I walked up to the bar and gestured at the one empty place. The bartender, a red-haired, freckle-faced mick about my age but eight inches shorter with a constant smile and shrewd green eyes, said, “Why not?”
“You really have the best hamburgers on the South Side, like the sign says?”
“Wouldn’t say it, if it weren’t true, would he?” one of the fellows at the bar said. He was a giant of Eastern Europe an origins with whom one would not want to argue, unless one happened to be an ex-linebacker.
“Is he Irish?” I asked.
Everyone at the bar laughed.
“Takes one to know one,” my Slavic friend agreed.
I don’t look like a linebacker, exactly. I quit my high school team because I didn’t approve of the ethics of the coach and won a wrestling championship, which confers much less prestige. At the Golden Dome I was a walk-on because they thought I looked like a linebacker and were willing to take a chance. I walked off after the second practice. “Not vicious enough,” I said to the linebacker coach. I settled in, determined to learn a lot, which I did, but not in the subjects that I was supposed to study. So I flunked out after my sophomore year to the tune of many complaints from Holy Cross Fathers that I was wasting all my talents. I did bring a lot of trophies home from intramural sports and became something of a legend because of my refusal to volunteer for any varsity teams. I then went to Marquette to study theology for the next two years and learned a lot, but did not pile up enough credits to graduate. So I appeared at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange where I lost a lot of money and then made it all back and much more on a single trade. Whereupon I retired and went on a grand tour of Europe, ending in Ireland. In O’Neil’s pub on College Green, one rainy, misty night I met this gorgeous young woman and that was that, save for the novel and the books of poetry I wrote. I also became Watson to her Sherlock, Captain Hastings to her Hercule, Flambeau to her Father Brown. My wife beats me in golf, we are evenly matched in tennis, and I can beat any punk in the neighborhood in basketball.
Nonetheless, I could take the big guy that might be looking for a fight and, after a quick glance, anyone else in the room.
“I hear you don’t make them medium rare on the South Side.”
“Not for South Siders, but for aliens, I can try. No cheese on it. No junk, just a bun with a little bit of butter. Large, medium, or small?”
I feigned astonishment.
“Large, naturally!”
More laughter.
“Nineteen Fourty-Seven Chicago Cardinals—Trippi, Harder, Angsman, Chrisman. Only one championship, but still the greatest.”
“You’re not that old,” said a gentleman on the other side of me, with an Italianate wave of his hand.
“Despite their present lamentable condition in the desert,” I continued, “they are the oldest professional football team in America—called among other names in their South Side existence, the Morgans after Morgan Street, the Racines, after Racine Avenue, the Normals after the stadium at Chicago Normal where they played, the Cardinals after the faded University of Chicago maroon jerseys they bought, briefly the South Side Cardinals before they became the Chicago Cardinals, but that after they joined the nascent National Football League with the Green Bay Packers and the Decanter Staleys who, as we also know transmuted themselves into the Chicago Bears. While they were the South Side Cardinals they won a place in one of Jimmy Farrell’s Lonigan novels.”
“You play football?”
“For a couple of years in high school!”
“Where did you learn all this stuff?”
“I didn’t learn much in the colleges I went to, but I did learn to read.”
I also learned somewhere along the line to call up Wikepedia from my wi-fi utility in any local Starbucks and read about the Cardinals when I was venturing into an old South Side neighborhood.
“The mayor”—pronounced mare of course—“promised us he’d bring them back. Hasn’t done it yet.”
“The Mare or Mare Rich?”
“Both of them.”
“I’m sure they tried.” “It all went down when Old Man Bidwell died,” the retired cop said, “and those creepy sons of his got involved.”
“And doesn’t me wife, who is fey, predict that they won’t be winners again till they come back where they belong.”
“What do you?” the Slavic gentleman demanded.
“Financial services racket . . . We’ve got four kids and we need a new home. I’m out here looking for a home. She wants to live in a real neighborhood.”
That was the only time in the conversation that I had wandered to the far edge of truth. Herself wanted a neighborhood all right. But she had one. I did look at the homes in Back O’ the Yards because the time might come when we’d have to expand our own home and I was interested in how they did it out here. Odd constructions, but functional.
The men around me joined in boosterism.
“This is a great place to live, clean, stable, peaceful.”
“Integrated too. . . Look around this bar. Everyone lives here, whites, Blacks, Latinos, Russians, Armenians, Muslims. . . No sweat.”
“Good schools, great parishes, near the loop on the Orange Line. . .”
“DeLaSalle, Ignatius, UIC . . . the river . . . Lots of clout with city hall.”
“Everyone keeps up their places, great Christmas decorations.”
“I was over looking at Bubbly Creek, pretty place. . . . Till you think about what’s at the bottom of it. And while I was there, it kind of bumbled. Kind of scary!”
“Did you smell it?”
“I don’t think so. I took a good deep whiff. Nothing much.”
“Nothing like when the Yards were still working.”
Silence, as if in memory of the Yards and all it had meant to this area before it had become a dormitory suburb inside the city, despite its legendary stench.
