Everybody Goes to Jimmy's Read Online Free PDF

to have a way to make a living, and I figured that once things turned around, I’d be fine. But it sure as hell didn’t get any easier with more and more guys out of work and banks closing and the goddamn government about to force me to become an honest publican.
    It always made me feel kind of classy to call myself a publican. Had to look it up the first time I saw it in a newspaper. It’s a guy who runs a public house where people can buy booze. Means some other things too, but they don’t apply.
    The speak was a couple of steps below street level. There was a restaurant upstairs, the Cruzon Grill. We had an arrangement with them. Actually, I sort of owned Cruzon, too. Back in the early days of Prohibition, Carl or somebody, I really don’t know who it was, made some adjustments to the cellar with hidden storage spaces and passageways that led out to vaults under nearby buildings, including a church. He kept a lot of his inventory there. You see, back then the cops and the feds actually raided speakeasies. It’s crazy, I know, but it happened, and so Carl or whoever stored stuff at different addresses, ones that wouldn’t be listed on a warrant, so they couldn’t seize the stuff. At least, that’s what I heard, and I know a lot of guys thought the same thing whether it was true or not.
    It had been years since anything like that happened. I had an arrangement with the local cops and most of the feds. Fat Joe Beddoes somehow knew if strangers who tried to get in weren’t kosher, and kept them out. Maybe I lost some paying customers because of my bouncer, but we never got raided.
    The speak had been tonied up since I took it over. Nothing elaborate, just new carpeting, wallpaper, plumbing in the bathrooms, tin ceiling, and we cleaned the picture of the naked lady behind the bar. We even put in a little dance floor, and if we ever got around to booking any musicians, maybe somebody would dance.
    Connie Nix and Marie Therese were behind the bar whispering to each other and giving me cool disapproving looks.
    I took my table at the back. Connie brought me a cup of coffee and the evening papers. Then she handed me a card and said, as properly polite as she could be, that there was a gent at the bar who wanted to see me. It was a personal card, not a business card, and it read: JOHANN KLAPPROTT.
    I rubbed my thumb over the engraving. Expensive stuff. I told her to send him over. She looked back and raised a hand.
    The two strangers at the bar were watching us. One of them was a big scowling bald guy. The other one picked up a short glass and made his way through the tables. He was a sleek but comfortably plump blond man who walked carefully and carried a Malacca cane he didn’t need. He wore calfskin gloves and a dark blue three-piece worsted with the faintest of red pinstripes. It fit well enough to have been made for him. His blood-red tie was tied into a tight walnut-sized knot tucked behind the high collar of his white shirt. He bowed slightly before he pulled out a chair and sat across from me.
    His face was flushed, maybe from the cold, maybe from the drink, and he sat just as carefully as he walked, tugging his trousers to maintain a sharp crease when he crossed his legs. He was probably forty or so, with regular features, and he wore some kind of woody cologne.
    â€œThank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Quinn. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
    He had a slight accent and pale gray eyes. He took out a brushed steel cigarette case but put it back when he noticed there wasn’t an ashtray on the table. If he’d asked, I’d have told him to go ahead and light up. I always did. That was good business, and it was just the way things were then. Thinking back on it, I believe Johann Klapprott was the only person who figured out how much I didn’t like cigarette smoke. He covered the odd moment by taking a sip of his drink and toasting me with it.
    â€œI