Ecstatic Cahoots: Fifty Short Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

who sat in silence as if what they had to say were too confidential to be uttered in the presence of a stranger. The team was having a losing season.
    “Buy the kid a shot,” one of the Bears said.
    “Whatever you say, Jimbo,” the bartender replied. He set a shot glass before me and, staring into my face rather than at the glass, filled it perfectly to the brim. Each man has his own way to show he’s nobody’s fool, and pouring shots without looking at the glass was the bartender’s: he knew I was underage.
    “Hit me, too, Sambo,” Jimbo said, and when the bartender filled his glass, the tackle or linebacker or whatever Jimbo was raised the teeny shot glass in my direction. “This’ll warm you up. Don’t say I never bought you nothing,” he said, and we threw back our whiskeys.
    “Much thanks,” I said.
    “Now get your puny ass out of here,” Jimbo told me.
    *   *   *
     
    Back outside, I hooded my head in the green scarf and watched a snowplow with whirling emergency lights scuff by and disappear up Broadway. Waiting was futile. I decided to walk to the L station on Wilson. Rather than wade the drifted sidewalks, I followed the ruts the snowplow left in the street. I trudged head down, not bothering to check for traffic until I heard a horn behind me. Headlights burrowed through the blizzard. The beams appeared to be shooting confetti. The car—a Lincoln, maybe—sported an enormous, toothy grille. Whatever its make, the style was what in my old neighborhood was called a pimpmobile. I stepped from the ruts to give it room to pass. It slowed to a stop. A steamed window slid down.
    “Need a ride, hombre?”
    I got in, my lips too frozen for more than a “thanks.” The rear wheels spun. I sat shivering, afraid I’d have to leave the blast of the heater in order to push that big-ass boat out of the snow.
    “You can do it, baby,” the driver said as if urging a burro. I was tempted to caution that giving it gas would only dig us in deeper, but knew to keep such opinions to myself. “Come on, baby!” He ripped the floor shift into reverse, slammed it back into drive, back into reverse, and into drive again. “Go, go, you got it,” and as if it were listening, the car rocked forward, grabbed, and kept rolling.
    “Thought for a second we were stuck,” I said.
    “No way, my friend, and hey, you’re here to push, but not to worry, there’s no stopping Lino tonight.”
    I unwound the scarf from my head and massaged my frozen nose and ears.
    “Yo, man, you wearing perfume?” he asked.
    “It’s the scarf,” I said.
    “You in that scarf, man! When I saw you in the street, I thought some poor broad was out alone, you know? I told myself, Lino, the world is full of babes tonight. Where you headed, my friend?”
    “Rogers Park,” I said. “Just off Sheridan.” I couldn’t stop shivering.
    “Man, you’d a had a tough time getting there. Whole city’s shut down. What you doing out so late? Getting a little, dare I ask?” He smiled conspiratorially. His upturned mustache attached to his prominent nose moved independently of his smile.
    “Drinking. With the Bears,” I added.
    “You mean like the football Bears?”
    “Yeah, Jimbo and the guys.”
    “Over at the Buena Chimes, man?”
    “How’d you know?”
    “Everybody knows they drink there. You got the shakes, man? Lino got the cure—pop the glove compartment.”
    I pressed the button and the glove compartment flopped open. An initialed silver flask rested on a ratty-looking street map. Beneath the map I could see the waffled gray handle of a small-caliber gun. I closed the glove compartment, and we passed the flask between us in silence.
    “What are we drinking?” I asked. It had an oily licorice taste with the kick of grain alcohol—not what I expected.
    “We’re drinking to a night that’s going to be a goddamn legend, hombre. The kind of night that changes your life.” He took a swig for emphasis, then passed the flask to