Chi-Town Blues

by D. J. Herda

  "What you mean, 'we,' white man?" Carrie asked, a childlike giggle creasing her lips. She took a gulp from her glass. “It’s your plan.”

  "Well, the stolen money for the heating material was slated for our job. And we have just as much interest in keeping Darryl afloat as anyone in town. I'd say that's a definite 'we.'"

  Carrie poked him playfully. "All right, then, boys and girls. Let's break down into teams. One side plays devil’s advocate, and the other side answers the questions."

  Peeps stirred. "Say. I've got a better idea."

  Hightower craned his neck.

  "What say we lay this whole thing out like we were in court?"

  Christie shrugged. "What do you mean?"

  "You know." He twisted his back to Hightower. “A mock trial." He turned to Carrie. You could be ... well, you could be you."

  She giggled. "That's a stretch."

  "And Dom," he added, "you be ..."

  Potash raised his hand. "I know, I know. I'll be the judge."

  "Well ..."

  "Yeah, come on. I have a very analytical mind. Besides, if the judge really is in Sandalman's hip pocket, I can do that, too. I can be had."

  Carrie smirked. "Oh, yes. You can believe that."

  "Well, okay, then," Peeps said. "But no horsing around. We want this to be real. You're the judge. You’re also in Sandalman's hip pocket, but you have to maintain the absolute illusion of propriety. You can't be obvious about it."

  "Illusion of propriety. That's my middle name." Potash smirked—Hightower caught it. How appropriate, he thought.

  Peeps whirled around. "And Stan. You know the Sandalmans best of all. With what you know, you can be ... well, you can be the kid, Scott Sandalman, I guess."

  Omado threw his hands into the air. "All my life, I get the shit parts."

  Hightower leaned close to him as if about to reveal a great secret. "Yeah, but think about the power trip you'll be on—Stan Omado and Scott Sandalman all rolled into one. Man, together, you could rule the world!"

  Omado turned to the youngster and scowled. "I do that already."

  Hightower leaned back, and he saw the grin form on the old man's lips. He laughed.

  "Okay," Peeps said. "Christie, you could be ..."

  "I could be the chaste, sweet young thing my mother and stepfather think I am, but instead I'd rather be Mrs. Darryl Hightower," she said, her eyes riveted to the contractor, her breathy voice barely audible, her lips opened invitingly.

  Carrie bolted. "Now wait just one minute," she said, her voice rising above the din. "That's not right, you know that's not right." She walked around the bar and stopped before Hightower. "I saw him first!" She bent down to throw her arms around him, squeezed him, kissed him on the cheek. Hightower could have imagined it, but as she pulled back, he swore her tongue moved slowly back into her mouth.

  Potash pounded an orange against the countertop. "Order, order in this court. There will be no more outward displays of wanton affection in this courtroom. Especially by my wife. Is that clear?”

  Carrie winked at Hightower before turning seductively toward her husband. "Perfectly, your honor. Purrr-fectly!"

  "All right," Peeps said, the wheels in his mind whirring. "Christie, with your vast knowledge of criminal law ..."

  "I'm studying international business law," she said.

  "With your vast knowledge of international business law, you will be Mr. Sandalman's attorney."

  "Oh," she giggled. "Do I get to depose the plaintiff?" She rubbed her thigh up against Hightower, who felt himself blush, all eyes scouring his for some reaction.

  "To tell you the truth, I never had much use for attorneys in the past," Hightower said, smiling. “But this one I think I'm going to like!"

  Carrie pulled a handful of popcorn from a bowl on the counter and hurled it across the room. “Let’s keep it clean. She’s the daughter of the woman with the hots for the defendant!”

  "Okay," Peeps said. "Good. We've got a judge, we've got Sandalman, we've got Hightower—I assume you won't object to playing yourself in our little courtroom melodrama—and we've got Sandalman's defense attorney. Now, who's left?"

  "Who's left," Carrie cracked. "How about if I play the bereaved widow so I can strangle you all!"

  "Careful,” Potash said. “She's good at that."

  "No, no, no,” Peeps said. “Not right. Besides, there is no bereaved widow in this case. I have a better idea. We're going to need a cooperative witness. You can be that. You can be Mrs. Carrie Potash, majority owner of the ..."

