tucked away in the DuSable Building, an 1890s skyscraper on Federal, and has the original mahogany bar that Cyrus McCormick and Judge Gary probably used to lean over.
I went to my office to check mail and messages and at four walked back up the street to the bar. Sal, the magnificent black bartender who could teach the Chicago police a thing or two about crowd control, greeted me with a smile and a majestic wave. She wore her hair in an Afro today and had on gold hoop earrings that hung to her shoulder. A shiny blue evening gown showed her splendid cleavage and five-foot-eleven frame to advantage. She brought a double Black Label to my corner booth and chatted for a few minutes before getting back to the swelling group of early commuters.
Murray came in a few minutes later, his red hair more disheveled than usual from the January wind. He had on a sheepskin coat and western boots: the urban cowboy. I said as much by way of greeting while a waitress took his order for beer; Sal only looks after her regular customers personally.
We talked about the poor showing the Black Hawks were making, and about the Greylord trial, and whether Mayor Washington would ever subdue Eddie Vrdolyak. “If Washington didn’t have Vrdolyak he’d have to invent him,” Murray said. “He’s the perfect excuse for Washington not being able to accomplish anything.”
The waitress came over. I declined a refill and asked for a glass of water.
Murray ordered a second Beck’s. “So what gives, V.1.? I won’t say it always spells trouble when you call up out of the blue, but it usually means I end up being used.”
“Murray, I bet you a week of my pay that you’ve gotten more stories out of me than I have gotten clients out of you.”
“A week of your pay wouldn’t keep me in beer. What’s up?”
“Did you pick up a story last week about some forged securities in Melrose Park? Out in a Dominican priory there?”
“Dominican priory?” Murray echoed. “Since when have you started hanging around churches?”
“It’s a family obligation,” I said with dignity. “You may not know it, but I’m half Italian, and we Italians stick together, through thick and thin. You know, the secret romance of the Mafia and all that. When one member of the family is in trouble, the others rally around.”
Murray wasn’t impressed. “You going to knock off somebody in the priory for the sake of your family honor?”
“No, but I might take out Derek Hatfield in the cause.”
Murray supported me enthusiastically. Hatfield was as uncooperative with the press as he was with private investigators.
Murray had missed the story of the faked certificates.
“Maybe it wasn’t on the wires. The feds can be pretty secretive about these things—especially Derek. Think this prior would make a good interview? Maybe I’ll send out one of my babies to talk to him.”
I suggested he send someone to interview Rosa, and gave him the list of possibilities I’d offered Hatfield. Murray would work those into the story. He’d probably get someone to dig up the name of the original donor and get some public exposure on his heirs. That would force Hatfield to do something— either eliminate them as being involved or publicly announce how old the dud certificates were. “Them that eat cakes that the Parsee man bakes make dreadful mistakes,” I muttered to myself.
“What was that?” Murray said sharply. “Are you setting me up to do your dirty work for you, Warshawski?”
I gave him a look that I hoped implied limpid innocence. “Murray! How you talk. I just want to make sure the FBI doesn’t railroad my poor frail old aunt.” I signaled to Sal that we were ready to leave; she runs a tab that she sends me once a month, the only bill I ever pay on time.
Murray and I moved up north for seafood at the Red Tide. For eight dollars you can get a terrific whole Dungeness crab, which you eat sitting at a bar in a dark basement about half the size of my living
I went to my office to check mail and messages and at four walked back up the street to the bar. Sal, the magnificent black bartender who could teach the Chicago police a thing or two about crowd control, greeted me with a smile and a majestic wave. She wore her hair in an Afro today and had on gold hoop earrings that hung to her shoulder. A shiny blue evening gown showed her splendid cleavage and five-foot-eleven frame to advantage. She brought a double Black Label to my corner booth and chatted for a few minutes before getting back to the swelling group of early commuters.
Murray came in a few minutes later, his red hair more disheveled than usual from the January wind. He had on a sheepskin coat and western boots: the urban cowboy. I said as much by way of greeting while a waitress took his order for beer; Sal only looks after her regular customers personally.
We talked about the poor showing the Black Hawks were making, and about the Greylord trial, and whether Mayor Washington would ever subdue Eddie Vrdolyak. “If Washington didn’t have Vrdolyak he’d have to invent him,” Murray said. “He’s the perfect excuse for Washington not being able to accomplish anything.”
The waitress came over. I declined a refill and asked for a glass of water.
Murray ordered a second Beck’s. “So what gives, V.1.? I won’t say it always spells trouble when you call up out of the blue, but it usually means I end up being used.”
“Murray, I bet you a week of my pay that you’ve gotten more stories out of me than I have gotten clients out of you.”
“A week of your pay wouldn’t keep me in beer. What’s up?”
“Did you pick up a story last week about some forged securities in Melrose Park? Out in a Dominican priory there?”
“Dominican priory?” Murray echoed. “Since when have you started hanging around churches?”
“It’s a family obligation,” I said with dignity. “You may not know it, but I’m half Italian, and we Italians stick together, through thick and thin. You know, the secret romance of the Mafia and all that. When one member of the family is in trouble, the others rally around.”
Murray wasn’t impressed. “You going to knock off somebody in the priory for the sake of your family honor?”
“No, but I might take out Derek Hatfield in the cause.”
Murray supported me enthusiastically. Hatfield was as uncooperative with the press as he was with private investigators.
Murray had missed the story of the faked certificates.
“Maybe it wasn’t on the wires. The feds can be pretty secretive about these things—especially Derek. Think this prior would make a good interview? Maybe I’ll send out one of my babies to talk to him.”
I suggested he send someone to interview Rosa, and gave him the list of possibilities I’d offered Hatfield. Murray would work those into the story. He’d probably get someone to dig up the name of the original donor and get some public exposure on his heirs. That would force Hatfield to do something— either eliminate them as being involved or publicly announce how old the dud certificates were. “Them that eat cakes that the Parsee man bakes make dreadful mistakes,” I muttered to myself.
“What was that?” Murray said sharply. “Are you setting me up to do your dirty work for you, Warshawski?”
I gave him a look that I hoped implied limpid innocence. “Murray! How you talk. I just want to make sure the FBI doesn’t railroad my poor frail old aunt.” I signaled to Sal that we were ready to leave; she runs a tab that she sends me once a month, the only bill I ever pay on time.
Murray and I moved up north for seafood at the Red Tide. For eight dollars you can get a terrific whole Dungeness crab, which you eat sitting at a bar in a dark basement about half the size of my living
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