“We got a guy who hangs around here a lot,” the bartender said, “who’s in financial services and claims to be a big success. . . . Joey McMahon. . . Know him?”
Aha, it finally came up and it had taken a long time.
“Hell, yes. He’s a genius. Works for Jack Donlan. Lots of people say he is the genius behind the firm.”
“Well, he certainly thinks so,” the retired cop observed. “I’m not sure he’s all that smart. He shouldn’t be coming in here all the time and talking about how dumb his boss is.”
Bingo!
“That sort of thing,” I said piously, “is never a good idea.”
“He thinks this marriage problem the boss has will force him to sell out and Joey will be right there with his ton of money.”
Bingo again.
“Those things happen,” I continued in my pious mode. “Never good to talk about it.”
“Joey has been waiting so long that he can just taste it,” said the bartender. . . . “Hey you want another hamburger?”
“Don’t ask. . . Best one I’ve ever had on the South Side.”
Now that is a lie! You were so busy tricking these guys that you didn’t even taste it.
Go along with ya.
You don’t fool me when you talk like her.
“I figured you’d like it, the way you ate it.”
He promptly set about making another.
You blew that. You should have praised him earlier.
I wouldn’t make mistakes like that if you’d shut up.
Fortunately Mike the proprietor was still interested in talking about Joey.
“I don’t think Joey is smooth enough to run a big-time firm like that, is he?”
“Never can tell . . . What’s the scandal?”
“This woman he’s married. She’s supposed to be a little shady. . . . Joey takes credit for bringing them together. You know her?”
“Yeah, met her a couple of times. You’d turn your head when you pass her on the street. Italian, Sophia Loren type. But, hell, she’s a grandmother and as far as I can see a very nice person.”
“Joey,” the cop said, “is full of more bullshit than anyone in this neighborhood. My friends over at the precinct say they think there’s some kind of plot going down. I tell Joey that he should keep his mouth shut.”
“If he’s had that much experience in what we do in financial services, he should have learned that long ago or he’ll never learn it.”
I bid my new friends “see you around” and slipped out.
“Next time you come in, bring your fey wife. Maybe she’ll have some predictions about the White Sox next year.”
“Yeah, I will. She might just know something.”
But she’d never play that kind of game, even if she did. Wouldn’t even tell me about the Bears and the Super Bowl.
Nice guys. They’d make good friends. But don’t claim you’re special or they’ll eat you alive. Good neighbors. Too bad they’re South Side Irish.
I told them that my name was Mike McDermot—close enough to the truth.
I drove over to the parking lot at Comiskey Park as we call it (not U.S. Cellular Field) and called Nuala on her personal office phone. No answer. Maybe she had already left for the first “walk through” of Lullaby and Good Night. I left a message. I tried her cell phone too, though she tended to be a bit of a Luddite about that annoying bit of machinery. No answer. I left a message there too. I felt a little uneasy. I should have called her before I went into Mike’s bar.
Nuala Anne
AS I thundered down Fullerton, I decided it would be a good idea to tip off Mike the cop. My puppies and I might need some help. I pushed his button on my car phone, a machine I normally dislike.
“Mike Casey.”
“Meself here. I’m driving toward St. Joseph’s Hospital. Something bad is going to happen to Maria Donlan unless me and my doggies stop them. You and Commander Culhane should get some of your people over here to clean up the mess after we’re finished.”
“Nuala,” he shouted, “don’t do anything crazy!”
“Give over!” I said. “Meself crazy!”
We’d have all the advantage. The would-be perps would be terrified by the hounds. And meself with me club. I worried a little about Fiona. She was long in the tooth for a fight, but she was in good condition from all her running in the park. I went through the stoplight and turned right onto the Inner Drive. . . . People don’t usually want to argue with a Navigator. The dogs knew we were going to have a fight and the memories of ancient battles encoded in their genes began to stir. One of my ancestors must have been a woman warrior, one of those who charged naked into battle with clubs and the dogs. This caper would not require such extreme measures. I hoped me camogie stick wouldn’t break the first time I hit one of the perps with it.
A half block away I saw the snatch going down right in front of the main entrance to the hospital. Three thugs in ski masks, all kind of small, were dragging Maria toward a car.
“Hang on, girls,” I told the dogs and rammed the car into which they were trying to pull Maria. Another thug came tumbling out of the car. I pulled back from the car and then hit it again, pushing it over the curb and turning it over on its side. I turned off the ignition and opened both doors of me battle cruiser.
“Go get em, doggies!” I ordered. Almost instantly they bounded out of the car and hit two of the guys in the ski masks, knocking them to the ground. The dogs went immediately to their throats and sunk their teeth into the flesh, just enough to terrify them. Screaming what I thought might sound like the battle cry of an enraged Irish warrior woman I charged the two guys who were trying to manhandle Maria. She was clawing, scratching, kicking them, distracting them from me assault and me cry. I swung me camogie stick and banged it against the bigger of the two of them. He released Maria and crumpled to the ground. The other one let her go and reached for a gun in his rear pocket. I hit his male organs with a mighty swipe of the hook of my stick and pulled the gun away from him as he fell to the ground. I conked him on the head just for good measure. I retrieved the gun, some fool German thing, and slid what I hoped was the safety into place.
