They have vilified me, they have crucified me, yes, they have even criticized me.
—Richard J. Daley, 48th mayor of Chicago
It turned out he was mortal.
In December of 1976, Philip came home and bowed his head at dinner and said, “There will be no other mayor like the mayor.” He paused, looked around the table in case anybody had a challenge to that. Popper started to eat. They were having chicken and corn on the cob from the Kentucky Fried Chicken that is no longer on Central Avenue across from Jewel. Popper always ate the chicken after the corn. He took his buttered bread in one hand and his corn cob in the other and rolled the cob around in the butter. Buttered bread is always better than the corn and the corn is always better than the chicken. Nobody else was eating. That big striped bucket plump in the middle of the table.
“Daley’s been dead since he ordered the cops to shoot to kill looters in ’68,” Leo said. Popper kept mowing his corn, being sadly finished now with the buttered bread.
“Looters?” Philip said. “You want to tell me about looters? Tonight?”
“Humpty Dumpty,” Leo said. “A boss, a dictator.”
“I remember that night,” Miriam said. “I watched it from the window.”
“Look at your food, Leo,” Philip said. “This chicken, Mayor Daley raised it. He fried it up. That piece of corn. Mayor Daley grew it. The bread, he milled it. He brewed this beer. Your shoes—look at your shoes. The mayor cobbled them. Everything we have—What, Miriam, you’ve stopped cooking?”
“And all the king’s horses,” Leo said.
“What about the Colonel?” Popper said.
“The whole city was dark,” Miriam said. “But there was this pulsing glow, like the sun was rising at the wrong time of day—”