Taft 2012 (14 page)

Taft smiled. “Your history is indeed rusty. Remember, I come from the age of the Prohibition movement. There were all manner of people and organizations obsessed with telling America what it should or shouldn’t eat, drink, think. Oh, the tiffs Nellie and I would have over the subject! And from what I’ve come to understand, Prohibition is long past, but that mentality persists.”

“So what was your take on it?”

“That’s a complicated question. As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes you must pick your battles when you’re in office or trying to get there, especially when it comes to political expediency.
Let’s just say my views on the matter definitely evolved, and I tried to edge near the center of the debate as much as possible, if you don’t mind the oxymoron.”

“Uh, no, I don’t mind. But weren’t you a judge before you got mixed up in politics?”

“I was. But being a judge is easy. You side with the law, any law, even if personally you don’t agree with it. If, that is, you’re a good judge. And you side with it by deciding its most germane and just interpretation.”

“Hmm. So you bend the law as far as it will go—and that makes it stronger.”

Taft gave Kowalczyk a stern look. Then he laughed. “A great legal mind trapped among the rank and file of the Secret Service!”

“Hey, screw you, buddy. Seriously, though. How do you feel about, I don’t know, the war on drugs and all that?” From the kitchen, the crudest, most obnoxious music imaginable began to pour out. “It’s a different world, in case you needed a painful reminder.”

Taft looked at his belly and shrugged. “The war on drugs. I’ve read about it. Sorry to answer rhetorically, but who am I to judge what someone else puts in his body?”

As if waiting for those very words to be said, Rob hurried out of the kitchen with a steaming pail in each hand and a large platter balanced on top. “Your nacho fries,” he said, depositing the buckets on the table between them. Judging from its odor, the gooey, orange substance may have once had congress, albeit brief, with some distant relative of cheese. Then he set down the platter. “And one dozen Bombers, with an extra thrown in, on the house.”

Taft couldn’t recognize a single thing on the palm-sized buns. Meat of some species protruded in dripping shreds from the edges of the sandwiches. Slices of melted cheeselike matter, the same color
as the glop that coated the French fries, swam in some iridescent commingling of sauces and gravies. Sliced vegetables, already wilted beyond recognition, made a token appearance. Something else, though, lurked under the bun—something pale and rubbery.

“Rob, if I may ask one small question.” Taft pointed at the Bomber. “Is that what I think it is?”

Rob’s face broke out in confusion. “Can you, uh, be more specific?”

Taft nudged the rubber substance with his fingernail.

“Oh, yeah, totally!”

“A fried egg.”

“Oh, no. It’s not an egg. It’s the
bomb
! The bomb in the Bomber! All natural, all handmade. Organic junk food, dude!”

With that, he flipped the “Open” sign and began wiping down the nearest table. Over his shoulder he said, “You guys are my last customers, so take your time. I’ve got to clean up and get ready. It’s New Year’s Eve—2012, dudes! It’s gonna be a fucking insane year. Mayan prophecies and the big election and shit. I can feel it. Just as long as those crazy Taft assholes don’t turn the clock back a hundred years.”

“Actually,” said Taft, pointing at the mountain of untouched Bombers and uttering a sentence he didn’t often have cause to use, “could you kindly wrap these up to go? And one other thing: where exactly is the best place in the neighborhood to celebrate New Year’s Eve?”

“Wait a second, Bill,” said Kowalczyk, but Taft held up a hand.

Rob pumped his fist, sending water from his cleaning rag spraying everywhere. “Yeah, man, that’s the spirit! I’d recommend the bar next door, the Whole Hog. At least that’s where I’ll be most of the day tomorrow.”

“How heavy-handed are their barkeeps?”

A serious look passed over Rob’s face. “Oh, very. Shit, how about I meet you dudes over there tomorrow? Noon sound good? There’s some serious drinking that needs to get done.”

Taft looked at Kowalczyk, who was mouthing the word “no.”

“Yes. We’ll meet you there. I’m Bill, and this here is Kowalczyk.”

“Pleased to make your formal acquaintance,” said Rob. Taft couldn’t tell if he was mocking him. He picked up the pails and piles of food and headed back to the kitchen to wrap them. “Oh, one more thing. You guys like punk rock, right?”

K
owalczyk had tried to argue him out of it, of course. But the more of a hoot he raised, the more Taft was convinced it was a perfectly prudent idea to get completely soused in a seedy Chicago bar on New Year’s Eve day. After rising at their hotel late in the morning—and finding a much-needed proper breakfast—they headed to the Whole Hog.

