Windy City Page 15

  “Ellen Watkins is a fruitcake,” Peter announced. “She sees a horse and calls it a zebra—everything is black and white.”

  “Well, if you're in a zoo …” said Sunny.

  “And Carlos Nieto is a Republican.”

  “So was Lincoln. So is half the country. Please, Peter, you've played kneesies with Yasser Arafat and written constitutions for war criminals.”

  “Well they're not Republicans … Judge Sullivan isn't even in Chicago.”

  “Technology is amazing these days,” Sunny told him. “It's like you're in the same room. Teleconference with Ellen Watkins, if it helps you get along. You know Paul Freeman?”

  Peter Mansfield leaned forward and muttered from behind the heel of his hand.

  “He sold dope to me in law school.”

  “So you already have a professional relationship.”

  Sunny parted the crust of his pie with a fork; a blast of steam shot up, then an ooze of peas, carrots, and pearl onions.

  “Two blacks, a Hispanic, two whites,” Peter totaled it aloud. “A woman, a Jew, a Cuban, a Republican. I don't think I've made out a grocery list quite so quickly.”

  “Your name helped,” Sunny conceded. “I prefer to see it as a host of independent talents led by an intrepid scholar who owes nothing to the entrenched powers in this city.”

  “Except to wife,” said Peter Mansfield, the boyish forelock he sprayed into place over his left eye bobbing as they both laughed.

  “We all owe someone,” Sunny told him. Peter Mansfield put just enough blue cheese dressing into a spoon to cover the bristles of a toothbrush and combed it through his salad.

  “Okay,” he announced. “First and last time I'll bring this up, but …” Peter set aside the salt, shook a jolt of pepper onto his salad, and met Sunny's eyes with his own.

  “Are you fucking me?”

  Sunny sensed that a quip—“Thanks, Peter, but I have a busy afternoon”—would not suffice and was not deserved. He finally just reminded him, “If you fell on your face, it wouldn't do me much good.”

  “That schedule you pulled out of your ass today—we would issue our preliminary report just as the campaign begins.”

  “Deadlines focus the mind.”

  “What if we're both running?” Peter asked.

  “We won't be,” stressed Sunny.

  “You've decided not to?”

  “I don't know. But even if I do, both of us won't last six months. In four or five, I won't have enough money, or you won't have enough support. I hope your advisors have told you as much. At those prices …”

  Peter Mansfield ran his fork through a spinach leaf as he fidgeted against whatever was the stickiness in the well of his orange plastic seat.

  “Is that what the mayor figured out?” he asked finally.

  “We'll never know.”

  “He wanted us both to run,” said Peter. “I don't know if he wanted either of us to win. He would have liked having me out of town.” Peter Mansfield ducked his head slightly to halt a trickle of vinaigrette threatening his chin. “He would have loved having Dolores out of town. But he would have missed you. He loved you, Alderman Roo-pini. Surely you knew that.”

  “We were useful to each other,” said Sunny.

  “That's not love? He wanted to set you up—the right way— after …”

  “After what happened,” Sunny finished the sentence with his own genteelism.

  “Introduce you to people who could help you,” Peter Mansfield ventured a few words on. “Make you comfortable when you need it most.”

  Sunny used his fingers to pluck a splinter of coppery crust from the rim of the pie tin and a black curl of onion from the crust of his corned beef.

  “With two daughters,” he said. “I'm already rich in all the things that count,” and the two of them laughed so heartily and unexpectedly that Sgt. McNulty sat upright and alert at the kaboom of cackling.

  Sunny caught himself before he could advise Peter Mansfield that he might discover in politics that you sometimes laughed more with your opponents than your supporters. Your opponents didn't harbor so many noble expectations.

  A message in Rula's voice waited for Sunny when he returned to his office at the Hall. Eldad had gone home to sleep and to change more than his earring. Sgt. McNulty and the uniforms affected to seem distracted as they minutely examined Sunny's rampart of pictures, citations, and plaques, and Sunny listened to her message.

