Mike’s Tavern was housed in a dismal gray-shingled two-story building on the southwest corner of the Belmont-Kimball junction. Lockington was familiar with the place—he lived less than a mile from it and he’d shot a drug hustler just across the street, the episode having been the beginning of his rapid fall from grace with the City of Chicago Police Department. He’d known Mike Kazman for years and he found him very much as he’d last seen him, leaning against the backbar, arms folded across his chest, staring glumly at a row of unoccupied barstools. Kazman was a big jovial man with an unruly shock of gray hair, a ruddy complexion, a set of keen blue eyes, and a pronounced limp from a Guadalcanal shrapnel wound. He was staring at Lockington. He said, “Oh, my God, ain’t it awful the things a man will run into when he ain’t got no gun!”
Lockington grinned, straddling a backless barstool. They shook hands and Lockington said, “Been a while, Mike.”
“Late last summer—the day you dropped Sapphire Joe Solano.”
“That’s right.”
Kazman said, “I heard you got your own agency now.”
“Less said about that the better. What’s new in this corner of the canyon?”
Kazman threw up his hands. “Lacey, in the last few days, I’ve had more action than you could shake a stick at. You still on Martell’s?”
“Yeah, and get in with me.” Lockington shoved a twenty onto the bar. “What kind of action?”
Kazman produced a pair of double shot glasses, filling them with Martell’s cognac. “Water?”
Lockington shook his head.
They drank and Lockington made the sign for another round, making a series of tight circles above their glasses with his forefinger. Kazman poured and said, “Well, last Monday night some guy come in here and I heard he got shot Tuesday morning at the International Arms Hotel.”
Lockington said, “I’ll be damned.”
Kazman said, “Of course, I ain’t even sure he got shot—that’s just a rumor I picked up—I didn’t see nothing about it in the papers. But goddamn it, something happened because there’s been a regiment of people coming in here asking all sorts of questions, and I can’t answer any of ’em!”
They drank and Lockington nodded for a repeat. He said, “Who was the guy?”
Kazman poured cognac. “Damned if I know, I never laid eyes on the sonofabitch! George Pollard works Monday nights. George don’t know mud from marmalade. You’re acquainted with George, ain’t you?”
“Yeah, I know George Pollard. How do these questions run?”
They drank and Kazman sloshed Martell’s into their glasses. He said, “Oh, like what time did the guy come in here and was he carrying an attaché case, and what time did he leave and did he take the attaché case with him when he left, and how long was he gone and did he have the attaché case when he got back, and how long was he here the second time? Stuff like that.”
“He was here twice?”
“Yeah, according to George. George says he was with some chick what was an absolute showstopper—longlegged brunette, blue-eyed, beautiful—George says he ain’t never seen nothing like her, but George ain’t the world’s greatest living authority. So they was at the bar, these two, and the guy called a cab, and he had it wait in the alley out back because I guess he figured somebody was following him or something. He went out the alley door, jumped in the cab and hauled ass. The woman hung around, had a few highballs, played some country music on the jukebox, didn’t say much. In a while he come back and collected the tomato. George says they drove off in some high-class foreign car, but George wouldn’t know a Ford from a fucking Ferrari.”
They drank and Lockington said, “One more time.” Kazman poured one more time. The story meshed with what Lockington had heard.
Kazman hoisted his glass. He said, “To the old days, Lacey.” Lockington clinked glasses with him and they belted down their double hookers. Kazman was pouring again. He said, “I guess what all these people are trying to find out is where the hell was this guy while he was gone.”
They drank and Kazman provided refills. They drank and Lockington signaled for another. He said, “All these people? What kind of people—how many have been here?”
Kazman tilted the bottle of Martell’s, draining it, rummaging in a backbar cabinet for a replacement, finding one, opening it. He said, “Well, a couple of ’em was hoods, that was obvious—hell, I know a hood when I see one. There was a few others what could of been government men—you know the type—clean-cut, well-dressed, polite guys. Then there was an older character, a real asshole—had shiny silver hair and a southern drawl—drove a white Caddy sedan with a Jesus Saves bumper sticker—parked it right out front during rush hour, and Max Murphy gave him a ticket. You know Max Murphy?”
Lockington nodded. “Yeah—old timer—I think he was born in a blue-and-white.” They drank and Kazman poured from the new bottle of Martell’s. Lockington said, “Interesting group.”
“Uh-huh, and there was one more—redheaded heifer—oh, man, Lacey, she was something special—I mean table pussy!”
They drank and Lockington waved for another. “She asked the same questions?”
“Hell, all I remember is she drank straight vodka with no wash! She stopped my wagon!”
“You catch her name?”
“She never give none and I never asked her, but I’d saddle that one if her name was Rhoda Blunderschitz!”
They drank and Kazman poured again. Lockington said, “I don’t think I ever knew anybody named Blunderschitz.”
They drank and Kazman dumped Martell’s into their glasses, spilling a few drops in the process. He said, “Me neither—I just made that name up. You ever just make a name up, Lacey?”
“Oh, sure, several times.”
They bumped glasses and down went the Martell’s. Lockington checked his watch. Plenty of time yet. He motioned for another round. Kazman said, “Hey, Lacey, you sill shing harmony on ‘Tie Me Your Apurn Shrings Again?’”
Lockington said, “Yeah, but lass time, ole broad upstair call cops. She still up there?”
“Nellie Carshon? Sure, Nellie still up there.” They drank the new round and Kazman poured cognac. He said, “We use do ‘Apurn Shrings’ an’ ‘I’m Drifting Back Dreamland’ an’ whole bunch others too alsho.”
Lockington’s smile was for days long gone, a gentle, pensive thing. He said, “We did ‘Let Resh World Go By’ an’ ‘Darrtown Strutters’ Balls.’”
They gulped their drinks, banging their glasses to the bar. Kazman filled them. This was hard-nosed, relentless, Chicago-style drinking. Kazman said, “Doan forget ‘When Brue Moon Turn Gole.’ That probly our very bess nummer—‘Brue Moon Turn Gole.’” He threw back his head, staring at the ceiling, humming the pitch. “Okay, Lacey-boy, you ready?”
Lockington cleared his throat. He said, “Let ’er flicker!”
Mike Kazman lit into “When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again.” Lockington’s tenor soared above the melody line. At least Lockington had the impression that it was soaring. Like an eagle, he thought. The cognac was going down like honey, the hour was golden, a magic spell was upon them. He felt his down-in-the mouth mood release and tumble away like a spent booster rocket. Some days were better than others.