At the corner near his car a group of young locals interrupted what seemed to be a wonderfully Italianate conversation of loud speech and waving arms to look at him. There were five of them, all very tan, all wearing sleeveless T-shirts. They all had the same hair, hair that would not wave in the wind or catch in branches. They seemed amused by his shirt, leading Whelan to believe that his was probably the first guayabera they’d seen. You didn’t get a lot of Mexicans passing through this neighborhood.
He got into the Jet, started it, listened to it die, pumped the accelerator, and tried it again. It started with the closest sound a car could make to moaning. As he pulled away he looked at the young Italians again. They were amused by his car, too; he couldn’t blame them.
The expressway back into the Loop was packed, the city was in motion, people headed downtown and to the lakefront and the bars and parks. Cars filled with teenagers played bumper tag and chicken. Every kid in Chicago seemed to be in a car headed east, and they all seemed to be singing along to a car radio.
He punched a button on his own radio and heard the jovial baritone of Harry Caray, who didn’t take over the radio mike till the fourth inning; he’d missed a third of the Cubs game. They were up six to one and threatening to sweep the Mets if someone didn’t help them come to their senses. In first place and sweeping the Mets. He shook his head. It was getting out of hand.
He rolled down his window and decided it was time for a visit to Rush Street.
He parked on Pearson and walked back up to Rick’s Roost. There was a mugginess to the air that he hadn’t noticed in Melrose Park, and whatever breeze was coming in from the lake a couple of blocks away was sucked out of the air before it could make itself noticed. The air smelled of fast food and car exhaust, a hot night on Rush Street. He looked up at the moon—still a couple of days short of a full moon. Put a hot night together with a full moon and the city became the world’s largest circus. Throw in a convention and you had an asylum without keepers.
A couple of conventioneers were arguing with a Pakistani cabdriver but for the most part the pharmacists hadn’t brought their troops up for the main assault yet. There were no drunks break-dancing or attempting to fall in love. A quick look in through the window of Vosic’s place told him the evening hadn’t started yet in there, either, and he went on. He passed by the little hamburger place and saw her.
Pat sat hunched over the far corner of the counter, working on what appeared to be a crossword puzzle. She glanced up at exactly that moment, raised her eyebrows, smiled, and waved. The sudden eye contact caught him off guard and he was embarrassed. He raised one hand and gave her a half smile and wondered if he looked as obvious as he felt.
He started at the far end of the street and worked his way up: he hit Ye Hange Oute, the Fire Station, the Fox Hunt, the Firewater, and a couple of other taverns. He avoided the big ones, Mother’s and Butch McGuire’s, the meat markets frequented primarily by younger singles on the prowl, places where the people he was interested in would stand out and be out of place. He ordered a Coke or a coffee in each place, engaged the bartender in casual conversation, and then let a name drop—Rich Vosic, Ron Vosic, Frank Henley. All the bartenders knew the Vosics, both of them. A couple of the younger ones, eager to please or to seem streetwise, told him what great guys the Vosics were, what regular guys they were, not like other people with that kind of money. No one seemed to know anything about Henley—until Whelan made his way to the Fox Hunt.
The Fox Hunt was a bar you chose in order to avoid the rest of Rush Street, several blocks from the heart of the action. It was dark and cool and for the most part uninhabited—the TV had the Cubs game on and there were a pair of fortyish women watching the game. One of them looked him over as he sat down a few stools away. He nodded to her and she looked back at the TV set. The only other customer was a scholarly looking young guy in wire rims, scribbling feverishly into a spiral notebook and occasionally sipping from a glass of beer without looking at it.
The bartender watched the Cubs fill the bases and nodded and said something to the two women, whom he seemed to know. He looked around and saw Whelan, seemed startled, and came over quickly. “Sorry, guy, I didn’t see you come in.”
A professional, Whelan thought. The young ones don’t care whether they make you wait or not. The bartender was big and going to fat, with red hair and a dense beard and a sunburned face. He grinned and shrugged. He looked like a happy Viking.
