On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery Read Online Free PDF
Author: Tom Schreck
in jail were all sufficient to put her over the edge.
Just the same, I called Kelley to see if he could help. He wasn’t in, but I knew where I could find him. I put Al’s new leash on him and we headed for AJ’s. AJ’s is a grill on the West Side, in the middle of the city’s industrial section. It was a speakeasy during prohibition, and I think that was the last time that any of the AJs had put a dime into the place. The bar has been passed down three generations to its current proprietor, the one and only Andrew Jursczak III. The place reeked of stale beer, cigar smoke, and the poor hygiene of the people who frequented the place. Kelley hung out there a lot when he was off duty.
AJ’s is a dive, which is why I like it. I parked right in front of the entrance, told Al I’d be back, and headed in. As I closed my door and walked around the car, I could hear Al’s protest. I did my best to ignore him, that is, if you can ignore the baritone woofing of a hound fixated on getting your attention.
The place is long and thin with a bar capable of holding maybe eighteen patrons, and there are a half-dozen tables set close to the wall that no one ever sits in. The walls feature old-time beer signs, not because AJ III thought they were trendy, but because AJ’s grandfather got them for free in the forties.
The regulars, or the Fearsome Foursome as I called them, were present. There was TC, a lifetime state worker, sipping a draft of Genny with a back of B&B. TC’s view of the world consisted of figuring the best way to expend the least amount of effort in life and maximize the greatest amount of pleasure. There was Jerry Number One, a contractor, drinking a draft of Bud. Jerry Number One told the filthiest and least funny jokes that you never wanted to hear. Next to him was Jerry Number Two, who didn’t work and took one too many acid trips, drinking his signature Cosmopolitan. Lastly, there was Rocco, a retired construction worker and a WWII vet with a scotch on the rocks in front of him. He had spent the war in Okinawa and often referred to the hand-to-hand combat he learned from the “Japs.” Age hadn’t mellowed Rocco, and at seventy-five he still hated everything and everybody, mostly because things were perfect in his day and now they completely sucked. The Foursome sat in the four seats directly behind the stick, in the same order from left to right every night.
Kelley was sitting to the left of TC with a seat in between the two of them, turned in the opposite direction toward the TV, half paying attention to the Yankee game. AJ always had the Yanks on with the TV sound turned down and a radio turned on to catch the play-by-play. I took the stool between him and TC. AJ opened a bottle of Schlitz and slid it in front of me without me asking. They kept Schlitz at AJ’s just for me.
“What’s up, Duff?” Kelley said.
“Ahh, you know,” I said. “Still in the business of saving lives.”
“God bless you, man,” Kelley said.
Kelley was the kind of guy that didn’t make a lot of small talk and, though he was good guy, you kind of got the message when he wanted to get a few beers in him and zone out while watching a game on the TV. Just the same, I needed his help tonight.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“You just did,” Kelley said.
“Seriously … ,” I said.
“Go ahead,” Kelley said.
“Walanda left a message on my machine,” I said. “She was hysterical about somebody trying to kill her in jail.”
“Yeah?” he said. Kelley took a pull off his Coors Light and watched Jeter lead off the inning with a single between third and short.
“Well, should I be worried?” I said. “Do you think she’s just being nuts?”
Kelley put his beer down and swung his stool partially around.
“Look, Duff, you and me have different relationships with these people.” Kelley took a sip from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt,
Just the same, I called Kelley to see if he could help. He wasn’t in, but I knew where I could find him. I put Al’s new leash on him and we headed for AJ’s. AJ’s is a grill on the West Side, in the middle of the city’s industrial section. It was a speakeasy during prohibition, and I think that was the last time that any of the AJs had put a dime into the place. The bar has been passed down three generations to its current proprietor, the one and only Andrew Jursczak III. The place reeked of stale beer, cigar smoke, and the poor hygiene of the people who frequented the place. Kelley hung out there a lot when he was off duty.
AJ’s is a dive, which is why I like it. I parked right in front of the entrance, told Al I’d be back, and headed in. As I closed my door and walked around the car, I could hear Al’s protest. I did my best to ignore him, that is, if you can ignore the baritone woofing of a hound fixated on getting your attention.
The place is long and thin with a bar capable of holding maybe eighteen patrons, and there are a half-dozen tables set close to the wall that no one ever sits in. The walls feature old-time beer signs, not because AJ III thought they were trendy, but because AJ’s grandfather got them for free in the forties.
The regulars, or the Fearsome Foursome as I called them, were present. There was TC, a lifetime state worker, sipping a draft of Genny with a back of B&B. TC’s view of the world consisted of figuring the best way to expend the least amount of effort in life and maximize the greatest amount of pleasure. There was Jerry Number One, a contractor, drinking a draft of Bud. Jerry Number One told the filthiest and least funny jokes that you never wanted to hear. Next to him was Jerry Number Two, who didn’t work and took one too many acid trips, drinking his signature Cosmopolitan. Lastly, there was Rocco, a retired construction worker and a WWII vet with a scotch on the rocks in front of him. He had spent the war in Okinawa and often referred to the hand-to-hand combat he learned from the “Japs.” Age hadn’t mellowed Rocco, and at seventy-five he still hated everything and everybody, mostly because things were perfect in his day and now they completely sucked. The Foursome sat in the four seats directly behind the stick, in the same order from left to right every night.
Kelley was sitting to the left of TC with a seat in between the two of them, turned in the opposite direction toward the TV, half paying attention to the Yankee game. AJ always had the Yanks on with the TV sound turned down and a radio turned on to catch the play-by-play. I took the stool between him and TC. AJ opened a bottle of Schlitz and slid it in front of me without me asking. They kept Schlitz at AJ’s just for me.
“What’s up, Duff?” Kelley said.
“Ahh, you know,” I said. “Still in the business of saving lives.”
“God bless you, man,” Kelley said.
Kelley was the kind of guy that didn’t make a lot of small talk and, though he was good guy, you kind of got the message when he wanted to get a few beers in him and zone out while watching a game on the TV. Just the same, I needed his help tonight.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“You just did,” Kelley said.
“Seriously … ,” I said.
“Go ahead,” Kelley said.
“Walanda left a message on my machine,” I said. “She was hysterical about somebody trying to kill her in jail.”
“Yeah?” he said. Kelley took a pull off his Coors Light and watched Jeter lead off the inning with a single between third and short.
“Well, should I be worried?” I said. “Do you think she’s just being nuts?”
Kelley put his beer down and swung his stool partially around.
“Look, Duff, you and me have different relationships with these people.” Kelley took a sip from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt,