| |
WE ENTERED A room teeming with activity. Anybody who was anybody was here. Anybody who wasn’t necessarily anybody but wanted to be was here. Reporters proliferated like rabbits. Cameras exploded like popcorn. Hawkers sold cheap souvenirs. Bigwigs schmoozed with socialites. Insiders traded jibes with philanthropists. Powerbrokers huddled with influence peddlers. Politicians mingled openly but whispered behind cupped hands. And curiosity seekers basked in the limelight. The gathering marked the official grand opening of O’Hare International Airport, this first phase launching a long-range vision that would transform the airfield from a rinky-dink airport into a major transportation hub.
“I can say this for you, Starr. You’re becoming useful. Like a wrench or a picklock.” He narrowed his eyes. “Okay, maybe a few other things.” Satisfied, he pressed his hand to the small of my back and escorted me to the open bar. We marked time by sipping drinks and keeping eyes and ears peeled.
In his glory, Chicago’s newly elected mayor presided over the shindig even though the venture had been approved, funded, rubberstamped, and constructed on the last mayor’s watch. Normally it would have been Dick Byrnes’s job to protect his boss from interlopers and hangers-on. Today, Detective Pennyroyal filled the role. Somewhere he had acquired a clean shirt, new tie, fresh shave, and sober attitude.
The mayor handed out backslaps and boisterous guffaws. Though not handsome, he fit all the basics of a powerful man: tall, robust, baritone-voiced, and smartly dressed. Graying hair gave him a distinguished look. A hearty laugh made him seem accessible. And the double chin conveyed power and privilege. With little fanfare, the premier moment arrived. Smiling broadly, Mayor Moore cut the ceremonial red ribbon using a pair of prop scissors. He made sure the press photographers got his best profile: the jowly right.
Standing in the mayor’s foreshortened shadow, Shirley Wickham applauded. Age indeterminate, she wore a simple black dress trimmed in white piping. Two bobby pins encrusted with rhinestones secured her dark hair. Bright red lipstick stroked her thin lips. Of average height, she wasn’t a looker, but she was definitely stacked. In a society run by men, breasts counted more than brains and beauty combined. As the mayor’s personal secretary, she typed at the speed of lightning and protected the mayor’s backside with the same concentration as a gun-toting moll. No one could remember when she first started working for Gerald X. Moore, but she had always been there, even when he was a nobody.
Starr was working the crowd, checking over this joe and giving the once-over to that mary. He winked at every skirt, glad-handed every politician, shot down every reporter with an imaginary gun, and laughed at jokes only he got. He toddled past two attractive janes who wrote color articles for the Observer, tipped his fedora, and winked at the redhead. She turned her back on him and fingered an obscenity over her shoulder. Heartbroken, he grabbed his chest, fell against a wall of people, and disappeared into the crowd.
The redhead spoke to her friend in a tightlipped monotone. “Then I tell the bastard, swap spit with me one more time, buddy, and your wife’s gonna know everything there is to know about Alderman Johnny Kirk.” She looked up. Blood drained from her face.
Wearing a gray Homburg and puffing on a Havana, Johnny Kirk—fatter than Buddha and bolder than nickel-plated brass—gave the redhead a checkup. Rolling the cigar between chubby fingers, he expelled smoke into her face. She waved away the fumes and sent him a dirty look. He answered with an indecent stare that stripped her naked. In a huff, she spun around and made a quick getaway, dragging her friend along.
Undeterred, Kirk scouted for a new piece of ass to harass. Instead of walking, he shuffled. Instead of breathing, he wheezed. Instead of observing, he ogled. As city alderman representing the notorious 19th Ward, Johnny Kirk boasted a spotty reputation going back three decades. Reputed bagman for Alfonse ‘Scarface’ Capone, he became the wheelman for Frank ‘The Enforcer’ Nitti after Capone went down for tax evasion. When Nitti committed suicide rather than face time in Leavenworth, Kirk signed on as accountant for Tony ‘Big Tuna’ Accardo. Other posts in the Chicago Outfit included bodyguard to Tommy Esposito, button man under John Bogart, and arm-twister for Joey Arezzo. Rumor had it that he’d been involved in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where six members of Bugs Moran’s gang were lined up against the wall of a garage and executed by four members of Capone’s gang. In this town, it wasn’t a big deal to move from mob chum to public service.