“It’s all right. It’s hard to notice the real world when this is happening.” Whelan nodded toward the TV.
The bartender chuckled. “Sweeping the Mets at Shea. Yeah, who woulda thunk it?”
Whelan nodded. “My grandmother used to say the world would come to an end when a lot of strange things started happening, so if the Cubs sweep, I think the world is going to hit an asteroid.”
The bartender nodded. “Cold one?”
“Got any coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Black,” Whelan said.
The bartender brought him a white ceramic mug full of coffee. It was classic bar coffee, scalding and the color of bituminous coal; it tasted like old toast and you could stand a spoon in it.
“Good coffee,” Whelan said.
“Might be a little old,” the bartender conceded.
“Fresh coffee’s for sissies.”
The bartender grinned and looked out at the street. A pair of men with name tags were staring in through the window.
“You’re in deep doo now, pal, the pharmacists have found your bar.”
“Will they leave if I hold up a cross or something?” They watched and eventually the two pharmacists decided there wasn’t enough action in the Fox Hunt and left.
“You dodged a bullet there.”
The bartender wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. “You ever tend bar for conventioneers?”
“No. I’ve been in a war and I was a police officer for the better part of a decade, but I’ve never had to face that kind of horror.”
The bartender laughed again. “Well, it’s nothing like those experiences, but you wouldn’t believe what happens to grown men when you turn them loose, a thousand of ’em, with all their friends, in a city where nobody knows ’em. You wonder how they remember to put their pants on in the morning. We had a couple of guys in here the other night, just before closing. One guy, he’s sitting there staring at his beer and he just blows lunch all over the bar and all over his shirt. He gets up, moves over one stool, sits down again, and takes a sip of his beer. And his friend doesn’t even notice the barf on the bar.”
“The worst part of it is, they won’t remember most of the things they did here,” Whelan said. He sipped his coffee and then put it down. “The Vosic brothers ever come in here?”
The smile died and the happy Viking wasn’t so happy anymore. He shrugged and made a little half shake, half nod. “They come in once in a while, not often.” He indicated the dark little bar. “This is not exactly their, uh, style. A little quiet for their taste, you know what I mean?”
“I don’t really know them. I’ve just met them a couple of times. I’m trying to get a handle on them.”
“You’re still a cop,” he said, nodding.
“No. I’m private. And this is actually…business.”
“You ever been in their bar?”
“No. I know the place, but I haven’t been in it yet.”
“Well, you want to get an impression of those guys, spend a little time in their bar. You’ll probably see them in action then.”
“A couple of real high steppers, huh?”
“Yeah. High rollers, really neat guys. Well, you’ve met them, right?”
“Yeah. Can’t say I really enjoyed the experience. Rich seems to think of himself as a mover and shaker.”
The bartender nodded. “He’s got a way…I don’t know, he can come in here and buy the house a round and he seems like the nicest guy in the world. But he’s got no interest in talking to any
of the people he’s buying a drink for. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. He makes the gesture but the people don’t really exist for him. He lives on a higher plane.”
“That’s it.”
“What about the little brother?”
“‘Little’ is right. And he’s got a complex about it, too. They don’t like each other, those two. Nobody ever says it, but I see it. I’ve been in other bars when they came in, loud, obnoxious assholes that they are, and after they’ve had a few you can tell they can’t stand each other. The young one really wants to be the honcho. And the older one treats him like a gofer.”
Whelan thought for a moment. “Ever heard anything to make you think the young one has any brains?”
The bartender shook his head and grinned. “Not one. Never seen or heard any evidence that would make you think there was a mind there. He’s brain dead, that Ron. And he’s a whore, that kid.” He leaned over the bar and dropped his voice.
“He’ll screw anything, anybody, and then he wants the world to know about it. He’ll tell strangers who he’s fucked.”
“Neat guy. Ever hear any talk about how they got their money?”
The bartender gave him a warning look and Whelan nodded.
