Acid Reflux

By Paul Dunk

This collection is a celebration of the long story containing 16 works of fiction along with the novella, "Jane Dough." With the exception of three new pieces, the stories were written from 2000-2006 and then extensively revised for this 2013 book.



The following stories are works of fiction intended only to amuse or otherwise stimulate potential adult readers. Any characters resembling persons living or dead are purely an offshoot of coincidence. The setting for "Jane Dough" was based on a neighborhood I lived in for eight years back in Chicago. Ironically, half the block was torn down shortly after my departure . . . but there was no evil conspiracy at fault. It was urban renewal. I don't know the property owners from a hole in the ground.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493171149

Paul Dunk

Paul Dunk is a Chicago freelance writer who has written over 100 short stories, three novellas, two novels, five golden rings, and an urgent note about toilet paper, vodka, and a gallon of milk. He has also co-authored two textbooks for college level hospitality programs published with Thompson Learning and Prentice Hall.

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Copyright © 2013 by Paul Dunk.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 06/17/2013

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

A note from the author

#1 With A Bullet

Brats

Oak St. Beach Baby

The Pooh Attendant

Better Bowling through Osmosis and Other Acts of Magic

The Wheel

Bells & Whistles & Shit

Colgate Case #756 in the City

Mr. Le Beef: The Instigator

Abacus

Dying Every Day

The Nose

Called In Sick

The Woodsmen

My Life as a New York Fireman

Flowers for the Whore

Jane Dough

I. We Meet Jane

II. Misery & The Backache

III. Mack the Butter Knife

IV. The Whip Comes Down

V. Smellin’ Helen

VI. Ring Around The Collar

VII. Helen A Handbasket

VIII. I Confess

IX. Christmas Pissmiss

X. Cadaver Dave

XI. Y2 Brute

XII. The Wooley Shroud

XIII. Feels Like Chicken

XIV. The Green Roll of Tex’s

A note from the author

The following stories are works of fiction intended only to amuse or otherwise stimulate potential adult readers. Any characters resembling persons living or dead are purely an offshoot of coincidence. The setting for Jane Dough was based on a neighborhood I lived in for eight years back in Chicago. Ironically, half the block was torn down shortly after my departure… but there was no evil conspiracy at fault. It was urban renewal. I don’t know the property owners from a hole in the ground.

#1 With A Bullet

The comb-over was wedged between his golf clubs and a box containing a mostly full gallon of windshield wiper fluid and half a case of motor oil. There wasn’t a lot of room in the trunk of his Toyota Camry, and it was pitch black, but this didn’t bother the comb-over because he had a small bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Comb-over was dead.

Up in the front seat Tony Dagget was humming a show tune. It was in the low eighties already, middle of August, and the weather channel had predicted 93 and humidity in the 80 percentile. This was going to be a scorcher. Tony was oblivious to it, however, and fixing his tie in the rearview mirror when 75 E. Cedar emerged from the front door of a brownstone. Tony didn’t know this man and didn’t care about this man’s wife and child who were in the doorway saying their goodbyes: the family unit, all framed up, ushering him down the stairs with his briefcase and a newspaper. Into what would be his last day on earth.

Tony removed his wraparound Oakleys and set them on the dash. Raised a pair of binoculars and focused on the mark’s face as he paused to open the latch on the wrought iron gate. There was a packet of unscented baby wipes and a manila file on the passenger seat, and the black and white headshot was sitting there on top of the file, angled in such a way that Tony could see it straight on.

It was him.

75 E. Cedar.

Tony set his binoculars on top of the picture. Put the car in drive and passed the guy as he walked leisurely down Cedar on his way to work. Nice hair. The mark was an employee of one of the banks on Michigan Avenue. About half a block down, Tony took a right into an alley and slowed to a stop. Removed the silenced .22 from his shoulder holster and clicked the safety off. Waited.

