Boystown 7: Bloodlines (19 page)

“I’d like to come out and ask you some questions. Is there a time that’s good?”

“Never. That would be a good time.”

“All right. Then why don’t we just talk a little now?”

“I can hang up any time I want to.”

“And I can’t stop you, can I? So are you Josette’s mother?”

“You knew that already.”
 

I didn’t, but why correct her? “Are you serious when you say that Shady didn’t have any friends?”

“His name was Shady. Don’t you think he earned it?”

“Lots of shady people have friends though.”

“He was shady and he had a loud mouth. If you were friends with him he stabbed you in the back and then told everyone your secrets.” That sounded like an opinion she’d held for a long time and was glad for the chance of airing.

“What did your daughter see in him?”

“Lord knows. He wasn’t even a good-looking man. But don’t think she didn’t give as good as he gave. My girl was a pistol. Could have any man she wanted, and did.”

That opened up a whole new can of worms. Were the Perelli murders even related to the Outfit? “Why do think they were killed, Mrs. Berkson?”

“Shady was talking to someone. The cops. The FBI. I don’t know who.”

“Who was he talking about?”

“Doves, who else?”

Doves was the man at the top of the heap, and had been for a very long time. He was Jimmy’s boss. His name was mentioned a few times in the files, but mostly in questions. The Feds would ask about him, but Prince Charles would claim they weren’t acquainted. He wasn’t implicated in any crime. Which made me wonder if the Perelli murder was something that Doves orchestrated and was now being blamed on Jimmy. Was Doves behind the whole thing? Was he pulling the strings at the task force? Hey, it was Chicago. Stranger things had happened.

“But nothing happened to Doves,” I said. “There were no charges filed.”

“No. Because Shady died.”

“Why kill them both, though?”

“I told you, my girl had friends. Well, Shady got tired of her having friends. Wouldn’t let her out of his sight.”
 

“So if she hadn’t been there…”

“Exactly. I’m gonna hang up now. I got something on the stove.”
 

I doubted she had something on the stove but she hung up before I could say so.
 

I went back to worrying about how I might find Mickey Troccoli.
What did I know about him?
He was low level Outfit. He worked for Jimmy. That meant Jimmy could probably tell me how to reach him. But did I want Jimmy to know I was looking for him? No. I didn’t. I didn’t have any evidence that Mickey was the informant. None at all. And I didn’t want Jimmy thinking that I might. I didn’t want him “persuading” anyone who didn’t deserve to be “persuaded.”

Did I know anything else about Mickey?
I had the feeling I did. I vaguely remembered Ross saying something about him. Did he say that Mickey had made a pass at him? He might have. It had been more than three years. I couldn’t be completely sure. But what if Mickey Troccoli were gay. Where would I find a gay mobster? It wasn’t like there was a specific bar where gay mobsters hung out. Or at least not one I knew about.
 

The only thing I knew about Mickey was that he went around to bars collecting money once a month. I was going to have to go around to the bars and ask about him. Maybe I could find another bartender who Mickey hit on. One who’d taken him up on the offer; one who might know where he lives.

It was time for lunch. I was supposed to take Sugar to the Glory Hole that night but I had no idea what time. I put in a quick call to her.
 

“I’ve been elected to be your escort this evening.”

“Oh you have? Well, what time are you picking me up?”

“Actually, I’m hoping to meet you there. I’ve got some other stops I need to make.”

“Well, what kind of escort are you if you’re not going to escort me?”

“A shitty one, I guess.”

That made her laugh. “I will be there at eight o’clock sharp. I will sit in my car for ten minutes. If you do not come out and escort me inside I will leave. Do you understand me, Mr. Nowak?”

I told her I did and promised I’d be there.

I went to the Golden Nugget for a grilled ham and cheese with some French fries. I ordered a glass of milk to go with it. I was going to be drinking a lot that afternoon, so I wanted to line my stomach. It might be an old wives’ tale but it was worth a try. They had the bar rags sitting in a stack by the entrance. I picked up a copy of
Gay Times
and flipped back to their list of bars while I ate. The list was two columns in very small print covering a whole page. It looked exhausting. I bummed a pen off the waitress and crossed off the gay bars out in the suburbs. Then the ones that were up north near Evanston.

