Bakker Bugle Blog Say it three times fast. In Luxembourgish.

By the time I left my study session at the cafe, the roads were covered in slush and the cars were regularly spraying dirty, ice-cold water on pedestrians like myself. I was hit more often than usual because I was still concentrating on the fact that Garran Keocaigh was a major player in the Chicago Spire project. The same Keocaigh who worked with Eddie years ago. The same Keocaigh who now lived in Dublin. Keocaigh and I had lives that ran in parallel, geographically at least. Also, there was the obvious differences in success, fortune and fame.

I must have had terrible jet-lag, or maybe I was just cold. Either way, I didn’t notice the truck that pulled to the curb until its passenger threw something at me. I turned toward him, in time to get a hard piece of plastic in the nose. It hurt. (more…)

Editor's note: Our American audience is probably accustomed to long breaks in narratives, given the recent television writers' strike. Nevertheless, I apologize for the long break from the last episode. If you'd like to review the story so far, then scroll down to click on "private eye" under the Categories heading.

I wanted to help Eddie in every way possible, I quizzed Dan, his lawyer, for about a hour. Dan kept my drink topped off. Good guy, that Dan. Smart, too. Still, I was worried that there would be some surprise on Friday that would leave Eddie in dire straits. Dan did all he could to prepare me and reassure Eddie.

The alcohol helped with the second part, if not the first. Eddie and I left Dan’s office with few cares beyond a slight buzz and a strong desire for a meal at Hot Doug’s Encased Meat Emporium.

By ten, Eddie and I were knocking back lovely, yellow, watery American beer at Tommy’s. Tommy’s Bar was a neighbourhood place in just the way that the Cubbie Bear wasn’t. The Lincoln Park kids wonder how this place stays open, and the answer comes straight from Tommy’s mouth if you ask: “Figure out how many beers you gotta sell in order to buy a television. We don’t have a television and I serve the guys that I like.”

My phone rang and I answered it without leaving my stool. Eddie’s face broke into a smile as soon as he heard the voice at the other end say, in a flat Chicago accent, “This is the Athlone Garda. Am I speaking to Will’s pants?” (more…)

Editor's note: If you'd like to see all and only the posts relating to the private investigation story, then scroll down to click on "private eye" under the Categories heading. (Or click here.)

Chicago: Tuesday, 22 January, 03:05

Eddie met me at the international terminal in a car that still had about three inches of snow on the roof. I tossed him the boxes of duty-free cigarettes I bought in Dublin as he apologized for being half-asleep. Eddie goes to bed early these days, same as me. He asked me to roll down my window as he lit up a bent cigarette before we pulled away from the curb. Then he drove to our favorite diner in Rosemont without saying another word. I let him concentrate on the snowy roads, although I was pretty wired after dozing on the four glasses of Powers from the lounge in Dublin. (more…)

Dublin: Monday, 21 January, 22:30

I was in the Dublin airport, waiting for my flight to Chicago, when I got my next chance to stop and think. On the phone about eight hours before, Eddie explained his situation, and he bought me a ticket on Aer Lingus as we talked. After grabbing my luggage, I stopped by my doll’s office to brief her on my trip and on the situation in Dublin. Before catching a taxi to see my girl, I did manage to snap some photos of those “lasers” being tested.

I sat in the business class lounge at the airport, watching the ice melt in my glass of Powers whiskey. I started a list of the developments of the past twelve hours. First thing in the morning, I found that I’d aroused the ire of someone associated with Fitzwilliam Square, or whomever it was doing construction on the site. The second item was a hell of a coincidence: Eddie Washington had aroused the ire of someone doing construction in Chicago. Third, I was leaving my other half to handle the first item alone. (more…)

Monday, 21 February, 9:45

I’d been knocked to the ground, so I expected to be knocked out cold within seconds. That’s usually the way it happens. From my fetal position on the pebbles, I watched the thin man behind the window turn away. As usual, the boss didn’t like watching the dirty work.

The thug who had crept behind me knelt at my head. Without looking at my face, he reached inside my jacket’s chest pocket and withdrew my mobile phone.

“See, that didn’t hurt at all,” said the short guy with mean eyes. And they walked away. They left me my camera, my wallet and 97% of my physical well-being. I was so disoriented that I casually snapped a few more pictures before I left the Park.

I was shaken more by the unexpectedly pacific goons than by the confrontation itself. I walked away from home for a few blocks, doubled back twice (by habit) and found my way home. I called the little lady; she doesn’t mind my line of work, but she hates surprises.