  "Umm," Carrie waved her arms wildly. "Ohh, ohh, I've got it ... the Illinois Arms Hotel!"

  "Precisely," Peeps said. "The Illinois Arms Hotel. And, as such, you are concerned about protecting your investment in Mr. Hightower and his contracting firm, here—what is it, Illinois Custom ...”

  “Design,” Hightower and Christie said simultaneously before breaking into a laugh.

  “That’s it. You’re concerned about your investment as well as in seeing your project through to completion."

  "Oh, goodie, Darryl and I will be working closely together!" Carrie said.

  Christie threw out her chest, more than twice the size of her mother's. "Careful, Mrs. Potash. As attorney for the defense, I cannot allow any unnecessary fraternization with horny witnesses. Horny married witnesses.”

  Carrie raised her brows, aiming them first at Christie and then at Hightower. "Well, who said it's unnecessary?"

  The room burst into laughter as she downed her drink and motioned for her husband to give her a refill.

  "What about you?" Hightower said, turning to Peeps, hoping for all the world that the heat the contractor felt rising to his face wasn't obvious. "What role are you going to play?"

  Peeps rubbed his stubbled chin. "Well, let's see. We don't have a D.A., yet. I guess I'll play ... the prosecuting attorney!"

  All his life, Hightower had enjoyed courtroom dramas. The tension, the intellect, the mental sparring and thrusting, the jabbing and counter-jabbing. To him, watching Twelve Angry Men and a dozen other courtroom classics was like watching a good prize fight. You knew going in who the better fighter was, who had the better record and the better stats. And you had a pretty good feel for who was going to win.

  Yet, for one reason or another, when it boiled right down to it, the victory never came easy ... and the fight was never actually predictable.

  That was why Hightower likened them. The fight was never over until the referee made the final call.

  So, when Peeps asked him in all honesty to relay to the court the information relating to Scott Sandalman and the bogus sale of twenty-two thousand dollars’ worth of finish materials, the theft of the materials from the jobsite shortly after, the $12 thousand theft of funds from the Illinois Arms Hotel by Sandalman's best friend, the failure of Sandalman's own interior designer to close on her remodeled property in order to pay off Illinois Custom Design for the funds due it, the return of $6 thousand worth of roofing supplies to Trinidale Building Supply for cash, and the other misdeeds perpetrated against the company and Darryl Hightower, president and C.E.O. of same, he had no difficult in doing so, despite the whiskey that had been consumed on the stand—the Potashes having run out of wine but not out of straight sour mash Kentucky bourbon—and presented the facts in a plausible and seemingly irrefutable manner.

  The fight had mere seconds to go.

  And then—after Carrie Potash relayed what amounted to the same facts about the financial difficulties she and her husband endured due to evidence pointing directly to Scott Sandalman and Trinidale Building Supply in their blatant attempt to force their competition out of business—the fight was all but over, and the D. A. rested.

  It was only then, when it came time for the defense counselor to call Scott Sandalman, himself, to take the stand in an effort to refute the most damning of the charges leveled against him that Peeps looked around, paused, sipped from a wine glass filled to the brim with hard booze, and a
nnounced incredulously that the defense attorney was not present.

  "Why is the defense attorneys ... the defense ... attorney ... not ... present?" the judge demanded, punctuating each word with a sip of liquor.

  Peeps' arm swept the room. "Because, your honor, because we failed to appoint one.” He paused, smiled, and raised his glass to an admiring gallery before taking a long sip and a deep breath. “A defensh attorney, I mean. Defensh attorney. Attorney. That's because why. Your justiceship."

  "What?" Potash demanded.

  "We just ran out of people."

  "Well," Potash said, his eyes rolling around his head in a vain attempt to focus attention on something, anything, "we can't have that. We can't have that at all. We'll jes have to ... appoint a new defensh attorney. Attorney." He took a swig from a bottle stashed beneath the counter and tottered precariously on his stool. "Who ... whosh going to be the defensh attorney now?"

  Peeps lifted his finger and started to speak, and then he stopped.

  "Your honor," Omado said. "If I may address the court."

