even though Tish is five years older than I am, we were friends of a sort. Tish had lived next door to my father's best friend in the neighborhood just north of ours. She never babysat for me. She wasn't quite _older_ enough, but she did look after me now and then. Somehow, friendship just happened. Tish had been five-eleven since she was twelve, and I was never much over five-foot until I started to grow to my current, nearly the same as hers, height at about sixteen. Tish was already twenty-one, so the almost one-foot height differential made it appear as if there was a ten year, rather than a five year, age difference. When together at that time, we really looked like Mutt and Jeff. Nobody mistook me for Mutt.

Tish went on, "You know, for the personal stuff, I was Charles' attorney, and I wrote his will." Her sort of partner, Martin, an older guy, about Charles' age, with whom she shared an office, was Charles' business attorney. A few years ago when Tish had just passed the bar and was starting off, Marty, who was a great guy, like his friend and client, Charles, took her on as an associate and farmed out some work to her to help her build her clientele. I later became associated with the firm, not really as a working lawyer, but a courtesy place to hang my legal hat. Marty was just a good guy.

"A few years back, 1961 to be exact, when you went on active duty in the Air Force, Charles had me rewrite his will. It was his last rewrite except for a few codicils. I am, of course, executor of the estate, but you are almost his sole heir. Charles made some rather generous bequests to several of his employees before he died with the understanding that the distributions would be made after his death. He told all of them a month or so ago what he was doing, so there won't be any surprises."

It had been as I suspected. Charles had told the others. They weren't surprised when he died. I was. I knew Charles had his reasons for his behavior, and as always, I respected them and said nothing. The others had been there. I hadn't. They had to know. I didn't. I could find out when I returned. I just returned too late.

"I suggested this method to him so as to minimize taxes. And, there won't be any estate taxes to pay either, at least out of the estate. Charles had several old life insurance policies to take care of that.

"But, you get everything else, everything that is left. And, that's a lot of everything: The Hyde Out Inn, The Dill Pickle Deli, The Bottles & Cans, the two buildings, the co-operative apartment in The Powhatan, a decent amount of cash, etc. Charles was quite well-off, and he really loved you, Eddie."

"What about John-John? He should get this stuff."

"Charles told me that John-John had you and his job. As long as he had those two things, he wouldn't need anything else."

"Tish, now you have to make a will for me. Half goes to John-John. The other half gets split between my mom and dad in equal shares. OK?"

"OK, Eddie! I'll have it for your signature within the week. When you come in to sign it we'll talk about some tax planning."

"Good enough."

To say the least, I was flabbergasted with all of this. I now had more money than I ever dreamed of having. Having it all was a nice birthday present. I would rather have had Charles.

In the 1920s, Charles had been an accountant for a small downtown accounting firm, keeping the books for small businesses. That had been Charles' route to owning these businesses and properties. The owner of the apartment building in which The Speakeasy, now The Hyde Out Inn, had been located, was one of those clients. None of the rival gangs fighting over the turf had been successful enough to win the battle to keep The Speakeasy open. They were only successful in keeping the other guy from opening the place up. It stayed that way for the last year or two of Prohibition. That meant no rent for the owner.

In late 1932, with the end of Prohibition coming in the following year, frugal Charles, who had always saved his money, bought the building from the cash strapped owner, and left his straight-world job at the age of thirty-two. On April 7, 1933, the earliest day possible, Charles reopened The Speakeasy, now known as The Hyde Out Inn.

He had had all the paper work and licensing completed and, most importantly, he had the beer. A lot of places had trouble getting beer delivered that week, but not Charles. Even then, Charles knew everyone. Much of the beer that was delivered to everyone else was not of a very decent quality. New Year's Beer Eve, which was what the end of Prohibition was called in Chicago, arrived quickly after legalization, so the brewers didn't have enough preparation time. Most everyone else's beer was more _green_ than aged. Charles' beer was more aged than green.

However, Charles had always been Charles. Even though all of the beer was three-point-two percent beer, Charles was still able to get the best. That, plus, the many cases of illegal Canadian Whiskey left behind in an old walled-off room, apparently not searched by the old owner, gave Charles and The Hyde Out Inn a head start that never stopped. Charles could not, of course, legally sell whiskey until the Twenty-First Amendment repealed the Eighteenth. So, he didn't, even though he could have commanded a very good price. Charles was an honest man. He waited until the following December to make his killing, a killing large enough to buy another neighborhood building from a Depression-weary owner.

Many of those who knew the story couldn't believe Charles' luck. When pressed, Charles simply said, " _Luck_ is where preparation and opportunity meet. Most people experience the same blind luck. It is only the person who prepares himself to see that blind luck that can ever take advantage of it. I was prepared for the opportunity. I took advantage of it." He laughed. "Yet, sometimes I'd rather be lucky than good. A contradiction? Maybe! But, that's life."

I laughed at the memory. I was sure I would be having many more of them.

What Charles had left me, largely took care of itself. Charles had created a smooth running machine. I wasn't about to make many changes. Since Charles had taught me all about stub accounting and I had worked a lot with my Aunt Addie when I was a kid, I continued the small bookkeeping business for other neighborhood businesses that Charles used to supplement his liquor, and later food, income. Since many of these business owners were also patrons of The Hyde Out, as well as friends, Charles kept his rates low, below, but not well-below, normal charges. I continued his practices. Charles knew I would have to do without Robert, so he had already made the arrangements. July 22 had been his last day, though he did attend the funeral.

I did add one thing, however. Since so many of The Hyde Out's afternoon and early evening patrons were tradesman and laborers, I started a small _employment agency_ for them. Originally, my idea was just a simple freebie posting board. In not too long of a time, however, it grew into a nice small little business and began to take up too much of my time, so I had to start charging for the service. I did, however, keep Charles' low billing practices in this sideline as well. The employment agency barely paid for my efforts. But, it was great for the bar business. Because of it, my afternoon trade more than doubled. Both more tradesman and more employers became late afternoon regulars. Plus, I had at my convenience a lot of minds and bodies ready and able to help me with my buildings and vehicles at a more than reasonable fee, usually a day or two of drinking and eating on the house.

Charles left me two buildings. They were right next to each other and took up the entire half-block. Both were corner buildings, separated by an alley. The two buildings were both three-wide, four-storied buildings. Both of them had six two-bedroom apartments on each floor. That made eighteen apartments, sixteen actually, as Charles had commandeered two of them for offices and personal use, in what we referred to as the main building, or just _Main_ , and twenty-four in the other, which we referred to as _The Other One_ , since it didn't have any store fronts. The apartments were all almost always fully occupied. Charles was a master at matching the rents to the market and full occupancy. And luckily for me, he taught Helen, his business and real estate manager, everything he knew. Helen made his life easy. Now, I hoped she would stay with me and make my life easy. Without her, Charles would have had to work for a living. Now, I hoped she would stay with me and make my life easy. Without her, I would have had to work for a living.

A year later, I added on to what Charles had left me. The owner of the building just east of these two, across the street, on 55th and Everett Street, wanted out. This building was in most respects identical to our _main_ building, except there was much work to be done there, the result of deferred maintenance. My real estate venture became _The Third One_.

Charles always said there were two rules about owning rental property. "The first rule is to _never, ever_ , defer maintenance. To do so would always come back and bite you in the ass. The second rule is _never, ever_ shoot yourself in the foot." Then, he would laugh, and say, "I guess there is really only the one rule. To defer maintenance is not only going to get your ass bitten, it is the same as shooting yourself in the foot."

Charles had the same two-rule _rule_ about almost everything. There was the first rule. Then, there was the _shooting-yourself-in-the-foot_ rule. Then, there was the laugh and the _same-as-shooting-yourself-in-the-foot_ ending. When Charles started in to tell about his two-rule _rule_ , everyone knew what was coming, but they waited until Charles laughed. Then, they would join in with laughs of their own. This is just one of the reasons that I, John-John, and everybody else loved Charles as much as Charles loved life.

_The Third_ had storefronts the owner couldn't rent. He had many vacancies in his eighteen units, and bad tenants in the rest. He had previously tried to sell it to Charles, but by then, Charles was in his death mode and not about to venture further afield. He tried me a few times, but his asking price was much more than what he had offered it to Charles for. When he came to his senses and made me the same offer he had made to Charles, it was an offer I couldn't refuse. Forget the equity, he said, give him five-hundred dollars a month for two years, let him live in one on the apartments for the same two years while I paid him off, and the building would be mine.

I ran the numbers myself. I was satisfied. I ran the legal stuff past Tish. She was satisfied. I made the deal. That was two years ago. The old owner has been paid off for a couple of months now, and was now gone, someplace south I believe. The new building was generating a positive cash flow, small, but positive with an already established history of increasing growth. Those three empty storefronts became The Grocery Place, The Cleaning Place and The Books Place.

There were still mortgage payments to make on the newly purchased building. I also took out a small second to help with the remodeling expenses. That was almost paid off. There weren't any mortgages on the buildings I inherited from Charles. To my knowledge, Charles never had any of those payments. I would emulate him on this as well. I think Charles would have been proud of me.

Maybe, a similar buying situation would arise in the future. Charles never was a Boy Scout. But, he preached their motto: Always Be Prepared. I learned. I was. I had cash in the bank.

The funeral ended. Now, I was a businessman, even though I hadn't done a thing to earn it. It was about time I started. I returned to The Hyde Out Inn, The Dill Pickle Delicatessen, The Bottles and Cans Package Liquor Store. I was really worried about owning a bar. I was sure I would not, could not, be any good at it.

Even though my work day didn't begin until noon, after I had returned from the cemetery, that first day was a long one. Since The Hyde Out didn't close until four in the morning, and then there was an hour clean-up and set-up for the next day, it proved to be a seventeen-hour day. That was on top of the six hours I had been awake for the funeral. I had gotten up this morning at six. I was also suffering from jet-lag. I was going to be exhausted. I was already exhausted.

And, what about the next day? It started before seven since that was when The Hyde Out reopened each morning, except on Sundays, three hours after closing, and two hours after we left. And, that was only for The Hyde Out. There was still The Pickle and The Bottle. The Pickle opened at seven in the morning as well, seven days a week, so there was no Sunday respite there. The Bottle waited until eight, noon as Sundays, just like The Hyde Out. Chicago had a noon licensing law for Sundays.

It looked like I was going to stay exhausted. How did Charles do it?

The answer was only with the great people Charles had around him, people whom he had accumulated over the years. Suffice it to say, they were all still here today when I walked in. They had left the cemetery an hour or so before I did as I stayed behind to convene with Tish. They had opened up the businesses.

The main questions in my mind, however, were: "Would these people still be here tomorrow and the days after? Would they stay with me the way they had stayed with Charles? Would they be as loyal to me as they had been to Charles? Would the core people, the people to whom Charles had made those generous bequests, stay on or use those generous bequests to move on to greener pastures?"

I was a really good record keeper. I always knew where everything was: A place for everything, and everything in its place. I knew that even before I had met Charles, even though he had taught me much more, a lot of the tricks. I knew I wouldn't have any problem with the books. But, how was I to manage these people? I hadn't a clue. And to top it all off, I was worse than a lousy bartender. I never had a clue there either.

I still don't know how I made it through that fist day, irrespective of the long hours. My brain reeled from one business to another, from one situation to another. These situations weren't even problems, though at the time, that is the way I saw them. All they were, were the normal day-to-day situations a businessperson had to deal with if one was to survive as a businessperson.

I did, however, get some people assurances that day. There were three employees in particular that helped me through that day, and on into the future.

Helen Korman was really Charles' general manager, major-domo, super-duper factotum, BMOC, in her case, BWOC. Robert Skemes just thought he was because Charles had given him limited check-signing authority, a necessity of business, something Tish had immediately taken care of when she heard yesterday morning that Charles had died. Having Tish on my side was going to be important if I was to be successful with these businesses. It was Helen, however, who really ran the show. She handled all of the real estate, rentals, collections, etc.

Almost immediately after I returned from the funeral, Helen walked over to me. She had been with Charles for at least a dozen years. There had been rumors about her and Charles, but Helen was a happily married woman, and besides, Charles had told me he respected her to much to have his somewhat haphazard life interfere with her saner and structured one. "Besides", he said, "I'm a _queer_."

Helen was a small woman, both in height, about five-foot-two, and in weight, probably not much over one hundred pounds. Neither did she have a face that many men would glance at once, let alone twice. But, she was an absolute sweetheart.

Helen said, "Eddie, we all know about Charles' will. He told us all about it when he told us about what he was doing for us. He asked us all to stay on for the long term, at least until you learned all the ropes. You know we all loved Charles as much as you did. So, of course, we will do what Charles asked. But, you should also know that we all love you as well. You have been around here and around Charles for a long time. We watched you grow up. We watched Charles try to pass on his wisdom to you. I think he did a good job. Now, it's your turn to put it all into action. We'll help you."

At least for now, I guess my questions were answered. The people would stay and help me learn.

Even so, Charles had warned me about depending too much on your employees, great ones or otherwise. He told me, "You don't want most of your people around for too long. You will have to weed out the bad ones and the _not-so-good_ ones as soon as you can, particularly if they touch your money, or even come close to touching it. The first time or two, you might think you are being too harsh. Just remember, when you are thinking that you are being too harsh that the alternative is thinking next week or next month how you are going to get your money back. Actually, you'll be thinking you'll never get your money back.

"Those employees that are middle-of-the-road, getting along, never causing any real problems, are in themselves a problem waiting to happen. Eventually, they will come to feel they are underappreciated, or underpaid, or just plain resentful. Greed accompanies all of these feelings. As soon as you know you have such an employee, you must start calculating their exit plan. It might be a year. It might even be four or five years, but exit they must.

"There are a few of these types of employees to which this won't happen. They are satisfied with what they have and do a damned good job at it. You don't want to be mistaken and implement an exit plan for these people. These people love what they are doing. . You will have to look out for them as well. They deserve the best you have to offer. They are too happy to want change. Do your best not to give it to them. Avoid any real change except those that they might wish to initiate or that you know they really want. Always have a reason, a reason you can articulate.

"Neither do you have to worry about the real good employees. They will also leave you. They will leave as soon as a better opportunity presents itself and one will if they are really any good. You'll be sorry to see them go. You will have thought of them as friends as well as employees. First, if you really think of the person as a friend, you should be glad to see them go someplace more suitable to them. It will surely be better for them. You don't want to! You can't keep a good man or woman down. Let them go with your blessings. You'll have to fight a long time to get an equal replacement. Maybe, you never will. But, you'll still be better off because they are better off.

"Never offer anyone more money to stay. If you make a higher money offer at that time to get the person to stay, that will mean to both of you that you had been underpaying them. If it takes the threat of quitting to bring the issue to the table, let the person quit. If the person stays, someday that person will, for whatever reason floats his boat at the time, become a bad employee. Don't let that happen.

"Sometimes, the person is worth more than the job. That creates a dilemma. One can't, one shouldn't, pay more than the job is worth. If you find yourself in such a situation, do your best to get that person into a job more equal to his or her value.

"Always pay your people full value. Make whatever accommodations you can and that are possible, but never pay more than the job is worth. Make life as easy as you can for your employees. Little of what it takes to run a business is written in stone. Always give your employees what you can. Keep them happy. Yes, they will try to take advantage of you. But, remember, one can't run a business without them.

"Remember too, the person who you think is your friend probably isn't. On the job, for the time the person has worked for you, it might have seemed to both of you that you have become friends. However, what has really happened is that the two of you have become _friends-of-a-sort_ , the sort of friendship that continues only as long as the present working relationship continues. After that relationship ceases, the _friendship-of-a-sort_ will cease as well. You'll probably never see that person again, unless they live in the neighborhood and you see them on the streets or they possibly come in for a beer or a sandwich. Take my word for it. I have been there too many times in the past. You won't see them again. You might not really believe me now, but you will as soon as it begins to happen to you.

"There is, however, one very important proviso to all of this. Each and every one of your employees will form some kind of a relationship with each and every other one of your other employees. Worse still, they will form cliques. All of these relationships and cliques will be for the benefit of the participants in them. Hence, their purposes will seldom be the same of yours, or even productive of yours. More often than not, they will be extremely counterproductive. Still worse, there is really not anything you can do about their creation, and only a little you can do to influence them. The more you try to influence these cliques, the more you will alienate your employees and be resented by them. I call this a _staff infection_. The larger the staff, the more virulent the infection will be. In that respect, we are lucky here at The Hyde Out. Our staff isn't that large. Federal government bureaucracies are the worst of course, followed by state and city and large corporations. Keep it small, kid. Keep it small and keep it under control, or at least the most control that can be expected.

"None of this should ever surprise an employer as the self-interests of employees should be different than yours. They are employees. You are not. Your employees' self-interest is _theirs._ Your self-interest is, by definition, _yours_

"I was thirty-three years old when I opened The Hyde Out. Before that, I worked about ten or so years for the same accounting firm. They treated me great. They paid me well. I resigned from the firm as soon as I could. Why? Every workday morning when I awoke, I had to prepare myself for what somebody else wanted me to do, never what I wanted to do. It was a strain. I also believed it to be a wrong way to live my life. Maybe, others could do it, happily or otherwise. I knew I couldn't do it at all. So when the opportunities presented by the end of Prohibition arose, I jumped at the chance to be able to wake up every morning and do what I wanted to do.

"Make no mistake. It ain't easy to make that kind of a decision. But, make it I did. I have never regretted it. Of course, I was immediately successful. No more Prohibition did that for me. So maybe, you can say I was lucky. I believe it was my being able to see an opportunity in front of me.

"Even with all that, I have always dreamed of having a business with no employees. Having one with neither employees nor customers would be even better.

"Forewarning you is really all I can do. This stuff ain't easy. Learn it and learn it well. The rest is up to you."

Helen stayed with me for three more years, until her husband's, also named Charles, failing health needed her at home to help care for him and his business. When she left, just a few months ago, I remembered Charles' words. I wondered if I would ever see or hear from her again. So far, I haven't.

Later that afternoon, there was a lull in traffic, both in the bar and in The Pickle. English Dave was the daytime bartender, noon to eight, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays and Saturdays, he was head bartender during our busiest time: eight at night to four in the morning, five on Saturdays. He was the best bartender I had ever seen, and I have seen more than one or two in my short life.

As his moniker implied, Davey was from England, Liverpool to be exact. He had come to the States on a tourist visa when he was twenty-one and had stayed on as an illegal for about ten years when Charles helped him straighten the mess out and get his green card. That was about three years ago, when I was in Germany. To save those of you who don't do the math quickly, Davey is about thirty-four, not quite ten years my senior.

Physically, Davey is the male equivalent of Helen, on the short side, about five-foot-seven, and slender, even more so than I am, about one-thirty-five. Davey doesn't have a beard, but he really doesn't shave either. He always looks like he has _fifteen_ o'clock shadow. And, his _fifteen_ o'clock shadow is the only dark thing about him. Davey is _wh_ ite. You would be white as well if you spent most of your daylight hours inside behind a bar. Davey's voice, however, has some power, which with his still clearly English accent, gives him the authority of a greater size. He is also a very funny and intelligent man, uneducated in the formal sense, but a very intelligent man. And, the women loved him.

During that lull, Davey and I each had a deli sandwich and a glass of iced cream soda. Neither of us, or any other employees, drank while on the job until the last two hours of our shifts. Just being in the bar business could, and did, lead some to disastrous consequences. Drinking on the job would make an already dangerous job even more dangerous. Charles had been a successful exception. He drank slowly and continuously, but he never showed the effects of it.

Davey said to me, "Eddie, we both know we started out on the wrong foot five years ago. For some reason, I didn't like you, and for some reason, maybe the same one, you didn't like me. But, that was the past. Over time, I think we got over all that stuff, didn't we?"

I agreed. "I don't really know what it was either, but, yes, it's all gone."

"Good," Davey said, "because, now 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 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. Trust me, I know. I know all the ways. I'm good at it. I never did it to Charles, but I know how. 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. I'll teach you how to watch. I didn't steal from Charles. A drink or two, maybe, 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."

The third employee to come to me was John-John.

John-John said, "I am very sad, Eddie G., I am very sad. Charles is gone, Eddie G. Charles is gone. I know you are very sad, too, Edie G. I know you are very sad, too. But, we have to go on, Eddie G. We have to go on. That's what Charles said to me just a few days ago, Eddie G. That's what Charles said to me just a few days ago. So, you and me, Eddie G. You and me, we have to go on. We will go on together, Eddie G. We will go on together."

I should have known that that was what John-John would say to me.

"See you later, Eddie G. See you later."

"Sure, John-John. See ya'."

So, all in all, I guess I made a lot of headway that first day. I went upstairs to sleep for a while. I stripped down and threw the _shitty-smoking-smelling_ clothes in the hamper and myself across the bed.

When I awoke, it was dark. It gets dark quite late, about eight-thirty at night in Chicago's mid-summer, so I knew I had slept for at least a few hours. I had better get back to The Hyde Out.

When I did, I discovered I had slept for more than a few hours. It was already Saturday, after midnight, to be exact. I had slept about six hours. The airplane trip from Europe, Charles' death and funeral, the hecticness of those first two days here in The Hyde Out, had exhausted me more than I had thought it did.

The place was jumping as it usually was on Friday and Saturday nights. The Hyde Out had one of only two four o'clock licenses, five on Saturday, in the neighborhood. Our closest early morning competitor was over a mile away. Plus, since we were around the corner from Cornell Park, we had lottsa parking. The park and the lakeshore provided a lot of extra nighttime parking. It might be dangerous for the patrons and friends leaving the bar to be driving, but the availability of the parking drew in the people.

The jazz bands drew in the crowds as well. Charles had long ago established The Hyde Out as a late night, weekend jazz venue. Charles had known everybody, including the Negro jazz musicians who proliferated in Chicago's South Side.

These great music-makers had played in The Hyde Out since Charles bought it thirty years ago. During the early years of the Depression, after Prohibition had ended, there just wasn't any work. Gigs were largely confined to the fancy downtown clubs, so there were a lot of excellent players who had no place to go. Charles let them jam at The Hyde Out. It grew into a tradition. The boys and girls who didn't have a gig that night showed up around ten o'clock and started to jam.

For the rest of the evening, players moved in and out, particularly after two in the morning, when most of the other spots closed, as per their City of Chicago Liquor License. The musicians and singers played largely for free. Charles provided them with drinks and deli sandwiches, which in their case were quite a few. They seemed to save up their appetites for these Friday and Saturday nights and mornings. So, they didn't play totally for free, just largely. The crowds they drew, and the money those crowds spent, more than made up for that relatively small outlay. The people drawn in by the music made a lot more money for Charles than the food and drink the musicians consumed.
9

Another Birthday

### July 23, 1968

### Tuesday

I had, I have, an extreme tendency to drink too much good beer. Hell, I have an extreme tendency to drink even too much bad beer if there isn't any good beer available. Beer is my Syphisus boulder.

It was because of my extreme tendency to drink too much good beer that I spent too much time at The Hyde Out. We served good beer. That's the only good reason. Besides the general malaise one can experience too much of hanging out in a dive bar, there is too much smoke, something that will just not go away.

We had Bitburger Pils on tap, in my judgment the best beer in the world. There is the _good_ , the _better_ than the good, and the _best_ of the better. And then, there's the _too-oo good_. _Too-oo good_ is better than the best _, Too-oo_ is pronounced with two syllables. And, Bitburger Pils is _too-oo good_.

I love German pilsner. I know many others who don't particularly like the bitterness in these beers that I relish, and prefer other types of beer. So, of course, in addition to Bitburger, The Hyde Out has several more European imported beers on tap other than Bitburger: German St. Pauli Girl, Polish Okocim and Zywiec, Czech Pilsner Urquell, and several Belgian ales for those not inclined to the German pilsner. For other tastes, we also have many others in bottles. They are more expensive than domestics, both wholesale and retail, but Charles had always cut the prices for his, now my, regulars. He would rather have had a good clientele drinking good beer than a bunch of rummies drinking swill. The money wasn't quite as good, but almost. By now, I knew all about the price elasticity of demand. And one of the things that Charles taught me was that while one needed a certain amount of money to live well, one didn't need to live much more than well if doing so meant compromising one's core values.

Tonight, however, I had to be here at The Hyde Out. It would be expected of me. It had already proved to be a long day as birthdays tended to be. Even though I had snuck out early for a long nap, I was still tired and knew that the day would be even longer. I made it back to The Hyde Out before eight for another deli sandwich and a Bitburger Pils. _Bit in Abend, Fit in Morgan_. In English, Drink Bitburger in the evening, no hangover in the morning. It had been true, at least in my case. But, Charles had always told me it wasn't because of the good beer I drank. It was because I was still so young.

The Hyde Out was fairly busy now on Tuesday nights. Maybe, more so tonight since some of the regulars came in for my birthday, some to see me, others because they knew I would be good for a round or two tonight. We had a new bartender. Her name was Jordan. Jordan was a recent Vietnam War vet. She was one of the lucky Vietnam vets who had never seen combat during her tour. Coincidentally, she had also been a military librarian.

She had learned to tend bar at the Officer's Club in Saigon. She had also earned her undergraduate degree from University College, an overseas arrangement the military had made long ago with the University of Maryland. Coincidentally, I had taught several courses for Maryland when I was in Germany. It's a small world.

Jordan was known to The Hyde Out regulars as _Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes_ , a name she hung on herself by saying, and not under her breath, "Goody Two Shoes" whenever a customer left after only one or two drinks, or left what she believed was too small of a tip. English Dave had been the one to teach her the latter part. Jordan was, of course, a _new-to-be-law-student_ in the fall.

Even though she was only average looking, at least I thought that, she was starting to grow on me. She did have a long mane of honey-brunette hair worn as it fell onto her shoulders. What do I know about women's hair or makeup, of which I was sure she wore none? Though I was pretty sure the _honey_ of the honey-brunette was natural, at least, I thought it was. She was smart, witty and laughed a lot. However, in an odd way, she was also shy, a seeming contradiction I wanted to understand, but never did. She had big shoulders developed, I had learned, from having been a competitive swimmer during her childhood and adolescence. Neither did she stand up straight as she should have. She had a noticeable shoulder stoop, the type some girls who develop breasts early use to try to hide them. I would have to work very hard indeed to remember Charles' warning about company ink. I probably wouldn't have a chance anyway. Hell, she was a _lookee-at_ by the regulars. Drinkers came in because it was _her_ night. They came to see her. Everybody in the place had been hitting on her since she first came in the door. Jordan had developed a whole new corps of Tuesday night regulars.

Charles 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. Most of the time, I listened to what Charles told me. This time, I surely did. It's why I spent so much time in Old Town and the Near North.

Charles also advised me on women and marriage, _many and frequently_ for the former, and _don't_ for the latter. Charles was openly gay, not flauntingly so, quietly actually, but openly. He had never been married, never needed to. Yet, he was somewhat of a lady's man. They all chased him. They said it was because he was the typical tall, dark and handsome movie star looking type. Charles said it was because they wanted the challenge of shaking him out of his _queerdom_. I think Charles had the correct perspective on the matter.

While Charles believed the more women the better, he, of course, didn't mean it for himself. He meant it for someone else, me in particular. Being a rabid proponent of the fewer people the better touching his money, one who had property rights beyond those of even a business partner, which a wife would have, was just not acceptable. How could one justify turning the key to the vault over to another without the proper legal protection. Charles wasn't against marrying for money, just so long as it wasn't _his_ money; or now, mine. I found it impossible to disagree.

Jordan had been with us here at The Hyde Out for several months now. She was living proof of something English Dave had told me three years ago, when I first took over the bar. David told me, "Eddie, most people think a bartender can only make money on Friday or Saturday nights. Bullshit! It doesn't make a difference what night of the week it is. A bartender makes his own night."

In this case, a bartender makes _her_ own night. Since Jordan had been behind the bar on Tuesday nights, the bar ring had more than doubled. The ring still hasn't reached what it had been before Davey quit Tuesday nights, but Jordan was bringing it closer every week. Jordan had made her own night.

Then, I had another Bit, then a third and a fourth, and a sixth. I always skipped the fifth since I never drink the hard stuff.

After several more too many, Davey, who now worked only Friday and Saturday nights, but who had come over for my birthday, said, "Time for bed, Professor Ed?" Because of my academic bent and that I had taught a few classes at the University, I had become _Professor Ed_ to David. It was as much as an honor as Tribune's _Special Ed_.

Davey could be a bit a mother hen, particularly where I was concerned. It was both well meant and appreciated.

I said, "Good night!" and Davey led me up the back stairs to bed. I agreed with him that I would never make it to The Powhatan.
10

Charles' Stuff

### July 24 - 26, 1965

### A Weekend

Last night, early morning actually, made for a long day, so I slept in, in my old apartment, until almost noon. I was out of it, still in bed, when my eyes first prepared themselves to see the day's daylight. That meant a shower was in order, not just to get clean and wash the _shitty-smoking-smell_ out of my hair, even having short military hair didn't help keep the stink out, though it is easier to wash, but to have a heavy stream of hot water wash the fairy dust out of my eyes. There's nothing like a brisk shower for waking one's self up. I learned that eight years ago, right here in this apartment as we never had a shower in my parents' home. I learned it even better in the Air Force. I performed the three S's, though in my case, it was usually only two. I still didn't need to shave more than two or three times a week. Even though I was twenty-five years old, I still had a hard time justifying shaving more often than every third or fourth day. It was seldom necessary that I do so. Today was not to be one of those days.

Even though it was almost lunch time, I needed breakfast. I went downstairs to The Pickle for a bagel _with_ and Charles' Blend. I carried my breakfast into The Hyde Out and saw that Evil was already behind the bar. I don't know how she made it in at seven in the morning after closing and cleaning just two hours before that. But, she did, assuming she did. How the hell was I supposed to know what time she opened the bar? I know what Charles would have said. "Be there at six-forty-five. Then, you'll know." I knew he was correct. I would have to do what needed to be done.

We didn't have time clocks. Charles would never stand for them. Neither would I. There has to be a certain amount of basic trust between an employer and an employee. Time clocks would be a violation of that basic trust. Further, they were an item that could potentially save me diddily. If someone was a screw-up, someone was a screw-up. A time clock wouldn't change that. I'd have to learn how to handle this kind of stuff if I was to be successful at running the businesses Charles had left me.

There was a lot of activity. Saturday morning brought in a lot of people in to The Pickle for a bagel _with_ along with regular American coffee. There were a few people at the bar with a different kind of waker-upper. That crowd wasn't thinning out, however. Those who were leaving were more than being replaced by the early afternoon baseball crowd, who were already coming in even though it wasn't yet noon. The Hyde Out was a _Sports Bar_ , particularly on Saturdays and Sundays. It had its early afternoon baseball crowd in front of its three televisions: One for the White Sox, one for the Cubs, and one for The Game of the Week. There would be sound on only one, decided by majority vote at the bar. The Sox always won that one.

The televisions were for _Sports_ only, once in a while the news or the weather, never any TV shows or movies. This was Charles' Rule. It was ignored on only very rare occasions. Almost five years ago now, history forced an exception on us. Our President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, had been assassinated, and besides everybody, everywhere wanting to watch, there was nothing else on television except that for about a week.

There is seldom any flack about Charles' Rule. When there is, it comes from newbies. In those instances, the bartender's enforcement of Charles' Rule is always supported by the regulars who are used to it. So, there is never any real uproar. For the past year, however, _Jeopardy_ had been allowed. That was a big exception, the only exception in memory except for JFK. I think, I know, I will stick with this rule. However, we'll still allow _Jeopardy_ to be the exception. My ma watches it, and wows everybody at the bar with her encyclopedic knowledge of trivia.

Evil was English Dave's wife. Evil wasn't evil, she was Evelyn. The English pronounced it _E-vel-In_. Davey was English. Hence, his wife was Evel. None of the rest of us was English, so we didn't know this stuff. To us, _Evel_ sounded like _Evil_ , so that's what she was to us, _Evil_. She was half-Cuban, but native born in Wisconsin. She was a bit on the plump side, but hell, she was pushing forty-five. Evil was far from beautiful in the classic sense, but in every other sense, Evil was an exquisite looking woman. Besides loving English Dave, she was one of the nicest people I ever had known. And, she was every bit as much a blessing as is John-John, every bit as dependable, as honest and as loyal as was John-John, though she was a lot smarter. She was a lot smarter than most folks, not just John-John.

There wasn't any Charles' Blend left. I had a lot of work ahead of me this weekend, sorting out stuff at Charles' apartment, so rather than wait for a new pot to brew, I skipped it and substituted a large glass of fresh squeezed orange juice along with my bagel _with_. There was probably some Charles' Blend at Charles' apartment. I could make some there. I would take some heavy cream with me just in case.

I found a copy of the Tribune's Sport Section and saw that the Cubs had lost another one yesterday. This time at home to the Pittsburgh Pirates. Ellsworth, who had already won eleven, suffered his sixth loss, 6-0, dropping the Cubs eight games below .500. Normal.

I was sitting alone when John-John saw me and walked over. "Piffles, Eddie G. Piffles!" John-John never swore unless one counted 'Piffles' and 'Pooh.'

"Nicely said, John-John. 'Piffles!'"

I left The Hyde Out and John-John and walked the not-quite-a-mile to Charles' apartment. Charles had one of the smaller apartments, twenty-eight-hundred square feet, in The Powhatan, a luxury high-rise on the South Shore Lakefront. There were only twenty-eight apartments in the twenty-two story building. Charles' apartment was on the nineteenth floor and had a panoramic view of the lake, the lakefront and downtown. The Powhatan was a co-operative. It was built in 1928 before the condominium scheme of ownership was developed. Since I was his sole heir, I would inherit the shares he owned in The Powhatan and, thus, the apartment. This amazing apartment would be mine now. As I stood there looking at this fantastic view, I was struck by disbelief. This was mine? This was mine! I still would have rather had the two-room studio and Charles than this without him.

Charles had been an extremely clean man and an immaculate dresser. He had always taken great care with his appearance and personal hygiene. His vehicles, The Hyde Out, The Pickle and The Bottle and Can were also always immaculate. The same held true for his apartment. Its present state, however, was another matter.

I had first seen Charles' apartment just a few weeks after I had first met him. Even if Charles hadn't been a bachelor, the apartment was immaculate. I was really surprised. I was still learning to live on my own and had not yet learned to pick up after myself, or to take out the garbage on a daily basis. My mother had always done those things. Living alone, as I now was, I would soon learn that if these things were to be done, there would not be anyone other than me to do it. I later found out that there was another alternative, and that Charles had chosen it. He had a cleaning lady, one of the employees from the apartments. That was the alternative I would now use as well.

Now, however, the apartment's state was another matter. One couldn't call the apartment dirty. It wasn't. It was just cluttered. Food takeout boxes, particularly Rocco's Pizza, weren't exactly all over the place, but they were there. I wasn't surprised to see books all over the place. Charles had been a veracious reader. But, they had always previously been reshelved after use. Not now!

The foyer, the living room, family room and dining room, his bedroom, his office were also cluttered with newspapers. That seemed so out of character for him.

Charles had read more newspapers every day than I knew had existed. Those that he had read at The Hyde Out he had John-John take down to the basement where he stored them. The same held true of the newspapers he left in his apartment. On each daily visit, the maid brought them to The Hyde Out for storage in the basement.

Charles cared about what he cared about, but he never cared about what he didn't care about. He cared about his old newspapers.

The kitchen, as well as the two normally used bathrooms, was also in disarray, in the same messy condition. I should have had the maid over yesterday to start a cleanup, but I wanted to check things out first.

There was, however, a container of Charles' Blend. I had to clean the coffee pot, but that was a small price to pay.

Only the spare bedroom and the small bathroom next to it were in their normal well kept condition. But, that was only because they were hardly ever used. The extra bedroom was really a storage area for Charles' stash of Hennessy Cognac VS. Later, when I finally got around to taking an inventory, I counted four-hundred and thirteen cases of the stuff. Its market value was over fifty-thousand dollars. Being Charles' sole heir was like being in a rainstorm of _largess_.

Charles kept two cleaning ladies for the rental apartments. Their twice weekly, once-over-quickly-in-ten-minutes-or-less, services were included in the rent. They just picked up any left-over takeout food containers, emptied the garbage, washed a few dishes, and gave a general look-see to see if there were any problems she ought to report to Charles. Charles didn't want any insect or vermin problems, so he headed the issue off at the pass before it could arrive.

Maria, the longest tenured of them, performed the same tasks for Charles, except she came to Charles' almost daily. She'd pick up the garbage and generally straighten the place up; including, as I said, getting the newspapers back to The Hyde Out. The kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and laundry, she attended to weekly. She would do the same for any of the other tenants who requested the service, but for a charge. A few did. Most didn't.

It was apparent from what I saw now, however, that she hadn't been here for a few weeks. I assumed Charles told her to leave him alone and let him die in peace. That would be like the Charles I knew and loved.

I didn't quite know where to begin except somewhere near the beginning. I had had problems such as this before. Even though it had been seventeen years after the war's end when I first arrived in Germany, much of Europe and its books, papers and other documents were still in a mess. There was only one way to handle that, and only one way to handle this. Select somewhere, arbitrarily if necessary. Declare it to be the beginning. Start there and work outwards.

So, that is what I did. I started in the large foyer. Since there would be little remaining in the space after cleaning, I just separated all the papers from the newspapers, stacked the newspapers into a pile, and put the food containers in one of the large boxes I had one of the building's janitors bring up to the hallway. That room was an easy one.

The living, family and dining rooms weren't quite so easy. They were all huge rooms. There was only one thing to do. That was to get started. I got started.

I took care of the meal detritus first. I got another big box, and got to work. That was an easy job. Just pick the stuff up and dump it in the box. A half-hour later, the box was full, pulled out to the foyer for pick-up. Now, I could begin to make order out of the important disorder.

I picked up the books and newspapers. The books, I randomly stacked on one of the book shelves. I glanced at the books as I did so. As I knew they would, since I had seen what Charles had read for several years now, the books ranged from Aristotle to Zola; and from Asimov, to Chandler, to Stout. The newspapers, I just piled up. I separated the rest of the stuff I thought important from the remaining junk to be thrown away. The stuff I thought important I took to Charles' office. I figured that it would be better to sort through what might be important papers all at once in one room rather than piecemeal, room by room. The newspapers I left stacked where they were. I put the remaining food containers in one of the large boxes.

That made the next rooms to investigate an easier choice. I attacked the kitchen and butler's pantry first. The butler's pantry was easy: No papers and little food. The kitchen was a little more work, more left-over food and another big box of garbage and, a few old newspapers, but little in the way of important looking papers.

Since I had gotten such a late start, it was after four before I finished these four rooms. Being it was Saturday and the building staff would probably be downsizing for the weekend around five o'clock, I called downstairs for a janitor to come get the garbage boxes and newspapers removed. It wouldn't have mattered if it had been after five, the staff of this luxury, service-oriented building would have come anyway. I was just following another of Charles' rules. Whenever possible, always give consideration to everyone, particularly those who give you service.

While I was waiting for someone to come up, I thought of the old newspapers. I remembered that Charles had saved old newspapers down in his basement. He cared about his old newspapers. So, I would as well. Rather than discard them, I brought them back into the apartment. I would ask John-John to come over tomorrow with the pickup and help me take them back to The Hyde Out basement. Charles would want it that way.

A janitor came. He removed the garbage.

I went into the family room. I sat down to contemplate what I had been contemplating all while I was doing my mundane tasks. It was one of the reasons that doing those kinds of jobs didn't bother me. It gave me time to think about important things while I was doing the unimportant; if not unimportant, at least mindless. This beautiful room had a complete wall of floor to ceiling windows. It faced east, so it got a lot of the early morning sun. Since it was now late afternoon, the sun was west, so there wasn't any sun shining in. It was quite comfortable without the air-conditioning. With many open windows and a lake breeze, this apartment seldom required air-conditioning.

Charles had been a very busy man, as I knew I would now be. After a few weeks, this shit can really pile up, and pile up it did. I would have to depend on Maria as had Charles.

There was only Charles' bedroom left before the hard part came and I had to tackle Charles' office. But, I was exhausted. I would have been exhausted even if the Cubs had won. I didn't need to be reminded again about the unreality of my fandom. I already knew it didn't make sense. But, I was a fan anyway. Maybe, someday I would grow up and give it up. Somehow, I doubted it would ever happen.

I had had the radio on, listening to the Cubs' game. The game was over. The Cubs were over. They had lost another one, eight-five.

By then, it was pushing six. I had to eat. I had earlier called Rocco's for delivery of an extra large and fries. It came. I ate.

Then, I lay down of the couch and passed out into a dead sleep.

Like last night, when I awoke, it was dark. Again, I discovered I had slept for more than a few hours. It was after midnight. Again, I had slept about six hours.

This time, I didn't get up. I didn't go to The Hyde Out. I stayed where I was and waited for dawn. Facing east as we were, it would probably be earlier than I wanted it to be, but I was too tired to move.

So, Sunday was an early morning. It wasn't even four in the morning when I was already waking up. It would be three more hours before The Pickle would be opening. Hell, the bar would still be open for another hour. So, I figured I'd get some work done.

Except for sorting through the papers, I finished the _once-over-easy_ cleaning and sorting. I got another large box and removed the leftover takeout stuff out of the rest of the rooms, Charles' bedroom and office. There were a lot of books to stack away in these rooms, so I did that as well. The same went for newspapers and other papers. I separated them, stacked the newspapers in the hallway and put all the papers into Charles', now mine, I guess, office. I took the large box of garbage into the foyer.

All that was left were the two bathrooms. There wasn't much in the way of papers, books or newspapers in either of them. . I guess Charles wasn't a _read-while-shitting_ type of guy. I was. I never could just sit there without a book or other readable material. I took after my dad, I guess. He always had a stack of _Popular Science_ or _Science and Mechanics_ in that most private of rooms. The guest bathroom was empty of almost everything. Charles wasn't having guests near his end. Since I would be having Maria in tomorrow to finish the real cleaning, I left these two rooms for her.

It was after six before I finished. The sun had been up for about half an hour. The sun comes up early in Chicago at this time of the year. Chicago is located on the far eastern side of the central Time Zone, and Hyde Park is directly on the shore of Lake Michigan. St. Joseph, Michigan is on the other side of the Lake and on the far western side of the Eastern Time Zone. Even though the sun rises at exactly the same time, give or take a few minutes for the fifty-five miles of _nothing_ across the lake to help block the ea1rly morning sun. On the clock, it rises about one hour earlier in Chicago, six in the morning instead of seven, as it does on Lake Michigan's eastern shore. Even though all of the bedrooms in my apartment face west, and have heavily shaded windows, the sun still seems to sneak in. That might be a problem to most people, but to someone who runs a late hour bar, it's a real pain in the ass... and the eyes.

One day in the near future, I'm going to have to get a Rouladen for my bedroom window, not German roast beef, but a German blackout shutter.

I took a hot shower, got dressed, let the doorman know there was another box of garbage to be removed from my hallway, and walked over to The Pickle. It had just opened, six-forty-nine to be exact. The Pickle always opens as soon as it can on Sunday mornings. It is the destination of choice for many of the _after-six-AM-Mass_ crowd. I went in for my freshly brewed Charles' Blend. This morning, there was enough Charles' Blend to go with my bagel _with_. On Sunday mornings, the cooks always made extra everything. There was always enough of everything. On Sunday mornings, these people really were busier than one-armed paperhangers.