Tony sat with the revolver in his lap and did a mental check of everything he’d touched on the Camry’s surface, both inside and out. There was the trunk lid, steering wheel, dashboard, key ring, a/c controls, window roller, both sides of the door handle… but that was pretty much it. He put his sunglasses back on. Opened the door and stepped out into the festering humidity. Had the .22 at his side and concealed it behind his right thigh as he made the sidewalk and waited for the mark. There was some dust on the bottom left of his jacket and he very carefully patted this off. It was a Versace, 100% silk, about 3K tailored. Nobody out on the street this early, just him and 75 E. Cedar.

The mark stopped in front of Tony and had this quizzical expression on his face. Kind of snooty. Looked like he was maybe a supervisor of some sort at work, high level, and spent a great deal of his time being an asshole. Tony was blocking the guy’s progress. The mark was about to skirt his way around, though, when Tony said, Who does your hair?

Excuse me?

I said, ‘where ya get your hair done.’

Yvonne’s, the guy answered, too quickly, rearranging in his mind the nature of their relationship. Over at the Four Seasons. Stylist’s name is ‘Nick.’

Tony nodded. These upscale hotels had guest services that were sometimes available to the public. He’d never heard anything about the Four Seasons’ menu, but this guy’s hair looked exceptional. Tony brought the .22 around and shot him twice in the chest. The man did a little two-step and dropped dead there on the middle of the walk, collapsing backwards to a lifeless heap. Tony put another round in the guy’s forehead, then fingered the safety as he holstered his weapon. Scooped up the three shell casings and put them in his pant pocket. Went back to the Camry and got inside. Put the piece of shit in drive and split, the alley’s gravel crunching under his little tires.

Went east to Michigan Avenue and took the ramp onto northbound Lake Shore Drive. Took his cell phone out and switched it back to the ‘on’ position, then set it down on the passenger seat. Grabbed the wet wipes and fiddled with the package till he eventually managed to get the tab pulled with his teeth. Chided himself for having forgotten to do so in the first place. That’s how jobs got fucked up: forgetting the details. Put the wet wipes down and extracted a couple sheets, temporarily laying them over the headshot while he fished the casings out of his pant pocket. He began to sing, Mack the Knife, an old standard written by Bobby Darin and made even more popular by the big guy himself, Frank Sinatra. Tony had a voice similar to Frank’s, he liked to think, and was amazed by the sheer enormity of Sinatra’s catalog. The singers today were nothing compared to guys like Sinatra, Bennett, Dino, and who could forget the Velvet Glove, Mel Torme. Those guys had class, panache, and they weren’t afraid to work. Tony had the casings cupped in his right hand and used his thumb and index finger to pick up one of the wipes. Balled the sheet with the shell casings and kneaded this mess together like he was shaking dice at the craps tables in Vegas. Hadn’t been to Caesar’s Palace in months. Maybe after Hollywood there’d be a weekend. Roll the dice. Tony did this for a time as he rolled down LSD, doing the speed limit exactly, singing, and thinking about what potential Bobby Darin had before wigging out in the sixties. Trying to be a folk singer. Should have just stuck with the ballads.

Tony unrolled the window and tried to imagine what kind of dipshit would purchase a vehicle that didn’t have power windows. The car was maybe two years old. You’d think it’d cost more to get a car with manual windows. Like where would you get a TV that didn’t have remote control? Same thing. Tony thought about maybe blasting the comb-over a couple more times in the trunk before ditching the goddamn Camry. Manual windows. Threw the casings out with the wipe and picked the file and the headshot off the passenger seat. The mark’s face was already mostly melted away from the wet wipe’s saturation, but he took the thing anyway and lit a corner of it with a solid gold Capri he kept in the breast pocket of his jacket. 75 E. Cedar was consumed by flames and went the way of the shell casings, through the open window.

Rolled the thing back up.

Je-sus Christ, he muttered.

The phone rang. It was Frankie P, the only guy it could’ve been. Everybody used throwaway phones, and Frankie was the only person who had this number. Frank Pistano ran all the rackets on the northeast side from the river up to Loyola. Soon as this day was over, Tony would toss the phone and get another. For now it worked just fine.

Hey, Frankie.

Tony, how’d it go?

It was nothin’. No big deal.

