Vintage Hardboiled
A Mike Tough Mystery
This case was tougher than an alley fight with Boom Boom Mancini. My girl Velma - who means more to me than even my autographed Richie Zisk White Sox Jersey - had her birthday coming up fast and I needed to take her to a class joint and celebrate good and proper. Night had fallen like a punch-drunk heavyweight, so I hit the streets in Chi-Town to see what I could dig up.
I walked into the first joint, Club Anguish, and this cheap gunsel tries to stick me with a safety pin. That made me hotter than the big looser in a fixed Texas Hold’em game. “Tough rock, punk”, I sneered as I played him some chin music with a right uppercut. The next joint I walked into was so depressing it looked like they had announced appendicitis as the coming attraction.
Down, but not out, I hiked back to the office to meet my newest client, Lucinda, a North Shore dame, who has more class than Chicago had players in the last Mayoral dustup. I needed a little pick me up, so I hauled out the office bottle from the bottom left drawer. A quick slug of Old Two by Four and I was ready to talk some business. “Mr. Tough, how can you possibly consume that noxious, rancid swill?” she asked. I shot back: “Sister, what am I supposed to knock down, that two-bit spiked seltzer crapola?”
She replied: “Of course not, but what about wine, the beverage of choice for intelligent humans for millennia?” She had me there, but Mike Tough is no quitter. I spat back: “Lady, what I know about wine you put on the head of a pin and still have room for the Lord’s Prayer”. She gave me a steely glance: “Mr. Tough, if you are willing to learn there are efficacious methods available. I suggest a wine class at Wine and Song Chicago, taught by Gilmo the Wine Pro.”
I’d never heard of this Gilmo guy, but I guessed that we just didn’t hang around with the same crowd. I thought what the heck, nothings too good for Velma, so I signed up for wine 101, which number I didn’t quite get, but there was no turning back, As the class started, I had my doubts at first, but it turned out great.
This Gilmo guy was no wine geek, he treated everyone with respect and explained everything so clearly that even I cut to the chase. Suddenly all the pieces fell into place and I got what this wine fuss was all about. I learned even more than my precinct captain, Joey The Flash, did when he was signing up voters during his annual jaunt canvassing Holy Rest Cemetery.
The night that Velma and I went out, I was as ready as I was when I busted up the Goon Squad Hit Parade. I knew that I was an Instant Wine Insider and would: “Never have to fear a wine list again”. This snooty guy gave me the wine list and expected a big fat zero from my department.
Surprise, chump! I gave him a cool look and said: “Well the Malbec seems rather appropriate for the Filet Mignon, but we are going to go with the Cabernet Sauvignon”. His jaw dropped about two feet and he stammered: “Yes sir, very good sir, right away sir”. Velma gave me an adoring glance and said: “Case closed, my big, tough wine guy”.
