Desperate Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  The second man stopped at the bar, ordered Cokes for himself and John, looked at Tony, pointed at his beer and raised a hand to see if he wanted another. Tony shook his head as John Lucas pulled out a chair, sat down and extended his right hand to the private investigator. The other detective joined them with the soft drinks, took a chair next to John and reached across the table to shake hands with Tony.

  “Tony, this is Max Coolidge, better known as Max Cool.” Lucas nodded toward the man.

  “You know, I’ve heard of you,” Tony replied. “Or at least, I’ve heard the name. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Me too. I’ve heard a lot about you too,” said the good-looking, well built, tall black man with a small diamond stud in his left ear and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. “And for the record, my name is Eugene Maximillian Coolidge. My mom named me after her dad and her favorite uncle. When I was a kid, one of my friends came up with the Max Cool thing and it just stuck.”

  “Max is one of our best guys in the Intelligence Unit. I asked him about the councilman you wanted to know about and he suggested we meet here.”

  “Why’s that?” Tony asked.

  Max swiveled his head to the right to look over his shoulder and saw a completely bald, somewhat portly, elderly man making his way across the bar walking directly toward them. When he reached the table, Max stood, shook hands with him and made a quick introduction to his two tablemates.

  “John, I know,” said Terry McGrady the bar’s owner and namesake of almost fifty years. McGrady’s Pub was a virtual landmark in downtown St. Paul. The bar was a block from City Hall and the Ramsey County Courthouse and it had long been a favorite meeting place and watering hole for the city’s politicians, judges, lawyers and cops. This, of course, made its owner one of the premier sources of information about all things political, judicial and criminal in the St. Paul.

  “This gentleman,” Terry said turning toward Tony, “I have heard about from friends across the river but have, unfortunately, not had the pleasure before today.”

  “That’s very kind. I hope everything you heard about me was positive. If not, then what you heard were all lies,” Tony said which elicited a small laugh from the three men.

  “Max tells me you’re looking for some information. Who are you curious about?”

  “City Councilman Wally Sorenson,” Tony said.

  “Ah yes, Wally,” McGrady replied. “And what are you interested in and why?”

  Tony turned his head away from McGrady, looked at John Lucas and raised his eyebrows to get some guidance. John responded by slightly waving his right hand palm raised upward toward McGrady and said, “Go ahead, tell him what you need and why.”

  “Young man,” the bar owner said lightly placing his hand on Tony’s forearm. “I will keep this absolutely confidential. Trust me. Wally is not someone I care to protect.”

  “Fair enough. I have reason to believe Leo Balkus has his hooks into the councilman. I don’t know the details of exactly how and for what. What I need is whatever you can tell me about Sorenson.”

  “If Leo has him, Sorenson has some problems. Sorenson has been on the council for eight or ten years, somewhere in there. He’s a blow-with-the-wind Democrat. I don’t think he has any real ideology. None of them really list their party affiliation but in St. Paul they’re all liberal democrats, at least on the surface.

  “Sorenson represents Ward 8, which is the northeast part of the city. Mostly, though, Wally represents Wally. He’s also a lawyer in private practice with a small firm in Ward 8. He makes a good living but what he’s really trying to get is the security of a judgeship. He’s wrangling for an appointment to the bench and from what I hear, he’ll likely get it too.”

  “Great. Leo gets himself another judge,” John Lucas interjected.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know all of this?” Tony asked.

  “I don’t mind. Come in here from five to seven any day of the week. We have Happy Hour and most days I help out behind the bar. The place will be full of the city higher-ups, politicians, judges, lawyers. You name it.”

  “Wally?”

  “Oh yeah. Wally is here at least three or four days every week. In fact, he wasn’t here yesterday and he never misses two days in a row. Stop by later and I’ll point him out to you.”

  “I’ll do that,” Tony replied. “What can you tell me about Leo?”

