Expressions to Avoid, says Mildred von Stickler

Today’s guest Blogger is Mildred von Stickler, a retired grammarian, bravely bearing up under the plague of stilted syntax in today’s clichéd conversations.  Mildred, as she likes to be called, in a bow to egalitarianism, has problems with what she sees as all too common American English.  By common she means plebeian, uneducated, faulty, and worthy of a blast of buckshot.  Her questions and statements spear the heart of the matter.  Enough introduction, and now on to Mildred von Sticker’s thoughts:

Failure is not an option.  What are the other options?  And why is failure not on the list? Shouldn’t it be?  Is failure always a bad thing? Failure to forget your wife’s birthday, failure to spend all your money, failure to thrash your neighbor’s dog when he poops on your lawn, failure to thrash your neighbor when he refuses to pick it up!  Are those not good and reasonable failures?  I say we stand tall for the benefits of failure and put failure back on the list!

Taking it to another level.  How many levels are there?  List them in order and please tell me what level I’m on. If I’m on the fifth floor and take the elevator to the third floor, am I not taking it to another level?  And how about levelheaded?  Perhaps a surgeon should take you to the next level.

The exact opposite.  I’ve never heard of an inexact opposite.  John is the exact opposite of Jerry.  But, how can John be the exact opposite of Jerry, if John is missing a few critical elements.  Perhaps the baldness and missing a few teeth, not to mention his vasectomy, may give you a few clues to ponder.   The exact same thing is an offshoot of tangled, unnecessary American English. The exact other thing? The same thing does very well by itself, or do you toss it in there because you stutter. John may the opposite of Jerry in many ways, but certainly not exact.

Free gifts.  Here’s your birthday present. I’ll send your bill in the mail.  And what if you don’t want the gift, free or not, Chlamydia being a prime example.  Acme Department Store and Dog Shelter wants to send you a free gift.  Why do they want my physical and email address.  If it’s free, just send me the damn gift.

The best cheery pie I’ve even eaten in my life.  Now if you’d said, that was the best appendectomy I’ve had in my life, I’d sense a good story coming my way.  Mine is the best wife I’ve had in my life is another good tale waiting in the wings.  Sometimes, even without the unneeded and over used in my life accompaniment I’m willing to listen to a good yarn, well told: “ It was the best sex I’ve had!”

Over the top.  Over the top of what?  Is under the bottom the exact opposite?   Can’t be.  Opposites cannot be the same or exact! Maybe it’s snowing over the top. Maybe I’m happy where I am. Over the top of what?

Have a good one!  All the ones I’ve got are pretty good, if not perfect.  Obviously you disagree, so where do I begin my search for better ones?  Please be more specific, but no fondling.  Just point me in the right direction!

Raising the bar.   What’s wrong with the bar just as it is?  Good drinks.  Reasonably priced.  I say lowering the bar makes much more sense, especially considering some of the patrons are handicapped. 

Serve up. Why do we say serve up with some things and not with others?  He served up a great hamburger.  And why won’t served or serve suffice?

However, Mildred von Sticker makes an exception for:  He served up a wonderful champagne and a voyage to Tahiti as a free gift. 

Where I’m at.  I hear this annoyance all the time, even in my own family. Where I am, works just fine and doesn’t sound like English wasn’t your first language, or your power of speech was taken down a level, or is under the top.

Last, but not least,” Mildred says, is the casual hyperbole, To die for!  It fascinates me the things people are willing to die for. Kitchen cabinets, a big television screen, broccoli casserole, and Depends. I raise my sights a bit higher than my waistline and someone else’s kitchen cabinets.  But, Depends might catch my attention.

I understand my friend, Mildred can be a little stiff and taxing, but I offer you the free gift of her comments, which are both over the top and taken to another level.  For Mildred, failure is never an option.

Old Bones of Poseidon

Old bones of Poseidon 

Bleached by sun,

Worn thin by sand and salt

What say you now, 

Long buried god of the sea?

Replaced by gods and 

Prophets whom you never knew.

Do salty tears cry from the grave?

Or do you mock those

Who cast down your spirit,

And left you unknown,

Unloved?

Does the sea still obey your

Harsh commands and express

Your rage in angry waves

That lash the shores and

Molest the arrogance

Of unbelievers?

Do you crush steel ships, 

As you did the ships of wood,

And carry sailors to their 

Deep and watery doom?

Are the white and brittle

Bones I see, yet more disguise

To hide your living soul?

Or have you lost your 

Grip on tides,

And only live in memories 

Carried on the salty wind?

Pork Chops and Tomato Gravy

Pork Chops and Tomato Gravy

Being a southern by birth and by nature and by God’s grace, I look on gravy as the crown jewel of cooking.  But, let’s look at it another way, as not just a southern thing, but a southern rendition of what the French call sauce, the Indians call curry, and the Latins call salsa.  Why should southerners have to take a back seat and damn near apologize for a delicious blend that adds flavor to any meal.

If you’re from the south, you grew up on your momma’s rice and gravy and if you’re not from the south, your taste buds need a get-up call!

Gravy is not just a concoction of fat, flour, milk, salt and pepper.  There’s redeye gravy, a simple blend of the juice and fat from pan-fried ham, and strong coffee.  But, the recipe for tomato gravy is going to take your taste buds on a joy ride!  And to top it off, it’s easy.

Ingredients:

4 Strips of bacon

1 Can diced tomatoes, undrained

1 Diced onion

4 Cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 Heaping tablespoon flour

3-4 Pork Chops

Salt and pepper

Fry the bacon until crisp and set aside.  Pour off all the bacon fat but two tablespoon, but save the remainder.

Season the chops, then brown them in the same pan.  They do not need to be fully cooked.  After they are browned, set them aside.

Season the flour with salt and pepper.

Add more bacon fat if needed, and sauté the diced onion and sliced garlic. Push the onion and garlic to the edges of the pan and brown the flour until golden.

Add the diced tomatoes, juice and all and stir until well mixed.  Add the crumbled bacon and stir.

Nestle the chops in the tomato gravy and cook a few more minutes.

Serve the gravy over rice or mashed potatoes, accompanied by ears of corn and a salad or fried vegetables.

Voilà!  I’ll make a southerner out of you yet!!

A Single Spy by William Christie

A Single Spy

The New York Times called A Single Spy, “A panoramic, smart, hugely enjoyable thriller.”  Even so, it sat on my ‘to read’ list for quite a while.  These days I go for quick, spicy reads and at almost 500 pages A Single Spy threatened to keep me occupied through the spring and into the summer.

But, I do like World War II spy stories, so eventually I plowed in and found I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.  It’s one of those well told tales that grip you so hard, that when you’re starving and your significant other calls “Soup’s on,” you beg for a few more minutes to finish the chapter, but then you lie and sneak in another chapter.

The author, William Christie, must have done an amazing amount of research to authentically reach into the life of a boy from the desert, both an orphan and thief, being threatened and recruited by the Soviets to be infiltrated into Nazi Germany as a spy.  Alexis Ivanovich Smirnov must accomplish mission after daring mission, while wading through the dark and muddy waters of suspicion and intrigue, with his life at risk with every step. 

Christie captures the intense action of the underbelly of war, with chiseled, indelible characters and a never ending string of secret plots and fast paced action, with Alexis living on the edge at every turn.

Stalin and Hitler, two of the most vicious and destructive creatures in human history, created tightly controlled regimes, build on cruelty, lies, and egocentric ambition.  Imagine being placed in the middle, where no one can be trusted and mere suspicion can end your life. Christie places Alexis in the midst of these almost unimaginably tumultuous societies.  His sense of detail and authenticity is so razor sharp that the reader is no longer reading, but living in the midst of danger, with every decision testing your courage and your humanity.

I suddenly found that 500 pages was not too long, but too short.  The pages flew by me like leaves in an autumn wind.  Twists and turns and a streaming plot kept me entranced from start to finish.  I didn’t just read about Alexis, I was right there beside him for every moment of mind numbing action.

Like World War II novels and well told spy stories?  Try on A Single Spy; you’ll find it’s a perfect fit.

Chili in a Hurry

Chili in a Hurry!

Everyone has got a chili recipe, some carried over from longtime family traditions.  I never mess with arguing against family traditions, in fact my family has a few….well, more than a few. Some of them I refuse to discuss. 

