Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
He scratched his forehead. “The famine was what, mid-1800s? So I’m assuming the fire.”
Bingo.
“Everything he’d worked for was destroyed,” I said, plating the cheesy bread. I cranked up the heat next, to get the wings back in shape. “He had no home, no job, no money. Then one day—and I don’t know if this is true or just legendary bullshit, but…whatever. He was walking around this area right here, and the owner of a restaurant barged out, grabbed hold of John—that was his name—and spat out, ‘You take it. Take my wife too! I’m done!’ And he stormed off.”
Ben laughed through his nose.
I shrugged. “So John had himself a gander, ya know. Fuck details, I guess,” I chuckled. “I don’t know how it played out, but he opened The Clover in 1896.” I lifted the pan and dumped the wings on our plates too. “Some years later, they started building the Dearborn Station, and John had to move the establishment a few blocks. He found this place through a friend who owned the building—same family that owns it today, actually—though, it was split in two back then. There was a small publishing house next door.” I reached for the wing sauce. “John added Dearborn to the name, and nothing new happened until my grandmother took over. The publishing house was shutting down, so she and her sisters decided to expand.” Holding up our plates and the wing sauce, I finished with a good, “The end. Take our soup and drinks.”
I’d amused him, at least.
“Riveting story that left you out completely.”
I mean…not really. “Their story is mine. When my folks retired last fall, it was my turn.”
“You may still be wet behind the ears, kid, but you didn’t start living last year. There’s more to you than the family sports bar.”
The fuck? Wet behind the…? Get the fuck out.
But fine. I could give him the same CliffsNotes he’d given me earlier. “All right. Up until I started kindergarten, we lived in a one-bedroom in Irving Park. According to Ma, they were the worst years of her life because we had virtually no space, and my sister and I were at each other’s throats all day long. She’s a year younger.” I set the food on the bar where we hadn’t put up the stools yet, and I grabbed us spoons and napkins before I took a seat. “Then we moved to a Sox stronghold, Bridgeport, and Sarah and I showed Ma that space wasn’t the issue. It was us.”
Ben chuckled and sat down next to me.
“It was just a regular upbringing,” I said and shrugged. “Money was tight because Dad invested most of it in this place, but it kept us afloat. And you know…teenage years came, teenage years went. I had my usual rebellious years, when the last thing I wanted to do was follow in my old man’s footsteps.” I broke off a piece of buttery cheesy bread and crammed it into my mouth. “For a minute, I thought I was gonna join the Army, but I managed to piss off two recruiters, and I was advised to pick something else. So I decided to become a cop, which, in retrospect, I chose partly to rebel against myself too. I’m not what one might call a stickler for rules.”
I liked the smile that reflected in his eyes. That was my favorite.
“I can’t picture you as a cop,” he admitted.
“Neither could the police academy that kicked me out,” I replied. I’d been a mouthy shit.
Ben rumbled a laugh as he tucked into his soup.
There wasn’t the slightest indication I’d skipped over something important. “In the end…here I am. I did find my happy medium with authority and structure—I became a self-defense instructor. That’s come in handy. I’ve taught some classes too, primarily to women and at-risk teenagers. But otherwise, this is it.” I gave the bar a glance. “Irving Park and Bridgeport don’t matter in the end. I have more memories from running around here with my sister.” I nodded toward the main entrance. “We’d always steal mints from the host’s desk.”
I doused my wings in sauce before I got my hands dirty. Fucking perfect. The best wing sauce out there. It had enough of a kick to set your lips on fire.
“It’s easy to see that the bar is a family member.” Ben dipped the bread in the soup. “I’m sure it’s equal parts love and headaches.”
Damn fucking right.
I side-eyed him and chewed what was in my mouth. “You know what it’s like. You had your business.”
“Hardly since 1896,” he chuckled, though it sounded hollow. I got it. It hurt to lose something you’d built up.
“You cut yourself off earlier,” I said. “You were gonna say something about your brother-in-law—about your business. Then you said it didn’t matter, but I’m guessing it does.”