Free Start Shooting by Charlie Newton Page A

sixteen summer tables are topped with red-checked tablecloths and Chianti-bottle candles. A box planter spilling bougainvillea separates customer from passing pedestrian, ward heeler and political fixer from civilian.
    Ruben rises from the table nearest the front door and introduces me to his attorney, James W. Barlow, mid-fifties, no necktie, 2016 Olympics pin, starched cuffs; a man known for his appetites, not his philanthropy. Mr. Barlow and I shake hands; he eyes my gun, jeans, and vest, then motions me to sit. The long patio is mostly men in expensive suits with happy hour or regular tee times glowing in their faces. Twenty-five years ago Chicago’s power structure imploded right here. The feds tape-recorded and convicted a slew of judges, policemen, deputy sheriffs,Outfit bosses, union bosses, and forty-eight members of the Illinois State Bar. Operation Greylord remains the FBI’s single biggest case against the Chicago Machine. Half these men probably don’t know that; the half that do are the ones who worry me.
    I scoot my chair toward the wall, but still have to sit with half my back to LaSalle Street. Mr. Barlow’s nails are manicured; the TAG Heuer watch is the only non-knockoff I’ve ever seen and probably cost as much as my car. But then, any watch that runs probably costs more than my Civic. This morning’s
Herald
is open on our red-checked tablecloth.
    Mr. Barlow swishes a highball above “MONSTER.” “Whatever you have to hide, Bobby, I should know.”
    Ruben sips Scotch.
    “Have we met, Mr. Barlow?”
    Barlow levels his eyes, accustomed to making demands that border on insult. A courtroom lawyer unconcerned with real-world reprisals.
    “And we’re not engaged?”
    “No.”
    “So, ah, why would I answer a question like that … at a time like this?”
    Ruben winks at me, then rolls his eyes at Barlow. “Told you.”
    “Two reasons, Officer Vargas—money and jail.”
    Cute. I ask Ruben how well he knows Mr. Barlow.
    “Well enough I take him to the cockfights.”
    I nod small, but don’t answer.
    Ruben quits smiling and adds diction. “When Mr. Barlow isn’t assisting slandered and libeled police officers from the Hispanic community, he walks and golfs with the city’s movers and shakers. His firm is
the
firm for a fight with the
Herald
and he’ll take our case as a personal favor.”
    “Favor to who?”
    Ruben looks down his nose at his little brother, reminding me who was the man of the house after Dad died. Who kept the wolf from the door and who made sure Mom and I always had what we needed while Ruben often went without. “A favor to
me
.”
    “My brother’s a mover and shaker? Not a homicide detective making ninety a year?”
    On Ruben’s left, a man exits a limo with a bodyguard-assistant and strides toward us in a $3,000 suit. This is the man who just delivered a billion-dollar Olympic sponsorship from Chicago’s newest skyscraper, Furukawa Industries. He has a perfect haircut, wire-rim glasses, a light tan, and a 2016 Olympics pin in his lapel. Toddy Pete Steffen could be the mayor of Dublin or the CEO of General Motors. He is, for sure, a cop’s worst nightmare before facing IAD on Monday morning.
    Mr. Steffen stops, his hand light on my shoulder, and smiles at lawyer Barlow. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Why do I pay, if you never work?”
    Mr. Barlow raises his glass and adds an Irish accent. “And here’s to ya, Peter.”
    When Mr. Steffen ran the First Ward he was referred to as the Prince of Darkness, and still is. Cops can go to prison because they shook hands with him once or stood next to him at a parade. Mr. Steffen grins. “My office tomorrow? We’ve an Olympic rebid to win.”
    “Ten AM , bells on and biscuits in the bag.”
    “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.” Mr. Steffen nods to Ruben and me. “And any extra effort to quell our gang problem in the 12th District would be greatly appreciated.” He squeezes my shoulder, then turns toward two well-dressed