The Hyde Out itself wouldn't open until noon. Chicago has a _no-bar-opening-before-noon-on-Sunday_ law. No one really cared after a five in the morning closing. Most of them were still sleeping it off. Charles hadn't really cared either, but it always bothered him that the religious zealots dictated his business hours, especially so as Charles was a Jew and nobody cared if his business was open on his Sabbath, which, being an atheist, he didn't honor anyway. I agreed with Charles, although I really didn't care either.

I didn't bother with the paper this morning, even though the Sunday Tribune was a happening worth waiting the week for. I would wait a little longer, until I got back from more of becoming familiar with Charles' papers. I had a lot of new stuff to think through. I was due to start law school in another month, and I had to get Charles' stuff straightened away, both business and personal. Tish was executor of the estate, but I still had a lot to do. There was the mess of papers back in the apartment as well as the stuff in the office upstairs.

Again, John-John saw me and walked over. "Piffles, Eddie G. Piffles!" He would walk around like that, saying "Piffles, Eddie G. Piffles!" for quite a while. I guess it was his way of commiserating with me and his getting over Charles having died.

I asked John-John if he would be available later that afternoon to help me with the newspapers Charles had left behind in his apartment.

John-John said, "Of course, Eddie G. Of course!" I said "See ya!" and left The Pickle and John-John, and walked upstairs to Charles' office, the one he shared with Helen.

Charles kept most of the business papers and records, financial and otherwise, in his office up on the second floor. Since it was Sunday, Helen wasn't in, even though she asked me if I wanted her there. I told her "No, it's your day off. Use it for your personal things. Spend the day relaxing with your family." As had I, Helen had been through a lot. She needed her weekend free for her own personal doings.

I also said "No!" because I needed to look at this stuff myself. I didn't need my first impressions disturbed by the impressions of others. That was another thing I had learned from Charles. If people start telling you what you're looking at before you look at it, there's always the chance that what you'll see is what you've been told you'll see. Better to wait for others until one has had the time for one's self.

It was almost noon by the time I got hungry again, but thus far, I had accomplished a lot. I was beginning to get a handle on what Charles did and how he was doing it. I took notes about the things I didn't understand or needed to know more about. Those answers could wait until I saw Helen on the normal working day. She could also, at that time, correct any erroneous first impressions.

I went downstairs for a deli sandwich. I saw John-John then, and he asked about the newspapers. I said "Can you spare the time now? If you can, I'll wait until we get back to eat."

John-John said "Now is good, Eddie G. Now is good."

So, _now_ it was.

We took the old pickup. It was the same one that I helped Charles unload eight years ago. The pickup was only one of the three vehicles Charles had owned. The other two, one much newer, but both much more expensive, were for driving, not working. We drove around the back of The Powhatan to the freight elevator and parked. One of the maintenance men saw us as we entered the building. He asked why we were in the back. After I told him what we were about, he volunteered to help. Charles had always been a good tipper. I was sure he was hoping I would follow in Charles' footsteps.

Charles had a philosophy about tipping. It was a simple philosophy. "Always tip more than is expected. These people, whose income depends on tips, will remember you all the more and give you whatever extra service they can. I have enough to spare, so I spare it, but _not sparingly_." Then, Charles always chuckled at his little joke. "Yes," he went on, "it is sort of a _bought_ respect that you'll receive from them. But, the extra money is surely good for them, and the extra respect is surely good for you."

The three of us rode up to the apartment. We made the entire load all in one trip. The elevator was full of newspapers and us. We loaded the truck and John-John and I drove back to The Hyde Out. The maintenance man helper had been duly rewarded. I'm sure the rest of the staff will hear from him and the janitor and doorman who helped me yesterday that at least in the tipping arena, Charles had been sufficiently replaced.

Of course, I helped John-John unload the truck and take the newspapers down into the basement where Charles had all his other newspapers stored. I glanced at a few when we were down there. Some of them were older than I was, much older. Some of them, I didn't even recognize the names. Charles had a real library down here. I wondered if any of them were worth anything. Not money. Charles had left me enough of that. But, would they be worth anything to a library? I would have to check that out with my friend Geri at the University Library. Even if she, herself, didn't have an answer, she would find out.

John-John and I went back upstairs to The Pickle for our lunch. Then, I went back upstairs to the paperwork.

It was only five-thirty in the afternoon when I finished. I had a lot of notes and questions for Helen, but I guess I was becoming more efficient. I had been listening to the Cubs game all afternoon. They had lost another to the Pirates, this time three-two in thirteen innings. But, there was still hope for the day. The second game of the double header was about to begin. Ernie had just said, "Let's play two."

But, who the fuck was Bill Faul, the nobody who was announced as the Cubs' second game starting pitcher?

No beer again today. Plus, I wanted to avoid The Hyde Out and the inevitable "Hello!'s" and "Sorry!'s.

So, I want to Rocco's, said "Hello" to Rocco Sr., and asked him to allow me some alone time. He understood. He left me alone. I had a medium pizza, sausage with double cheese and double onion, along with a side of fries. Rocco's pizza was the best in the world. His French fries were only the best in the neighborhood, but that was damned good. We didn't make them at The Pickle. I drank root beer.

Because Rocco's had separate dining rooms and slow business on Sunday evenings, I was able to sit in an empty room. An empty room meant _No Fucking Smoke_! I had made it through a whole day relatively smoke free. The only stink on my clothes had been provided by me.

I had a couple of slices left. I took them with me and went home to bed. For the time being, _home_ was my old apartment above The Hyde Out. I would move to The Powhatan apartment soon enough.

It had been a long day. I had worked hard now two days in a row, I was tired, but I had accomplished much. I was beginning to get a handle on this business stuff. But, I had to get on some kind of schedule. I was used to having one and starting at five-thirty in the morning, not ending then. As young as I was, this thing was killing me. I thought I would try six-thirty in the morning. That should give me enough time to get downstairs at six-forty-five to see how my new employees opened The Hyde Out and The Pickle. The Bottles and Cans didn't open until eight. I had a lot to learn. Tomorrow morning would be my first test, at both getting up and following a schedule, as well as discovering whether or not I could learn how to handle these new business responsibilities.

I fell asleep in the tub, little of that Sunday Trib getting read. I awoke in cold water, never looked at the clock, never even dried off. I'll get dry sooner or later anyway, and even though I was still soaking wet, I got into bed.

I slept a long good one that night. It was to be the first night I talked to Charles after he died. I guess I wasn't as exhausted tonight as I had been the previous three nights. It was a brief conversation, but somehow, our having it didn't surprise me. I asked Charles if he thought I'd be OK with this inheritance. I asked him if he thought I'd be up to it.

Charles told me "Kid, if I had any doubts I wouldn't have done it. I'd have just left you a wad of cash to go off on your own. However, I knew you'd be up to it. You've already proven that with the way you handled things in the last few days. Just keep up the good work!"

With that, Charles was gone and I was deep asleep.

The real world re-entered my brain at six-thirty in the morning. Again, it took a bracing hot shower to wake me up. I went downstairs for my Charles' Blend. I also had and a bagel _with_. I read the Tribune's sport section as I watched the guys and gals open up the deli. The nobody starting pitcher has pitched a 5-0 three hit complete game shutout. Will wonders never cease?

It was time for me to make my plans for the day. I had already spent too much time at Charles' apartment, even though that had been necessary. If I didn't understand everything that was happening behind the scenes, I would never understand anything that was happening on the scene. I had to get my act together. It was time to get to it here at the businesses.

Then I found Maria, one of John-John's cleaning lady helpers. She just happened to be walking by, and I hadn't seen John-John yet. So, I didn't go through John-John to give her instructions for the chores I wanted done as I really should have. Technically, actually, I was his boss, even if just for the past few days, just as he was Maria's boss. Maybe, he hadn't yet gotten used to it, so, I would tell him what I had done as soon as I saw him. I hoped that John-John wouldn't be too unhappy about my having done it this way. I probably should have waited. This cleaning job really wasn't all that important, but I didn't want anybody in Charles' home office with those papers yet. Maria spoke good English, but couldn't read it. The office was locked, but John-John had keys. It probably didn't make any difference, particularly since even though John-John could read English, he couldn't read it very well, and besides, he was the most trustworthy person Charles had as an employee, or friend, or admirer, or all three, which John-John was.

But, I still didn't want anyone to have access to anything I hadn't yet seen and figured out. I don't think I was being paranoid. I was just listening to Charles. He always told me, "Nobody needs to know anything about you and your stuff that it is not necessary for them to know about." How could I possibly know what anyone else needed to know about if I didn't know about it myself?

I still had a lot to learn about running a business, and especially people. Employees were people after all. Sorry, Charles.

I arranged for Maria to go over to Charles' apartment and finish up. Originally, she was an undocumented Mexican immigrant. But now, she was quite legal. So was her husband. Just as Davey had been, they both were another one of Charles' successful green card stories. All of their children have been natural born citizen of the Unites States.

I sent her over to the Powhatan to give it a complete cleaning job. My instructions to her were that she was to do her normal cleaning of the front and back foyers, the living, dining and family rooms, the kitchen, the pantry, the small bedroom and the two bathrooms Charles used. She was to leave his bedroom and office alone. I would have liked to have told her to just leave them locked, but then she could have never gotten to the bathrooms. And, they both needed her. They needed her a lot.

I told her I would handle those two rooms myself in the coming days. Then when I was finished, she could go back and put the finishing touches there.

I also told her to gather up his clothes and do the laundry, and see if there was anything at the cleaners that needed to be picked up.

Unlike me, Charles was a good dresser. His clothes would be in demand by the few of his friends and customers who they would fit. I would make a list later this week and send those who qualified size wise over to take their pick. If there was anything left, there was always the Goodwill Store.

Even with these explicit instructions, I still felt uneasy about not doing it myself. But, I was already stretched too thin, and knew I would be better off if I was _Plastic Man_ with all the stretching I knew was coming.

Then, I checked in with Helen. Her hours were seven in the morning to three in the afternoon. Even though we gave her, breakfast and lunch, she never left before four anyway. She would tell me everything I needed to know about these places, and what she expected me to do.

Helen said, "We all expect the same from you as we received from Charles. On a daily basis, we will not need anything from you. Just leave us alone to do our jobs. Your job is to be around or let us know where we can get a hold of you if we need you to make a decision we can't or shouldn't make for ourselves. If we can't get a hold of you and the decision has to made _on-the-spot_ and we have to make it, don't get upset if the decision made is different than the one you would have made. Other than that, we will need you for direction. These are _your_ businesses now, so just tell us what you want and we will do our best to do it. Establish your own schedule, but try your best to maintain it. Then, we will all know when to expect to see you on a regular basis. We can save up our _non-immediately-important_ questions for those times."

"Wow, Helen. Charles did a super job getting you to work here. I hope I can live up to your expectations."

"My expectations are that you will. See you later, Eddie. I have to get to work. There's a lot to do since the last few days has had stuff really piling up."

With that, I took my leave.

I spent the rest of the day working around the places. I made the rounds, visiting with Evil and a few others. I didn't bother looking for John-John. If he wasn't in The Pickle, he was already hard at work someplace else. He would show up and say "Hi!" when he showed up and said "Hi!"

He finally did show up and he said "Hi!" He also said, "Eddie G., what did you do with Maria? What did you do with Maria? You gave her a job without telling me, Eddie G. You gave her a job without telling me. I did not know where she was, Eddie G. I did not know where she was. I looked all over for her, Eddie G. I looked all over for her. I was very worried, Eddie G. I was very worried. I thought something had happened to her, Eddie G. I thought something had happened to her. Why did you do that, Eddie G.? Why did you do that? Eddie G., why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me?"

This was my first confrontation with an employee since I had assumed command, well _pseudo_ –command. I was lucky this employee was my friend.

As his boss, I wasn't starting out on the right foot, and I knew it. But, how could I explain my reasoning to him? I knew that the giving Maria this task would get back to John-John. So, I had an answer prepared.

I said all I could say. "John-John, I'm sorry. I meant to tell you, but I just plain forgot. With all this new stuff I have to do, I just plain forgot. I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, John-John." At least, I hoped it wouldn't. My prepared answer was also a true answer. I had meant to tell him, after Maria had already left and started in on the job. I really did forget.

John-John smiled and gave me a big hug. "It's OK, Eddie G. It's OK! I know you didn't mean anything bad, Eddie G. I know you didn't mean anything bad. I just need to know this stuff so I can do my job, Eddie G. I just need to know this stuff so I can do my job."

Both _Wow!_ And _Whew!_

I had a deli lunch. John-John and Helen joined me. I asked a lot of questions. They gave me a lot of answers. After that first morning and lunch, I was beginning to feel a little more confident. My confidence, however, was a confidence of feeling, not a confidence of knowledge. If I was ever to obtain the latter, it would be a long time down the road. But, I believed I was making progress.

Then, I walked over to The Powhatan. Maria had finished. As usual, she had done a great job. I didn't have anything to clean up so, I knew it was time to read through Charles' papers.

I got started.

This kind of stuff wasn't new to me. I had done it before in Germany. A mess is a mess, is a mess. A mess demands, at least of me, order. It wasn't difficult.

Even though an item should be handled, if possible, only once, that wasn't possible here. I started at the top of one of the huge piles and began to divide them into three piles. The one on my left received the ones I was almost sure were important. The pile on my right received those papers I suspected were not important at all. The rest went in the middle.

When that job was done, I had to familiarize myself with what was already filed. I couldn't start to file this new stuff before I had learned both Charles' system and what was already in the system. Charles had a large four drawer file cabinet. I knew it would be orderly, and it was. This mess I had in front of me was just an aberration of Charles' last days.

There was just too much stuff already in the system for me to absorb in the short time remaining to me. It was almost dinner time, and I should be getting back to The Hyde Out, not just to eat, but to be seen.

So, I knew nothing would get put away now, just thrown away. I started with the third pile.

That job went fast. The pile went to nothing in minutes. There was only one item there that needed action. The stuff to be discarded, however, wasn't going to be discarded any time soon. I took the remains and put them in a box, not to be thrown away, but to be saved until such a time as I was sure I knew what I was doing. Even though I had looked at everything, or thought I did, there could still easily be an important paper or two in that box. After I was sure what I was doing, then, and only then, maybe a month or so down the road, I would look at them again and make final disposition.

I made it back to The Hyde Out around six, walked around the three businesses, checked in the office, Helen had already left, and sat down next to John-John who was having his six o'clock beer with his dinner. I had a Bit with mine. We just made some small talk, and I headed back to The Powhatan.

I started on the left hand pile. I read, acted and filed away each one one-by-one if I could. If I couldn't, I put it aside until later. I also separated out any papers and files I thought Tish might need.

The second pile went a lot faster. Now that I had the experience of the most important papers, I found several here that had belonged in the important pile. I filed them away and put the rest in the box.

The job took the rest of the evening. I could have stayed here to sleep, but since it was not quite eleven, I went back to The Hyde Out and my own apartment. I had a Bit, just one, and went upstairs to sleep.

Tuesday morning was a repeat of Monday's. The real world re-entered my brain at six-thirty. I woke up and went downstairs for my Charles' Blend and a bagel _with_.

It would be hot again today and tomorrow. Then, it would cool off, all the way to just a predicted seventy degrees the following Sunday. The Cubs went five and two the rest of that week, finishing July at 50-56.

During the rest of the week, I worked to familiarize myself with the businesses, the financials, the employees I didn't know as well as the employees I did know but not knowing all of them as employees. With each step I took, I was even more impressed with Charles, if that is possible, that I already was. He ran a great crew on a great ship. Even at his lower prices than his competitors, he made a lot of money. He offered both quality and decent prices. Combined, they made for a hell of a quantity of business. And, he left it all to me. I had to make sure I continued his practices and his profit levels.
11

The Sexy Librarian

### July 24, 1968

### Wednesday

I slept well but late. I had been really exhausted, or was it drunk, last night, or was it this morning? I awoke into that semi-somnolent state where the mind works itself without any control or effort from your consciousness. In fact, it resists that control.

It was while I was in that somnolent state, while I was busy convincing myself I wasn't having a hangover morning that I again spoke with Charles. It wasn't just the hangover that induced the conversation. I had been having them for three years now, ever since he had died. I hadn't been surprised when it happened the first time, the night after we buried him. But, that was probably because I had been only dizzily aware of doing it that first time.

Though these conversations have been happening less frequently as time passed, I still talked to him when it was about something really important. This was important. It was about John-John.

Talking to Charles this time did a lot of good. Even though he assured me that I didn't know much, he also comforted me in my mission. He told me, "Be patient. What there is to know, if anything, will reveal itself as the process unfolds. Just pay attention. You believe John-John. I believe him as well. Don't lose sight of what you're trying to do: Help John-John."

Living life always made me aware of his wisdom which he has so generously shared with me.

It was getting on to ten in the morning. I was hungry. I was a bit tired of bagel _with_ , so I fried myself a couple of eggs the way only I and a few others could fry them, floating atop a sea of hot, but not burning, melted butter. Even if the rest of the world needed to learn what an excellent meal properly fried eggs could be, I would never add them to The Pickle's breakfast menu. These properly fried eggs floating atop a sea of hot, but not burning, melted butter, took too long to prepare. The weekend morning crowd would never want to wait for them. All we would hear were complaints about the service, never the compliments that would have been so richly deserved.

My mother always told me "There are two secrets to being a good cook. Always use fresh ingredients and always pay close attention."

In my hunger, I ate the eggs quickly and went downstairs for Charles' Blend. As I sat there drinking my coffee, instead of preparing for my meeting with Geri, a University of Chicago Library research librarian, who had agreed to help me with my John-John Project, I thought not of Geri, a very sexy woman, nor of my Project. I checked out the Cubs game in the Chicago Sun-Times which had been left behind by somebody. They had lost to the Giants, four-three, falling two games under .500. Willie McCovey hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the tenth. Normal for the Cubs. I couldn't even blame it on the Sun-Times, which few people The Hyde Out read. We all read the Tribune, but the Sun-Times was there. It was free, and I was in a hurry, not to get anywhere, but to find out what happened to the Cubs. Crazy, but it was the curse of the fan. It was almost eleven and time to go see Geri.

Geri was the Chief Cataloger for The University of Chicago Library. She wasn't a research librarian, but she knew where everything was, in the library, as well as all the best bars in Chicago, South Side or North. She was one of the first people I met when I first started at The University. I have always, then, before, and now, spent much time in libraries. When I am not a researcher, I am a reader. She was also a novel lover.

To look at, she wasn't anything special. Average height, average build, physically, average everything, except sex. She was still, however, a good looking woman. She was also fifteen years older than I was. And, she was married.

The first time Geri took me back into the _stacks_ , actually a small room off campus, she told me I reminded her of her husband when he was younger and unimpaired. Geri was my ringmaster, teaching me all the circus tricks. She was the first perfect woman I met. She knew what she wanted, and I knew she didn't have permanency on her mind, which was always better. She also knew I was a student, so she also always paid. Eleven years later, we are still together in that same way. And, I pay.

I went to the University Library to see her. I wanted her to hear John-John's story and see the article. I figured she could do more than Tribune, at least different. She had more and different sources than just the city's newspaper morgues.

I took a deli picnic basket. It wasn't a bribe. It wasn't necessary. Besides, Geri knew John-John. She wasn't a regular at The Hyde Out. If she had been, Charles would have warned me away, in spite of all the benefits I was receiving. Remember, Charles always told me that kind of playing should not be done at work. Besides, she had too many other places to be, too many new people to meet. There was never any grass growing underneath her feet.

I explained what John-John had said, gave her the article, and waited while she read it. Geri knew and liked John-John, so she was ready to help out. She asked a few questions, mostly librarian questions. She knew her stuff. She copied the article and said to call her in a few days. We made a date for the weekend.
12

A Date with Geri

### July 27, 1968

### Saturday

A weekend date with Geri always means Saturday sunset. Geri is Jewish, _albeit_ , like Charles, non-religious. However, her husband, also a Charles, is. Charles, the Charles who is her husband, not _our_ Charles, is President of their Synagogue, so naturally, he and his wife, irrespective of their actual relationship, must attend together. They do. 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. I still don't understand it. I really don't need to. Their lives together and her relationship with me seem to coexist for her. I see no reason why they shouldn't for me as well.

So, I had the rest of the week for other things than my John-John Project. John-John asked a few times about his _situation_ , as he calls it. I still call it _my John-John Project_. We both know what the other is talking about.

He came to me often with his inquiry. "How are you doing about my situation, Eddie G.? How are you doing about my situation?"

My response was always the same. "This thing is going to take time, maybe a lot of time. I really don't know what to do, John-John, and I'm doing it. I'm researching it. I don't know what else I can do. It has already been forty-five years, a little more time isn't all that important, is it?"

"Yes, Eddie G. It is all that important. I don't sleep good, Eddie G. I don't sleep good. "

"John-John, I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do. Maybe, you have given me an impossible task, or at least, impossible for me. I will do my best. I promise. But maybe, I won't be able to solve your problem. But, I will need more time, maybe a lot more time. I will need to do more thinking. But, I will, John-John. I will."

"OK, Eddie G. OK!" John-John walked away.

The last time John-John asked, maybe I wasn't as good a friend as I should have been. He over to where I was sitting, and I could tell he was about to ask me about his situation.

I beat him to it. I said, "John-John, you can't be asking me every time you see me how I'm doing with your situation. I'm working on it. I'm trying. I really am. But, I'll tell you what I know when I know it. In the meantime, please don't bug me about it."

`John-John said, "I didn't say anything, Eddie G. I didn't say anything."

"No, you didn't, but you were about to. I just beat you to it."

John-John, as he often did, canted his head to the left and looked down. He smiled his impish grin, waved at me, and walked away back to his work.

I spent the rest of the week working the businesses.

Geri showed up at The Hyde Out at nine-thirty. Sunset this Saturday was . She lived on the far north side. Why she lives so far from where she works in Hyde Park, I don't know. The trip took at least an hour, sometimes more. The commute had to be exhausting, though Geri does stay over a couple of nights a week, sometimes with me, sometimes elsewhere.

I don't ask. I know better. She'd only tell me "Don't ask again!" so, I don't ask the first time.

Geri had a brief case with her. She said, "Hi, Eddie." We hugged. "Here's the stuff. Some newspaper copies, probably a lot of duplicates of the stuff Tribune gave you. Maybe, some new stuff, since we have a more extensive collection of all the different dailies and weeklies. There's only one book. There are many more you might find interesting. I have included a listing of them. If you want any of the books just call me, and I'll have them on reserve for you to pick up. I would have brought more books, but I didn't want to carry all that stuff around. I would have dropped this stuff off Friday, but I was running late to get home before sundown." She handed me the briefcase as she said "So, here it is."

I ordered her a drink, white wine, usually white zinfandel, not the most expensive wine, but that's what she wanted. I asked her if she found anything interesting.

She said, "All the stuff I do is interesting. I look for the stuff. I don't read it. At least, I don't very often. Since it was you who asked for the stuff, and it concerned John-John, I did glance at a couple of articles. Interesting and germane are two different things. I found what I looked at interesting. Whether or not this stuff is germane or just interesting is for you to decide."

I took the briefcase upstairs to my office. That was the last of my John-John Project we mentioned or I thought about until I could read the stuff the next morning after Geri left.

When I got back downstairs, we had a couple more drinks, my first two of the evening. Our first few were always here at The Hyde Out. Why pay good money elsewhere when one owns one's own bar, particularly when my bar's beer is so damned much better than it is anywhere else?

Rhetorical question, yes, but one also shouldn't stay in one's one bar with a date for too long of a time. We didn't. After those couple of drinks, we left for Rocco's where I had already ordered our Chicago pizza, extra thin crust, double cheese, double sauce, and double onions, one-side sausage, the other side pepperoni with green peppers. Geri preferred pepperoni. I didn't care for pepperoni, but I didn't hate it like I hated green peppers, one of the few in the vegetable group I didn't eat.

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 fifty-percent 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_.

Many people think of Chicago pizza as deep dish. I don't. Deep dish was good, but I preferred the extra thin crust. Some people also think New York pizza is the best pizza in the world. They are wrong. Chicago pizza is the best pizza in the world.

I imagine the squabble about New York and Chicago pizza is the same as the one concerning the Cubs and the White Sox. I must admit, however, if I hadn't been born in Chicago I might have agreed with those other people about their New York pizza. I had had New York pizza in New York as well as several other places on the eastern seaboard. It was always great, just not as great as Chicago pizza. It was just a different, _albeit_ lesser, great, great, but not _too-oo_ great. There really were few differences. I think New York pizza makers used more sauce which I liked. Hence, I ordered double-sauce on my Chicago pizza.

It's a good-natured fight between the Big Apple and the Second City. We both agree though, pizza from Italy doesn't come close to ours. They might have invented it, but their emigrants to our shores, the Third Coast included, and especially as well, perfected it, first in New York, then even more so here in Chicago.

The history of pizza is quite interesting. If I didn't have my John-John Project to deal with, I'd like to research that history. Oh, well! Maybe, another time.

We ate pizza, had a couple more drinks. Rocco Sr. kept a case of Bitburger around special for me. I only had a few. I had to keep up my strength. After a couple of hours, we walked over to my apartment. After all, we had to see if I really had kept it up, my strength that is.

We got out of bed around six-thirty in the morning. That was when we got out of bed to shower and dress and walk over to The Pickle for bagel _with_ and Charles' Blend. We had actually awoken about a half-hour earlier. I guess I had done a good job of keeping it up, my strength that is.

We got to The Pickle just as they unlocked the front door. My Sunday Tribune was always delivered to my apartment before six. We carried it with us to The Pickle, where we sat like the old married couple we weren't and read our sections of the newspaper over bagels and coffee. We both had Charles' Blend. Geri was with Charles on the bagels. Her _with_ was with lox.

After an hour and a half of this domesticity, Geri left for home. I checked a few things around the places, went upstairs to retrieve the briefcase Geri had brought to me, and I left for home as well to read.

Geri had obtained a lot for me. It was a lot, but nothing of any real help. Some of the newspaper articles she had obtained were as she had said, from different newspapers. One of them was from as far away as _The California Examiner_. None of them, however, added anything but nothing. The sole book she had included was about the period, Prohibition, the history and sociological aspects. It was interesting and enlightening, but of no help for John-John. I assumed, accurately as I later determined, that the rest of the books she had located wouldn't provide any sustenance to John-John either.

While penetrating academically, as it should have been, the book didn't really add anything to one's perspective of the period either. While fiction, the three movies already mentioned, _The Public Enemy_ , _Al Capone_ , and _The St. Valentine's Day Massacre_ , as well as the successful television program, _The Untouchables_ , give one all the perspective one needs about this era. Hollywood exaggerates and is seldom true or accurate. Academia investigates and is almost always true and accurate. But, ask the public what they believe. Better still, ask them what they _know_. The public will almost always _know_ what Hollywood has told them.

Here, what Hollywood has said is sufficient. The period was one of law-breaking, violent law-breaking. The people were infamous, but idolized characters, were violent men and women who cared nothing for other people. _The St. Valentine's Day Massacre_ narrative states: "In the years following the passage of the National Prohibition Act of 1920, the nation's underworld rises to power and battles among itself, just as modern nations and corporations do. Open periods of gang warfare are followed by peace treaties and attempts at consolidation and monopoly, each of which is shattered as new warfare erupts. Corruption exists from the Mayor's office to the humblest sidewalk speakeasy. Later in the century, the gangs of the nineteen-twenties will rebuild so by the 1960's the gangs will have even more power by far above the 1920's."

This period, one of law-breaking and violent law-breaking, reached its prototype example when Al Capone and the Northside gangs along with political corruption became The Chicago Way.

Samuel _Nails_ Morton was one of these violent, law-breaking gangsters. If Nails hadn't died by horse, and if Capone hadn't already killed O'Bannion and Hymie Weiss, it wouldn't have been Bugsy Moran that Capone wanted dead. Nails, had he lived, could have easily been in that Clark Street garage on Valentine's Day, 1929.

In the _Al Capone_ movie, there is no mention of Nails. However in the scene where O'Bannion gets killed, the front of the store bears the sign _O'Bannion's Morton Flower Shop_.

But, what the hell did Nails, or any of them, have to do with John-John?

The only real help any of this stuff was for me was a long hot bath and a good nap all Sunday afternoon, letting out cold water and refilling with hot every hour or so.
13

Stosh The Cop

### July 2, 1968

### Monday

Even after getting help from Tribune John and Geri, I was basically nowhere towards helping John-John. I had learned some stuff, but mostly just enough that I was now only marginally more knowledgeable than when John-John first showed me his article. I also now knew pretty much for sure that John-John correctly remembered what he remembered. Other than that, I had reached an impasse in both my research and in my thinking.

I had already asked John-John if I could talk to Stosh the Cop, and he said "OK!" So now, that is what I would do. That is what I would have to do.

By this time, I hoped I had enough meat for Stosh to sink his teeth into. I was sure if I ran this stuff past him now, he would be able to give me the benefit of his insight. Maybe, he could also get me a lotta extra stuff that would help.

The Hyde Out was most definitely not a cop-bar, but like all bars, it had its share of cops. Not all cops wanted to go to a cop bar, and others needed a break from them. So, some of them came here. A half mile down 55th, there was a fire station. Firemen needed a bar as well. They had one, _Seven-Ten Lanes_ , right down the street from the fire station. The Hyde Out, however, still got its share of firemen as well as of cops. Same reason: Not all firemen wanted to go to a firemen's bar. Others needed a break from them. So, some of them came here.

One of our regulars was Stosh the Cop. Stosh was a big guy, _real_ big. Irrespective of the time of day, however, Stosh still looked as if he were straight out of central casting. He looked like a cop's cop would look, big, brawny and weather-beaten. Just like the proverbial Hollywood B movie homicide dick. 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! He hadn't been physically miscast in his chosen vocation! 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 a genetic overabundance of melanin. His deep bass, but often whispering, voice completed the Hollywood image.

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.

He had been a regular here long before I showed up on the scene. He and Charles had been good friends.

Stosh was also a decorated Homicide Detective of some reputation. Over the years, Stosh and I had also become friends. He took it upon himself to save me from my liberalism. I don't know why since he failed miserably with Charles. Or maybe, he didn't know how liberal Charles really was since Charles largely kept his own counsel. I was a loudmouth.

Stosh and I often conversed about the role of police in our society, what it is and what it should be, as well as what is was like to be a cop. I was a liberal. Stosh was a cop. I had graduate degrees in philosophy and political economy. Stosh was a cop. Now, I had a law degree with an M.B.A. and had passed the Illinois bar. Stosh was still a cop. I knew quite a bit about the role of police in our society, real and actual. I knew nothing about what is was like to be a cop.

Stosh, on the other hand, knew a lot about both of these complicated issues, particularly about being a detective, even more particularly about being a homicide detective. Stosh knew it all. He really did. In spite of the lack of a formal education, he had only a high school education, plus, of course, his education through life on the streets, Stosh had, like many cops, a penetrating mind. Though a conservative, he taught me much about these issues, particularly the latter, what is was like to be a cop. I would never be a cop. I never wanted to be a cop. As a philosopher of the law, however, I wanted to know more about these extremely important people, those who are responsible for the keeping of society's peace.

One of our conversations went approximately like this:

Me: "You know, Stosh, I never even considered being a policeman, let alone think I would ever like being one. However, I must admit being a homicide detective like you are sounds quite intriguing. I know the bloom on the imagined flower is never as bright in reality as it is to the uninitiated, and I know I could never stand the dead bodies, the crime scenes, the blood, the autopsies. But, it is a nice daydream nonetheless."

Stosh: "Thanks for the compliments, Eddie. Maybe, I thought a time or two of owning a bar like you and Charles. But, it was only for a minute or two. The thought passed quickly. I know I could never handle the drunks like me without too much rough stuff. However, I never imagined myself being a lawyer defending the guilty bastards who killed my victims."

This in spite of Stosh knowing how I felt about the law and that I would never be a practicing attorney.

We would never agree on the death penalty either in spite of Stosh knowing and understanding the statistics. That didn't really surprise me since Charles had taught me that it was common for people to get stuck in their ideology in spite of contrary evidence, even for one as smart as Stosh. What did surprise me about Stosh and his convictions was that he didn't believe police brutality ever took place. Well maybe, rarely, but _very_ rarely. This is spite of all the evidence.

Stosh was a smart guy. He believed in the law and in law enforcement. He knew about power in general and the power of being a cop in particular. He knew how easy it was to abuse power. He had seen it often enough. He still denied the existence of police brutality.

John C. Calhoun insisted that since blacks were not human, he could still safely consider himself an advocate of human rights. Stosh argued that since police brutality was non-existent, there was no need for civilian oversight of the force.

That's when I finally got it. To accept the existence of police brutality was to be forced to accept civilian oversight.

Thanks again, Charles!

This back-and-forth bantering between Stosh and me was often and constant. However, it made us much better friends.

I was looking forward to seeing him tonight and explaining my John-John Project. I was at the bar having a Bitburger Pils. The clock said it was after ten.

If Stosh was coming in tonight, he would be in soon. Actually, I was only hoping Stosh would come in tonight. He didn't come in every night, almost, but not every. That was one of the great things about regulars. They were regular. Tonight, however, maybe, Stosh would be _irregular_.

After my third Pils, the bar clock read eleven-twenty. Eleven o'clock for real. eleven-twenty bar time. So, I decided Stosh wouldn't be in tonight. I figured it was time to mosey on. I said good-night to the bartenders and the remaining patrons.

Then, Stosh came in, almost an hour late for him.

The barstool I had selected was in _as-smoke-free-as-possible, strategically-selected-location_. Stosh saw me. I waved him over. He walked over to my new location.

By the time Stosh got to me, his drink was already on the bar next to mine. That's another thing about regulars: The drink they drink is always the same, and always expected in front of them as soon as they get to their stool.

Stosh was a smoker, _albeit_ a more considerate smoker than most. If he knew you weren't going to bother him too long, he would try to refrain from smoking until you left. If he had to smoke, he would do his best to keep his cigarette, and his exhalation away from his fellow conversant. So maybe, my lungs would survive another night in The Hyde Out.

After the routine greetings and salutations, I showed Stosh the original article John-John had given me, told him what John-John had said, and told him about the rest of what I knew and what I had done. He didn't ask to talk to John-John, at least not yet, even though he could clearly see him at the bar several stools over.

A cop, just like an attorney, wants to know everything, for nothing to be held back. If one wants help from a professional, one must tell that professional everything there is to tell, and not to take offense at the penetrating questions that only a professional can ask that are sure to be asked. Professionals are trained to make sure they are being told everything and that they correctly understand what they are being told. Above all, _do not lie to the professional from whom you are seeking help_. If, on the other hand, a professional is after you, remember, professionals are also trained to detect lies, particularly from your inconsistent and contradictory statements. I learned this in philosophy classes, in law school, from other attorneys, from Charles, from Stosh, from life.

So, I didn't hold anything back. Of course, I didn't lie. I told him everything, Tribune John, Geri, my notes, my thoughts, my frustrations, my brick walls.

I told Stosh I wasn't looking for him to provide solutions for me and John-John, but to give me direction for my future pursuits. That would be a great help.

He asked me, "Eddie, why didn't you come to me to ask for help right away?"

"I didn't think it would be such a big deal. I didn't want to bother you, Stosh, at least not until I had more to show you. I guess I was also arrogant enough to think I could do something. And besides, I know now what I didn't know then. I don't have a clue and haven't had since John-John first talked to me. I guess. I should have known better, Stosh. I'm sorry."

"That's OK, Eddie. Let's get to it now."

Stosh had known John-John longer than most of us. Stosh was about John-John's age, maybe a bit older, and had been a regular in The Hyde Out since he was of age, probably before. The ID checks were a lot less strict thirty years ago.

Stosh asked what Geri had asked. "Do you believe John-John?"

"Yes, I do, Stosh." I explained a few things that _prima facie_ corroborated John-John's story. "If you want, you can talk to him yourself. You see him over there. He's always around here. If he couldn't be here, I think he just wouldn't be anymore."

"No, that's not necessary. I don't need to talk to him. Probably, it would just get him more excited than he already is. I think I know what you want me to do, and I think I can do it. I'll get what I can on those detective murders as well. You'll have to dig up the actual trial stuff yourself, but I'll see what I can do there."

"This lookin' around stuff isn't quite kosher, so try to keep this between ourselves unless you clear it with me first. Particularly, try not to say anything about it to Officer Gilly. He's a good guy, but unless there's a good reason, he doesn't need to know what I'm doing. Digging into confidential files, even if they are years old, is not exactly something I want my superiors to know about. It would probably be OK with them, but they would turn it into a favor I would owe them. Better to have them with the _owsies_ than me."

"You know, Eddie, I love being a cop. I absolutely love it. I always loved it, even when I was on the street. I love it even more now that I'm a Homicide Dick. It's the fucking greatest job in the world. They don't pay us shit and the long hours fucking suck. But, I get to put the bad guys away. The only problem is the fucking _politics_. When I was on the street beat, it didn't matter. I was only a fucking flunky. So, nobody cared about me or what I did, as long as nobody saw me do it. Now, it's always there, the fucking _politics_. I don't get it too much because I'm in homicide. I do get some of it, however, because of my rank. The higher up the ladder one goes, the higher becomes the fucking pressure. I'll never get high enough to dish it out, but I'll always be high enough to get it dished at me. Don't get me wrong, Eddie. I don't ever want to get any higher than I already am. I'm at the highest rank a working cop can ever get. One step higher and it's a command position, something I never want to fucking have. So try to keep this between ourselves. OK?"

"You got it, Stosh."

"I should have whatever I will be able to get in a couple of days. I'll let you know."

"Thanks! See you later. It's getting late for me. I need the bed."

"Ok, Eddie! See ya' when I see ya'."

"By the way, your tab is on the house tonight, and next time as well."

Stosh said "Thanks!" but didn't say "It's not necessary" as some other regular would probably say. After all, Stosh was a cop. He was used to it. It was the Chicago Way.

All of a sudden, there was a noisy confrontation down at the other end of the bar. It looked as if maybe a fight might break out. It could have been politics. It could have been religion. It could have been sports. It could have been about a woman. It could have been nothing. Stosh said he'd handle it. I said, "It's my place, Stosh. I have to do this, whether I like it or not. And, I don't like it. But, it's what I have to do. Just be my backup, Stosh."

"OK, Eddie!"

I walked over to where I was afraid the chaos might begin. It wasn't politics. It wasn't religion. It wasn't women or sex. It was just two fucking drunks.

I said, "Hi, guys!" to two guys I had never seen before. "Is there anything I can do to defuse this situation?"

"Who the fuck are you? Get out of here or I'll kick your ass!"

"My name is Eddie. I own this place. I got real lucky. My friend, Charles, dies and leaves this bar to me. He left me a lot more than that. He left me wisdom. Charles told me there would be nights like this. He told me that when that happened, I was to buy the guys a drink, if they weren't already too drunk. You guys are already too drunk, so I won't buy you a drink. Charles told me if you can't buy them a drink, at least tell them a story.

"So, here goes! There were these three strings who found themselves out in the middle of the desert without anything too drink. If I was with them, I would buy them a drink. I doubt if they were already too drunk. But, I'm not there. So, I can't. These three strings finally make it to the edge of the desert. These three strings are all strung out. They haven't got much strength left. But, there is a road right there in front of them. They crawl up to the road, and they see a sign. The sign says 'Welcome to Our Town. Except strings! Strings Not Welcome! Strings Keep Out!' But, these thirsty strings hadn't had any other choice. So, they go into the town. The first thing they see is a saloon. The problem is, however, there is a sign on the front of the saloon. It says, Welcome to My Saloon! Except strings! Strings Not Welcome! Strings Keep Out!' But, these thirsty strings hadn't had any other choice. They have to have a drink. So, the first thirsty string says, 'Let me try. Maybe, the guy inside will take pity on me.' The thirsty string goes into the saloon. The thirsty string no sooner gets inside and the saloonkeeper yells, 'You're a fucking string. Can't you read? No fucking strings allowed in here. Get the hell out.' Dejectedly, the thirsty string leaves. The second thirsty string says, 'Let me try. I'll disguise myself.' He puts on a big cowboy hat. He walks into the saloon, struts a big cowboy strut, and crawls up onto one of the barstools. The thirsty string says in its best cowboy drawl, 'How about a glass of water, pardner?' The saloonkeeper reaches over the bar, lifts the cowboy hat off the string and yells, 'You're a fucking string. Can't you read? No fucking strings allowed in here. Get the hell out.' Dejectedly, the second thirsty string leaves. The third thirsty string says, 'I think your disguise idea is a good one. It was just the wrong disguise.' With that, the third thirsty string ties a knot at the top of his self and strips the threads away so they fall over the knot, sort of like a horse's mane. He goes into the saloon and jumps up onto a barstool, and politely asks for a glass of water. The saloonkeeper yells, 'Can't you read? Get the hell out. No fucking strings allowed in here. You're a fucking string.' The thirsty string replies, 'I'm a frayed knot.'

"I hope you gentlemen enjoyed my story. This is my bar. There is no more service here for either of you. I'd appreciate it if you both just quietly left."

The bigger guy said, "Asshole! I told you I'd kick your ass."

I replied, "I'm afraid not," and called for Stosh. I had a bouncer on duty, as well as a couple of others just sitting around studying as they often do when off duty. But, I figured Stosh would provide a more suitable ending to this confrontation.

Stosh walked over, flashed his badge without saying a word. The two guys turned and left, muttering "Fucking assholes!" all the way to the door.

Everyone was in hysterics, particularly John-John. He really loved these Charles stories I told.

"Thanks, Stosh."

Laughing, Stosh said, "Eddie, why didn't you let me handle this in the first place?"

"Stosh, I guess I just enjoy that story too much to ever miss an opportunity to tell it."

Stosh and I had one more drink. Stosh insisted. He said, "I don't want to have to walk you home. Let's give those two guys a little time to move on."

After that drink, I said good-night to Stosh, and again to John-John, then again to the bartenders and the remaining regulars, left the bar and went home to my book and bathtub.

When I got home, I did the routine. I stripped down and threw the _shitty-smoking–smelling_ clothes in the hamper. I got into my bathtub filled with hot water as hot as I could stand it, _sit it_ actually, hoping for a Eureka! moment. But, I wasn't having any of those tonight. The water was so hot, I quickly fell asleep without even having read a single page. And, I stayed asleep until the cold water woke me up. Without drying, I just fell into bed, already asleep before my head hit the pillow.
14

Stosh Has the Stuff

### July 31, 1968

### Wednesday

Stosh had been in The Hyde Out the night before. When he saw me, he shook his head sideways. He was, as was I, waiting for word from his contacts. We talked a little, but not about my John-John Project. We shared a drink or two. Our meeting was brief. I picked up Stosh's tab. The Chicago Way.

Today looked as if it would be an easy day around here, so I looked for John-John and asked if he wanted to see a ballgame today. He smiled and said "How can we do that, Eddie G.? How can we do that? The White Sox are in Minnesota, Eddie G. The White Sox are in Minnesota."

"I know that, smart guy! But, the Cubs are home. You want to go?"

"Oh, Eddie G. The Cubs? I thought you said a ballgame, Eddie G. I thought you said a ballgame. But, I will go see the Cubs with you, Eddie G. I will go see the Cubs with you."