The lake was the entire horizon off on the right. Bright blue and dotted with the occasional sailboat or other craft that plied these waters. He’d been on a charter fishing boat a couple years ago with Frankie and his cousin, Vinny, no shit, Vinny, and some broads that Vinny brought along for the day. A blond, two brunettes, and an actual redhead. About two hours into it, Tony caught a Coho salmon that was at least two and a half feet long and weighed a ton. His glasses blew off, though, while reeling the monster in. They were Armanis, about four bills’ worth, sitting at the bottom of Lake Michigan right now. All the beer and fiery blowjobs in the world couldn’t make up for those shades.

Great. I need ya for somethin’ else, though, like A-S-A-P.

Tony made a face.

What? What’re you talkin’ about? I got a thing. You know that.

I know, I know, Frankie said. But this just came up, Tone. It’s important.

Every hit was important. Or you wouldn’t do them. Tony pictured his boss walking back and forth in front of Graffiano’s on North Clark Street. That was his unofficial office, a big red leather booth in the back of the restaurant. Wasn’t safe to talk, what with the Feds and wires and all that, but the food was outstanding and made for a nice distraction between business calls. Tony began flipping the lighter over the fingers of his hand, like guys did with poker chips, letting the conversation with his boss just sort of linger.

Finally, Frankie: Eh, Tony! You still there?

Yeah, I’m here, Tony confirmed. I don’t know what to tell you, Frankie. I got things to do, man. On the coast.

I don’t give a shit about the coast, Frankie snapped. I need you here.

Tony sighed. One had to be careful dealing with Frankie P. Heart of gold and an all-around good guy to work for, but, if you fucked with him, he’d cut your head off and piss down your throat. Tony liked being alive. He also liked the weight of his butane. Didn’t smoke, but the lighter came in handy and looked cool as shit. Put it back in his breast pocket.

Listen, Frankie. I can’t budge on this. I got personal business next week. I told you about this a hundred times. I’m not gonna be in town—

Frankie interrupted.

"Personal business? What personal business?"

Spit the word out like it was a sardine. Tony was starting to get annoyed. This shit was non-negotiable.

"That’s the nature-a personal business, Frankie. It’s personal."

There was silence on the other end. Tony could feel Frank Pistano’s wheels spinning about a hundred eighty miles an hour. There was somebody somewhere that Frankie needed dead. Tony understood that. But there were plenty of other hitters in town who could do the job. Chicago was crawling with guys who’d shoot you for looking cross-eyed at them. The price for human life was at an all-time low.

There were animals on the west side who’d do it for $300.

Let’s just calm down here, Frankie. You tried callin’ anybody else? What about Sammy Hightop, or Hannibal? You tried either one of those guys?

Aw, fuck Hightop, Frankie grumbled. You’re my #1 guy. I need the best on this one, Tone.

It was nice being needed, but Tone had shit to do. Shit he couldn’t reschedule.

Yeah, but did you call him? All you’re lookin’ at is me. What about Hannibal?

Hannibal’s a freak. I don’t like even bein’ around that piece-a shit.

Hannibal was Victor Leisure, a hitter from Minneapolis who was notorious for cutting people’s ears off. Some guys left calling cards when they did a job, and that was Victor Leisure’s calling card. He’d get real close and slit a mark’s throat, then slice off his right ear. Nobody knew what he did with them. Maybe kept them in a jar of formaldehyde and took them out every once in awhile for shits and giggles. Probably had about two hundred of those ears up in a closet somewhere, listening to him farting and moaning all night long.

Nobody knew if he actually ate them, but, like Frankie, they assumed the worst.

Or there’s Jimmy Hats. What about him?

Mmmm, Frankie mused, considering the option. Hadn’t thought-a him. Lemmie get back to ya.

Click.

Jimmy Hats. Guy wore hats all the time, see? All these mob guys had nicknames. It was almost a rite of passage getting named. There was Tommy Rock ’n Roll, Jack the Deuce, Billy Zits, to name but a few, and most nicknames were a play on the man’s surname that eluded to either a mental or physical characteristic. Billy Zits’ real last name was Zither, and he had a bad complexion. The Deuce was Jack Dewey, and he ran all Frankie P’s gambling parlors. Rock ’n Roll was Tommy Rockford, and, though he wasn’t a musician by any means, he had longish hair and partied all the time.

