Chapter Three: Danny O’Shea
The bar lights should have made the place welcoming, but all I felt was sadness. Neon colors split the semi-darkness, creating pools of vibrant blue, red, and green. Some of the lights flickered, and other had burned out creating gaps in the messages. The Chicago sports teams were all represented.
The Bears and the Bulls and the Cubs were all partnered onto signs with Budweiser and Miller Lite and Old Style, as though those multimillionaire players would touch a bottle of something so mundane or drink it with the common guy. I wondered why they bothered. No one who frequented this shit hole had the money to actually go to a game.
To be fair, I guess there was a chance someone would come out ahead on the wagers going down at the tables, but chances were that bonus cash would find its way into a vein or a pussy somehow. The Cubs wouldn’t see a dime.
All the lights made my head hurt and would have spiraled me into a severe depression if I hadn’t been here for work. As it was, I was eager to get the party started.
I waded through the sea of bodies sprawled across the dirty plank floor in various stages of consciousness. My dad’s buddy, Stan—appropriately nicknamed “Gorilla”— had been hard at work in lieu of my arrival. He was supposed to start a bar fight, zero in on a dude named Archie Dee, then let me save Archie’s ass as a way of infiltrating the South Side Gang, which was headed up by Archie’s best pal, Richie Silvestri.
Stan had been one of the best detectives on the force before he was forced to medically retire after taking a bullet to the brain that would have killed most guys. At six-foot-six and three hundred pounds, it just pissed Stan off. Still, the force deemed him unfit to serve and mustered him out. Now, he worked as a private consultant, helping out cops here and there and earning a few bucks for his time. Having him bust up the place and knock a few dicks in the dirt tonight was the best five hundred dollars I’d ever expense to the job. When he said he’d start something to give me an in with Richie Silvestri, he hadn’t been kidding.
The target of my brawl ruse—the reason for the C-note investment—was currently being held against the bar by a big, burly fellow who looked like he could be Bigfoot’s cousin. He wore greasy jeans, had a scruffy beard, a shaved head, a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his ham-hock arms, and an old biker’s jean vest that had the name KILLER sewn on the front.
He was not Stan, even though he was holding my target, Archie Devereaux —Archie Dee— the small-time fish playing with the sharks in the big cesspool that was Chicago’s underworld. I knew Archie was allowed to play only because he’d been Richie Silvestri’s best friend since they were baby gangbangers. He was a tall, skinny dude that looked like he might break if you looked at him hard. Another few seconds with this guy’s beefy hand around his throat would have probably made him shit his pants.
“Sorry about that,” a deep voice said from behind. I turned to see Stan staring at the guy who had Archie by the throat. I had to look up to meet his eyes. “That asshole got to Devereaux before I did. You want me to take him out for you?”
“Nah, I have to do this,” I said, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. “Just keep my back covered.”
“Will do.”
“And Stan,” I said with a smile. “If this goes south, don’t let this guy kill me.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Bigfoot,” I said, approaching the big guy from behind.
He gave me a hard look, like you would do to a fly buzzing around your ear. A growl rumbled out of the big guy’s throat, followed by a snarl. “Fuck off,” he said. “Or you’ll be next.”
“You’re not supposed to play with your food,” I said. “Why don’t you just put the guy out of his misery or let him go?”
He growled at me again and tightened his grip on Archie’s throat. “I said fuck off, shit head.” He swung around, pulling Archie with him like he was a rag doll. “You wanna take his place?”
“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve got nothing better to do than knock your fat ass away from the bar so I can get a drink.”
The guy frowned at me like he was sensitive about his weight. He let go of Archie’s neck, and the poor guy dropped like a stone, gasping, his face red, eyes bulging. Bigfoot took a step toward me, stomping on Archie’s hand in the process. A howl rose from the floor as Archie clutched what was probably a broken hand, but the big guy kept his focus on me.
This asshole was huge and hairy, and would have looked far more comfortable in the Pacific Northwest than here in a steamy pool hall that reeked of sweat, stale perfume, and so much beer-soaked wood a man could gag just walking into the joint. But I was big, too, and had been a linebacker in high school. As long as I didn’t hit him with my bum knee—or he didn’t hit me—I figured I was golden.
“Think I can’t take you?” I asked, smirking at him just to rev him up. Big guys like him get revved up and lose focus, thinking they can win the fight purely by their size.
