Free Windy City Blues by Marc Krulewitch

the equivalent of buying an expensive long-term disability plan.
    Dad rarely left his apartment in a six-flat on Pine Grove and Waveland, which is why I didn’t bother calling. Through the door’s oval glass, I watched him hobble toward me. He employed his cane carefully, keeping his gaze to the floor. Not until he opened the door did Dad lift his head and offer me a fleeting smile. His blue eyes still gave off a spark of youthful vitality that betrayed a body slowly succumbing to prostate cancer. I bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Dad turned then motioned for me to follow.
    “Why don’t you have one of those guys live here?” I said. “Let them answer the door.”
    Dad lowered himself to the couch and sat upright with both hands resting on the cane handle. “Because I can still wipe my own ass, that’s why. When I can’t, then it’s time to go. So what’s new?”
    I sat in a chair opposite the couch and got right to the point. “I’ve taken another murder case.”
    Dad had no immediate reaction other than to purse and un-purse his lips, something he always did when contemplating. “Well, what are you going to do?” he finally said.
    “If I thought you’d never ask me again, maybe I’d keep it to myself. But I’m not going to lie to you.”
    Dad appeared okay with my answer. “Hey, what I don’t know won’t hurt me. Just go about your business. No point in worrying.”
    I waited for more. “That’s it? You’re going to let me off that easy?”
    “You got any friends besides your father and another old man at death’s door?”
    So much for letting me off easy. “What’s the difference?”
    “What about that girl? Susie, wasn’t it? You sounded kind of happy about her.”
    “I was happy about her but…we wanted different things. It’s complicated—and she had to go back to Connecticut, to help take care of her parents.”
    “Hey, what about Peggy?”
    I thought I was hearing things. “What about her? That was high school, for chrissake!”
    He looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure where he was. Then his face softened. “That’s right,” he said. “What’s the matter with me?” Dad looked at his watch. “Well, I want to watch my show now.” He positioned himself at the end of the couch cushion then slowly rose to his feet, gripping the cane handle to steady himself. I watched his painstaking journey down the hall. After he disappeared into his bedroom, I let myself out.

16
    I sat in my recliner with a cat on my lap. We stared at each other as I dialed the phone. She blinked. “I love you, too,” I said, and as if on cue, she dug her rear claws into my thigh and leaped off. Love is complicated.
    A young female voice answered: “Johnny Bail Bonds. How may I direct your call?”
    “Jules for Johnny.”
    Stringed instruments, then, “Mr. Landau! The bloodthirsty Tyrannosaurus investigatorius!”
    Johnny “Bail Bonds” Duggan liked playing with words. He found me after liberating a pile of business cards from a fish bowl on a restaurant cashier’s counter, thus depriving someone of a free lunch. Johnny credited me with saving his marriage by verifying Sheila really met her friends every week for “girl chat” and that “Shawn” was also a woman’s name. Having Johnny insanely grateful had two serious advantages: Sheila worked in the police crime lab and her brother was a cop.
    “I need a background check and this time I’m paying for the service.”
    “You ain’t paying for nothing. Not at Johnny Bail Bonds.”
    “C’mon, John, I can afford to pay, I don’t need—”
    Stringed instruments with harpsichord. Vivaldi, I thought. He came back on. “Every time you say you’re gonna pay, you go on hold a little longer. So what’ll it be?”
    Johnny was pure blue-collar Chicago Irish. Favors were sacred and never forgotten. Arguing was pointless. “Gordon Baxter, North Side.”
    “Give me an hour.” Johnny hung up.
    I leaned the recliner all the way back, which