Tony thought the practice made his colleagues look ridiculous, like cartoons, and there was one guy who was largely responsible for the current spate of nicknaming. Some mid-level errand boy who called himself Jimmy Footlong. Guy had a big dick, it was rumored, and he initiated the campaign to call himself Footlong so that everybody would know about his alleged big dick. Told all his buddies to call him Footlong, and these dipshits started calling him Footlong, and, lo and behold, it caught on. Jimmy got laid all the time because women thought they’d be getting a twelve inch dick. This guy was the grand master of coining nicknames.

Early in Tony’s career, he’d made an appearance at a birthday party for Johnnie Big Nose Mancini that was held at the Green Mill, a jazz club on the north side. Johnnie was a captain and had a verifiably large nose. Tony had walked in off the street and was in a lousy mood because it was raining and precipitation did a number on his hair. He said his hellos to those people that he knew, and eventually made his way towards the end of the bar where Big Nose was standing. Footlong was in the throng around him, and, when Tony came up to wish Big Nose a happy birthday, he was greeted by Footlong who said, Yo, Tony Daggers! How’s it hangin’?

Tony Daggers.

Tony was in a foul mood, and he didn’t really know this guy from a hole in the ground, except that he was a clown who nicknamed himself and thought he was the resident nicknamer for everybody else. But that’s how it started. Somebody called you something, and then everybody followed. Daggers was a lousy nickname. Sure, it was a natural way to go. Everybody knew he was a mechanic. He killed people. But he used a .22, not a knife. So calling him daggers implied that he was some head case like Hannibal who went around sticking pointy knives in people. Tony wouldn’t get laid with that nickname, not that he gave a shit, but it pissed him off that some jackass who nicknamed himself Footlong would try to lay a nickname on him that was basically derogatory. The nickname Daggers was creepy. Tony decided right then and there to nip it in the bud.

Excuse me? What did you just call me?

The conversation in the group quieted. Footlong didn’t skip a beat and put his arm around Tony’s shoulder in a friendly way, trying to defuse things.

"Eh, no prob, Daggers. We’re all friends here."

Tony felt bile rising in his throat. Didn’t like to be handled, not by anybody, and especially not some dick in a cheap suit. He took his revolver out and stuck it in Footlong’s mouth, not just a bit, but all the way in his mouth so that the muzzle was mostly blocking his air passage.

"No, we’re not. Listen, motherfucker. The name is Dagget. I use a .22 semi automatic. Like this one here. So you can call me Tony .22 Semi Automatic if you want, but if I hear one motherfucker calling me ‘Tony Daggers,’ I’m gonna come to you. Do you understand, motherfucker?"

Almost everybody at the bar had stopped what they were doing to watch this exchange. For once, Footlong was at a loss for words. There was blood trickling from his mouth and his eyes were glassy as he nodded in the affirmative.

After that, everybody called him Tony Bananas, but nobody did it to his face.

Tony took the Lawrence exit and went west to Broadway. Hung a right. Line had already formed at the Riviera Nightclub and was snaking down along the parking lot all the way past the post office. A banner was stretched across the marquis that read: CHICAGO WELCOMES AMERICAN IDOL. There must have been 3000 people out there, and God knows how many more were cooling their heels inside. Tony had a guy at the door, though, and figured getting out of the sun would be no problem at all.

Nevertheless, Je-sus Christ, he muttered, and kept going. Had five grand back in the Jag and was prepared to grease any palms that cropped up. Tony didn’t stand around waiting for anything. Like at restaurants, or shows. Don’t quit your day job, he advised, watching the enormous human turd tapering off in his rear view mirror. Needed to get rid of the Camry first. Not that anybody’d be looking for it. Only good thing about Toyota Camrys was the cloaking device that all models came equipped with. All you had to do to activate this function was sit your ass down and drive the piece of shit off the lot. Instantly, you disappeared.