But, chili is special.  Sometimes chili-disagreements result in angry words, fisticuffs and gunfire. Cooks in Texas, claiming to be the home of ‘real’ chili, tell me chili does not have onions or beans, and when they say it, I hear the sounds of pistols cocking.  If I don’t argue, they continue to tell me that real chili is made with chunks of beef, cooked until the chunks fall apart and dang near melt.  I tell them, I’ve made chili exactly like that and it was heavenly!   Sometimes they offer to buy me a Lone Star Beer and sometimes they squint and say, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?”  It’s not really a question; it’s an accusation. 

Unfortunately, I did not have the honor of being born a Texan, and can’t be expected to faithfully abide by all the rules enforced between the Red River and the Rio Grande.  I beg forgiveness that my delicious quick chili is not only made with beans and onions and tomatoes, but I also make it with…..please don’t shoot me…..hamburger.

If this ticks you off as much as finding another man’s underwear in your wife’s closet, please do not read farther.  It ain’t my underwear and furthermore, this chili is delicious!

This chili is a Quickie-In-The-Kitchen, not a lingering romance with the cuisine south of the border, but sometimes a quickie does the trick.

Chili in a Hurry

2 lbs medium lean hamburger (82-90%)

1 large onion, diced

5 cloves of garlic, sliced and diced

4 tablespoons chili powder (or more)

1 can beef stock (or more if the chili gets too thick)

2 died chipotle chilies (or pickled jalapeños, chopped)

   (chipotle has a smoky flavor, so if you don’t use chipotles, add a      dash or two of smoked paprika.)

1 can diced tomatoes with basil, garlic or other seasonings - undrained

1 can Mexican style diced tomatoes, or regular diced tomatoes and add

   more jalapeños – undrained

1 can dark kidney beans (or other beans of your choice)

1 heaping teaspoon masa or finely ground cornmeal

Several splashes of apple cider vinegar

Fry hamburger in a large pot, breaking up the meat as much as possible.  When the pink is gone, add the onions, garlic, and chili powder.  Stir and cook for two minutes or until onions are slightly wilted.  Now add beef stock, chilies, tomatoes, beans and a splash or two of vinegar.  Cook for 30 minutes over medium heat.  Careful not to let the chili boil dry. Add more beef stock if needed.

For presentation and taste, I sprinkled grated cheddar and chopped onion that had been marinated a few minutes in seasoned rice vinegar.

Served with crunchy fried tortillas.  I also oiled, salted, and baked fresh carrots and sliced green and yellow bell peppers. (400ºF)

For a final touch, I served peach cobbler for dessert, using my blueberry cobbler, no stir recipe, substituting chopped fresh peaches for blueberries: No Stir that's my cobbler

Now, grab a Mexican beer or two – I think I mean six packs.  This chili goes against several centuries of Mexican and Texan tradition….OK, call me a rebel.  But, this chili is so good, you’ll join the revolution!

The Year was 1935

Alphonse Gabriel (Al, Scarface) Capone

George Herman "Babe" Ruth Jr.

The year was 1935 and I remember it clearly. Lots happened in 1935.  Franklin D started his New Deal, the FBI caught up with the Ma Barker gang, and Babe Ruth played his last game.  By 1935, Al Capone was no longer the king of the Chicago underworld, but just another inmate at Alcatraz.   It Happened One Night swept the Oscars. And, I celebrated my birthday that year, something I no longer do.  

Capone’s incarceration changed the Chicago underworld.  Capone’s mob, The Outfit, found other leaders, but the smaller Chicago crime organizations flexed their muscles.

1935 was also the year I met Charlene Belvoir, a seductress if there ever was one and so beautiful she could have worked any clubs in Chicago.  Matter of fact, they called her the Queen of Clubs.  The big world could have been her oyster, but instead, she somehow hooked up with Johnny ‘Rat Fingers’ McCone. McCone was a sometimes gambler, full time jerk and he owned a couple of clubs, including this one.

When he found a rat in one of his clubs, he had the habit of catching it by the tail and bashing its head on the floor, hence the unlikely name.

