by James Ross
At the trial that followed one of the reporters affectionately labeled the remains of Riley’s hand a stub. The tag stuck and Blue’s older brother had a name that the prisoners in Cell Block Six could use. The two served a decade in the federal pen for armed bank robbery but rebounded after they had paid their debt to society. Twenty years later, it provided the inspiration for the name of a saloon.
Blue found a financial backer to buy the old grocery store. He and Stub converted it to a bar, paid back their debt rapidly and became proprietors of a tavern that seemed full of working-class men every day until closing time. The secret? Good, cheap food. Of course, ice cold beer didn’t take much of a backseat.
The two-story structure at one time was a home. The original owner converted it to a business and lived upstairs. Blue saw an opportunity to change the dynamics of the building.
Wood lathe and plaster covered the interior walls. Surface cracks had deteriorated over time. Broken pieces had fallen revealing the sub-structure. The floor was covered by red, white and black, twelve-by-twelve tiles. The black patterned ceiling consisted of two-foot squares of stamped tin. The lower level windows were protected by half-inch wrought iron scrolled bars. Blue purchased a walnut back bar from an antique fair, installed a hood vent over a grille and erected a small bandstand for local musicians. The amenities were in place and grandfathered in before local ordinance and code regulations came into play.
It was a unique and one-of-a-kind atmosphere.
J Dub led Opur through the door and immediately headed for the food line. It was a “help-yourself” eating environment. The menu was uncomplicated. A patron could order barbequed pork butt, hamburger, bratwurst, nachos, deep fried pickle, beef kabob, chicken wings or fries along with peel-and-eat shrimp. Three popcorn machines filled the establishment with an ever-present smell.
The pro knew if there was a time to find Blue around the bar, then it was lunchtime. The owner approached the pro’s table. His hair was gray, combed straight back but thin on top. Blue’s eyes sat behind a pair of glasses that had dated frames. His skin looked as tough as the skin on a lizard. Years of smoking had deprived it of much-needed oxygen.
The pro knew if there was a time to find Blue around the bar, then it was lunchtime. The owner approached the pro’s table. His hair was gray, combed straight back but thin on top. Blue’s eyes sat behind a pair of glasses that had dated frames. His skin looked as tough as the skin on a lizard. Years of smoking had deprived it of much-needed oxygen. His throat, nearly ruined by the effects of nicotine, was coarse. “How’s my good buddy?” Blue asked in a gravelly half-whisper. J Dub had always been Blue’s steady stand-in when he needed a ringer for a scramble event.
“Just trying to keep the peace on the course,” J Dub replied.
“You and I have the same problem, don’t we?”
“But mine is a little less alcohol induced.” The two smiled both knowing that booze led people to do stupid things.
“Is this your son?” Blue asked as he reached across the table to shake Opur’s hand.
“No,” J Dub said. “This is Opur. He’s my superstar. I’ve been teaching him the game.”
“You’re learning from the best, son,” Blue said.
Opur leaned over the table and grabbed a napkin as the mustard and ketchup squirted out the backside of the hamburger after taking a bite. With his mouth half-full he nodded and turned to J Dub. “How long has it been?” He wiped the ketchup off of the crease of his mouth.
“Six years,” J Dub replied. “But it seems like you were just twelve years old a few months ago.”
Now Opur was shaving and taking a slight interest in women. It seemed like golf was taking a backseat to all of the other things that were entering his life. “I still remember those sawed-off clubs you started me with.”
“Back when I was twelve, Stub and I didn’t have a nickel for a piece of bread,” Blue said, “let alone for golf lessons.” He ground the butt of a cigarette into an ashtray. “Shit, I didn’t even start playing the game until I was damn near fifty.”
J Dub smiled. He had heard those stories many times from all the old-timers that had lived during the Great Depression. He pulled the tail off of a piece of shrimp, peeled the covering and dipped it into cocktail sauce. Turning to Blue he asked, “Can you help us out?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Blue followed.