Tony continued up Broadway into Little Vietnam and went right again at Argyle, then parked the Camry under the elevated tracks past the Phoenix Bakery. He went there every so often and bought Chinese sweet bread puffs that were filled with either barbecued pork or this weird yellow rice/bean mixture. They put the same stuff in sticky rice that they wrapped in bamboo leaf with butcher string and steamed while you waited. Sounded weird but it was pretty tasty so long as you didn’t think of cockroaches when you chewed. There was something crunchy in there. Tony figured it came with the turf. The neighborhood was made up of mostly Vietnamese immigrants who’d opened restaurants and small shops catering to the large Asian population. Alleys behind the restaurants were lined with dumpsters overflowing with rotting produce and carcasses and rats and roaches.

Perfect place to dispose of a hot weapon. Tony left the car running while he dissembled the .22 and cleaned each piece with a wet wipe, then dropped them in a fast food bag that the comb-over had left on the floor in the back. The guy’s last meal was at least a happy one. What a slob, Tony thought, wiping his hands with a wet wipe afterwards and using the dirty sheet to hold the bag with as he secured the car and headed for the dumpsters. Did the same thing in public restrooms after washing his hands. He’d dry them with a paper towel and then use the paper towel to grab the door handle with on his way out. Had to. All the slobs nowadays who did their business and didn’t have the decency to wash afterwards, unless someone was in there with them, in which case they’d reluctantly wash them. If there was nobody there, though, or just some guy in a stall, well, they’d just beat it.

And how would they get out?

They’d grab the handle.

In Tony’s mind, comb-over’s fast food bag was like an outhouse doorknob. He pocketed the silencer and the clip. Walked over to the first dumpster and shook out a few of the gun components, moved to the next, a few more, and, finally, the remainder went into a third dumpster. Wiped his hands again with the sheet as he returned to the Camry. Re-cloaked the vehicle and headed east to Sheridan and then cut back south towards Lawrence again. Little Vietnam was not a good place to ditch a car. None of the locals would steal it, but business owners would have it towed within six hours and then the cops would be all over it. Better to leave it in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood like the one surrounding the Riviera, which was also nearer to where his Jag was parked.

Started heading back towards Broadway on Lawrence and searched right and left down side streets for open spots. Found one about a block away from the parking garage, which was just one building down from the diner on the corner, which was right across the street from the Riviera. It was as if the entire universe was coming into alignment, the stars and everything, getting ready for Tony.

Hot shit, he declared, swinging into the space. This is my lucky fuckin’ day.

Tony put the Camry in park and used a wet wipe over his fingers to select a Spanish language radio station, turned it up loud, and then off. Switched the ignition off as well and wiped the key ring, then opened the window one last time and made a face as a waft of tacos and car exhaust came in from the street. Didn’t need to be all that meticulous cleaning the car. Just the obvious areas that he was doing now, like the dash and the steering wheel and whatnot. By the time the cops got hold of this vehicle, it would be miles away and have about eight sets of prints on it. None of these prints would be Tony’s.

Having this knowledge about human nature did not make Tony a bad man. He was a realist, not a bigot. Tony got a kick when he heard about cops being accused of profiling by the media. If cops didn’t make generalizations about people, they’d be moseying up to cars all the time and getting waxed. For every black Councilman they pulled over and harassed, there were 10,000 scumbags in vehicles full of crack and Mac 10s. It was just the way it was; period. There were plenty of racists in Tony’s line of work, but Tony was above the fray. Like when colleagues used derogatory terms in reference to the human beings that made up this city, he thought it made them look inferior. Tony considered himself a ‘Renaissance Man.’ He didn’t give a shit if a guy was black, white, yellow, brown, red, or green. In Tony’s book, everybody in the world had an equal opportunity to be an asshole, and a man just had to watch his back.

Still using the wet wipe, he went around to the trunk, stuck the key in the lock, and opened it. Reached into comb-over’s pant’s pocket and removed the wallet. Saw the guy’s driver license and compared the photo to what he looked like now. The picture was from a few years back when the guy still had a mostly full head of hair. Was starting to recede a bit, but, other than that, he was still pretty good hair-wise. Things change. The bullet hole certainly wasn’t doing much for his appearance.