“I know you can’t take me,” he snorted. “Come on, pretty boy. Show me what you got.”
Pretty boy? Really?
He took another step forward. Crunch went Archie’s foot. Archie howled and scrambled away, crab-walking his way several feet to curl under the lip of the bar.
I had almost forgotten that the bar fight Stan had started was still raging behind me. A body slammed into my back, but I shook it off, ignoring the warmth of damp sweat, and possibly blood, against my T-shirt. This fight had devolved from a chaotic skirmish into a full-on battle. I wasn’t worried about me, but I needed Archie out of here in one piece to be of any value to me.
When the guy came toward me my right fist shot out quickly. My knuckles caught him right on the chin and stopped him cold. He rocked back on his heels then staggered against the bar. He clutched at a stool to keep from tumbling, and then he roared at me like a pissed off mountain gorilla.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I shook my hand, hoping that I hadn’t broken it on this asshole’s face. “Did I hurt you?”
His hot breath poured from his mouth as he let out another roar and charged toward me, head prepared to butt me into next Tuesday. Even better.
When the fucker got within a foot of me, I sidestepped and spun around, using my weight to propel him farther. He plowed into a table, toppling bottles, breaking glasses, knocking people down, and smashing the rickety thing beneath his ginormous head.
The sounds of clapping and cheering replaced the sounds of fists hitting flesh and bottles shattering against the floor as everyone around us froze in mid-step and mid-punch. I sauntered over and lifted the ape by the belt and the dank hunk of hair at his neck. I somehow managed to lift him and flung him across the wet floor like a bowling bowl.
My human bowling ball knocked down everything in his path and smashed into the jukebox, cutting off Johnny Cash in mid-warble. The glass over the front cracked then rained in shards to the floor. The lights flickered, dimmed, flickered again, and then the box just moaned and died. Bigfoot gave a low groan and fell still.
“Holy shit, man. You took down Otto.”
I turned to find Archie limping toward me, nursing his hand against his chest like a baby bird. A bright red ring punctuated by two thumbprints hugged his neck. His eyes said junkie; his breath said alcoholic. I knew he was both, but he was perfect for my plan. He was staring at me with something akin to wonder. Even better.
“Otto was messing up my night,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t mind a good brawl, but killing someone shouldn’t be part of it.” I waved my aching hand up and down his body. “You all good?”
He nodded quickly, so fast I thought his head would pop off.
“I haven’t seen you around,” Archie said, his eyes still glowing like I’d just played the world’s greatest guitar solo. “New to town?”
“I been away for a while, upstate,” I said, inferring that I’d just gotten out of Joliet Prison without actually saying so. “Danny O’Shea.”
“Archie Devereaux. But call me Archie Dee. Everyone does.”
“Nice to meet you, Archie Dee.”
I held out my right hand. Archie started to shake it then winced at the pain in his own hand. I was glad because my hand hurt like a mother.
I nodded at the hand he was clutching to his chest. “Is it bad?” I didn’t care, but it seemed the right thing to say.
Archie glanced at his hand and tried to put on a brave face. “Would have been worse, a lot worse.” He glanced toward the giant slug still lying in the demolished jukebox. “Otto doesn’t quit.”
“Seemed like a quitter to me.” I huffed.
“Yeah.” Archie gave me one of those smiles that almost made you feel sorry for a guy. Almost. “I owe you,” he said. “Big time. You name it.”
I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets and rocked on my heels. This guy was like putty in my hands, though I’d suspected he would be. I pretended to think for a minute.
“I could use a job,” I said. “Know anyone looking to hire someone with no marketable skills?”
Archie gave me a bobble-headed nod. His shaggy hair fluttered against his shoulders. “A job? Sure, I can hook you up. You got a car? I can take you to him right now.”
“Sure, my car’s right outside.” As we started out the door, Otto was groaning, starting to come around, I looked at Archie and smiled. “Wanna give the bastard a kick for luck?”
“I’m afraid it would be bad luck,” he said, giving me a nervous smile and shaking his head, as if he knew what kicking Otto might bring down on his head later on.
“Then let me do it,” I said. I pulled my foot back and gave Otto an easy kick in the ribs that made him groan.
“I like your style, Danny O’Shea,” Archie said with a look mixed with admiration and dread. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here before he wakes up. I got someone you need to meet.”