A crowd of people were assembling at the hospital entrance to watch the fun. I noticed that I had stopped my yelling. So I began again as I turned to the dogs’ two prisoners. One of them was trying to free a knife from his belt. I hit his hand with me stick and it went flying to the ground. He reached for it and I stomped on his hand. As he pulled his hand away I scooped up the knife and held it in me right hand, shifting the gun into me left hand which also held me camogie stick
I pointed the gun at the bad guy’s head.
“Try something like that again and I’ll blow your focking brains out. Both of youse relax real nice and me doggies won’t cut out your focking throats unless I tell them to. If you mess around with us, you’ll be dead in less than a minute. Me doggies love to. . .”
Almost said “kill.” But that would be a signal to the doggies to kill them.
“. . . drink human blood.”
Tony Soprano, where are you when I really need you? I realized that I was out of control. Nuala Anne didn’t talk that way in public. Nor did she ruin her vocal cords right before a big concert.
Two big uniformed hospital guys were disarming the first of Maria’s assailants who had staggered to his feet. Two other guys were searching the other attacker, taking away his guns and knives and pulling off his ski mask as he struggled to regain consciousness.
A good thing I didn’t kill either of them. It wouldn’t look good before a Christmas special, would it now?
The growing crowd was cheering, had been cheering for a while. Hey, assholes, this isn’t a movie.
“Step back, please, the police are coming.”
I was still totally out of control. But I sounded polite, amiable, a sophisticated woman of the world who with her wolfhounds and red Navigator broke up capers and then retired for a martini before supper.
I know meself well enough to know that if I begin to have such fantasies I am really out of control.
Then a cop, not the cops, showed up, a single cop in a single patrol car.
“Ma’am,” he said as he waddled toward me, his holster open, his radio in his hand, “I will have to arrest you for disorderly conduct. Please give me your weapon and release those two individuals.”
“If I release them, eejit, they’ll go after your throat instead of those perps.”
“Ma’am, you’re under arrest for disorderly conduct. Now please give me your weapon.”
The crowd, now counting nurses, doctors, and other hospital staff types, booed loudly.
Good show, Nuala Anne. You’ll never live this down.
“Those frigging perps were trying to kidnap Ms. Connors,” I explained.
“We can discuss that all down at the station, ma’am. I’ll have to cuff you now.”
I lifted my left hand with what I would learn later was a Lugar in it and pointed it at his ear. I know what a safety is on a gun and I had slid it into place.
“Back off!” I shouted. “When this is over I’ll sue you for false arrest, dereliction of duty, and attempting to imitate a police officer.”
“Ma’am, you’re compounding a felony!”
The cheering crowd was chanting. . . . What were they saying?
“Nuala! Nuala! Nuala!”
Me reputation as a sweet and gentle singer of Christmas carols was finished. Now I was irredeemably an Irish Tiger. Och, won’t me Dermot be proud of me!
I hope.
“I said, back off, you friggin’ amadon. When Commander Culhane arrives, I’ll report you as a disgrace to the police uniform.”
I had said the magic words. A tumultuous cheer from the audience.
“The dog is killing me,” one of the perps pleaded.
“Only if you misbehave.”
Oh, but the doggies, gentle peaceful souls that they are would so have loved to kill them. These stupid humans had dared to attack not one but two of their friends.
Then, thank the good Lord, be
fore I could make even a worse fool of meself, the rest of the Chicago Police Department arrived on both sides of the Inner Drive, sirens screaming in agonized protest—squad cars, detective cars, Reliable cars, command cars, tech trucks, prisoner cars. John Culhane emerged from the first one, gun in hand. Mike Casey was in the second, his gun also in hand.
“Them two.” I pointed at the two terrified perps. “Let ’em go, doggies.”
Fiona and Maeve complied but stood next to them, growling dangerously. The crowd cheered wildly. The cops cuffed all four of the perps and loaded them into the prison wagon (called but never by me the paddy wagon).
“Doggies, here!” I commanded.
They ambled over to me, looking quite pleased with themselves.
“Sit!” I ordered.
They did, because they were perfectly behaved hounds of heaven. Far from being worn out, Fiona acted like she was the queen of all wolfhounds, immune to the cheers. Just like me.
But then they began to howl. In triumph. Wild cheers from the crowd. So they howled again.
“I thought it was a Christmas special,” Mike Casey said. “I didn’t know it was an episode of Law and Order. With a live audience. . . Do you want to give me the Lugar, Nuala Anne? You might hurt someone with it.”
“Sure isn’t the safety on it?”
“It’s off,” he said, flicking the switch.
“Just as well I didn’t shoot that cop who was trying to arrest me for disturbing the peace.”
The dogs stopped howling. They saw Maria and Jack hugging each other and himself in a wheelchair with robes and blankets.
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