  “It's us,” said Rula. Her voice struck a pose; she must have had an audience. “We're fine, too. Glad to know you are. Wow. Some day it sounds like. Bloody hell. We're here. Oscar has made us faloodas”—a rose-flavored ice cream drink—“and badam kheers.” Ground almonds swooshed with milk and saffron. “Muriel and Virginie”—wild, pretty friends of the girls; the sort of girls, with deep Brazil nut eyes and untamed swells of hair, who Sunny used to dream of as a teenager and now dreaded as a father—“found the badam kheers a little heavy. We're off. Catch you later,” she rang off.

  Sunny was about to leave his own message (Tell Muriel and Virginie I think their ankles are a little thick occurred to Sunny) when the police chief came in with a heavy tread to explain how it was that Daryl Lloyd had managed to take a gun onto the City Council floor and hold it above his head like the Stanley Cup.

  “That would seem to be the question,” Sunny agreed.

  Chief Martinez had pushed his blue cap back by the black-and-yellow checkerboard pattern across its brim and gave a slight tug to the clip of his tie.

  “Shortly after two last night, I phoned Sam Stanky. You know him?”

  Sunny wiggled his right hand to signal minimal recognition.

  “Chief engineer at the Hall?”

  “And by the way,” Chief Martinez agreed with a nod, “one of Alderman Agras's best precinct captains.”

  “He wouldn't hire a bad one.”

  City Hall's day-to-day operations came under Arty's Budget and Government Operations Committee.

  “I told Sam there would be a special council session at ten,” said Chief Martinez. “so he should get the metal detectors we always set up in place A-S-A-P.”

  “Which means?”

  Sunny let the chief sit back and begin to thrum the fingers of his right hand over a couple of his brass buttons.

  “As soon as his crew chief could get in from Oriole Park,” the chief said. “Which he couldn't until seven because he had to wait until his wife got home from her shift at Good Samaritan a little after six. Which was fine with Sam because to call in the crews to set up the metal detectors any earlier—they're not pop-up toasters, after all— would mean four hours overtime for twelve people. They're all Local One of the Service Employees Union. Now Sam runs a precinct for Arty, of course. But a couple of the guys on the crew—one is a woman—were recommended by Alderman Suarez's Hispano-American Citizens Action Foundation. Three are members of Alderman Sparrow's Jesse Owens Athletic League.”

  “Citizen participation is the foundation of democracy,” Sunny reminded him.

  “Sam says that his overtime budget is already shot to hell from December. He had to have crews clean up after Alderman Suarez's Yule-tide party, Alderman Siegel's Festival of Lights, Alderman Sparrow's Kwanzaa party, and Alderman Walker's Wicca festival.”

  (Sunny especially enjoyed Harry Walker's gatherings: White candles dripped, half-wheels of chalky brie cheese oozed over black plastic plates, and boxes of astringent white wine warmed next to a radiator while Harry, with his white Neptune's whiskers, implored some demiurge, “The dark caresses me like a mother's womb. I am at peace with the wicked world. The Sun King is born! The Sun King is born!”)

  Sunny also knew, as Chief Martinez had to, that Arty devised the munificent overtime payments of December to steer a bonus to City Hall maintenance workers. They kept the Hall immaculate (Sunny remembered the mayor of Philadelphia once telling the mayor, “I had a pelvic laparoscopy at the Einstein last year, and the operating room wasn't as spotless as yo
ur stairwells!”) and besides: as Arty put it, “Why should only corporate magnets get Christmas bonuses?”

  Chief Martinez rolled his eyes and tugged on both ends of his mustache.

  “So the metal detectors weren't up until nine. Alderman Lloyd came in through the Finance Committee conference room at about eight-forty”

  Sunny winced at this and stamped one of his brown brogues against the carpet as Chief Martinez continued.

  “I said, ‘Sam, Sam! A special session! The mayor was dead! Why didn't—’ and Sam stopped me cold. ‘Chief, I had to have twelve people work overtime to dismantle the goddamn detectors today after Daryl's little stunt. Who's going to pay for all that overtime? Are you?’”

  They laughed. Raspy, coughing, smoky-throat, wipe-your-chin bellows from two men who were sixteen hours into a day on two hours of sleep. Their neck muscles stung when they held up their heads.

