Jones and Akin are sitting in a booth at the all-night Denny’s on Delaware. Akin is telling Jones what he said to the driver of the Land Rover, but the waitress interrupts. Jones orders Sanka, which is his generic name for decaf coffee. Akin decides on a cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milkshake.
“I told the dude,” Akin says when the waitress leaves, picking up where they left off, “that he should take his partner to the emergency room, get his knee treated. I told him to say it was a drive-by shooting. Then, I explained that his girlfriend—” Akin is laughing. “—the chief pansy — I said he would be deaf in one ear, but that when his head stopped ringing he should explain to him that they’d been evicted from their apartment and had—” He looks at his watch. “—ten hours to get their asses completely out of that neighborhood and never come back.”
Jones is smiling.
Akin says, “I also told him I’d stop by in the morning to see how their moving plans were going and to pick up ten thousand dollars to cover the medical bills for the guy they hurt.” That would be Russell. Jones doubts they’ll have the money, but he doesn’t bother saying this to Akin.
Akin says, “I said a few other things, in case they started thinking about getting even with me, or anyone else. Said if they had any trouble following my instructions I’d be back to teach them all the meaning of massive malevolence.”
Jones loves this kid.
“You remind me of myself,” he says, “when I was young.”
“What?” Akin says. “You was African-American before you turned into Batman?”
Last Call
Wayne J. Gardiner
It’s one forty-five in the morning.
The bar is located just off the lobby of the hotel, ceiling to floor windows displaying the magnificent Chicago skyline, the massive Merchandise Mart off to the east, Sears Tower to the south, city lights twinkling, the Chicago River branching north and south twelve stories below.
At this hour the hotel lobby is deserted and things aren’t much livelier in the bar — just one patron and Jerry, the bartender.
Jerry debating whether to tell the man about the shooting, finally deciding against it. The guy’s been pretty distant all night.
The last group in the bar, a big, noisy gathering of ten, celebrating a job promotion, had stumbled out fifteen minutes earlier, Jerry telling Delores to go home, he could take care of things until closing. The bar calmed down considerably after the departure of the office group, the noise level ratcheting way down; they were an enthusiastic bunch.
At this point, there is just the one guy left, a quiet guy who’s kept to himself despite the revelry around him, and he’s looking now as if he’s about ready to call it a night. Jerry glancing at his watch as he washes the last of the glasses, setting them in the rack to dry. He’s straightening the bottles on the back shelf when the tall guy comes in, good-looking man, nice suit, settling himself on a barstool.
“Grey Goose,” he says. “Straight up.”
“Coming up,” Jerry says, with more enthusiasm than he feels. He’d hoped to get out early tonight.
“Got any of the blue cheese stuffed olives?” the man asks.
“Sure do.”
“Put in a couple, if you will.”
“You got it.”
Jerry puts the drink together, shakes it, strains it, skewers two of the olives and sets it on the bar. “Grey Goose,” he says.
The man at the bar takes a sip. “As good as ever,” he says.
Jerry rings up the ticket and puts it face down at the edge of the bar.
The other patron is motioning for his check.
Jerry totals the tab and closes it out, not surprised when the guy stiffs him on the tip.
“Quiet tonight,” the tall man observes.
“Well...” Jerry says. “It is almost two o’clock... on a Tuesday night.”
“Wednesday morning, actually,” the tall man says. Pleasantly. Not said in a smart-ass manner.
“So it is,” Jerry agrees. “Wednesday morning it is,” Jerry, the consummate bartender, making certain his tone is convivial, wanting this man to know he’s a valued customer, he’s welcome here, even if it is almost two in the morning and Jerry would rather be home in bed.
“I suppose that’s got something to do with it,” the tall man says.
He seems like a nice enough guy. With a pang of conscience, Jerry forgets about the idea of getting home early. Make the guy feel welcome. That’s why they pay him the big bucks.
“Jerry,” he says, extending a hand over the bar, big smile.
They shake hands.
“Mick,” the tall man says.
Like most good bartenders, Jerry’s a chatty guy by nature. Now that he’s resigned himself to staying late, it doesn’t take much to get him started. He’s told this story a dozen times tonight already. Probably a hundred times in the past week, but he’s still excited about it, anxious to let Mick in on it.
“It wasn’t this quiet in here last week,” Jerry says.
Mick, taking another sip of his Grey Goose, raises his eyebrows.
“What happened last week?”
“Guy got shot,” Jerry says, then waits to see how Mick will react.
“Come on!” Mick says. “Shot? Here in the bar?”
“Sitting on that very barstool,” Jerry says, pointing to the stool directly to the tall man’s left.
Mick looks at the stool as if searching for some tangible sign that this could actually have happened.
“It’s been cleaned up,” Jerry explains, “but that’s the very same barstool. Guy draped over it... he tried to get up, got about halfway and slumped over the back of it face down.”
“You were here at the time?” Mick says. “When this shooting took place?”
“Oh, yeah!” Jerry says. “Standing right here.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“The strangest thing... the guy didn’t fall off the stool. Five shots and he doesn’t even hit the floor.”
“Five shots?” Amazed to hear it.
“They’re pretty sturdy stools,” Jerry explains.
“I guess so,” says Mick.
“He was a big man too. When the detectives were looking it over they kept saying how surprised they were that the dead guy was still on the stool. Not that it really made any difference.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Just unusual, is all.”
“Where was the shooter?”
The question doesn’t raise a red flag in Jerry’s mind, but there’s something unusual about it, the term “shooter” implying more familiarity with this kind of situation than you might expect. This strobelike impression so fleeting that it doesn’t really register with Jerry.
“Right where you’re sitting,” Jerry says.
“Come on!”
“The exact stool,” Jerry says, nodding, enjoying it. He’s got the man’s attention now.
Mick apparently accepting this, unusual though it may be.
“I thought maybe you might have heard about it. A lot of people have stopped in since then to ask questions, or just to get a look at the place.”
“Like people stopping to gawk at a traffic accident.”
“Yeah, like that. I thought you might have heard about it.” This close personal encounter with violent death has impacted Jerry so profoundly he doesn’t realize that not everyone else has been affected to the same degree, or perhaps (and this is clearly beyond his perception) may not even be aware the incident has occurred.
“I’m not from here.”
“It was all over the news... Where you from?”