The Schraft Street Historical Preservation Society by Michael A. Connelly

Author:Michael A. Connelly [Connelly, Michael A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781475999549
Publisher: iUniverse
Published: 2013-07-29T00:00:00+00:00

Walking home, Jim pictured Mike lifting at the gym lately. Jim tried, within reason, to keep tabs on the gym regulars, and to offer informed encouragement whenever he had the opportunity, whether the member was on a roll, joyfully making serial personal bests; or struggling with frustrating injuries and reduced weights, sets, and reps.

He remembered benching with Mike a few years ago, when Mike could get twelve reps with 225 pounds; and obviously loved lifting, even in his early fifties.

But then Jim pictured Mike a couple weeks ago, when he’d seen the poor guy struggling to get ten reps with 165 pounds, and then shaking his head and sadly rubbing his left shoulder. And then suddenly just getting up and walking right out of the gym, leaving the 165 pounds perched perilously on the bench uprights, an especially egregious violation of gym rules.

Jim decided he’d best have a very frank word with someone, specifically about Mike Anderson, and, more generally, about the current level of serious shenanigans going on in and around Schraft Street. The obvious candidates for that word were Sergeant Carlton Carrolton, Big Bill Donnelly, Miniature Lloyd Dolson, Bouncing Bobby Grymkowski, Baker Jimmy Marini; or Jim’s own head bartender Fat Frankie Leonnetti.

Frankie would probably know the most… but Frankie was also a master of genial passive resistance, especially when dealing with his Boss Jim. Hence, Jim’s tolerance of the consistently mild skimming, which he’d grown to just consider part of Frank’s salary.

Yeah, it would be difficult to get Frankie to tell the whole and nothing but… but Benny was upping the stakes significantly, Jim felt he now had an almost desperate need to know, and so he decided he’d best be a little more persuasive with his burly bartender, and this very afternoon.

It was Saturday, around four; Sports would be heating up, but second bartender Tony Cetrone would have just come on duty, and the bar wouldn’t be so crowded that Tony couldn’t handle things by himself for a half hour. Which would be plenty of time—if Jim could get Frankie to come right to the point.

Frankie was bullshitting with a couple customers while Tony did the work, so Jim said loudly, “Office, Frank.”

Partially reformed alcoholic The Big A—aka Andy Andrews, who had, at least regarding himself, put the lie to AA’s number one tenet by getting his problem drinking well under control without totally quitting—said, “Whoa, Frank, The Boss sounds deadly serious. Where should we send the body? I can’t imagine Marnie would want it.”

Frankie said, “Can’t be gonna bust me about the financials, ’cause miniature geek-meister Lloyd ain’t in tow. What’s up, Boss?”

Jim didn’t bother to answer, ’cause Frankie was already obediently following him into the bar’s small office.

Frankie sat in his usual spot behind the desk, Jim in the more comfortable seat, one of the two new office chairs that Jim had recently bought for himself and Lloyd, busting Frank’s balls by not buying him a new desk or a new chair. Jim and Lloyd

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