  “It's been my experience, Alderman,” Chief Martinez finally said, “that sometimes your wiliest adversary isn't Al-Qaeda or La Cosa Nostra. It's Sam Stanky.”

  The police chief sighed and went on to detail more quietly that both Frank Conklin and Mrs. Bacon had been cleared of suspicion. They had tossed Quattro's “like a Caesar salad,” as the chief put it, and found nothing of consequence. As to Collins Jenkins—they were still pulling out threads.

  “He kept a lot of secrets.”

  “So do priests.”

  “A love-struck e-mail—a lunch proposition—can all mean something else when it comes from the mayor's right hand.”

  The chief sat forward to stand up from his chair, but stopped with his hands still on his knees.

  “Do you want my resignation?” he asked. Sunny paused so that he could be seen pondering it openly.

  “No,” he said finally. “But I wouldn't suggest that you wait until the next mayor asks—whoever she is. You'd be impossible to replace now, but impossible to keep after Monday. I know it's not fair. You've caught people before they could blow up Sears Tower or sprinkle cyanide pellets in the Clark and Division subway. Then something ridiculous happens. A pizza. A stunt. I'm, sorry, Matt. You're a good man and a fine policeman. But politics …”

  “She'll have it,” Chief Martinez said instantly. “I'm as angry as anyone. I believe in taking responsibility.”

  Sunny cast an eye over to the doorway, where he could see Sgt. McNulty's elbow just inside the frame.

  “You know, I've heard—just today, in fact—that they've been searching for a top-drawer security executive over at the Yello Corporation,” Sunny said as if some needling, nagging thought had just surfaced. The company was building a world headquarters on South Dearborn. “Your name came up.”

  “My name has been thrown around a lot today.”

  “Some damn outpost in the Middle East,” Sunny went on imper-turbably “The position would pay—I don't know—three times what a man can make in public service. And you never have to deal with aldermen.”

  “Glittering incentives,” the chief agreed. “Must be Iraq.”

  “Dubai, actually. That place is sizzling, you know. Amazing things going up each day. They're building five hundred skyscrapers, including one underwater.”

  “I'm an air-breathing mammal,” said the police chief.

  “You know, it's possible that your name could be linked to that search.”

  “A-S-A-P,” Chief Martinez agreed. “Which means …”

  “I might know someone who could make a call to those two young genius brothers who run Yello,” Sunny suggested. “You owe it to yourself, Matt. To your family. Corporations are crazy, Matt. Bonuses, housing, travel—the more you make, the more freebies. And if their interest gets into the news, you'll hear from other places, too.”

  Chief Martinez got onto his feet, clapping his heavy checkered superintendent's cap against a leg.

  “I'll keep you informed, Alderman.”

  “You deserve it, Matt,” and as the police chief began to leave, he turned around and spoke over the braid on his shoulder.

  “Before I forget. Richard J. The cat. He's been found. Months ago, Collins gave him to Terrill Layne, who works in Human Services. He's fine.”

  “Well there's a puff of good news,” said Sunny. “Maybe events are finally moving our way.”

  Then Claudia McCarthy came in, clenching sheaves of paper against her chest, waggling a small folded sheet from her fingers.

  “Here's where the U.S. attorney wants to meet,” she said. “They pulled around a car for you.”

  Sunny stared at the unfamiliar address, as if something more recognizable must surely swim into focus.

  “Of all places,” he began.

  “Maybe he figures no one will see you there.”

  “Alderman Slavinskas told me once that he takes his lunch dates to the Drake. He said, ‘If someone sees me in the lobby at the Drake, they think I'm meeting with Donald Trump. If they see me at Mums-the-Word Motel on West Jackson, they call the papers.’”

  Claudia McCarthy put a folder against her mouth as he laughed.

  “I think he invited me to lunch at the Palmer House.” She held up the thicket of papers. “These are bills,” she explained. “All passed by the council. You sign them. They don't even say ‘interim acting mayor.’”

  Sunny found himself unconsciously smoothing his tie with his little finger, pulling up the knot, and inconspicuously crossing his brown suede shoes below his table.

  “Shouldn't they wait for the new mayor?”