Starr reappeared. His over-the-top hijinks covered a multiplicity of sins, the chief one of eavesdropping on conversations. He bumped into Kirk. “How’s the alderman game over at City Hall? Up to your fat ass in kickbacks, I’ll bet.”
The fat man sucked the nib of his cigar, savored the aroma, and released a cloud of smoke straight into Starr’s face. “The Nineteenth Ward was bled dry years and years ago. Times are tough these days. Probably heard I been pushing through pension reform. Serve twenty years as alderman, get a lifetime pension.”
“Any alderman who can put in twenty years without singing the jailhouse blues deserves a pension,” Starr said.
“I like the way you think.” He dragged the cigar out of his mouth and puffed smoke toward the ceiling. “Nothing’ doing say the powers-that-be. Instead, they want to put gondolas in Lincoln Park Lagoon. Thirty they want. Get two, says I. In no time at all, they’ll be making baby gondolas.”
Starr cocked his head in the direction of Jerry Moore. “Mayor’s in a good mood.”
“That’s because his chief honcho isn’t around to make everybody jittery.”
“Then you know,” Starr said.
Kirk glanced in Pennyroyal’s direction. “Heard Byrnes kissed off in the arms of his second true love.”
Both men sniggered.
“How’s your Ford Woody?” Starr asked.
“Sold it last year.”
“And your cabin up in Lake Geneva?”
“Unloaded it back in February. Wisconsin fish have been tapped out. All you can hook nowadays is a dairy cow or two. Even that’s iffy.”
“How did the mayor react to the news?”
“That his comptroller was bumped off in a gangland hit?” Kirk tugged the cigar from his mouth. “How do you think? Put a twelve-hour clamp on the press.”
“Doesn’t seem particularly upset, though.”
“Mayor’s broken up about it. Vowed he’d get the bastard who done it if it’s the last thing he does. Ain’t holding my breath, though.” Kirk winked at a brick-house mama, who immediately widened the distance separating them. “On the other hand, Arezzo’s not exactly losing snot over the bastard. Chicago’s finest have been sticking to him like Johnson’s Baby Oil.”
“The police think Arezzo ordered the hit?”
Kirk slid his eyes toward Pennyroyal. He was making small talk with Shirley Wickham. The seasoned cop and the executive secretary made an odd pairing, yet their tête-à-tête was as cozy as a tea set. “If I were you, Starr, I’d watch my back.” Kirk tipped his hat and lumbered away.
Starr gazed across the room and took the pulse of Monica Seagraves. Cuing into his blatant onceover ... and twice over ... she shifted slightly, giving him a prime view of her plucked eyebrows, wet mouth, and plump assets.
I came abreast of him. “My advice, Starr? Stay clear of her. She’s like eating a cold fudge sundae in December. Sticks to the roof of your mouth and hard to swallow.”
“Look who’s talking.”
I tossed back my hair and pointed my nose in the air. “What are you suggesting?”
“Only that you make it with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. If,” he emphasized, “you can get a story from between the sheets.”
We were on the move, shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes like pinballs, ears alert. “Strictly cotton,” I said. “A hundred-and-eighty count. But if you’re referring to Tom Stacy and that bacchanal at the Press Club―”
“Don’t forget Harry Darnell.”
“My boss’s boss? We just flirted a little. Okay, more than a little.”
“And since you made it with Tom and you made it with Harry, that leaves―”
“I don’t dick around.”
“Unless you can get a scoop.”
“In your wildest dreams.” I rethought his proposition. “We can talk.”