I ran into Charlene a while back, at one of McCone’s clubs, The Black Pearl, a former speakeasy, converted to a dance club, with a well-hidden, and very popular casino in back.   The doorman’s name was Eddie Florence, a hefty guy, tall and sour, as many bouncers are.  But, he always had a smile for me.  I called him Edward, shook his hand and smiled. Most people deserve some respect. “Evening, Edward.  Busy night?”

He called me by name, with a mister in front of it.  He shrugged.  “The usual.”  I got the feeling a smile and a shrug from Edward were reserved for best friends and his mother.  “Sorry, but you know I gotta do it,” he said.  I raised my arms and he patted me down.

The Pearl was luxurious by the standards of the day and always busy, but Edward was right. Tonight it wasn’t overflowing, but there was still the buzz of loud conversation and the crystal sound of clinking glasses and Champagne bottles. 

 Mahogany tables with starched white tablecloths formed a semicircle around the dance floor, and the deep pile chairs were so comfortable you could sit all night.  Heavy maroon curtains draped the walls here and there and where there weren’t curtains, the walls gleamed with mirrors so large you could see yourself coming and going and coming back again. There was a bandstand and if you couldn’t stand the band, there were plush sofas and subdued lighting at the back corners of the room and an equally polished mahogany bar up front, not much longer than a Chicago streetcar.

“Hey handsome,” she said with a voice as smooth as polished ivory.  I was standing at the bar, with a drink in front of me and thought she was talking to me.  Instead, she walked over to Rex Pander, known as the Coppertone Kid, a name he hated. He’d just come in on the train from Miami.

“Wanna buy The Queen a drink?” Charlene smiled that smile that let you know she was ready to deal, although the times I’d been there, I’d never seen her leave with anyone.  The dark shoulder length hair, sculptured body and starling green eyes were out of a Hollywood script starring Humphrey Bogart.  Even Lauren Bacall wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Coppertone Kid was all decked out as always, and his thick, slicked back, dark hair never failed to catch the girls’ attention.  In those days, men wore suits and ties, but not even pimps wore that much gold.  His tie bar, set with a diamond, sparkled.   “No me interesa,” he said sharply and turned to the barkeep, Whistling Sammy Murphy, whom everyone called Sammy.  After his run-in with a speeding cab, he seldom whistled anymore. He didn’t walk too well either and his eyes made you think he was looking at you and the man on the other side of the room.  On a busy night, people liked to watch him pour drinks, two at a time, with one eye on each.

“Seet me oop,” Coppertone said in his very fake Cuban accent. Sammy obliged, but forgot to put down two glasses, spilling a full pour over the edge of the bar.  “Ave joo lost u mind?” Coppertone asked with a snarl. “Now it lucks like I ‘ave done the pee-pee in ma pantalones!” his voice was a screech right into Charlene’s ear, as he looked down and brushed a hand over the spill.

“I can fix that,” Charlene said, turning and grabbing Coppertone’s frank and beans, twisting hard enough to wring out his pants and turn his well-tanned face white.  This time he screamed an octave higher than a cat with a tail caught in a lawnmower.   The Kid tried to push her hand away, but she had a steel grip.

Hearing the screech, Rat Fingers raced to the bar.  “Are you screaming at my girl?” he asked, ignoring Charlene’s twisting fist.

All Coppertone had a chance to do was look up, his face scrunched in pain before Rat Fingers caught him with a left, a right, another left, another right.  The band broke into a rumba fast enough to keep the rhythm and loud enough to drown the noise of an ass kicking. 

When The Kid hit the floor, the band went back to a slower paced version of The Last Roundup with the band’s singer, Wanda, joining in.  Dancers left the floor except for three drunks who kept staggering, oblivious that their partners had scattered like mice.

I noticed Mickey Mike in the back, sipping a drink, observing.  He gave me a wink and a light nod, then looked away.

 Capone’s replacement did a pretty good job of keeping the pieces of The Outfit together, but not a perfect job.  Chicago is a big town and unless you’re got an army, there’s no way to cover it all.  Mickey was the boss of one of the splinters.  Mickey’s real name was Mikowski.  He’s a guy you never want to turn your back on. I know him well.

