Finding Solly

Years ago the Chicago police pulled me over and I found myself living in Nelson Algren’s world.

Nelson Algren was a Chicago author who wrote in the 1940’s, 50’s and 60’s about a grimy and very corrupt Chicago.  His characters were eastern European immigrants doing their best to survive in a city designed to keep them down.

Part of that city still existed in the 1980’s when I was in my mid-twenties.  

Back then I frequented Chicago bars and listened to bands.  My bars were not in the trendy spots on the near northside where the beer cost too much.  My taverns were in the ethnic enclaves.  They were old pubs in old neighborhoods.

The bands fell into two camps: the up and coming groups who hoped to play in better bars and maybe get a recording contract and those who had peaked and were sliding back into the minor leagues.

The Jump in the Saddle Band played country swing at The Wild Hare bar on Lincoln Avenue north of Belmont.  This was a rundown German neighborhood. Next door to the Wild Hare was a business that made shoes for people with damaged feet.  The filthy storefront window displayed plaster casts of the most grotesque feet imaginable.

One Wednesday evening I saw my idol, Dan Hicks, play at Shubas on Belmont Avenue.  Dan had fallen off the radar.  He no longer traveled with his band, The Hot Licks.  That night Dan was performing solo on a battered acoustic guitar with a filthy cast on his right wrist.  He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a few weeks and needed to check into rehab immediately.  He seemed lost; although he ground through his sets, in a sad sort of way.  His addictions had gotten the better of him.

Perhaps my most cherished concert experience was seeing The Clash at the Aragon Ballroom. The Aragon had plummeted from its glory years in the 30’s and 40’s.  Back then the likes of Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey and Glenn Miller performed there.  The night I saw The Clash the place was falling apart.  It was dark and smelled of decay and bad plumbing.  The floors were coated in spilled beer and other sticky stuff, including all kinds of bodily fluids.

One hot Friday night in August of ‘81 at about 9:30, I headed out to the Wild Hare. Coming south from my low-rent neighborhood, Rogers Park, I started at the top of Lake Shore Drive and exited on Belmont.  

I drove a beat up ten year old British sports car.  A TR6 that I was desperately trying to sell to the next idiot.

As I passed under the L tracks, a few ladies of the night lingered on the sidewalk in front of some empty stores.  When the police approached, the ladies hid in the dark doorways until the danger had passed.

Near the intersection of Belmont and Southport the blue lights came on.  I thought oh boy, here we go.  I turned right at the next cross street and parked in front of the Schaeder Funeral Home.  The men in blue pulled in behind me.  I was about to be served and protected.  

I got out of the TR6 and walked back to their car.  If I did that today, guns would be drawn.  If I was black and did that today, I would be dead.  

Two standard issue Chicago cops sat in the car.  White guys in their late twenties or early thirties.   They were still in halfway decent shape; the donuts had not done much damage yet.  We’ll call them Sullivan and Murphy.    

Three young ladies sat in the back seat.  They wore brightly colored short skirts (very short) and halter tops, more makeup than could possibly be healthy and prodigious volumes of hair (it was the eighties).  I smelled their perfume ten feet away from the squad car.

Sullivan said, “Good evening. License and registration please.”

After I handed over the documents. I knew this was a BS stop because they did not radio in my details or the information about my car.  They did not care if I had outstanding warrants, a dodgy driving history, or if the car was stolen.  These two guys did not want an official  record of our meeting so they could do whatever the hell they wanted with me.

They started asking me questions.  Did I still live at the address shown on my license, where did I work, what did I do for a living, where was I going, where I was coming from, had I stopped anywhere on the way, had I been drinking, where did I grow up, where did I go to college, how did I do in school, did I have a girlfriend, what were my hobbies, what baseball team did I like, why did I like the White Sox?  

Question after question.  Each one more bizarre than the last.  I went along for the ride and answered with respect.  

Eventually I started joking around.  Figuring that if I could get them to laugh, the outcome would be better.  They laughed a couple of times.  The ladies in the back seat laughed a bit.  We were all bonding.