She answered the phone on the first ring. “Where have you been? I called your mobile twice already.”

“Yeah, I’m not getting very good reception lately. Some hoods from Fitzwilliam are interfering with the signal.”

“Eh? Anyway, Eddie Jefferson wants you to call him. He’s in some kind of trouble. Sounds like you’re in your own trouble now.” After more than a decade, I still couldn’t read that tone of voice. Was her patience with my “work” running out?

“Okay,” I managed to say while my head started figuring the possibilities. “I’ll call him back now. Will you be around? I’ll let you know what’s going on after I talk to him.”

“Oh, he gets a return call immediately — pretty special guy, huh? Talk to you later, love.”

Eddie J was an old union man. He made his living about thirty years ago, mostly by persuading employers to settle contracts early and often. He retired young and aged quickly, like they always do. Bored and still in his prime, he was happy to lend me a hand with my business — whatever it might be at the moment. I thought of him often while I was living in Dublin, but we weren’t the kind of friends that keep in touch.

If Eddie called me about his own troubles, then those troubles were serious.

So I wandered around the park for a while, picking up as many details as I could. There were floodlights, generators, and big boards of electronic equipment. It was either a ritzy DJ setup or a military command centre. Either way, somebody wanted to make a big impression.

I found the sign that Old Patrick mentioned, and it was addressed to me. I was considering its meaning when a short guy with a bald spot and mean eyes jogged over from one of the buildings.

“Having trouble reading?” he asked with a sneer. “It says ‘Yer cooperation during this period is very much appreciated.'”

“I’m the kind of guy who cooperates,” I said with my most ingratiating grin. “Is there anything I can help with? It looks like there’s some lawn that hasn’t been covered yet.”

“You can help by getting yerself back to the other side of the fence. And if yer really after helpin’ — ye can take care of yer business on the Nort-side.”

I just watched him for a minute. I was deciding what to do next, and I didn’t see any attractive options.

He looked at the big, glass-walled building, where a tall, thin shadow was standing, motionless. When he turned back to me, he said, “What do ye tink about violent crime in this part of the city?”

“I’m opposed to it.”

He smiled, big and toothy, so I could see bits of the sausage roll he had for breakfast. I was wondering whether he appreciated my wit when I felt my knee give way. By the time I was aware of the pain, my face was resting on wet pebbles.

My first thought was that the Duchess’s grandson was probably enjoying the scene. I’m sorry to say that I have a hard time keeping focus when somebody knocks me down.

Monday, 21 January 2008, nine am.

The workers around the park seemed a little less tolerant of my presence on Monday morning. Maybe they didn’t like the idea of starting a new week without getting a weekend. Maybe they finally decided that I was nothing but bad news. Either way, my little hobby got a lot harder.

Old Patrick gave me a good tip, and I felt obliged to follow up on it. The movies tell you that these guys aren’t interested in anything but money, but they have more pride on the line than money. They have more pride than money, period. On any given day, I was more accountable to the old man than to my clients. And, honestly, I need him more than I need any one of them.

So I strolled once around the fence that surrounds the park. On an ordinary day, I could use my key and just walk right in. Today, big guys in fluorescent vests were milling around every gate but the west one. And that gate was in the wide open, making me feel like a rat in an empty lot next to the home of a bored insomniac with a .22 and a sniper’s citation from his soldier days.

Worse yet, one of the dowagers from the neighbourhood was tottering down Pembroke with her grandson in tow. These two watched the park like they had a marijuana plot inside, and for all I know, it was their little party getting underway. They doddered up to the same break in the trees that I was looking through, and stopped.

I said hello, but they must have thought that I was a part of the scenery, possibly some tree branch that the groundskeeper forgot to prune.

The old woman made a strangled clucking sound and started to educate her get on the situation before us. She had an accent that sounded like she was raised by a Victorian English lady on one side and a culchie shepherd on the other. My elbow practically rested on her shoulder, but I could only make out about a quarter of what she said.

“They’re just interested in the money and they couldn’t care less about what that monstrosity will do to the lawn,” I managed to hear. “No sense in those people.” That was good news. If she gave me trouble, I could easily satisfy her sense of common courtesy. But I wouldn’t learn anything from her today; if I spoke, she’d probably jump right out of that blue cashmere coat and hit me over the head with her cane on the way back down.

Without a reason to delay any longer, I opened the gate and walked through. As I carefully closed the gate, I caught a look of total astonishment from the Duchess of Richmond. She was probably wondering how I could have a key — after all, she’d never had tea with me, and I wasn’t wearing a yellow safety jacket.