Monica made her move on Pennyroyal, reeling him in like a grizzly bear to the honey pot. Like all men, he was susceptible to flattery, especially when the lady cooed, clucked, and drooled. Feigning disinterest, he stood broomstick straight, mouth set into a horizontal line, arms folded over chest, and eyes shielded by polarized sunglasses.
“Something fishy about this airport, don’t you think?” I said to Starr.
His eyes were focused on the lovebirds but his ears were attuned to my every word. “Fishy?”
Over the years, O’Hare had been known by several names. Orchard Place. Douglas Field. The 803rd Special Depot of the Army Air Force. But when the city chose it as the site to meet its future aviation plans, the commission unearthed a dead war hero. “You’ve heard of Edward ‘Butch’ O’Hare,” I said.
“The pilot who posthumously won the Congressional Medal of Honor for shooting down five Japanese Zeros and crippling a sixth before his own plane took a hit? Who hasn’t?”
“Not everyone knows Butch was the son of ‘Easy Eddie’ O’Hare.”
He regarded me with sober curiosity. “The lawyer who kept Al Capone out of jail all those years?”
According to legend, God came to Fast Eddie in a vision and told him he was screwed unless he turned state’s evidence. Probably he could see Capone’s days were numbered. Or maybe he truly repented his life of crime. No one will ever know whether he was motivated by nobility or self-interest, but in exchange for telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, his son received an appointment to Annapolis. Butch O’Hare went on to redeem the family name, but the price was a steep one.
“And we all know who the beneficiary of Capone’s legacy is.”
Starr finally tore his eyesight away from Monica. “You really think Arezzo had Dick Byrnes knocked off?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but anybody who can buy an election can also buy an airport. And anybody who can buy an airport ... well ... he has all the incentive in the world to keep the details from coming out.”
Breaking away from Starr, I weaved in and out of intimate chitchats and talkative cliques while keeping a close eye on Pennyroyal. The cop side of him noticed my oblique advance, but the seducible side continued flirting with Monica.
She stood out like a floozy, every item of her wardrobe gauged to attract attention, from the skintight clothes to the dazzling jewelry. She flattered him with batting eyelashes. He undressed her with a look. She asked question after question. He uttered monosyllabic answers. She listened with enrapt attention. He puffed out his chest. She poked him in the side. He lowered his hand to her butt. She puckered her lips. He whispered in her ear. She turned around and grinned in my direction. He lowered his shades and watched me watch them. She laughed gaily and trotted off. He reset his sunglasses.
I would have given anything to wipe the grin off his face. I was about to when Tom Stacy, investigative reporter and Pulitzer Prize winner, waylaid him. Last year Stacy blundered onto a fluke story, racked up national attention, and voilà, he became la crème de la crème overnight. Ever since, the editors of all the papers have been trying to woo him away from the Daily Standard, and all the girls have been trying to woo him into their underwear. He was the new golden boy on the block. Tall, Hollywood gorgeous, and cunning.
Stacy eagerly scratched a sharpened pencil into a flip notebook. “Your demotion must’ve come through,” he said to Pennyroyal.
“Just filling in for Byrnes until he feels better.”
“I hear he’s got a nose cold.”
Pennyroyal referred to his watch. “Could turn into double pneumonia any minute.”
“I also heard ... off the record ... that he dug up dirt on Kirk.”
Pennyroyal admired a tall dame standing in the mayor’s foreshortened shadow. “Probably why Byrnes came down sick all of a sudden.”
“You’re saying Kirk’s on the take?” Stacy flicked his eyes sideways and admired the same broad. “And Byrnes had the goods on him?”
Auburn hair set off her pencil skirt, sleeveless blouse, patent leather belt, and endless legs. She made an impression, just not the right kind of impression. The way she pushed back the waves of her hair epitomized the type of woman she was and the wares she had to offer. She sent a special kind of Morse Code in the mayor’s direction. Pennyroyal sent a different kind of code toward Shirley Wickham, but the mayor’s lapdog had already picked up on the scent.