I’d stepped back a couple of paces, in case Rat Fingers wanted to keep slugging.  It wouldn’t be the first time he finished up on a couple of bystanders.

I’m not saying I can’t hold my own, but Johnny never fought alone, if you catch my drift.  The barkeep already had a bat in his hand.  Edward the doorman, and another beefy bouncer were headed our way.

The Kid stood on shaky feet and sagged against the bar, his arms stretched out for support, looking like his bones had lost interest.  “From now on you keep your hands off my girl!”  As if on cue, Sammy’s bat came down like a butcher’s meat cleaver, missing the Kid’s outstretched fingers, only because Sammy’s eyes saw two sets of hands.  The bat sounded like The Babe had cracked another one out of the park.  Those at the tables ducked, sensing a pistol shot.  Eyes peered cautiously over the tabletops.  The drunks just kept dancing.

Rat Fingers and Carlene by this time had already turned their backs and were walking away arm in arm.  It wasn’t too long before Charlene reappeared, back to entertain customers.  This time she picked me.

“Hey there,” she said in her silky voice.

“Move on, please, without grabbing my balls.”

“He deserved it,” she said and turned her head toward Sammy, “A double shot of rye.” 

“Can I put it in two glasses?”

Must have been something in the air.  Charlene stifled a sneeze and those are catching.  Sammy sneezed, too and used a bar towel to wipe his nose before laying it back on the bar.

I offered Charlene my handkerchief and she said thanks and took it with an eye on Sammy and the bar towel.

It wasn’t until weeks later that I met Charlene again. Just after dusk there was a knock on my apartment door.  I opened it and there she was, looking as breathtaking as always.

“May I come in?” She purred, her sparling eyes warning me this was going to be a long afternoon.

Later on, she smoked, I didn’t, and we shared Bourbon on the rocks, while one of her glorious nipples played peek-a-boo from under my silk housecoat, wrapped loosely around her curves.

Now that we’d shared a good ride, it was time to look the gift horse in the mouth.  “Does McCone know you’re here?”

“You mean so he could kill us both?  No.  I decided to live a little longer.”

I shrugged.  “So? How do you know you weren’t followed?”

“You know Wanda, the singer with the band?”

I nodded.

“She’s occupying his evening.”

“I thought that was your job.”

“I’m playing hard to get.”

“So?”

“ Why am I here?” she asked.  It was a rhetorical question, so I leaned back against the headboard and sipped and waited to hear the answer.  “I’m tired of Johnny.  You saw his temper.”

“The two of you aren’t lovers?”

The phone in my bedroom rang. I excused myself, went into the bedroom, closed the door, and picked up the receiver.   When I came back, Charlene had a quizzical look.  “What do did you mean, when you said to watch yourself?”  I gave her my own quizzical look.  “I overheard,” she said.

“Business.   But, let’s get back to the question about you and Johnny being lovers.” 

“Look, do you want to spend the rest of our time playing question and answer?”

Definitely not.  No more questions.  Not hers, not mine.  

The next day, I strolled a few blocks and gave the boy on a corner a dime for a copy of The Chicago Daily Tribune.  I stopped a few steps later to glance at page 1. The headline was succinct:  Another Gangland Killing?

A deep and penetrating voice behind me asked, “Anything interesting?”  I glanced around to see one of the drunks from the dance floor.  He was still just as burly, but today he wasn’t drunk and sported a clean suit, white shirt and blue tie, and a fedora that barely covered his fat skull.  He may have been sober, but he still had bags under his watery eyes. He flashed a badge so quickly all I saw was the polished metal.  “I think we better talk.”

“Here?” I asked.

“Follow me.”  He led me down the street and turned into a narrow alley, bordered by the dirty brick walls of two tall apartment buildings.   Newspapers scattered, across the alley’s filthy, cracked cement floor, along with a couple of rotting wooden vegetable crates, probably from the small vegetable stand out on the street.  Overhead, wash hung limply on lines strung from building to building.

“Johnny McCone was killed last night.  You know anything about that?”

My mind immediately flitted back to my interlude with Charlene and then to today’s headline.  If I looked astonished, it was because I was. “Never heard anything before you told me.”

“You were in his club last night, The Black Pearl.”

