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Post by Deleted on Feb 20, 2016 23:55:13 GMT 2
Just east of the Calumet river, straddling the line between the heart of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs rested a modest brick building. The old wooden sign above the door had the word ‘Lightfoot’s” in golden script, and beside it written in hastily scrawled black marker were the words ‘Sleazy Bar’. A remnant of youthful vandalism that the owner hadn't the heart to remove. It was clear from the buildings uneven rectangular shape that the structure had been added onto throughout the years. At two stories tall the long building was a great deal larger than the homes around it and that wasn’t including the large yard surrounded by a chain link fence attached to the buildings side. The bar’s owner had intended to turn it into an outdoor dining area, instead it had become an ad-hoc maintenance garage. Or as some of the neighbors called it, an eyesore.
Not that they seemed to care overly much. Most of the bar’s clientele was comprised of locals, and even those who didn’t care much for drinking owed a great deal to the pub. It was a fact that had been made apparent to Michael from his first few hours working behind the bar. Whether it was posting bail, getting a new transmission, or paying a doctor’s bill, the local families could always come to Lightfoot’s when they needed a helping hand. It was a symbiotic relationship. The bar looked after the locals, and the locals didn’t look too closely at the bars shady activities. Hell, keeping the relationship stable was the main reason the bars owner had sound proofed the walls. That way the neighbors would be disturbed by things like
It was strange really. Michael had never really felt like part of a community until he had started working at Lightfoots. Now everyone knew his name, they knew his history and they knew they could count on him when the chips were down. It was an unusual feeling and if Michael took a moment or two to think about his new role, he might have been filled with a tiny bit of pride. Instead, he kept himself focused on the job at hand, which at this moment happened to be listening to a red nosed alcoholic talk about his experiences in Korea. ‘Three Sheets’ as the man was mostly commonly know had a habit for telling stories. Some of the stories seemed reliable, most were just retellings of famous movie scenes. Michael preferred the ones that involved fighting communist vampires. The stories might not have been accurate, but they were certainly entertaining.
”So you fought off General Mao all by yourself, armed with nothing but a bow and a series of spike traps?” asked a polite, if not entirely disinterested Michael Mattingly. His hands were cleaning one of the glasses behind the bar as he listened
to the man’s story.
”Thas what I said,” slurred Mr. Sheets, “The General was hunting my body heat, so I covered my entire body in mud to throw the bashterd off. Jus like they taught us in bashic trainin,” explained Sheets as he waved his beer bottle at the handful of other drunks in the bar. "Of course, when I did finally get him, he activated a nuclear detonator on his wrisht. I barely made it to the chopper in time to escape. It was eight o’clock on a quiet tuesday night, so Michael didn’t mind letting the man confuse his past with the final scene from Predator. Most of the locals were smart enough to avoid the joint Thursday through Sunday when the rougher crowd was about, but even when they had the joint to themselves most of the crowd thinned out before nine.
So when the front door opened, letting the loud CCR music to echo out into the quiet streets Michael couldn’t help but notice. His blue eyes casually tracking the new arrival as he set the glass down on the bar, freeing his hand to rest on the handle of the sawn off shotgun kept beneath the bar.
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Post by Max Madden on Feb 21, 2016 11:45:20 GMT 2
In dire need of information
It had been five weeks since he walked out of the hospital, but that didn't save him from being O.K. Cases had calmed down for him, his boss 'lighting' his weight of work until he was 'fully healed'. It was ridiculous, a waste of working hands the PD knows it needs right now. However, all the free time he got because of this decision, served him an entire other purpose, a purpose far different from resting or helping his scars to heal.