“A land deal,” Pennyroyal went on. “Direct involvement with the mob.”
“Arezzo?” Stacy asked.
“Bogart’s got more brains before breakfast than Arezzo ever had after lunch.” Pennyroyal sighed and said, “He’s gonna be missed.”
“Bogart’s going somewhere?”
“If Arezzo has anything to say about it.”
Intrigued, Stacy leaned closer. “I thought Kirk was working for Arezzo.”
“That’s what Kirk wanted Arezzo to believe.”
“I’m confused.”
“So was Arezzo. Not anymore.”
“So Arezzo intends to kill three birds with one stone ... Byrnes, Bogart, and Kirk.”
Pennyroyal shrugged.
“How? By using the secret dossier?”
Pennyroyal stayed tight-lipped.
“The one Byrnes put together?”
Pennyroyal didn’t confirm or deny.
The statuesque lady had come within a yard of the mayor. Shirley Wickham upended her chin. Two uniformed cops converged on her. She made a scene and called for help, using a name that became garbled in the struggle. No one came to her rescue. One of the cops twisted her arm behind her back and pinned it there. She let out a high-pitched squeal. After that, she went along quietly but kept looking back at another girl, a brunette propped against a support column. Impassively watching the drama unfold, the brunette lifted a cigarette to her lips. When her hand trembled in an idiosyncratic manner, I took a second look. The wig had thrown me, but there was no mistaking the yellow halter dress.
After the commotion died down, the girl tore anxious eyes away from her auburn-haired friend and fastened them on me. Though both ladies were in the same trade, this one wore fragility over her heart. Underneath the wig and halter-top, she was wholesome as a schoolgirl, fresh-faced as a virgin, and only slightly used up. Given a little luck, she still had time to get out and live a normal life with a boring husband and a couple of brats. Luck for girls like her, though, was scarce. Probably she’d wind up on a garbage heap like all the other girls who arrived in the big city with stars in their eyes and hope in their hearts only to see their dreams scattered to the winds.
She dropped the cigarette and squashed it beneath the toe of a pirouetting shoe. She’d made up her mind about something. She walked in my direction. When Johnny Kirk crossed her path, she stopped short, reached down, and adjusted the strap of a shoe. Then she twisted around and rummaged for something in her purse. As if remembering something, the girl strutted away and disappeared into the mob.
Stacy pressed Pennyroyal. “Who has the secret dossier now? You?”
“The murderer.” Pennyroyal let his eyes drift across the room toward Kirk. Stacy followed his gaze. The fat man was standing by himself, cigar smoke swirling around him.
“Kirk’s the killer?” Stacy asked.
“Didn’t say that.” Pennyroyal pushed at the knot of his tie and thrust out is chest. “But when Bogart gets sent up, Kirk would be wise to hightail it to Miami. And then take a slow boat to South America.”
“He’s being set up?”
Pennyroyal winked.
“Tomorrow night, I heard. A sting operation.”
“Sooner.”
“Where?” Stacy said, scribbling into his notebook.
“For me to know and you to find out.” Pennyroyal ripped off the top three sheets of Stacy’s notebook, crumpled them into a wad, and stuffed the wad into his breast pocket. “Off the record, right Stacy, like always? I scratch your back. You powder puff mine.”
Stacy grinned. Beneath the grin beat a calculating mind. Plunging a hand into his pocket, he strolled away and joined a crowd of newspaper types who greeted him as the hail-fellow well met. While lapping up praise and platitudes, he still had the gall to twist around and wink at me.
I aligned myself next to Pennyroyal. “Tell me again why the mayor ordered the newspapers to keep a lid on Byrnes’s nose cold?”
“Get this into your head, Grenadine. Nothing’s going to spoil the mayor’s tenure.” Beneath the stern cop exterior, he chuckled callously.
