Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [45]
THERE MAY HAVE once been walls inside the Whole Hog, but not anymore. Rather, the bar’s two main rooms were bordered by layers of handbills and posters so thick, the whole place resembled some human-sized wasps’ nest. Not a sliver of sunlight leaked in.
A bar twenty yards long stretched along one end of the first room; the other was filled with lopsided tables and ill-matched chairs. As Taft walked deeper into the pit of the place, he felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the floor.
“Lovely establishment you’ve got here, Samantha,” said Kowalczyk.
“Sam.” She pointed at Rob, who had propped himself up on a barstool—presumably the one he’d just been removed from. “He’s the only one who gets to call me Samantha.” After sliding behind the bar and pouring a mug of coffee thick enough to patch asphalt, she turned to Taft and Kowalczyk. “And since we’re on the subject of names, who the hell are you two?”
After introducing themselves, Taft and Kowalczyk ordered drinks (“Wait, let me guess, a can of Olde Style for you,” Sam had teased Taft with a good-natured guffaw) and took stools next to Rob at the bar.
“So, what brings you to Chicago?” Sam set out bowls of peanuts, pretzels, and popcorn, which Taft eyed for an eternal five seconds before digging in.
“What gave us away?” he said around a mouthful of salt.
“Please. I’ll give it to you both, though. You’re Midwesterners at least.”
“We’re just passing through, actually,” said Kowalczyk. Then he nudged Taft with his elbow. “This one here wanted to party a little, so here we are.”
“Party? You came to the right place, my friends.” Sam stared out at the half-full room of tables. It was populated by men and women dressed in every imaginable permutation of denim, flannel, and leather. Their hairstyles were outrageous or merely unkempt to the point of ill hygiene. Their language—what little Taft could hear of it, anyway—was no less filthy.
“What is that racket coming from that coin-operated phonograph?” he asked Sam with a swallow of Olde Style and a wince. “Is that what passes for music in here? No offense, but that man singing sounds like he’s being keelhauled through a school of sharks.”
“It’s the Dead Kennedys,” cut in Kowalczyk.
“Excuse me?” Even in the brief time Taft had known the name since Susan had taught him of the Kennedy assassinations, it had come to take on a haunted meaning for him. He chugged down the rest of his foul-tasting brew.
“They’re an old punk band, Bill. I know, I know. A Secret Service agent who likes the Dead Kennedys. Sue me.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Secret Service, huh? Anyone around here need protecting that I ought to know about?”
Taft interrupted smoothly. “Young Rob here seems to need protection. From himself, if no one else.” While they had been talking, Rob—apparently far more alert than he appeared to be—had reached across the bar and gotten his hands on some bottle of spirits or another, which he was now tipping into his mug of coffee.
Sam snatched it out of his hands. “Okay, buddy. You’d better sober up. You’ve only got four more hours before you need to start loading in.”
“Loading in?” asked Taft. “Does Rob work here, too?”
“Work here? He barely works anywhere.” She tossed the contents of Rob’s mug down the drain and poured him a fresh cup. “No, Rob’s the artistic one in the family. He’s in the band.”
“And which band would that be?”
“Let me guess—he didn’t tell you. Typical. It’s the old bait-and-switch. I hate to break it to you, but Rob didn’t ask you over here because he thinks you’re cool dudes. He was just hoping you’d get drunk enough to stick around for the show. See, he gets paid a percentage of the bar tonight. He’s the lead singer of the band that’s playing this evening. A special New Year’s Eve set from Chicago’s own Lousy Kissers.” She slammed down two fresh beers in front of Taft and Kowalczyk. They made an ominous thunk. “You are sticking around, though, right?”
Fox News Poll, New Year’s Eve
Who would you name as the 2011 newsmaker of the year?
William Howard Taft: 53 percent
Casey Anthony: 23