  “Law says they have to be signed before the next council session, which is now Monday,” Claudia explained. “And then there's a whole slew of citations that have to be read at funerals or banquets this weekend.”

  She ran a gently flaking red nail over the edges of thick paper and stiff card stock.

  “‘Citations honoring Chicago Firefighters Kevin Wirtz, Mike Uczen, Michael Agostinelli, and Brian Kehoe. Congratulations to Jeanne Reckitt, Pat Biernat, Carl Gies, and Richard Sachaj for Performance Plus Teacher Awards.’” Claudia vocalized the titles without emphasis, as if reading off the spines of abandoned books on a shelf. “‘Approval of property at 255 N. California as Class 6b and eligible for Cook County Tax Incentives.’

  “Alderman Slavinskas’ resolution,” she explained, with the tinge of a smile.

  “We voted on all these?”

  “Monday,” Claudia answered without lifting her head. “‘Congratulations to Adrian Martinez and Jose DeDiego Community Academy on winning Manuel Flores Excellence in Reading and Writing Award. Approval of contract with Earth First LLC for recycling services. Tribute to late United States Marine Corps Sergeant Edward Davis.’”

  “Ohmigod, where?” asked Sunny.

  Claudia McCarthy seemed puzzled for an instant, then moved her eyes over the papers.

  “Henderson, North Carolina,” she said with some relief. “He was retired. ‘Tribute to late Honorable Ruth Gruber,’” she continued. “Congratulations to Reverend Jeremiah Boland on Silver Jubilee Anniversary of ordination. Congratulations to Shirley Forte on retirement from Gunsaulus Scholastic Academy.’”

  “Do I need a special pen?” asked Sunny. “Sealing wax?”

  “Any pen. A crayon.”

  “I suppose it's the one thing I'll do. Can I take them in the car?”

  “They're not classified,” said Claudia, evening the edges in the folder with her fingers and gently putting the pages in front of Sunny. “The mayor used to hand them back with splotches of clam sauce.”

  Sunny began to get out of his chair but stopped, brought down as much by his own exhaustion as with the thought in front of him.

  “My god, Claudia, this is a helluva day for you, too. Thank you.”

  Claudia opened her mouth to speak, and then seemed to hesitate about bringing something out in words. She had crossed her legs, and the gray woolen tights she had pulled on in haste at two in the morning puckered at her knees, like small frowns.

  “Mr. Roopini,” she said and held up f
or a moment. “Do you think any of the rumors about the mayor are true?”

  Sunny inclined his head.

  “That he had AIDS,” Claudia explained. “That Mr. Jenkins helped the mayor die the way he wanted to go—in his office. Then Collins killed himself to keep the secret. Or because he couldn't live with the secret.”

  “I guess I've been pretty isolated today,” he told her. “Missed out on all these news flashes.”

  “Alderman Rodriguez says that south side gangbangers and international terrorists killed the mayor because the Chicago police shut down their drug markets. Collins helped them, to make the police look bad before their next contract came up, then killed himself.”

  “Well, that ties it all up. But what about the Jews?”

  “Left out again, I guess,” and they both smiled. Claudia's ex-husband was McCarthy, who had worked in the corporation counsel's office. Sunny knew that Claudia had been born a Hauser in the 49th Ward.

  “Did the mayor hoard millions of dollars in Anguilla?”

  “A plush retreat guarded by alligators and Dobermans? If so, he never saw it,” said Sunny. “The mayor said atmospheric pressure got to him outside the city limits. If he had a hidden treasure, he never used it to so much as buy a wristwatch that didn't come from a drugstore.”

  Claudia ran a hand through tines of dark hair that had fallen over her forehead.

  “Did he have AIDS?” she asked with sudden whispered hoarseness. “I heard that from a friend who had a friend who saw the mayor a couple of years ago.”

  “Not even syphilis,” said Sunny. “Not even diaper rash.”

  “I heard that he had Tourette's. Specialists worked with him to say ‘antediluvian’ when he meant something … more colorful.”

  “Well, the treatment was sure incomplete,” Sunny said. “The best-known man in town and the most mysterious. People filled in the blanks with the mayor, Claudia. I guess I did, too.”