"Enough, smart guy! Enough!" I grabbed John-John and we hightailed it north to Wrigley Field. A long bus ride made longer by John-John's constant teasing about the Cubs and baseball being two different things. I enjoyed John-John's glee, but I thought I had better keep him away from Tribune and those other The Hyde Out Sox fans. Never happen!

It was a real scorcher today, over ninety degrees, but John-John insisted on sitting in the bleachers. Ernie hit two at us, Williams added another, as did Hickman. Fergy had a complete game and beat the Astros six-one.

On the bus ride home, it was more of the same. "Who was that minor league team the Cubs just beat, Eddie G.? Who was that minor league team the Cubs just beat? The Cubs won six-one, Eddie G. The Cubs won six-one. But, the White Sox would have won sixteen-one, Eddie G. The White Sox would have won sixteen-one."

All I could do is to laugh a lot and enjoy John-John enjoying himself.

The game today had been a real short one, two-eleven, so we were back at The Hyde Out before five. John-John and I probably had too many beers at the ballpark, but that didn't stop me from having a few more. John-John skipped his usual five o'clock. We ate. I went home to sober up a bit before seeing Stosh.

I fell asleep and woke up pretty sober with only a bit of a hangover. It must have been those American beers I drank at the ballpark. The clock said it was almost ten o'clock so I left for the bar to see Stosh.

I was sitting alone at the far end of the bar in my own _specially-created-strategically-selected-smoke-free-zone-location_ taking the initial foamy sip of a just drawn Bitburger Pils. The bar clock had just reached ten-thirty, so if Stosh was coming in tonight, he would be in soon. After all, he was a regular.

As I glanced away from the bar clock, always twenty minutes early, in walked Stosh. He saw me right away and walked over to where I was sitting. By the time Stosh got to me, his drink was already next to me on the bar.

Stosh dropped a large manila envelope on the bar in front of me, containing, I assumed, the papers he had collected. The envelope was about four inches thick.

He said, "Eddie, some of the stuff was mostly a piece of cake. At least, the initial, and only, report on the horse accident was. My guy found it right away. I got a lot on the two murdered cops. My guy in Records is still looking. I'm sure he'll find a shitload more. If he doesn't, you'll have to look elsewhere if you need more info."

Stosh added "You can keep all this stuff. It's all copies. The horse accident sheets were in a thick binder, so my guy couldn't get complete copies. The left hand side was missing from the first copy, so he made the best copy he could of the other side of the one-page document. He also made a hand-written copy. He did the best he could. But, he got everything either copied or hand-written. The stuff on the murders are copies as well, and quite legible. The copies of the photographs ain't quite so legible. If you need better copies of the photographs than what's here, we'll have to make some arrangements to go downtown to see them. I'm sure you understand. The originals can't leave the archives.

"My guy in Records is still looking for info on the two cops who wrote the original report on the horse accident, but I doubt if he'll find out anything more than we already have, except if they are alive or not and if so, how to locate them. A long shot! It was forty-five years ago. But, he's looking. You can call him tomorrow or the next day. I wrote his name and number on the copy of the report.

"I also got a guy at the PBA, to the uninitiated that's the Policemen's Benevolent Association, looking for stuff. That's going to take a bit longer, but I'll get it to you when I get it to you. That's it. You'll have to look elsewhere, however, if you need anything more. I got all we got."

I had no doubt. Stosh was one of the force's best, an experienced and exacting detective.

My "Thanks!" was barely out of my mouth when John-John walked over. John-John had been sitting at the bar drinking a root beer, he had had enough beer at the ballpark, so he was even skipping his ten o'clock. When he saw Stosh, he said, "Hi, Stosh. Are you helping Eddie G. and Tribune John help me, too?"

Stosh looked at me. It wasn't a kindly look.

I said, "Stosh, I said nothing to anybody, absolutely nothing. I told you I had gotten a lot of stuff from Tribune. Of course, he told everybody his good story about how he was helping John-John after John-John had told him what I was doing. Hell, I didn't even tell Trib what I was really about. John-John told him. Tribune even suggested to me to ask you to help. All I said back was 'That sounds like a good idea.' Sorry about what happened, but it happened all by itself without any help from me."

Stosh responded, "I guess there ain't never any secrets in a bar. I know it wasn't your fault, Eddie. Like I said before, when my bosses find out about this, and they will now, they'll yell and carry on, but it will all be for show, just to get me on the _owsies_ side. It's not the end of the world. I'll just have to live with it."

That having been said, Stosh threw back the last of his drink, walked to the door, and left. Tonight was a cheap tab for me to pick up. He will probably expect another and another, then probably another. It was the Chicago Way.

A little while after Stosh left, Officer Gilly came in. Officer Gilly was a Chicago neighborhood street cop transplanted from Santiago, Chile. The _Gilly_ was his nickname derived from the mispronouncing of his Spanish name, _Guillermo_. Somehow, the first two of the three syllables in _Gi-yer-mo_ , became transliterated into _Gilly_. It was _apropos_! _Guillermo_ was Spanish for _William_. And, _Billy_ was a diminutive of _William_. Thus, _Gilly_ instead of _Billy_.

He walked over to me, now pretty much surrounded by empty stools, as John-John had left as well. "Good evening to you, Eddie!" he said as he picked up his cup of black Charles' Blend already in front of him. Officer Gilly was a regular, too.

Officer Gilly was our East Hyde Park neighborhood beat cop. Gilly was a good guy, and a regular black Charles' Blend drinker here. Gilly was here in The Hyde Out more than he was anywhere else. We were the only place with Charles' Blend, except for Rocco's. All the rest of the places had regular green American coffee.

We were lucky to have Gilly. Just his appearance supplemented my bouncers. And, Gilly worked for free, unless one counts the Charles' Blend. Gilly was a good cop, a fantastic beat cop, a blessing for the neighborhood.

I had been in Hyde Park for eleven years. Officer Gilly had been here when I first arrived. Even then, he seemed to know everybody and everything about them including where and when, and what they drank. The result of years of patrol duty? Or, just being a damned good neighborhood beat cop? Or, both?

Gilly was originally from Peru. He spoke perfect English, no accent at all, so he had probably come to this country when quite young. It was something he never talked about. Gilly always said I should learn _Espanol_ since I had so many Spanish-speaking employees. Not all of them were legal, but like Charles, I was helping to correct that for as many of them as I could.

Officer Gilly said, "I just saw Stosh leave. He looked pissed off. I guess he found out that everybody in the place knew how he was helping you and John-John? I was in earlier this evening, and I heard the scuttlebutt about Tribune's help, and how Tribune suggested getting Stosh to help, and someone saying he already was. In a way, I'm surprised Stosh hadn't heard about it as well. In another way, I'm not. Stosh is a damned good homicide detective, maybe even the best. His brain is always working. On the job, that is. Except when he comes in here. It's The Hyde Out for most of us. For him it's The _Time-Out for_ his brain. That's probably why he's in here so often. But, don't worry about it, Eddie. He'll get over it! And besides, the bosses don't really give a shit when one of us helps a neighborhood stalwart like you. They might tease him a lot, but that will be the all of it. You carry a lot of weight around here. Yes, mostly because of Charles, but since you took over, you've earned a lot of your own."

With a large "Thanks!" I swallowed the rest of my beer, and got up. "I have to leave, Gilly. I have a lot of reading to do tonight."
15

Notes

### August 1, 1968

### Thursday

It was after midnight when I got back home. Again, I did a quick strip of my _stinky-shitty-smoking-smelling_ clothes and got into the hot bathtub to read.

This stuff was interesting, a lot more interesting than was the newspaper stuff I got from Tribune and the research I got from Geri.

The official report of the horse accident was on top. I wanted to read it first, but trying to match up two separate sheets of paper was too much for the bathtub. The original was only one page, but because of the inability to properly photocopy, my copy was on two pages. Plus, there was the hand-written copy in case either of the copies was illegible the way copies made of a page in a thick binder can be. So, I just skimmed it and put it aside.

The report on the murders was much longer, twenty or twenty-five pages of reports. I guess what would pass for a murder book back in 1921, plus that many again of notes, as well as fifty or sixty photographs.

This was too much material for a bathtub, so I got out. This time I dried off. I didn't want to ruin any of this stuff that Stosh had put so much effort into getting for me. I went to my office to read the murder stuff and to make notes of what I had already read. It was late. I was tired. But, my curiosity said this stuff had to be done now.

Being only two pages, it was a quick read, but it contained a bombshell. Samuel Jules _Nails_ Marcovitz Morton was John-John's father. And, the report verified much of what John-John says he remembered.

There were only four other people there at the time of the incident. The O'Bannion party did not arrive on the scene until about fifteen or twenty minutes after the police had arrived. The four who were there were two elderly spinster sisters, Lois and Bernice Lincoln, elderly meaning in their seventies, who lived across the street from the Park, not named after them, a nanny, Agnewska Wojciechowski, and her ward, Jonathon Johnson Morton.

Holy Shit! I missed it on the skim. John-John had always been John-John, and he had been Nails' son! I wondered how much of what we think we know about John-John is the same, different than what we think we know. I also wondered how much of what we think we know about anybody or anything is the same, different than what we think we know.

I got a legal pad and started to take notes. Two mounted policemen arrived at the scene of the accident within a minute or two of its happening. They just happened to be on patrol in the vicinity. Both of their names and badge numbers were on the report: Officer Thomas P. O'Grady and Officer Steven R. Walczak. If either or both of them were still alive, I hoped I would be able to find him or them.

The officers obtained eye-witness reports from the three women.

The police interviews were as follows: Officer Thomas O'Grady, the lead officer I assumed, first interviewed the two sisters. They both told the same story. The two women, seventy-one and seventy-four respectively, lived together in the neighborhood. I didn't bother to make a note of their names or address. They were surely dead by now, so why waste the time and ink.

They said they were sitting on their usual bench across from the statue of Benjamin Franklin, enjoying a rest after their daily constitutional.

The first sister, the oldest by three years, said that they were sunning, knitting, conversing, nothing but small talk, and generally spending a beautiful spring day in the park. She heard a loud noise, then a horse whinny. She said she looked up and saw a horse rearing up on its hind legs. The horse was whinnying and the whinnying grew louder. Then, the rider fell off. The horse toppled over. The horse landed on the rider.

The second sister, who said she might be a bit hard of hearing, said she thought she had also heard something, but she wasn't really sure what was happening until she looked up when her startled sister shouted, "What's that?" The rest of the report was the same about the horse making a lot of noise, rearing up on its hind legs, the rider falling off, the horse toppling over, and landing on the rider.

The nanny told exactly the same story. Twenty-year-old Agnewska Wojciechowski said she heard the same loud noise and saw the horse rear and fell on its rider, whom she knew. It was Samuel Morton.

The shocking news to her story came, however, when she explained why she and the boy were there and she identified herself and the boy. Agnewska Wojciechowski was nanny for Jonathan Johnson Morton, age five, whose address was given as Congress Hotel. Her address was the same. She had brought the boy to visit his father in the park. The boy was Nails' son.

Agnewska Wojciechowski was a Polish immigrant, here in the States for less than a year, speaking somewhat adequate, but broken, English. Agnewska Wojciechowski was a distant relative of Henry Earl J. Wojciechowski, who was known in the local Chicago gangster circles as Hymie Weiss. Agnewska came to Chicago to live with her brother, Fred Wojciechowski. Until recently, neither Agnewska, nor Fred, had seen Henry in years. Neither of them, Agnewska nor Fred, or anyone else in the family for that matter, was involved in the underworld, or anything remotely like it.

Agnewska told the police that when Henry found out she was here in the States, he searched her out. She said, "Henry has been quite nice to me. He has given me money to live and to eat. Only a little while ago, maybe two months or so, he found this job for me as nanny for John-John."

The Hyde Out nickname story about John-John's nickname apparently was invented by somebody after the fact, Charles probably, to hide John-John's heritage. John-John had always been John-John.

The nanny said she was living in a suite at the Congress Hotel along with John-John and Elaine Goldhagen, John-John's mother. She said that "Nails, which is what Mr. Morton instructed me to call him" lived there as well in a suite of his own, but in a top floor penthouse suite facing the Lake. "He had a view of Lake Michigan. Out our second floor window, we saw the el tracks."

There was some more to the report, interviews of Dion O'Bannion, his girlfriend, maybe a common-law wife, Viola Kaniff O'Bannion, born March 27, 1901, and the third member of the party, merchant Peter Mundane. All three of them told the same story. They were supposed to meet Nails at the horse stable for a Sunday ride, but arrived there late by about fifteen minutes, as they were held up by a church funeral procession. Nails had already left. They were still trying to catch up with him when they arrived here on the scene. Apparently, Nails had ridden even faster than they had. All three of them said they had not heard anything. Either they were too far away, or the Lake Michigan breeze was blowing the wrong way for them to have heard anything.

The first three witnesses agreed that none of them had seen these other three until they arrived on the scene after the police had already arrived. Apparently, the police were satisfied with this story as nothing more was said about it.

All three of them remembered what had happened exactly the same way as John-John remembered it. John-John had remembered correctly. He had been there on that May 13, 1923 afternoon. I was glad I had believed him.

That was about it. I made a note of the two officers' names: Thomas P. O'Grady, who had written the report, and his partner, Steven R. Walczak. The report had been signed by both of them. I also made a note of the names of the others. Other than John-John, I was sure all of the others were dead, except, hopefully one of the police officers, if he was young enough forty-five years ago, and maybe the nanny.
16

Vietnam Vets Against the War

### August 5, 1968

### Monday

It had been a day more than a week since I read the stuff Geri had brought me. I did meander over to the University Library one day to look at the books on the list she had provided to me. There was nothing there. Other than a nice visit with her, I had brought a deli picnic basket, the Library visit was a waste. Again, there was nothing except background on the Era.

I did, however, get a lot of work done on the businesses in the last few days. Geri was busy this past weekend with personal matters at home, so we didn't see each other. I figured since I was boss I could reward myself with an extra day off. So, I spent the entire weekend, Friday included, reading. I spent that weekend doing nothing else except being a lazy bum. It was a weekend of glorious relaxation. It had been a long time since I had been able to string together two or three days without anything important seriously pending. My John-John Project was serious, but after forty-five years, I wouldn't exactly call it seriously pending.

It was almost noon. I was in The Hyde Out sitting alone at The Holes in the Wall Booth. I had spent a morning hard at work and had accomplished much. Now, it was time for The Pickle's deli lunch. I had had bagel _with_ and my Charles' Blend at my desk while I worked, so I hadn't yet seen the Tribune even though I already knew the outcome of the Cubs game the previous day. The Cubs had beaten the Cardinals yesterday, in thirteen, six-five in St. Louis. Now, I had the Tribune Sports Section in front of my face for the particulars. Fergy had only gone five innings. Homers by Williams and Spangler, as well as four hits each by Santo and Kissinger, were enough to do the job. The Cubs swept the series and were now six games over .500.

The bar and the deli were both busy, so maybe I shouldn't have taken up a whole booth by myself, but it was empty when I came in, so I did. However, The Booth would soon be full with more than just me.

I heard, "Hey, Eddie!"

Even before I looked up, I recognized the voice. It was Andrew Prewt. I had known Andrew since I moved into the neighborhood eleven years ago. Andrew Prewt was Andrew Prewt then. Andrew Prewt was Andrew Prewt now. He didn't have a different moniker, just his first and last name, but always his first and last name. He was also a long time regular here at The Hyde Out.

Andrew Prewt was a tall, light-skinned black man, mulatto actually. His mother had been white. His hair was closed-cropped, still cut like he never left Vietnam, which he just had last April. He was built just like Charles had been, fairly well, big shoulders and chest, but thin waist and hips, standing rail-rod straight. In fact, it was to him that most of Charles' clothes had gone after he died. Andrew Prewt had always been a natty dresser. Now, he was a _nattier_ dresser. He had also been close to Charles, maybe not as close as I was, only John-John had been, perhaps John-John had been even closer, it was hard to tell, but close nonetheless.

Andrew Prewt was a year younger than I. He had worked for Charles as well. He started a few years after I had, but I had known him from the neighborhood. He was a native of Hyde Park. I was a transplant. It was one of the ways he teased me. To him, I would never be anything but a carpetbagger, no matter how long I lived there.

We were close friends, not quite brothers, but almost. We had grown even closer since he came home from the army. He had been in Nam for almost three years, and was discharged just after he had fought through the Tet Offensive. He came home terribly disillusioned and began his activism in Vietnam Vets Against the War almost immediately. Early on, I had known about what was going on in Vietnam because I had taken a Current Events course at the University while an undergraduate. I knew all about the French and the ass-kicking they got at the Battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1955. Whatever the hell we were doing there or why we got involved in the first place, I'll never know, except for that bullshit domino theory and anti-Communism stuff at all costs, and fucking old fart politicians who didn't have to go and could always get exemptions for their own sons. They didn't risk their own lives or the lives of those important to them. They risked our lives, those who were unimportant to them.

When I was taking that Current Events course, I wanted to talk about it. I wanted everyone to know how smart I was, and conversely, how dumb they were. Again, thanks for Charles' wisdom.

He told me, "Kid, I couldn't agree with you more. I knew all about this stuff long before you did. It is clear to you, and it is clear to me that our being in Vietnam is the height of stupidity. I think Kennedy saw that. I think he was on the verge of getting our people out of there. I am not a conspiracy buff, but I think that could have well been the reason he was assassinated. Right after the assassination, LBJ escalated that damned war.

"If any of these people knew about Woodrow Wilson's invasion of Russia, maybe they wouldn't be so naive about Vietnam. But, they don't, and they are. I think it was some guy named Loewen who said 'Those who don't remember the past are doomed to repeat the eleventh grade.'

"Several years back, there was a national bridge tournament at The Palmer House downtown. I'm a pretty good neighborhood club player, but that's all. I had no business in a game at that level, but it was a _local_ national event, so I figured what the hell? At one of the tables, I sat next to a _real_ Charles, Charles Goren. It was a two hand event, and on our second hand, I bid and made a grand slam. But, at the speed I played it, the other tables were already into the next round. When I played and took the thirteenth trick, Mr. Goren said me, 'Well played, young man. Well played. You did everything correctly. However, if you knew what you were doing, you would have made an immediate claim. The hand was a lay down, but you didn't see it because you didn't know.'

"I guess I must have been a little pissed, but I didn't say anything. I just moved to the next table as well. It wasn't until a day or two later, still thinking about what he had said, fuming a bit as well if the truth be told, that what he really said finally dawned on me.

"'I'm an expert. You ain't. It's valiant of you that you're trying to play in my league, but you ain't in it. Now or ever.'

"What a great lesson I learned that day. We think we are more than we are. What brazenness that a neighborhood club player should think he knows what an expert knows. An expert looks at something and immediately views it through encyclopedic knowledge. They see things immediately that the non-expert will never see nor ever never understand. An expert doesn't always know everything about that in which he or she is expert. In fact, the expert is usually the first to admit what he or she does not know. What the expert almost always knows, however, is what he or she does not know. When the expert sorts through that possessed encyclopedic knowledge, the expert will immediately see what is not. It is not the claim to know for which that we need the expert. We need the expert to stop us stupid people from choosing the false which in our ignorance we believe to be true.

"It is the same with tradesmen. Why else would there be a six or seven-year apprenticeship? For everyone's benefit, they must immediately see the consequences, good or bad, of every construction issue in their venue. But, a bridge expert isn't a tradesman. A doctor isn't a financial genius. A doctor ain't either. A successful business man isn't an expert economist or social scientist. Yet, all too many of the one think they are of the other. They just ain't.

"That being the case, let's keep this discussion to ourselves and out of the bar. It ain't good for business, and even more importantly, you ain't going to change anybody's mind anyway, particularly in The Hyde Out. People don't want to know. They don't want to think. They don't want to read or research an issue. They think they already know. They just want their opinions. They don't realize that opinions are like assholes. Everybody's got 'em. Reasoned judgments are for people who think, who research, who read, people who want to understand and to know. Be smart and don't waste your time and effort on the _opinion_ _people_. You can never win, but you can lose. _Opinion people_ don't like other people telling them their opinion is wrong. It can't be. After all, it is their opinion. The only thing they want to know is who the fuck do you think you are you to tell them otherwise?

"Besides, like I said, it's not good for business. Keep discussions such as this one out of the bar and limited to people who do want to know.

Clearly, I was on the same side as Charles and Andrew Prewt.

As I lowered the newspaper, I saw Andrew Prewt and Sarge, another reg _ul_ ar, though a new one. No one, except maybe Andrew Prewt, knew her real name. Sarge was a black, very black, female friend of Andrew Prewt's from the war and had actually been in combat, even winning a few medals. As usual, this good looking woman was dressed in fatigues and wearing combat boots. If one did't know her, one would start to feel a little fear upon observing her. Hell, I knew her. She even liked me a little bit, thought of me as a friend, I think. It was hard to tell with Sarge. Even so, I always started to feel a little fear when I saw her. She wasn't anybody I'd like to have on the other side of a fight. If I ever got attacked in a dark alley, I'd want Sarge there with me.

With them were three whites, two guys and a gal. Ordinarily, my eyes would have stayed riveted on the really nice-looking white female, medium height, medium build, and much more than medium good looking. Instead, they stayed on one of the white guys, the one with a head of long frizzy hair.

I recognized the guy right away. His picture had been on television and in the newspaper for weeks now. It was Abbie Hoffman. What the hell was Abbie Hoffman doing in The Hyde Out Inn?

Andrew Prewt introduced us. He said, "Eddie, this guy is Abbie Hoffman. The other two are Marge and Michael." He didn't say which was which. I guess he assumed I could tell a Marge from a Michael. In this case, it was easy. This Marge was a _real_ Marge. Sarge didn't say anything. I don't think I have heard her say more than a few words in all the time I had known her, since she returned with Andrew Prewt. Andrew Prewt turned to Abbie and said, "This is Eddie. He owns this place, and like I said, he's a lawyer."

Abbie said, "Nice to meet you, Eddie. Andy here has told me a lot about you." He just referred to Andrew Prewt as _Andy_. I assumed he didn't know Andrew Prewt's preferences yet. I also assumed it wasn't out of disrespect or Andrew Prewt would never have brought him into The Hyde Out. The other two, Marge and Michael, each murmured a "Hello!" Only now that the initial shock had worn off, my eyes did stay riveted on who I now knew was Marge. She was even better looking and better built than I had first thought.

Andrew Prewt asked if they could join me. I responded, "Well, you've all come this far." Abbie squeezed in next to me. Marge and Michael sat on the other side. Andrew Prewt pulled up a chair and sat in the aisle. Sarge wandered off to the pinball machines as she always did, there to play her favorite shooting gallery machine for at least a full hour, never missing a shot, drinking one glass of house white wine, speaking to no one, unless Andrew Prewt walked over. Andrew Prewt had told me that the war and her combat had greatly affected her. He said that gorgeous Sarge used to be quite gregarious. Now, she was just gorgeous.

Andrew Prewt ordered drinks for himself and his, I assumed, friends. Abbie had a coke and explained to me that he didn't drink any form of alcohol, ever. Marge had a white zinfandel. Michael had a shot of bar bourbon and a shell of draft American beer chaser. Andrew Prewt had his normal: a bottle of _bia ala Prewt_. _Bia ala_ Prewt was what we called what Jamie drank, _bia_ being the Vietnamese word for beer in a glass of ice. I had finished my lunch by then and was drinking my cream soda.

Some small talk followed. Andrew Prewt told the story about The Speakeasy, The Holes in the Wall Booth, and how Prohibition had made it happen. Abbie told us who Marge and Michael were. They were co-founders of SDS, Students for a Democratic Society, at MSU, Michigan State University, the professional athlete school. They stayed pretty much silent for the entire visit.

When Andrew Prewt finished his stories, Abbie said, "So, Eddie, Andy tells me you are a newly minted lawyer. We're here for the Festival of Life. And, _love_ , I might add. I'd like to hire you"

"He's correct. I am a lawyer, newly minted. But, did he also tell you that I am, and intend to continue being, a non-practicing lawyer?"

"Yes, he did. But, I don't want to hire you as a practicing attorney. I want you to be our bail bondsman. We have enough money, in cash, to serve what we think will be our needs. But, we know the system will be fucking with us. We want someone to be present at these bail hearings that knows the law and can help unfuck us."

"Besides not being at all excited about your offer, you and your associates will need twenty-four-seven coverage. Besides running my bar and other businesses, I couldn't be anywhere twenty-four-seven, let alone eight-seven."

"Andy told me all this. Your being there isn't exactly what we want. If you're anywhere as good as Andy says you are, and you'd be willing to do it, your presence would be our preference. But, give me a break. I might not be as smart as everyone says you are, but I'm no dummy either. I knew you wouldn't agree to be there, so I didn't ask. You misunderstood. I told you we have money, but there are limits to everything. We could probably afford three downtown shysters, but money, no matter how much one might have, is always tight. What we want you to do is give us three of your lawyers who haven't landed their real jobs yet. If they have already passed the bar, it will be so much the better. If not, even last year students should be OK! Will you help us? I say _will_ and not _can_ because I know you can. So, will you?"

I had to think about it, and said so. To be sure, I didn't want Abbie and his ilk hanging around in my bar. I was sympathetic to their cause. I was as anti-war and anti-Vietnam as they were. But, The Hyde Out and the rest of the places were my businesses. Even the appearance of Andrew Prewt, known and respected as he was, had caused a few problems. Even though we were in Hyde Park and everyone had known him for years and sympathized with him and Sarge, most of my afternoon crowd were tradesmen, as was Andrew Prewt now. While few were racist and most were somewhat liberal and voted Democratic, so did LBJ. And, it was he who escalated this so-called conflict. Shit! When was it a police action? When was it a conflict? When was it a war? Young American kids died in all of them. They surely didn't give a shit what the name of the bullshit they died in was. They were just as dead.

Political and religious arguments were one of every bar owner's worse nightmares. Keep it to sports. Keep it to good looking women. But, keep it away from politics and religion.

"I'll let you know tomorrow. Give me a call here at the bar about eleven in the morning or so. I'll know by then." But, I already knew that I would do it. Besides getting a few bucks for a few of my guys, I also already knew who they would be. I really did sympathize with the cause and wanted to help. My first _pro bono_ , as I knew I wouldn't accept any money. I didn't need it, and it would leave more for my guys.

Judging by Abbie's immediate acquiescence, I think he understood what I was doing. It was more than just a game, but a game nonetheless. Just give one's self enough time to think.

Charles had taught me to never make a decision before one had to make it. And conversely, never make a decision later than the decision had to be made. In this case, there wasn't any rush. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

We finished our drinks. I talked nice-nice to Marge. When the others were leaving, I asked Marge if she would stay for lunch. Money wasn't exactly omnipresent for these travelling college student protesters. So when I told her 'On the house! She said "OK!"

I ordered her what I had had, my favorite, a meat loaf sandwich with a side of American potato salad, and naturally a large portion of our Creamy Coleslaw, as well as a large spear of kosher dill pickle, the deli's namesake.

I told her, "You are a beautiful young woman, but not all that big of a one. Do you think what I have in mind for you will be too much?"

She laughed at my equivocation, and said "I'm starving. I don't think it will be too much, either of them." Marge said that she hadn't eaten much for breakfast, only a donut, so she made short work of her lunch.

She ate. We talked. We made sure we both knew what we wanted to do with the rest of that day and night. We walked over to The Powhatan. Marge stayed the night.

She was with me in the bar at The Holes in the Wall Booth the next morning for Charles' Blend. Marge knew good coffee. She also knew her bagels. Marge had lived her teenage years in New York City. Her _with_ was the same as Charles', lox. The phone rang. It was eleven in the morning. We had slept _in_ , and _in_ , and _in_. The bartender gave me the phone and said, "It's for you, Eddie." It was Abbie, exactly on time.

I said, "OK! Abbie. I'll help. I already have the three guys picked out. I'll just have to ask them, get their agreement, get a fee schedule and contract worked out, and make arrangements for you to meet them. One thing, however: I don't want you demonstration guys in my bar. It would be horrible for my business. I have already heard enough about your being here yesterday. I think you're a great guy, and should be rewarded, not scorned, for what you're doing. But, you and your appearance are too well known, and my business is my business. Let me do this stuff through Michael and Marge. At least, they look normal. At least, no one recognizers them. If we have to meet, I can make a trip up to the Loop or Lincoln Park."

"OK, Eddie! I understand. Is Marge still there with you?" Abbie was right. He's not any dummy.

I said, "Yes." He asked to speak to her. I gave her the phone.

After a few minutes, she gave the phone back to the bartender to hang it up. She turned to me and said, "I've known Abbie for about eight years now. I lived my teenage years in New York City. I met him there almost as soon as I had arrived. He's really a great guy. I trust him. I like him a lot. And, he just told me he likes you a lot as well. He wants to meet, early tomorrow afternoon, around two, if possible, up in Lincoln Park, in the garden behind the Chicago Historical Society. He said Michael also will be there, as will I and maybe a few others. He wants you to bring your three guys. You should have it all lined up by then, right?"

"Yeah, that sounds OK. You headed back up north now?"

"Yep! It's that time. I had a great time, Eddie. I really enjoyed myself. I hope to see you again, soon, besides tomorrow afternoon. Andrew," at least Marge used his full first name, " and Abbie are correct. You are a good guy."

I walked her to the bus stop and waited with her until the bus came. There wasn't any subway or el service to the Loop from Hyde Park, but there was an express Lake Shore Drive bus service. The bus approached. We kissed, a soft peck, and she got on the bus. I agreed with Marge. We had had a good time. I had enjoyed myself. I also hoped to see her again, soon, besides tomorrow afternoon. She was a good gal.

I returned to The Hyde Out. The bartender said, "Hey, Eddie, while you were out, Geri called. She said to call her back at the library."

I did. I called. She said she was staying overnight in Hyde Park tonight. She wanted to know if I could join her for dinner at the Roof Top Terrace in the Hotel Del Prado. She said it would be her treat. The special tonight was to be prime rib. Even if it wasn't Geri asking and the action which was sure to follow later, how could I say no to prime rib? So, I said "Yes!" We made our arrangements.

Besides, I guess I was a _dog_.

I went upstairs to my office to get some work done. It was way past noon, and I hadn't even finished reading the Sports Section.
17

Abbie Hoffman

### August 6, 1968

### Tuesday

I wanted to sleep _in_ and _in_ again, but Geri had to get to the Library early. She had to get up early, I did as well. I would have to settle for simply sleeping _in_.

Our evening at the Roof Top terrace had, as usual, been a great one. Geri had met me at The Hyde Out about six for a couple of glasses of wine, on me of course. And, why not? Geri was buying dinner. The Del Prado Hotel was just a short distance from The Hyde Out, towards the lake. We walked through the last of the day's humid air, but since the walk was short and the elevator air-conditioned, we were still dry when we walked out on to the Roof Top Terrace.

I didn't need a beer before prime rib. I drank water. Geri had another glass of wine. We didn't dilly dally. Geri was starved. I was my normal hungry self. Even after three years, I still had the eating habits of a hyperthyroid. The prime rib was rare and delicious. We both had the large cut. We both had twice-baked baked potatoes. Geri had a salad. I never liked rabbit food. I had a plate of fresh tomatoes, no dressing. We both demolished everything.

We walked home to my place. It was a pleasant summer night, with a cooling Lake Michigan breeze. We were both stuffed. We sat in the family room, facing the lake, and talked about my John-John Project.

I didn't have much to report. I told her I had already spoken to Stosh the Cop and that he had already provided me with a lot of stuff and promised more to come. I told her I was doing a lot of thinking. I told her I was getting nowhere. I told her John-John was starting to get on my nerves as he was always asking me what I had learned, what I was doing, insinuating I wasn't doing enough. I loved John-John. I just didn't have Charles' patience. As much as I wished I had or would have, I knew I never would have.

Geri understood and sympathized, but it changed nothing. I still didn't know how to figure this thing out.

We went to bed. We didn't go to sleep. Then, we went to sleep.

The next morning when I got out of the shower, and while Geri dilly-dallied with her hair, as women are prone to do, I made us a pot of Charles' Blend. We both left after just one cup. We hopped a bus south. I got off after the short distance to The Hyde Out. I was able to get a lot of work done while I drank more of Charles' Blend and nibbled away at my bagel _with_.

I had talked to my three guys yesterday, and they were all up for it. I told them to meet me at The Pickle around noon. That would give us an hour to talk and plan and another hour to get to the North Side.

Abbie and his crowd had been having much difficulty in getting permits for their demonstration activities. Irrespective of what they had asked for, the Daley crowd had denied them everything. As is usual when the power structure wants what it wants, no one else gets what they want if the power structure sees what others want as a threat to what it wants. The law and legality be damned.

I'm sure Abbie had the best lawyers, in and out of Chicago, working on this, all to no avail. Abbie was no dummy. He didn't ask me for help with permits.

Abbie had been quoted in the Tribune a few weeks ago: "I pointed out that it was in the best interests of the City to have us in Lincoln Park, ten miles away from the Convention Hall. I said we had no intention of marching on the Convention Hall, that I didn't particularly think that politics in America could be changed by marches and rallies, that what we were presenting was an alternative life style, and we hoped that people of Chicago would come up and mingle in Lincoln Park and see what we were about."

But, the City of Chicago kept saying "No!"

I was convinced that we would soon have riots on our hands. I told this to my guys. They said that then they should get paid piece work rates as well as a flat retainer. We all laughed at that, but the suggestion made sense. It was something I had to bring up with Abbie this afternoon.

_Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes_ showed up for our working lunch. The four of us were in The Holes in the Wall Booth. Jordan pulled up a chair. I told her "Good to see you, Jordan, but this is a private working lunch."

Jordan said "I know, Eddie. I talked to Andrew Prewt. He told me what was going down."

"Well then, you should know this is private."

"Yes, but I want in. I'm also a Vet Against the War, and I want in."

"All well and good, Jordan, but this meeting has nothing to do with Vets Against the War. It has to do with lawyer stuff, and you ain't one yet. So, please, let us be."

"OK! But, I'm going with you to Lincoln Park. Either that or I'll take the bus and meet you there. You probably don't know, but I spent two years at MSU before I went into the army. I want to see Andrew Prewt. I want to see if anyone I know from MSU is in the park. I want to meet Abbie. So, I'd appreciate it if you drove me. Otherwise, the bus it is."

I laughed. "OK, Jordan. It'll be a tight fit, but we'll drive you. I don't know about the return trip. I have plans. But, we'll see."

The original four of us had our working lunch.

Then, we left for Lincoln Park. Since I wanted to take John-John with us, he drove the big De Soto north. It was a 1942, one of the last cars built during the World War II shutdown. Charles figured since everyone knew we wouldn't have newly built cars for a while, he would get one for himself. It was a huge, heavy, great handling automobile, sleek and black, and in great condition since Charles, and now I, used it only occasionally, and was almost always garaged, particularly in both the horrible Chicago winters and the summer heat. Charles, and now I, always had a _decent-running-older-model_ for everyday use, which wasn't really every day anyway, more like two or three times a week. These feet were made for walking. At present, our _decent-running-older-model_ was a _decent-running-newer-model_ , a 1965 Oldsmobile 98 which Charles had purchased just before he got sick. It also was kept garaged as much as possible.

We took the De Soto. It had much more seating room.

John-John had been Charles' designated driver. Now, he was mine. He loved the job. He even skipped his noon beer so he could be alert for the drive. The six of us fit, but not as comfortably as if there were only five. Jordan sat in front between me and John-John. The seating arrangement made me a bit uncomfortable as I again was forced to think about company ink.

The view of the lakefront as we drove north was as magnificent as it always was. Traffic was light, and we made the trip in about half an hour. We easily found parking and walked over to the gardens.

Besides his considering driving as his job, actually more as his prerogative, the reason I wanted to take John-John with us was so he could walk around where the Nails horse accident took place. We hadn't done that yet. I hadn't thought about it. Maybe, I was derelict.

Well, I thought about it now. The Abbie visit shook my brain cells. Maybe, the visit wouldn't amount to anything, but John-John would both enjoy the trip, and maybe his visiting the site would shake a memory or two loose. Hopefully, it would also settle him down as far as I was concerned. Hopefully, he also would believe that I really was doing something. As it turned out, John-John was much more excited about meeting Abbie than he was about his _situation_. Oh, what the hell!

John-John saw Abbie a second or so before I did. He was looking for him. I was looking at the flowers. There were three others with him besides Andrew Prewt, Sarge, Marge and Michael. I recognized two of them immediately. One I knew. The other I recognized the same way I had recognized Abbie two days earlier. His face, often alongside Abbie's was all over the television and newspapers.

The one I knew was David Peel, the Yippees! Troubadour. I knew David from my visits up to the University of Wisconsin, trips I took whenever I felt the need for a counterculture experience. The one I knew only from his publicity was Jerry. The third guy looked about as slovenly a creature as I had ever seen. The whole group was atop the platform where the Abraham Lincoln statue stood, a fitting location for a meeting about truth, justice and the American way.

As we walked up to them, John-John started yelling, "Hello, Abbie Hoffman. Hello!" I managed to quiet him down somewhat before Abbie could reprimand him. I said, "John-John, Abbie isn't quite a fugitive on the lam, but I know he would appreciate a bit more discretion."

John-John said, this time a bit more subdued, "I'm sorry, Abbie Hoffman. I'm really sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'm really sorry."

Before I could say anything, Abbie said, "Hi, John-John. Don't worry about it. It's OK! Andy told me you were coming with Eddie today. I'm glad to meet you. Andy said you are a real special friend." He reached out with both arms to give John-John a great big bear hug.

John-John was somewhat embarrassed by this immediate and public display of affection, but not enough of either to object. In fact, John-John glowed.

"Thank you, Abbie Hoffman. Thank you! Andrew Prewt is a real special friend, Abbie Hoffman. Andrew Prewt is a real special friend. I want you to be my real special friend as well, Abbie Hoffman. I want you to be my real special friend as well. I see you on television all the time, Abbie Hoffman. I see you on television all the time. I know you are really acting, but I like it when you act crazy, Abbie Hoffman. I like it when you act crazy. It's a lot of fun to watch you, Abbie Hoffman. It's a lot of fun to watch you. Then, I think about it, trying to understand why you are being crazy, Abbie Hoffman. Sometimes I can understand, Abbie Hoffman. Sometimes I can understand. Other times, I just get more confused. But, it is always fun, Abbie Hoffman. It is always fun."

"Wow," I thought to myself. I won't ever again think that John-John is slow. He's damned fast on the draw. There aren't too many people who ever understand Abbie. Newspapermen and politicians in particular don't have a clue. But, John-John? He understands immediately, like _right now_. "Wow!"

"Thanks for understanding what I do, John-John. I'm very political. Acting like a clown is my way of doing it. Just a little spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down."

Who'da thunk it? Abbie Hoffman and Mary Poppins. Abbie Hoffman and John-John.

John-John then said, "And, hello to you Jerry. I am also very happy to make your acquaintance, Jerry."

Not quite as graciously as he could have, Jerry said, "Nice to meet you as well, John-John." He even extended a hand. John-John noticed the slight, but said nothing. He just turned back to Abbie and smiled.

I then introduced Jordan and the rest of my contingency to Abbie's crowd. Though Abbie did give Jordan a great big grin, the salutations were a lot more subdued than they had been with John-John.

Abbie then introduced everyone else in his crowd to everyone else in mine, this despite many in each group overlapping and thus, already known to each other. The unsavory looking guy was introduced as Dana. He had both long hair on his head and on his face. I don't begrudge anyone for wearing their hair and their beard as they damned well please. Dana's hair even appeared quite clean. It was, however, unkempt and made him look like hell. His dirty clothes, unlike his hair, made the impression even less memorable. I guess the nearness of Lake Michigan allowed for bathing one's self, but not the limited amount of clothes one of these travelling demonstrators could carry. Abbie, Jerry, David, Marge and Michael, on the other hand, had clean bodies and clean clothes. Priorities will tell.

Abbie said, "Jerry has important business elsewhere in about twenty minutes. So, what say we get started here?"

I said, "Sure!" I turned to John-John and said, "John-John! I'm sorry, but you can't stay for this meeting."

John-John looked like I had just slapped him in the face.

"I'm sorry if it hurts you, John-John, but this is law stuff, and you just can't be here."

John-John said, "Why are you treating me like this, Eddie G.? Charles would never try to get rid of me like this."

I guess I should be used to John-John's always comparing me to Charles when he didn't like something I had said or done. But, I'm not. It's one of the few things about John-John that irritates me. There is nothing I can do about it, however, except to grin and bear. John-John would never understand why his saying that should irritate me.

I simply said, "I'm sorry, John-John, but it's the law. You have watched Perry Mason and The Defenders on television. Meetings between the clients and their lawyers are confidential only if they are alone. No other people can be present, or the meeting isn't confidential."

John-John jumped in. he said, "You know you can trust me, Eddie G. I would never say anything. Wild horses couldn't drag anything out of me, Eddie G."

"I know that, John-John. Of course, I trust you. That's not the point. If anyone and I mean anyone, who is not supposed to be at the meeting is at the meeting, it doesn't matter if anyone says something or not. The clients lose their confidentiality. The judge can order me to tell everything that happened. If I don't, it's just not some jail time. I would lose my license and never be able to be a lawyer again. It is important, John-John, that this meeting be confidential. I'm sorry, John-John."

Talk about a dog-faced expression. John-John's made a slobbering bloodhound's face look like Marilyn Monroe. Abbie, bless his heart, jumped in. he said, "John-John, I'm sorry too, but Eddie is one-hundred percent correct. Besides, I didn't say I had to go anywhere after the meeting. I said that Jerry had to leave. So when this shindig here is over, how about you and me going over to the zoo for a little R & R?"

That made John-John's day. An adventure with his new idol, Abbie Hoffman.

John-John's face lit up and he said, "That would be great, Abbie Hoffman. That would be a real honor, Abbie Hoffman."

I said, "I have a small job for you as well. See that tunnel over there, John-John? On the other side is a statue of Benjamin Franklin. I want you to go over there with Jordan. She isn't a lawyer so she can't stay with us either. When you get there, I want you to think about that newspaper article. OK? Abbie and I will meet you there in a while after this meeting is over."

"OK, Eddie G. OK! See you then."

John-John and Jordan left us. John-John might not be as happy as he would have liked to have been, but happy enough in the knowledge that he was due for some one-on-one face time with Abbie. John-John had a new hero.

I think the thinking job I gave him wasn't all that important to him right now.

Jerry spoke first. "Eddie, here's how it's going to work. Dana here will have all the money that will be needed. In cash. When he's not able to be around, which will be seldom since he never seems to sleep, there will be another guy. You'll all meet him later. His name is Robby."

Dana was their money carrier. While it was, of course, left unsaid, the money surely was coming from the sale of marijuana. I wasn't supposed to know that, so nothing could be said about it.

"We don't plan to bail out everybody who gets arrested. Besides it not being our responsibility, we could never raise that much money. Either Marge or Michael will always be around the court. They both know all of our players, the ones we want bailed out ASAP. They will have to work twelve-plus hour shifts. They know it. There is only one main court. That will be where one of your guys must, and I emphasize _must_ , always be. The only time they can be out of the courtroom is for a nature call. The rest of the time they sit there with Marge or Michael. If they are told one of the detainees is one of ours, they must play close attention to the proceedings. Whosoever is on duty for us at that time, Marge or Michael, will leave the courtroom, find Dana and return with the money. They will pay the bail. Your guy doesn't have to do anything except be a monitor and take notes. However, if the judge or whomsoever tries to fuck with our people, your guy will need to go into action."

