Episode 02: A Person Can Work Up A Mean Mean Thirst

“Stevie! How ya doin’, boyo?”

Old Bobby Bird. If you didn’t know any better you’d swear he was one of the pillars holding up the wall at this dive.

“Apple! Hey, darlin’!”

That was one of his things. He called all the guys ‘boyo’ and all the girls ‘darlin’.” It didn’t matter if he knew them or not. Of course, if you came to the CC Club more than twice a month, chances are Birdy knew who you were.

“I haven’t seen you two in a while. How ya been?”

“Not bad, Birdy. How’s everything?”

“Ahhh… It could be worse, ya know?”

That was always his answer. Evidently his life could always “be worse.” I suppose that’s a good attitude to take. I mean, all our lives could be worse, right? I could be a child prostitute or something. And in this snow? That’s a tough gig.

Birdy was holding down the first booth on the right, his usual. You could tell the time by which side he was sitting on. If it was early in the evening, say 7 or 8ish, he’d be sitting on the side facing the door, watching the folks walk in, waiting for them to remove their scarves so he could find out if he recognized their face. Later in the evening, midnight or so, he’d switch to the other side of the booth and struggle to focus on the TV screen at the end of the room. He never cared what station unless it was basketball. For some reason, old Birdy hated basketball.

It was nearly 8 now and Birdy had his eyes on the door.

“Grab a couple of drinks and have a seat, boyos. What are ya up to?”

“Not much. It’s too damn cold in my apartment so we thought we’d come down here and try to stay warm.”

Apple took the lead. Birdy’s charm had worn thin on me years ago. It’s not that I disliked the guy. I don’t know how anyone could really dislike him. I was just tired of talking with him. We never talked about anything at all.

“Tell me about it! I’ve lived through over 50 of these winters and they never get any easier. And this sweater ain’t as warm as it looks!”

Birdy had been wearing the same outfit for at least the last 6 years. Green sweater, blue jeans, and a pair of old Chucks. He called them his, “rock ‘n roll shoes.”

“You kids livin’ together?”
“Nah. We’re just hanging out tonight. My boyfriend’s over in St. Paul doing god know’s what.”

“Haha! I’m sure he’s not in too much trouble. It’s St. Paul!”

“I suppose. I don’t like him driving around on these icy roads when he’s been drinking though. And I know he has.”

“Ain’t no big deal. If you’re going to drive drunk, best to do it on a night like this. It’s so icy that no one else is on the road. And if ya slide over the line and a cop gets ya, ya can just blame some black ice. I’ll never forget this one time I was driving in the car with Apollonia…”

Again with Apollonia... Ya see, Birdy’s been kicking around Minneapolis for a long time and let me tell you, he’s got stories and stories. He knew all the big shots back in the 80’s. Westerberg, those Stinson boys, Curtiss A, Pete Jesperson, The Suburbs, The Hüskers… you name it. But his one big score, and no one knows if it was true, was Apollonia. Y’know, from Purple Rain? He claims that the two of them used to date a little bit. “Nothin’ serious,” he’d always say.

“So Apollonia and I were riding back from the suburbs. Minnetonka, Minnehaha, who can remember? She was at some kind of photo thing with Prince and his gang and I was there too. Now, can you believe it, they didn’t want me in the pictures. So I spent the whole time sucking down this free champagne that was lying around. That little fuckin’ guy was eyeing’ me up the whole time. We never got along.”

“Wait. You and Prince didn’t get along?”

I couldn’t let this go.

“Nah, he was a jealous little guy. He was upset that Apollonia had taken a little shine to yours truly. Plus, he didn’t drink and didn’t like to be around people that drank. That didn’t seem fair. I mean, I didn’t like being around people that wore little purple pants either, but I tried to be civil. To each his own, right?”

Apple interjected, evidently she wanted to hear the rest of the story.

“So you guys were at this photo shoot…”

“Yeah, right. So the guy finished snapping pictures of Apollonia hanging off this guy and we all head out to our cars. Prince was riding in a bright white Cadillac with some burly fellow driving and we were driving my red Buick. I had just got it a couple of weeks before. Brand new!.”

I might be wrong, but I think I still see that Buick sitting around the streets. Somewhere near Emerson and 34th.

