Pete had time on his hands and, big bonus, he wasn’t bleeding face-down in an alley. Midday sunlight erased the shadows. Traffic rumbled past on the Kennedy Expressway. Saturday, and the Cubbies were playing. All in all, a good morning so far.
The deal had gone down with minimum suspicion and zero bloodshed. Unlike some other groups Pete dealt with, the Poles tended to be level-headed. Of course, it didn’t pay to cross them. That could lead to Pollack boots kicking your skull.
But not today, Boyo. The big Poles got the goods, he got the cash and then zipped out the door. Left the brick garage behind without a backward glance. Luck of the Irish, a good day’s work done by Saturday noon, and a bit of money in his pocket.
Pete O’Brien kept his deals small. Big deals attracted guys who drove Cadillacs and never worked a day job. He’d made it to twenty-five without taking a serious fall or becoming compost in the Forest Preserve. Being a little fish didn’t bother Pete. Little fish didn’t attract sharks.
The roar of the expressway faded as he backtracked to Milwaukee Avenue. He walked at a steady pace but not too fast. A man running errands, taking care of business. Nothing to see here.
Pete stepped out of the crooked side streets and into the Polish downtown, where Milwaukee, Ogden and Chicago Avenue crashed into one another. The smart play said straight up Milwaukee to the Chicago Avenue El station. One train down to Clark, then hop the Lake Line heading west. Business done and back home, piece of cake.
He headed for the El with the best of intentions but got waylaid. The sign read Bronski’s Place, one of those cosy bars tucked below sidewalk level. Pete hesitated. The Cubs were playing the Cardinals. He had time for a quick beer or two, catch the first few innings. Decision made, he descended the stairs.
Pete stopped just inside the doorway and gave the barroom a quick scan. The joint looked safe enough. A couple of empty stools and a TV hanging from the low ceiling. He let the door close behind him and walked to the bar.
The bartender stood behind the business side of the plank. Big guy, mid-forties, white shirtsleeves rolled up over hairy forearms. Pete gave the man a nod and pointed to one of the stools. Didn’t pay to take a regular’s seat. The barkeep waved a hand.
‘That one’s free. Gotta save the other. What’ll you have?’
Pete glanced along the bar as he perched on the stool. Schooners and mugs left and right.
‘A draft, thanks. Just a schooner.’
He laid a ten on the bar and checked the TV. Looked like the bottom of the first. The Cubs jogged onto the field, with Rick Reuschel taking the mound. Barry Foote crouched behind the plate.
The bartender flipped a beer mat onto the bar and dropped a foaming schooner on top. Pete pushed the ten forward. He drank off the foam and turned back to the game. The till rang. The big man swung back and counted out the change.
‘You a Cubs fan?’
Pete looked away from the warm-up pitches.
‘Yeah, I’m a sucker for heartbreak.’
The barkeep let out a standard-issue chuckle.
‘Ain’t that the truth?’
The door clanged open and shut. The bartender shot a quick look over Pete’s shoulder. A grimace passed across the man’s face, replaced just as quickly by a pasted-on smile.
A cheerful voice filled the barroom.
‘Greetings, one and all. Hello, Stan. I see you saved me a spot.’
‘Hello, Janek.’
The bartender turned away as the newcomer settled in. Pete ventured a glance. The fellow caught his eye and smiled. He looked like everyman, the guy in the room you’d never notice. Fifty if he was a day, balding, wearing a white button-down under a Mister Rogers cardigan. Before Pete could look away, the man stuck out his hand while gabbling like a bluejay.
‘Janek Polkowski. How’s that for a Pollack name? Haven’t seen you in here before.’
Pete gave the man a minimal handshake.
‘Uh… Pete, Pete O’Brien.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Pete. Irish, huh? Don’t worry, we won’t hold that against you. Ah, thank you, Stan.’
A pint landed in front of Janek, and then the click of an empty shot glass. Stan the barkeep reached under the plank and came back with a fancy bottle. He filled the shot to the brim.
Janek gripped the shot glass between his thumb and middle finger and raised it without spilling a drop.
‘Na Zdrowie!’
He tossed it off in one go and clicked it back to the bartop.
‘You’re a lifesaver, Stan.’
‘So you always say.’
Janek turned to Pete.
