RED AND WHITE streamers crisscross the ceiling. Paper flags of Denmark—white cross on a bright red background—flap and rattle from the light fixtures. Helium-filled balloons are tied to weights on the tabletops. The lights are bright, the music is pumping and the combined noise of multiple conversations in the overcrowded room all serve to ramp up the decibel level. The Melancholy Dane is celebrating “Ole Appreciation Night.” Revelers stand shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, drinks in hand, hoisting them high, laughing, singing and toasting the evening’s honoree. Behind the bar, a string of colorful metallic letters spell out “We Love You Ole.”
A large cardboard sign is taped to the front window of the tavern reading, “Come One, Come All. Ole Appreciation Night. Show your support for our Hero. Festivities start Wednesday at 7:00 p.m. Special Guest—Retired Danish Major Jens Knudsen.”
Street parking places are gone by 5:00 p.m. and two network TV trucks occupy the spots in front of the building. The bartenders on this special occasion are Nils Henryks and a group of lively young women in tight “We Love Ole” T-shirts. They can’t fill drink orders fast enough. Ole stands near the bar shaking hands and receiving tributes. While the tavern has hosted many a large party in the past, it hasn’t seen one rise to this level since Ole turned ninety and drinks were on the house.
At precisely eight o’clock, Sterling Sparks drains the last of his whiskey and says to the man next to him, “It’s showtime.” He weaves his way to the front of the room, picks up a microphone and steps up onto a chair. He waves his arm for quiet and announces, “On behalf of Ole Henryks and the entire Henryks family, I thank you all for coming this evening.” He swivels around to face Ole, points a finger and says, “I guess you can see how many people love you, Ole.” The crowd cheers. Sparks nods enthusiastically and blows a kiss toward the bar. “This man has spent a lifetime radiating friendship and camaraderie.” Sparks pauses. “And courage!” More cheers.
“Most of you know Ole because you met him here at the TMD. Always a smiling face. Always happy to serve you a drink and share a story. You know the saying, ‘No one is ever lonely at the TMD!’” More cheers arise, followed by the spontaneous chant, “Ole, Ole, Ole.” Sparks bids the room be quiet. “Some of you know him from the Danish-American Association of Chicago where Ole is going to be inducted into the hall of fame. Some of you know him from the charities that he supports. No matter how you know him, you all share the same opinion; he’s a first-class gentleman.” The crowd roars in support.
“Tragically and sadly, as most of you already know, Ole has been attacked by a deranged woman who is trying to spread lies about him. She has defaced the walls of this restaurant with vile epithets.” The crowd responds with a chorus of boos. “Maybe some people can ignore such slanderous attacks, you know, they can let them bounce off their shoulders like they don’t matter, and say, ‘Consider the source.’ Maybe some people can paint over the words and think, ‘I’m not going to let some meanspirited person get under my skin, because they don’t count.’ Vile insults can bounce off the shoulders of some people, but Ole isn’t just some people. He’s an emotional guy. He cares! All of you—the TMD regulars, friends, neighbors—you all know that Ole’s not just some people. He cares!” The crowd cheers. Sparks solemnly nods his head. “He cares, and when someone speaks ill of him, he takes it in, and it hurts him. Bad.
“Of course, it’s no secret that Ole and his family are war heroes. You all know that. They risked their lives to save others from the Nazis during World War II.” Sparks points to the wall behind the bar. “Right there, that’s a photograph of Ole and his father, taken at the very harbor where they saved hundreds of lives in 1943. Proof positive!” The crowd lifts their glasses and cheers, “To Ole!”
“I want each of you all to find a moment tonight to come over and look at that picture, and then keep it locked in your memory. Think about that picture when someone asks you if you read about the nasty statements that were spray-painted on the TMD walls. Tell that person straight out, ‘It’s a lie!’ Look that person in the eye and set that person straight. Say proudly, ‘I don’t care what that demented woman had to say or write, I know Ole, and he’s a hero to me!’” Cheers. “To Ole, to Ole!”
“Now folks, we are smack dab in the middle of this court mess, and I will tell you that things are going to get nastier before they get better. You’re going to hear more slanderous statements from that Stein woman. She’s going to say them out loud in a public courthouse! They’re going to come out on TV, you’ll read about them in the paper, or maybe some friend of yours will ask you if you heard about them. I want you to tell them, ‘It’s all bullshit! Ole’s a hero!’”