“Fair enough. I retract the question. But I’ve got another one: ever meet a friend or a hired hand of theirs named Henley?”
The bartender thought for a second and began to shake his big, shaggy head. Whelan added, “About your size, bald, a goatee, and a bad attitude,” and the bartender’s face changed.
“Oh, him. Hell, yes, I know him. I didn’t know his name, though. He’s a spooky sucker. We don’t let him in here anymore. He picked a fight in here one night with a guy, a real young guy, I think they were arguing about politics or something, and this guy, this Henley, he really took this kid apart, and we couldn’t get him off the kid. And you know what? He liked it. He was enjoying himself. So we threw him out, took about five of us, and Jay, he’s the owner, he was here that night, and he told the guy not to come back. And this Henley, he tells Jay he’s gonna be looking for him. So Jay tells him he’ll get a peace bond on him and he’ll get busted if he comes back.”
“And has he?”
“No. I’ve seen him walking down the street but he hasn’t come back here. I got the feeling that he didn’t want things to get complicated, like he really didn’t want to bring the law into it.”
Whelan thought for a moment. “Ever see him with anybody?”
“No. He came in by himself.” The bartender gave a sardonic laugh. “Who’d want to pal around with a spook like that?” Then he tilted his head to one side. “You looking for him? Is that it?”
“I hope not.”
The bartender nodded. “Me, too. I hope you’re not looking for him. You want to stay away from him, mister. He’ll hurt you if he gets a chance. Those other two are lightweights, but that guy isn’t all there.”
“Thanks. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
“Hey, Bill, we’re dying of thirst down here,” one of the women said.
The bartender nodded to Whelan. “Duty calls.”
Whelan stood up and dropped a five on the bar. “Later,” he said and left the bar.
Outside it seemed hotter after the chilly air of the bar, and there was a lot more traffic. At the corner two men got out of their cars and examined the evidence of a fender bender as a half dozen motorists behind them leaned on their horns and filled the air with noise. There was a lot of foot traffic, large groups of well-dressed young guys and smaller groups of young women, and the pharmacists had landed in force.
They weren’t getting in Rick’s Roost, though, as the handsome, muscular young man at the door turned away a group of a half dozen middle-aged men, telling them that the Roost was too crowded.
“We’re too crowded, fellas,” he said, watching the cars go by. “Too crowded.”
“It don’t look so crowded in there now,” one of them said. The bouncer shrugged. “We got a private party coming in. I can’t let in any groups. Come back some other time.”
The pharmacists turned away, grumbling, and Whelan walked up to the door. The kid didn’t like the looks of Whelan, either, and was about to give him the same line when Whelan held up one hand.
“Save the speech. I’m here to see Rich.”
“Oh. He’s not here yet.”
“I know that. His little toy car isn’t in his parking space. But he’ll be here and I don’t think I’m gonna wait for him outside if it’s all the same to you.” And he stepped by the doorman before the kid could think of a comeback.
Inside, Rick’s Roost was exactly what he would have expected—gaudy without being tasteful, showy without style, expensive without redeeming social value. There was too much light, framed photos of semidressed women hung on the walls, and the jukebox was up too loud. The back bar was all glass and chrome, the top shelf lined with softball and flag football trophies. In a prominent spot in the very center of the bar hung a team photo of the softball players, with Rich and Ron Vosic dead center. Whelan shouldered his way with some difficulty through several large groups of young men and took a stool at the far end of the bar. A couple of them glanced his way, looked him up and down, and seemed to be wondering what a forty-year-old guy who didn’t wear tight shirts was doing in the Roost. They were big, clean shaven, corn-fed, and loud. One or two looked in the mirror as they talked, patting their perfect hair into further perfection, turning their heads one way and then another to see their own profiles. A few feet away a pair of slender, dark-haired guys were actually admiring the biceps of a big, beefy one who looked like somebody’s tight end. He grinned, basking in their admiration, and demonstrated the types of lifts and curls he was doing in the gym.