“So were you and not in the best of shape, as I recall.”

I never saw the fist coming. It slammed into my solar plexus and folded me like a thin rug.  “Don’t play wise ass with me,” he growled. 

A blow to a relaxed mid-section can be a death blow.  They say it’s what killed Harry Houdini, and it felt like he’d just killed me.  I sucked for air.  I couldn’t think.  Unlike in the talkies, I didn’t shake it off and pile-drive him in a wall.  I suffered in fruitless, air sucking silence.

I thought I’d pass out until a deep gasp finally brought me back.  I was on my hands and knees.  All I saw were the tips of his polished brown shoes.  “Get up,” he said.

“So you can hit me again?” My voice sounded as weak as wilted lettuce.

“Then stay down.  This is fun for me.”  The kick felt like it broke a rib, maybe two.  I rolled to my side and struggled to stand up.  He grabbed my arm and pulled.  I was barely back on my feet when he twisted my arm behind me.

“So,” he said, “As I was saying, you haven’t answered the question.”

“I already told you!” I gasped, bent at the waist, trying to stop the pain.  “I don’t know anything about anybody getting killed.  Not Johnny McCone, not anybody.”

“I say different.  His girlfriend was at your apartment last night.”

So that was it.  I wanted to ask what else he knew, but I didn’t.

“Turn around,” he said.  I waited for a blow that never came.  His solid footsteps on the cement told me he was leaving.  I didn’t even try to look.

I went home, cleaned myself up, dusted the suit, and put on a fresh shirt and tie.

The Black Pearl was closed. I was hoping to talk to Charlene, but no luck.  

Funny how the neighborhoods in a big city run.  Smart shops and restaurants on one street and a couple of streets over they’re hanging wash out the windows, with mom and pop operations spilling out on the sidewalks.  Today I aimed for the smart streets and specifically Sander’s Café.  

Clean place, with serenely beige walls, subdued lighting and clean white trim on the doors and windowsills.  I sat in a booth, ordered coffee and a sweet roll from a skinny waitress in starched whites, and began to mentally gather the fractured pieces of my day.

“Mind if I join you,” Charlene purred, slipping in across from me.

“How did you know I was here?”

She smiled. “A little bird told me.”

I gave her a look and a shrug that spelled I was tired of games.

“Ok,” she said, her face getting more serious.  I went by your apartment, saw you a block away and followed you.”

“Why?”

“If you’ve got to ask, I might as well leave.”  She started to slide toward the end of the seat.

I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “Don’t,” I said, softly.

Just as softly, she slid back.

I told her about the guy who’d hammered me earlier.  “Charlie Cherry,” she said.  “He works…..worked for Johnny.”

“He showed me a badge.”

“Yeah,” she said.  “He likes to show everybody his damn badge.  It’s a phony.” She shrugged.  “He has high hopes of picking up where Johnny left off.”

“Who really runs The Pearl?”

“You know Tony Resutti?”

“No.”

“Just a very small piece of the pie.”

“And how about Wanda, the girl from the band?”

“She’s fine.”

I should have asked more, but didn’t.

It suddenly hit me between the eyes.  Wanda, whom I only know from seeing her on the bandstand and beefy Charlie could have killed Johnny.  Maybe they’re partners in the romantic sense, maybe a lot of things.

But, why would Charlie Cherry accost me and accuse me of the murder?  Alibi after the fact, or at least the appearance he had nothing to do with it.  Biggest question:  why me?  Lots of people in the club. A wide variety to pick from.

Two days later the cops arrived, with their usual guilty until proven innocent attitude.  The questions flew at me like arrows. My answers just bounced off.

Somehow they knew or suspected about Charlene.  Can’t ever tell with Chicago police.  They toss out suppositions as facts and wait to see how you react.  You know they got nothing when they threaten, but don’t make an arrest.  I didn’t have much of an alibi, but I also had no motive and there was nothing at the crime scene that would have tied me in because I wasn’t there.  At least that’s what I thought until one of them held up a handkerchief with my initials on it.

Either they realized a lot of people had better reasons, or the handkerchief wasn’t on Rat Finger’s desk or maybe it was something I couldn’t imagine.

