“This is the Chicago story of my grandfathers and father and uncles. It’s as tough and real and bittersweet as an old neighborhood dive. In fact, it might just be one come alive.” – Bill Hillmann, author of The Old Neighborhood
Bob Hartley was raised on the West Side of Chicago. He holds an MFA in fiction from the University of Pittsburgh. His first novel, Following Tommy, was published in 2012 by Cervena Barva Press to extremely favorable reviews. He has been, among other things, a writer, actor, singer, teacher, bartender, mailroom clerk, and washer of soap molds. He currently makes his living as a respiratory therapist and lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two children.
The following excerpt from North and Central, Hartley’s most recent book — an excellent literary crime novel — is published here courtesy of Tortoise Books.
From the Publisher: “Andy’s a bartender in Chicago’s North Austin neighborhood in the late 1970s. For years, he’s been slinging beers to corrupt cops and fat Zenith employees, but given the West Side’s ongoing decline (and his own serious health issues), he’s starting to wonder how long it can go on. He’s serving workers from a dying factory in a dying neighborhood; he sees crime on the rise — and he decides to become a criminal himself.
North and Central perfectly evokes the Windy City in the epic winter of ’78-’79–the bleak season of blizzards and disco and John Wayne Gacy — capturing it in microcosm through the denizens of one blue-collar watering hole. If Springsteen and Bukowski had teamed up to write a story about a Chicago bar, they’d have been hard pressed to do better than this; it’s an anti-Cheers, a bittersweet story about a place where everybody knows your nickname, and they’re tired of you coming around because you’re a degenerate. But it’s more than just a static portrait; it’s a gripping and moving story destined to earn its own place among the classics of Chicago literature. “
I was a balding thirty-five-year-old with a belly and heel spurs. My bar took up a corner at North and Central. It was red brick with glass block windows.
It was a Friday in early December and the Old Style sign was swinging in the wind. I sat banging dents into quarters with a hammer and nail. Bill, the night bartender, had called in sick again. And I’d had to stock and clean the bar because Donald, the afternoon guy, hadn’t done shit. All I asked for in bartenders was that they showed up, did most of what they were supposed to, and didn’t steal too much. Donald was getting too close to the line. Bill had maybe crossed it. With every whack of the hammer, I imagined I was cracking his skull.
Railroad Bob was passed out in a booth with his dirty hair forming a wooly cloud around his head. His boots were sticking out and dripping mud onto my floor. The Skeletons sat with their shoulders hunched. Their elbows were sunk into the bar and they chain-smoked Chesterfields. They were old and gray. Their skin sagged so much it looked like it’d been draped on them. Like always, they were fucking with each other.
“Buy one,” she said.
“With what?” he replied.
“Got some.”
“Not enough.”
“Enough for one.”
“Christ. Think only of yourself.”
“Asshole.”
“You married me.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The arguing was part real and part con. They gambled. If they kept it up long enough, I’d either buy them one or throw them out. Sometimes it’s easier to be a sucker. I had too much to do. I gave them two Buds. “On me,” I said. “Shut…the…fuck…up.”
It was like giving a baby a bottle. They went back to smoking and I went back to work. I’d just started bashing Washington’s head again when Rita came in. She always wore this old brown leather bomber jacket with the collar turned up. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she had this little gap between her two front teeth. She had these hazel eyes that pierced right through me and made me sometimes forget what I was saying. She hopped onto the stool next to me.
“Seen him?” she asked.
I’d seen Jerry around six and he’d said he’d be in. He told her he’d be working. Jerry lied to her all the time even when the truth was just as good.
Anybody else, I could look straight in the face and lie to, but not her. I looked at the quarters. “No,” I said.
She leaned closer and tried to make eye contact. I kept banging dents.
“Really?” she said.
“Really,” I said.
“Every payday the asshole’s a ghost.”
“I can let ya have fifty.”
“That’s okay.”
She leaned even closer. Her arm brushed against mine and the feeling of her skin, even for those few seconds, made me want to take hold of her.
“What are you doin’?” she said.
“Bill called in sick. And on top of that, I’m pretty sure the fucker’s been ripping off the jukebox during the week,” I said. “I think he’s stupid enough to use the register to cash in the quarters. Monday night, when I’m countin’ the drawer, if these are there, I’ll fire his ass.”