At the far end there was a stage with three mikes, and to the left he could see the stairway that led up to the second floor.
The bartender came over, a clone of the one showing off his new muscles; he was wearing a Rick’s Roost T-shirt with a big picture of a football on it.
I’m in jock heaven, Whelan thought.
The bartender nodded and raised his eyebrows. Apparently speech wasn’t a requirement in these places. He nodded back and the bartender, forced into conversation, frowned.
“Can I help you,” he said in a monotone.
Whelan ordered a ginger ale and asked pointedly if Rich were in, and the bartender immediately developed much sharper people skills. He grinned now, just a big, amiable Rush Street cowboy.
“The Bossman? Hey, it’s early for him, you know? But he’ll blow in here in a little bit.”
The bartender poured a ginger ale from the soda gun, put a bar napkin on the bar in front of Whelan, and set the drink down. Whelan dropped a little pile of singles on the bar and the kid took two of them and brought back a quarter. Apparently ginger ale had become a delicacy; Whelan wondered how much a shot of quality bourbon would cost. A shot-and-beer drinker like Bauman could go broke in a place like this.
The bartender looked around the room with restless eyes and Whelan raised his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“Got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Friend of mine was telling me that Ron really runs the bar, not Rich, and I said no way. Who’s right?”
The bartender gave a little snort. “Ron? Ron runs the bar?” He looked incredulous.
Whelan smiled. “I take it that’s beyond the realm of possibility, huh?”
The kid opened his mouth to say something and then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged.
“Hey, Ron’s a good dude. He’s good people, they both are. It’s just that, you know, Rich is a businessman, a real businessman, and Ron, old Ron is a party animal, he parties too hard to have time for much else. I, uh, I hear he’s real good with computers and that. He’s a smart dude, he’s just not into running the bar.”
Whelan looked satisfied. “Thanks. I know Rich, and I know if it’s got his name
on it, he’s running it.”
“Absolutely.”
“But I couldn’t tell this guy anything, he’s one of those guys who’s got all the answers.”
The bartender nodded and Whelan hit him with the next one fast.
“What about Henley?”
The kid looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. “Henley? I…I don’t know him.”
“Sure you do. If you know Rich, you know Henley.”
The kid refused to make eye contact. He looked around the room and then down at the bar, shaking his head. “No. Him, I don’t know.”
“How can you not know Frank?” Whelan laughed. “How can anybody not know Frank? It’s impossible to miss him.”
The kid backed up a couple of feet and leaned against the back bar, as though to put distance between them. He shrugged.
“Maybe you haven’t been here long.”
“No…I been here a year and a half. I was here when we opened. I just don’t know this guy. Maybe I don’t know him by his name.”
“But you’d know him if you saw him, right? Big guy, bald, wears a goatee.”
The kid shook his head. “No. That don’t ring a bell.”
“Okay, well…” Whelan took a sip of his ginger ale and the kid moved back up the bar and started emptying ashtrays that had nothing in them.
He finished the ginger ale and had another, and three cigarettes to go with them. Forty minutes in the enemy’s camp had proved not dangerous but boring. It was the most obnoxious tavern he’d visited in years and he almost felt sorry for the people who came here to find their entire social lives.
Each time the door opened he wanted it to be Vosic, wanted to see Vosic’s reaction, but there was no sign of the “bossman.” No sign of little brother, either. He put his cigarettes back into his shirt pocket, left the bartender a single and change, and was about to leave when the door opened and Henley took over the room.
He stopped just inside, hitched up his pants, and took a long look around the room. He glanced at the bartender, ignored the kid’s nod, and walked his rolling, swaggering walk to a corner stool. A pair of kids in knit shirts were arm wrestling right next to him and the one who was losing was leaning farther and farther back till he was almost touching Henley. The arm wrestler strained and twisted and rocked and finally had his back right up against the back of Henley’s stool.
A Body in Belmont Harbor Page 19