Said to him: Better times, eh, buddy?

There was no reply. Tony shrugged and closed the trunk. Braced the end of the key in the lock and broke it off. Better to give the comb-over a couple days to decompose himself. Let somebody else deal with him. This Camry and its contents might indeed be gone in sixty seconds, but no professional car thief would be to blame. It would be local Hispanic teens tooling around in the vehicle for a couple days, listening to rap music, and figuring out a place to eventually strip it. By and by the comb-over would start stinking up the trunk, or some industrious lad would take hammer to lock to see what was inside. Odds are he wouldn’t be a golfer. The comb-over was safe and sound for now, though, and would be gazpacho next time anybody got a gander.

C.S.I. was a television show. In the real world, there wouldn’t be any pole dancers coming out to pick over a corpse in the trunk of a Toyota Camry. Most crime scene investigators were from Bombay and had three brown toofers, or they were beat cops who transferred because they knew they’d never make detective. A guy like the comb-over would continue rotting till somebody from the police department notified next of kin. Cause of death would be listed as homicide, but there would be only perfunctory investigation. They certainly wouldn’t tie it to 75 E. Cedar, and, if they did, who gave a shit? This was Chicago, a very large city with lots of nobodies getting murdered every day. There would be no DNA testing or cum-shot analysis with black light on upholstery. No hair and fiber collection in little glass test tubes. No database computer checks or holograms or this and that technical bullshit. Los Angeles, Chicago, New York; it didn’t matter. Detectives who caught the case would initially like car thieves for comb-over’s murder. They’d get a hit on at least one of the prints inside the car, and they’d pick the kid up for questioning. Maybe they’d shoot him during the arrest process and close the case right then and there. Or he’d surrender to them quietly and endure the grilling. If and when that proved fruitless, they’d eventually get around to interviewing the guy’s wife, his ex-wife, or whoever it was he kept house with. They would inquire as to what if any life insurance he carried, and, if there weren’t any red flags there, they’d go talk to his co-workers. Barring anyone standing around with a smoking .22, the comb-over would return to the trunk of his Camry and disappear. That’s how it worked.

Only way Tony was gonna take the rap was if he marched into police headquarters and confessed. Fat chance of that happening. Tony had much bigger fish to fry. Went back inside the Camry and dropped comb-over’s wallet on the console. The guy had twenty-seven bucks and lots of plastic. These neighborhood kids were gonna take one look at this Camry with the window open, keys in the ignition, wallet sitting on the console, and they were gonna think it was Christmas. Before Tony moved up the food chain, he spent the greater part of his youth stealing cars for the Marziano brothers who ran a chop shop in Bucktown before it was fashionable. He would never have bothered stealing a car like the Camry, of course, but if he saw any vehicle sitting on the street with the window open and keys dangling from the ignition… he’d have run for the hills.

It was an obvious trap. Tony figured most kids today didn’t have any brains. Just sat around listening to hip hop and talking about how bad they were. All they did was get high and copulate. It was sloth, laziness. Wasn’t like that when Tony was a kid. His parents weren’t any better than the adults in this neighborhood. Hell, his old man left while he was still in diapers, and the old lady was a drunk who brought strange men home every night. Tony had so many uncles by the time he was eight years old that he lost count. All at once it became a mathematical impossibility having so many uncles, but by that time he’d already discounted his mother from being anything more than a cartoon that came on once or twice a day. So it wasn’t parents to blame for what Tony saw as a generational dumb down of the population. Tony figured it had to be the music.

Rap.

Hip hop.

Tony didn’t find Frank Sinatra and all those guys till he was older and wiser, but he at least had Aerosmith and the Sex Pistols to look up to. Who did these kids have? Nobody. Just a bunch of dipshits staggering around grabbing their crotches and making naughty third grade rhymes. With their pants falling down. And this was suddenly a music genre? The Emperor’s New Clothes, was what it was. MTV, VH1, Youtube; don’t even get him started on those fuckers. The whole world was going down the toilet, and it would only get worse.