‘Stan objects to happiness. Speaking of which, you ever tried slivovitz?’
He didn’t wait for an answer.
‘One more for me and one for Pete the Irishman.’
Another shot glass appeared as if by magic. Stan filled them both. Pete gave the shot a critical eye.
‘What is this stuff?’
‘That, my friend, is slivovitz. Polish brandy. Made from plums. It’s good for you.’
Pete glanced at the barkeep, who shrugged.
‘And you need to learn the proper toast. You say Na Zdrowie. Like this: Nah-zdrov-e-Yay. Got it?’
Right, thought Pete. One and done, then I’m outta here. He reached for the shot, dribbled the tiniest bit, mumbled the toast and threw it back. The firewater burned his throat and lit a flame in his belly.
Someone called for a refill. Stan disappeared. A low groan ran through the barroom. Pete looked up just in time to see a Cardinal runner strolling across home plate. Cards two, Cubs nil. Another heartbreaker in the making. Beside him, Janek chattered away, pouring out a flood of words that pulled Pete away from the ballgame.
‘You know the basic problem with the Cubs, don’tcha? They’ve got no luck. Not a bad ball club, but unlucky. Funny thing, luck. You either have it or you don’t. Take me, for example. I figure I’m the luckiest man in Chicago. Maybe luckiest in the whole world. Got a great wife, two beautiful kids, a good apartment and a job I love. Who could ask for more, right? You married, Pete?’
Pete shook his head and got no further.
‘Should be thinking about it, young guy like yourself. Best thing that ever happened to me, meeting my wife.’
Janek interrupted himself.
‘Hey, Stan, two pints and two shots, please. Drink up, Pete.’
Pete started to protest, but Janek waved him off. Before he could finish the schooner, the pints arrived.
‘You’re the guest today. Ah, here we go. Thanks, Stan. Here’s to you, Pete. Na Zdrowie!’
Three innings slid by in the blink of an eye. Pete managed to buy one round but sort of lost track after that. Janek hopped from one cheerful monologue to the next, ignoring the dismal baseball game. The shots kept coming, and the barroom took on a mellow glow.
By the fifth inning, it was clear that nothing would save the Cubs except maybe a rain delay, but the skies above St Louis remained a clear blue.
Someone grabbed Pete’s shoulder. Then more words, so many words. Janek, still talking a mile a minute.
‘I said, let’s head over to my place. The wife will be putting food on the table. You need to eat something.’
Janek downed the last of his beer and pushed a stack of bills across the bar.
‘Keep it, Stan. C’mon, Pete, there’s a feast waiting for us. Want you to meet the wife, see how good life can be. On your feet.’
Somehow, Pete found himself out on the sidewalk with Janek at his elbow. Milwaukee Avenue stretched out in front of him. All he had to do was start walking. No looking back. Thanks, but no thanks. But he just couldn’t do it. It’d be like kicking a little kid. So he let the happy bald guy tow him around the corner and up the block.
The good apartment Janek bragged about proved to be a rundown four-storey walk-up. The stairway smelt of cooking grease and the ghosts of onions. Pete followed the guy up the stairs, enveloped in the man’s never-ending stream of happy chatter.
Janek paused outside a scuffed door, key in hand.
‘Here we are, home sweet home.’
He pushed the door open and ushered Pete over the threshold. A short entry hall opened onto a living room just big enough for an armchair, a half-sofa and a worn recliner.
A woman stood on the far side of the room, grey hair above a sad face, wearing a stained apron. Pete caught a glimpse of a kitchen beyond the woman’s thin shoulders. He felt a sharp urge to make a run for the door, but Janek had him blocked in.
‘Hi, honey. This is my friend Pete. Pete, this is Anna.’
Pete forced himself to look at the woman.
‘Pleased to meet you, Missus Polkowski.’
Janek’s wife nodded once, then lowered her eyes. Janek pushed up next to Pete, took his elbow and steered him to the empty armchair.
‘Make yourself at home.’
Pete collapsed into the chair, hoping it would swallow him. What the hell was he doing here? This place looked all wrong. Maybe this guy Janek was some sort of psycho serial killer. One part of Pete’s brain tried to wave a warning flag, but the bigger part slid into the haze of too much drink on an empty stomach.