“Except the next election, the usual kickbacks, shakedowns, and muckraking, and a murder or two.” Chuckling more callously, I moved off.
The terminal had become increasingly rowdy. The atmosphere was thick with body odor, false laughter, and conceit. Hostesses brought around hors d’oeuvres, petit fours, and Rhine wine in plentiful quantities. Invited guests and gatecrashers had arrived for the pomp but were staying for the boisterous circumstances.
Starr was eavesdropping on a group of dowdy civil servants. When one of them spotted him, he covered his tracks by reaching out to a man in a gray suit. “John, what a surprise!”
“Do I know you?” the man in the gray suit said.
“Great, great. Kids are great. The wife, great.” Backing safely away from the man in the gray suit, Starr bumped smack into me. I glanced around to make sure no one was within listening range before speaking in low tones. “What’d you find out?”
“About what?”
“The sting?”
“What sting?”
“You know and I know Pennyroyal’s laying groundwork for a bust.”
“On who?”
“You know who.”
“About what?”
“You know what.”
“You’re not talking about―?”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
He threw back his head and considered his response, weighing what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. When he wagged his eyebrows, I knew I was in for doublespeak. “You’re telling me that he’s setting up Kirk so he’ll turn state’s evidence against Bogart, which will protect Arezzo and coincidentally take the heat off Mayor Moore, who wants this Byrnes thing to go away?”
It wasn’t doublespeak. “I’m not telling you anything, but that pretty much sums it up.”
“Hell, Grenadine, don’t tell me you believe every rumor Pennyroyal spreads around like Jiffy Peanut Butter on Wonder Bread?”
Starr was smarter than I figured. He impressed me with his grasp of the facts and the political implications. But since I went for any type but his type, I put it out of my mind that I might actually be attracted to him. “Sort of makes us two of a kind,” I said. “Birds of a feather. Two peas in a pod.”
“So long as you stay on your side of the metaphor and I stay on mine.”
“I heard the sting’s tomorrow night,” I said.
“Tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“Doubly sure.”
Finding his double assurances suspect, I said, “Make like a tuna, Starr, and can it.”
“Sure thing.” Saluting, he backed away and resumed snooping, snaking into and out of gabfests, stepping on toes, and tripping over clichés.
I left him to his antics and skulked in a circuitous route, ferreting out my own sources of information. Monica Seagraves lay in wait. She brought her camera to eye level and framed my image inside the viewfinder. “Smile, Iris!”
Blinking into the aftereffects of the flash, I said, “Why if it isn’t Monica Seagraves. The walking IBM 700 Series, the World Book Encyclopedia of the modern age, the Fort Knox of rumor and innuendo, the Boardwalk and Park Place of an iconoclastic society plugged into vanity and sloth.”
“Drop dead twice, Iris.”
“And look like you?”
A tall woman passed our way. She wore a dress with three-quarter sleeves and turned-back cuffs, the bodice white with navy-blue detailing, and the skirt solid navy blue. Under the pretense of searching for someone else, she inclined herself in our direction, her ear tilted to better overhear our conversation.
“Dee Dee Morton,” I called out to her. “That article on lake erosion. How did you manage it?”
“Why, Iris,” Dee Dee said, her smile bitchy, “I didn’t see you standing there.”
“That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.”
“I only wear them when I have to see.” Dee Dee looked down her nose at Monica. “Playing photojournalist, are we?”
Monica’s smile was even bitchier. Dee Dee strutted off, head tossed back, hair swinging, and hips grinding. When she was out of earshot, Monica asked, “Remind me again how she snagged her lake erosion story.”
“Slept with the Superintendent of Sewers and San.”
She harrumphed and said, “You should talk.”
“A woman who has more taste per ounce than a Hershey’s chocolate bar doesn’t have to sleep her way to the top.”
“What about Byron Bullock?” Monica asked. “Heard you two were an item.”
“Past tense.”
“And Frederick Bickel?”
“Freddie’s just a friend.”