Finally, he referred to my three guys. Other than having been introduced, maybe not even then, he hadn't yet acknowledged any of them. He asked "How many of these three guys are actually lawyers?"

I responded, "All three, actually. I wouldn't bring Abbie, Andrew Prewt or Sarge anything but the best available. However, only Tom," pointing to him, a short, pudgy guy, "here has passed the bar. Thus far. The other two guys have both taken the bar exam and we expect good news shortly, any day now, maybe by the time of the Convention. We hope so, but we haven't heard anything yet. Right now, only Tom and I carry the official badge. That won't, however, prevent Rich or Harold from asking to be heard by the Court. In all probability, after the judge asks them for standing, and they identify themselves as law school graduates waiting for bar exam results, he will allow them to address the Court, maybe not directly on behalf of your people, but the effect will be the same. If the norm holds, all hearings will be held at the 26th and California lockup. That's close enough to The Hyde Out that I can be in Court in under half an hour if need be. Besides if the Court decides to fuck with your people, as you describe it, there won't be anything that could be done there at that time anyway. Any proceedings would be delayed at least a day or two, and, in that case, you'd want to bring in your own people. So, my guys will have done exactly the job you asked of them."

Jerry said, "If you guys want the job, and I guess you do or you wouldn't have trekked all the way down here, it's time to talk money."

Not a one of us on my side said a word. My guys knew it was my deal and that they had to wait for me. And, I knew enough to wait for a guy who seemed anxious to show everybody who was in charge here. He was uncoiling the rope. Charles had always told me to wait for these kinds of people. It wouldn't be long before they had hung themselves.

"We'll pay your guys eighty a shift. You get an additional twenty percent of that for organizing."

"Abbie, I assume this guy's your friend. So, I don't want to insult him. You insult him for me. Tell the asshole to 'Go fuck himself.' We're going to the zoo."

Abbie laughed. He turned to Jerry and said, "Jerry, go fuck yourself. I told you Eddie was a good guy. I didn't tell you he was an asshole. Why do you always have to assume everybody else is?"

To me, he said, "Jerry always has to try. I guess it's in his blood as a legal system hater, cops, judges and lawyers in that order. He thought that ten dollars an hour for sitting around reading the sports section wasn't a bad deal for a guy waiting around for his license to steal to arrive in the mail. We'll pay that and half again, plus the twenty percent to you for putting it all together. Is that better?"

"Yeah, Abbie, that will do fine, except give my guys the whole thing, eighteen. I'll go _pro bono_. They need the money. There is, however, one more thing. How many of these hearings do you expect?"

Jerry jumped in with, "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"Report writing. You're going to want a full report on each of your guys. It will be necessary if we are to protect the legal record. We all hope that most of these hearings will be routine, and require nothing more than a paragraph or two that can easily be written while waiting for the next hearing. However, if there are going to be a shitload of these hearings and if the system decides to fuck with your people, there will be a lot of reports that will need to be written after shift. My guys will do a good job, but they will need to get paid. Skip my percentage. Just pay them the same eighteen an hour for any necessary out-of-court work. OK?"

Abbie said, "OK!"

With that we were done. But, Jerry still had to get in his _bossy-two-more-cents_. He said, "I want this pudgy guy on the late afternoon shift, say six until two in the morning. That's probably when there will be the most action. With Moe there, we can be sure we'll have a licensed shylock in place. The other Two Stooges can work their schedule out between themselves."

I said, "I won't call you _asshole_ again if you will just be courteous enough to call Tom _Tom._ Tom, Dick and Harry might really be funny, but it ain't Moe, Carl and Curly." I really didn't like that smug son-of-a-bitch.

Abbie said, "Enough, guys! Go to your neutral corners and cool off. Remember, this is supposed to be a _Festival of Life_."

Jerry said, "Hey, Eddie! Don't get you balls caught in the toilet paper. It's just business."

"No, the law is not a business. Maybe to you and to too many lawyers, it is. But, the law is not a business. It is a profession. That's a major reason I long ago decided I wasn't going to be a practicing attorney. It is almost impossible to make a living today as an attorney if one views the law as a profession, open to all who need it irrespective of the ability to pay. Business power almost always trumps professional power. I don't like knowing, even before I sit down at the table that I'm going to get almost nothing other than losing hands. That's why I'm here to help you, _pro bono_ as I said. Being a lawyer is a privilege and your cause needs help. I offer you mine. I can't lose here because I'm not here to do anything except to babysit and protect the record. Don't throw my help back into my face with your arrogance and bullshit! If it was just you, I'd walk away right now with a big _Fuck You!_ echoing in the lake breeze. But, it isn't just you. It's Abbie, and Andrew Prewt, and Sarge, and Marge, and Michael, and David, and a whole lot of other deserving people, including Dana, who's more of a gentleman than you'll ever be. So, I'll stay even if you continue to be an asshole, but don't count on our good will lasting forever. Maybe, just maybe, Tom, Rich and Harold would enjoy too much telling you to _Fuck Off!_ lake breeze or no lake breeze!"

With that, it was over. Jerry was livid with rage. His face was as red as a bowl of borsht. Except for the muttering, he was silent as he stormed off for his meeting. Andrew Prewt said that he and Sarge had to head off as well. For one of the rare times, Sarge wasn't completely silent. She was snickering. Dana just sort of melted away. After a brief hug and reminisce, David left as well. My guys were off to the bus stop. I had told them before we headed north that I had plans to stick around for a couple of hours. I asked Marge if she would like to join us on our meanderings. She said, "Yes, I would, but Michael and I have work to do. Maybe, I'll free up tonight or tomorrow. I'll let you know." With that she and Michael split off from us.

So, Abbie and I left for the underpass and to find John-John and Jordan. I think Abbie was interested in both of them. I hope this wasn't jealousy I was feeling. That's a real shitty emotion, both to feel and to act upon.

As we emerged from the dark tunnel, we saw John-John and Jordan. Jordan was watching John-John who was walking around the Benjamin Franklin statue. I yelled out to John-John. "What are you doing, guy? Looking for Amos?" Amos was the mouse in Walt Disney's _Ben and Me_.

John-John had to laugh at that one. "Hello, Eddie G. Hello, Abbie Hoffman!" Well, I was still first, at least in the greetings department.

"Why, Eddie G.? Why did you send me here to think? I have been thinking, Eddie G. I have been thinking. But, I wasn't thinking about here, Eddie G. I was thinking about the water that is supposed to be here but isn't, Eddie G. I was thinking about the water. When that horse jumped up and fell on that man, it was near the water, Eddie G. It was near the water. But, there isn't any water here, Eddie G."

"Why water, John-John. The article doesn't say anything about water, does it? It does say, however, about this Benjamin Franklin statue."

"I don't know anything about that, Eddie G. I don't know anything about that. But, I do know about the water, Eddie G. I do know about the water and there isn't any water here."

"OK, John-John. Let's head north to the zoo, and think about it along the way."

We headed out, but I doubt if John-John was doing much thinking. He was too busy playing with Abbie, who was too busy playing with John-John. Abbie was every bit as playful for real as he was in public. It was really special seeing John-John enjoying himself so much, running around like a kid, jumping up in the air and yelling "Yippie!"

Jordan hung back with me, but I knew she wanted to be up there with Abbie and John-John. Well, with Abbie anyway.

We headed north the half mile or so to the Zoo Pond. We were all hungry. I know I was. Sometimes there is a hot dog stand near the historic Café Brauer building. I read recently a committee has been formed to find a way to reopen this great German restaurant after being closed for over twenty years. In the 20's, it was a Lincoln Park treasure, but now it looked like the _deserted-for-twenty-years_ dump that it was.

We were still about a football field's length from the Pond, when John-John changed his yelling "Yippee!" with Abbie to yelling "Yippee!" for himself.

"I see the water, Eddie G. I see the water. It was here, Eddie G. I know it was right here. I was here, Eddie G. I know I was here."

John-John ran to the Pond's edge. He kept yelling, "It was here, Eddie G. I know it was right here. I was here, Eddie G. I know I was here."

"How can you be so sure, John-John? What makes you so sure this is the place?

"I see the water, Eddie G. I see the water. It was here, Eddie G. I know it was right here. Don't you believe me, Eddie G.? Don't you believe me?"

"Of course, I believe you, John-John. That's not what I said. I asked, 'How can you be so sure? You remember about my ducks, don't you?"

"Yes, Eddie G. I remember about your ducks. And, look out there in the water. There are your ducks. Some of them are even in a straight line." There was a duck-boat ride attraction on the Zoo Pond pier.

John-John laughed a loud guffaw and yelled "Yippie!"

Abbie was clueless. I quickly filled him in on my John-John Project while John-John continued his play. Abbie said, "Wow! That's heavy."

We talked about it, not really saying anything until John-John came back over to us. I said, "John-John, remember an hour or so ago, I sent you over to the Benjamin Franklin statue to think? Well now that it looks like we are in the right place, that's what I want you to do here. Just think."

"You want me to think about what happened here a long time ago when I was just a little kid, Eddie G.? You want me to think? You want me to try to remember, Eddie G.? You want me to try to remember?"

"Yes, John-John, I want you to think. Maybe, you can remember more about what happened here. How about we go for a duck boat ride on the Pond to help?"

"Yes, Eddie G. Yes! Let's go on a duck boat ride, Eddie G. Let's go on a duck boat ride. Can I go with Abbie Hoffman, Eddie G.? Can I go with Abbie Hoffman?"

I felt a bit slighted about John-John's choice, but, I said, "Of course, you can, John-John. Of course you can."

John-John said "We want Jordan too, Eddie G. But, there's only room in the _duckboat_ for two, Eddie G. You can go with Jordan, Eddie G. You can go with Jordan."

"That's OK, John-John. We'll just wait here on the shore for you guys. Go have fun!"

"We will, Eddie G. We will."

We all walked out on the pier to the boat rental guy. I paid him, John-John and Abbie got into the duck boat and pedaled away. Jordan and I went to sit on a park bench. It was getting on to late afternoon, so we selected a bench that faced east, away from the sun. I closed my eyes and reflected. "Why isn't that damned Benjamin Franklin statue here? Why isn't this damned Pond further south down by the statue? Did they drain the pond and move it?"

I guess I dozed off for a while. The next thing I realized I was hearing John-John running back towards my bench. I rubbed my eyes and saw John-John and Abbie right in front of me. Abbie had been running as well.

"That was great fun, Eddie G. That was great fun. Abbie Hoffman and I had great fun, Eddie G. Abbie Hoffman and I had great fun. We have to come back here again, Eddie G. We have to come back here again."

"OK, John-John. We can do that. But, were you thinking out there, John-John? Did you remember anything?"

"Yes, I was thinking out there, Eddie G. Yes, I was thinking out there. But, I didn't remember anything more than I already remembered, Eddie G. I didn't remember anything more than I already remembered."

"Well, it's getting late, John-John. Let's head back to where we parked the car and get back home. We can save our visit to the Zoo for our next trip back here. Next time, we'll leave earlier so we will have more time. OK, John-John?"

"OK, Eddie G., we can wait. OK! But, I really wanted to see the animals, Eddie G. I really wanted to see the animals. When we come back, Eddie G., can Abbie Hoffman come with us? Can Abbie Hoffman come with us?"

"Of course, Abbie can come with us, John-John. If he is in town and he wants to come with us. For now, let's head south."

"OK, Eddie G. OK!" to Abbie, he said, "Did you hear that, Abbie Hoffman? Did you hear that? Eddie G. said we can all come back to the zoo together. Can you come back to the zoo with us, Abbie Hoffman? Can you come back to the zoo with us?"

"Yes, I can, John-John. If I'm in town, I will go with you. I had a lot of fun today. I know you did as well."

"Yes, I did, Abbie Hoffman, Yes, I did. Yippie!"

We headed south. As we walked, I lost myself in my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about that damned Benjamin Franklin statue. The newspaper couldn't be wrong about something so large, but so inconsequential. I couldn't disbelieve what John-John had said about the water. About this, his memory was too clear. Did Amos the Mouse just talk Ben into moving a half a mile south?

The people at the Chicago Historical Society would know. It was on our way. We had to walk past it on our way back to our car. The Society was open until five. It was just barely four o'clock, so, there would be time to stop there and find out what we could find out.

As we approached the statue, Abbie said, "Here's where I peel off. I need to head back to my people. Eddie. Thanks for your help. We'll be in touch. John-John, I had a great time. Meeting you was real. I look forward to next time."

"Me, too, Abbie Hoffman. Me too. I look forward to next time, Abbie Hoffman."

Abbie asked Jordan if she wanted to stay down at the encampment for awhile. She answered in the affirmative. John-John got another hug from Abbie, and another from Jordan. She said "I'll be behind the bar at eight, but if I'm a little late, I'm covered. Evil will be there waiting for me if I'm running a little late."

"No problem, Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes!"

Abbie said "What?"

Jordan laughed and said "I'll explain. Come on! Let's go!"

We all waved to each other as Abbie and Jordan peeled off and went their way. I felt that strange unwanted feeling again as I stared at Jordan walking away. John-John and I walked past the statue, through the tunnel and into the garden. We walked to the front of the Chicago Historical Society building, and walked in.

I walked up to one of the docents, and asked, "Will you please direct me to someone who can help me with a few questions about the statue of Benjamin Franklin that is just north of the Society?"

"Sure, our director would know. Who should I say is asking?"

"My name is Eddie G."

With some enthusiasm, the woman said, "Eddie, I didn't recognize you at first. I guess you don't recognize me at all. We only met once, a while back. I'm Ruth Turban, a friend of your mother's. How is she? I haven't seen her since she moved south to work with you."

"She's great. I think she loves her new job, as well as her new neighborhood. But, I know she misses the Society. She wanted to stay here, but it was just too far. She's a docent at the Museum of Science and Industry now. On a nice day, it's only a half hour walk from her apartment. I'll tell her I saw you, and ask her to give you a call. Does she have your number?"

"I'm sure she does, but let me write it down for you anyway."

"Great! I'll be sure she gets it. Maybe, one day when you're not on duty, you can come down to our deli and have lunch with my mom."

'I'd like that. Oh! Here comes Mr. Skramstad, our director."

She shouted out, "Oh! Mr. Skramstad! Mr. Skramstad! Can you come here for a minute and help these gentlemen?"

Only a friend of my mother's could refer to us as gentlemen, considering the way John-John and I were dressed. Mr. Skramstad came over, and said, "Yes, Mrs. Turban." Turning to me and John-John, he asked, "How may I help you?" He was polite, but I noticed he didn't refer to us as gentlemen. He was quite well dressed. His suit was surely over two-hundred dollars; I wouldn't want to guess what his shoes or his haircut cost.

"Mr. Skramstad, this is Eddie, Jeanette's son. I didn't get the name of the other gentleman. I'm sorry, but I was too excited seeing Eddie to ask."

"This is John-John, Mr. Skramstad. He's a real special friend of mine and of my mother's.

"You can be my friend, Mr. Scramstuff. You can be my friend. You can call me John-John, Mr. Scramstuff. You can call me John-John."

Mr. Skramstad laughed. I guess he was a good guy and a gentleman after all. "It's Skramstad, John-John. But, since we are friends now, you call me what my friends call me, Harold."

"OK, Harold. I will call you Harold, Harold. I will call you Harold."

It wasn't all that difficult to quickly see John-John had a problem. Harold had seen it immediately. More importantly, he handled it well. My mother had spoken of him briefly, only once or twice, but she said he was a pretty good egg. I guess she was correct.

Again, Harold asked how he could help.

I said, "That statue of Benjamin Franklin just north of the Society?"

"Yes, it is said to be the finest statue of Franklin in the world, including the one in Paris. It has only been this close to the Society for about two years now. Before that, it was at its original location just east of the Pond, about a half mile north of here. The Zoo was expanding and needed more space. We are all very happy here that they decided to move it so close to us."

Holy Fucking Moly!

I could hardly believe it. John-John remembered a lot more than I thought he had. When I called the Society this morning to ask for the location of the Benjamin Franklin statue, they told me where it was now. That was all I had asked. That was all they had told me. Holy Fucking Moly!

Of course, when I had been a kid I had been to the Lincoln Park Zoo, the South Pond and the Chicago Historical Society, as well as all the other museums and so-called places of interest in Chicago. I remembered the elephants, and the lions, and the polar bears. What kid is going to remember the exact location of a statue of Benjamin Franklin? It was in the park... someplace. Even someone like me, who knew all about him and his part in forming our Republic, wouldn't remember. Ask me about him, particularly if I was with my street peers, and I would say, "You mean the guy who only became great because of Amos the Mouse?"

"Is that what you wanted to know, Eddie?"

"Yes, Harold. But after I digest this information, may I call you for more help if I need it?"

"Of course. Here's my card. Feel free to call anytime. And, give my best to your mother. We all miss her here."

We shook hands, and as I turned around to leave, I saw Tom, Rich and Harold. They had also stopped at the Society on the way back south. I waved them over, and I drove us all home. John-John was too excited to drive. He didn't even say a word when I opened the driver's door and got behind the wheel. He just got into the passenger's seat and kept up his chatter about the day.

It was a heavy rush hour so the Drive was packed. Once we quieted John-John down a little bit, we discussed our upcoming retainer. _Retainer_? We didn't get one. That made us all laugh. Even John-John, who didn't understand what we were laughing at, was laughing. We all agreed the job would most likely be nothing but routine. The guys were happy to have it.

Tom asked me if maybe I might have been too aggressive with Jerry. He said the enemy is supposed to be on the other side, not on ours.

I dislike talking too much when I'm driving. Driving demands attention. So does conversation. But, this was an easy one. I answered saying, "I was just following Charles' advice."

This made John-John settle down and pay attention.

"When I first started working for Charles, we were cleaning the basement."

"I remember, Eddie G., you were helping me. I remember, you were helping me."

"Yes, John-John, when we were finished, we went upstairs into the alley. You went back into The Hyde Out for a few minutes. When you left, you leaned the broom up against the garbage can. Just then, an old junkman came by on his horse and wagon, yelling, like always, 'Old rags and iron! Old rags and iron!' As he passed, the horse passed to. What the horse passed, however, wasn't just gas. It was a real load right in the middle of the alley. Just then a big old fly came by and saw that load. The old fly just dove into that load like a kamikaze pilot. And that old fly just ate and ate and ate. That old fly ate so much, he couldn't fly away. That old fly crawled along towards that broom and started to climb up it. When that old fly reached the top, he hopped off hoping, I guess, to glide away. But, that old fly didn't glide away. It dropped straight to the ground and landed with a splat. Charles turned to me and said, "Let that be a lesson to you, kid. Never fly off the handle when you're full of shit."

This time when John-John joined in the laughter, he knew exactly what he was laughing at. John-John loved when I told these Charles stories, particularly the funny ones.

"Well, guys. Before I said what I said about Jerry, I thought about Charles' wisdom. I wasn't full of shit. Jerry was. He knew it and the sooner he knew I knew it as well the better off we would all be. I've met a lot of guys like him since I learned about being full of shit from Charles. Almost without exception, eventually they will shovel shit on you. If you don't put them in their place, the sooner the better, the more shit they shovel on you. Sooner or later, you have to make them stop, so you might as well make them stop sooner; before you have shit all over yourself. Of course, there are times when showing them up for what they are isn't worth the effort. You just let the assholes run their course. When their game is over, you just walk away and never deal with them again. This time, however, we were going to be stuck with Jerry for the foreseeable future. When that long time being stuck with someone is sure to come, best to put him in his place right away. So, I did."

The laughter died down. We all agreed that none of us liked Jerry. Even John-John who liked everybody, didn't like him. We drove the rest of the way pretty quiet.

We made it back to The Hyde Out at just about seven. We were all starved and immediately went to The Pickle for dinner, all except John-John. He was still so excited. He had to get in the bar to regale his captive audience with his day's adventures. I think he also needed his first beer of the day more than he wanted dinner. However, as soon as he got his beer served, he immediately ordered food. The bartender was only too happy to help. He figured that eating would slow John-John's chatter down. He was wrong.

I would have taken my dinner to go, except I needed a beer or two as well, as did Tom, Rick and Harold. We ate. We drank. We didn't talk. I guess we were all talked out about our _retainer_.

I had more than a beer or two before I left. Besides needing the beer, I enjoyed watching, yes watching, not listening, to John-John tell his story. John-John was everywhere a quiet guy, particularly at the bar. He had told me, "I love to listen to the guys' stories, Eddie G. I love to listen to the guys' stories. They are always so interesting, Eddie G. They are always so interesting. Nothing interesting ever happens to me, Eddie G. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. So, I don't say anything. I don't say anything."

I told John-John that I disagreed with him. His job around here made many interesting things happen to him every day. But, John-John disagreed with me. So, John-John never said much. He just listened. Today, however, John-John believed that he had had an extraordinarily interesting day. He walked up and down the bar, beer in hand. He told everybody about it. Often, the same people he told more than once. I enjoyed John-John enjoying himself.

It wasn't all peaches and cream, however. Even though this was Hyde Park and everyone in the place had affection for John-John, The Hyde Out still had its share of political conservatives and pro-Vietnam War believers. After all, somebody had to make the world safe from Communism. Shit, we have had that damn bearded Cuban bastard just ninety miles away for just six months short of ten years all the time ready to invade and conquer our great nation.

Charles and I knew that politics in the bar was bad for business, but that wasn't John-John's concern. Maybe, I should have been more concerned than I was, but I was enjoying John-John's show too much.

That's exactly what I said to the few patrons who ventured forth to tell me of their concerns. To a man, no women complained, they said, "We don't begrudge John-John his fun. It wasn't John-John's fault that you, yes, you, Eddie, who brought that damned communist-anarchist, Abbie Hoffman, into the bar."

To respond that Abbie Hoffman wasn't a communist and that he had a constitutionally protected right to believe whatever he wanted to believe, that he had the same constitutionally protected right to address his government for redress, real or imagined, that each and every one of them demanded that they had, that it wasn't me who brought Abbie Hoffman into the bar, it was their friend Andrew Prewt, who believed the same things that Abbie did, and whom they were afraid to confront, and that it was really John-John who had sought out Abbie as opposed to me making it happen, would have been fruitless. Charles taught me long ago, one should not confuse one with the truth if that one had already made up his mind without it.

I silently suffered these slings and arrows of misfortune, hoping the fall out on the cash register would be minimal. Maybe, these guys would sit around here drinking too much while they were bitching to each other about my indiscretions. Maybe, the fall out would be a fall in. One could always hope.

I called John-John over and reminded him that he was already having his third beer and it was just barely eight-thirty. John-John looked chastised and asked if he could have one more before he went to bed. I told him, "John-John, you are a grown man and you work to support yourself. You are entitled to do whatever you want to do. I'm just trying to help by pointing out a change in your habits. It's not like you have to drive home."

John-John laughed at that. "No, Eddie G! No, I don't have to drive home, But, I do have to walk up the stairs. I do have to walk up the stairs."

I was sure now, if I wasn't before, that John-John was having one of the few, really joyous occasions of his life. John-John only made jokes when he was happy. Fuck the conservative bastards who were complaining about shit when a great guy was having _too-oo_ much fun!

John-John said, "Only one more, Eddie G. Only more. Then, I will go upstairs to bed."

"Ok, John-John, OK! I'll see you tomorrow." I left for the short walk home. The De Soto would have to be safe on the street until morning. Neither John-John nor I would ever dream of driving Charles' car after even a sip of beer.

It was a beautiful summer night with a good Lake Michigan breeze, so I walked slowly along the lakefront to enjoy it. I spent my _walking-home_ time thinking about my John-John Project and Stosh the Cop.
18

Stosh Has More Stuff

### August 7, 1968

### Wednesday

This morning, I was already half-awake when I first noticed the dim sunlight peeking into my room. Even though I had slept a good eight hours, I still didn't want to get out of bed. Except for a few hours in the morning, I hadn't worked at all yesterday. I had been busy with my new _retainer-free_ Yippie! clients laying out the groundwork for my guys. When one ran their own business, in my case, businesses, there was always work to be done, even if it was only to let your employees know you were alive. So, I had better get my ass into gear. So, I did, along all the other parts of me. I stumbled into the shower. There's nothing like a good, bracing, ten or fifteen-minute shower. It's usually enough to wake the dead. This morning it did. I soaped up good, a shower is the only place to get really awake and clean at the same time. It was also one of those days it appeared as if maybe I ought to shave. I was already soaped up, so I did.

I was at The Pickle before seven with my Charles' Blend, a bagel _with_ , and the Sport Section. The Cubs had beaten the Braves four-three in Atlanta last night. Joe Niekro won his twelfth despite giving up two home runs. Luckily, both of them were with the bases empty.

I took a second cup of Charles' Blend with me as I walked to each of the businesses, asking whoever was on duty at each business if there were any problems that needed my attention or if they had any questions for me. Everyone Evil told me "No" and "No." Not amazing! The ones who I didn't inherit from Charles, I had selected the same way Charles taught me. These were great people.

When I asked Evil, she handed me the phone. She said, "Stosh is on hold for you!"

"Stosh? What's up?"

After a hello, I heard Stosh say, "I got a lot more stuff this morning, much too much to drop off at The Hyde Out. Why don't you just be outside with John-John at ten tonight? We'll just drive the stuff over to your apartment. I'll try my best to be as on-time as I can."

"OK, Stosh! Will do."

I took a third cup of Charles' Blend with me upstairs to my office. There was a backup of paperwork my mother didn't believe she should be doing. My mother was very conscientious. If she believed a decision should be made only by the boss, she held that thing aside so the boss could make the decision. As quickly as I could, I made some decisions.

It was a bit after noon by the time I went back downstairs to get my lunch. I was tired of thinking about work. So, I thought about something else: baseball. The Cubs were out of town. The White Sox, however, were home. They were playing a rare midweek day game against the Boston Red Sox. Dick Ellsworth, the ex-Cub, was scheduled to start for them.

I asked where John-John was. If I deserved two good afternoons in a row, so did John-John. He really did work too hard, harder than I did. Besides, he did have to suffer the previous Wednesday at Wrigley Field.

He was at the bar having a Dad's Old Fashioned Root Beer in place of his first beer of the day. He must have known what I would be up to. Sometimes, I believe that he is clairvoyant. His first beer would have to wait until six o'clock. We were going to the ball game today.

John-John had already had his lunch. I joined him at the bar. I ordered a Dad's Old Fashioned Root Beer as well, mine with lots of ice. The Hyde Out had more than just great beer on tap. We also had Dad's on draft. As I soon as I finished my roast beef sandwich and the accompanying accoutrements, we left for Comiskey Park.

It was pushing one in the afternoon before we got started. We'd have to hurry to see the opening pitch. So, we jumped into the De Soto. It was still parked outside on the street. John-John hadn't yet moved it into the garage. It was a rare two afternoons in a row for the De Soto as well.

It was already hot. The prediction was ninety-two degrees today, cooler near the Lake, but not too much. But, it was a great day for a ballgame. We had our choice of seats. We chose the third base side, close to home plate, of the upper deck. It was nicely shaded. We later found out the announced attendance was only five-thousand-four-hundred-twenty-nine.

Ellsworth and the Red Sox won a very quickly played game, three minutes over two hours, three-two. It was Ellsworth's eleventh win of the season. John-John rooted for the White Sox. I, of course, rooted for the ex-Cub, Ellsworth.

By the time we got home, I was ready for a nap. John-John parked the De Soto in The Powhatan garage. He walked back to The Hyde Out. I went inside, stripped out of my sweaty clothes, picked up the ones from last night which were still on the floor and threw them all into the hamper.

My mother was amazed that I kept my place so neat and clean, since I had given her all opposite information when I lived at home. That was eight years ago, however, and four years living in my small apartment at The Hyde Out followed by four more years in the Air Force taught me to keep my things in order. The small apartment taught me that if I didn't, I'd never find anything. The Air Force taught me that if I didn't, I would be in disciplinary trouble. Besides, I also had Maria every day now.

I got into the tub, but not quite so hot this time. I was already too hot. I hadn't done much thinking except about the heat and humidity. I wasn't going to do any now. Not hot water or not, I fell asleep. It was barely five in the afternoon.

I guess since I fell asleep in water that was already somewhat tepid, I didn't wake up when the water really got cold. When I finally woke up about seven, I was thoroughly water logged and hungry as well. I needed my robe to get warm. I also needed to get to The Pickle to eat. Even though John-John and I had had a couple of hot dogs at the ballpark, I was still ready for dinner.

I took my sandwich, accoutrements and cream soda upstairs. I didn't want a beer before I met with Stosh. I didn't want the smoke from the bar. It stunk even in The Pickle. People smoked there as well. Charles couldn't stop them. Neither could I. We didn't any try anymore.

Since I still keep my small apartment upstairs, I had a table at which to sit and a television to watch as I ate and waited for Stosh. I didn't watch much television. The Cubs were in Atlanta and getting their asses kicked. I did catch the final score, ten-two, before I went back downstairs. It wasn't unusual that both Chicago baseball teams lost their games in the same day. John-John and I were outside at exactly ten. Stosh pulled up within seconds of our arrival.

Stosh said, "Eddie, John-John! Get in. We'll drive this stuff over to your apartment. It will be a tight squeeze with all of us in the front seat, but I have a real shitload of stuff. The backseat is filled. So is the trunk. There was no way to keep this on the QT at the station. I had to contact too many people. I had to ask for too many favors. I have shitloads of _owsies_ , up and down the line, from the clerical staff on up to the Chief of Homicide. Some of them knew Charles, so I didn't get much grief...yet! This will haunt me for quite a while. Maybe, I'll never get out from under."

"Stosh, did you read any of the stuff you gave me the other night?"

Stosh laughed and said "Of course, I read _any of the stuff I gave you the other night_. I read it all. Quite amazing stuff, huh?"

"Why didn't you say something, you know, sort of prepare me for what I would find out?"

"Eddie, if you don't know by now why I didn't say anything, you disappoint me. Do I have to tell you why?"

"No, Stosh. I got it. There is no preparation for what one had to learn by one's self. It's part of the discovery process I have to experience myself if I'm to figure this fucking thing out."

"If there's not a way for you to do it yourself, then the other guy has to do the filling-in. But, I think you have to admit the way you learned this stuff was way better than if I had told you first."

"Yeah, Stosh! I agree. Thanks for the lesson."

Neither of us said anything to John-John.

When I talked to Stosh this morning, I thought he might have been exaggerating some about how much stuff he had, angling for bar tab advantage with the owner of the tab, but when we went out to his car and I saw the stuff, I thought differently. Stosh was correct. The dam car was loaded. It didn't fill up the large freight elevator the way it had filled up Stosh's car, but there was still a real shitload of stuff. My foyer was crowded with boxes.

Stosh said, "I did my best to label these boxes, but there were a lot of people involved in gathering this stuff, so it's probably all messed up"

I said, " _Macht nicht_ , Stosh. I have to read it all, and I can sort it when I read. I can't thank you enough. I'm going to get started right away. I've had enough rest and sleep today. We'll work out the details on this later, OK?" By the way, _Macht nicht_ is a German phrase meaning _matters not_. It was a popular phrase with the _away-from-home_ soldier. It was an easy thing for an American to say and remember in a foreign language.

Stosh said, "OK, later!"

John-John said, "Wow! That's a lot of paper, Eddie G. That's a lot of paper." John-John didn't always understand everything, but he understood this time. His friend, Stosh the Cop, had done a lot for him. I think John-John had started to realize how much I was doing for him as well.

Farewells were said. I told John-John to make sure Stosh's tab was taken care of. And, Stosh and John-John left, presumably back to The Hyde Out.

My clothes weren't _shitty-smoking-smelling_ , but I got rid of all of them except the shorts anyway. I got to work.

I didn't read many of the items, in any detail anyway. I was mostly sorting. I couldn't believe all the stuff that Stosh had obtained. At great cost to him, both _owsies_ and cash as well, I was sure.

Stosh had even obtained originals, _originals?_ of the two murder trial transcripts. If I had to have ordered them, the price would have been prohibitive. Because of that, I had already decided not to. Even copying them now wouldn't be cheap, but I had to do it. The transcripts were too valuable to my understanding not to have them at hand, and I knew I had to return the originals ASAP. I later found out that Stosh had obtained them, borrowed them, just signed them out, from the Chicago office of the Illinois PBA. Stosh hadn't mentioned that tonight, but they would have to be returned. I guess he figured that I had better be smart enough to know that even without being told. There was just too much material for them to justify the copy time and cost, so they gave Stosh the originals. I assume that they didn't much care, or even ask, why Stosh had requested them. They must have thought he was working on a cold case. They weren't all that wrong about a cold case, except it was me who was trying to do something with it. I assumed that the PBA had them because every cop in Chicago, and probably the rest of the world, was pissed at the verdicts, and they had them to peruse their every detail in the hopes of finding something to increase the benefits to the surviving family members. Again, I was to find out later how valuable this find of Stosh's was to be.

Everything in this pile of stuff pertained to the trials, except one small file consisting of a two-page police report on the Nails horse accident and about a dozen old newspaper article reporting on the event.

I had already read the startling police report, but I scanned it again to be sure I hadn't missed anything. I hadn't. Then, I looked through the newspaper articles. I assumed that the police collected them because they were not totally satisfied with, what at first glance, appeared to be an obvious accident, but nothing was that obvious in Chicago. There was the coincidental appearance of the unholy trio: Samuel _Nails_ Morton, Dion O'Banion and Hymie Weiss' distant relative, Agnieszka Wojciechowski. It was a gangland conspiracy waiting to happen.

At first, the articles were all the same as the ones I had previously obtained from Tribune John and from Geri. A couple were different, but added nothing to the mix. Then, I spotted one from the Gary Post Tribune. I knew I had seen it before, but it wasn't one from the batches given to me by John or Geri. However, I couldn't remember when or where I had seen it.

It was time for a break and a beer. I went into the kitchen to get a cold St. Pauli's Girl. It was a hot night, and I knew a cold St. Pauli's Girl would help, as would a rest.

I took a long swallow of beer, and sat down on the lounge, sitting in as prone a position as sitting would allow. Looking down at my feet and the floor as such a position dictates, I had an _out-of-bathtub_ Eureka! moment. It was three years ago, right here in this apartment, that I had seen that article from the Gary Post Tribune. I had seen it on the top of the pile of newspapers I accumulated while cleaning Charles' apartment the day after we buried him. I remembered I was going to dispose of them, but didn't. They were all stored undisturbed in the basement at The Hyde Out. I thought at the time I would eventually get down there to bring order to the chaos, but it has been three years and I hadn't even thought of it since then. Until now!

Even though it was well after midnight, I had to look at those newspapers so I could be sure. I was anxious, but I also knew I shouldn't rush. Charles had always told me, "Whenever it is possible, take your time. Time gives one an opportunity to think. Too much thinking seldom will hurt one." This time, however, I believed an exception was in order.

So on this great summer night, I had a hurried walked over to The Hyde Out. I sort of, not really, snuck in. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I just wanted at those newspapers in the basement. No one saw me, or at least no one gave me any heed. I made it to the basement. I quickly found the stack I was looking for. It was closest to the stairs. And, sure enough, right on top was a copy of the May 14, 1923 Garry Post Tribune. On the front page, above the fold, was the article I had a copy of back in the apartment.

What was Charles doing with this paper? Charles must have known all along about the relationship between John-John and Nails. Well, of course, Dummy! Me, Dummy! Not you, Dummy! Charles raised John-John!

I grabbed the newspaper and took it upstairs to the office with me. There may have been more newspapers I would find of interest, but I wasn't in the mood to go looking for a needle in a newspaper haystack in a dark basement at this time of the night. Whatever was here would have to wait. It already had for forty-five years. Besides, I thought of two other places I needed to look, places I should have thought to look before, as soon as John-John told me about his memories.

I needed to look in Charles' files, here at The Hyde Out office and back at The Powhatan as well. Three years ago I had spent two days and a lot of sweat getting all of his stuff filed away. Just like the newspapers, I said one day I'd get back to it and sort it out. Just like the newspapers, I never did, except for the papers I need for the business. The personal stuff I never returned to. Until now!

I didn't find much of interest in The Hyde Out office, so I returned to The Powhatan. As I left The Hyde Out, I was fortunate enough to spot a taxi. I used it. I was too tired and in too much of a hurry to save a couple of dollars.

When I got upstairs, I immediately went to the office. I started at the bottom drawer. The reason I started at the bottom is that I needed to sit down. I was really tired.

One thinks of the damnest things in time of stress. I would need a new file cabinet now that I was a licensed attorney, even if a non-practicing one. Both of my file cabinets, here and at the basement office were eight and a half by eleven. I'd now need legal size file cabinets.

I found what I was looking for almost immediately: John-John's birth certificate. John-John was born Jonathon Johnson Morton on January 2, 1918. John-John had always been John-John. The father is listed as Samuel Jules Morton, born July 3, 1893. The mother is listed as Elaine Elizabeth Goldhagen, born October 11, 1902. John-John, the baby, was conceived by a fourteen-year-old baby and born nine months later to a fifteen year old baby. No wonder the father took the army sentence so readily. Hell, Elaine was still only sixteen when Nails was discharged.

There was also a death certificate for Elaine. She died January 7, 1926, two and a half years after Nails. The cause of death listed was _exposure_. Apparently, Elaine passed out drunk in the snow and froze to death. John-John will need to know that his mother died when he was still young. He would not, however, need to know _how_ she died.

This birth certificate, the death certificate, and the newspaper articles proved that Charles knew all about this family tree stuff all the time. Apparently, he had not told John-John any of it, for John-John, if he had known anything at all about this, would surely have said something to me about it when he first came to me with the article.

There was also a birth certificate for Charles, born in Chicago on January 20, 1900, like my Uncle Henry, even with the years. There was another one for Elaine Elizabeth Goldhagen, also born in Chicago. Reading both of these birth certificates did not give me any insight into Charles' relationship with Elaine. The only commonality was that they both had been born in Chicago.

There were also death certificates for Charles' parents. His father, Sebastian Frederick Yompolsky was born in Poland on August 19, 1843. His date of death was September 17, 1923. Charles' mother, Helena Pauline Yompolsky nee Zimbalist was born in Chicago on November 1, 1863. Her date of death was January 5, 1933. Interesting! Just a few months before Charles opened up The Hyde Out Inn.

There were two more death certificates. One was for Efram Janus Goldhagen, Elaine's father, born in Russia on December 12, 1846, date of death: May 6, 1926. The other was for Hazel Rosalind Goldhagen, Elaine's mother, born in New York City, birth name: Hazel Rosalind Zimbalist on April 24, 1866, date of death: February 2, 1923. Apparently, Charles' mother was Elaine's mother's sister. Charles and Elaine were first cousins. John-John was Charles' second cousin. Somewhere among these deaths, Charles took John-John as his own and raised him. I didn't find any adoption papers, so their relationship must have been an informal one.

Wow! This was a story I really need to investigate. It has to have something to do with John-John's situation.

I would have to go through these papers quite carefully, but my eyes were getting blurry. I needed sleep and daylight. So, more looking would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I would talk to Charles.
19

Dion's Girlfriend's Cousin

### August 8, 1968

### Thursday

Scarlett was correct. Today is another day. Except for the need to wash the fairy dust from my eyes and the need to pee, both of which could be accomplished in the shower, I was OK. OK considering not enough sleep, but not too much beer either. So, I anticipated this _another day_ was also going to be OK as well, maybe not great, but OK. _Great days_ usually occurred when one woke up that day feeling great, just as _shitty days_ usually occurred when one woke up feeling shitty. I almost always woke up feeling great, except for the late nights and the _too-oo_ much beer. This morning was one on those _not-so-great-but-not-so-bad_ ones either.

Last night, after I was done with my reading and travelling researches, I asked Charles what the hell was going on. Charles answered. I think I understood what Charles had gone through.

As I stood peeing in the shower, rubbing my eyes to clean out more of that fairy dust, I went over what Charles told me.

"What else was I to do, kid? John-John, yes that was always what we called him. It really was his name. It had nothing to do with anything like The Hyde Out people made up. I never corrected them. They didn't need to know John-John's history. What good would it have done them? None! Just another something to talk about in the bar, not doing nobody, John-John in particular, any good. Neither did John-John need to know. What good would it have done him? None! Just another something to think about not doing himself any good."

"He was without a father, a father who had been a notorious gangster and killer. Who was going to pay for the hotel suite and the nanny? Even then, I was doing well, but not that well. My parents were not all that well off, and my father was too old to have a rambunctious young boy around the house all day, every day. Elaine's parents were not well off either, plus they also were too old for John-John. So, I took him. There wasn't anybody else."

That made sense, even more sense with my mind getting cleared by the hot water spray into my face. But, the question I asked Charles last night and was asking him now was, "OK! But, where was Elaine? Why didn't she take care of him? John-John was her son,. What did you tell, or not tell, John-John? Did you tell him the truth? Or, did you embellish or lie? I hope you just omitted."

I had a lot to do today. I don't usually make To Do Lists. I have a good enough memory such that I don't need them. Today, however, was a different matter. I needed to think about alternatives, different things I could do, should do, would do. As I waited for the Charles' Blend to brew, I began making the list.

The first item was obvious. I had to go through that file cabinet with a fine tooth comb. If I was fortunate enough to find something in those papers, that find might help me chose the best action. But, that would have to wait until tonight. So, it went to the bottom of my To Do List. That made the first thing I thought of became the last thing To Do.

The real first thing I had To Do, though not in regards to my John-John Project, was to get to The Pickle, have my bagel _with_ , and check out the businesses. I would bring my first cup of Charles' Blend with me.

So, I poured my Charles' Blend, put on my shorts and dashiki, slipped into my Birkies, and headed out the door for The Pickle.

I would have to try to find O'Bannion's girlfriend. Viola Kaniff O'Banion, who, if she were still alive, would now be about sixty-seven. Who the hell would know her current last name? A male relative with the same last name? If she had any in Chicago. That might be the easiest way to go. So, the phone book and finding Viola became number one.

Finding at least one of the policemen, as important as it was, would probably prove to be a damned hard job. I could only hope that Thomas P. O'Grady, who had written the report Stosh had gotten for me would still be alive. He was the policeman who probably would know the most. In the alternative, maybe his partner, Steven R. Walczak, would still be alive. If one of them was young enough then, it would be possible now. Being men, of course all policemen at that time would have been men, at least their last names would be the same, even if they had married in the interim. Until I heard more from Stosh, I didn't even know where to start, except again the phone book. Maybe, I'd get lucky. So, I put that second.

As I continued on my way doing that To Do List in my mind, I considered how to find the nanny, Agnieszka Wojciechowski, if she was still alive. If so, she would be about sixty-five years old. But, how was I to do that? What would be the last name of a girl who was so very pretty forty-five years ago? Surely, she had married. As important as finding the nanny was, she would have to be the most difficult to find. Maybe, Stosh could help me here. Where else could I look? Where would I find records of these people? I could always call Tish for advice. I was sure she would be good at this, what do you call it, skip tracing? Or at least, she would know someone who was good at it.