From going through the Operation Tea and Crumpets files I had a strong sense of the area Jimmy controlled. As far as gay bars were concerned, there were the bars in Boystown and a bunch of older bars down in Old Town. I figured I’d hit the bars in Boystown during the afternoon, go home to change my clothes, then head down to the Glory Hole which was on Wells in Old Town. I’d escort Sugar for an hour or two and then I’d hit some of the other bars down that way. I was going to have to limit myself to ordering beers and only drink a half of each one. It’s not that I couldn’t walk into each of the bars, ask my question, and walk out without getting a drink; it’s just that bartenders tend to be friendlier if you present yourself as a customer and tip them first.

I mapped out a route that was going to have me wandering around the neighborhood for most of the afternoon. I kept my money at Mid Town Bank. They had a branch in a small brick building on Broadway south of Barry. I walked down and had the teller give me fifty dollars. That should cover the cost of my afternoon and evening. Technically, I could ask every single bartender for a receipt and get reimbursed with my invoice, but that seemed kind of petty. I was being paid well; I didn’t need to nickel-and-dime anyone.

Cutting over to Clark there were three bars in close proximity, the furthest below Diversey: The Limited, Cheeks, and Thumbs Up. All three were small, narrow storefront bars, and each was sleazy in it’s own unique way. Of course, I was no stranger to sleazy having wasted a year of my life working at Irving’s “L” Lounge.

At Cheeks they were getting ready for a Mr. Cheeks contest. The bar was more populated than you’d expect on a Saturday afternoon. I ordered a Miller and took a couple of sips before I asked the bartender–whose chest was so rock hard and covered in hair that I don’t know whether I ever looked up at his face–if he knew Mickey Troccoli.
 

“I don’t learn people’s names, man.” The way he said it suggested he knew who Mickey was and didn’t want to tell me anything about him.

“I’m just asking because I owe him some money and I haven’t been able to find him.”

“If you want I can get you an envelope and you can put the money in there. If someone named Mickey comes in we’ll give it to him.” I think he was only half joking. If I’d been able to look up at his face I might have been able to figure it out.

“Thanks. I’ll keep looking for him.”

My luck wasn’t any better at the other two bars down that way. I walked back up to Belmont and hit a trendy place called Dresden. Two doors down from the El, the bar was two storefronts that had been combined. One half was the bar and a couple of tables. The other half was a generously sized dance floor. The place was not a disco like Paradise Isle. It was more new wave and had a rough, homemade feel to it. The way the name was painted onto the front of the building, with is letters hand drawn and bouncing all over the place, and then again the same logo over the bar, put me in mind of the “Life in Hell” cartoons they stuck in the back of the
Reader
. And yet there was also something about the place that seemed to announce they didn’t follow trends, they began them.

The bartender there was a scrawny little guy whose very blandness seemed to reject the worked-out and artfully displayed bartenders I was used to seeing in gay clubs. This guy would never have worked at Paradise Isle. I had the feeling if he took his shirt off, customers would ask him to put it back on. I ordered my beer and when he set in front of me, I asked, “Do you know a guy named Mickey Troccoli.”

“Who are you? Are you an investigator?”

“I’m a
private
investigator. Nick Nowak. I’d like to talk to Mickey.”

His eyes got a little wild and he said, “Shit.”

“Why shit?”

“You’re a friend of Mickey’s.”

“No.” I decided not to elaborate and see what he said.

“When you walked in, I was hoping you were from liquor control. I filed a complaint. A year ago, for Christ’s sake. Far as I know they haven’t done a fucking thing. Mickey Troccoli’s still coming around.”

“Ah. You want to do this on the up and up.”

“My business plan is pretty tight. I don’t have room for the kind of money they’re trying to squeeze out of us.” He reached under the bar and pulled out a stack of cocktail napkins. They were thin, barely white and the name of the bar was blurred. He reached out and slid down a stack that was sitting on the bar. These were plump, bright white and the name Dresden fairly jumped off them.

He pointed at the first stack. “These, these shitty ones, they cost ten times what the nice ones cost. But you have to buy the shitty ones. They don’t take no for an answer.”

“How often does Mickey come in here?”