  “Probably nothing these guys can’t,” McGrady said nodding at John and Max. “He showed up about ten, twelve years ago. Owned a bar and restaurant on Rice Street out by Roseville and Little Canada. Before long he was involved in bookmaking, hookers and drugs. Mostly marijuana in the beginning. He didn’t have much competition to speak of. No real, big-time thugs so, pretty soon he was branching out and getting pretty big.

  “Now he’s into all kinds of things and trying to become more politically involved. I’m not surprised about Wally Sorenson. In fact, Leo can probably help him get on the bench. Like I said, you guys probably know as much about him as I do.”

  The four men chatted for a few more minutes. Mostly about the Twins and Vikings and what a lousy season the Twins were having and how the Vikings weren’t going to be much better. They stood to leave, thanked McGrady for his time and information and when the other three men got outside, they shook hands and went their separate ways.

  At precisely 5:00 P.M. that afternoon Tony again walked into McGrady’s only now it was standing room only. He made his way through the crowd and only once came close to someone splashing his drink on his casual, beige Polo pullover. When Tony reached the bar, he squeezed between two young lawyers hitting on two well-dressed attractive women who also looked to be lawyers. He could overhear both conversations and to his ear, they all seemed to be loudly talking at the same time about different cases they were handling. After listening to this for ten seconds, Tony muttered to himself, “Thank God I didn’t go to law school” as he patiently waited for Terry McGrady, who was behind the bar, to make his way down to him.

  McGrady finished serving a couple of customers, spotted Tony leaning over the bar and walked up to him. They shook hands as McGrady leaned over to be heard above the noise in the bar and said directly into Tony’s left ear, “That’s him at the far end, third stool.”

  “Okay, yeah I see him now,” Tony loudly replied. “I recognize him from his picture. Thanks, Terry,” he said as he pushed away from the bar to work his way through the crowd.

  When he reached his destination, he managed to cram in between Sorenson on his left and a man with his back to him on his right. Sorenson was involved in a conversation with the man sitting next to him and Wally had his back to Tony. Tony signaled the bartender, a short, somewhat rotund woman with frizzy red hair, bright red lipstick and too much makeup who, as she approached him, eyed him up with an obvious hungry look.

  “What can I get for ya, sugar?” she asked.

  “A small glass of Michelob will be good.”

  “It’s Happy Hour, two for one?”

  “Sure, why not,” he replied hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

  She waddled off to get his drinks and when she came back with both glasses filled with beer, she set them on the counter in front of Tony, leaned over the bar and said, “Haven’t seen you in here before and I would’ve noticed.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind,” Tony slightly stammered trying to be gracious.

  “I get off at nine,” the very forward bartender said a little too loudly.

  “Well, that’s ah…very, um, ah…tempting and all, but well, um, I’m uh, actually involved with someone and well, it’s kinda serious,” he answered as a bead of sweat formed on his forehead just below his hairline.

  “That’s too bad, hon. I coulda shown you a good time.”

  “No doubt,” Tony said doing his best to be sincere. “How much?”

  “Five bucks,” she answered.

  “Keep it and thanks,” he said as he h
anded her a ten.

  Tony slowly started to breathe again as she went to wait on another customer. It was then that he noticed the man who had been conversing with Sorenson was gone and the chair was empty. He quickly moved around Wally, politely asked him if the seat was open and when Sorenson answered affirmatively, he sat down.

  Tony had previously decided the best way to approach the councilman would be to go directly at him. No small talk. No get-to-know-you chit chat. Hit him, figuratively, right between the eyes and have at him.

  “So, councilman, how’s Leo Balkus treating you these days?”

  Wally sat up significantly straighter, his eyes widened and he looked directly at Tony wondering who he was.

  “Ah, who’s this Leo Balkus? I don’t think I know him,” Wally weakly replied.

  “Don’t even go there, councilman. How do you think I know what I just said?” Tony asked while turning ninety degrees in his seat to stare directly into Wally’s very nervous eyes.

