QHNTQHST.jUABTEBLY I had decided to call it an early evening with Judy Stahoola, Joe’s laughter, because I could see that mj imitations of Mayor Daley weren’t cheering her up any. The Stahoolas lived in Bridgeport. I should have known better than to crack Mayor Daley jokes in the 11th Ward. Anyway, I didn’t make any promises to 2oe except that I’d try my best to bring her out of her depression. I struck out. It happens. So here I was at McTusch’s Bar on 37th Street in Bridgeport. This place belonged to a man named Clancy McTusch, and I tell you you’d have to be blind not to see that McTusch admired the mayor. Every inch of space, except a long, sparkling mirror behind the bar, was plastered with pictures of the late mayor. I ordered another beer and two more bags of Beer Nuts. 1 keep the Beer Nuts people in business. But sometimes 1 find I’m in a bar that doesn’t have Beer Nuts, so I settle for a Beef Jerky. It’s a hard life. I was thinking about Joe Stahoola and how he had helped me out when 1 was a kid, taking me to the ball games, taking me to the fights, taking me to Riverview Amusement Park. He didn’t have to do that. But he wanted to. He was that kind of man. And I had let him down. Me and my big mouth. I had made his daughter cry. 1 was working on a good depression. Taking my time. Making it just right. Letting the remorse drip from my underarms. Feeling sorry for myself. When in walk a couple of refrigerators, disguised in suits, with wide- brimmed hats riding low over their eyes. I maintained a low profile, watching them approach the bar from their reflections coming toward me in the mirror just abo\e the Jack Daniels and Gordon’s gin They sat down. Just a bar stool was separating me from their conversation. Finally one of them took off his hat. He had neatly combed hair, if you can comb a crewcut, with that type of face I wouldn’t want to see emerging from the men’s washroom after I had been pounding on the door for a few minutes yelling something like, “ Hurry up in there, you SON OF A BITCH!” No one would ever tell this man that he didn’t know what time it was. That voice inside of me that always seems to sigh at everything I do was saying, “ Keep your big mouth shut around these guys, and if you’ve got to speak, well, then, for Pete’s sake, speak softly.” “ Two whiskey sours, mac,” the hatless one ordered in a voice that reminded me of Lee Marvin. And that bartender set them up just as quick as a buck private for his drill sergeant. “ Daley and me were pals,” Lee told his partner in a cold and factual, humorless way. He was holding his glass between his fingers, letting it roll easy, and looking into his whiskey sour with faraway eyes. “ I first met him in ’56. 1 was his bodyguard. While he and Sis went to see O k lahom a ! at the McVickers Theatre.” “ Is that right?” his partner replied, affecting the same manner as Lee, looking into his drink. And then, sounding like a fender being ripped right off a car, he asked, “ How was the show?” Lee gave it a thought, rubbed it around his nose awhile with his thumb, and finally said, “ It wasn’t any Guys and Dolls. ” “ Yeah, I know what you mean,” his partner replied in a voice as compassionate as Jack Webb’s. I decided to try my imitation of Mayor Daley. (I do a pretty good one.) Listen: “ Ah, ah . . . dis is a fine cidy . . . dis is a fair cidy . . . and, ah, dat’s right . . . Chicagah is da finest cidy in da world . . . why, I love Chicagah . . . no one loves Chicagah more den me . . . and, ah, ah . . . you guys must be cops.” Very slowly they turned their mugs in my direction, and threw me a couple of stares that could have won a whole row of teddy bears and stuffed lions at the Illinois State Fair. Now I’m pretty good at staring a man down, but these guys were burning my retinas. I could feel my face displaying that bright red tomato imitation I’ve cultivated into an art form. I made a benign anemic shrug and gestured quite asininely, waving my fingers at them just like a grandmother might do for a little giggling infant, and slowly turned my head away. I checked my reflection in the mirror. It was so red I could have done a Heinz commercial. My instincts came over to my corner, so to speak, and started massaging my shoulders, whispering, “ All right, lay off it, pal. Cool your chops. You’re a bit drunk. Don’t mess with these guys. Don’t even ask them if you can bum a Lucky. Just leave them alone with their pleasure. Maintain a low profile and everything will be jake.” That’s what my instincts told me. My bladder was telling me something, too; it was telling me to get up and go water the roses. Sometimes a man can overdo something. There were so many pictures of Daley with that double chin and big laughing Irish mug lacquered into the bathroom plaster that I said to myself: “ This ain’t no bar! This is Mayor Daley’s tomb!” There were pictures of Mayor Daley carrying the traditional Irish shillelagh, wearing a bright green derby and a banner across his chest that read, “ Legion of Honor,” as he led the St. Patrick’s Day Parade down State Street; autographed glossies of him throwing out the first ball at Comiskey Park; and a picture of him shaking hands with Senator John F. Kennedy, winking at the President-to-be with a sly smile, as if to say, “ We’re going to fix old Milhous good come election day in the fair city.” For all I knew there could have been a solid gold monument of His Honor sitting with a great big grin on the throne in that nearby stall behind those metal doors. I let my eyes browse around a bit, as I began to water the roses, and looked directly into a glossy of Mayor Daley laughing at me! “ Dat’s right, son. I’m laughing at ya. Ya let dose guys intimidate ya. Never let no one intimidate ya, son. Dose guys ain’t so tough. So ya go back dare and show ’em what you’re made of. And den, 18 Layout hy Eric Edwards Illustration by Boh Kini
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