The Ham Tree Inn is located on a working-class stretch of Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago’s Jefferson Park. I walked in around 8:00 p.m. and found a seat. The bartender wandered over. I ordered a Bud and a shot of Jim Beam. A couple of construction types had a harvest of empties in front of them and were swearing at a TV that was actual y televising the Hawks game. There was another guy at the other end of the bar. Like me, he was drinking alone. I finished my whiskey and walked my can of beer over to a corner where three more guys were shooting darts. The oldest was mid-thirties, maybe six-three, two-fifty. He fit the description I’d gotten from Rodriguez. Better yet, his green Camaro was parked in the lot outside. I took a closer look. There were flecks of white paint on his face and jeans. His chest and forearms were layered with muscle, the product of working for a living. I took a sip of Bud. The older guy stepped to the line and tossed a flight of three twenties.
“Nice darts, LJ,” one of his buddies said.
Larry Jennings grinned and pul ed his flight from the cork. I wandered back to the bar. The three of them kept throwing. I’d just finished my second beer when Jennings popped a triple ten to win the match. He stepped in to pul his darts again. I beat him to it.
“You want these, Larry?”
He looked at me funny. “I do, pal. Thanks.” He tried to grab the flight, but I pul ed them back.
“Something I want you to take a look at,” I said.
The place was suddenly stil. Even the Hawks game seemed to go quiet. I took a white card from my pocket and stuck it on the dart board.
“This here is the mass card from Hubert Russel ’s funeral. You recognize the face?”
I pointed to Hubert’s picture on the card. Jennings shook his head. He was confused, on his way to angry. Jennings’ buddies watched from a close distance.
“Didn’t think so,” I said. “You beat up the wrong guy, Larry. Maybe it’s time to pay.”
I went back to the bar and threw down some money. There was a men’s room at the end of a tight hal way, but I kept going, to the back door and an al ey. I knew Jennings would fol ow. Guys like him always fol owed. Mostly because they were too afraid not to.
“YOU GOT A PROBLEM, ASSHOLE?”
He’d brought a pool cue and two of his buddies with him. The latter stayed near the doorway, drinking beer and looking like they’d rather be inside shooting darts. The former was a problem.
Jennings cut the ground between us in half with a step and swung the thick end of the cue at my head. I turned to take the blow on my shoulder. It hurt, but the cue broke in half. And I was inside.
I fired two straight lefts to the face. They were quick and short. The big man dropped to a knee and got up slowly.
“Motherfucker.”
I grinned and beckoned him in. “Come and get it, sweetie.”
Jennings bul -rushed. I half circled and snapped another left to the chin. Then two hard rights to the body. No emotion. Just speed, angles, and leverage.
Jennings covered up low, and I hammered a left, over his arm, into the side of his head. Then I grabbed a handful of hair and slammed his face into the side of a Dumpster. His nose pumped red. I spun him around and straightened out. Two more lefts got him going down. A short right finished it. I’d stashed the basebal bat behind the Dumpster. I took it out and looked at the assembled crowd that now consisted of three friends. Al cowards. Then I swung, two, three times. Heavy, silent blows to the body. Jennings vomited his dinner and a little blood in the al ey. Part of me wanted to go for the skul . Lay the motherfucker open and let his pals pick up what was left. But murder was not on my agenda. So I dropped the bat and kicked him. Just once.
“That was for Hubert.”
He lay facedown, holding his insides and moaning. I could hear noises from the street, the whisper of a car passing by, and careless laughter from a Chicago night. I choked back the darkness and moved toward the light of Milwaukee Avenue. The voice came from behind.
“Shouldn’t have done that last bit. With the bat.”
I turned. Jennings’ buddies had been joined by the bartender, who sported an Irish brogue I hadn’t caught before and held a sawed-off shotgun loosely in his hands.
“Back up against the wal, mister.” The bartender tightened his grip, and I noticed a shake in the gun.
“I’m cal ing the cops,” one of the friends said. He was squatting down by a mostly unconscious Jennings, mostly just looking at him. “He’s gonna need an ambulance.”
The barkeep shook his head and slid his eyes toward the back door that led to the bar. “Nobody’s cal ing anyone. Sul y, you take the boys inside. I’l be taking care of this prick myself.”
I shot my hand out, pushing the short barrel up and twisting it out of the barkeep’s grip. It was done without thought, without hesitation. The only way something like that can be done. Then I was holding the gun, and the Irishman was fucked. I snapped open the breech and ejected two shel s.
“Came out here to do some business, did you, Irish?”
The bartender kept his mouth shut. I broke his gun into pieces against the wal.
“Your pal was right,” I said. “You need to get LJ here an ambulance. If he ever wants another shot at the title, tel him to give me a cal.”
I took out my card and stuffed it into the Irishman’s shirt pocket. Then I walked out of the al ey and down the street. From inside the Ham Tree, I heard a yel for booze. The Hawks had scored and someone wanted a round.