  “Oh, jeez, look at the time. I have to be somewhere…” he said as he set his drink down and started to stand.

  He was just beginning to rise from his seat when Tony’s left hand shot out and clamped down on the soft flesh directly behind Wally’s left knee. The movement was below the bar and no one could see it and as Tony squeezed and applied more pressure, the pain shot up Sorenson’s leg and he let out an involuntary yelp.

  “Sit your fat ass down, now!” Tony snarled. He leaned forward and said directly into Wally’s ear, “You may not realize it, but I’m here to help you.”

  “Owww, damnit, that hurts,” he whined.

  “Tough shit. You will meet me in Rice Park in fifteen minutes. If you don’t show, I go to Leo and tell him I know all about you and you’re talking to the cops. How much will it hurt when he cuts your tiny little balls off and feeds them to you?”

  Tony released his grip on Wally’s leg, stood up and took a long drink from his beer. “Fifteen minutes. The southwest corner of Rice Park. I’ll wait for you on one of the benches. Don’t be late.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there,” an obviously relieved Wally said rubbing his leg as Tony turned to make his way through the crowd and out the door.

  Tony found an empty cast iron bench in the shade of one of the trees along the walkway leading from the street corner to the small fountain in the middle of the park. Rice Park is a very pleasant one square block oasis in the middle of downtown St. Paul. In the evenings during the summer, it can turn into a hangout for what we now call homeless men. There were two such individuals sharing a bottle of cheap wine on the bench next to Tony and another one sleeping on the bench opposite him across the walkway.

  For a brief few minutes Tony forgot why he was there. He leaned back, spread his arms across the back of the bench and looked skyward to enjoy the simple pleasure of a gorgeous Minnesota summer evening. Clean air, blue skies and for the most part, pleasant, friendly people. Tony quietly chuckled to himself recalling that this part of the nation is referred to as fly-over-country. He smiled knowing that the people who say that mean it as an insult while those living in fly-over-country are delighted those fools who say it actually believe it.

  Tony’s enjoyment of the lovely evening ended because right on time Wally Sorenson walked up and sat down next to him.

  “Who are you, what do you want and do you have any idea who I am?” Wally abruptly said trying to take control of the confrontation.

  Tony quickly sat up, turned toward Wally, slid over and leaned into him so that his nose was inches from Wally’s even though Wally had leaned back. Tony stared into Wally’s bulging eyes and snarled, “I know exactly who you are. You’re a soulless little shit who would sell his own mother to get what he wants. I know all about you and Leo and the party is over, asshole. The only way you stay out of prison is to cooperate with me. Otherwise, I pick up the phone and make a call to some cop friend of mine and you’re gone. Oh, and one other thing. If you ever talk to me like that again, I will bitch slap you so goddamn hard your nose will fly off. Got it?”

  “Yeah, okay, um sure, ah…”

  “That’s better.” Tony softened. “Now I know Leo has you by the balls, don’t bother to deny it…” he said as the councilman started to protest. “What I want to know is, who else?”

  Tony stared at the obviously nervous councilman who said, “Look, you want to lock me up, go ahead. But I’m not telling you about anybody else. First of all,” he continued as several drops of sweat began to trickle down his receding forehead, “I don’t really know anything about anyone else. I swear,” he quickly added as Tony began to speak. “I’m serious. Sure, I help Leo out sometimes with some business stuff. Zoning permits. Shit like that. Hell, nothing I wouldn’t do to help out any legitimate business,” he said, trying to find some courage.

  “I’m not playing games with you, Wally. Twenty-four hours to get me the list of everyone you know or I leak it back to Leo you’re talking to the cops,” Tony said as he rose to leave.

  “Asshole,” Wally muttered under his breath not expecting Tony to hear him.

  Instead, Carvelli turned, took two steps back, leaned down and said to the startled councilman, “And don’t you forget it.” With that, he continued back down the walkway toward where he had parked his car on Fourth Street.