For the past few weeks he had been searching deeper into the case of the PD bombing. All of his colleagues knew the truth. They all knew who bombed the place, who killed their desk mate, so on and so forth. But fear, yes fear was making them speechless. They had no clues to put the blame on the ones responsible for this act. And the one who knew best about all this, who had not even a hint of hesitation on the identity of the bombers, not even he could stand up to put the blame on the Bianchi family. It was an evidence that they were behind it, and Madden knew as much because of everything he had ran into with those Italians. He guessed that the bombing of the PD was a way to seal his contract with them, that he shall not pursue his case against them and bring whatever information he had about Enigma. Of course he couldn't fully agree to that, and he knew his office would become a target sooner or later. So they started everything from scratch now, and he needed to follow the same leads that brought him to discover the clues about Enigma's bombing last year at the harbor.
There was one issue however. He recovered very few information about the bomb itself, and in order to get enough compromising information to bring the Bianchi to court, he needed to fully identify the object. The techs back at the PD traced a few plans, recovered some information on what type of bomb may have caused the havoc. The final description of the bomb looked so cryptic to him, he didn't know enough to be able to understand how it was made, how expensive it was, who builds such things, and finally if he could get a chance to link that thing to the Bianchi family with 100% accuracy. That treasure hunt had led him down paths he hadn't seen for a long long time.
With the help of Lucius, his young German Shepherd of about 6 months now, he was able to corner a suspect in a back alley. With his leg, he couldn't run after people like he used to, so the presence of his dog was a must, and gave him the occasion to be calm about this situation. The man he was pursuing this time was told to know about Chicago's underground like he was its official visit card. Max couldn't use traditional cop ways anymore, preferring to slide down the slope to Chicago's bowels, making it easier for him to find contacts to solve his cases faster. You could feel that the end of Max's first year in Chicago was coming to an end, because every time he started to dwell deep into criminality, there was a point where he made a mistake and got fired. But he always got his cases solved, no matter the cost. So if he had to get fired the next week, then so be it, but he won't let the Bianchi get away with all this madness.
The man before him in the alley indicated the location of a bar, and gave the cop a name. What a loose tongue, how is he still alive around here, that was Max's true question after he let the man go with a bruised leg and dog teeth marks. Lightfoot's Sleazy Bar, and Michael Mattingly. Two names, one place, one person. It was a good start and Madden headed to the place after dropping Lucius at his home. He was going at a bar, not running through the streets again. When he arrived at the place, it didn't look like all those fancy bars downtown Chicago. It looked like a family enterprise rather than a big money box. He walked out of his car, his crutch in his hand, limping lightly to the entrance. He had time to change, looking less formal and more casual for the sake of not alarming too many people with a cop's presence. As he made his way across the bar he saw too many gazes turn to him, making him rather uncomfortable. He noticed the barman moving a hand behind the counter. Tread carefully Madden, you are not the most welcome person here.
He sat at the counter, a sigh of relief as he harbored an innocent look, the type that fooled so many people before. He allowed himself a small drink, nothing too strong, nothing too weak to blow his cover. "Hello, may I have a beer please? Any will do." he said, his voice harboring a tired feel to it, which wasn't far from the truth.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 1, 2016 23:01:55 GMT 2
Normally, Michael had the rather useful ability of identifying police officer at a glance, and not just the ones in uniform. Like most human beings with power over their fellow man, the police tended to carry themselves different than most, like a soldier, but without the strung out eyes and general unease that those who have seen war so often sported. Whether they limped, strut or slouched, police all tended to carry that authority about them like an aura. An aura that separated themselves from the average citizen. The man who came into Michael’s bar carried himself well, at least compared to the locals, but he lacked the arrogance that most officers Michael had met carried with them. Even with his limp, he didn’t seem ill at ease and that was what threw Michael off the most. He was confident sure, but he also seemed perfectly comfortable in this dark sleazy bar. Not because he was armed, and not because he was hiding inside a uniform.
It was confusing to say the least, when people couldn’t be crammed into the easily identified boxes Michael had formed from preconceptions. It was enough to make him curious, but not enough to get the former warrior to take his hand off the shotgun.
