Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [44]
“How heavy-handed are their barkeeps?”
A serious look passed over Rob’s face. “Oh, very. Shit, how about I meet you dudes over there tomorrow? Noon sound good? There’s some serious drinking that needs to get done.”
Taft looked at Kowalczyk, who was mouthing the word “no.”
“Yes. We’ll meet you there. I’m Bill, and this here is Kowalczyk.”
“Pleased to make your formal acquaintance,” said Rob. Taft couldn’t tell if he was mocking him. He picked up the pails and piles of food and headed back to the kitchen to wrap them. “Oh, one more thing. You guys like punk rock, right?”
FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH)
To-do list—Sat. 31st
—Disconnect phones on all future holidays.
—Do not trust people whose last names are “the Electrician.”
—Decide whether I can afford to let these people co-opt my name without my participation, Wm Howard or not.
—Speaking of which. Grandpa, for the love of Pete, pick up your phone.
EIGHTEEN
Kowalczyk had tried to argue him out of it, of course. But the more of a hoot he raised, the more Taft was convinced it was a perfectly prudent idea to get completely soused in a seedy Chicago bar on New Year’s Eve day. After rising at their hotel late in the morning—and finding a much-needed proper breakfast—they headed to the Whole Hog.
In the daylight, the block that housed Herbert’s and the Whole Hog was far grimier than Taft remembered. When he told Kowalzcyk as much, the former agent said, “This is the real Chicago. The real America. I thought that’s what you were looking for?”
“You’re in a lovely mood today.”
“Yeah, well, I’m getting dragged to some shithole to spend New Year’s wet-nursing a soon-to-be-bawling-in-his-beer ex-president. And this whole little state-of-the-union trip of yours is starting to grind me down.” He kicked at a stack of fast-food trash that lay piled on the vomit-stained sidewalk outside the bar. “The economy’s getting sucked down the plumbing, and people have had their spirit beaten out of them thanks to all these wars and bailouts and terrorist—ugh. I don’t want to sound like a doomsayer or anything, but this nation is on the skids.”
At that moment, the door to the bar burst open. A detonation of noise and stink flew out—along with a human being.
It was Rob.
“See here, are you all right?” Taft and Kowalcyzk picked the young man up by either arm. He was limp and babbling in their grasp.
In the open doorway stood a woman. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, ample bodied, with tattooed arms and a grubby pink tank top. Her blond hair was in braids fit for a Valkyrie. She appeared to be well into her forties, despite the fact that a picture of a cartoon kitten adorned the front of her shirt. “You know this guy?” she asked coolly.
“Yes, we do, as a matter of fact,” said Taft.
“Great. Can you take care of him? Good kid. Name of Rob. Works next door. But he’s been in here since we opened at eight, and he’s already three sheets to the goddamn hurricane. Someone needs to teach the boy a lesson at some point, and my tough love sure as hell doesn’t seem to be helping.”
Between them, Rob yelled, “Samantha, is that you? ‘Nother round, please. And drinks for my two friends here.”
Samantha put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Hey, dumbass. We’re not even inside the bar anymore. Why in the hell I enable your behavior, I’ll never know.”
Rob lifted his chin as best he could and flashed his teeth. “ ’Cause you’re my big sister, that’s why! Plus, my money is good. What kind of a bartender are you, anyway, refusing service on New Year’s?”
She rolled her eyes. “One who’s too old to put up with bullshit.” Then she exhaled and stepped aside, waving. “All right. Bring him in, guys. I’ll make one try to pour a pot of coffee down his throat. But you have to hold him while I do it. And,” she added, giving Taft a rock-hard look, “he’s your responsibility for the rest of the day. Now, get your asses inside. What are you doing hanging out on the sidewalk, anyway? It’s cold as hell out here.