“So we’re driving along and, like I said, I’d had a few and I was moving pretty good along 394. All the sudden, that white Caddy comes zoomin’ past us a hundred miles an hour! Just flies by. Even I thought that was pretty dangerous. I mean, it was snowing like crazy and you couldn’t see too far in front of you.”

Birdy finished off what was left of his beer.

“Do ya mind if I pour a bit?” he said, eyeing our pitcher.

“Nah, go ahead.”

He’d always do that. Start a story and then halfway through ask for some of your pitcher or ask you to buy another round. He was a clever fuck.

Glass refilled, he continued.

“So he’s just screaming by us and I lose ‘em in about 10 seconds. White Caddy, white snow, I don’t know where he’s gone. Two minutes later, a cop car pulls up behind us and throws his lights on. We’re the only car on the road and I was keeping it way under the limit. I didn’t want to slide off into the rails. Especially not with my girl in the car y’know?

“So we pull over just in front of this off ramp, y’know, so there was a little bit of shoulder, and the cop gets out of the car. He walks up to me and says, ‘Hey, ya were driving without your lights on. These are storm conditions and ya gotta have your lights on.’ He was right, I didn’t have them on, so I took the ticket.”

“Wow, Birdy, that’s quite a story, really.”

“You ain’t heard the worst of it. The cop walks away and I look up at the bridge off the ramp, y’know, comin’ back over the highway, and there’s that little fuckin’ guy in this big purple jacket, just glaring at us.”

“Wait, Prince got you a ticket?”

“Yup, that little fuck. I don’t know how the hell he got a hold of that cop, but somehow he let them know that I was driving without my lights on. Then he had that driver speed up and find a good spot to watch me get busted. And he wasn’t even laughing or anything. He was just standing there by himself, back to the Caddy, just glaring.”

“Ha! You’re kidding! That was the best he could come up with to get back at you? Get you a moving violation?”

“Nah, that wasn’t the best, but I’ll give him credit, that was pretty goddamn sneaky.”

With that we finished our drinks.

“You two getting another round? Grab one for me, would ya? I gotta run to the bathroom.”

Episode 01: Balance Them Anxieties

I was a little bit surprised when I sat down in “Interrogation Room A.” I was expecting it to be like the movies, y’know? Tiny room, hot light, uncomfortable chair… All things designed to get you to “crack.” (If they even say “crack.” Maybe that’s a movie cliché too.)

Even though I’d barely wiped the sleep from my eyes, I have to say that I found the room to be more than comfortable. The fluorescent lights humming away like a third story cubicle. The temperature, clearly climate controlled, and significantly more comfortable than the freezing rain I’d endured on the brief walk from my apartment to the Crown Victoria that brought me down (evidently that one’s not a cliché). A comfortable chair, a table, hell, there was even a coffee dispenser in the room. And the two-way mirror of course. Everybody knows you can’t have an interrogation room without a two-way mirror.

For the ride from Lyndale South I was accompanied by two young officers who said little and gave away even less. They didn’t even hint at my Miranda Rights. Evidently this was to be a “voluntary” trip down to see the boys at MPD.

Once we arrived I was quickly escorted by the two young men into the aforementioned “Interrogation Room A,” given a cup of coffee, and left alone for the better part of an hour. I suspect I won’t be seeing those two again.

Eventually I was joined in the room by two new officers, no, detectives. They wore the stereotypical “detective” uniform. Dockers, white shirts, brown ties, shoulder holsters… Like they were straight outta Law & Order.

There was a younger one. Detective Long. He was taller, 6’2” maybe? Well built, but not comically so. Fit. He was boyishly handsome, with wavy brown hair and glasses hiding bluish eyes that betrayed some Scandinavian roots in his bloodline. Clearly a local boy. Behind those blue eyes you could see the resolve that comes with a lifetime of comfortable boots and practical gloves. Believe me, we can recognize our own.

But this other detective, Detective Craig, he was clearly out of his element. Sporting a mid-90’s goatee and a buzz cut featuring some curls that implied a Jewish background, he was all East Coast. He wasn’t so much fit as disproportionate, his arms and neck bulging on top of a beer belly and a pair of skinny legs. He seemed to have a high center of gravity. The type of guy who wears a wife beater under his shirt rather than just a white t-shirt. I could see a tattoo creeping up from his collar to just behind his ear, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

Detective Craig took the lead.