  Potash weaved to his left. "The court recognizes Stan Sandalman."

  "Scott Sandalman."

  "Scott Stan Sandalman," he added.

  "Your honor," Omado said. "Although it may be highly irregular, considering the fact that we do not have enough persons present to play all of the principal roles in our little libretto, it seems only reasonable to ask the plaintiff, himself—Mr. Darryl Hightower—to act not only as the president of Illinois Custom Design and Construction, but also as the defense attorney for Scott Sandalman, of which I am one and the same."

  Christie leaped up off her chair and waved her arm. "I object," she said.

  Potash's eyes swelled to twice their size. "And on what grounds do you ‘ject, young lady?"

  "On grounds," she said, trying to stifle a laugh, "of that I was named defense attorney earlier this evening, that's on what grounds I ‘ject." She sat back down. “That’s on what grounds.”

  Potash turned to Peeps. "Mr. District Attorney, is thish true?" He took another swig from the bottle and barely whisked it out of reach as his wife swiped at it.

  Peeps looked at Christie, scoured her chest, and then he turned back to the bench. "I don't remember."

  "Your Honor," Omado said. "Your Honor, if I may approach the bench."

  "You ..." Potash burped. "Oops. You may ‘proach anything you wanna."

  Omado rose, swayed on his feet, and then sat back down.

  "Or ..." Potash said. "You may speak from there."

  "Thank you, your Honor."

  "Thash very welcome, I'm sure."

  "Your Honor, whether or not Ms. Christie was appointed defense attorney for yours truly, I would suggest in all due interest of meting out justice that Mr. Hightower be allowed to defend me in this courtroom this even. I mean, evening."

  Christie raised her hand again. "Then what am I gonna do?"

  Omado smiled. "Why not be the District Attorney's investigator?"

  She crinkled her brow. "Wait a minute. Wait jes a minute. We've got a vestigator here already. Willie Peeps. He'sa real-life vestigator for the District Torney."

  Omado shook his head. "Oh, no, Ms. Christie. You forget. Mr. Peeps is the District Attorney. He's the one who's prosecuting this case against me—I mean Scott Sandalman, I mean me—and doing a very commendable job, if I might say."

  "Well, then, whosh the vestigator?"

  "You are."

  She paused, a genuine look of confusion creasing her forehead. "Well, then, who am I working for?"

  Omado replied, "For Mr. Hightower and the state. Your job is to work closely with the plaintiff and with District Attorney Peeps, here, in order to assure that this court finds me guilty of defrauding the plaintiff and conspiring to run him out of Dodge. I mean Scott Sandalman. Out of town, I mean."

  She turned to Hightower and smiled. "Are you saying that I getta do what with him? I getta interview him? That what you mean?"

  Omado nodded.

  Christie licked her lips and turned to Hightower. “Why don’t you think you should get the hell outa here wi’ me so we can go someplace more private?”

  "Your Honor," Carrie said, "I object."

  "On what grounds?"

  "Ona grounds that she's married."

  "Getting divorced!" Christie cried.

  "Ona grounds that she's getting divorced."

  The judge clapped a wooden spoon against the Formica. "Overruled. The court hereby appoints Mr. Darryl Hightower defensh attorney. Attorney. In defensh ... defense ... of Mr. Scottie Stan Sandalman. Next question."

  Christie raised her hand. "I move for a delay."

  "A potty break," Carrie said.

  "A recess!" Omado cried.

  “Bring out the wine!” Peeps said.

  “Scotch!” Potash called.

  “Whatever.”

  Potash banged the spoon against the counter. "Thasha excellent idea. I need a potty break, too.” He set the bottle of bourbon on the counter.” Help yourself.” He banged his gavel again. “Court journed for twenty minish. Or more. Whosh gotta Scotch?"

  After several minutes of relative confusion and everyone had disappeared down the hall, the court began funneling back in to appear before the bench, the judge staggering in to call court back into session. Peeps asked to be heard.

  “Thash a little irregular,” Potash said, “but if no one has any jections, you can be okay by me.”

  “I have a jection, your honor, sweetie pie,” Carrie said, leaning on the counter as her husband looked admiringly down her dress.