The man had to order a drink for that to happen. It wasn’t anything complicated, just a beer. Michael approved of that. Sure most bartenders would have been a bit tiffed that he hadn’t specified but Michael didn’t particularly care. Namely because he didn’t do refunds, and the complaint box was the dumpster they kept out back. So
Michael filled a glass with some Yuengling and placed it down in front of the bearded stranger, the soft white foam trailing down the glass to pool lightly atop the coaster the glass was resting on.
His hand didn’t fall back to the weapon by the desk, instead it was busy being cleaned off with the well used rag hanging from the bar. His cold blue eyes rested on the stranger for a moment before he opened his mouth.
“Haven’t seen you around here before. You just move into the neighborhood?” he inquired, already well aware that no one new had moved in nearby. He knew all the locals in this part of southern Chicago. Well, the majority of them at least, and certainly all the ones that lived in walking distance of the bar.
It was a question that hung in the air as the front door opened once again. This time the newcomer wasn’t a stranger, it was young woman that was in this terrible establishment almost as much as Michael himself. Her long red hair, tied back in a loose ponytail bounced energetically as she lugged in a large guitar case through the door. Her sense of fashion had changed over the last few years, less frilly dresses, and more tight jeans with flannel. Michael approved of everything but the jeans. Then again, decked out in flannel himself it was easy to see why.
She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but she walked through the bar as if she was right at home, shooting Michael a bright smile and brief wave before giving Mr. Sheets a brief hug. Michael frowned at that interaction but was polite enough to nod his head at her greeting and watch her begin to set up her guitar and the small stage they had in the back of the bar.
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Post by Max Madden on Mar 5, 2016 15:40:44 GMT 2
In dire need of information
He had been warned that this hole of a bar was a hideout for all kinds of people, but he felt like at this point, anything that had anything to do with criminals couldn't surprise him nor bother him. After dealing with Shaun Bianchi and his tiger, the cop simply couldn't even compare the cold glares he received here with the fire and pain he had experienced in the past few months because of criminals. He was well aware that he may not be welcome in this o so special bar, but he had business to attend to.
He wished to jump on business right away, but doing such a thing without taking the time to learn about the people here would be a mistake. As much as he hated the idea, a few links in the underground of Chicago could not be such a bad idea. And starting with the barman was always a good option. He observed the man from time to time, but for good measure he also trailed his eyes around, trying to map the place and the people here. He didn't believe everyone knew he was a cop just from one look, after all he wasn't in a uniform, nor did he take out his badge yet. To feel a little more safe, he always walked around with a gun or two strapped to his waist under his arm pits. But he rarely used them, he hoped today would be one of those days where he wouldn't have to take out tom and jerry. No he did not give names to his guns.
He was served a beer soon enough, and he watched the foam slide on the side of the glass for a moment before taking a sip. Not bad, but still no Belgian Beer. He then heard the bartender's voice raise itself, so he turned his head to him, listening to his question. It was rather understandable that the man wished to know his customers, especially since all the people here seemed to be regulars or living in this part of town. "I've been here for a few months, but I don't live in this part of town if that's what you are asking." he answered quite frankly, considering there was nothing in this that could work against him for now. He caught the man's eyes flutter to the door behind him, and the cop turned around by pure curiosity. A young lady came inside, seemingly ready to play the guitar. She looked quite young, but besides that, there was nothing off about it. He took a look back at the bartender and asked. "This looks like quite the establishment. For how long has it been here?" a simple question, aimed to start the conversation, and eventually lead to him asking more precise questions.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 8, 2016 20:41:05 GMT 2
God knows what is hiding in those weak and drunken hearts
I guess you kissed the girls and made them cry
Those Hardfaced Queens of misadventure
God knows what is hiding in those weak and sunken eyes
A Fiery throng of muted angels
Giving love but getting nothing back
It were the first lines of a song Michael had heard several times in the past, though this was admittedly the first time they had ever echoed in the dimly lit south chicago bar. The handful of older men and women that had been casually drinking at the tables stopped their conversation as the first few chords glided out from the nylon strings of a guitar held together by wood glue and good intentions. Sarah Martin could have had any guitar she wanted, lord knew the family had enough money to provide her with what they needed. Especially considering Michael kept all of the earnings from his illicit activities under their care.
