Hose Down the White Tile - The Wheelman

SAUGHERTY FOLLOWED LENNON AND THE PARKING GUY all the way down Broad Street into the depths of South Philadelphia. Saugherty noticed that Lennon had pulled a gun—the very Glock 19 he’d given him early this morning—on the parking attendant before they climbed into the car, and he could only assume that it was pointed at the guy the entire ride. Despite this, he obeyed all traffic laws, which was impressive, considering.

They pulled up to Ninth and Catherine, near a one-hundred-year-old South Philly restaurant called Dominick’s Little Italy. The place was very familiar to Saugherty. Famous for 1960s-era gangland powwows and grisly 1980s-era gangland hits, Dominick’s also served up some amazing Italian food. Saugherty had taken his ex-wife here for their fifth anniversary. He had enjoyed pointing out the local capos and wannabes sitting at each table. His wife had been too nervous to enjoy herself. “Will you stop pointing,” she’d hushed him, under her breath.

The thing that stuck most in his memory about Dominick’s Little Italy: all the white tile. It was everywhere—the floor, the walls … maybe even the ceiling, for all he remembered. White tile, bordered by black tiles. The main dining room looked like one big high school shower. Saugherty joked at the time that the white tiles just made it easier to hose down the blood after a mob hit. His ex didn’t think that was funny, either.

What was Lennon doing down here? Was he forcing the parking attendant to buy him a plate of raviolis?

There was a small dive bar catty-corner to Dominick’s. Saugherty parked the car. He was relieved to find that it was one of those old-man bars he loved—no fancy bar menu, no karaoke, no microbrews. Just wood paneling and two beers on tap. Coasters were about the fanciest thing in the joint. Squared white tile covered the floor. The ceiling was stamped tin, painted over. The stool seats were covered with puffy vinyl, and there were peanuts in black plastic bowls on the bar top. Best of all, there was a huge greasy window, partially obscured by a set of 1950s-era blinds, that gave Saugherty a front and side view of Dominick’s. When Lennon left the premises, Saugherty would know about it.

Which left only one thing to do: order a fucking drink already.

Saugherty asked for a boilermaker—a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. The bartender didn’t ask what kind of whiskey, what kind of beer. Saugherty liked that. The glass sank and tapped the bottom of the mug with a dull thud, like two submarines tapping each other underwater. Saugherty downed it, then asked for a shot of Jack Daniel’s and another beer. Jack and beer. That had been his drink of choice ten years ago, when shit with his ex had gotten out of control. He’d finish his shift, then head to the Ashton Tavern just down the road a piece from his house on Colony Drive.

The house that was burning.

Saugherty saluted it, and enjoyed the trip down memory lane. Every so often, he’d look across the street to see what was going on at Dominick’s.