“More than a friend.”
“Oh, yeah, right, that Freddie Bickel. My extra-special friend who lends me his parking space whenever he’s out of town.”
“An extra-extra-special friend who lends you his evening gowns, too, but only when you’re posing as his beard for social occasions.”
Monica was more in the know than I previously gave her credit for. All this time, I thought she was just a sponge cake with whip cream between the ears. Turned out, she also had chocolate sprinkles on top. “What perfume are you wearing?” I asked her.
“Chanel No. 5. Like it?”
“Not particularly.”
We stood side by side, gazing out at the crowd.
“Got any juicy gossip I can use?” I asked. “Any titillating tidings, lurid leads, or tawdry tips?”
“Other than a dead dick with a lobotomy?”
We directed our attention toward Johnny Kirk and Shirley Wickham. As different as olive oil was from vinegar, they seemed to go together on the salad plate; insiders who were really outsiders; one crude, the other prim; one oily, the other acidic. From their snide expressions, knowing nods, and furtive finger pointing, they were making mincemeat of everyone.
“I heard Shirley still lives with her mother,” Monica said.
I shook my head. “Moved into a two-bedroom co-op on Lake Shore Drive.”
“On a civil servant salary?”
“Old Man Wickham left her and her mom a bundle.” Shirley Wickham was a representative of that class of women who never married. A childless, unloved spinster in her thirties and rapidly approaching forty, dedicated to her job, her boss, and the power she derived from the man she served. Since she protected her boss’s interests with the loyalty of a Doberman pincer, no one could get near him without going through her first.
“What’re you doing here anyway?” Monica asked. “Aren’t parades your beat?
“Get this,” I said. “Some hick singer from Memphis. White guy who belts it out like the coloreds. Here to sign with a local record company.”
She crossed her eyes. “Sounds thrilling.”
Susie Mueller, a stringer for the Post-News, toddled past. “Susie darling,” I said. “Where did you get that double darling dress?” As an aside to Monica, I said, “By sleeping with her editor.”
“Really? Susie Mueller sleeps with Alan Zimmerman?”
“None other.”
“The midget?”
“The midget with the long schlong.”
“Why are you really here, Iris? And don’t give me any crap about a hayseed.”
“To give you a hard time.”
“Hah! I know why you’re here. So you can get a lead on who murdered Dick Byrnes.”
“True,” I admitted, “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but practically everyone who might have a motive is here.”
“Practically?” she repeated. “Who’s missing?”
“Mrs. Byrnes.”
“You think Mrs. Byrnes killed her husband?”
“Could also be the bimbo Byrnes was with when he bought it.”
“Dick Byrnes was with a bimbo?”
“And there’s always the bimbo’s boyfriend.”
“You’re making it up as you go along.” Her eyes crossed as she tried to fit all the possibilities onto the head of a pin. Eventually, she gloated. “You forgot someone.”
“Mrs. Byrnes’s lover?” I asked.
She frowned. “You know about her lover?”
“All anybody has to do is get a load of Dick Byrnes to know his wife must have a lover.”
Across the way, Kirk gave Shirley a friendly pat on her bottom and waddled off.
Monica called out to Barbara Levy. “Barbara Levy! Or should I say, the invincible Barbara Levy.” As an aside, she said, “The sting’s going down tonight.”
“Aw, gee, I have a date tonight.”
“Stand him up.” Monica strutted off. Without warning, she folded like a pleated skirt and toppled with a loud thunk. After a delayed reaction and a shake of her head, she climbed painfully back to her feet and pretended nothing had happened. People looked away but tittered behind their hands. She scowled in my direction.
Sniggering, Starr sidled beside me. He’d been my silhouette for the last five minutes. I knew it. He knew that I knew it. We both knew Monica didn’t know it. I gave him a big smile. He shrugged innocence, and stuffing hands into pants pockets, strolled toward a covey of big shots.