She tilted her head a little, laughed, and said I was smart. And because it was her that said it, I believed I was. She told me that, if I saw Jerry, to call her. She hopped off the stool, backed up, and turned toward the door.
Railroad Bob had pulled himself up. He was smoking a cigarette and staring at the table like it was telling him a secret. He looked up and, when he saw her, he smiled and raised a hand that shook a little.
“How’s it goin’, sister,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “How’s your ma?”
“Dead.”
Rita’s face went a bit pale. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move either. She needed an out.
“Could be worse,” I said. “Right, Bob.”
“Yeah,” Bob said. “Bitch could still be here.”
Rita looked at me and smiled. Then she laughed a little, moved to the door, gave it a pull, and walked out. Railroad Bob got up and threw a five on the bar. I cracked open an Old Style, shoved it in front of him, and made his change. He took a drink and looked over at Old Man Skeleton and said: “Some dead are more alive than the livin’.”
“Shut up,” Old Man Skeleton said. “Christ, you’re a dark bastard.”
“Death smiles at me. I smile back.”
“Shut the hell up.”
I thought about running after Rita and telling her that Jerry had lied and that, if she came back later, she’d find him spending the money she needed. But I couldn’t tell her that, because if I had, she’d have known for sure that I was a liar too.
It started getting busy around eleven.
First, the cops started filing through the back door. On Friday nights there were always three or four squads parked in my alley with the windows rolled down. The cops took turns sitting out back and listening for calls. Most of the time, there were more of them in my bar than they had at roll call. Jerry wasn’t on duty. The rest were. They threw their uniform jackets over the barstools and their caps on the bar, then pulled out their shirttails and rolled up their sleeves.
I opened a dozen Old Styles, put them on the bar, and started their tab. They played liar’s poker. Each one kept a beer in one hand and a folded dollar bill in the other. They huddled around taking peeks, and making bets. Soon there was a small mountain of crumpled bills piling up on the bar.
The Zenith factory second-shift guys came next. Like the cops, they marked their territory and took up space close to the door. They threw their work coats into a booth, sat down on stools, and cranked their heads to watch the TV. Over the past couple of years, there’d been steady layoffs. So there were fewer of them, but they knew how to drink, and still made up a good part of the business. They ordered pitchers and shots and threw quarters into the Wurlitzer. They loved “Iron Man” and played it over and over.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and hit the reset button. When the music stopped, Railroad Bob still stood in front of the box, stomping in place, whipping his hair around with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He looked like a drunk Jesus waiting for the ascension.
“Bob, the fucking song’s over,” I said.
But he kept it up. “Fuck you. I’m Iron Man.”
“Well look at your pants. Somebody pissed on Iron Man.”
Only then did he notice the stain on his crotch. “Mother of mercy,” he said. “Is this the end of Bob?” The cops and Zeniths laughed, and somebody bought him a beer.
After a few rounds, the two groups blurred. A few of them started making bets on the Shuffle Alley machine. The puck banged against the pins and each time somebody hit a strike, bells rang, and Catwoman’s tits lit up.
Business had been shit and I needed a good night, but I wished they’d stop coming through the door for a while. Still, each time it squeaked meant money. I banged on the register, threw bottles into garbage cans, dumped ashtrays, and wiped up spills. And every ten minutes or so, two or three red or blue flannel shirts walked out the backdoor and came back with slits for eyes, and smelling like weed. The cops paid no heed.
When Gin and Tonic Doc came in, I knew it was midnight. He took his usual spot in the middle of the bar and a few stools from the Skeletons.
It was 6:00 before I finished cleaning and stocking. I always did the books last. Next to the register, I kept a piece of paper with two columns of hash marks—one for six packs and the other for drinks. I pulled the bank and counted the difference. I kept three .38s hidden: one at each end of the bar and another behind the register. I never left them there. There’d been a lot more burglaries lately, and the last thing I needed was to be shot with my own gun. I put two in a plastic bag and one in my pocket. I put the night’s take and the list in a bank pouch, grabbed the gun bag, and went down to the basement.
The safe was toward the front of building close to the old coal chute. Next to it was a card table with a few folding chairs around it. On top of it was a long-sleeved flannel shirt and a pair of gardening gloves.
The safe was in the floor. Years before, the place was burglarized and they’d taken the old one. My mother thought it was so heavy no one would be able to get it up the stairs and out the door. She was wrong. So she’d had the basement floor broken up and a safe dropped into it. She said that if the fuckers wanted it, they’d have to bring a jackhammer.