The Lincoln sisters were another matter. They were surely dead. They couldn't be alive at one-hundred-sixteen and one-hundred-nineteen. I wouldn't even try to check them out. Peter Mundane, the merchant, however, might be found if he wasn't too old. The original police report had barely mentioned him, and his age not at all. I would have to try to check him out even though he was also probably dead by now. He became matter number four.

Thinking more about how to do what I had to do, I figured it would be easiest to find Viola Kaniff O'Banion, so I put her first on my list, followed by the other two hopefuls, the nanny and one of the cops.

I got to The Pickle and had my bagel _with_ and a second cup of Charles' Blend. I didn't bother with the Sports Section this morning as I already knew the bad news. I ate my bagel _with_ too quickly, and carried my Charles' Blend with me as I checked with all the businesses.

I was hoping that this morning there would be like almost every other morning there. I received the normal good answers, "No" and 'No" from everyone, this time including my mother. I told her what I had planned for the day and got to it. I grabbed the phone book and got started. My mother would tell me if there was any important paperwork to which I had to immediately attend. The rest she could take care of, or being paperwork, could wait.

The first thing I did was to call the PBA. I knew who to ask for, of course, but I did have to identify myself as Stosh's friend before anybody there would tell me anything. They knew my name and Charles' from Stosh's sojourn. It was then that I learned for sure about the trial transcripts. They were originals. The guy I spoke to, Stosh's friend, Raymond Rickard, told me to be extra careful with them and to return them as soon as I could. I said I would, and asked my questions about locating officers Thomas P. O'Grady and Steven R. Walczak Jr.

Even with Stosh's name as introduction, before the guy would help me, he wanted to know "Why do you want to know?" It was then I realized how difficult my John-John Project was to explain in an abbreviated way. I told him as little as I could as quickly as I could, but hopefully enough to satisfy him. Apparently it was, since his reply was, "Hold on a minute. I'll see what I can find."

I was on hold for about five minutes before he returned with this answer. "O'Grady is dead. He was an old fart forty-five years ago. He died in the 30's. Walczak, however, was just a kid, only a month or two on the job when this Nails thing went down. He's retired now. He lives at 3121 N. Hamlin. His phone number is Juniper 8-1940." With more than a little surprise, I thanked him, small talked a bit more, agreed to his request to let him know of anything favorable I might find out to help my John-John Project, said "Good-bye!" and hung up.

The surprise I experienced was caused by the address and phone number. The address was in Polish Village, located in my old neighborhood paper route, only two blocks from my parents' home a few streets away, and with the _same_ street number. He lived at 3121 N. Hamlin. I had lived at 3121 N. Monticello. His phone number is Juniper 8-1940. Ours had been Pensacola 8-1940. I immediately called Mr. Walczak.

A woman answered the phone. Mrs. Walczak, I assumed. So, I said, "Mrs. Walczak?" After the anticipated "Yes," I asked to speak to Mr. Walczak.

"Sorry! He's not here now. He went fishing up north with the guys a couple of days ago, but he'll be home late tonight. Who are you and why do you want him?"

Both Wow! and Holy Fucking Moly! This detecting stuff was getting to be fun, at least when things were really being detected.

I introduced myself and told her the story, longer this time, since this guy needed to know everything, and I needed his help. After two or three minutes of the telling, I asked if I could come visit him the next afternoon. I said "Pick a restaurant, maybe the _Czerwone Jabluszko_ , The Red Apple Buffet," which was right around the corner from their house, "and, I'll buy us lunch."

Mrs. Walczak said, "Thanks, but that Polish buffet is too much for lunch. Come on over to our house, and I'll fix us a small lunch." I agreed to that and said, "Around noon?" She said that would be fine. We said our mutual "Good-byes", and hung up.

Since I had the phone in my hand and the phone book at my side, I thought I should try to locate the others. There were only four Kaniff's, so I decided to call them in the order they appeared. The first was Edward Kaniff. He answered on the first ring, saying, "Hello!"

I asked him if he was a relative of Viola's. As expected, he asked 'Who are you? Why do you want to know?"

The "Who are you?" was an easy one. I knew the answer to that one, and so I told him, I knew the answer to his second question as well, but I didn't quite know what or how to tell him. I hesitated after telling him my name. He broke the silence with "Well?" By then, I was ready to answer.

Charles had told me that too many people lie or embellish. People lie even when they don't really have a reason to, and they embellish to make themselves look better in the eyes of others, actually to look better in their own eyes. Most people don't have the balls to admit to themselves what _nebbishes_ they really are.

"Kid, remember, there are only two times to embellish. One is when you are telling a good story. Then, you are not embellishing yourself, well, usually not. You are embellishing the story. The listeners know what you are doing and want you to do it. It makes for a better story. The second time is when you are trying to seduce your latest lovely. She also knows what you are doing and wants you to do it. It makes for more romance for her ego to believe she is so special to get someone so special.

"Lying is another story. Never! Only one exception. When your life depends on it. Even then, you need to be as creative as you can be to keep the lie as close to the truth as you can. Under any other circumstances, lying, as compelling as that option may be at the time, will always get you in more trouble later than the trouble you think your lie got you out of at the present time. As the quantity of the lying increases, the quality of your ability to keep them straight diminishes in geometric proportion. Even so-called little white lies aren't worth it. Everyone knows what they are. Don't bother. If someone is going to get hurt by the truth, the sooner it happens to them, the better. That way they have the truth for the rest of their lives. This includes self-deluding old ladies who believe they are still beautiful. Few of them are. Few of them ever were. The still beautiful ones are the only ones who deserve to be told so. It is up to the others to delude themselves. It is not up to you to help them do so. Besides, every time you tell that little white lie to the _no-longer-beautiful_ , you are also telling that same white lie to the still beautiful that really do deserve hearing the truth. Don't fucking lie. It ain't worth it. Tell the fucking truth. It's easier for everybody."

This recollection made me think about what Charles had, or had not, told John-John about his birth parents.

So what I did next is, I told Mr. Kaniff the truth. But again, I only told him as much as I needed to. I said, "Mr. Kaniff, I am looking for Viola Kaniff O'Banion. I was hoping you are her brother or some other relative and can help me find her." I didn't hesitate here as I knew he still needed more information before he would admit to anything, even being alive. I continued, "I have a friend by the name of Jonathon Morton. Elaine Goldhagen was his mother. I need to talk to Viola Kaniff and ask some questions. Will you help me?"

I heard, "Holy shit! After all these years!"

I said, "I take your response to mean you are Viola's brother?"

"Yes, I am. But, why should I help you? After all these years, why should Catherine help you? Why now after all these years is this ugliness coming back to haunt us?"

Twice in one day, in less than one hour. Detecting was a joy, especially when one got lucky.

"Mr. Kaniff! John-John is having a severe memory problem." Well, John-John believed it to be severe. "He needs help, and I was hoping your sister could provide some of the answers. I believe she was a friend of John-John's mother."

"OK! I think Viola would be all right with that. If she was here, which she ain't. She don't live here. She lives someplace in Kansas. It's a rural place and they ain't got no phone. But, our second cousin, Vera, is here. She used to run with that crowd and knows all about it. I guess she could help you. She's asleep right now. She got in late last night. She should be crawling out of bed by about one o'clock. Come over then. I'll tell her you're coming. Give me your phone number. If she squawks, I'll call you."

I gave him my phone numbers, and said, "Great! I'll bring her bagels _with_ so that neither of you have to bother making breakfast. I'll bring you a bagel _with_ as well. Will that be OK?"

"Yeah! I guess so."

"I have the address from the phone book. 4921 N. Kimball, correct?"

"Yes!" Followed by "I'll see you then," and our mutual "Good-byes"

I still had the phone book in my hands, so I tried Mundane. There wasn't a one. I didn't bother with the Lincolns.

I looked at the wall clock and saw it was straight-up, noon. The office clock was on bar-time as well. All of the business clocks were on bar-time. That's the way Charles wanted it. That's the way it was. That's the way I had left it. Even though there was a good el connection from 55th up to Albany Park, I would still drive. The convenience was worth the drive. I needed to get started. I told my mother where I was going and when I thought I would be back. I went down to The Pickle, grabbed a six-pack of soda, three Dad's and three Creams, along with half-a-dozen bagels and a side of lox. I'd skip my _with_ this time. I was feeling a bit hungry, so I also took a hot dog, kosher of course, to _nosh_. I went up and out to get the car.

I exited the Kennedy at Kimball and drove north to Lawrence Avenue. I arrived at 4921. It was just about one. Traffic had been a bit tight through downtown. That was usual. Plus, I had taken my time.

I grabbed the bagels and soda, and walked up the steps to the front porch, and rang the doorbell. The door to the house opened and a stooped over old man who looked like he shaved only every three or four days like I did, but had a beard growth that needed shaving every day, if not twice a day. Other than that, he looked like every other old Jewish man in this Jewish neighborhood. He came to the porch door and opened it while saying, "Hello! You must be Eddie. I can tell by the smell of the bag, fresh bagels and lox. Come on in. Vera is in the kitchen with her coffee waiting for her bagel. Compared to a fresh bagel, you're going to be just an afterthought. By the way, I'm also an Edward. But, just Ed."

"Ok, Ed! Glad to meet you." I followed him into the kitchen. If I gave the impression that Ed looked like shit, I gave a correct one. Ed looked like shit. Vera looked even worse. They both smelled, pretty bad. At first, I thought it was the smell of the great unwashed, but it wasn't. On both of them, it was the smell of the _long-term-constantly-besotted_. The booze is in their bodies all of the time and is always escaping, even when not immediately replaced. For these two, their _long-term-constantly-besotted_ state had begun right around the beginning of Prohibition and had probably never had a cessation of more than a day or so since. So much for the success of Prohibition.

The kitchen stunk as well, not from food, or even booze, but stale cigarettes. There was a cigarette dangling from Vera's fingers, and the overflowing ashtray was filled half with lipstick stained filters, the other half from soggy Camels or Luckies or....

I said, "Hello, I'm Eddie. I guess you're Vera, if I may call you that, right?"

In a sweetly sickening, but high pitched voice, this old hag, being, I am sure, one of those ugly old hags, who thinks she is still beautiful, but never was, said, "That's my name. Who else were you expecting, sonny?"

I said, "I brought the bagels, some lox, and some sodas. Enjoy!'

"You're a bit early, but that's good. I'm starving." She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and reached for the bag. She never did put the cigarette out, even as the ash grew to over an inch. The cigarette moved alternately between her hand and her mouth. It seemed as if the ash would stay on her cigarette forever, but eventually it would get long enough for gravity to assert itself. Then, the process started again.

She ate between puffs. I swear, it happened more than once that she smoked and ate at the same time. What a slovenly creature I had come to see. I had to be polite, however, if I was to get the information I wanted, but I wanted out of here fast. The place stunk of cigarettes even worse than The Hyde Out.

I said, "Vera, what I want to know has nothing to with you or anything with gangster stuff. I assume that your brother told you why I am here, but let me say it all again, maybe in more detail, answering any questions you might have." I told the story again.

I asked directly, "What can you tell me about Elaine? I know you knew her, maybe even well. You were friends after all. That's what Ed said."

"Yeah, I knew Elaine. Yeah, she was John-John's ma and Nails' old lady, sortta. She was also a drunken fucking whore. She was drunk when she woke up in the morning. She drank all day until she passed out. When she woke again, she was still drunk and would start drinking again."

The kettle and black!

"She'd do anything for a drink. When Nails was paying her way at the Congress, she had a tab at the bar and restaurant, so she didn't have to give any blowjobs to anyone but Nails. After the accident, the tab wasn't there anymore. She blew the entire hotel for her booze until the rent on her suite gave out. Then, she was out on the street giving blowjobs to the dirty old bums of Skid Row."

"Pardon the pun, but that's a mouthful." They both guffawed.

"I never heard from her again. But, I read somewhere about two or three years later that she had died in the wintertime. She died of exposure. She probably passed our drunk in a snow bank. Anything else you want to know, Ducky?"

I continued. "What can you tell me about Nails and the kid?"

"Well, I wasn't around until Elaine and John-John had been living at the Congress for about a year. But, the way I understood it is that John-John had been born while Nails was overseas winning The Big One. Nails knew Elaine was pregnant when he left for the Army, but he really didn't give a shit. Elaine wrote him when the baby was born. She told him she gave the baby his name. But, he still didn't give a shit. He knew the kid wasn't his. He said he had never done it with her. She was only a kid herself. But, who knows? Elaine and the kid lived with her parents while Nails was in France, and for a while longer even after he got back. He saw the kid once in a while and I guess he liked what he saw. John-John always seemed to be a happy kid. It was hard not to like him. Finally, about a year or so before I got on the scene, Nails rented them a suite in his hotel. Elaine was already a drunk. Nails couldn't stand her. Nails' family, and he had a big one, couldn't stand her either. Nobody could. Even Elaine's mother couldn't stand her.

"Nails visited his family often. They lived on the West Side in a couple of whitestones Nails had bought for them. He always went there alone. He never took Elaine with him, or John-John either for that matter. His family didn't want anything to with them. They called her the _drunken-little-whore-bitch_ and the kid the _drunken-little-whore-bitch_ 's- _little-bastard_. They did this even though the kid was probably their grandkid. Who can account for hate?

"Hazel, Elaine's mother, lived with her in the suite. She took care of John-John. Somebody had to. Elaine sure the hell didn't. A lot of the times, Hazel took John-John home with her for a few days. Elaine's father, I think his name was Abraham or something like that."

"Efram," I corrected.

"Whatever, sonny. As I was saying, Hazel took the kid home with her every so often. Efram was an old man, and he needed taking care of also. I heard the old guy did outlive his much younger wife by a few years though. Hazel died a couple of months before the horse accident. That's when Nails hired the nanny. I think Agnes was her name."

"That's right, Agnieszka Wojciechowski."

"Whatever, sonny."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Hardly anything. I only knew her for a little while. She was some relative or other of Hymie Weiss. He got her the job shortly after she arrived here from Poland. She could hardly speak a bit of English. But, she was a pretty young thing. The dame had huge tits. All the guys kept trying to put it to her, Nails, Dion, definitely Hymie. As far as I know, none of them got anywhere close to her panties. Hymie didn't care one way or the other if she was getting fucked. If someone knocked her up, maybe she'd get married and be out of his bankroll. Hymie liked the dame and said he would take care of her as long as she needed it, but to Hymie, money was money. Better somebody else should spend than Hymie."

"I take it you don't know how I would find Agnieszka."

"I haven't seen her since Nails' funeral. She came with some young cop, and that's the last I saw or heard of her. Hymie bitched like hell for a couple of weeks about his sister being with a cop. I thought it was funny."

Now, that was a surprise. "She was with a policeman?"

"That's what I said, sonny."

"How about the horse accident itself? You weren't there when it happened, correct? Did Viola say anything about it to you?"

"No; and yes! Viola said she and Dion missed Nails at the stable. They got caught in traffic, some church thing she said, if I remember right. They missed him by fifteen minutes or so. They arrived on the accident scene about the same fifteen minutes after it happened that they were late to meet him. So, no, she said she didn't see or hear anything there either."

"The accident happened at the South Pond?"

"Yeah, I think so. It was so long ago now, I really don't remember, but I think that's what she said."

"One more thing, if I may. Who was Peter Mundane?"

"Who?"

"Peter Mundane, the third person in the horse riding party that day."

"Oh, him! I don't know. He was some guy from Detroit, Canada. I think he was a friend of Hymie's, something to do with the booze. I think that's why he was with Dion that day. I never heard of him before or since."

"Detroit or Canada? Different countries. Detroit is in the US."

"North of Detroit than. Canada. Definitely Canada."

It would have been a waste of time to tell her that at that point, Canada is both north and south of Detroit. Ed didn't say anything either. Maybe, he knew. Maybe, he didn't. In any case, I guess I could cross Peter Mundane off of my list.

"Anything else?"

"That's it, sonny."

"Thanks, Vera. I appreciate it. I learned a lot of things I needed to know. I guess it's time for me to head out now."

"You want to take the extra sodas and empties?"

"No! Enjoy!

I had been there only about forty-five minutes. I left. It wasn't too soon. What a revolting person. And, the cigarette smoke was putting me near death's door.

At two in the afternoon, the rush hour really hadn't started yet. Maybe, I could get a jump on it. I did. It was barely three when I got back to The Hyde Out. I had a beer. I needed one. I had more. I needed more.

I put off thinking about what I could, what I would, what I should, tell John-John about what I had just learned. I was still there when John-John came in for his six o'clock beer. I still put off thinking about it. Tomorrow would be soon enough. I had to talk to Charles about it tonight.

About nine, I went home. Again, I left the car outside of The Hyde Out and walked. It was another great summer lakeshore evening. When I got home, I stripped down and threw the _shitty-smoking-smelling_ clothes in the hamper. I filled the bathtub with hot water, got into it, relaxed, and fell asleep. There would be no talking with Charles tonight.
20

My Dad

### August 9, 1968

### Friday

When I woke up, I was in bed. I glanced at the clock radio. It was just a few minutes after six in the morning. Sometime during the night, whatever time, surely when the water got cold, I had crawled out of the tub and ended up in bed. I still hadn't had the other conversation that I needed with Charles. That would have to wait awhile. Right now, I needed Charles' Blend. I took a hot shower to wake up. When I thought I had sufficiently done so, I got dressed and went to get my Charles' Blend. It had just finished perking. I got a cup and got the Tribune out of the hallway. I grabbed for the Sports Section. The game against Atlanta had been on the TV in the bar. I had been too tired last night, however, to stay up until it was over. When I went to bed the Cubs were leading two-zero. They had held on to win, Bill Hands shutting out the Braves four-zero for his thirteenth victory of the season.

I walked over to The Pickle. Everything there was starting up with its usual morning bluster. After getting another cup of Charles' Blend, I skipped my bagel _with_ for now, as I went around and asked my usual questions. Again, except for a note from Stosh that he had left at the bar, I received the normal "No!" and "No!" from everybody. I had gone home to sleep before Stosh came in. Stosh's note was simple and straightforward. "How are you doing, Eddie?"

Stosh was curious. I would be sure to see him tonight.

Then, I went upstairs to my office. It was just after seven. My mother hadn't come in yet. I checked my in-box, and attended to a few things. I didn't feel like working. I guess, I had too much John-John on my mind. I went back downstairs, got another Charles' Blend and went for a morning walk along the lakefront, something I should do more often. It is difficult to drink from a to-go cup and walk at the same time. Even the Congressman from Grand Rapids had problems doing it. So when I got to a bench, I sat down until I had finished my Charles' Blend.

At this time of the year, the sun is up a bit before six. Since it was now about eight, the sun was getting up there, too bright to look east for too long. I started to walk again. Charles joined me. I asked him why he hadn't told John-John anything about his family history.

Charles explained again. "Come on, kid! What the fuck was I going to tell him? I should tell him that his _maybe_ father, since Nails always denied fatherhood, was a fucking gangster and killer? I should tell him that his mother was a drunken whore, and a cheap one at that, available to anyone for the price of a cheap bottle? John-John never actually knew either of them. If I said nothing, he'd forget whatever little he might know soon enough. I said nothing. John-John forgot.

"I was still living at home with my parents then. I was doing all right, but I wasn't really making a lot of money, enough to help, but still, not a lot. So, my ma took care of John-John during the day while I was at work. It was hard on my dad. He died a few months later. I don't think the change killed him, but maybe I'm rationalizing.

"My buying The Speakeasy was still ten years into the future. Those ten years weren't easy on my ma. She died shortly before I opened The Hyde Out Inn, got hit by a truck of all things. Damned lucky for John-John he was with me and not with my ma. Now, I had him alone. It wasn't always easy. You know how slow he is, not retarded, not real slow, but slow. He was barely passing his courses in the west side high school he attended. That wasn't going to continue with our moving to Hyde Park. The high schools here are much more demanding, not even considering the probable breaks the other school gave him. He was fifteen now. So, I put him to work with me, and did my best to get him to keep up with his reading and his numbers. I guess, I did OK because he has largely taken care of himself these past thirty-five years."

It was hard to argue with Charles' story, but I believed John-John should know more.

I walked back to my office. My mom was there on the job, so I knew everything would be OK for another day. I told her my plans. She didn't know Steve Walczak either. I called him to firm up our lunch. This time it was he who answered the phone with, "This is Steve Walczak speaking. How can I help you?"

I told him who I was and that I had spoken to his wife yesterday and she had invited me over for lunch. I asked, "Is that still OK?"

He said, "Yes, lunch is still on. Do you have the address or need directions?

"I have the address, and believe it or not, I grew up only two blocks from your house, so I know my way. I don't need directions. I don't remember your name, but I might have even delivered your newspaper."

I went downstairs to another phone. I figured it was about time I get some advice from a real live father. I didn't want my ma to hear me calling my dad. There was enough, maybe not _bad_ , but surely _not-very-good_ , blood boiling between them for me to possibly add another _iota_ to the mixture.

My dad wasn't home yet. My Aunt Mae answered the phone. She gushed all over the place. She was very happy to hear from me. It wasn't her fault my ma and dad had problems. Well, maybe it was. She had never treated my ma nice. Anyway, I told her I'd like to stop over in an hour or so. Before I could ask if that would be all right, she said, "Your father will be so happy to see you. So will I."

I told her I'd be over around eleven, but I could only stay for an hour because I had another appointment at noon, and it was a lunch appointment, so "No food, Aunt Mae! No food!" I was starting to sound like John-John.

Still excited, she said "OK, Ahie!"

To the world, I was Eddie. To my Aunt Mae, I was _Ahie_ , pronounced Ah-He. I had a fairly severe speech problem when I was learning to talk. It was quickly corrected when I saw a speech therapist in the first grade. One of my brothers had the same problem and was corrected in the same way at about the same age. The _then_ diagnosis was that the thinking part of our brain was working quite a bit faster than its talking part. Before the therapy, I just couldn't say Eddie. It always came out _Ahie_. Now, no one else other than my Aunt Mae calls me that. I am sure it is her way of telling me she loves me as much now and always, as she loved me when I was a baby.

"OK! No Food! Good-bye!" She hung up before I could tell her I'd be back again the next day when I had more time to talk with my dad about John-John's situation.

"No food." Ha! I knew my Aunt Mae better. She would be making lunch for my dad. Since I would be coming she would prepare a full blown meal for both of us.

However, I needed something to eat like right now. For some reason I no longer remembered, I had skipped my bagel _with_ this morning _._ I get cranky when the stomach gets too empty, and I couldn't afford to be cranky today. I was seeing my dad for the first time in a long time. I didn't want to insult the Walczaks by not being hungry. However, I was hungry now. Charles always told me, "When invited to eat, it is always better to be hungry then not hungry." In spite of that, and in spite of what I knew would happen with my Aunt Mae, I was hungry now. The hungry now won. I took a small half of tuna salad sandwich to eat in the car. I also took two six packs of mixed sodas. I didn't want to arrive at either place empty handed.

I got into the Olds and headed for the drive. I didn't need directions. I was going home to my childhood and adolescence.

Except for through the downtown portion of the trip, traffic was light. I exited the Kennedy at Belmont and headed west. Recently, Monticello Ave. was made a one-way street heading north, so I turned left at Central Park and went around the block. I arrived at the old house, where my Aunt Mae and father still lived, at a quarter to eleven. It looked like shit. It wasn't falling down. It didn't need paint. It was just old. There was a space right in front. I parked the Olds.

My father didn't like my having hired my mother and her moving in to one of my apartments. I didn't need to listen to his alternating anger or his pitiful crying, about her having left him. I always did, and still do, love my Aunt Mae, but my Aunt Mae had always disliked my mother. I didn't want to hear her rail on about my mother either. These were wounds, made up ones as they were on her part I believed, that time would never heal. I was right. They never did. I don't think my Aunt Mae ever really hated my mother, but my Aunt Mae always told everybody who would listen, except me, that my mother wasn't good enough for her brother. She also probably meant that my mother wasn't good enough for Deloris. My mother only married him so she could get her hands on their mother's house. The house was a real piece of shit, and not worth much at all, even if my father had owned all of it instead of the one-third he did own by virtue of sharing ownership with my Aunt Mae and his brother, Stanley, who we never saw much of. My father didn't like his brother's wife. This _pseudo_ -bitterness ran in the family.

When I had finally figured out the family dynamics about the house, I tried to piss them all off by jokingly anxiously awaiting my future inheritance of one-sixth, the other five-sixths to my shared by my three brothers and two half-sisters, of one-third, or one-eighteenth, of this piece of shit house. Neither my dad nor my Aunt Mae ever laughed. I guess they both believed that I was serious.

When I grew up, I thought that I had come from a normal family. When I went away to the University and started to learn about the real world, I learned that I had grown up in a dysfunctional family. A few years later, I learned even more. I really had grown up in a normal family, _albeit_ a dysfunctional one. I learned that the non-dysfunctional family was the abnormal one. Almost all families are dysfunctional. The term _dysfunctional family_ was a redundant term as far as my family history was concerned.

I hoped that this would be a pleasant meeting as a prelude to another one when I would be able to explain John-John's situation and have enough time to listen to what my dad thought about it and what I had uncovered.

My dad still kept his bottom floor apartment in the old house, but hardly ever went in it except to get a tool or a part to fix some damned thing or another which always needed doing in what he referred to as _this old shack_. He was surely correct in doing so. The house was an _old shack_.

Most of the time, he lived upstairs with my Aunt Mae. So, I climbed the flight of outside steps to the second floor. My dad had it open for me before I was halfway up the stairs. For some reason, everybody in this neighborhood spends half their lives looking out the window, snooping at the comings and goings of their neighbors, and the other half asking why their neighbors would do such a thing as looking out the window snooping at the comings. Then, these same snoopers spend the other half of their lives asking why all their neighbors spend so much time looking out the window snooping at the comings and goings of their neighbors when they themselves would never dream of doing such a thing.

I suspected why my Aunt Mae was like that. She was nosey, but also just plain lonely. My father didn't start the activity until after my mother left him and he spent most of his time upstairs with my Aunt Mae, becoming her co-snooper. I guess he was lonely now as well. My mother never participated. She always said, "I don't give a damn what those people are doing out there. I only care about what they might do if they were in here," _damn_ being a pretty strong word for my mother to use.

Charles later explained the activity to me as much more than just loneliness. These Polish people all had the learned activity of looking out the window for the appearance of the dreaded State Police. It wasn't just the Polish. It was most of Eastern Europe, long under the heels of the fascist storm troopers. Charles, being a Jew, understood the behavior well. It was common among members of his family. Lonely? Yes! But also wise? Yes, as well.

Without hesitation or words, my father and I hugged as a father and son who haven't seen each other for a long time should do. This was highly unusual for my dad. He hardly ever hugged. It wasn't unusual for me. I was a hugger from way back. In that regard, I took after my mother.

I said, "Hi, dad. It's really good to see you." My father was smiling, something which was also unusual for him. He said. "Mae is so happy you are here." As was his nature, he didn't say, "As am I." My father just found it almost impossible to express even his most simple and fundamental emotions. I have never understood why one would have this difficulty, but have it my father did. I, again here, was like my mother, who expressed herself freely. As a wife, she had to live with this sadness which was her husband. I don't understand how she lasted with it as long as she did.

I entered my Aunt Mae's house to see her aglow with smiles. To see her that way, aglow with smiles, was not unusual. To have her not walk towards me with arms open for a hug was not a surprise. She had the same sadness as my father, but not to nearly as drastic a level.

I learned as a child that Aunt Mae was always open to hugs and kisses from the babies. She might have stopped her advances when the babies got older, but she never did with me, or my sister, Delores. As I always did, I went to her arms. She opened hers as I approached. She enjoyed it now as much as she did when I was a baby. She just stopped initiating the act. This time she cried as well, tears of joy. She said, "Ahie, your father and I missed you so much."

Even before I saw my Aunt Mae, I smelled her cooking, frying actually. She fried everything in a sea of butter. This time it was her special crackered hamburgers. I laughed as I said, "I said 'No food, Aunt Mae.'" She laughed as well, but didn't say anything. She knew she didn't have to remind me that no matter what I said I knew she'd be doing this frying gig anyway. And of course, as usual, she was right.

We sat at the kitchen table and made small talk, most of which had to do with my businesses and academics, becoming a lawyer and now finally finished with school. It was easy to tell that both of them were quite proud of my getting educated.

My dad had tried on more than one occasion to get a college degree. It never happened. A widowed mother, a bad marriage, too many kids, a bad economy, they all contributed to his never having achieved his dream. Now, his oldest son had, in spades! He was very proud!

We talked about the neighborhood, how there were really never any changes in the _old_ neighborhood except now and then when one of the neighbors died. The conversation all came easy, and no mention was made of my mother. We weren't treading on eggshells, but I guess they knew, as I did, that topic was best left unaddressed. The hour flew by.

I made time, however, to tell my dad that I wanted to see him again tomorrow, and why I wanted to see him. I could see him swell a bit when I told him I needed the counsel of a real father. Just because Charles was queer and never had any kids didn't mean Charles had not been a real father. But, Charles was dead. He wasn't here. My dad was. Irrespective of his failings, my father had been a real father. We said our good-byes and I was off to the Walczaks.
21

The Walczaks

### August 9, 1968

### Friday

By the time I was through with the nostalgia, it was a bit past noon, but I was right around the corner less than a quarter of a mile away. If I remembered correctly, Hamlin had been changed to a one-way street heading south. None of these streets were one-way when I left in '57. In addition, I didn't drive at the time, so having known which way the one-way streets were would have been superfluous knowledge. However, I was good at superfluous knowledge, and according to Charles, that was a good thing, a very good thing. He always told me, "Kid, superfluous knowledge is only superfluous when it is not needed. Others might laugh at those who have more education and knowledge than anyone _needs_. When the occasion arises, however, that such education and knowledge is required, it is always the person who has it who will fill the breach. And, it is always those same people who do the laughing at those who have more education and knowledge than anyone _needs,_ before those who have that more education and knowledge than anyone _needs_ are needed, who are the ones, more often than not, who are resentful instead of thankful when one of those who have more education and knowledge than anyone _needs_ uses that education and knowledge to save the resentful person's ass. It's the way people are, kid. Get used to it!"

Some might think that Charles was a cynic. I knew better. Charles was a realist.

I was good at superfluous knowledge. So, I would probably be correct about Hamlin. If I was wrong, I'd just park on Belmont and walk the half-block to 3121. I wasn't wrong, so I arrived at 3121 N. Hamlin Ave. in just a few minutes. Again, I was able to park right in front of my destination.

The Walczaks lived on the first floor of a brick two flat, but there was still a half of a set of steps since this building, like most of the buildings on this block, had a garden apartment in their basements. Mr. Walczak opened the door before I could ring the bell. I guess he was also one of those who spend half of his life looking out the window.

I introduced myself to Mr. Walczak. He quickly responded with "My name is Steve. Even though I'm getting to be an old man, my father is still alive. He's Mr. Walczak. I'm Steve." He laughed at what I'm sure he has already said and laughed at several thousand times.

Steve was a big guy, probably not too much over six foot, but he was built like a line backer. Though his hair was already grey and thinning, he looked a lot younger than he was. He had bright eyes and an even brighter smile. For a big guy, he carried himself with grace.

"I surely will, Steve. Thanks for agreeing to see me about this old stuff."

Steve said, "No problem, Eddie. I may be retired, but this is one of my cases in which I was never quite satisfied. In fact, over the years, it is probably the case that has caused me the greatest amount of thought. Listen to me go on when we're not ready to talk about it yet. Come on in. Let's eat. I hope you're hungry. My wife has lunch prepared. Afterwards, we can talk. I know both of us will find the discussion very interesting."

Steve took the soda six-pack from me and we went into the kitchen.

Steve said, "Eddie, this is my wife." The woman was quite petite, almost as old as Steve looked. Her eyes and smile matched Steve's. She wore a long grey braid. It was looped over her right shoulder and hung down to her large breasts. Even at her age, she was still an attractive woman.

She said, "Hello, young man. Yes, I am Steve's wife. This is the table. This is the lunch. Let's eat. I'm starved. I hope you are as well." Mrs. Walczak's English was perfect, but surely not native.

There were four places set at the table. I asked if anyone else was expected.

Steve said, "My brother Richie lives with us. He's retarded from birth. Something like that couldn't happen now. He was born with phenylketonuria. Left untreated, it causes mental retardation. Ritchie is fifty-five now. He was born in 1913 when this stuff was unknown. Today, babies born with it are quickly treated and develop quite normally. Ritchie wasn't lucky enough. Just treat him normally. He'll be OK with that."

"Of course, Steve."

Ritchie joined us, and the four of us ate. Ritchie was a real big guy, bigger than his big guy big brother. The two of them would have made a hell of two of the three linebackers. He was a quiet guy. He didn't say a word throughout the entire meal. He canted his head down to the left, just like John-John did. Richie's head, however, never was raised back up, even when he ate. He just sort of slurped the food in sideways, which wasn't easy with some of the greatest tasting white borsch I had ever eaten.

He did better with the golabki, Polish stuffed cabbage. I hoped Mrs. Walczak wouldn't think I was putting her on when I told her that this golabki was the greatest tasting golabki I have ever eaten. I had already told her that about the soup.

When I finally did tell her, I amended it with, "I grew up Polish in this neighborhood, right around the corner on Monticello, same house number as yours, 3121. I never much liked Polish food when I was a kid. I don't really know why I didn't, but I didn't. Now, I like it a lot. But, I have never had golabki with sauerkraut. It really makes for an improvement over an already excellent dish."

Mrs. Walczak said, "The sauerkraut idea isn't Polish. I learned it from a Croatian neighbor. I liked it, so I tried it out on Steve. He loved it, same as you. I haven't changed the recipe since; except to make the golabki the day before and let it rest in the fridge overnight."

"Well, if you ever see that Croatian lady again, tell her I also thank her."

I knew I wouldn't have room for a slice of Polish rye, particularly after those two Aunt Mae hamburgers, but I had a heavily buttered slice anyway.

When we pushed ourselves away from the table, Steve said, "Let's make ourselves comfortable on the back porch. I have a few real comfortable easy chairs back there."

Steve was correct. Those easy chairs were comfortable, at least the one I had. The back porch was a now enclosed one with storm windows and all. The walls were paneled with knotty pine as were all so many of these houses were in the 1950's when families became more middle class and had more disposable income. It was a great era for the home remodeling industry.

Steve started out by saying "Eddie, I knew your dad. Believe it or not, I grew up next door to your dad. I moved out long before you were born, but your dad was always good to me. I recognized your name immediately. Even if I didn't need this meeting for myself, I would have it anyway to begin to repay your dad for all the good things he did for me, Richie and my dad a long time ago. I hope he is well."

Wow! This stuff is getting more and more unbelievable as I go.

"Yes, he is. I just left him. I'll be back tomorrow for another visit. Did you know my Aunt Mae as well?"

"No, we moved out before she and her husband moved back in."

Mrs. Walczak said "Maybe, God is watching over you."

I ignored that one.

Then, Steve said, "Eddie, I told you that this Nails case was one that really bothered me. It has for years. I don't know what really happened on that May day in 1923, but I do know that the police report was not a complete one. I was there, remember? I heard everything. There was a lot of stuff that was said that wasn't in that report. You have a copy, correct?"

I nodded a positive assent. Steve said, "Maybe, you had better take some notes about this additional stuff, the stuff that was left out of that report."

I got a legal pad out of my shoulder bag and a pen from my shirt pocket.

"I was a real newbie on the force when this thing came down. I was assigned to the mounted horse patrol. My partner, O'Grady, Thomas O'Grady, was an old guy with enough time and age to retire soon after this thing happened. We just happened to be in the vicinity, so we arrived within minutes of the horse falling on Nails.

"O'Grady and I obtained eye-witness reports from three women. Besides the little boy, they were the only people, live ones that is, present.

"There were two elderly women, sisters, who lived together in the neighborhood. Their names and other stuff are in the original report."

"The two old ladies," Steve laughed when he said _old_ , I assumed because now he was old, "said they were sitting on their usual bench across from the statue of Benjamin Franklin enjoying a rest after their daily constitutional.

"The first sister said that they were conversing about the beautiful spring day when she heard a loud noise. She said she looked up and saw a horse rearing up on its hind legs, the rider falling off, the horse toppling over, and landing on the rider.

"When asked what she heard that first attracted her attention, she said, 'I heard a gunshot.'"

"She heard a what?" I asked. "There wasn't any mention of a gunshot in the copy of the report that I have."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. The original report was a put-up job. It didn't report everything that was reported to us by the witnesses. Anyway, O'Grady asked her the same thing. 'You heard a what?'

"The lady repeated herself. 'I heard a gunshot.'

"He asked again, 'Are you sure?'

"'Most definitely! I know a gunshot when I hear one. After all, I have lived in Chicago all of my life. Besides, we are so far away from the road. It was too loud to have been a backfire. It was a gunshot. Most definitely! A gunshot!'

"The second sister said she was hard of hearing and didn't look up until she heard her sister shout, 'Look at that!' But, she also said she had heard a loud noise, 'Sort of like a gunshot. But, I'm not sure. It was awfully loud though.' She added that when she did look up, she saw the horse rearing up on its hind legs, the rider falling off, the horse toppling over, and landing on the rider.

"The first sister said that when she looked around after the horse fell, she saw a young boy, about years old or so, running in the other direction, away from the Franklin statue and towards the Lincoln Park Zoo. The second sister agreed."

"They saw a what?" I asked. "There wasn't any mention of a young boy in the copy of the report that I have."

Again, Steve said "That's what I'm trying to tell you. The original report was a put-up job. It didn't report everything that was reported to us by the witnesses.

"But when asked to describe the young boy, they disagreed. They both said that the boy was wearing a white shirt and dark corduroy pants. The second sister said, 'The boy was wearing a red baseball cap.' The other sister said, 'No, the boy was not wearing any hat at all. He had bright red hair.'

"Eddie, you might have wondered why I didn't properly introduce my wife, particularly after I was so casual with you calling me Steve. I'll let my wife, Agnieszka Walczak nee Wojciechowski, tell you about the rest."

If a jaw could really drop to the floor like they did in cartoons, mine did. Both Wow! And Holy Fucking Shit! Again.

"Yes, I am Agnieszka Wojciechowski. Please, call me Agnes. I was John-John's nanny forty-five years ago. I'll tell you later how that came about, but for now, on with the story.

"I heard the loud noise as did the sisters. I also said it was a gunshot. Like the one sister, I was sure of that. I hadn't grown up in Chicago, but I had grown up in Poland. I know what gunfire sounds like. I was one of the lucky ones. I lived through the war. I also told the same story she did about seeing the boy run away. I also gave the same description as she did: No hat; bright red hair.

"The little boy, of course, couldn't add anything. He did say, however, 'I heard a real loud noise. It scared me.'"

So again, as I had believed, but didn't then comprehend, John-John had remembered correctly. He had been there on that May, 1923 afternoon and remembered things as they had actually happened.

Agnes went on. "When you called and told me what you wanted, I was so stunned. I didn't know how to respond. By the time I recovered, our conversation had ended. When Steve got home last night, I told him you had called. He was as surprised as I was to hear anything more about this incident after all these years. But, as he said, this was a case that had always bothered him. So, he was really glad to hear from and meet with you.

"We talked about telling you who I was right away, but we decided it would be better if we waited until after lunch. Otherwise, we surely wouldn't have been able to pin you down at the kitchen table."

I laughed. "I'm glad you waited. Otherwise, I would have never had the opportunity to devour that great food. _And_ , by the way, you told me that eating at The Red Apple would be too much food for lunch? Ha! Except for this lunch being much better, how would eating at The Red Apple be too much food?"

Steve laughed. Agnes laughed harder.

"I don't know what to ask you next. Should you tell me why all this stuff wasn't in the report, or should you tell me about your getting hooked up first?"

Steve said, "Important stuff first. This stuff wasn't in the report because O'Grady didn't want to make a case out of it. If he did, it would be something in which he would have to stay involved. He shoveled it under the table so it wouldn't interfere with his retiring. I was a newbie. I should have objected. I didn't know how. One of my first actions on the force was to sign a false report, or at least an incomplete one. I have regretted having done nothing ever since.

"O'Grady said, 'Hey, kid! What the hell? We put into the report about the loud noise, didn't we? So what, if we called it a horse whinny?'

"I said, 'Yeah, but what about the red-headed kid?'

"O'Grady said, 'What about him? If we don't put it into the report, there was no red-headed kid. We're better off without any kid, red-headed or otherwise. If there's no red-headed kid, we won't have to look for him. So, no red-headed kid. We just close the case.'

"We did. I always knew there was something more to this case. This was Nails Morton and Dion O'Banion. Agnes reported a gunshot, a missing witness. Maybe, it was an accident, but we had all kinds of reasons not to believe it so readily."

Agnes said, "I agree with Steve. Even before he came to the hotel that night, I thought something was wrong."

"Agnes, now tell Eddie about us."

"Well, Eddie, there really isn't a lot more to tell. Steve came to the hotel that night, the night of the accident. I was surprised when I opened the door after his knock, but I must admit, I was really pleased to see him. He was so handsome in his blue serge suit with his red tie and fancy tie clip.

"Steve said 'I'm not here on official business, Miss Wojciechowski. I am here to see you in a personal way.'

"To say I was surprised was an understatement. Even though I was shy and spoke very bad English, I was excited about this man. We went for a walk, had a coke at a deli, and talked for hours. At least, Steve talked. I listened. I didn't understand everything he said, but I was so happy. We saw each other every day after that. We even went to Nails' funeral together. We were married in September. The rest is history. Our forty-fifth wedding anniversary is next month. I know it's not a good thing to say, but that horse accident was the best day of my life."

Steve and I said together, "If it was an accident."

We visited a while longer, discussing the _accident_ , what I would do next and what help Steve could be. I told him that I sort of had inside help already, but that I would call him if I needed anything else. I assured him I would let him and Agnes know whatever I uncovered.

Agnes, however, was done talking about the _accident_. She wanted to know about John-John. I spent the better part of an hour telling her everything I knew about John-John, present and past, as well as his foreseeable future. She said she had had only cared for him for a short time, long, long ago, but she had carried her worries about him much the same way as her husband had carried his concerns about the _accident_ report and what had really happened at that lakefront scene forty-five years ago.

Agnes thanked me for my completeness and told me to _transmit_ , her word as her English has apparently greatly improved over time, her best wishes and concerns to John-John. I promised I would do so. I invited them down to The Hyde Out. We said our farewells. It was a good thing that O'Grady had not been the young cop.

I took Milwaukee Ave. south. It was still early. I thought I could beat rush-hour traffic, so I headed for the Kennedy and the Loop. I wanted to get back to Hyde Park. I needed a rest and some bathtub thinking time before I saw Stosh that evening.
22

Stosh and Gilly

### August 9, 1968

### Friday

I made it back to The Powhatan in near record time, well under an hour. I was in the tub in a semi-somnolent state only a few minutes after I parked the car. And, my clothes didn't even stink all that much, well, not from smoke anyway. If it wasn't summer and hadn't they got so sweaty, I could have worn them again.

I thought about the day, and talked to Charles. What I had learned this day about what really happened in Lincoln Park forty-five years ago was an astonishing turn of events. I don't know that it really changed anything, but now I was concerned I would have to tell John-John what I had learned. I was going to run that concern past Stosh and Gilly tonight, and my dad and Geri tomorrow.

I would tell John-John about his _situation_ on Sunday. I hoped what I had to tell him would help him sleep good.

Charles, of course, knew nothing about what hadn't been included in the police report. He told me that if he had, he might have done things a bit differently with John-John, but he really didn't think so. What difference would it have made to John-John's understanding of his father and mother if it had been the case that his father's death had been a homicide or some such thing as opposed to an accident? Absolutely none at all.

Charles was correct. What John-John's parents had been was the important thing, not how they died. I sympathized with Charles' decision. How does one tell a five-year old such things? One doesn't. How long does one wait to tell the aging five-year old such things? Then if one does, irrespective of the time delay, how does one answer the inevitable question, 'Why didn't you tell me sooner?' Is it correct to decide to let sleeping dogs lie? Maybe so.

I was beginning to sympathize with Charles, even though it would now be my job to tell John-John about his history.

I woke up water-logged and cold. I had slept hard and past the hot water's life span. It still wasn't dark out, but I was hungry.

Because of my owning The Pickle and my crazy hours, I don't cook much. Further, I seldom have anything in the house to cook. Tonight, however, I was not in the mood to go out to eat and I was hungry enough not to want to wait for a Rocco's delivery. I hoped I had a fresh rib-eye in the fridge to grill. That is, I would have one if John-John remembered to deliverer my food order. I had a date tomorrow night with Geri and had decided to cook in. If I used any of that food tonight, I had a full day until I had to replace it.

Lo and behold! My fridge contained the necessary stock for a grilled rib-eye steak. While that item was on the stove, I called The Hyde Out. I asked English Dave, who had just started his shift, to ask Stosh and Gilly to come over to my place tonight, being that it was jazz night and we would never be able to have a conversation there. Even upstairs in my apartment, we would have the din of the downstairs music. I also asked that he give them another rib-eye to bring over. "What the hell," I told him, "give them the one and need and three extras. I'll grill up one for each of them when they get here."

I was watching my steak all the time I was on the phone. I was paying attention. My steak was still leaking blood, as it should have been doing. I wanted to eat it right out of the pan, but cutting a steak, cutting anything, on a pan bottom was a dumb thing to do. So, I got a plate, a jar of apple sauce and a large fresh tomato, and went into the family room to eat.

I ate and read until about ten-thirty, when the deskman called to announce I had visitors. I told him to send them up.

I had the pan heating on the stove when Stosh and Gilly entered through the already opened door. I had Charles' Blend all ready for Gilly and a beer for Stosh. Gilly handed me the bag with the rib-eyes. I put them down on the end-table and promptly forgot them.

I told them about my day with Steve and Agnes.

Gilly said "Stosh, you better watch your backside. Eddie is after your job."

Stosh replied, "Yeah, but the problem is did Eddie or did Eddie not uncover a murder?"

"Stosh's right."

" _Yes_ and _no_ guys. There ain't no murder without tying a loud noise which might or not might have been a gunshot, or something else if it was anything at all, to the little red-headed kid who might or might not be a red-headed kid, but a red-headed kid or a regular colored-headed kid with a red baseball cap, as well as a red-headed kid who might or might not be a red-headed kid, but a red-headed kid or a regular colored-headed kid with a red baseball cap who was responsible for the loud noise which might or not might have been a gunshot or something else if it was anything at all. Since we ain't got any of that and a police report to back up what we ain't got, there hasn't been a murder."

They both said "You lawyers are all alike."

All three of us laughed.

I said "Guys, telling you all this, which you deserve to hear, mostly because of all the help you have provided to me and John-John, is only one of the reasons I asked you here."

Stosh grunted, then said "Yeah, that was one. Two others are because you want to torture me by not allowing me to smoke here and because you were too fucking lazy to walk over to The Hyde Out. You got another reason? And, another beer?"

"Yeah, Stosh. As a matter of fact, I do have another reason. I need your advice, and Gilly's. What do I tell John-John? The beer's in the fridge."

Gilly said "It's gonna be sortta difficult to tell him about his father and mother, particularly after Charles has kept that info away from him all of these years."

As Stosh headed for his beer, he grunted his agreement. For Stosh, I guess smoking withdrawal expresses itself in grunts.

I said "I'm going to talk to my dad about this tomorrow and to Geri tomorrow night. Unless one or more of the four of you convince me otherwise, I'm going to tell John-John the truth, or at least most of it. There's no way I can temper the truth about his father. It's all part of a public record John-John could uncover at our local library. I've seen him there before. He's really quite adept at using the facilities. Besides that, the librarians there love him and would help him anyway. So with Nails, it's either all or nothing. I think it's a different story with his mother. Who'd bother looking up stuff about Elaine when all the info about Nails is out there? I don't think John-John or anyone else would look farther than his mother got sick and died a few years after Nails."

Returning, Stosh asked "Why your dad, Eddie? I thought you guys were on the permanent _outs_."

"Far from it, Stosh. My dad can be a real asshole, particularly these last few years with my mother divorcing him. But, I love my dad. I always have, he's really a pretty good guy. Maybe, I'm finally growing up and I can understand more and accept it as well. You both would like him."

Another grunt from Stosh when he added "Yeah, when he's not being an asshole."

Gilly, who had four daughters, helped me with; "Eddie, you know all my kids are girls and though much younger than John-John, all of them are grown, married and gone. If I had the same circumstances as you have, I believe I would tell them the same truth you're talking about."

Stosh who had never married and presumed childless grunted his concurrence. "For what it's worth, I'll go along with that."

Gilly put his coffee cup down and said "I have to go, Eddie. I have a few more hours left in my nightly grind."

Stosh grunted the rest of his second beer and said, "Me too, Eddie. I'll see you when I see you. Keep me in the loop. I'm outta here. I need a smoke. Besides, I really wasn't hungry."

"Oh, shit! I plain forgot."

They both laughed.

I walked them to the elevator, saying "Thanks, guys, for all your help. Maybe, I'll see you tomorrow, Sunday at the latest."

The elevator doors closed. After a few seconds, I returned to my apartment, the bath and sleep. I would have a tiring day tomorrow.

First, however, I had to put the steaks away. When I got to the kitchen, I saw the burnt pan. It was absolutely ruined. My mother would kill me for being so damned dumb.
23

First My Dad, Then Geri

### August 10, 1968

### Saturday

Since yesterday evening had been an early one, this morning was an early one as well. The sunrise hardly ever woke me up. In spite of my westerly facing bedroom windows, I almost always beat it by ten or fifteen minutes since there was nothing on Lake Michigan to block the dim light thrown out over the horizon before the sun actually rises above it. This morning was no exception. I was awake at five-forty. Sunrise would be five-fifty-four.

I padded my way into the kitchen to start my Charles' Blend. Still naked, I walked over to the family room and stood in front of the windows to enjoy the early morning sun coming up over the Lake. After a few minutes, I returned to the kitchen. My Charles' Blend was ready and in my cup, which was in my hand as I stood in front of the family room windows watching the sun approach the city.

Since I hadn't dressed yet, I didn't have to strip to shower. A good night's sleep had made my mind alert. The brisk shower made it _more alerter_. I believed I was in for a good day. I was really looking forward to seeing my father today. I believed he would agree with me about what to tell John-John. To ensure what he told me was what he thought and not what I thought, I would have to be careful not to give him any hints on that matter. And of course, there would be Geri later in the day. Sunset would be at seven-fifty-seven tonight, so I probably wouldn't see Geri before nine o'clock. Isn't it strange that women and sex cause one to pay attention to the time of the sunset?

I made it to The Pickle just as they were opening. I had taken the long route there, diverting down the Lakefront to Promontory Point to enjoy the great early morning Lake Michigan weather. I had another Charles' Blend and my bagel _with_ in front of me as I perused the Tribune Sports Section. Fergy got bombed again last night, something I already knew, so I just skimmed the box score and moved on to the comics. Then, I went upstairs to my office. There was always more paperwork there. I reviewed the stuff my mother had left for me. There wasn't anything major, nothing she couldn't handle, but like a good mother, she left a few things so her son could feel important.

I was back downstairs by eight for a morning _walk-around_. I stopped for a fourth cup of Charles' Blend before I checked with all the businesses. I received the normal good answers, "No" and 'No" from everyone. In this situation, the _Noes_ are portends of another good day.

I still had a few hours before my dad would get home, so I called my Aunt Mae and asked her if she wanted me to drive her to the cemetery. I got a _to-go_ order, a couple of bagels _with_ , just butter for my Aunt Mae, plain cream cheese for my dad, as well as a six-pack of root beer. My dad loved the stuff. I walked home to get the De Soto. I would drive it today as my Aunt Mae loved the old car.

Traffic was light heading north on this Saturday morning. I picked up my Aunt Mae not much after nine. She relished the luxury ride. I stayed off of the Expressway. She loved the city streets, so I took Milwaukee Avenue north. My Uncle Henry had died in 1957, shortly before I had moved to Hyde Park. He was buried in St. Adalbert Catholic Cemetery just north of the city's northernmost border. My father's _end-of-the-line_ bus depot is just a mile or two south of the cemetery. Since my dad and Aunt Mae live just a block north of Milwaukee Avenue, on Saturday, my Aunt Mae catches my dad's bus on his last run north. Until a few years ago, she used to do it _every_ day.

One winter, a few years ago, when I had been back in the States on leave, before my mother divorced my dad, I was visiting and my mother needed the car, their _only_ car, their _only running_ car, but that's another story. She told my dad "After Eddie and I are done with our errands, we will pick you and Mae up at the bus depot and drive you to the cemetery."

We did and when we got to the grave, my Aunt Mae got out of the car, walked to Uncle Henry's grave, and proceeded to walk around the rectangle in a _one-foot-in-front-of-the-other_ fashion, making a clear outline in the ground snow left by an early morning flurry.

My father said to my mother in a very off-handed way, "When I die, you can piss on my grave."

My mother responded "You can bet on it. Just don't expect me to do it every day."

I had all I could do not to crack up. My mother didn't often make jokes, let alone a _crudish_ one, nor one as funny and _apropos_ as this one.

Anyway, we got to the bus depot just as my father was heading south on his last round trip of the day. He saw the De Soto and waited until I was aside his bus. I said "Dad, I've got Aunt Mae. We'll go to the cemetery now and see you home directly when you're done with your last run. I have a fresh bagel for you."

We all did what we did. We arrived back home a good two hours before he did, but it was a good visit with my Aunt Mae, who filled me in on my sister's family stuff. Delores had married into the Air Force and moved around a lot. Presently, they were in Dayton, Ohio. They had just arrived there from Texas, so I hadn't seen them on my trip there a few years ago. Delores and I didn't see enough of each other.

When my dad arrived, Aunt Mae had lunch ready. Today's menu was double-breaded, fried in heavily peppered butter, lots of the butter, pork chops. Naturally, there were enough for six people. That way, Aunt Mae would be able to tell me to take them with me. She always cooked that way.

I told my dad and Aunt Mae about my John-John Project, how it had begun, and everything I had uncovered. They both knew John-John. With my Aunt Mae, it was mostly she knew _about_ John-John. My father had met him on his infrequent visits to me in Hyde Park.

My report unfolded exactly the way I had planned it to, direct, to the point, without any reference to my personal feelings. When I had done, I asked my dad "What should I do now, pa?"

"Eddie, you gotta tell John-John everything you just told me. He needs to know. Maybe, he didn't need to know it when all this stuff happened. I can understand why Charles didn't tell him anything then. But, he needs to know now. He needs to know everything. Everything, but don't tell him about his mother. There's no need. Just tell him a couple of years after the horse accident, she got real sick and died. If he asks how she got sick, just tell him 'She got sick inside herself, in her guts. It was so bad, the doctors couldn't operate. She just died.' Not a lie. All of it is true. It's all John-John has to know. He'll be satisfied."

I don't think I was surprised by my dad's advice, but I was happy with it, proud even. My dad was a smart guy, I thought, particularly when he agrees with me.

We visited some more, but around five, I said I had to get back to Hyde Park. My Aunt Mae gave me a doggie bag.

The three of us said joyous good-byes and traded promises to do it again soon. I knew I would, but I wondered when the next time my dad would visit me in Hyde Park would be. I had invited him often. He seldom came anymore since my mother was working and living there. But, one could hope.

I drove Belmont to the drive. Even this early, on a weekend night, the Kennedy would begin backing up in the Loop. I was back at The Powhatan by six-thirty, ready to cook, and be _cooked_.

Geri showed up, as expected, around nine. I had her white zin chilled and ready for her. As we hadn't talked much or seen each other for a while, we caught up on small stuff. I asked, she agreed to wait about the John-John Project, until after dinner.

The steaks were great, as were the onions, fresh asparagus with _the-always-difficult-for-me-to-prepare_ hollandaise sauce, and the double-baked baked potatoes, an artery clogger's dream meal, my fourth or more in the last couple of days. We skipped desert.

We had after dinner drinks, hers a bit of Charles' expensive brandy. Mine just a cream soda.

She said "Well?"

I welled.

When I heard her recommendation, I swore she had been with me when I was visiting my dad earlier in the day. It was almost verbatim what my dad had said. I guess that clinched it. I couldn't be all bad when my father, my older lover and two cops agreed with me.

We finished the evening _in_ our usual fashion. Fashion was also _in_ the next morning. After our shower and Charles' Blend at home, we left for The Pickle.
24

Spilling the Beans

### August 11, 1968

### Sunday

It was after ten, late for us on a Sunday morning, but we slept _in_ and _in_ again before Geri and I left for The Pickle. We ordered our usual bagels _with_ and more Charles' Blend. We found an empty table and started in on the Tribune. Again, I already knew that Billy Williams had hit his seventeenth homer to help the Cubs behind the relief of Phil Reagan to beat the Reds eight-five. So, I just skimmed the box score. It was Regan's ninth victory.

Even though this was the Sunday Tribune, nothing in the newspaper held much interest for me. I wanted to talk to John-John. He was usually up and about by this time on a Sunday. Though he didn't do much after noon on Saturday or all day Sunday, he was still around, piddling at something or another. He prided himself on the fact that he never took a day off unless Charles, and now I, told him too. Even then, he usually snuck something in.

I asked if anyone had seen him and was told he was in The Bottle unpacking a late Saturday afternoon delivery. I walked over there and rapped on the locked door, being that it wasn't yet Sunday noon. John-John answered and said "Morning, Eddie G. Morning! What can I do for you, Eddie G.? What can I do for you?"

"John-John, I have as many answers to what happened with that horse accident as I will ever have. I want to tell you as much as I know about that day. How about you join me and Geri for a Charles' Blend?"

"Wow, Eddie G. Wow! That's great, Eddie G. That's great. I already had my Charles' Blend, Eddie G. I already had my Charles' Blend. But, I will have another one with you and Geri, Eddie G. I will have another one with you and Geri. Let me lock up here, Eddie G. Let me lock up here."

He did and we walked back to The Pickle to rejoin Geri.

Geri was in a much more joyful mood than I was. I was pensive. Geri was ebullient, really excited about telling John-John.

I said, "John-John, come join us. I have quite a story to tell you."

He sat. I told. Geri helped.

"Well, John-John, I found out a lot about the horse accident in that article. It might surprise you, John-John, but that man who got killed, the Nails guy, he was really your father."

"Holy moly, Eddie G. Holy moly! What are you telling me, Eddie G.? What are you telling me?"

"The man from the accident, Samuel Nails Morton was your father. That's why your last name is _Morton_."

"That can't be, Eddie G. That can't be. The horse didn't kill my father, Eddie G. The horse didn't kill my father. Charles was my father, Eddie G. Charles was my father."

"Yes, John-John, Charles was your father. Charles was your real father. Charles took care of you and raised you to be the great guy that you are. But, the other guy, Nails, might have been your _real_ father. He said he wasn't, but he might have been."

"No, he wasn't. Eddie G. No, he wasn't. No mighta been. No, sir! No mighta been. Charles was my father, Eddie G. Charles was my real father."

Geri asked if she could try to help. I agreed.

"John-John, you are correct. Charles was your father, your _real_ father. What else could someone who did all he did for you be called. But, there was someone before Charles. There was a _biological someone_. That guy was never really your father. He never took care of you like Charles did. But, we call that _biological someone_ a father. Maybe in your case, we shouldn't. Maybe, we should call him something else."

"Yeah, Geri. We should. We should call him something else. We should call him _Nails_ , Geri. We should call him _Nails_."

"I'm sorry, John-John. I understand what you're saying. From now on, that's what we will do. We'll call this other guy just plain old Nails."

I continued with the story. "I found your nanny John-John. Her name is Agnes. I always believed what you told me, but now, she has confirmed everything you told me. She said the way you tell it is exactly the way it really happened."

"Wow, Eddie G. Wow! I never remembered my nanny's real name, Eddie G. I never remembered her real name. All I remember, Eddie G., is she was real pretty. All I remember is that she was really pretty. Nanny was real young and real pretty, Eddie G. Nanny was real young and real pretty."

"Well, John-John, Agnes is still real pretty, but she's not young anymore. She's sixty-five years old now. And, she asked all about you. She wanted to know everything about you, John-John."

"Wow, Eddie G. Wow! Can we go see her, Eddie G.? Can we go see her?"

"That's exactly what she wants, John-John. That's exactly what she wants." I caught myself falling into _John-John-speak_ as I often do when I'm telling him important personal stuff.

"When, Eddie G.? When? When can we go see her, Eddie G.?"

"We will see her soon, John-John. I invited her down to The Pickle. We can call her and make definite arrangements. But first, let me finish the story.

"OK, Eddie G. OK!"

I continued. "You were correct, John-John, when you said you were there. You were correct when you said you had a nanny. You were correct when you said you said you saw the horse fall on the man. You were correct about hearing the loud noise. You were correct about everything you said you remembered."

"Wow, Eddie G. Wow! That's neat, Eddie G. How'd you find all that stuff out, Eddie G.? How'd you find all that stuff out?"

"I had a lot of luck and a lot of help, Geri here, Tribune John, Stosh the Cop, Officer Gilly, and a lot of others I met along the way."

"Wow, Eddie G! Wow! You did it, Eddie G. You did it. I can really sleep good now, Eddie G. I can really sleep good now. You did good, Eddie G. You did good. You did as good as Charles could have done, Eddie G. You did as good as Charles could have done. Charles was my father, Eddie G. You have always been my brother. I knew you could do it, Eddie G. I knew you could do it. I knew you could make me sleep good again. I don't have Charles anymore, Eddie G. I don't have Charles anymore, but I have you, Eddie G. I have you."

"John-John, I have never heard sweeter words. Thank you, John-John. I really appreciate you and your love."

John-John canted his head, even more than usual, smiled a bit more than usual as he turned a little red. I had embarrassed him.

"Hey, John-John! The Sox are still in town. How about we go to the game and make a day of it? I have a lot of food. I don't know how we will eat it all, but we'll try. I have some left over rib-eye. I have both Aunt Mae's hamburgers and her pork chops. We'll take the train to the ballpark, so we can drink beer with our hotdogs. After the game, we'll go back to my place for more beer, more food, and Sunday night television, Walt Disney, the Smothers Brothers."

Since John-John had met Abbie, he had been talking about the Smothers Brothers.

"We'll make a day of it. How's that sound?"

"That sounds great, Eddie G. That sounds great. Can Geri come too, Eddie G? Can Geri come too?"

"Of course Geri can come too, John-John. But, she might have other plans, so you'd better ask her what she wants to do."

"Geri, will you come too? Will you come too?"

"Yes, John-John. I am honored that you ask. I'll join you for the ballgame, but then I will have to get home."

"Wow, Eddie G! Wow, Geri! We will all have a great day."

Except that the Sox lost, in front of barely four thousand people to the Cleveland Indians and Luis Tiant who won his eighteenth game. The Sox were having a rotten year, but we had a great day anyway!
25

The First Asshole Judge

### August 25, 1968

### Sunday

The 1968 Democratic Presidential Convention was scheduled to start tomorrow. The young people who had been previously slowly adding to the population of Lincoln Park for over three weeks, were now arriving in droves. They were all more than ready to begin a Festival of Life.

Abbie, Jerry, Dana and I had met earlier in the week. Marge was nowhere to be seen. I thought it would be bad form to inquire after her. So, I didn't.

We all agreed that my guys' monitoring of bail hearings would start that upcoming Sunday at six in the evening. That was today. They would stay on the job until ten the following Saturday morning. They also paid me a retainer of eight-hundred and sixty-four dollars, equal to two days' pay with the agreement that they would pay another four-hundred and thirty-two dollars every night to Tom, the six at night lawyer. If there was any extra billing, they would pay that as well upon presentation of the bill.

My guys were happy with the money. I was happy for them.

Geri had been with me Saturday night, and rather than go directly home, Geri decided to visit the Festival of Life before she had to go even further north than Lincoln Park. Geri knew nothing of Marge. She didn't need to. The two of us did, after all, have separate lives. Marge would probably be there today, but since I hadn't seen this _modern_ woman since that first time we met, I really wasn't concerned. Well, I was. I wanted to see her again.

Geri, John-John and I headed north on public transportation. Even around noon, to try to park up there on this day would have been on the far side of insane. John-John was excited to see Abbie again.

They had met once after the introduction. They had spent the afternoon in the zoo. John-John had driven there to see him. John-John was quite capable of making his own decisions and did not inquire of me. I didn't know about the visit until he returned all excited to again regale The Hyde Out's patrons of his day with his friend Abbie.

John-John was a funny guy. He didn't even try to contact Abbie ahead of time. He just drove up there knowing that Abbie would be there and had the free time to visit the zoo. John-John was correct. Abbie was there and if he wasn't free, he made himself so and the two of them spent a couple for hours walking around the zoo. John-John had been ecstatic.

He was excited at the prospect of seeing Abbie again today. As, I must admit, was Geri. Even at her comparatively advanced age of forty-three, she was not about to miss a Festival of Life.

It took a while to find Abbie _et al_. When we did, we found the whole crew: Abbie, Jerry, Andrew Prewt, Sarge, Dana, Michael... and Marge. John-John was only too happy to be the one to make introductions all around.

Abbie and I took care of the first order of business, making arrangements for Dana, Marge and me to leave at five for the courtroom to meet Tom and get the show on the road. After that, we all just roamed around. John-John took over Abbie's attention, but he did bring Geri along with him. Geri would tell me later, she had already left today around three, that she now understood Abbie's being a leader. She said he really did have that take charge charisma that it appeared on television that he had. She added that she also liked him. He was a smart, witty and politically astute guy. She saw the same qualities in him that I did and liked him for the same reasons.

Marge avoided me. Dana and Michael seemed reticent and sort of wandered off, alone or together I couldn't tell. I spent most of the time with Andrew Prewt.

When five o'clock rolled around, Marge and Dana came over to me, dragging John-John along behind them. The four of us headed south. John-John was reluctant to leave, but he knew that I had to and he preferred that I accompany him home.

We made it down to the courtroom before six. Tom had also arrived early. Dana headed for a coffee shop where he said he or Robbie could always be found if money was needed. Otherwise, he said, just ignore him. It was better that way.

John-John stayed with Tom. Marge beckoned me away.

"Eddie, I'm sorry if you feel ignored. I know that if you feel that way, it was because you were. That day we returned from Hyde Park, I received a message from East Lansing. Bill called. Bill is my fiancé. He finally asked me to marry him. We have known each other for a long time and I guess it was inevitable that he finally got around to asking. Still, I was surprised, but I said 'Yes.' I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't want you to think badly about me."

"Wait! Wait! Wait! First, you don't owe me any explanations. Second, I will never think badly of you. You're a great lady. I enjoyed meeting you and our time together, I wish you the best. I hope your Bill is the best."

"Thanks, Eddie! Thanks a lot. I really mean it. Maybe it's a cliché, but I hope we can continue to be friends."

We hugged and said good-bye. It felt a bit final because it was. Marge joined Tom. John-John and I headed home, not knowing I would be returning later that night.

John-John went to the Hyde Out to catch up on his two missed beers. I went straight home. I had fallen asleep while reading. It was a little after midnight when the phone rang. It was Tom.

"I don't think we really need you down here, but Marge thinks we do. Some real strange things have happened down here. Marge doesn't think telling you over the phone will be sufficient. She thinks you had better come down. It's really nothing urgent. It's just plain goofy."

"OK, Tom! There's not going to be any traffic now, so I'll drive down. I'm still dressed, so I should be there in half an hour or so."

I was. This is the strange story Tom and Marge told me.

"Nothing was happening here for most of the evening. I guess Sunday nights are a slow night. The afternoon judge left the bench about ten o'clock and was replaced by a real old guy, Judge John Dotty. Right after he got up on the bench, three or four paddy wagons arrived. The place was packed with arrestees. Marge said none of them were ours, but all but a few looked like they could be.

"The first guy up was, however, a young guy arrested in Lincoln Park. He was charged with being a public nuisance. He was caught with an open beer bottle he had concealed in a paper bag. The judge asked the guy 'How old are you?' the guy replied 'Twenty-one, your honor!' the response was 'Well, you're legal there, but that's the only place. Lock him up.'

"The judge then told the entire group of prisoners to raise their hands if they were from Lincoln Park. All but five did. The judge said 'I don't know who you people think you are, coming into my city and performing all of these illegal acts. It appears that Mayor Daley couldn't stop you from coming, but I can make your stay an unpleasant one. Hopefully, it will teach you not ever to come back.' Then, he turned to the bailiffs and said 'Lock them all up.'

"I was really nervous but I thought I had to do something. I stood up and asked 'Your Honor, may I be heard?'

"The conversation went like this: The judge said, 'Who are you, young man? Are you one of these guys?' waving towards the group he had just ordered locked up.

"I told him 'I'm Thomas Q. Quentin, attorney-at-law. And, no, I am not associated with anyone of this group.'"

"'Then, what do you want? What is the _Q._ for?'

"'The _Q._ is for nothing, Your Honor. It is merely a space filler so I wouldn't be an _NMI_."

"'What is an _NMI_?'

"'No middle initial, Your Honor!'

"'What are you, young man? A joke? What do you want?'

"'No offense, Your Honor, but you cannot do what you just did."

"He shouted, ' **What? You say** _what'_ **? You say I can't do** _what'_ **?** '

"I responded, 'Again, with all due respect, Your Honor. The law states that you must give each of these persons a hearing. Further, the law also states that you must give a person charged with any misdemeanor other than a first degree misdemeanor a bond not to exceed the maximum fine for the offense. You cannot simply remand, particularly _en masse._ "

"'Don't you dare suppose to tell me the law.' He turned and yelled 'Bailiff!'

"I told Marge, purposefully louder than was necessary, 'Call, Eddie and have him get a member of the firm down here immediately. You better call Jerry as well,' I didn't want to say _Abbie_ , 'and have him get a member of his firm down here also. It looks like we just got involved in a Federal case.'

"I guess the judge didn't like all these people and the feds getting involved in his nothing night court because he then yelled again, ' **Bailiff, get all of these damned people out of here. I want every one of them released on their own recognizance.** '

"With that, he stormed off the bench and into his chambers. The bailiff yelled after him 'Your Honor, Your Honor, wait!' but by then, the judge was gone. The bailiff knocked on the chamber door, but there wasn't any answer. The bailiff yelled at the door, 'Your Honor, Your Honor, five of these guys are felons, two for murder.' The bailiff kept pounding at the door.

"Finally, the judge opened the door. He yelled ' **Goddamn it! This is my courtroom. I gave you your orders. Now, follow them!** ' Again, he slammed the door.

"The bailiff turned to the clerk and said 'Start processing these misdemeanors out of here, ASAP! They ain't worth worrying about anyway. All they did was piss off a cop. I'm going to call the Chief Magistrate.'

"As he turned to leave, the judge again opened the door. The judge yelled ' **Goddamn it! What are all these people still doing here? I told you what to do. Now, do it!** ' Again, he slammed the door. He was getting quite good at it. This time the slam was even louder.

"The bailiff said, not under his breath, 'Shit!' and went, I assume, to make his call. By the time he returned, all of the paperwork for those charged with a misdemeanor had been completed and the people released and gone. The clerk said 'All I got left are these guys, all charged with a felony.' The bailiff wanted to know what felonies. The clerk relied 'A domestic, a burglary, an armed robbery and two murders.' The clerk said "Do the paper work for the domestic and the burglary. Both of them will be back here soon enough anyway. I couldn't reach the Chief, but I'll be damned if I release murderers and guys with guns just because some _fucking-asshole-dickhead-drunk-judge_ tells me to. If he wants it done, the next time that _fucking-asshole-dickhead-drunk-judge_ comes out of his chambers, he can fucking well do it himself.'

"The _fucking-asshole-dickhead-drunk-judge_ didn't again open the door, and here we are. The three felons are still in lockup. The bailiff finally reached the Chief Magistrate who is on his way down here now."

"Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! What a great story. The first demonstration story and it's the fucking authorities who give it to us. I gotta call Mike!"

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Mike Royko of the _Daily News_. It's still early. It's not even two in the morning. If _The_ _Billy Goat Tavern_ is still open, that's where I'll find him."

I went to find the phone bank that is always outside every American court room. The lawyers, as well as the accused, are always in need of a phone. I had the phone number for _The_ _Billy Goat_ in my little black book. I had called Mike a few weeks earlier to see if I could get any help on my John-John Project. I knew him only casually. He had been a pretty good friend of Charles', so I hadn't felt my inquiring of him had been too much of an imposition. In any case, I hadn't heard back from him.

"Cienes here! What the fuck does ya want? We're closing."

"Mr. Cienes. I gotta speak to Mike right away. It's important. Tell him it's Eddie G."

"Whyda ya think this guy is here?"

"Mr. Cienes, Roy is always there if he ain't already dead."

"Hold on!"

"Royko here, Eddie, what the fuck do you want at two in the morning? I ain't found nothing out." He sounded grumpy, which was not an exception. His good friend, Studs Terkel, once said of him, "People ask me about my _shingles_ , so I say, 'I feel cross, and nasty, ill-tempered, like Mike Royko on a good day."

"No, Mike. That one's over. Listen to this." I told him where I was and proceeded to tell him about the _fucking-asshole-dickhead-drunk-judge_ "I think you might want to get down here and speak to as many of these people as you can. If you're coming, I'll try to hold as many as I can. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a Pulitzer in this one."

Mike eventually won a Pulitzer in 1972 for his _Commentaries_ in 1971. I like to think that the Pulitzer was for his cumulative _Commentaries_ and that the ones that resulted from this incident were major factors in his receiving the award.

He said "I'm on my way down. As soon as I get a fucking cab. I'm too drunk to walk or drive. I'm probably as drunk as that _fucking-asshole-dickhead-drunk-judge_. But, I only write about 'em. I don't put their fucking asses in jail."

I hung up and returned to my guys in the courtroom. "Mike's on his way down. Any chance any of these _Festival of Life_ guys are still around? He'll want to talk to a few."

Marge went outside to see and brought four of them back with her. She said, "These guys ain't even got money for a bus. They're sort of marooned here."

"Don't worry guys. Mike Royko is on his way down here. He wants to talk with you. I'm sure he'll find a way to get you back up north."

I told my guys, "Charles always told me to be careful of the man in the black robes. More often than not, that man in the black robes believed because his bench was elevated above everybody else in the courtroom, he believed he really was above everybody else, in and out of the courtroom. Judges are an example of the old adage: _Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely._ It takes a strong person to keep perspective once elevated to the bench. Few have it, particularly those who are little more than political hacks. Charles would say today we had seen proof absolute that Judge John Dotty was a political hack."

The behavior of this _fucking-asshole-dickhead-drunk-judge_ was not as much an exception as the uninitiated might believe. In Chicago, in Cook County, in the State of Illinois, all judges are elected. In Chicago and Cook County, all judges who are elected are elected because of the Richard J. Daley political machine. If a Republican wants to be elected to the bench, he or she had better have done some mighty big favor for the Richard J. Daley political machine. One can only imagine the exalted credentials one must provide to the Richard J. Daley political machine.

Most of these supplicants, of course, do have impressive credentials and qualifications. Still, more than a handful are rated _Not Qualified_ by the Chicago bar Association. Rarely is one of the _Not Qualified_ rejected by the voting populace. Once _Hizzoner_ Mayor Daley had put someone on the judicial ballot that person was effectively considered as having been elected. Who follows these kinds of elections? Few, that's who!

Judge John Dotty was one of those tagged as _Not Qualified_. Yet, he was elected and re-elected. Just another of the many reasons why I have chosen not to practice law in this _The Chicago Way_ courts.

I spent most of the rest of the time we were waiting for Mike explaining to these out-of-towners who Mike Royko was.

When Mike arrived, I was outside waiting for him. I started with, "I hope this story is as good for you as I think it is. But, I need a favor. Don't mention me or The Hyde Out. We ain't the Billy Goat. Cienes thrives on this stuff. We don't. The publicity for us would not be good. Most of our patrons ain't into liberalism or attacking the city. OK?"

"OK, Eddie! I know Charles' position on politics in his bar. I'm sure you still follow it. But, what the fuck are you doing here in the first place? I explained.

"Shit, Eddie! That's a great story as well. But, OK! I'll leave that one alone."

We went inside. Mike did his thing. I went home. It had already been too long of a day.

It would still be a year away that Mike would have another scoop on these asshole judges. He obtained a letter to Senator Charles H. Percy, the letter that started Percy on his campaign to better vet nominees to the Federal Bench.

That letter from a party bigwig, Justin A. Stanley, who would later become president of the American Bar Association, read: "All sorts of people are starting to speak out about this, from Chief Justice Burger down to newspaper columnists. While in no sense do I condemn either the basic system or all judges, it seems perfectly clear to me that such things as delays, incompetence, lack of imagination and, in a few cases, venality threatens a breakdown of the entire process. Much of the trouble is traceable directly to the attitudes of the political parties which both in the elective and appointive process have not regarded the naming of the best judges possible as a matter of decisive importance."

I wasn't alone.
26

The Whole World is Watching

### August 26, 1968

### Monday

I slept until noon. I started a pot of Charles' Blend and got into the shower. I must have fallen asleep on my feet since all of a sudden, I noticed the shower water had started to get colder. That never happens. It seemed impossible, but I must have accidentally bumped one of the shower handles, or outrun the hot water boiler.

I got dressed and drank a couple of cups of Charles' Blend. By the time I got to The Hyde Out, it was after one.

Jordan was behind the bar filling in for someone. I hadn't seen her for a while. She must have been busy hanging out in Lincoln Park.

She said, "Eddie, where the fuck you been? The whole world is looking for you. Did you see today's Daily News? It just got here, hot off the press. Royko's got a front page headline story, _Hizudderonner Sez 'Murderer, Go Home!' Hizrealonner Sez 'Whoops!'_ Mike's office has called here a dozen times looking for you. They said they couldn't get you at home."

"Slow down, kid! I'm still more than half asleep. Do me a favor. Get me some Charles' Blend."

She left to do so. I sagged down the in The Holes in the Wall Booth. I needed food as well, so I yelled over "And a bagel _with_ , please."

Jordan brought my Charles' Blend to me fast. She knew when a guy needed a caffeine hit. I read Mike's story. Except for reporting a press conference with _Hizzoner_ Mayor Daley that morning, the story was exactly as Tom and the others had reported it earlier that morning, except, of course, being told in Mike's inimical style.

Mayor Daley, when confronted by Mike that morning at a City hall press conference said, in his usual malapropisms, "John must have missed some of his _Alcoholic Unanimous_ meetings. Even judges should be given the benefit of the doubt if they make a _dishonest_ mistake."

If that pompous ass hadn't been elected four times as Mayor of Chicago, I would say "If this guy had only listened to Charles he might have been a success."

I went to the bar to return Mike's calls.

"Where the hell you been. Don't you fucking answer your phone?"

"I was home sleeping, Mike. I'm not a reporter. I'm an independent business man. Unlike you, I'm allowed to fucking sleep when I want to. I don't do it often, but I had my home phone forwarded to the bar. That's why you kept getting The Hyde Out when you were calling my home phone. Now, if I have passed your fucking moral scrutiny, what the fuck do you want that's so fucking urgent?"

"You read my story yet, Eddie? You see I honored your request to leave you and your bar out of everything?"

"Yeah!"

"I want to write a follow-up about Tom and Marge _et al_. I need your permission. I can't fuck a source let alone a friend. It's a great story and I can write it without any reference to you or The Hyde Out. Today's story should prove to you that I can do what I say I can do. How about it?"

"Mike, this is an attorney-client situation with lottsa attorneys and lottsa clients. What does Tom say? What does Rich say? What does Harold say? What does Marge say? What does Abbie say? What does Andrew Prewt say? Then, there's Michael, Dana, and still a few others connected with this. If they all agree that you can write this story, it's OK with me; as long as you do what you say you'll do, leave me and The Hyde Out Inn out of it. But, I think it would only be cricket to get the OK of the main players."

"Thanks, Eddie! You're getting to be a great source. I owe you more than one. By the way, what happened to that kid of Charles' you were asking about last month?"

"That's all squared away now, Mike. It was no big thing."

"I doubt that, Eddie., not that it's not all squared away, but that it was no big thing. You were all hot and bothered when you were asking. I'm getting to know you better, Eddie, and you're a pretty cool guy, like Charles was. You don't get all hot and bothered very easily. But if that's the way you want to leave it, I'll leave it that way... for now. I just want you to know, Eddie, that I did try to find out what had happened to this _Nails_ guy. I even bugged Studs about it. But, neither of us or our sources could find out anything except the old newspaper clippings. I hope you're not pissed at me for not getting back to you with my _no_ news."

"No, Mike! I understand. No problem! Good luck with Abbie and the story. I'll tell my guys to go along if that's what they want, and it probably will be. New lawyers can always stand this kind of exposure. It puts them in a good light. However, I will also warn them about who their clients are. That might not put them into such a good light, but, that's their problem and their decision."

"Thanks, Eddie. Talk to you soon. I hope."

"OK, Mike! Good-bye!"

Stosh was right. It's always better to be on the right side of the _owsies_.

The rest of the week was history. The whole world was watching.
27

The Verdicts Are In

### February 18, 1970

### Wednesday

The Cubs were in Scottsdale, Arizona, for Spring Training the day the Chicago Seven jury returned its verdicts: All seven defendants were found not guilty of conspiracy. Two of the defendants were found not guilty of all other charges against them. The other five, including Abbie, were found guilty of having crossed state lines with the intent to incite a riot, which was a real bullshit charge and conviction. The _crime_ was not even a crime until April 11, 1968, just four months before the crime, which had already started several months before it was judged to be a crime, was supposed to have occurred. I guess it's not exactly _ex post facto_ , but it sure smacked of it. Besides, it's a lousy law.

The _crime_ was instituted in the Civil Rights Act of 1968. That Act, the Fair Housing Act, contained an anti-riot provision. In other words, all of the actions of these _guilty_ parties were not _crimes_ during the initial planning stages of the Summer of Love. Their actions only became _crimes_ for actions occurring between April 11, when the law was enacted, and the subsequent August events. With _Hizzoner_ Richard J. Daly's unasked for aid and assistance, the hoped for Summer of Love became the Days of Rage.

Only two days before the verdicts were announced, a nail bomb exploded in San Francisco killing a policeman. The Weather Underground had apparently come above ground.

We were all disappointed in the verdicts, but we expected them. All of us, particularly the attorneys, were sure all of these convictions would ultimately be reversed due to the numerous errors committed by Julius.

Not quite two years later, they all were; as were all of the numerous contempt citations against everybody. I was sure that this asshole judge would eventually get me as well for the thoughts I was sure he could read on my face the times he looked at me. I guess I lucked out. I kept my mouth shut.

On November 21, 1972, all of the convictions were reversed by the United States Court of Appeals. Their reasoning had nothing to do with Julius' conduct during the trial. The reversal was based, not on unconstitutionality, but, on the judge's bias in refusing to permit the defense to screen the jury pool for racial and cultural bias. The bullshit power of the State must be upheld, even if it means twisting logic.

That's another reason I have decided not to practice in this system. It would either be my enforced silence at the ludicrousness of it all, or constantly being jailed for contempt until I was eventually disbarred.

Oh, well! Like any airplane landing one can walk away from is a good landing, any victory in a court of law is still a victory irrespective of the decision maker's reasoning.

After the verdicts were read, all hell broke loose in the courtroom. The judge, being the asshole he was, but a smart asshole nonetheless, knew his fifteen minutes of fame, several months long as they were, were now at an end. He just banged the gavel for the last time, muttered "Court adjourned!" and descended from the bench, not as a god this time, but as a whipped pussycat. He left the courtroom and into his chambers without another peep. He didn't even wait for the reporters as was his wont.

I also left the courtroom silently. I didn't participate in the public displays. It wasn't my wont.

As I waited for Abbie and the attorneys, I saw a young boy, about twelve or so, running down the hallway outside the court rooms.

"Holy shit!" The kid had flaming red hair. By the time, I got to the corner where the kid had turned, he was out of sight.

I walked over to one of the bailiffs and asked, "Do you know who that kid is?"

The bailiff said, "Sure do! That kid's always around here causing mischief. He's Judge Timothy Kimmons' grandkid. He ain't a bad kid. Just a pain in the ass now and then."

I thought "No way!" But, I hoped for "Way!"

I had been sure my John-John Project was all over. Now, maybe not. It looked like I had some more research to do.

I went down to the Law Library the Court maintained. I grabbed the current copy of the Chicago Law Directory. There he was, Federal District Court Judge Timothy James Kimmons. He had been appointed to the bench in 1962 by President Kennedy. His date of birth was right on target: April 24, 1911. He was twelve years old when _Nails_ was nailed.

Holy fucking moly!

This _coincidence_ was going to get some serious looking into. Where to go? How to make a connection?

I needed to go back to my files.

I went back upstairs to the courtroom. Abbie was still acting up and it appeared that none in his audience had left yet. I made my way over to the second chair who, like me, was a non-participant in this exercise of street theatre. I asked him to please make my excuses, but it was important that I be elsewhere, and to tell Abbie, I would be in touch soon. I knew they all had other important things to do as well, but when he got free to meet me for pizza at Rocco's, my treat.

Rush hour hadn't started yet, so I had no problem getting a seat on the number 6 back to The Hyde Out.

Since I was still a _neat freak_ about my papers, I had no problem locating the transcripts, police reports and clippings from Nails' two murder trials, I had stored away.

I had stopped at The Pickle to order a sandwich before I came up, so when I heard rapping on the door, I knew what it was. Evil was doing her usual helping thing for me. She was delivering my sandwich along with a pitcher of "Bit in abend for you, Eddie."

I said "Thanks, Evil. As usual, you are _sooper-dooper_. You are just _too-oo_ good," as I relieved her of her burdens.

I sat down to eat, drink and read. I mostly read and drank. The first thing I wanted to know was whether either of the two Chicago Police Detective Sergeants, James "Jamie Spike" Mulcahey or William "Billy Pluck" Hennessey, killed by _Nails_ and Miller had red hair. It might not mean much. Many Irishmen had red hair, but it was a place to start.

They both did. Both of these killed cops had been redheads. Various newspaper articles mentioned the red headed twins of Chicago's Southside. I guess there wouldn't be an easy beginning. I read more.

"Jamie Spike" had been married and had had three children, all girls. Maybe, one of his siblings' kids was a nephew? At the time, the Irish were known for large families. Most of the immigrants had been Catholic.

"Billy Pluck" had been single, so no kids. Again, maybe, one of his siblings' kids was a nephew?