They left and I immediately wondered whom else they’d talked to.

According to the afternoon Tribune, they’d arrested Wanda.  She didn’t confess, but the headline read, Gangster’s Wife Did It!

Something was distinctly missing in my knowledge bank.  Johnny and Wanda were man and wife?  They practically ignored each other the last night I was at their club.  Johnny walked around with his arm around Charlene, acting as if he owned her.

Maybe he did.  Maybe Wanda didn’t like it.  Maybe Wanda had her own affair going and didn’t give a damn.  Lots of maybes.

I’ve got other bars to go to and besides, The Black Pearl is closed until the cops finish their investigation.  Who knows?  Could be a day or two, or maybe a week.

Meanwhile, the evening was closing in like the rushing tide, and I needed a drink.

Marty’s steakhouse had a nice bar.  Never too crowded and the barkeep, unlike Sammy, doesn’t look at you like he can’t decide which side of your face to look at.

A pianist in the corner tinkled the keys on a baby grand. Cocktail waitresses strutted around in black stockings and one piece, red velvet skirts that belonged on stage at the Bolshoi. 

I sat at a table and waved one of them over.  That’s when The Coppertone Kid sat down. First time I’d seen him since Charlene had told him to turn his head and cough.   “What’s new?” he asked, the fake accent forgotten.

“You heard about Johnny.”

He nodded.  “Good riddance.”  He lifted his icy Manhattan and I did the same.  “I heard the cops know who did it.”  I didn’t say anything.

The next thing I knew, four cops burst in, came straight to my table and put me in cuffs.

The interrogation went south in a hurry.  I barely said anything.  They never raised their voices. No need.  They had a witness.  Wanda swore she saw me kill him with a knife to the throat.  She found my initialed handkerchief on the floor by his desk.  I had the motive.  I was hooked up with his girlfriend.  I had no alibi for when he was killed, which turned out to be the afternoon.  Charlie Cherry pounding me to a pulp evidently didn’t count.  The cops couldn’t confirm that it happened. Charlie had left town.

They figured they had their guy and that was the end of it.  I was in a cell and likely to stay there.

Until Jeffery Thomson, of the law firm of Thomson, Thomson and Baker showed up. The Chief of Police escorted him in, with more sirs given out than you’d hear on a parade ground.  I kept expecting the Chief to drop to his knees and kiss Thomson’s feet.

Thomson had me out of there in an hour, all charges dropped.  I asked who hired him and he just smiled and shook my hand, just as a gleaming gray Cadillac the size of a yacht pulled up.  The liveried driver opened a rear door and Thomson slid into red leather seats. He favored me with a slight wave as the car sped off.

I couldn’t help thinking of anyone I knew who could hire the king of the court, even for an hour, and for that kind of money, why the hell couldn’t he give me a ride home?

Later that day, the cops arrested Rex Pander, The Coppertone Kid, at the train station.  I had no doubt, another Cadillac would show up to put him back on the street and on his way back to Miami.

Charlene showed up late at night, but even fresh out of jail I wasn’t up for a home game, until she convinced me she needed to hit a home run.

Over the bottle of rye she’d brought with her, and this time no housecoat, we played a game of guess who.

I lined up the suspects for her. The Kid, of course, or Charlie Cherry, or Edward the doorman, whom Rat fingers always treated like crap.

“Or maybe it was you,” I said.  “You as much as told me you were tired of him and Johnny didn’t impress me as a man who gave up easily.  In this town, it might have been even somebody who had a beef, even someone I don’t know.”

“Oh, you know, alright,” she said the words with a smile and took a sip of her rye, her eyes never leaving mine.”

“You?”

She shook her head, no.  “Guess again.”

I did and then again. And then we gave up on the guessing games and the rye and decided not to talk much.

The Black Pearl didn’t close.  Mickey Mike took over ownership.  Sammy stayed at the bar because he was too big a draw to let go.  People still came in to watch him pour.  Edward became the manager and still shook my hand.  Charlene married a top-notch lawyer, which answered one of my pressing questions.

The case of who killed Rat Fingers was chalked up as a gangland hit. 

And for reasons unknown, Wanda left awfully suddenly on a train to Miami, with a one-way ticket and a smile.