Janek lowered himself into the recliner, levered the footrest and smiled at his wife.
‘Where are the kids?’
Anna spoke to the floor.
‘The children are in their room, Janek. They’ve got homework.’
‘Aw, too bad. Anyway, I invited Pete to lunch. And a couple of beers to go with, honey.’
Anna disappeared into the kitchen without a word. Janek’s head lolled back against the cushion. He kept talking, but his eyes were on the ceiling.
‘Great kids, I got. Good at school. Always studying. Great kids, a great wife. Lucky man…’
Janek’s words faded to nothing. Silence filled the room, and not the good kind. Pete cocked his head to listen. Not a sound from the kitchen, just Janek’s heavy breathing from the recliner. Pete pushed himself forward, rubbed his hands on his jeans and snuck a quick peek into the kitchen. No sign of the wife.
Then he heard soft footsteps. A little girl appeared in the kitchen doorway. White-blonde hair, blue eyes, maybe ten years old. The spitting image of her mother.
For a moment, she stood still as a statue. Her eyes locked onto Pete’s. Without a word, she stepped past her father as if he didn’t exist. She drew herself up facing Pete’s armchair but kept a safe distance between herself and his knees.
Pete sagged forward in the chair, his forearms on his knees. The solemn-eyed girl stepped back. Before he could say a word, the girl raised her arm. A dollar bill dangled from her fingers.
‘Mama says for you to go now, please.’
Pete stared at the worn dollar bill, then into the girl’s face. Her expression did not change. Fierce blue eyes above a mouth set into a grim line, the look of a child performing an adult task. A small creature facing down a predator.
A stab of sobriety pierced Pete’s addled brain. This girl knew what she was doing. She’d played this role before. Mama gave the girl a chore to do. Get rid of the bad man. So that’s what she did.
Chasing that realisation came another, heavy as a hammer-blow. Pete recognised the villain in this showdown. Shame flooded his guts, and that wave of shame carried bitter memories that washed Pete away.
Instead of a little girl, Pete saw his father raging out of the kitchen. The air blue with foul, angry curses. Mam flat on the kitchen linoleum, hands hiding her face. Little Pete in the middle of the hallway, tears and snot running down his chin. Daddy cuffed him aside like a stray dog. Little Pete hit the wall and slid to the floor. A door slammed. He knew better than to get up. Curl up tight and wait. Daddy might come back.
The vision faded. Pete blinked, shook his head. The girl stood in front of him, waving a dollar bill. The dollar lolled back and forth like a green tongue, limp and repulsive. Pete cringed away from it. A question bubbled out of his mouth, cutting through the chaos in his head.
‘What’s the dollar for?’
‘Bus money. Mama says for you to go now, please.’
Something snapped in Pete’s head. He reached for the dollar bill. Freed of her ransom, the girl vanished through the kitchen doorway, quick as a rabbit.
The room closed in on Pete, threatening to crush him. He shoved himself upright, took one step and tripped over Janek’s outstretched feet. Janek snorted in his stupor.
Pete bounced off the half-sofa and almost went down. Regaining his balance, he lurched to the front door and yanked it open. Didn’t bother to close it. Took the stairs two at a time, careening across each landing and down the next flight. Skidded into the foyer, grabbed for the street door, staggered outside. With the sidewalk under his feet, Pete ran. Shame, the girl’s solemn face and Daddy’s ghost chased him.
He reached Milwaukee Avenue before he remembered the dollar clutched in his fist. A blazing heat seared his fingers as if the bill had burst into flame.
Pete dodged past pedestrians as he sprinted towards the El station. Only a block away, but it felt like miles. Finally, he reached the stairs rising from the sidewalk to the overhead platform. Saw a wino at the foot of the stairs, cadging for drink money.
He stuffed the dollar bill into the wino’s outstretched hand without slowing down. Hit the stairs at a full run, bounding upward, his heart pounding out of his chest. The stairway vibrated under his feet. He staggered onto the platform at the same moment a train rattled to a stop.
Pete dashed into the car as the doors slid closed. Flopped onto one of the bench seats, gasping for breath. He held his seared hand at the wrist, closed his eyes and prayed for the flames and memories to die.
The train lurched, coupling against coupling, then rolled from the platform and rattled away above the city.
DoubleSpeak 