  “I don’ know why,” he said, “cause you look good to me.”

  “Your honor!” Peeps cried out. “I object! The witness is leading the judge.”

  Carrie turned to face him. “You’re damned right I am. I’m gonna lead him right into the sack in a few more minutes, you’re not careful.”

  “I object again!” Peeps cried.

  “On what grounds you jecting? Carrie asked.”

  “I can’t remember anyone’s role anymore. Who is Hightower’s defense counsel?”

  “Me!” Carrie called out, grasping Darryl by the arm and leaning against his shoulder. “I’ll defend him anywhere he wansa go!”

  Omado scooted forward from his perch on the sofa. “Look, everyone, we’re making this whole thing entirely too complicated. Let’s just have one guy, Darryl, here, be the plaintiff.” He paused, turning to the bench. “That’s the one who got his stuff stole from him, right?”

  “Sounds gooda me.”

  “Good,” Omado said, trying to stand and giving up after two attempts. “And what’s his name, here, Peeps, he’s the prosecutor.”

  “What am I sposed to be?” Christie asked.

  “And how ‘bout me?” Carrie said.

  “You can all be drunks.”

  Potash picked up the orange and banged it once against the counter, sending a thin sliver of juice squiring halfway across the room to splash against Hightower’s cheek.

  “Look!” Carrie cried. “He’s been shot!”

  Christie staggered up to him, licking the fluid from his face. When he started to back away, she grabbed him around the neck and kissed him on the lips. The courtroom erupted in objections.

  “I don’ care,” she said. “I know he’s guilty.”

  “Guilty? He’s not even on trial here. Sam is!” Potash said.

  “I’m not Stan. I’m Scott Sandalman,” Omado said, holding up his drink.

  “Then I accuse you of stealing our stuff,” Potash cried, “and tryin’ to put poor Darryl here out of business before he could finish our job.” He went to bang the orange on the counter again, but it split in two, both halves skittering off the counter in opposite directions. He looked surprised before turning to his wife. “Get me another gavel!”

  “No need, your honor,” Peeps said. “I move we adjourn this court til the cows come home.” He chuckled softly to himself.

  “There are n
o cows,” Carrie said.

  Christie let out a soft moo and turned again to cuddle against Hightower.

  “Just a matter of speech. Thash a way of sayin’ I think we should adjourn until tomorrow.”

  “On what grounds?” Potash demanded.

  “On grounds that if we don’t, I’m gonna pass out on my face, ‘at’s on what grounds.”

  “I can’t so-order,” Potash said, “on count of I don’t have a gavel thingy.”

  “I seconda motion,” Omado said. “Til tomorrow, then.”

  “Til tomorrow.”

  “Til tomorrow.”

  Hightower threw up his hands. “I’ll bring the wine.”

  The following morning, Saturday, brought little wine but far too much daylight for Hightower’s taste, and along with it came a football game in which the Sooners beat their traditional rival Longhorns, or the other way around. Hightower never missed the game, and the television set was on, but he was nowhere to be found. That is, until slightly before six, when he emerged from his shower with freshly nicked neck and cheeks and a mostly neatly trimmed beard. He wondered if he’d imagined the night before, Christie practically throwing herself at him. The thought brought a warm sensation to his loins. Not that he minded. He splashed some Polo onto his hands and rubbed it across his chest and belly before stepping into a pair of lightweight, white cotton pants tied off with a white drawstring. Throwing on a crisp, silk shirt and stepping into his docksides, he rolled a brush through his hair and, shaking his head and inhaling, headed out the back door.

  Across the way, Potash had already fired up the grill and was preparing to sacrifice some raw meat to the virgin princess who, coincidentally enough, just happened to emerge from the back door with two wine coolers in her hands.

  Catching Hightower from the corner of his eye, Potash waved. “Hey, Darryl. Hungry?”

  Christie waved. “Thirsty?”

  Actually, Hightower was neither, but he smiled and pretended to be ravenous, which, after getting a closer look at Christie, he was.

  Dom shook his hand, grabbed a beer from a cooler, and disappeared back into the house while Christie settled in behind the patio table. She motioned for Hightower to take a seat next to her.