In the daylight, the block that housed Herbert’s and the Whole Hog was far grimier than Taft remembered. When he told Kowalzcyk as much, the former agent said, “This is the real Chicago. The real America. I thought that’s what you were looking for?”

“You’re in a lovely mood today.”

“Yeah, well, I’m getting dragged to some shithole to spend New Year’s wet-nursing a soon-to-be-bawling-in-his-beer ex-president. And this whole little state-of-the-union trip of yours is starting to grind me down.” He kicked at a stack of fast-food trash that lay piled on the vomit-stained sidewalk outside the bar. “The economy’s getting sucked down the plumbing, and people have
had their spirit beaten out of them thanks to all these wars and bailouts and terrorist—ugh. I don’t want to sound like a doomsayer or anything, but this nation is on the skids.”

At that moment, the door to the bar burst open. A detonation of noise and stink flew out—along with a human being.

It was Rob.

“See here, are you all right?” Taft and Kowalcyzk picked the young man up by either arm. He was limp and babbling in their grasp.

In the open doorway stood a woman. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, ample bodied, with tattooed arms and a grubby pink tank top. Her blond hair was in braids fit for a Valkyrie. She appeared to be well into her forties, despite the fact that a picture of a cartoon kitten adorned the front of her shirt. “You know this guy?” she asked coolly.

“Yes, we do, as a matter of fact,” said Taft.

“Great. Can you take care of him? Good kid. Name of Rob. Works next door. But he’s been in here since we opened at eight, and he’s already three sheets to the goddamn hurricane. Someone needs to teach the boy a lesson at some point, and my tough love sure as hell doesn’t seem to be helping.”

Between them, Rob yelled, “Samantha, is that you? ‘Nother round, please. And drinks for my two friends here.”

Samantha put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Hey, dumbass. We’re not even inside the bar anymore. Why in the hell I enable your behavior, I’ll never know.”

Rob lifted his chin as best he could and flashed his teeth. “ ’Cause you’re my big sister, that’s why! Plus, my money is good. What kind of a bartender are you, anyway, refusing service on New Year’s?”

She rolled her eyes. “One who’s too old to put up with bullshit.” Then she exhaled and stepped aside, waving. “All right.
Bring him in, guys. I’ll make one try to pour a pot of coffee down his throat. But you have to hold him while I do it.
And
,” she added, giving Taft a rock-hard look, “he’s your responsibility for the rest of the day. Now, get your asses inside. What are you doing hanging out on the sidewalk, anyway? It’s cold as hell out here.”

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-f 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?”

W
illiam Howard Taft had been many things: Yalie, Bonesman, federal judge, solicitor general, secretary of war, governor of the Philippines, president of the United States of America. Through it all, his highest aspiration in life, to become chief justice of the Supreme Court, had eluded him. Another thing he’d never been—not that he’d ever truly wanted to—was a teetotaler.

That being said
, he mused as he exerted every effort, both mental and physical, to avoid slipping off his barstool,
I don’t think I’ve ever been drunker than I am right at this moment
.

“Hey, watch it,” said Kowalczyk, elbowing Taft in the ribs—or, rather, at the padding surrounding them. He was completely turned around on his stool, engrossed in Rob’s band as they set up their instruments on the tiny stage at the back of the bar. While guitars were unpacked and a drum kit assembled, Rob, still sloshed but sobered up enough to remain upright, walked to the center of the stage. It sagged visibly under the skinny man’s weight.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a punk show,” Kowalczyk
said, swaying a bit in his seat. “I guess if you’re gonna ring in the New Year, you might as well do it loud.” He pivoted around and yelled at Sam, “Hey, is your brother’s band any damn good?”

From behind the bar, Sam snorted. “No. They’re terrible.” She plucked a mug from a bin of dirty water and began drying it with an equally dirty rag. “That’s the whole point.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Taft said, assembling the sentence using the full focus of his concentration.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Kowalczyk. “Let’s just say that punk rock isn’t trying to be pretty. It’s … it’s kind of like protest music.”

“Protesting what?” spit Taft.

“Intelligence, mostly,” cut in Sam. “At least in the Lousy Kissers’ case. Don’t get me wrong. I’m more of a classic-rock girl myself, but I’ve got nothing against punk. Honestly, though, Rob’s band makes GG Allin look like Beethoven.”