Free A Killing Fair by Glenn Ickler

“Congratu­lations.”
    â€œThe doctor will be e-mailing his full report to all the media within the hour,” KGB said.
    I tried again. “As I said, your first observation was correct.”
    â€œWe have no comment on that. Have a good day, Mr. Mitchell.”
    I shook my head as I put down the phone. “Talking to KGB is like talking to a computerized robot,” I said to Al.
    â€œMaybe she needs rebooting,” he said.
    â€œI’d love to reboot her. Right square in the ass with my size twelve boot.”
    â€œWell, I need to butt out to an assignment,” Al said. “See you at lunch?”
    â€œI’m thinking about eating at the Northern Exposure, where the owner supposedly does not like Vinnie Luciano.”
    â€œToo rich for my blood. And I can’t justify it on my expense account.”
    â€œI can and I will,” I said. “See you whenever.”
    The ME’s e-mail arrived a few minutes later, giving me the basis for a story. After sending the finished piece to Don O’Rourke, I followed up by walking to his desk and telling him where I’d be having lunch and why.
    â€œBetter wait to talk to Oscar until after you eat,” Don said. “If he poisoned Vinnie he might slip something into your coleslaw.”
    â€œNot the coleslaw,” I said. “He’s very proud of the coleslaw. He’s more likely to sprinkle strychnine on the French fries.”
    The Northern Exposure, in a high-buck district on Grand Avenue, had one of the city’s pricier luncheon menus. The owner, Oscar Peterson, grew up in Norway and his speech bore a strong Scandinavian influence. In fact, his accent would make him the perfect caller for a square dance club named for Ole and Lena.
    Oscar always greeted his customers at the door with a wide smile and a vigorous handshake before passing them on to the hostess for seating. I mimicked his joviality and said I hoped he’d stop at my table while I was there, and he promised he would. I was about halfway through my batter-fried walleye with fries and coleslaw when Oscar plopped down in the chair across the table.
    â€œSo how ya been then, Mitch?” he asked. “Ain’t seen ya here for a long time.”
    â€œBeen keeping busy,” I said. “If you’d move your restaurant down to Sixth Street you’d see me more often.”
    â€œYah, I s’pose I’d get more business downtown, but I kinda like it up here. Does somethin’ special bring you in today then?”
    I took a sip of coffee before I answered. “I’m working on the Vinnie Luciano murder story. I’m gathering the reactions of prominent people who knew him.”
    â€œOh, yah? Well, I don’t know I’m so prominent, but my reaction is I won’t miss the old bastard.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œHe was greedy. He gobbled up all the business from the goddamn politicians and sports teams in the city and didn’t leave nothin’ for nobody else. You probably don’t want to print that.”
    â€œYou don’t think all those people went to King Vinnie’s by choice?”
    â€œHe went after ’em,” Oscar said. “He was like a goddamn Marine recruiter. Sucked up to them with a lot of special deals and that kinda stuff. He coulda left a few for the rest of us, ya know. And now he was goin’ into the State Fair to boot.”
    â€œYou have a State Fair booth, don’t you?” I asked.
    â€œYou bet’cha. And I aim to protect it.”
    I took a bite of walleye, chewed it and swallowed. “How were you planning to protect it from Vinnie?” I said.
    Oscar frowned. “You ain’t thinkin’ I’d be crazy enough to kill my competition now, are ya, Mitch?”
    â€œI’m just asking what you’d do for protection.”
    His voice got louder. “That’s my business, and it ain’t for the press. But you can