“I’ve told him I’m not ordering any more crap from him. So he’s here two, three times a week.”

“Any pattern to it?”

“Afternoons. During the week. He doesn’t like to come in when we’re busy.”
 

That didn’t work. My weekday afternoons were already taken up by staking out the Federal Plaza.
 

He studied me for a moment. “I couldn’t pay you to make Mickey go away, could I?”

“Not for any amount of money.”

“Shit.”

“My suggestion...raise your drink prices a quarter and pay him. Life will be easier that way.”

Chapter Seventeen

When I stumbled into the Glory Hole, “Thriller” was playing. That seemed appropriate to me since I’d seen the video that went with “Thriller” and Jackson looked to be wearing about as much makeup as your average drag queen. I didn’t see Sugar’s limo anywhere on the street, so I was on time.
 

I’d been to six other bars without much luck. Then I’d gone home and done my best to piss out all the beer I’d drunk, taken a cold shower, and then poured myself into a cab. I couldn’t stand any more beer, so when I got to the bar I ordered a Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks. It would either straighten me out or kill me. While the bartender poured my drink, I asked if he knew Mickey Troccoli.

“Yeah, Mickey comes in here. Why?”

“I’m looking for him.”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to him.”

This earned me a dubious look. “He’s sort of a scary guy, you know.”

“I don’t look like I can take care of myself?”

“At the moment you look like you can barely stand up.”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a busy day.”

He set the drink down in front of me and said, “Take your time with this one. You’re here to relax, there’s no reason to hurry.”

I decided I needed to look more sober, so I took a spot by the front window and stood very, very still. If I didn’t move, no one would know how drunk I was. Why was I so drunk? I’d only had five beers total. Ten bars, a half beer in each, five beers. Well, no that’s not right. I had a scotch at the last bar because the beer was bloating me. And the beer was bloating me because I’d actually finished one or two of them even though I’d planned to have only half a beer at each stop. I wondered if I should go into the bathroom and put my finger down my throat. Strangely, that was not an appealing idea.

I looked around. It was another storefront bar. I was beginning to mix them all up. Like most of the others, the bar at the Glory Hole was against one wall. It was long, stretching almost the entire length of the place. On the opposite wall were some tall tables with stools. There really wasn’t another way to arrange one of these places. The bar was half full; barstools full of regulars and most of the tables still open. I wondered where exactly Sugar Pills was going to perform. The only thing even remotely resembling a stage was the bar itself.

I’d taken three sips of my drink when a limousine stopped in front. I was halfway out the door when Brian and Franklin got out of it. That was curious, they’d said they weren’t coming. Before I had much time to think about that, Sugar got out of the limo. I almost burst out laughing. Okay, I did burst out laughing, but I was still inside so she didn’t hear me. Sugar Pilson had decided to out drag a drag queen. She wore a red dress with puffed shoulders that would put Alexis Carrington to shame. Her hair was up and twisted into a giant, foot-tall bun, her eyelashes were at least two inches long, and her make-up a quarter-inch thick. She looked like a cartoon version of herself, which was completely deliberate.

I held open the door to the bar as they walked in. Brian gave me a frosty hello, while Franklin ignored me completely. Sugar rested a hand on my chest and said, “Don’t I look fabulous!”

“Sugar, you look amazing.”

Sugar Pilson was originally from Texas. Not the oil part of Texas, the dusty, tarpaper shack part of Texas. The official story is that she was a cheerleader for the Houston Oilers when she met one of the older Pilsons—who may or may not have been a minority owner of the team—promptly married him and then a year later just as promptly divorced him. There are problems with the story. For one thing, there are rumors that she was never a cheerleader, though with her almost naturally blonde hair and perky figure she certainly looked the part. And, for another, there’s her divorce settlement. The Pilsons gave her far more money than necessary for a one-year marriage. Even in a community property state, which Illinois was not, she would have received a nice settlement that would have kept her for years in a modest condo close to Evanston if she was careful. Instead, she had a three-story home in the most expensive part of Chicago, a car and driver, a condo in Florida for those days when winter was just too dreary, and enough ready cash to devote most of her time to giving it away. Obviously, she knew something about the Pilsons they did not want known, and not just something embarrassing, something potentially devastating.