“Opur lost his mom a little bit ago. We’re going to help him out and let him work around the course, but I was thinking that maybe you could teach him the ropes about bartending and serving food. You know, give him some hours and some work.” J Dub grabbed several napkins, wadded them and wiped the shrimp smell off of his hands the best he could.
“Sure,” Blue growled, “but this place ain’t full of all those country clubbers that show up down at your joint.”
“I know that,” J Dub agreed, “but it won’t hurt him to get exposed to some of the things that life might have to offer down the road.”
“You can bet he’ll find all of that around this place,” Blue barked. “You up for it, kid?” Not knowing what to expect, Opur simple nodded his head and then gulped. “You want days or nights?”
“Anything you’ve got.”
Blue grabbed a Camel from his pack of cigarettes, put it in his mouth and lit it. “Then be here around nine tomorrow morning. I’ve got some errands to run.” He took a drag, exhaled the smoke and got up from the table. “Got it?”
“I’ll be here.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Blue reached into his pocket and retrieved a stack of hundred dollar bills that looked to be about as thick as a roll of toilet paper. “Now look, kid . . . what was your name again?” He scratched the gray stubble on his beard that looked to be two days old.
“Opur.”
“Opur?” Blue looked at the young man standing in front of him. “Where’d ya getta name like that?”
“It’s a nickname the guys at the course gave me. Something about peepers because I’m a pretty good putter.”
“Ah, yeah. I know all about that puttin’. That’s where you make the money in that game.” He counted off two thousand dollars. “Now look, I’m not going to start you off making drinks and pouring beer just yet.”
“Okay. Just tell me what you need.”
Blue handed the stash of cash to Opur. “Right now you’re gonna be my errand boy. You gotta car?” Opur nodded his head. “Here’s some money for gas if you use yours.” He handed a couple of twenty dollar bills to Opur. “If you want to use my car, just ask Mabel.” He nodded his head in the direction of the grille. “She’s the day manager. I’ll let her know that you’re helpin’ me.”
Opur start fidgeting. He had never had that much money on him in his life. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Get your ass over to Hoof and Bridle Park. You know where that is, don’t ya?” Opur nodded. “Just pull up to the valet and tell them you’re with me. Flip the guys a fever.”
“Huh?’
Blue rolled his eyes. “A five-dollar bill.” He grabbed the pack of Camels out of his pocket, fetched a cigarette and placed it between his lips. “Let the guys know that you’re only going to be about fifteen minutes or so. That way they won’t drive the car off and make you wait when you come back.”
Opur shook his head in agreement. “What do you want me to do?”
Blue reached into his pocket and grabbed a piece of paper. “Here, I wrote it down for you.” He unfolded the note and placed it on the counter in front of Opur. “Put five bucks on the Daily Double, the number six and the number two.”
“Who do I tell that to?”
Blue blurted, “Ya never been inside the track?” Opur shook his head. “Ya go up to the ticket window. The guy behind the glass will know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay. Five dollars on the Daily Double. Number six and number two.”
“Five hundred dollars!” Blue shouted. “Five dollars is a figure of speech
for five hundred dollars.”
“Oh,” Opur said.
“I thought you’ve been on the golf course. Haven’t you gotten in some of them high dollar skins games?”
“Those guys over there play for quarters.”
Blue shrugged, half bored. “Look, from now on when I say a dollar it means one hundred dollars and if I say a quarter it means twenty-five bucks. Got it?” Opur nodded. Blue went back to the note. “Then with the rest of the money you tell the guy that you want the number three horse in the sixth race and bet the number three and number one Exacta in that race.” He pointed to his scribbled writing. “Nine bucks on the three to win and six bucks on the Exacta.”
“Isn’t that a lot of money to be betting on a horse race,” Opur said naively.
Blue laughed with the phlegm rattling in his throat. “I don’t bet the ponies unless I know I’m gonna win.” He took a drag off his cigarette. “We’ll go collect our winnings tomorrow and maybe I’ll treat you to a nice lunch in the Turf Club.” He took a step toward the grille. “That’s if ya don’t mind the company of some old man.” He laughed as he turned away.