I opened the safe, pulled out the IRS ledger, and put it on the table. Then I put on the shirt and gardening gloves and opened the old coal chute door. Inside was a big pile of black chunks and dust. I pushed my hand into the pile until my arm was covered with coal and I felt the plastic bag. I grabbed and pulled. Inside the bag was the second ledger—the real one.
I took it out of the bag and threw it on the table. I took off the gloves and shirt. I sat down and added up the six-pack money and then the drinks. I took it from the pouch, wrapped the wad with a rubber band and stuffed it into my pocket. I ripped up the lists into small pieces and put them in my pocket too. I always flushed anything that could be used against me. Then I counted the rest and entered the total into the IRS book.
I put the cash in a deposit envelope, licked it, sealed it, and put it back into the pouch. I closed the book, opened the other, and entered the total amount of Saturday’s take.
On the inside flap of the book was a pocket with some envelopes. I spread them out. Under each flap was written 100, 50, 20, or 10. I never wrote anything else on the envelopes. I didn’t need names. It was 1978, it was Chicago, and it was Austin. Everybody, from the local juice loan guy to the neighborhood priest, knew the way the game was played. And even though the bar wasn’t making near what it used to, I still had to pay the fuckers their money.
One hundred went to Jerry who bumped it up to his district commander. Fifty went to the liquor control people. Twenty went to fire, health, building or any other inspector who might come by looking for some trumped up violation. Ten went to random cops for hauling away drunks or bouncing the occasional asshole.
But I rarely had anybody busted. My mother taught me that anybody can have a few too many and have a bad night. Unless they were always causing trouble, you wanted them to come back. They can’t spend their money if they’re in jail.
I filled any empty envelope and put them back into the ledger’s pocket. I put the pouch and IRS book back into the safe and closed it.
Austin Federal had a drop box, but I never made a deposit at the same time or on the same day. Sometimes, I’d even skip a week. I was taught that, in the bar business, especially in a neighborhood like mine, I should expect to get robbed once or twice, but that didn’t mean I had to make it easy for the bastards.
I put the gloves and flannel back on, took the real ledger, put it back into its plastic bag, and shoved it deep into the pile of coal. I did the same with the gun bag. I shut the chute door, took off the gloves and shirt, and went upstairs to wait for Donald.
At 6:45, Donald pounded on the door. He was big and looked tough. He even had a tattoo of an eagle on his skull. He was harmless. It’s usually the little psychopaths that are the most dangerous. They’ll slit your throat just for being in the same room with them. But Donald’s size and that tattoo kept me from having any trouble during the day. Plus, again, he showed up, and he didn’t steal too much.
I unlocked the door, we traded nods, and I walked out. I made sure the tavern never opened earlier or closed later than the license allowed. Still, there was a small group of Zenith night shifters and early morning drunks huddled around the front of the bar shifting feet and blowing into fists. And, even though it had never happened before, they all looked at me like this was the morning I’d let them in early. That hungry look is what hustlers depend on.
It reminded me of being a kid waiting for the fucking nuns to open the school doors in January. On those days, it didn’t matter that my mother had wrapped me up in my winter coat, scarf, and hat, and that she’d put my feet in plastic bags and covered them with my socks and shoes. It didn’t matter that I kept my hands balled up inside my gloves all the way to St. Lucy’s. The cold still cut through my pants, stung my face, and numbed my fingers. The snow still managed to get past the plastic bags. By the time I got to school, my feet were frozen stubs.
We stood there in straight lines. We huddled together, stomped our feet, and hunched our shoulders. We looked like little slaves in a gulag. But even for the littlest ones, the nuns would still never open up early. They would just stand inside and make small talk until the bell rang and, then, finally, they’d unlock the damn doors and let us in for another day of getting smacked around.
Even before the school day started, they made sure we knew who was in charge. How anybody can say they liked those bitches is beyond me. I never met one I didn’t want to shove in front of a train.
When the drunks heard the click of Donald locking the door, they looked at me the way I looked at those nuns. I knew what they needed, but wouldn’t give it to them. Instead, I just shrugged, shoved my hands in my pockets, and kept moving. I’m sure they wanted to shove me in front of a train too…
This excerpt from North and Central is published here courtesy of Tortoise Books and should not be reprinted without permission. The print excerpt is longer – this version has been slightly condensed.
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