The crowd begins to chant, “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!” followed by “Lock her up, lock her up!”
Sparks raises his hand. “We were informed just the other day in front of the Honorable Obadiah Wilson, that Mrs. Stein intends to counter our lawsuit with the outrageous and impossible defense of trying to prove that her filthy lies are really true.” The crowd yells, “Bullshit!”
“It’s a fact,” Sparks says. “She intends to plead, under oath, that the vile statements she painted are true, even though she has not an ounce of proof; can you believe it? Of course, when she painted those words, she boxed herself into a corner. She has to say they’re true because that is the only defense that’s open to her. She has to prove her lies are true or she will go down in flames.” Sparks smiles and raises his voice. “Five million dollars’ worth of flames, folks. Five million! We all know there is absolutely no truth to any of her bullshit, so … Down. She. Goes!” More cheers and raised glasses and chants of “Down She Goes” are followed by another round of “Lock her up.”
Sparks waves his hand from side to side. “I know they say that anything can happen in court, but don’t you worry about a thing, folks. Sure as my name is Sterling Sparks, I’ll take care of Mrs. Stein. You can bet the house on it.” He nods and smiles in response to the applause. “Folks, I only have one more thing to say.” He looks around the room, makes a long theatrical pause and shouts, “The next round’s on me!” The crowd roars and pushes closer to the bar.
While the bartenders are dishing out the drinks, Sparks looks around the room and nods to the TV reporters he knows. One of them, a tall, shapely dark-haired woman in a tight knit dress, saunters over and says, “Hey Sparky, wanna give me a quick Q and A?”
Sparks leans over, gives her a kiss on the cheek, slides his arm around her narrow waist and gives her a squeeze beneath her rib cage. “Aw Janie, you’re trying to take advantage of a weak man; you know I have a soft spot for you.”
“You do, huh?” she responds coyly. “Then how about you give me a couple of your classic quotes to play at ten o’clock.”
“I don’t know, Janie. There’s a lot of reporters here. If I start reciting my poetry they’ll crowd around and take the focus off of Ole. You were here,” Sparks says with a glib shrug. “There were lots of classic quotes.”
“But you didn’t give any exclusively to me.” She sighs.
“This is Ole’s night. Let the man celebrate.”
Janie pouts. Her lower lip protrudes. “Sparky,” she whines, “come on. For me.”
Sparks takes a quick look around, gives her another squeeze and says, “All right, for what it’s worth.” He leans in and speaks quietly into her recorder, “Ole Henryks is a Chicago treasure. The city’s impresario extraordinaire and a certified hero. Mrs. Stein picked on the wrong guy and I’m going to make sure that she has a bad day in court. I intend to press ahead for a quick trial.”
“That’s all?” Janie says.
Sparks winks. “For now.”
Janie plants a kiss on Sparks’s cheek, leaving him a dark red souvenir. “Thanks, Sparky, you’re a doll.”
Sparks smiles, walks over to a middle-aged man in a military-style shirt and says, “It’s your turn, Jens.” Then Sparks lifts the microphone, asks for quiet and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Major Jens Knudsen, a decorated Danish military major, now retired and living in Chicago. When the major learned about this event, he called me and insisted on coming and giving a testimonial. If anyone would know about Danish heroes, it would be Major Knudsen.”
The major, a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, accepts the microphone. “I guess I’ve known Ole for many years, ever since my aunt and uncle started bringing me to this restaurant when I’d visit them as a kid. My uncle and Ole would share fabulous stories of Copenhagen back in their day. They talked about the resistance, they talked about fighting the Nazis, they talked about saving lives. Oh, those were the days. My uncle, Ole and their buddy, Henning Brondum, were like the Three Musketeers.”
The crowd turns its attention to Ole, who nods and smiles. “Henning, ya, we had a club. There were others. My friend Kai Nielsen. It was good times; when we were young. We went fishing; Henning had a boat.”
The major continues, “And they were patriots, right?”
“Oh, ya.”
“I never tired of hearing them tell their stories of courage and heroism. Brothers-in-arms. If my uncle was still alive, he would be here tonight to tell you what a stand-up guy Ole was and is!” Loud applause fills the room.
“Now my uncle is gone for twenty years, rest his soul, but whenever I want to feel close to him, I’ll come over and ask Ole to share a story with me. I can tell you one hundred percent, from my personal knowledge and my uncle’s knowledge, that Ole is a Danish treasure. A war hero! He fought those Nazis. And speaking for myself, I hope that Stein woman, like Mr. Sparks says, goes down in flames for all to see. I want Ole vindicated, and I know that Sterling Sparks is the man to do it.”
The major returns the microphone to Sparks, who smiles and nods to the crowd. “If anybody would know about Ole, it would be Major Knudsen,” Sparks says loudly. “Let’s all give a big hand for the major.” Loud cheers and applause. “Now folks, before we go any further, and before Ole has to have his hot milk and cookies and toddle off to bed,” Sparks pauses to snicker at his joke, “I know you all want to hear from the man of the hour.”
The crowd begins to chant “Speech, speech,” and Sparks hands the microphone to Ole Henryks, who is shaking his head and trying to wave it off. “Speech, speech!” Henryks blushes, takes the microphone, swallows hard, starts to speak, turns his face to wipe away a tear and finally says softly, “I don’t know what to say.” He takes a breath. “Thank you all for coming here tonight. It warms my heart, it truly does. I don’t know why this woman would want to write such dreadful things about me. I never did her any harm. I don’t even know her. I didn’t collaborate. I wasn’t a Nazi. I worked my ass off during the war in a manufacturing plant owned by my wife’s family. They made machinery. I worked long hours and I didn’t have time to get into trouble. I loved Denmark.” He looks at Sparks and his lips quaver. “Why did she do this, Sterling?” His voice breaks. “Why, Sterling? Why does she want to hurt me, I never did anything to her?” Henryks begins to weep and Sparks takes the microphone. The room is silent.
“Don’t you worry,” Sparks says with his arm around Ole’s shoulder, “we’ll take care of Mrs. Stein. You see all these people here tonight? They all came because they love you; and that’s what counts. Turn up the music! Let’s party!”
The music once again fills the room and pumps up the crowd. Nils Henryks walks over to Sparks and takes him aside. “Thanks for all you did tonight, Sterling. This evening is a beautiful tribute. My dad will remember this night forever and so will I.” Sparks brushes off the comment. “No, I’m serious,” Nils says. “But I’m worried about his health. This case is taking its toll on him. Isn’t there anything you can do to make it go away? Sooner rather than later?”
Sparks nods. “Well, I got the judge to give us an insanely short schedule. I’m speeding it up as fast as I can. Lockhart has to file her defense in three weeks, giving us detailed descriptions of her proof. She won’t have it. Obadiah will strike her defense and enter judgment for us shortly thereafter.”
Nils pats him on the shoulder. “Great. I can’t thank you enough.”
Sparks shrugs a shoulder in a gesture which says, “No big deal.” He struts off, walking through the crowded room. Many slap him on the back or shake his hand. While he’s soaking in the compliments, a skinny man in a red cap makes his way over to him. “I got to talk to you,” he says. “I didn’t get the job done.”
Sparks shakes his head in disappointment. “Yeah, I figured. I didn’t see anything on TV. Too bad. What happened?”
“I got caught before I could spray anything.”
Sparks is instantly disturbed. He pulls him aside. “What do mean you got caught? Who caught you? The police?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. The big Irish guy; the lawyer’s husband. Chased me down the street with this crazy Puerto Rican broad and smacked me up good too.”
“You didn’t go in the middle of the night like I told you to, did you?”
“No, I messed up. I, uh, I had a conflict that night. I was otherwise detained. So I went the next day in the afternoon.”
“Damn, Eddie, what did you say to Taggart?”
“Nothing really. I ditched the paint before he caught me. I didn’t tell him nothing. Just that I was looking in the window. No worries; he doesn’t know shit. But I’m sorry, I didn’t get to paint the message on the window.”
“He doesn’t know who you are?”
“Not a clue. It’s all cool.”
“Did my name come up at all?”
“Hell, no. They don’t know nothing about you. I just thought you should know that I didn’t get the job done like you wanted. I guess I owe you a bill. Or I can try tomorrow night, if you want.”
Sparks pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I don’t want you going back there, but I have another job for you. One that’s just as important.”
“Thanks, man. This time I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“Come see me next Thursday; I’ll fill you in.”
Eddie nods and angles off toward the bar.
As Sparks heads for the door, he stops and turns around to view his handiwork; a room full of potential jurors, all in love with his client. “Pretty damn good night,” he says quietly. “I wonder how much of this will make it to the ten o’clock news?”
He leaves The Melancholy Dane and walks out onto Wrightwood, where Janie is leaning against his car.