Dark Chicago      Larry's Tavern

“It’s still Larry’s name on the sign—but everybody knows who really owns the joint.”

Description - Exterior

Larry’s sits near the corner of a modest commercial strip in Brighton Park, sandwiched between a tailor and a pawn shop. The painted sign reads just LARRY’S, in blocky white letters faded by smoke and salt air. The building is brick, plain, and a little tired, with a wide awning and an old neon beer sign that flickers more than it glows. Locals know the place by feel—warm in winter, safe-ish in summer, and always a little tense after midnight.

Description - Interior

Inside, Larry’s is clean enough to feel respectable and worn enough to feel real. There’s a long, polished oak bar with mismatched stools, a jukebox full of Sinatra and sad country songs, and a row of framed team photos no one’s updated in years. A few booths in back offer privacy, but the lightbulbs above them hum loud enough to warn you. The mirror behind the bar is cracked but clean. Gangsters drink for free, but they never take without nodding first.

History

Larry bought the place in 1938, ran it straight through ration cards, price freezes, and two citywide beer strikes. But in ’48, a debt too big and too fast caught up with him, and Joe “Bagels” Testa took the deed in exchange for breathing room. Larry never called it a buyout, but he hasn’t called the shots since. Bagels doesn’t meddle much—just shows up when he wants, drinks what he likes, and makes sure Larry’s never alone when trouble starts.

Owned By

Joe "Bagels" Testa, through a silent holding company. He doesn’t flaunt it, but everyone knows.

Run By

Larry Povolino, age 58. Worn thin but too proud to quit. He pours drinks, mops floors, and knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Employees

• Rita – Day bartender, ex-telephone operator, quick with names and quicker with warnings.
• Mel “Two-Nose” Gavins – Part-time bouncer, full-time storyteller. Might’ve once boxed, definitely took too many hits.
• Gil – Busboy and runner. Mostly deaf, but hears what matters.

Regulars

• Bagels’ guys—never too many at once, but always at least one
• Retired firemen and ironworkers drinking memories dry
• A CPD beat cop who never pays and never smiles
• A mysterious man who only comes in on Tuesdays, orders water, and tips in silver dollars

Notes

• Bagels has personally backed Larry up three times—once with cash, once with muscle, and once with something no one talks about
• There’s a locked cabinet behind the bar with two sets of books—one for taxes, one for favors
• Larry keeps a bottle under the counter labeled “For Bagels Only”—no one else touches it
• Once a year, the jukebox plays a song no one remembers loading; Bagels always smiles when it does
• A former bartender vanished in ’51—left his apron, his keys, and a single card that read “settled.”