Chapter Forty-Three
“You did what?” Julie blasted J Dub when she got wind that he took Opur down to The Digit to meet Blue Howe.
“That will be good for him.”
“That crusty old fart will ruin the innocent boy,” Julie preached. She was like most women that didn’t want their little boys to become men.
J Dub wouldn’t have any of it. He waved his hand at her in dismissal. “I’ve got a plan for him.”
“And it can’t be good if you’re encouraging Blue Howe to come into his world.”
“Look, the boy has to grow up. He’s going to have a lot thrown at him real quick. We can’t be here just to coddle him,” J Dub said. He grabbed a banana, opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a jar of peanut butter.
“We can’t throw him straight into the sewer,” Julie persisted.
J Dub reached for a spoon, scooped out some peanut butter and applied it to the banana. “Have you ever tried this before?”
“That looks disgusting,” Julie said.
“You don’t know what you’re missing. This is a delicacy,” the pro said as he savored the flavor. He swallowed and continued. “It’s just like Opur. How’s he going to know what he likes unless he tries it?” He held the spoon under the faucet of the sink. “I want to expose him to all there is in life. Blue is just the guy for that.”
“You’re playing with a stick of dynamite with that guy,” Julie lectured.
“I’ll be right here a mile away to keep tabs on them. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“J Dub,” Julie pleaded, “not Blue Howe. You’ve got a strange taste in role models.”
“What were the words to that song?” J Dub asked. “What song?”
“If you wanna get to heaven you gotta raise a little hell,” the pro said as he started to hum the tune. “I’d rather have him get exposed to it all right here while I can watch over him.” J Dub opened a bottle of water and took a swig.
“Don’t let him get too far out of your sight.”
“Remember that I’ve got a bigger plan for him.” He walked to the window and looked out to the practice green. “If nothing else Blue will help him get through the mourning process.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Opur ran out the office door. “Where are you goin’?” Blue yelled.
“It sounds like somebody rode their motorcycle through the front door,” Opur screamed back.
Blue roared with laughter. “Git your ass back in here!”
Opur returned a few seconds later. “That was a false alarm I guess. Nobody drove their bike through the door.” An engine revved outside. “I could have sworn someone drove inside the building.”
Blue took a puff off of his cigarette. “You haven’t met him yet.”
“Met who?” Opur asked.
“My older brother,” Blue said as he exhaled some smoke. “Stub.” With his free hand he reached over and pinched the lit end of the cigarette, putting out the fire. Then he stored the remains in his shirt pocket. He walked over to the window and peered out. “He must have a date.”
Opur was dumbfounded. “How old is he?”
“Three years older than me.” Blue stopped and counted to himself. “I guess that makes him eighty-one.”
“A date?”
“Yeah, that’s his date car.” The two looked out the window. A bright canary-yellow 1967 GTO convertible with dual exhausts and super shocks sat a few feet from the window.
“Who would get in a car that looks like that?” Opur asked. The engine roared again as Stub raced the engine while the car was parked.
“You’d be surprised,” Blue insisted. “He likes them young.” Opur started to laugh. The thought of a fifty or sixty year old woman riding around in the convertible was amusing. “What’s so funny?”
“I can just see him with some sixty-year-old grandma driving around town.”
“What are you talking about?” Blue barked. “He’s got more women than he knows what to do with.” The two watched as Stub exited the car. He stood five foot seven and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The old-timer walked with a slight limp. “When I said young,” Blue continued, “I meant gals in their twenties and thirties.”
“That’s more my age!”
“You bet it is!” Blue roared. “You watch what happens. He’ll come in here, grab a six-pack and turn around and walk back out to the car. He’s got some good stuff lined up for this afternoon.”