Tony did one last turn with the wet wipes and left the vehicle for them. Got out to the sidewalk on Lawrence and headed west towards the parking garage. They had security guards who patrolled the ramps all day and night. That was the only safe place in this neighborhood to park, regardless of what kind of ride a man had. Couldn’t always park in a vault, though. Tony’s Jag had been stolen four times in as many years, and in each case it had been returned with just minimal damage to the driver’s side window opening. This was thanks to a sticker affixed to the rear window that read, IF THIS VEHICLE IS LOST OR STOLEN, PLEASE RETURN TO FRANK PISTANO. Then it gave the phone number for Graffiano’s. Car thieves might not pay heed to this polite instruction, which was in effect a warning, but all the chop shops in Chicago were mob run, and one look at Frank’s notice was all it took to get those wheels back in motion. Last time somebody lifted the Jag, Tony got it back two days later with a case of Dom Perignon in the front seat.

Man, it was getting muggy. Tony made the parking garage and took the elevator up to the third floor where he’d left the Jag early that morning. There’d been lots of people bustling about, or sleeping in their cars, but now it was even busier. Dorks everywhere, like Hannah Montana was giving a free concert at the Riv. Took his key fob and popped the trunk as he approached. You could tell a lot about a man by the trunk of his car. Tony’s was neat as a pin. Had a guy at the Jaguar dealership over in Logan Square who did all the maintenance on his vehicle. Tony brought it in every four weeks or so for a check-up, so he didn’t keep stuff like air filters or transmission fluid or even jumper cables in the trunk. And he didn’t golf. All he had in the Jag’s trunk was his collapsible garment tree, grooming kit, large briefcase with combination lock, case of individual wet wipe packages, spare tire under the carpet, and an aluminum baseball bat.

Didn’t play baseball either.

Tony started singing House of the Rising Son, by Eric Burdon and the Animals. Wasn’t really his style, per se, but the tune exercised the low end of his vocal range and sounded spectacular echoing off the concrete walls of the parking structure. Unintentional acoustics, but he’d take them. Removed the garment tree from the trunk and set it up to form an L-shaped staging area with the back of the Jag. The place was hopping for a parking garage at 10:15 in the morning, but Tony’s mind was on the task at hand. Entered his combo in the briefcase and popped it open. Stowed his binoculars in there along with the silencer and the clip.

Went around to the driver’s side and fobbed the lock, then leaned in the back and removed a shirt that was still in dry cleaner’s wrap. It was a Ralph Lauren white silk with French cuffs that was identical to the one he was wearing now. Tony owned fourteen of these shirts and next year would replace them with fourteen new shirts from another designer, all silk, all French cuffs, all top of the line. Tony wore nothing but the best and wasn’t afraid to shell out the dough.

Racked the fresh shirt and removed the plastic, then carefully draped this material like a tarp over the left rear side of the trunk. Took his jacket off and placed it carefully on top. Opened the grooming kit. This was an elaborate cherry wood box with drawers in the front and a tri-fold lid that opened into a mirror. Leaned over and peered at his reflection, tilting his head to get a view of any nose hairs that might’ve cropped up since that morning. Spread his lips to get a gander at the teeth. It was all about the details. Oftentimes, the only difference between a civilized man and a monkey was two hairs and a piece of spinach.

Tony was looking good. He straightened up and removed the shoulder holster, stowing it in the briefcase. Closed the lid and twirled the lock’s tumblers. Removed his cuff links and set them in one of the kit’s little drawers. Admired them as he undid the buttons of his shirt. They were solid gold rectangles, very understated, that complimented his Tag Hauer dive watch and the 1.5 caret diamond ring he wore on the same hand. Tony wasn’t into the hip hop school of flashiness. He believed that less was more when it came to jewelry on a man, but what there was should be very classy. The diamond was a bit over the top, Tony knew that, but justified its presence with the knowledge that should he get into a jam, the stone was worth at least 18K to any reputable jeweler in the country. It was utterly flawless. Unknotted his tie and removed it, placing it on top of the jacket. Took his shirt off and tossed it to the side of the trunk to bring later to the cleaners. Had on a sleeveless T-shirt and sniffed his armpits