I recognized one of them as John J. Rudolph, one-time owner of the department store Rudolph & Co. and publisher of the Post-News. He was huddling in a ring of other high-powered publishers and editors, men who wore dark suits and smug airs. Their words ricocheted back and forth like shot from a BB gun. “Byrnes ... Kirk ... sting operation ... jail time ... tonight.”
One of the big shots was none other than General Jacobson Ashford, publisher and editor of the Daily Standard. Though Rudolph and Ashford were fierce competitors who attacked each other on the op-ed pages of their respective papers, in public they exchanged facile comments as if they didn’t really want to tear out each other’s hearts and feast on the still-beating flesh with a fine Bordeaux. The general broke off midsentence and twisted around. Cold gray eyes peered down at me over a hooked nose. “Do I know you?”
Pretending to search for something in my purse, I raised my head and looked around. He was far from fooled. “I, uh, work for you, sir.”
He removed the pipe stem from his mouth and said, “Ah. You’re a reporter, a news hen, a jib-rat, the lowest form of amoebic life in this city, in the world, on the planet.”
“When you put it that way ....”
He twisted back around and elbowed Rudolph. “Someone I want you to meet, Rudy.”
Smartly dressed in one of Rudolph & Co.’s private label clothing lines, Rudolph scrutinized my outfit and coordinated accessories as if he owned them. In a way, he did, since I’d purchased nearly every item at his family’s State Street store.
Several years ago, after selling majority stake in the family business to his brother, Rudolph founded the Daily News in answer to the Daily Standard’s anti-Roosevelt bashing. The general didn’t take kindly to the move. From his way of thinking, freedom of the press belonged only to those who owned one, so he did his best to deep-six the fledgling newspaper. A few years later, the retail magnet—the third of his name—rubbed the general’s face in it by conjoining his paper with the Evening Post. The combined circulation of the revamped Post-News became the Daily Standard’s main rival. Ever since, it’s been open warfare.
“This is John Grenadine’s daughter,” General Ashford said.
I swallowed back an involuntary gasp. I never before met him, professionally or otherwise. His kind of people lived in big mansions behind locked gates with guard dogs patrolling the perimeter. Come to think, so did my kind of people, but in a different part of town.
“You take after your mother,” Rudolph said.
“You’ve met my mother, sir?”
“No, but you look nothing like your father.”
Chicago operated like a small town, adhering to small-town principles and engaging in small-town bickering. Movers and shakers unavoidably bumped into each other at community functions, forcing them to schmooze in a friendly way. But to gang up on an upstart newspaperwoman, namely myself, seemed uncivilized.
The general puffed pipe smoke in my direction. “Forget about the sting, Miss Grenadine. A certain alderman of the 19th Ward isn’t a shill for the mob. The mayor’s budget director was never gunning for him. Even if he was, he’s conveniently dead. The mayor himself knows of no such scandal, especially since it took place on the last mayor’s watch. Bottom line, there’s no story. If there were a story, I’d assign it to Tom Stacy. You’re acquainted with the man?”
“The Pulitzer Prize winner, sir?”
“Just remember this, Miss Grenadine. Everyone lies. Layers upon layers of lies. Day after goddamn day of lies. Don’t forget it.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“As much as you’d like to, you’ll never atone for your father’s sins. Even if you get an exclusive on this story, which you won’t, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you do,” I said, “have something to say about.”
He rounded on me. “I don’t like your attitude, Miss Grenadine.”
“Neither does my father.”
We had reached an impasse, perhaps even a truce. I nodded respectfully and stepped away, heel to toe, until there was enough distance separating us to slink off. Starr pulled alongside and matched his step to mine. “Your boss sure took you down a notch or two.”
I elbowed him in the gut.
“Isn’t she great?” Starr wheezed to a bystander. “I love her. Everybody loves her. Iris, the Grenadine. Iris, the Pink Lady.”
“Go to hell, Starr.”
“Will do,” he said, and bid adieu with a half-hearted salute.