"Don’t look so keen. You can’t be too surprised that we finally brought you in.”

He leaned in on the table, his voice firm, but not condescending.

“Really? Why?”

“You’re certainly welcome to play dumb now, if you’d like, but believe me, we’ve got enough to keep you here until you smarten up.”

OK, now he was being condescending.

“Listen, I’m happy to talk to you guys, but I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything without a lawyer here. So, please, either find the public defender and send him my way or let me take off. I have to get to work.”

“Work? You mean dealing out of that record store? Yeah, I’d hate to keep those dope heads waiting.”

Did he just say “dope heads?” This guy really is straight off Law & Order.

“Well, if I’m going to be here for a minute do you mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

Who would have thought the only place you could still smoke indoors without breaking the law would be the police station? I pulled out my pack and kicked one up. That first burn of the day. That slow burn.

“So, why am I here exactly?”

Detective Long stepped forward, setting a manila folder down in front of me.

“We have reason to believe you were involved in a little bit of trouble last night,” Detective Craig continued. “Why don’t you tell us where you were last night.”

I took a long pull off my cigarette.

“Last night, eh? Last night’s a bit blurred. New Year’s parties and all.”

“Does any part of that blur take place at the CC Club?”

“Hah! I have a lot of blurred nights from that dive. Why? Did something happen there last night?”

“Maybe. That general area.”

“Yeah, I was there last night. But a lot of people were there. Lord knows I can’t keep track of who came and who went.”

With that, Detective Craig opened the file folder. A couple of Polaroids sat on top of some paperwork. Looking out at me were the dead eyes of Bigs and Apple, each in their own photo. I took another long pull off my cigarette, trying to belie a sense of calm.

“Wow. Looks like they had a rough night.”

Detective Long stepped in. All 6’2” of him looming over the table, matching my eyes through the smoke.

“Do you know either of these people?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to us.”

“I’m not lying. I’ve never seen either of those people. What happened to them?”

Detective Long stepped back, his eyes never leaving mine. I stubbed my cigarette out in my coffee cup. Detective Craig, now facing the two-way mirror, but keeping his eyes on mind, took a more authoritarian tone.

“Listen, we have a file on you as thick as Gatsby. Drug busts, D & D‘s, petty theft, assault, from all over the country. Minneapolis, New York City, St. Paul, Nashville, and damn near every suburb in the Twin Cities area. If you want to claim naiveté we can spend the rest of the morning going over what we know you’ve done.”

I didn’t blink. All of those "incidents" were in the past. I’d done a little bit of time, done some community service shit, moved on.

“I’m being honest with you, I don’t know either of those people.”

“They turned up outside a complex on 25th and Dupont this morning. One of the residents called it in about 5:30 A.M.”

“5:30? You can be damn sure I wasn’t up and about at that hour.”

“I’ll bet. I’m sure this is the first time you’ve since 8:00 since your last coke binge.”

Ouch! I mean, he was probably right. Still…

“Technically, I saw 8:00 last night.”

“Funny.”

I thought so.

“Now, we know what goes on at that complex and we know you’re no stranger there. Were you there last night?”

I kicked up another cigarette.

“No. I went home after bar close. The CC Club then straight home. I told you, I had to be up for work today. You know how it is at the record store, Noon to Midnight, 365 days a year.”

“Oh yeah. The kids are lining up for CD’s these days.”

There was a knock at the door. A red haired woman, 20 something maybe, long skirt, boots… poked her head in.

“Detectives? They’re ready for you over in ‘B.’”

“Thanks. We’ll be over in a minute.”

I saw my opportunity.

“Listen, guys, I know I’m not under arrest and clearly, you’re very busy men. If there’s nothing else, I really should get going.”

Neither blinked. Two pairs of eyes solidly tracing mine. I stubbed out my half-smoked cigarette and made my way toward the door. Neither tried to stop me. I stood up and put my jacket on. I’m sure that rain hasn’t stopped yet.

“Stevens,” Craig started in as I turned the knob. “Don’t stray too far from those suburbs. We still have some things to discuss.”

“Duly noted. Happy New Year, guys.”