The two inched their way over to the office door and peeked around the door jamb. Stub strolled behind the bar, nodded at the bartender, continued to the cooler, grabbed a six-pack and walked back out the front door. “He doesn’t say much,” Opur said.
“Never has,” Blue replied. “We either don’t know what’s going on in his mind or he’s just stupid.” The elderly man thought for a second about what he just said. Then he started laughing again. “But he can’t be too stupid if he has a date with a young filly this afternoon!” He reached into his pocket and relit the remains of his cigarette. “Speaking of which . . . I owe you a trip to the Turf Club.”
“Did your horses win?”
Blue looked at Opur in disbelief. “I told you yesterday that we had some winners. What do you think?”
“So we get to go to lunch.”
“You bet we do,” Blue said with a pleased look on his face, “but before we go I want you to make a few stops for me.”
“What do you need done today?”
“You know where Spilker General is, don’t you?” Opur nodded. “Dr. Carmichael is working in the emergency room today. Stop over there and pick up some cash for me. He owes me three thousand.” Opur gave Blue an incredulous look. “He knows you’re coming.”
“I don’t guess I should ask you what for?”
Blue shook his head. “Nah, it’s not important right now. From there run by Hands of Faith parish and pick up two thousand from Father Blair.” He gave Opur a note with some names and amounts on it. “Then go to First Cornstalk Bank. Harold Syms should have an envelope with forty-five hundred in it.”
“Don’t you think that’s a lot of money that I’ll be carrying?”
“You’ll be safe. When you leave the bank head for the track, but stop off at the DiMonte law office. It’s on the way. Pay him twenty-four hundred and we’ll have a late lunch in the Turf Club.”
Chapter Forty-Five
The hostess in the Turf Club led the pair to a table next to the window on the third deck of the grandstand. The club was enclosed and separated from the masses that were sitting on bleachers. Lush carpeting, tablecloths, closed-circuit monitors on each table and a bird’s eye view of the finish line were part of the amenities.
Opur slid into a plush chair as Blue slipped the young lady a ten dollar bill. He was wide-eyed at the opportunity to have a nice meal
in a first class restaurant. It sure beat fast food, the pizza joint or a hot dog at the turn which he was much more accustomed to. “This is nice.”
“The food sucks,” Blue complained. “I’ve been trying for years to get them to buy a better grade of meat but they won’t do it.” The waitress came to the table and asked for drink orders. “Get me a double Crown Royal with a splash and a draught.”
“Can I see your ID?” the waitress asked Opur.
Opur fumbled around and looked at Blue for help. “It’s all right. Go get Sal.”
“He’s here somewhere. Let me find him,” the waitress said as she left the table.
“I don’t drink,” Opur whispered to Blue when the server got out of earshot.
“You’ve never had a beer?” Blue deadpanned. “Why?”
“My dad was an alcoholic and my mom wouldn’t let me,” Opur began.
“Your mom ain’t around anymore is she?”
It had only been a couple of weeks since Rayelene was buried and the comment caught Opur in an awkward way. He bowed his head and mumbled, “No.”
Blue eased up a bit after seeing that his way with words was a bit crass. “What I meant was that you’re with me now. You’re gonna be working in a bar and you’re gonna be around alcohol. Now you’re growin’ up and you can make your own decisions. One or two beers are sociable. They won’t hurt you.”
“But I’m only eighteen. Isn’t the drinking age in Illinois twenty-one?”
“Eighteen to serve. Twenty-one to drink,” Blue shot back.
“But we’re driving,” Opur said as he tried to wiggle out of the situation.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you home.”
Salvatore Lucci approached the table. He was a handsome man in his mid-forties that stood five foot eleven with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He was dressed immaculately.
One of Sal’s distinguishing characteristics was his facial hair. His head was completely bald but his thick, black sideburns started at the top of his ear and continued down his jaw. The razor cut on his beard left a thin line down the jaw line until it exploded into a full goatee and mustache. A pronounced five o’clock shadow was the only portion of his face that needed daily maintenance. “Hey Blue, what’s ya need?”