Still, money couldn’t buy everything. It couldn’t have bought the respect and admiration that was currently shining in the half closed eyes of the hard core alcoholics listening to her
music, it couldn’t buy the stillness her voice brought to troubled hearts like Michael Mattingly, and it sure as hell was never going to be enough to purchase the pride she used to reinforce her ice blue gaze as she met the eyes of each and every listener. They rested briefly on the newcomer with the limp, a brief flash of a smile tinged with the softest hint of sorrow gracing her features before her gaze moved on.
To those with observant eyes Michael’s reaction to the scene might have seemed strange. The corners of his lips twitched in an attempt to form a smile before faltering and returning to the neutral disinterested expression he had been sporting earlier. It was a brief lapse in control that was nearly forgotten as the stranger inquired as to the history of the bar. That caught the bartender’s attention for two reason. The first was that no one had ever actually cared enough to ask, and the second was that Michael didn’t actually have a concrete answer. That didn’t prevent him from taking the opportunity to answer the question anyway. Any excuse to distract himself from the music was one worth taking advantage of.
“As far as I know it’s been here forever man,” replied Michael briefly before opening a bottle of Shinerbock for himself. “From what the owner tells me the building has been around since before Prohibition, but it didn’t fall under his family's ownership until after the Korean War. It’s kind of become a haven for veterans after that. Might not look like it but, there is probably more combat experience in this bar than the rest of the city combined. Especially if you believe half of what Sheets has to say” added Michael before taking a swig from his beer. ”How’d you find out about our Sleazy little corner of the world Mr…?” his voice trailed off as he realized he had never actually caught the man’s name.
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Post by Max Madden on Mar 10, 2016 20:57:06 GMT 2
In dire need of information
The overall atmosphere of the bar was interesting. Max had seen the way the bartender looked at the young girl who walked in, and until she started to play, the cop didn't feel the need to look at her. There was something oddly innocent about the lady, and the feel was reinforced by all those drunken men sitting around, not very interested in her music. But the barman, he seemed to know her already in a personal way. Who knew how wrong or right the cop was. Those thoughts were insignificant and weren't to be spoken before some form of usefulness rose from them. He turned his head to listen for a little while, noting that the player and singer sure had talent before returning his attention to the barman. "She's pretty talented. I got to give it to this bar for producing better music than any other in town." he said with a slight smile, drinking from his glass with his eyes on the man serving him.
What the man said about the building's history was quite interesting. Max didn't think he'd know about every place in Chicago in only a few months, but he didn't think he could walk by this place and forget it. It looked like an old family enterprise, the type that just understood how a good business worked and didn't change its recipe for years simply because it worked and still does. One thing was sure, if he was able to get out of here in good terms, he would make sure to come back. Both for business or a good time. Max was used to working with the underground, and he didn't let people know about it. The fact that he didn't let people know about it didn't change anything to the fact that people found out by themselves. The reason why he was fired from all his previous jobs was because of this (and other reasons). But his chiefs always let him finish his cases, because even though his ways were unconventional, he did his job, and he did it well.
Then it was his turn to be interrogated. Honesty was his prime rule unless dishonesty was a better option. He left his glass on the counter and raised his hand to the man. "Max. Just call me Max." he offered a small smile to the man. "I'm looking for information, and someone told me I may be able to find what I'm looking for here." he said it plainly and simply, but to avoid a commotion he omitted the word 'cop' or 'detective'. He wasn't a hundred percent sure of what type of person hung out here, but he'd rather not find out in a brutal way that some people dislike the law.
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