  Later that same evening Tony walked into the Lakeview Tavern in south Minneapolis. As he passed down the length of the bar, he nodded a greeting to both the bartenders and from behind, leaned down and gave the waitress, a friend of more than twenty years, a quick peck on the cheek. He took the barstool at the far end of the bar, as far away from the door as he could get. He swiveled it around to face the door and leaned back against the wall.

  “Hey, Tony,” the bartender said as he approached him. “What can I get you?”

  “Let me have a light vodka tonic, Sonny,” he replied.

  “You want the lime?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  A minute later, the red-haired Irishman known as Sonny due to his resemblance to James Caan and the character he played in the Godfather, returned with Tony’s drink and set it on a coaster on the bar in front of him.

  “Hey,” Sonny whispered as he leaned over the bar. Tony sat up to meet him and Sonny said, “Listen. Ike Pitts and some other guy of Leo’s, I don’t know his name, was in here about an hour ago looking for you. Told us if you showed up we’d better call him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Tony said sipping his drink. “So, I guess you’d better call him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Tell him I’m sitting at the bar. Don’t tell him you told me. Just make the call. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with Ike.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him,” Sonny shrugged as he walked away.

  Within ten minutes Ike came through the door with a young man Tony knew as Johnny Czernak. Both men were dressed in light colored summer suits and polo shirts and Tony could detect the bulge under the left arm of each man. The two of them strolled down the bar toward Tony, who was seated with his back to the wall watching them. As they did so, the patrons of this friendly neighborhood tavern became very quiet.

  The two men stopped when they reached Tony. Ike took the barstool next to him, his feet on the floor, his left arm casually draped on the bar. Johnny remained standing just to Tony’s left between Ike and Tony, his hands folded lightly in front of himself.

  Tony put his drink on the coaster, sat up straight, leaned his right elbow on the old oak bar and said, “Hey Ike, what’s up? And Johnny, look at you,” he continued shifting his head toward the expressionless thug. “All dressed up and everything. They let you wear long pants and a suit. I’m impressed.”

  “Leo wants to have a little talk with you,” an unsmiling Ike said.

  “Really? About what?”

  “I’m sure he’ll explain it when we get there,” Ike replied.

  “I gotta tell you, Ike. It’s getting late, I’m a little tired and I can’t think of a
single thing I want to talk to him about.”

  With that, the corners of Ike’s mouth curled up in what most people would consider a sinister smile. At the same time, using his left hand Johnny opened the left side of his coat to expose the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster.

  In less than a second, Tony’s left hand snatched the gun from its holster and at the exact same moment, his right hand grabbed Johnny’s hair. Carvelli slammed the punk’s face on the bar breaking his nose with an audible crack causing it to explode blood on the bar. While this was taking place, there was a clear scraping noise as a dozen chairs were hurriedly vacated by the other customers scurrying to get out of the way. The two bartenders and the waitress could only stare at the scene, frozen and unsure what to do.

  A startled Ike stood up off the stool and instinctively began to reach under his own suit coat. Before he could grab his gun, Tony cocked Johnny’s 9mm and while continuing to hold Johnny by the hair with his face flat on the bar, put the end of the barrel in Czernak’s right ear and snarled, “Go ahead, Ike, you little asshole. Do it. But let me tell you how this will go down. Shut up!” he said as he lifted Johnny’s head off the bar by his hair and slammed it back down again. “Stop your whining, tough guy.

  “Before you pull your piece,” Tony continued still staring directly into Ike’s very worried looking eyes, “I’ll blow this idiot’s tiny little brain all over that nice shiny suit of yours and then I’ll put one right between your beady little eyes. I’ll sit back, finish my drink and wait for my cop friends to come clean up the mess. In a few days, I’ll meet with the mayor and he’ll give me a commendation for helping the city with vermin control.”

  The two men stared at each other as Johnny continued to bleed on the bar and softly moan. Tony waited about twenty seconds then said, “I’m getting bored, asshole. Make a decision. Live or die.”