After another swallow of Bit, I had an epiphany. John-John had been the illegitimate offspring of Nails' mistress. Why not the same of the redheaded twelve-year-old?

The problem was that after forty-eight years, there wasn't anybody to ask. Or, was there? I had a pile of stuff to wade through, but this stuff would contain a lot on names. Most would be dead, of course, but some wouldn't be and those who were not, might provide a thread to others who weren't mentioned in the stuff but who were still alive and might know something. There was always somebody in every family who remembered everything about it.

There was only one place to start. That was at the beginning. So, I went there and started. I went through everything and made a list of all the names mentioned and their relationship to the main characters. It took the rest of the day and the night. By midnight, I was exhausted. The sandwich was long gone into my stomach where it belonged. So was the Bit. I went downstairs for a third pitcher before I hit the hay for the night.

There was a message from Abbie. Sorry, but he would have to wait.

It was near the end of the third pitcher of Bit that I found it. I had had copies made of the copies of the trial transcripts before I returned them to the PBA. It wasn't cheap, but it cost a lot less than if I had ordered them from the Courts.

I had read it at least twice before, but it never sank in or I had skimmed it.

In both of the two murder trials, the District Attorney had pleaded to the jury "I beg of you that you not let the killers of these two _family_ men back out onto the streets to again slay the brave protectors of our homes and streets."

_Family_ men? Either the DA was winging it, which I doubted, or he knew something that wasn't mentioned anywhere else in the documents or newspapers.

I went back downstairs to see if Stosh was still there. He had been an hour ago when I went down for that third pitcher. It was almost one in the morning, so he probably wasn't. Even cops had their limits and had to sleep.

But, this night, Stosh was still there. He was bullshitting with Gilly. The Daily Double.

I walked over to them, and said, "I think I got something."

Stosh said, "I hope it ain't the clap!"

"Funny, Stosh. It's about my John-John Project."

"Your John-John Project?" they both said. Stosh added, "I thought that thing had been long ago put to bed."

"I thought so too, Stosh. But, I saw something today that woke it up and sent it out to the kitchen for breakfast. I was downtown at the Federal Building for the reading of the Chicago Seven verdicts. After they were read, I stepped out into the hall to get away from the shenanigans. What do I see out there, but a young kid, around twelve years old, running around the Court House? The kid had flaming red hair. I asked a bailiff if he knew the kid. The bailiff said he did. The kid was Federal District Court Judge Timothy James Kimmons' grandson."

Gilly said, "A coincidence, Eddie! A coincidence."

Stosh added, "Even though you're starting to sound like John-John, Gilly, I agree. A coincidence."

"I thought maybe so, but it nagged at me. So when I got back here, I went upstairs to look over the stuff on those two murder trials that you brought me back a year and a half ago now, Stosh. Maybe, it would prove a waste of time, but, like I said, I had this nagging feeling."

"Well, you're here now and biting at the bit."

"After drinking it," Stosh added.

"Again, very funny, Stosh. But, yes. I think I found something I missed back then."

I had written down what that DA had said. I gave it to them and said, "This is from the second murder trial. But, he said the exact same thing at the first trial."

They both said, "So what?"

"Billy Pluck was single. What's with this _family man_ shit? Prosecution rhetoric? Once, maybe. But, twice? I don't think so."

Again, they both said "So what?

"If John-John was illegitimate, so could the red-headed kid have been. And if John-John's real father was Nails Morton, the red-headed kid's real father could have been Billy Pluck."

They got it!

Stosh said, "Fuck!" Gilly said, "Piffles!" Gilly was like John-John in that regard, never a _bad_ word.

"I made a list of all the names mentioned in both trials, the police reports and the newspaper articles. I guess the place to start is any member of the Hennessey family."

"That's a good second place, Eddie. But, try the PBA first. See who they paid out any death benefits to. Do you still have the name of the guy I sent you to the first time?"

"I think so. I make notes on everything, so I should still have it."

"Just in case, his name is Raymond Rickard. Good work, Eddie, even if it did take you two years. But, it's still a long shot. It could turn out OK. A redheaded kid running in the hallway! Sheesh!"

"You've told me many times before, Stosh. Good investigation is keeping at it and luck, but you don't usually get the luck if you aren't keeping at it. I got lucky this time, even though I wasn't keeping at it."

"Yes, you were," Gilly inserted. "One can't keep everything in the front of their mind. Only one thing at a time can be there. The rest of the stuff, if it's important, is nearby enough to be grabbed if it needs to be. Your John-John Project is one of those things. It was there. It was ready for your mind to grab at when the opportunity presented itself."

"And, grab at it you did. Gilly's right," Stosh added. "It might still turn out to be bullshit, but if the investigation is to be a good one, even bullshit has to get its chance. Good luck tomorrow, Eddie."

"Ditto," Gilly added.

I was too whipped to go home. I went upstairs. Within seconds, the hay had been hit.
28

The Little Redheaded Kid

### February 19, 1970

### Thursday

Only one day later and the Cubs were still in Scottsdale, Arizona, for Spring Training the day after the Chicago Seven jury returned its verdicts. Even though they had blown the pennant race in the last days of the 1969 season, I still wished I was there with them. The weather in Arizona had to be better than this fucking shit in Chicago. I already had my airline tickets to Phoenix for next month. I had an early afternoon flight. There wouldn't be much of a sun out when I landed, but it would be warm, even hot. I didn't know then, but I would be gone for the first half of a horrible fucking cold snap. I would return to Chicago in time for the second half. Fuck, it was barely forty degrees on April 14th, Opening Day.

I really needed to get out of this city from December to April. I needed a plan.

I didn't get up early that morning. It was about eleven after I showered and got downstairs for my Charles' Blend and bagel _with_.

I called Raymond from the bar phone. As he didn't remember me from almost two years ago, I had to identify myself with the Stosh the Cop reference.

"Thank you for returning those original transcripts so fast. Even though Stosh carries a lot of weight and nobody would ever ask for those records, I was really worried about getting that stuff back. I need to keep my job. I need to keep everything here the way it's supposed to be. If a detective or a judge or a lawyer asks for something and it ain't here, it's my ass. So, again, thanks!"

"What can I do for you this time?"

"I need the insurance information on one of those two detectives that got killed."

"What's the guy's name? I can't remember everything here. Gimme it, so I don't have to look it up."

"The guy I need info on was William "Billy Pluck" Hennessey. I need to know who the beneficiary on his life insurance policy was."

"Got a number to leave?"

I gave it to him and returned to my Charles' Blend and bagel _with_.

Since I was already at The Hyde Out, I went around to everyone with my standard morning greetings. As usual, I received the same standard answers: "No! and "No!"

I went upstairs to my office. My mother was hard at work. She came to me as an already great bookkeeper. Now, she was also a great businesswoman and a great real estate manager as well.

She said, "Good morning, Eddie. Getting a late start, I see. You slept here last night, so I guess you must have had a long night downstairs."

I was almost thirty, but mothers don't care about that age stuff. Mothers are mothers forever. If my mother lives to be one hundred, she'll still treat me the same even though I'd be seventy-five.

I told her what had happened at the courtroom hallway yesterday and about my conversation with Stosh and Gilly. I didn't tell her about the three pitchers of Bitburger Pils. I didn't need to. She could see it in my eyes. Mothers can do that kind of stuff.

My mom had the same reaction as did Stosh and Gilly, a real long shot, but not too much work to find out.

The phone rang. It was Raymond.

"I got what you want, Eddie. Billy Pluck's beneficiary was his mother."

"Shit! Thanks, Raymond. I appreciate your help."

I was in the process of hanging up when I heard a muted response conducive to the handset being two feet from my ear.

"Wait! Wait, Eddie! Don't hang up!"

I returned the handset to my shoulder.

"Sorry, Raymond. What else you got?"

"We never paid his mother. She was already dead. We paid his contingent beneficiary, Mary Kate Kimmons. There wasn't a relationship listed. Just _friend_."

Bull's-eye! Just what I had been hoping for.

"You got any other info on her, Raymond? Address, etc?"

"Yeah, Eddie. I got the address where we sent the check, but that's forty-seven years ago. And, I got her DOB."

He gave them to me. I said "Many thanks, Raymond. You gotta bring your wife and kids down here to The Pickle for the best deli food in Chicago. On me."

"Stosh keeps telling me that. But, I live up North in Rogers Park. That's a helluva trip."

"Maybe so, Raymond. But, keep it in mind. I'd love to meet you. You've been a great help, twice now. Thanks, again."

We said our mutual good-byes. He never did come down South. Too bad. He seemed like a real good guy.

My mother said, "It sounds like you got a hit."

I told her what had transpired.

The address Raymond gave me for Mary Kate was in K-town on 56th Street, southern K-Town, 5601 S. Keystone, to be exact. K-town was a series of North-South streets just west of Pulaski Avenue, all starting with the letter _K_ , Keystone, Karlov, Kedvale, Keeler, _etc._

I didn't call first. There wasn't any listing for Mary Kate Kimmons. But, I was hoping someone in the neighborhood would know something. I would start at 5601 S. Keystone. If I didn't learn anything there, I would spend the rest of the daylight hours knocking on doors. Maybe, my efforts could be seen as a long shot, but for now, it was all I had.

_Back of the yard_ Irish always knew everything about everybody else. It wasn't just an Irish thing. It was a Polish thing. It was a German thing. It was an immigrant ethnic thing.

I took the bus. Since I would be walking the neighborhood, I figured a fancy car like mine would be a distraction to the neighborhood _out-the-window-peepers_. Besides, it was a straight shot down to Pulaski, which meant I could read, something I was doing less and less of these days with these businesses.... and drinking. I brought a just-released-in paperback copy of Donald Westlake's 1968 Edgar Award Winner, _God Save the Mark_.

Traffic on 55th wasn't heavy, but it wasn't light. I got about thirty pages read in the six mile trip.

I got off at Karlov, a block west of Pulaski, and a half block west of Keystone. I crossed both 55th and Karlov, and walked back to Keystone, made a right and walked down to 56th. I didn't cross over when I got to the intersection of 56th and Keystone. I just stood there and looked around, feeling the ambiance of the neighborhood. Twenty years ago, it had been all Irish. Now, it was divided into those two different parts of humanity, at least according to the Irish: One part was the Irish. The other part consisted of the rest of humanity who wanted to be Irish. There wasn't any third part. Everybody else who existed and wasn't Irish wanted to be Irish.

It was a good joke, but a lot of truth as well. After all, the Irish did have Irish whiskey as well as Guinness, which many loved and I didn't, either of them. When I had _fresh-delivered-that-afternoon_ Guinness on draught, the only way to have it, when I was in Dublin, I must admit it was a superior beer, even if it wasn't exactly to my taste.

After a while, I crossed over kitty-corner, walked up the half tier of steps to the door of the one-story brick bungalow, and rang the doorbell.

After a brief wait, the door opened without a "Who's there?" that was the way it was in most non-integrated neighborhoods, non-integrated meaning _all-white_. I introduced myself as an Attorney-at-Law, looking for Mary Kate Kimmons.

The woman who had answered the door said, "Come in, son. I am Shelley O'Shaunossey. Maybe, my friends and I can be of some wee assistance to you in your endeavors."

I followed Mrs., I assumed, O'Shaunossey through the foyer, the living room, and into the dining room where there were five other ladies seated around the dining room table. On the table were several decks of cards and several coffee cups.

Introductions were made. They were long and Irish and I forgot all the names as soon as I had heard them.

I was asked to sit down, more like ordered. In that respect, Irish hospitality wasn't all that different from German hospitality. It just sounded nicer. After I was sitting down, another coffee cup appeared. This one was for me. It was filled with, I assume, just coffee, as I was asked, "Sugar or cream, young man? Or, just a wee spot?"

"Black is fine, ma'am." Even though I usually take a heavy hit of milk, I just wanted to get on with it. I had a feeling that unless I stuck to business, my business, I would be stuck here for the _duration_.

"Not even a wee spot?"

"No, thank you, ma'am. It's fine the way it is."

"We were just sitting down to a wee bit of canasta, young man. Would you care to join us?"

"No, thank you, ma'am. I don't have a lot of time today. I took the bus and the trip took longer than I thought it would."

"Well then, young man. Let's get to it." Mrs., I was still assuming, O'Shaunossey turned to her lady friends and said, "This young gentleman is looking for Mary Kate Kimmons. She lived in this house almost fifty years ago."

I hadn't said anything like that or anything at all about Mary Kate Kimmons except her name. I said, "It appears that you can be of great help to me, Mrs.," I was still assuming, "O'Shaunossey."

Mrs., since Mrs. O'Shaunossey hadn't yet corrected me I figured I no longer had to assume, O'Shaunossey said, "I surely hope so, young man."

Mrs. O'Shaunossey continued, "My husband," now I could be sure, "Mr. O'Shaunossey, and I bought this house from Mary Kate Kimmons in the spring of '23. That would make it forty-seven years ago next month. Mary Kate Kimmons was sort of a widow, at least she would have been if she had ever been actually married to Mr. William Hennessey, Chicago Police Detective Sergeant Hennessey. Sergeant Hennessey was murdered in the line of duty by a pair of gangsters. The gangsters were never convicted. They bought their way out of a guilty verdict. The Chicago Way.

"The murder left Mary Kate Kimmons and her young son, Timothy James, Mary Kate called him Timmy Jimmy Kimmy, all alone in this house. Mary Kate had come to Chicago from Milwaukee in 1910 to marry the Sergeant, but it appears that the Sergeant was a bit of a rascal. He never did marry Mary Kate. He moved her into this house with his sick and dying mother. Mary Kate took care of the Sergeant and the ailing mother. The mother died within the year, about the same time as Mary Kate gave birth to her baby. The three of them continued to live together as a family until the Sergeant was murdered by those gangsters. They never did get convicted. Did I mention that before?"

"Yes, you did, Mrs. O'Shaunossey. But, that's OK! This is all very interesting stuff, and stuff I need to know."

She continued, "Now, you must call me _Shelley_."

"Thank you for that, Mrs. O'Shaunossey, but that would make me feel uncomfortable. I prefer _Mrs. O'Shaunossey_. I believe in respect. I will call you Shelley when we are the same age. Until then, is it OK if I continue with _Mrs. O'Shaunossey_?"

Mrs. O'Shaunossey laughed and said, "That will be fine, young man. That will be just fine."

Again she continued, "Now, where did I leave off. Oh, yes, when the Sergeant was murdered by those gangsters they never convicted. Anyway, about a year after the Sergeant was murdered by those gangsters they never convicted, Mary Kate sold this house to Mr. O'Shaunossey and me. Mr. O'Shaunossey and I have three more years to reach our golden, but all these forty-seven years I have been with Mr. O'Shaunossey have been golden. Mary Kate took the proceeds from the sale of this house and the moneys she received from the insurance and took herself and the boy back to Milwaukee. Truthfully, I have not heard from her since. I have no idea if she is dead or alive. If she is alive, she must be about eighty. Not too old, but I have no idea about her at all. Nothing since Mr. O'Shaunossey and I bought this house."

"Holy moly, Mrs. O'Shaunossey. You have just told me almost everything I wanted to know. The only other thing you could help me with, I guess, if you have a Milwaukee address for Mary Kate."

"I'm sure I do, young man. I'm sure I do. Mr. O'Shaunossey keeps excellent financial records. Did I tell you that Mr. O'Shaunossey is an accountant? That Mr. O'Shaunossey is a CPA? Mr. O'Shaunossey works downtown for a very big accounting firm. Did I mention that?"

"No, Mrs. O'Shaunossey, you didn't. But, it is lucky for me, isn't it? So, you do have Mary Ellen's Milwaukee address?"

I had to keep this conversation moving forward, or Mrs. O'Shaunossey would have me here the rest of the day.

"If you would be so kind as to get it for me, I can let you fine ladies get back to your canasta."

Hearing that apparently rang a bell for a couple of the other ladies. One said, "Yes, Shelley. Let's get a move on before the cards lose their wee spots."

Another, then another, echoed the urging.

Mrs. O'Shaunossey went into one of the other rooms. She was gone for at least five minutes, during which I sat uncomfortably with the five other ladies. I didn't say anything, and neither did they. I guess they had known Mrs. O'Shaunossey long enough to know she spoke enough for all of them.

Mrs. O'Shaunossey came back with a folder of papers and a notepad. "I believe everything from the purchase of this house is in this folder." She thumbed through the folder until she found what she, I, was looking for.

"Ah, here it is! Our down payment check. Mr. O'Shaunossey wrote Mary Kate's new address on the check. Mr. O'Shaunossey always takes such precautions. Mr. O'Shaunossey always keeps track of the _nails_. Mr. O'Shaunossey always says _For want of a nail, a kingdom was lost_."

It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Stosh and Gilly would love this one. And, she repeated herself like John-John.

Mrs. O'Shaunossey copied the address, I didn't know then that I would never need it, onto a piece of note paper and handed it to me. Here you are, young man. I hope this helps you in your search. By the way, exactly why are you looking for Mary Kate?"

After all the lady had done for me, I couldn't exactly tell her I was trying to find out if Mary Kate's son, Timmy Jimmy Kimmy, as Mrs. O'Shaunossey said his mother had called him all those years ago, killed one of the gangsters who killed Chicago Police Detective Sergeant Hennessey.

"I wish I could tell you more, Mrs. O'Shaunossey, but I am sure you can appreciate the confidential nature of my profession. After all, being married to Mr. O'Shaunossey must have presented many such similar situations. In the realm of confidentiality, Mr. O'Shaunossey's profession is the same as mine. We are sworn to protect the secrecy of our clients."

"Yes, young man! I understand. Mr. O'Shaunossey has told me the same thing many times."

"Well, Mrs. O'Shaunossey! Ladies!" I said as I stood up. "I believe it is time for me to take my leave. I appreciate the coffee, the information I was seeking, and the company of these many young lasses."

Mrs. O'Shaunossey laughed and said, "Are you sure, young man, that you are not Irish. You are quite full of blarney, just as much as a good Irish man is."

"Why, thank you, Mrs. O'Shaunossey. You're saying that is one of the very best compliments I have ever received."

Mrs. O'Shaunossey showed me to the front door, and I was on my way back to The Hyde Out. I needed to reflect.

Yes, I needed to reflect on this whole John-John situation, from beginning to end. I walked the block north to 55th where I almost immediately caught the bus back to Hyde Park. There was no reading this trip, only thinking about what I had just learned and how it all fit together.

I wanted to jump to what appeared to be the obvious conclusion that Timmy Jimmy Kimmy shot at Nails, missed but startled the horse, which then reared up and tossed Nails onto his ass, then fell over onto him and squashed him dead.

There, obviously, wasn't any proof of this, but that was, also obviously, exactly what happened.

This whole thing started because John-John, who was lucky if he read a hundred words a week, read an obscure newspaper article already two months old when he found it, about an event that happened forty-five years earlier, about the death of his father, whom he didn't even know, which he just happened to witness. Preposterous!

Then, I get involved, me who loves John-John just as I love my biological brothers. And of course, we both just happen to know Tribune John and Stosh the Cop, one of the best homicide detectives in the city. More than preposterous!

Then with Stosh's help, I find not only another eyewitness to the death, but I find one of the _on-the-scene-in-five-minutes_ police officers who, though he didn't write the police report on the death, remembered everything as if it were yesterday.

So, it's over, right?

No, it's not. I happen to be in the Courthouse and see a repeat of the young redheaded kid running away.

So, I restart my engines. I discover that one of the cops Nails killed had an illegitimate kid who I trace down by finding the people who bought the kid's mother's house almost fifty-years ago. And, the lady of the house remembers everything, chapter and verse, and has a husband who keeps meticulous records of everything, up to and probably including his bowel movements. Hell, probably even his wife's bowel movements.

And, the redheaded kid I see? He's the grandson of the first redheaded kid. Much more than preposterous!

But, all of this is exactly what had happened. Coincidence followed by coincidence! One piece of luck followed by another piece of luck. Is this how the investigative thing usually works?

Much more than this ran through my mind, but I didn't think any of what has been omitted here was germane to the _thread-by-thread_ recap.

I had to run this by Mr. Stevens before I did anything else. I hadn't thought to do this previously because previously my John-John situation appeared to be much more simple.
29

Mr. Stevens

### Still February 19, 1970

It was still light out when I arrived back at The Hyde Out, not yet five on this February afternoon. Except for my bit of brain work, the bus ride back had been quick and uneventful. The afternoon regulars were all still there. I walked into The Pickle to get a sandwich.

I ordered my _most-often-ordered_ sandwich, meat loaf on seeded rye with small dabs of catsup, Dijon and mayo, along with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy, and another of buttered sweet peas and, of course, a pickle and a cream soda. I went to the empty The Holes in the Wall Booth and started in to eat, when Tribune walked over.

"OK if I join you, Special Ed?"

"Of course, Tribune. Have a seat."

Trib put his beer down on the table and sat across from me. John said, "Special Ed! I talked to your mom a little earlier when I came in. She told me you were off on the John-John stuff again. What's happening?"

I was miffed that my mother said anything. That wasn't like her, particularly when at that point there really wasn't anything for her to say. But, apparently she had.

I asked him to talk about something else, something inane, while I ate. I was famished. The conversation went to the Chicago Bulls. Since the city only had one basketball team, and it was on the Northside-Southside divide, Madison Avenue, there wasn't any geographic division as there was between the Cubs and the Sox, and as there had been between the Bears and the Cardinals. It was amazing how a divided city could coalesce around one team when the other team deserted the city as the Cardinals had done when they moved to St. Louis.

The Bulls were, at best, a mediocre team, eight games under .500 at the time, but they were the only team we had. So, we commiserated. We even talked about a trip to the Stadium tomorrow night to see them play the Philadelphia 76ers, who were also a mediocre team, just a bit less mediocre than were the Bulls. Being at home, the Bulls could even win.

I finished eating, and began to recap what happened for him. Since I had already thought it out in some detail, the recap didn't take long.

When I finished, Tribune said, "Holy shit!"

I said, "Yeah, Tribune! Some story, huh?"

Tribune again said, "Holy shit!"

I said again, "Yeah, Tribune! But, let's keep this between ourselves, for now at least. Give me a chance to run this by Stosh and Gilly tonight. And then, it looks like I have to pay a visit to the Honorable Timothy James Kimmons.

Tribune picked up his by then empty beer and got up from the booth. He again said, "Holy shit!" this time he added, "Sure, Special Ed! Sure! I'll keep buttoned up until you tell me it's OK."

I doubted it. Not because Tribune was a blabbermouth, but because he had a great bar story, maybe the greatest bar story ever. But, Trib was true to his word. He said nothing to anyone. I'm sure he was busting at the seams on his silence, but he was a real stand-up guy.

I went home to my own bathtub and bed for a long nap. I still had about five hours before Stosh was to show up, and tonight, I was sure that he would be here, with bells on. He would be as curious as any cat ever was.

As I rode the elevator up to my apartment, I thought of my next-door neighbor, John Paul Stevens. It was Mr. Stevens who had so versed Charles in the various court cases that I used to discuss with Charles, including the first one we talked about, Roth _vs._ the United States, when we had first met. Mr. Stevens was an extremely brilliant attorney, and after his role in the Rosenberg Commission, forcing _two_ , not just one, Illinois Supreme Court Chief Justices to resign, was catapulted to the prominence he now enjoyed. He was also a scholar of literature, and he and Charles had many meetings about that as well.

Since I had inherited Charles' apartment almost five years ago, I was fortunate to have developed a close relationship with Mr. Stevens as well. I didn't abuse our relationship, but I flabbergasted many of my law professors with some of the _ideas_ and _arguments_ I made in class, _ideas_ and _arguments_ largely promulgated by Mr. Stevens.

I decided to knock on his door, and if he was at home, I would ask to impose on him to hear my story. But first, I went to my apartment to get a bottle of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS. I knew that that had been the usual gift that Charles had brought to Mr. Stevens when they held their conversations. I had continued that tradition as Charles had left so many cases of the Hennessy Cognac VS in one of the bedrooms, I would be unable to use that bedroom if Mr. Stevens lived to be ninety. At least, the brandy was stored in the small bedroom.

I knocked. Mr. Stevens answered and, after brief mutual salutations, invited me in. Mr. Stevens said to me, as he took the bottle of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS from me, "Eddie, you are a good boy. Charles and your parents did a good job! Now, have a seat and tell me what brought you and this superb gift to my door."

He handed the bottle to his wife, Elizabeth, and asked her "Please be so kind as to pour me a small snifter, and bring Eddie a cold bottle of beer." We had been through this dance often enough that he knew I didn't drink any alcoholic beverage other than beer, and Mr. Stevens would have just the one small snifter and usually not even finishing that. I always left the rest of the bottle there, which meant he could have several more daily small snifters of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS. when I wasn't visiting. He wasn't quite a teetotaler, but he was close.

Elizabeth, she insisted, _really_ insisted, on being called _Elizabeth_ , and I respectfully complied in spite of my strong desire to call her _Mrs. Stevens_ , brought me my cold beer, always a Bitburger Pils. Whenever possible, Mr. Stevens always returned in kind to the tastes of the other.

Mr. Stevens also insisted that he be called _John_ , but this one I was successful in respectfully declining. He would always be Mr. Stevens, though there were many rumors in the Hyde Park legal circles that he would soon be Judge Stevens. Calling him _Judge_ Stevens instead of _Mr._ Stevens would be a suitable substitute as far as I was concerned.

If that were to happen, and it appeared as an inevitable event, I could see my way clear to actually practicing law in a courtroom if I could only appear in front of Judge Stevens. That would, of course, be impossible. Judge Stevens would never show me or anyone else any favoritism. He would, however, have to recluse himself if I ever had the stupidity to actually try to try a case in front of him.

When Elizabeth withdrew into another of the large apartment's rooms, as she always did, I sipped my beer and started. "Mr. Stevens, I have a story to tell you. I hope you will listen with your patience and usual penetrating understanding and help me decide if I should do what I think I should do. It might take more than one small snifter, maybe even more than two. Do you have the time for me tonight?"

"At almost any time, Eddie. On a Thursday night? Surely. You may start whenever you are ready."

I started. I started at the very beginning. I started on July 23, 1968, almost two years ago now, when John-John first brought me the clipping. Mr. Stevens interrupted often with his usual penetrating queries. He always made me state whatever it was that I was stating more clearly than I otherwise would have without his gentle prodding. This in spite of the fact that I was clearer in my explanations than were most. It was after eight when I finished. I was correct about the snifters. Mr. Stevens, though he drank moderately and slowly, was only about halfway through his first. I already had had four beers.

When I finished, after another short sip, Mr. Stevens sat down his snifter on the lace doily Elizabeth always provided. He said, "Young man, that is quite a story. I will need some time to consider the mental notes I have made. Will you be able to return tomorrow, late afternoon?"

"Of course, Mr. Stevens. We are almost at forty-seven years and counting. I think we can give it another day or two... or three. Is four in the afternoon OK with you?"

"Yes, Eddie, four it will be. I will see you then."

We both arose and he showed me to the door. Elizabeth appeared as if on cue, and bid her farewells as well.

It wasn't too far for me to get home, just a dozen or so yards down the hallway. Even though neither of the three of us smoked, I still had the smell left over from the less than an hour I was in The Hyde Out earlier in the day, so I did a quick strip of my s _tinky-smoking-smelly_ clothes and got into a hot shower.

By the time I had showered, dressed and otherwise ready to return to the Hyde Out, it was just about nine o'clock. By the time I walked over, checked things out, and ordered a beer, it would be just about time for Stosh to get there. I knew Stosh would be there tonight. He would be chomping at the bit. He would just have to know what happened on my search today.

The Hyde Out was busy as usual. Charles had run a great bar. I still hadn't ruined it. I got my Bitburger draft and waited for Stosh. Not too long after, Officer Gilly came in. I guess he couldn't wait to hear either. He got his Charles' Blend and joined me the booth I had commandeered.

Gilly said, "No need to tell me, Eddie. We'll have to wait for Stosh so you don't have to tell the story twice."

I laughed as I thought, "Four times!"

Stosh and I made small talk for a half-hour or so, mostly about the neighborhood and the other bars and restaurants on his beat. Gilly said all was unusually quiet and that business seemed to be down everywhere except here and Rocco's. February was a bad month every year. Too many Christmas bills coming in, too fucking cold, and only twenty-eight days.

Stosh came in, saw us, waved, got his beer, and came over to join us.

"Good evening, guys! OK, Eddie! Give!"

I gave. The giving didn't take long this time. They both knew the story up-to-date, so I only had the short, thus far, ending to tell. The report was even shorter since I had already given it twice before that day and knew what parts could be cut.

When I was done, I got a 'Holy fucking moly!' from Stosh and a 'Wow!' from both of them, followed by a pair of "Now What?'s."

I told them I had briefed Tribune earlier that afternoon and asked him not to say anything about it, at least for the time being. I asked them the same. They both agreed.

Stosh said, "That's a good idea, Eddie. We may have an actual murder case on our hands if what everybody says gets vetted as the truth."

I was an attorney. I had already come to that conclusion when John-John first told me the story. If the little redheaded kid shot a gun at Nails, he was guilty of murder even though he missed. It wouldn't be a stretch to show that the shot had rattled the horse and caused him to fall on and kill Nails. Thus, the attempted murder became a murder. Stosh and Gilly knew all of this as well, but now, it appeared that we had an actual person who pulled that trigger almost forty-seven years earlier.

I then told them I had also discussed this case with Mr. Stevens. As Mr. Stevens had been in the news quite a bit recently, they both knew who he was. They hadn't known, however, that he had been Charles' next door neighbor, and now was mine. Neither did they know of the relationship between him and Charles, and now between him and me.

Stosh said, "That's a pretty powerful ally you have there, Eddie, but I think I had better get directly involved here. This appears to have been an actual homicide, and now it appears we have actual proof of it."

"Shit!" I said. "I sure fucking hope not. First of all, Mr. Stevens asked that he be given some time to think about a strategy on how to move forward. I agreed. We have a meeting tomorrow afternoon. We really need to wait to hear what he has to say. No offense intended, Stosh, but this is a pretty smart attorney. Secondly, we don't really have anything here. We have a police report that contradicts everything else. What do we really have? John-John was five fucking years old when he says he remembers something about hearing a shot and seeing the horse fall on Nails. That was forty-seven fucking years ago, and John-John isn't exactly normal. While we both know he remembers what he remembers, how would he stand up on cross by even a shitty defense attorney? We also have a then young immigrant girl who could hardly speak English who is now married to one of the cops who didn't include her eyewitness testimony of the gun shot and the young redheaded kid in his report. Yes, it _appears_ to have been an actual homicide, but only _appears_. We don't have any actual proof of anything. We got _bupkis_."

Gilly jumped in with "You're probably correct, Eddie, but you have to understand our positions here. We're cops. I'm a nobody here. I'm just a street cop. I really have nothing to lose. I even have plausible deniability. I hear some stupid story about a bootlegger who fell off a horse forty-seven years ago. And, who do I hear it from? A retard! And, where do I hear all this stuff? In a bar. I hear this kind of garbage all day long, every day. Of course, I don't report it. If I did, my sergeant would have my backside. But, it's different with Stosh. He's a homicide dick. And, one of the best ever. And, he helped you uncover this stuff. He has to report it, even as barebones and sickly as the case might be."

Stosh said, "I'm sorry, Eddie, but Gilly is right. Everybody I got to help me knows about this. That's a lotta guys. And, don't forget. I told you word would leak upstairs. It did. No one has called me on it yet, and maybe no one ever will. But, the possibility, the threat is out there. And, everybody in The Hyde Out knows I'm involved with helping you in your John-John Project. What started out as trying to find out what happened to a friend when he was a kid has turned into a homicide investigation. If I don't report this and it ever gets out that I knew anything about it, my dick's in a wringer."

I said, "I know I'm right that you needn't, and even more so shouldn't, report this. At least until I have enough time to do what I think I have to do."

"Which is?"

"Confront the judge!"

"Is that really a good idea?"

"I think so. At least that's my plan unless Mr. Stevens advises otherwise. Look, Stosh. This bullshit has been going on for forty-seven years. You only know what I told you. You might know what's in the police reports, but so does the entire fucking police force. So, you're not withholding anything from anybody there. If anyone says you are, it's only their speculation about your speculation."

"And? And, so?"

"Wait! Let me hear what Mr. Stevens has to say. If you think you must, talk to your PBA rep. tell him as little as possible, but as much as you believe you have to. Then, we'll talk again."

"You're right there. Nothing's gonna happen over the fucking weekend. Let's give it to Sunday night. By then, you'll know more. By then, I'll know more. But, I tell you, Eddie, I'm really worried about this. I'm not too worried about my guys. I'm not even too worried about the guys here in the bar. But, if my bosses hear about this, they'll understand the hay their bosses could make of this politically. The perp is a fucking judge. The police establishment would love to put it to one of them, particularly this guy. He thinks he's a _law-and-order_ judge, but he's screwed up so many times and been reversed that half the jail population has been put back on the streets. He's an asshole. He's always been an asshole. Even if he wasn't, my bosses would love the publicity they would get putting it to him. I don't see how else this can play out."

"I never thought of it that way, Stosh. You mind if I discuss this with Mr. Stevens? He's not exactly a real insider, but he's close. Maybe, he'll figure something out."

"OK, Eddie! You do that. Hopefully, we'll figure it out by Sunday."

Gilly left. He was still on the job. Stosh and I finished our drinks, and had a couple of more rounds, mostly in silence. I excused myself and went home.

I again did a quick strip of my _stinky-smoking-smelly_ clothes and got into a hot tub. There was much on my mind as I drifted off into a heavy sleep.
30

Mr. Stevens Again

### February 20, 1970

### Friday

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man ready to get in the shower and really wake up. It was still dark out over the lake, but I could see glimmerings. The clock read six. I took a long hot shower. It would reach thirty degrees today, but it was only half of that now. I took a cab home last night. It wasn't quite zero, but it was awfully close to it. This morning, I would put my early rising to good use and take a brisk walk to The Pickle.

The snow was off the sidewalks, but piled up and dirty. Spring couldn't come too soon to suit me. I made it to The Pickle just as the doors were being opened.

I had my Charles' Blend and my bagel _with_ while I skimmed the Tribune. The Sports page headline was that Denny McLain, the Tigers' Cy Young Award winning pitcher, had been suspended for bookmaking, bookmaking, not gambling. He wasn't making the action. He was taking the action. The great Lou Boudreau, his father-in-law, earned twenty-five-thousand dollars in 1945, and he was a player-manager. He didn't have just one job. He had two. McLain was making over one-hundred-thousand dollars, not including his many endorsements; which had to be at least as much if not a lot more. Boudreau must really be pissed.

I had another cup of Charles' Blend and started my rounds. I hadn't been around much this week, so I had to make myself seen. Charles always told me "Good employees won't stay good employees if they think you don't give a shit. Rightfully, they figure if you don't give a shit, why should they give a shit? You gotta be there and you gotta be seen. Absentee owners rarely ever make a go of it."

I carried my Charles' Blend with me as I checked with all the businesses. That entailed going outside to _Three_ , but it had to be done. The Reading Place wasn't open yet, but I checked in at The Food Place and The Cleaning Place. I received the same normal good answers, "No" and 'No" from them as I had received from the people in the _Main_. As usual, I hadn't been missed much.

I greeted my mom in the office, and she immediately wanted to know what had happened on my sojourn yesterday. She hadn't been around when I returned yesterday afternoon.

I sat down and told her. She couldn't believe it either. "Too much good luck, Eddie."

"Yeah, ma. But, I gotta ask you. How come you told Tribune where I was going yesterday. Don't you think that was a bit premature, as well as out-of-school?"

"Yes, Eddie! I'm sorry. I'm not sure why I said anything. My mind must have been somewhere else. I'm sorry. It was my mistake."

"That's OK, mom. No harm, no foul."

I loved my mom. Just the truth. Just the facts. No hemming. No hawing. No bullshit. "It was my mistake." Just the truth. Just the facts.

Then, my mom filled me in what the cash flow had been the last couple of days. Nothing exciting! It was up a tiny bit. Nothing to be really happy about, but enough to be happy it wasn't down, particularly in February.

I went to work. But before I did, I called Geri to see if she could meet me at The Pickle for a late lunch before she left for the Northside and the Sabbath. The sun set today at five-thirty so she would have to leave before four. We agreed to meet at The Pickle around two. That would give us both enough time before our respective afternoon obligations.

By noon, I was really hungry but had decided it would be better to wait for Geri, so I just grabbed a cream soda and stayed in my office to do a little more work. I was getting a lot done when the phone rang. My mother, who was just finishing her lunch, told me Geri had just arrived. I went downstairs. We had a great hug. It was good to see her. We hadn't seen each other for a while, since New Year's Day. We had both been busy in our own ways.

I told her about how the last few days had unfolded. Like the rest of us, she was amazed at the information.

I told her what I thought that I should do and that I was meeting with Mr. Stevens after she left. Geri knew of Mr. Stevens and our relationship. She agreed that whatever Mr. Stevens recommended was probably the best thing to do.

We made plans for Saturday night and Sunday.

Geri could easily catch the No. 6 bus as it stopped right outside the door, and from its downtown terminus she could transfer to the Howard el. It was a quick ride home from there. But, it was still cold out, and I still had the car here, so I drove her to the Southside el stop for the Howard line and then drove myself home to meet Mr. Stevens.

I had all three vehicles now at the Powhatan, two in the indoor parking and the pickup on the street. I had to be careful or John-John wouldn't have a vehicle when he needed one. I called him immediately when I got upstairs.

I told him I was sorry and that I would bring the pickup back tonight. John-John, in his usual good and helpful mood, said he would come get it now. I thanked him and only reluctantly agreed. I should be doing some of these things, but I really was busier than a one-armed paperhanger.

When the time arrived for my meeting with Mr. Stevens, I grabbed another bottle of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS and went to knock on Mr. Steven's door.

My knock was answered by Elizabeth. She said, "Good afternoon, Eddie. John is running a bit late. He called about an hour ago and said he was just leaving his office, so he should be here in about fifteen minutes. Do you wish a Bitburger, Eddie?"

"Yes, if you please, Elizabeth, but not too cold, _bitte_. The weather is cold enough. Besides, German beer is meant to be drunk at room temperature."

"I will do so, and get John's brandy at the same time. I see you have another bottle for him."

"Yes, I do. He's the only one I know who's worthy of drinking of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS, and Charles left a whole bedroom full of it. Mr. Stevens will have to be over ninety when I finally give him the last bottle."

Elizabeth left for the drinks, and the front door opened as Mr. Stevens walked in.

"Good afternoon, Eddie. I'm sorry I am late. It was a meeting I couldn't postpone or avoid. I'm sure you know how that is."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stevens. Yes, I understand. Not a problem. In any case, I have only been here a few minutes. Elizabeth went to fetch drinks."

With that, Elizabeth appeared with a tray, and said, "Good afternoon, darling. I have a drink poured for you, and just so you know, Eddie brought another bottle of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS."

"Really, young man, there isn't a need for such unbridled generosity."

"As I just told Elizabeth, I only drink beer and Charles left a whole bedroom full of this good stuff. Who else other than yourself is worthy of such a drink? You will have to be over ninety when I finally give you the last bottle."

"Thank you, Eddie! Charles had great taste in brandy as well as the two young men he loved like the sons you both turned out to be."

"Thank you for your kind words. This is all my pleasure, to know you, to learn from you, and to receive your advice."

"Talking about advice, let us sit and sip and I will tell you what I had concluded. I knew yesterday that what you suggested was the correct thing, but an immediate conclusion wasn't necessary, and when one isn't, one shouldn't make one."

I laughed and said, "So, that's where Charles got that piece of wisdom from."

"Or," Mr. Stevens responded, "maybe the other way around. When two people are as good friends as Charles and I were, it is sometimes difficult to tell exactly where a thought or an idea originated. In any case, as I just said, I agree with what you suggested. However, let us go over it in some detail as a misstep could cause some difficulties if we find it necessary to later move in an alternative direction."

"I agree. It is my idea not to call ahead, but to just show up at his chambers when I know he will not be on the bench. I don't think there will be any real problem with him seeing me when I tell his clerk that I am an attorney and that I represent Jonathon Morton and that my wish to see him today is concerning a potential suit concerning a very _old_ horse riding accident near the Benjamin Franklin statue in Lincoln Park."

"I think you are correct, Eddie. That should scare the _bejesus_ out of him. However, what do you propose as your fallback position if he does decline to see you?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stevens. I neglected to mention that I would write the name _Mike Royko_ on the back of my card before I give it to his clerk."

Mr. Stevens laughed. "I think you have it correctly figured out. Before you begin, however, allow me to fill you in on what I have learned about The Honorable Timothy James Kimmons since we talked last."

"All of the information you provide to me was, of course, correct. His mother and he returned to Milwaukee shortly after the boy's father's death. The mother, Mary Kate, was relatively well-off with the proceeds from the sale of the house and the benefits from the City insurance and PBA benefits. She moved into an upscale neighborhood, and shortly thereafter, met and married a quite wealthy older gentleman. He adopted the child and gave him his name. The old man died, however, within just a few years. The child, now fatherless for the second time, became quite a handful. While never anything serious, he was in and out of trouble with the authorities, one status event after another. If he would have been an adult, none of his behavior would have been actionable. Since he was a minor, however, his truancy, breaking of curfew and other such minor, even _non_ , offenses were made a part of the public record. He was an indifferent student, not exactly stupid, just indifferent. He made it through high school, and then Marquette University. His second father left him and his mother a lot of money, so an elite private education was well within their means. He rankled the Jesuits, it seems at every opportunity, but after a few suspensions, he graduated, near the bottom of his class, but with a degree. How they admitted him to Law School with his record, I don't know. It probably had something to do with his second father's name. Anyway, he again graduated and again near the bottom of his class. But, he was now a lawyer. He reassumed his mother's maiden name and moved back to Chicago to set up a practice. He got involved in community politics and was soon a precinct captain and then a ward committeeman. That political activity eventually led him to the bench. No one I talked to thinks well of this guy. Many of them think ill of him. My impression of him and his history is that no one will miss him when he's gone. A few of them might even be happy to help the process along.

"However, still! What if the judge does decline to see you?"

"I believe that a trip to see Stosh and Mike would be in order, don't you?"

"No, Eddie. I don't. As much as I don't wish to be involved in this any more than our privileged discussions, I think another attempt to see the judge would be in order. I have no paucity of contacts who could arrange, nay, even force, a meeting between the two of you. I believe that should be our goal. We must try all routes to accomplish that before we use dynamite. If that fails, that would be the time to consider contacting Stosh and Mr. Royko.

"By the way, have you already contacted Mr. Royko?"

"Yes and no, Mr. Stevens. I contacted him two years ago when I first started investigating this thing. I believed I would have a lot of trouble tracking this thing down. The stuff I received from Tribune John and Geri was interesting and enlightening as well, but there wasn't really anything there. So, I contacted Mike in the hope of his uncovering something. I didn't, and still don't know him all that well, just another of his casual drinking buddies when we bump into each other, which isn't all that often. I told him the story, and he said he'd see what he could do. He also suggested that he contact _Studs_ Terkel, whom I know a lot less than I know Mike. He did. Unfortunately, now fortunately, neither of them was able to uncover anything."

"Have you talked to either of them about this since?