Finally, I asked, “Why have I been pulled over”

Sullivan said, “It is against the law to drive in Chicago with a for sale sign in your rear window.”

That was news to me and probably a lie.

I apologize, “Oh.  I had no idea.  I’m so sorry.”

We then went on to talk about my car.  How long did I own it, what year was it, how much did I want, why was I selling it, was it fun to drive, how fast was it, how was it mechanically, what kind of mileage did I get?

What was really going on?

This was a shake down; they wanted a bribe.

Back then, Chicago police stopped drivers and expected a bit of cash to come their way.  My fellow Irishmen hoped I would hand over at least twenty bucks – forty or fifty would be nice. Then they would be on their way and I could seize the night.  

They knew they were shaking me down, everyone in the back seat knew they were shaking me down, I knew they were shaking me down.  Hell, even Nelson Algren knew they were shaking me down.

I wasn’t going for it.

I wanted them to either write a ticket or let me go.  If I got a ticket, I could take it to court and have it dismissed or get it fixed.  That’s another Chicago thing.  When a ticket gets fixed, it disappears – no court date, no fine, no record, no nothing – a true Chicago style get out of jail free card.

My father could get the ticket fixed.  I learned this one Saturday morning when I was about thirteen, I heard Pop talking on the phone.  He kept saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t have a Chinaman in the Secretary of State office.  There’s nothing I can do for you.”  The guy on the other end seemed desperate.  Pop hung up and explained that an army buddy was worried about renewing his driver’s license.  He asked for my father’s help.  He wanted to get his license renewed without taking any tests.  Pop explained to me that a Chinaman was a government insider who bent the rules for his friends.  I learned that my father had Chinamen.  Later I learned he had many Chinamen.  This was classic Nelson Algren stuff.

Back on Belmont Avenue  the police radio broadcasted how the night’s chaos was unfolding – robberies, domestic violence, car wrecks, bar fights, shootings – the normal summer weekend insanity in Chicago.  

Sullivan and Murphy ignored the mayhem.  Sullivan just tapped my drivers license on his steering wheel to show who was in control.

They talked about giving me a ticket.  I explained that a ticket wouldn’t work for me because I was flying to France the next day for work and needed my license to rent a car. Which was true and my primary concern. So we talked about France for a while – why was I going and where was I going, how long would I be there, could I speak French, what did I think of French food, and how about those French women?

Finally they decided that this twenty-six year old accountant was too damn dumb to know that he was being shaken down.  I had wasted enough of their time.  The streets teamed with other victims who knew the dance and would cough up the cash.

Sullivan whispered something to Murphy and they made an offer.  

Murphy said, “Driving with a for sale sign in your rear window is a serious violation of the criminal code.  I could arrest you, bring you to the night court and hopefully the judge will be awake, sober and lenient.  He may give you a fine and let you go, despite the severe nature of your crime, given that this is your first offence and you seem like an upstanding guy.”  

After a long pause Murphy said, “Or you could get in the backseat with the three young ladies for the next fifteen minutes and see what happens.”

The Greek chorus back there laughed hysterically and started making room for me.

I smiled at the flock in the back seat.

Then I look into the night sky for a few moments.  I remembered how my father called me Solly Saltskin.  Solly was a minor character in Algren’s book The Man with the Golden Arm.  The story took place about a mile from where I was standing.  Solly was  a loser who survived by stealing mutts in bad neighborhoods and selling them as purebreds in fancy neighborhoods.  I never asked why my father called me Solly Saltskin. At some level it was disrespectful.  But that night Pop would be proud of me because I had talked a couple Chicago cops out of shaking me down.

I looked at Sullivan and Murphy and said, “Officers under other circumstances I would love to meet these fine ladies and form lasting relationships, but tonight I will talk to the judge.”

They shook their heads.  Sullivan handed me the license back and said, “Mr. Smith, be careful tonight and have fun in France.”