"Not really. I saw Mike over a year ago, when he wrote those _Judge Asshole_ and _The Festival of Life_ pieces. I was his source for both of them. I wasn't mentioned because I made omitting my name as part of the deal. Other than that, I might have seen one or both of them around when I get downtown or up to Old Town, but we haven't talked about this situation at all. Neither one of them has mentioned anything about it since I first inquired, except Mike once to say he hadn't found anything."

"Good! I think their probable interest in the future could be an ace in the hole for us. Judges don't particularly appreciate the type of publicity this kind of story would produce."

"OK! Step number two, assuming I get in to see him, the first time, the second time, or the last time. I lay it out for him in all the detail you and I know so well by now. When we first meet, I'll say, 'You saw the back of my card. If we don't get a settlement here between us, we'll let Slats Grobnik tell his readers about the story.'

"Then, I will hand him the preliminary draft of a civil suit against him by Jonathon Morton for the unlawful murder of his father, Samuel Morton. The _ex-judge_ knows as well as anyone that all is needed to prevail in a civil suit is a preponderance of the evidence. Further, the _ex-judge_ knows what the other judges think of him and his reputation. They would love nothing better than to stick it to him and clean house of this guy. So what if the statute of limitations had run out? Which it couldn't if there was actually a homicide. Once the papers are filed, they will give legal backup against libel to Mike and his newspaper.

"Then, I spring the Stosh trap on him. The _ex-judge_ knows he will not be able to withstand the assault the police higher-ups would love to bring to his bench.

"Lastly, but maybe best of all, the _sure-to-follow_ impeachment and loss of pension and benefits. The _ex-judge,_ being a Democrat appointed by LBJ, and Nixon now in the White House with both houses of Congress safely in Republican hands, at least for the foreseeable future, an impeachment and conviction are sure bets.

"Look what the hell the bastard did to Abbie and the rest. There was no way AG Clark was going to indict. He knew as well as anybody that what happened at the Convention was a Police Riot, not anything the protesters caused. But, Hubert loses, and Nixon appoints his straight-laced cohort, Mitchell, and the indictments get handed down. Nixon would love nothing more than taking down a Daley-machine judge. Nixon will always blame Daley for stealing the 1960 election from him. If Nixon knows anything, it's how to treat an enemy after he has the power to do so and get away with it. I wouldn't put anything past him. The _ex-judge_ knows what he can expect. There may not be anything there for criminal charges, but the in-power party has screwed over the opposition before on a lot less than I have uncovered if it ever goes public.

"OK! Assuming he buys it, and he mightn't. At first, he will surely go into denial. That is almost always the first line of defense. Or maybe, because he really wasn't involved. I believe that to be quite unlikely, but... Then, what?

"Sooner or later, this guy will crack. He ain't got the gonads to handle the heat."

"Yes, Eddie, I agree with you. I think his honor will crack. One way or another, the first time, the second time, or the last time, this judge will cave. He has to. You have too much on him, and he will know it. But, it will take time for him to get there. He will need a lot of prodding.

"The deal you'll offer him, however, should do it. It really is a deal. It mightn't sound that good at first, but after working it through, he'll know you've made him an offer he can't refuse. He won't have any place else to go. Let's go over the offer again. It must be clear to him what the dangers are to him if he refuses your offer, as well as the potential dangers to him if he agrees to it."

"You're correct, Mr. Stevens. As usual. There are dangers to the _ex-judge_ irrespective of which way he goes. The offer to him that I have proposed is that he immediately resigns. If he does, I will say nothing, write nothing, do nothing, now or in the future. He will have my complete silence. Do you think he will believe me?"

"At first, I don't think he will. At least to start with. Until it's dealt with, denial can be a great big powerful source of strength. Though he will begin to believe you when he hears the dangers involved. The threat of an impeachment is a powerful threat. You must, however, tell him everything."

"Of course! I'll lay out my investigation step-by-step along with all the people involved, but without identifying any of them. I need to specifically tell him about the police involvement. I didn't get a chance to tell you yet, but there's been a slight monkey wrench with Stosh. He hasn't done it yet. He agreed to wait until I talked with you. But, he has about decided that he has to make a report on this to his superiors. He believes it could be his backside in addition to his job and his pension.

"I don't think Stosh is correct. Further, I don't think it will make a difference to any action that is or isn't taken against the judge. This is clearly a case without any evidence. It happened almost fifty years ago. And irrespective of what a slightly intellectually challenged, at the time five-year-old, would say today, there is an official contemporaneous police report contradicting anything John-John might say now. And also, irrespective of what a newly arrived immigrant who didn't speak English of any consequence at the time would say today, there is an official contemporaneous police report contradicting anything the lady might say now. And, the lady is now married to one of the police officers who falsified the original report, if the original report is false. There wouldn't even be an investigation. Stosh's report, if he it made in writing, would just be filed away in archives older than I am. Better not to make it at all.

"Officer Gilly feels the same as Stosh does. Except in Gilly's case, if Stosh does what he says he will do, Gilly doesn't have to do anything. As long as Homicide is properly informed, a beat cop's job would be done.

"And, of course, Mr. Stevens, your participation is clearly protected as privileged. I will just tell the judge 'my associates.'"

"Ok, Eddie! That makes two, sort of three, police officers, a newspaperman, a librarian, a now old, at the time non-English speaking nanny, and a slightly intellectually challenged fifty-year-old handyman who know about this."

"There's also my mother, as well as the people who I have contacted in the course of the investigation. A lot of them."

"The judge has to be made aware of all of them. Not by name, of course, but of their existence and their knowledge."

"Not identifying the players shouldn't be a problem. The problem would be not mentioning them at all. The _ex-judge_ wouldn't have much recourse, but if someone unmentioned came after him at a later time, he would surely come after me. There's nothing he could really accomplish by doing so, except to cause me a large amount of harassment. If he has already been exposed, why not try to piss on me and my reputation? His history shows he's a vindictive prick. Even after being exposed as a shyster judge, he would still have a lot of _friends-in-high-places_ , or if not, at least _people-in-high-places_ he'd have stuff on that they wouldn't want out, so they'd help him just as they were friends."

"Be careful, Eddie! These _people-in-high-places_ can always come after your backside at a later date."

"Charles always told me, 'Kid, if you beat Bret Maverick, be magnanimous. Enjoy your victory silently and walk away. Don't fuck with him. Don't get him any more upset than he would naturally be because he lost. Don't rub it in. He's too smart. If you piss him off, he'll come back and get you. On principle! If for no other reason, just to prove he can."

"You're probably right about _people-in-high-places_. But, I don't think Timmy Jimmy Kimmy is a Bret Maverick. He just ain't that smart. He might hate, but he doesn't rate. I'll be careful, but I think I'll be OK."

"OK!"

"So, I know that there must be full disclosure on my part. I don't want to leave anything in writing with him, but I think I had better write it out to make sure I don't omit anything. Then, he can take any and all the notes he might believe he needs."

"Irrespective of what he believes his position to be, he's going to attempt to play you for time. How much are you ready to give him?"

"I have already checked his calendar. He doesn't have one case pending, so that will not be a hurdle. He has several hearings on new cases coming up this week and next. So, that could be a problem if he begins to hear a case and soon after has to leave the bench, for whatever reason."

"I don't think so, Eddie. I have been involved in several federal cases. If there haven't been any previous hearings on the matter, it is extremely unlikely anything would happen at the first, or even the second, hearing. So, I believe we are safe on that score. If he insists, let him proceed with his schedule as planned, though it might serve as a good zinger to tell him he does so at his own risk. If he decides he has to hear a case because he started it, you can assure him he will never finish it after you've gone public. I believe that will stop him from doing anything to ease his ultimate withdrawal from the bench."

"Then I guess that's that. As usual, you are correct. I'll give him the week. I'll try to make him think he wormed it out of me. I'll let him savor his little bit, his only bit, of victory. I'll just tell him, 'Look! You do it your way. You decide. But if you haven't called some kind of public conference by noon Friday, I'll be at the courthouse and then on the phone to Roy and my cop friend before the afternoon is out.'"

"I think that'll work, Eddie. I think that'll work."

"Thank you, again, Mr. Stevens. I'll report back to you Monday after I see the _ex-judge_."

Elizabeth came in. They walked me to the door. We said our good-byes. I went down the hall. I removed my _stinky-smoking-smelly_ clothes and got in the tub. I needed a rest more than I needed a bath.
31

Stosh and Gilly

### Still February 20, 1970

I woke up, as I always did, when the water in the tub got cold. It was still early, so I drained and refilled the tub with hot water. I had a lot of time to read, but I fell asleep again.

It was almost ten when I awoke the second time, again in cold water. Stosh and probably Gilly would soon be waiting for me. I called The Hyde Out and asked Davey to tell them when they got there that I was on my way, less than half an hour.

I walked the mile in the cold brisk air, thankfully without any winter precipitation and on shoveled sidewalks. When I arrived at The Hyde Out, I saw Stosh and Gilly waiting for me, again chomping at the bit, I was sure.

The Hyde Out was too loud too talk. It was Friday night and the jazz was in full playing mode. So, I suggested Rocco's. Stosh and Gilly agreed that we would probably be better off there. So, we went.

Stosh grabbed his beer, as did I the Bit that Davey had ready for me when I walked in the door. We took them with us. We were both too serious about our beer to let them go to waste. Rocco wouldn't mind. Gilly would get another Charles' Blend when we got there.

I told them about my meeting with Mr. Stevens.

First, I told them, mostly for Stosh's peace of mind, that there really wasn't any need to make an official report. The _really_ depended on whether or not Stosh had made any contemporaneous notes in his notebook when this whole thing started.

Stosh said, "Of course, Eddie! I'm a Homicide dick. Keeping accurate notes, even if they are coded and no one else would be able to read them, is what we do. So what?"

"Did you write anything, ever, about a possible unreported homicide?"

"Again, yes!"

"Did you write anything, ever, about the original police report being contradicted almost fifty years later?"

"Again, yes!"

"Did you describe the two witnesses who contradicted the report?"

"Again, yes!"

"One as an _intellectually challenged_ and the other as a _non-English_ speaking _two-month-here_ immigrant?"

"Again, yes!"

"How about notes from our conversation Thursday night?"

"You mean about your seeing the redheaded kid and possible identifying him?"

"Yes."

"Again, Eddie, of course. That's what I do."

"How about the last week? The redheaded kid and possibly finding him. How much did you write?"

"What is this? An interrogation? Are you forgetting who's the cop here, Eddie?"

"No, Stosh. I'm not forgetting. But, I'm also not forgetting that it's the lawyers who get to do the cross examination. Don't get riled. I'm almost done. How much did you write?"

"Not much. Just that you reported seeing a redheaded kid at the courthouse. I wrote after that _unconfirmed speculation_. Regarding the possible identification of the kid, I wrote _ID? After all these years?"_

"Great! The ambiguity couldn't be clearer."

They both laughed a bit at that.

"One last question, Stosh. Did you mention Gilly in your notes?"

"Again, of course! Both times. Two years ago and again the other day."

"Great! I can advise you as your attorney that neither of you have anything to worry about. Neither of you need report anything else. If the matter ever comes up, which is most unlikely, you, Stosh, have your detailed notes to fall back on. You, Gilly, have Stosh's notes to fall back on. You're a beat cop. Stosh's a Homicide dick. As far as you are concerned, anything you know is already in the proper channels."

"Are you sure about this, Eddie? If anything ever did come out in the open, it could mean my job and my pension."

"Stosh, I have had this checked with a top-drawer legal mind. He has assured me, everything is _copasetic_. All is well."

"OK, Eddie! I sure hope _top-drawer legal mind_ knows what he's talking about."

"You know he does."

"No offense to you, Eddie, but the main reason I'm buying it is because Mr. Stevens says so. I'm sure Gilly is on the same wavelength."

"That's right, Eddie! No offense, but I go along with Stosh's thinking on the matter." "

"No offense taken, guys. No offense taken. But, you, Gilly, in particular, really have nothing to worry about. Stosh's notes protect you every which way."

"However, Mr. Stevens and I both think the threat of those notes being turned in will scare the shit out of the _ex-judge_. So, it's a good thing you have them."

Uncommonly for Stosh and Gilly, they both gave me a "Duh!"

Then, I told them about the plan for Monday. It was nothing much different than I had told them the night before. The main alteration being that I would give him until that following Friday noon to make his resignation public. Immediate and public.

I asked if there was anything more, and received two negatives.

I said to Stosh, "John-John and I owe you big time. You're a heavy drinker, Stosh, so try and keep the indefinite _on-the-house_ easy on me, OK?"

Stosh laughed and said, "I'll try, but somehow I know I will be a failure at it."

It was my turn to laugh, though not really one of joy.

Gilly said, "What about me?"

I laughed again and said, "Ok, Gilly. From now on, your Charles' Blend will also be _on-the-house_."

Now, Gilly laughed, since his Charles' Blend has always been _on-the-house_.

When we got back to The Hyde Out, I had one more Bit and excused myself for the evening. I hoped to get enough rest to prepare me for Geri tomorrow night and as much of Sunday as she could spare.

I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about my Monday meeting with the _ex_ -judge, working and spending time with Geri. Geri wasn't yet forty-five. There was still a fifteen-year difference between our ages just as there had been when I first met her almost thirteen years ago now. She was still as attractive and sexy as she had always been.

Since our weekend together was as far beyond my imagination as it usually was, I'll leave it to your imagination to describe it.
32

Timmy Jimmie Kimmy

### February 23, 1970

### Monday

I awoke early that Monday morning. I had gotten to bed early the night before. I was exhausted after my time with Geri. One can only imagine. So, imagine! She left my apartment in the middle of the afternoon. I spent the next hour in the tub reading. I still needed to finish Westlake's _God Save the Mark_.

I didn't go into The Pickle this morning. I had my Charles' Blend at home in my seldom used kitchen, along with a couple of fried eggs I had the foresight to bring home with me Saturday afternoon, the eggs, of course, not yet fried.

I put on the seldom worn abhorred suit, dress shirt and more abhorred tie and wing-tips. I caught the Number 6 and was downtown at the Federal Building a little before nine o'clock. I had checked ahead on Friday and knew that the _ex-judge's_ calendar had a ten o'clock call. So, I had an hour. It would piss him off, but I was sure he would see me. I just couldn't bring myself to call this guy anything other than what I had in mind for him.

It was exactly nine when I entered the _ex-judge's_ outer office and handed his clerk my card. "I need to see the judge. I need to see him now. It is extremely important to him that I do so. As you can see from my card, I am an attorney. Tell the judge that I represent Mr. Jonathon Morton. My wish to see him today is concerning a potential suit concerning a very _old_ horse riding accident near the Benjamin Franklin statue in Lincoln Park. If he still has any hesitancy, tell him to read the name on the back of my card."

The clerk went into the judge's chambers. It wasn't even a minute before the _ex-judge_ came storming out, yelling, "What the fuck is this all about. You may be an attorney this morning, but I'll quickly be seeing about that this afternoon. Who the hell do you think you are threatening me?"

I didn't want it to be this way, confrontational, but now, since the _ex-judge_ reacted in the way that he did, I had little alternative except to respond in kind. I hoped that neither Mr. Stevens nor Charles would be disappointed in me for taking this tack.

"With all due respect, Mr. Kimmons, I haven't threatened you." I didn't say the _yet_. "All I have done thus far was to request a meeting with you. I am an attorney and I represent Mr. Jonathon Morton. My wish to see you today is concerning a potential suit concerning a very _old_ horse riding accident near the Benjamin Franklin statue in Lincoln Park."

"As far as I'm concerned that's a threat. I'm not a potential litigant. I'm a judge. Now, get the fuck out of here before I have you thrown out."

I had him. I was sure now that I had him. Why did he assume he was a potential litigant in a case he didn't yet know made reference to him?

Cuz he did it!

"I can understand your shock after all these years. But, I believe you will see me after you digest the issues I will be pursuing and your memory begins to return to you. I know you have a ten o'clock call. I will leave now and return at nine-fifteen. If you will make yourself available to me then, your clerk will immediately escort me into your chambers. I believe we will still have enough time to conclude our business before your call. If you won't see me then, I will leave and return again at nine thirty. If you will make yourself available to me then, your clerk will immediately escort me into your chambers. It will be pushing it, but we might still have enough time to conclude our business before your call. If you still won't see me then, I will simply leave. If in the course of my appearances here in your anteroom, there is again the threat of you having me forcibly removed or that it appears you are about to do so, I will simply leave. You will not see me here again, but see me you will. I will file my papers and the matter can proceed from there. Also, you will most likely soon hear from some others, some others whom you might not like to hear from. None of what I say here is intended to be a threat. It is simply a recitation of the schedule I plan to follow. Good-bye for now."

The _ex-judge_ just stood there sputtering and spitting with anger. I turned my back on him walked out the door into the hallway. I looked at my dad's pocket watch and saw I only had eight more minutes to wait. I walked around the corner so I could not be seen from the clerk's door. I leaned against the wall and waited.

At exactly nine-fifteen, I re-entered the _ex-judge's_ anteroom. The clerk announced, as officiously as he could, "His Honor will see you now."

I entered the _ex-judge's_ chambers. The _ex-judge_ was seated in his huge leather chair behind his large, ostentatiously carved, cherry desk. Knowing why I was here, it was ludicrous that the guy was wearing _his judicial robes_.

"All right, asshole! What do you want?"

"First of all, Mr. Kimmons, if I would have known our meeting was to be in Halloween costume I would have worn my academic regalia. Please! Just be civil. I want to do what I have come here to do, in the shortest time possible, and then immediately leave your august presence. I also have a very short fuse, as you appear to have. Remember, you are not now in your Courtroom. You do not want to make me much angrier than I already am. If you do, I will conclude our business together irrespective of your wish to have our meeting continue. I will then keep my luncheon appointment with my good friends, Mike Royko and Slats Grobnik."

"No, you, first of all, my young man, are to call me Your Honor."

I interrupted. "It is Dr. to you. I am not your _my young man_ or anything else of _yours_. You will not much longer be a _Your Honor_ , that is, if you ever were honorable to begin with. Now, enough of this verbal fencing. I have the bigger epee, and I am here to show it to you. Believe me, you will not measure up, no matter how hard you might make it. Now, if you wish me to begin and finish without interruption, tell me to _continue_. If you say anything else, I will simply leave you. You already know where I will then go."

A quiet, angry " _Continue!_ " followed.

"OK! Without rancor, I will lay it out for you." I did. I wasn't interrupted once, so the story was quickly told, Mike and Slats, Stosh the Cop but without the name, the civil suit, a copy of the work copy given to him while I talked, but most of all about Tricky Dick and John Mitchell.

When I had finished, he said, "A Pipedream!" Then he asked, "That's it? That's all you have? Get out of my office, _Dr._ "

"If that is your wish, Mr. Kimmons, that is exactly what I will do. And, you know the consequences of that. You listened most quietly to my _pipedream_. I think it would be best for you to hear that I want to keep my _pipedream_ to myself. It won't take too much longer."

He looked at his watch. He said, "I have a few more minutes. Keep it brief."

"Of course! You will resign immediately. I will not speak, write or otherwise disclose this _pipedream_ to anyone as long as you are alive. In this way, you avoid an inevitable impeachment and conviction, and the resultant disgrace to you and your family."

He roared with laughter. "Do you really think this _pipedream_ of yours has legs? You're out of your fucking mind. First of all, your _pipedream_ never happened. So, there isn't any _second of all_. Now, you may really leave, Dr."

"OK, Mr. Kimmons, I'm leaving. I understand your need for denial at this time and your reluctance to think through the consequences of your denial. But, my so-called _pipedream_ does have legs. You confirmed everything for me when you identified yourself as a potential litigant in a case where your name had yet to be mentioned. Sloppy cricket, Mr. Kimmons! Sloppy cricket!

"However, if you believe Tricky Dicky and his John Mitchell gang will ignore my _pipedream_ when Mike and Slats tell the world about a Democrat judge after they did what they did to the Chicago Eight after Ramsey Clark refused to indict, you're having a _pipedream_.

"I will leave you now. I will not keep my luncheon appointment with my friends. I will reschedule it for mid-afternoon on Friday. If you have made a public resignation by Friday noon, I will permanently cancel that luncheon. If you haven't, I will keep it. The results will be a full scale story about my _pipedream_ in Saturday's newspaper. There you have it, Mr. Kimmons. Do as you will, and accordingly, I will do as I will. I believe that concludes our business."

I turned to leave when the _ex-judge_ said, "Wait! Please wait! What do I use as a reason? What will people say if I resign?"

I was correct. With the ammo I had, this guy was an easy egg to crack. I had truth, justice and the American Way on my side, along with Nixon, an extremely credible threat.

"I really don't care what reason you give, Mr. Kimmons. Just resign! And, why worry about what people will say when you do? It will surely be a lot easier to bear than what they will say if you are impeached."

"How can I be sure you will stay quiet? That you will keep your word?"

"You can't. You will just have to believe that I am more honorable than you have been."

"What you have to really worry about is that others who might be privy to this _pipedream_ don't let their cat out of the bag. I have asked everyone who helped me figure this mess out to not say anything about it, _ever_. They all agreed, but who can tell. I am an attorney. You can be assured I will keep my word. The others? I know they all mean well, but who can tell what the future holds. Some of them are regular barfly types. Alcohol sometimes makes the brain forget its moral obligations."

"Shit! Then, why bother? If I can't be sure about the story getting out anyway, why should I resign?"

"Even if one of the others who know about this slip and spill the beans, it is unlikely that it will ever become a public story. Who would hear it, let alone publish the _pipedream_ of a drunk? Besides even if the story does become public, what do you prefer? That the story become public now and you are impeached? Or that you resign so you can never be impeached? Assuming a Tricky Dicky re-election and a Democrat to succeed him, you only have six and a half more years to worry about that impeachment. That's enough. I believe you understand it all and your alternatives. I will wait until Friday noon."

I turned and left.

The only work I did on my John-John Project the rest of the week was to report back to my _partners_ -in-investigation. I did, however, work. I had a lot to catch up on, but thanks to my mother and a lot of others, I really had it easy.
33

The Resignation

### February 27, 1970

### Friday

I really wasn't too anxious awaiting noon today. I was pretty sure that today the Honorable Timothy James Kimmons would soon be an ex-judge for real. I wasn't disappointed. The announcement didn't make either the noon TV news or the radio. I received a phone call from the _ex-judge's_ clerk. The clerk's message to me was loud, quick, abrupt and without time for a response. As soon as he had said "The Honorable Timothy James Kimmons has resigned his judgeship today effective immediately. His Honor, in a statement released at noon today, said 'I am sorry I have to do this. I have enjoyed my time on the bench serving the people of the Northern District of the State of Illinois. However, my wife's health is such that it demands of me more time than continuing on the bench can allow. I would be unable to do justice to either my wife or this court if I continued my attempts to do so. Thus, I have submitted my resignation, effective immediately, to the required offices. I leave with a heavy heart, but if my wife's health improves and the call for my services arises in the future, I would be happy to return to public life."

The clerk hung up. I thought two things. One, good riddance to bad rubbish. Two, good fucking luck _Your Dishonorable Timmy Jimmy Kimmy_ ever returning to public life. Ain't gonna happen.

I finished lunch and decided to stay around in The Hyde Out. It wasn't often that I did so, but I thought my presence would instill _he still does care_ thoughts in my employees, not only the ones who would see me, but also all the rest of them who would hear it on the grapevine.

I settled back in The Holes in the Wall Booth with a large glass of cream soda and Westlake's _God Save the Mark_. If I was left undisturbed for an hour or so, I could finish it this afternoon. Maybe, someday I can write a novel, if I ever have the time. I guess that's the wish of every mystery reader. But, there aren't many writers, professional or otherwise, who can do the job that Westlake does. This one really deserved the _Edgar_ it won.

I was almost to the end when I heard "Dr.!"

I looked up. It was the _ex-judge_ in the flesh. He was holding a cup of coffee.

"May I sit down, please?" Not subserviently, but politely.

I nodded and he sat.

"Well, I did as requested."

I thought, _As required_ , but said nothing.

"I am here in the hopes of your telling me why you have done to me what you have done to me."

"Mr. Kimmons, I have done nothing to you. Anything that has happened to you, you did to yourself."

"I was only twelve fucking years old. What the fuck did I know? Couldn't you have given me a break?"

"Jonathon Morton was only five years old. You took his father. _Nails_ might have been a gangster, but he was only a twenty-nine-year-old gangster. Jonathon's mother died soon after, a hopeless alcoholic and dope fiend. Couldn't you have given them a break?"

He repeated, "I was only twelve fucking years old. What the fuck did I know? The Jew bastard killed my father. And, he didn't even have to pay for it. My mother did. I did. But, that fucking Jew bastard paid nothing. I wanted to make him pay. But, I didn't know how. I couldn't even shoot straight. The rest was an accident."

"Don't try that stuff on me. It might work on your wife, but I'm an attorney. Your shooting that gun at someone was a felony. At best, it was an illegal discharge of a firearm in a public area. Still a felony. At worse, it was attempted murder. In either case, the target dies. That's felony murder, accident or not. It was reckless disregard."

He repeated, "I was only twelve fucking years old. What the fuck did I know?"

"Mr. Kimmons, stop with the fucking denial already! It's over. No matter what happens now, there's no case. Even if you confessed, the worse that would happen to you is scandal. There's no case here. You were a minor. If you had been arrested at the time, you probably wouldn't have even gone to trial. Your police family would have protected you. At worse, you might have gone to trial and served juvenile time, protected by everybody in that police family. But one thing for sure, you would have _never_ become a judge. My reading of you is that you're an asshole and you were an asshole judge. And, you're not a judge any longer. That's all that I wanted to accomplish, to rectify history. As far as I am concerned, the issue is resolved.

"One last thing, Mr. Kimmons! As part of the deal of your resigning, I have given my word never to release the information in my possession. It might have been unstated, but it was an implicit part of the deal on your part to leave me and anyone else connected to me alone. If you are ever so stupid as to try to contact me again, I will consider it to be harassment and will consider myself released from my pledge. I will then have my belated luncheon with my friends.

"Finish your coffee! And, leave! Do not return! Do not try to contact me! Ever!"

He didn't finish his coffee. He just got up and left.

As I sat there, I knew I wouldn't be able to finish my book that day. I was in a _beat-to-a-pulp_ agitated state. I knew I needed a beer.

I looked up and there was Tribune with his beer in one hand and a Bit in the other. He put both on the table and sat down.

"I figured you needed this, Special Ed. I just came in as that asshole was leaving."

"How did you know who he was?"

"Just before leaving work today, the story came over the newswire. It had a picture attached. One of the guys from the newsroom brought it down to me on the loading dock just as I was getting into my car. What did the asshole want here?"

I told him. Trib harrumphed as only Trib could.

"So, now you know it all."

"I guess so. It's all over now, ain't it?"

"Yeah, Tribune! It's all over. Thanks for your help. Both John-John and I really appreciate it."

"Anything for my friends, Special Ed. The only bad thing here I can see is that it's a great story, and we can never say anything about it."

"Small price, Trib. Don't say anything to John-John though. He doesn't know anything about the past week. I'm going to wait until he comes in after work for his six o'clock beer. I'll tell him everything then."

"Everything?"

"Not quite everything. He still doesn't need to know about his mother. He doesn't need to know more about that than he already does."

"OK, Special Ed. Talk to you later."

I finished my Bit and went home. It was only three o'clock and I knew if I stayed here any longer, I would be to drunk to see Mr. Stevens.

When I got home, I got out of my _stinky-smoking-smelling_ clothes and took a nap in the tub. Since it would be over an hour before Mr. Stevens returned from downtown, I knew my automatic alarm of cold water in the bathtub would wake me in enough time.

I woke up around four-thirty and got dressed. I still had a half-hour or so before Mr. Stevens would be home, so I finished _God Save the Mark_. There ain't much to say about Westlake except _Wow!_

I grabbed another bottle of Charles' Hennessy Cognac VS and went to knock on Mr. Stevens' door.

My knock was answered by Elizabeth. She said, "Good afternoon, Eddie! John is waiting for you. Your beer's on the side table waiting for you as well."

"Thank you, ma'am!" I gave her the bottle and went into the sitting room.

Mr. Stevens said "Well, Eddie! There is nothing quite like success." He raised his glass and said, "Here's to you!"

"Thank you, Mr. Stevens. Thank you for all your help on this matter. I don't think I could have done it without you."

"Oh, _au contraire_! You most certainly could have. Maybe not as elegantly, but as effectively. That's my job as elder statesman. To help the younger generation learn elegance. You're getting there, Eddie! You're getting there."

"Thanks again, Mr. Stevens. That's the best compliment I could ever get, particularly from you."

I filled Mr. Stevens in on my afternoon visit from _His Dishonorable Timmy Jimmy Kimmy_.

Mr. Stevens laughed and said, "See what I mean, Eddie! Quite elegant on your part, quite elegant."

We finished our drinks and I left. I wanted to get back to The Hyde Out before six so I could tell John-John _the rest of the story_.

I got back to The Hyde Out just before six. John-John had not yet arrived for his six o'clock beer. Luckily, the Holes in the Wall Booth was occupied only by my mother. I joined her.

She had not been here the entire day. She had had a meeting with Aunt Addie, so she knew nothing about the day's happening, not even the resignation.

I said, "Hi, Ma! I'm waiting to tell John-John what happened this past week. I'll tell you quickly that all went well."

I told her that _His Dishonorable_ _Jimmy Kimmy_ had resigned. I told her he showed up here asking _why_? I told her of our conversation. Then, John-John showed up. He went to the bar for his beer. I told my ma to listen while I talked to John-John.

"There might be a few things left unsaid with him, ma. But please, bear with me and don't ask any questions or otherwise interrupt. I'll tell you anything you want to know that might have been left out, out later when we're alone."

"OK, Eddie!"

"But, ma, feel free to interject your concern for John-John anytime you want to."

John-John came over with his beer.

I said, "John-John, come join us. I have quite a story to tell you."

He sat. I told.

"Remember, John-John, a year ago last September, I told you about what I found out about the horse accident that killed your father?"

"The horse didn't kill my father, Eddie G. The horse didn't kill my father. I told you, Charles was my father, Eddie G. Charles was my father."

"I'm sorry, John-John. I understand what you're saying. Remember at the time, I told you all I could, and that I'd probably never ever find out anything more?"

"Yeah, Eddie G. I remember."

"Well, I have found out more. I told you that you were correct when you said you were there. I told you that you were correct when you said you had a nanny. I told you that you were correct when you said you saw the horse fall on the man. I told you that you were correct when you said you heard a loud noise like a gunshot. Well, you were really correct about hearing the noise that sounded like a gunshot, because the noise you heard was a gunshot, and I found the young redheaded boy you never saw who fired the gun."

"Wow, Eddie G., wow! That's neat, Eddie G. How'd you do that, Eddie G? How'd you do that?"

"Like everything else I have found out about this stuff, I had a lot of help and a lot of luck."

"What are they going to do to the young redheaded boy who fired the gun, Eddie G.? What are they going to do to the young redheaded boy who fired the gun?"

"The young redheaded boy who fired the gun isn't a young redheaded boy anymore. He's a full grown man now, just like you are. Until today, he was an important man. I went to see him and told him what he had done couldn't be fixed. And, it all happened too long ago for him to go to jail, but it wasn't too long ago for him to quit his important job. He's very sorry for what he did as a young boy and he didn't want his family and everybody else to know what he had done. So, he agreed he would quit his important job and retire if I and everyone else who knew what he had done would keep quiet about it. I said OK!"

"Wow, Eddie G. Wow! You did it, Eddie G. You did it! You did good, Eddie G. You did real good! You did as good as Charles could have done, Eddie G. You did as good as Charles could have done. Charles was my father, Eddie G. You have always been my brother. I knew you could do it, Eddie G. I knew you good could do it. I knew you could make me sleep good again. I don't have Charles anymore, Eddie G. I don't have Charles anymore, but I have a mother now, Eddie G. I have a mother now. I have Eddie G.'s Ma, Eddie G. I have Eddie G.'s Ma. You are more my brother now than ever, Eddie G. We have the same mother, Eddie G. You are more my brother now than ever. We have the same mother."

My mother smiled. I did as well.

"Well, John-John, it's over. Everything you remembered really happened just as you remembered it."

"Yes, it did, Eddie G. Yes, it did. I really remembered good, Eddie G. I really remembered good, didn't I, Eddie G?"

"Yes, you did, John-John. You remembered good. Now, try to remember this good. I told the man nobody would talk about what really happened when he was a young boy. It is really important to him that his family not hear about what he did a long time ago. I hope it is alright with you that I promised the man that I would never talk about it, and neither would you. Is that OK with you, John-John?"

"I guess so, Eddie G. I guess so. But, what about Tribune John, Eddie G.? What about Stosh the Cop, Eddie G.? What about Officer Gilly, Eddie G.? What about Geri, Eddie G.? What about all these people?"

"They all promised the same thing, John-John. They all promised they wouldn't talk about it either. The thing is John-John, I know they will. Maybe, not on purpose. Maybe, not to other people. Maybe, only to each other. But, they will. If you hear them doing it, don't say anything about it. Maybe, just _shush_ them, because if you can hear them, other people can probably hear them as well. If that happens, John-John, that other people hear about it, the important man who is no longer important will just have to live with it. I told him I couldn't control what other people did. I could only ask them. The man didn't like it, but he said he would have to live with it. So, John-John, that's that!"

"OK. Eddie G. OK! I'll be quiet as well. If I hear any of the other guys talking about it, I'll _shush_ them, Eddie G. I'll _shush_ them. Thank you again, Eddie G. Thank you again. I think I will have my ten o'clock beer early today. I think I will have my ten o'clock beer early today. And, I think I will have two or three more than that before I go to bed to sleep real good, Eddie G. What do you think about that, Eddie G.? What do you think about that?"

"I think that's a good idea, John-John. I think that's a good idea."

My mom said, "So do I, John-John. So do I."

John-John finished the last of his six o'clock beer, and got up. He yelled out to the bartender, "I think I will have my ten o'clock beer early today. I think I will have my ten o'clock beer early today."

My mom said, "Wow, Eddie! Wow! You really did it, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Ma, I guess I really did,"

I proceeded to fill her in on what little she couldn't surmise from what I had told John-John as well as about my visit from _His Dishonorable Timmy Jimmy Kimmy_.

When I was done, I said, "I gotta get out of here, ma. If I stay around until Stosh and Gilly come in, I'll be too drunk. I know when I'm in a beer drinking mood and shouldn't be drinking. This is one of those times. I'm going to go over to the Hyde Park Theater. _Patton_ is there tonight. I can still catch the seven o'clock show. I need to see a movie about an asshole. And, it's a three-hour movie. It'll be over just before ten, perfect timing. I'll tell English Dave to have Stosh and Gilly meet me at Rocco's. It's Friday night and it will be too damned loud in here to hear."

"Good night, Eddie! I love you."

"Good night, ma! I love you too."

I made it to the Hyde Park just in time, and after the movie, to Rocco's just at ten. Rocco greeted me at the door.

"Your place too loud for you tonight, Eddie?"

"Yeah, Rocco! Stosh and Gilly should be here soon. Just show them over when they arrive."

I gave him my order, an extra-large thin crust pizza with double sausage, double onions and double sauce and double cheese, double everything tonight.

I was half way through my first, and probably, my last beer, I don't usually drink when I eat, when Stosh and Gilly walked over.

They said, "Spill!"

I spilled. We ate.

When I was done spilling, I said, "You know, Stosh. I solved this thing within the first forty-eight."

"What?"

"Well, this horse thing was in 1923. This is 1970. 1970 subtract 1923 is forty-seven. I solved this homicide... well, _we_ solved this homicide within the first forty-eight."

Stosh said, "Asshole, Eddie G. You're an asshole, a real asshole. That's the first forty-eight hours, not the first forty-eight years."

I laughed. Gilly laughed. When Stosh laughed, we all laughed even louder.
34

Epilogue

### February 28, 1970

### Saturday

I was in The Pickle the next morning when it was opening. I had my usual Charles' Blend and a bagel _with_. I grabbed the Tribune's Sport Section. The Bulls had played the Lakers in Los Angeles last night so the story wasn't in the morning edition. No big deal! Nobody really cared. It was good to have a pro basketball team back in Chicago, but they really weren't worth a shit.

The big story of the day was that yesterday's big story of the day wasn't such a big story. Yesterday, the New York Times reported that the US Army had stopped their domestic surveillance of private citizens. Today, the big story was that yesterday's big story was false. The US Army was still doing what they were always doing and would continue to do as long as they could get away with it.

Surprise! Surprise!

It wasn't yet eight, so all the businesses that were open were lightly patronized. I made my rounds anyway, hoping for, and again getting, "No! and "No!"

I went upstairs to my office. I worked until eleven. I had to have my papers and records on my John-John Project safely guarded. I had drafted a directive for Tish, as my legal representative, to hold these papers until my death, but to be released to me upon my request. Who knows what kind of grief _His Dishonorable Timmy Jimmy Kimmy_ might decide to perpetuate? Besides in thirty years or so, _His Dishonorable_ could very well be dead, and I would decide to write a _true_ crime book.

I called Tish' office. She was sometimes in the office on Saturday morning clearing up stuff and preparing for the week ahead. Most people don't know how much work a lawyer does just finishing stuff up and getting ready for the next stuff. I didn't want to walk even the few blocks in this fucking end of February weather if it wasn't necessary.

Tish was in. I asked if I could come over.

I arrived with a Charles' Blend and a bagel _with_ , lox for Tish.

I had briefly told Tish the story back in the Fall of '68 when it was unfolding. This morning, I told her the whole thing.

"Wow! And, Wow!" Tish was a non-curser as well. When we were still kids, well, at least when I was still a kid, she had told me, "I am too cultured for that sort of language." Then, she laughed and said, "At least that's what I will get them all to believe.

"That's some story, Eddie. If it wasn't you telling me, I wouldn't believe it."

"Well, believe it. Besides, I have all the proof right here. I want you to hold it for me." I handed her my directive.

She read it and said, "Sure!

"Now, I have a bit of a story for you, Eddie. Remember at the cemetery when we buried Charles, I told you that you were his sole heir?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I didn't lie to you. But, I didn't tell you the whole truth. Charles instructed me not to. Before Charles died, he set up a Living Trust for John-John. It became a Vested Trust immediately upon Charles' death. So, it was never in the Estate. Technically, you were Charles' sole heir."

"OK! So?"

"When the Living Trust was set up, it was set up in the amount of four-hundred-thousand dollars. With accumulated interest, it is now worth in the neighborhood of six-hundred-thousand dollars."

"Holy shit!"

"Yes, _holy_ whatever, Eddie! Charles had me set it up in case John-John ever needed it. I was, and am, of course, the Trustee. Everything was to be at my discretion. Charles told me that it might never be necessary for you to know about this Trust. You didn't need the money. John-John might. Particularly if for some reason or another, you didn't take care of him. The Trust was Charles' fallback."

"Are you saying Charles didn't trust me? Did he think once I was rich because of his legacy to me, I would forget my responsibilities?"

"Charles knew that you would react this way if I ever told you about this Trust. That's one reason he told me to be very cautious in informing you of its existence. Remember, you knew Charles probably better than anyone did. Why are you surprised that Charles protected his backside? It's what he would have wanted you to do."

"I guess so."

"The reason I am telling you about this now is because of what you have just done for John-John. Charles would have been proud of you. It's my job now to make sure you know that. Heck, I'm proud of you as well. The Trust is still intact. Nothing changes. It is still there to protect John-John. You are still not a part of it, except...

"Except?"

"Yes, except. Except now, in the event of my death, I will authorize you to become Trustee. However, you were, you are the secondary beneficiary of this Trust. Charles instructed me _not_ to make any payouts to John-John as long as you were providing for him in the same manner as he had. John-John was a very happy man. He still is. You have kept him that way, Eddie. Charles did not want John-John to live any differently than he had been living when he was around. Charles would have been very proud of you for taking care of John-John the way you have."

"I couldn't have done it any differently. John-John is like a brother to me. He told me just yesterday I was his brother. I guess Charles knew what he was doing, but I feel a little betrayed."

"You shouldn't, Eddie! You should know better."

"You're right, Tish. Charles has been dead almost five years now, and he's still teaching me.

###

Ed has written three more soon to be published crime novels. Felony Murder, Sometimes the Innocent Pay and The Droopy-Eyed Bank Robber, all continuations of The Hyde Out Inn Mystery Series. All will be published on Kindle, early in 2016, followed by The Gringo Mayor of Ajijic. To receive notice, e-mail me at eddiegTHOI@gmail.com.
ABOUT ED

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. He is not now, or ever had been, a communist. Presently, he is just a retired old-fart and an author in sunny Mexico.

Further information including his vita, can be obtained at http://eddieg.theblogpress.com
COMING SOON

Felony Murder

I Never Thought I'd See This Guy Again

"Eddie! Eddie G.!"

Eddie _G._ That's me. It's what the people here in The Hyde Out Inn call me.

When I heard myself being called, English Dave and I were both having a cup of Charles' Blend and a bagel _with_ in my bar, The Hyde Out Inn. It was ten.

The voice of the interrupter of our nothing conversation 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 ungodly, for him, time of the day?

"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!

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, he was my client and friend, emphasis on the latter. But, Stosh was a ten at night regular not a ten in the morning regular, or even a ten in the morning irregular.

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. Stosh was a high-ranking, highly decorated Homicide Detective on the Chicago Police Force. 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 as well as a regular, I can't remember that last time I saw him in the daytime, if I think I ever did other than an afternoon ball game at Comiskey or Wrigley.

Stosh was a big guy, _real_ big. Irrespective of the time of day, however, Stosh still looked as if he were straight out of central casting. He looked like a cop's cop would look, big, brawny and weather-beaten. Just like the proverbial Hollywood B movie homicide dick. 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! He hadn't been physically miscast in his chosen vocation! 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 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.

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

"First, Dracula, ain't you afraid of the light? Second, if I don't want to see him, what are you telling me this someone is here for? Tell this someone what you should have already told this someone. I don't want to see this someone."

"I'm sorry about this, 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 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 into the ground.

The sick joke at the time was "For the presence 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 then 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, nothing would happen to him even if 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, much 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-bithchin' 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 already 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 fuckin' kill ya or destroy ya, or die trying. And, one's death or destruction could be more easily accomplished 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 as long as he stayed away from me and mine. He had given some bullshit reason of his wife's health. 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, of course, when he helped get me the otherwise unobtainable information to help me with John-John that 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 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 fucking mouth shut!"

Loose lips do sink ships!

"Davey, maybe, it's nothing! If it is, 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. 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, just about six years ago now, he 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 this young twelve-year-old redheaded kid running around the Courthouse hall just after the Chicago Seven verdict was 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 young twelve-year-old redheaded kid running away from the scene. Of course, it was a different young twelve-year-old redheaded kid I had seen than the one if 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 Mike 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_! W _rong 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 Three. That's what we call him! Jimmy Three! His father, my son, was Jimmy Two! Timothy James Kimmons, same as me. Jimmy Three's father, my son, Jimmy Two, died when Jimmy Three was twelve years old, right after I had to resign."

I know there ain't no Jimmy who's a real number _One_ 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 fairly 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, however, because she was somewhat involved on the periphery of the investigation into John-John's situation, 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."

Art by Michael Harris circa 1987
