Max Collins - True Detective

But we cops didn’t underestimate our mayor. We may have referred to him as “that bohunk bastard,” among other things, and, like most other civil service employees, hated or feared him or both, and at the very least resented the “for sale” nature of positions and promotions; but we didn’t underestimate him. We knew him to be unfailingly familiar with every operation in his administration — from beat cop to building inspector, from clerk to cabinet officer; and he brought a level of competence, even administrative brilliance, to the office of mayor, equaled only by the level of his paranoia, which he manifested in his incessant wiretapping, mail interception, use of surveillance, planting of undercover men, and seeking out of stool pigeons — all within his own administration.

Cermak was a roughneck made good. He was foreign-born (a first for a Chicago mayor), brought to this country as an infant, from Czechoslovakia, and went no farther than third grade. By age thirteen he was working with his father in the coal mines of Braidwood, Illinois; by sixteen he was a railroad brakeman in Chicago. A brawler and two-fisted drinker, he was soon leader of a youth gang that based itself in a saloon; this rising star attracted the local Democratic organization, and young Tony was suddenly a ward heeler. He purchased a horse and wagon, started hauling wood, and built a business, using his political contacts to good advantage. He became secretary to an organization called the United Societies, a lobby of saloonkeepers, brewers, and distillers; he maintained this position when, in 1902, he entered the state legislature — showing his versalitity by simultaneously serving as state representative and lobbyist for the saloon interests.

From the state legislature Cermak went to the city council (a step up: an alderman got a bigger salary and had more patronage at his disposal), then on to baliff of municipal court, commissioner of Cook County Board and, by ’29, head of the Democratic organization of Cook County. His mayoral victory in ’31 was by the widest margin in Chicago history; he had crossed ethnic lines to build coalitions within his party, and put together a machine. It was a lot like what Capone had done.

Cermak probably had no idea, till tonight, that I lived across the alley from him. He lived in the Congress Hotel, and had a view of the park, I’d bet; I lived across the alley in the Adams Hotel, a residential hotel that was not a flophouse, but it sure didn’t have a view of the park. It had a view of the back of the Congress, is what it had.

I wasn’t home when Miller came calling on me, of course, but evidently somebody — Cermak’s fabled espionage system, I supposed — had known enough about me to gather I’d be at Barney Ross’ speak. After all, somebody had known enough about me to know where I’d be yesterday afternoon. I was starting to feel like an open book. A well-thumbed one.

It wasn’t much of a walk from Barney’s building to the Congress; just follow the El up Van Buren a few blocks — the wind off the lake seemed more cool now than cold, the powder-like snow blowing around a little — then down State Street, past Congress and up Harrison, past my hotel, all three less-than-luxurious stories of it, and on to Cermak’s.

As we walked, I was thinking about how my hotel didn’t have a lobby, just a narrow stairway that hesitated at a check-in window at the right as you came in. But the Congress, now that was a hotel; the lobby was high-ceilinged, ornate, lots of red and gold with plush furniture to sink down into while you waited for some society girl. Or while you waited for somebody to pick somebody else’s pocket, because that was the only reason I’d ever had for being in the Congress lobby before. Of course I’d also done some pickpocket duty in the corridor of fancy shops in the Congress, Peacock Alley. But this time I was going in to go up to a penthouse. Even though I hadn’t been given much choice, it wouldn’t be so bad, going first class for a change.

We went in the alley way.

And I don’t mean Peacock. Just the alley; in the service entrance.

In a narrow vestibule, rubbing shoulders with some mops and buckets, hobnobbing with a couple of refuse cartons, I reached a hand out to push the button on the service elevator and Miller batted it away casually.

“We’ll walk,” Miller said.

“Are you kidding? What floor is he on?”

“Three.”

“Oh.”

We walked the two flights; evidently it wasn’t enough for the rich folks in the lobby not to see me — I was even persona non grata to the hired help who might ride the service elevator.

The exchange at the elevator, incidentally, was the extent of conversation between Miller and myself since leaving the blind pig. Miller seemed distant behind his Coke-bottle glasses; about as personable as a potted plant. He wasn’t somebody I particularly wanted to know any better, so I didn’t press it.

Miller knocked twice and the pale gold door opened and a detective I’d seen around but whose name I did not know answered with a gun in hand. He was a skinny guy with a pencil-line mustache and a dark brown suit that hung on him like it had been a good buy but they didn’t have his size. His hat was off and his mouth hung open; he wasn’t the brightest-looking sort I ever saw, and my guess was he was temporary Lang would be back as soon as the finger healed.

We went in, Miller first, and he pointed me to a sofa that looked, and was, about as plush and comfortable as the furniture in the Congress lobby. This was a sitting room or living room or whatever, with chairs and a couple of sofas, a fireplace and a glass chandelier, and various furniture that was probably named for some French king with numbers after his name. The only light on in the room was a standing lamp over in one corner, and it was consequently a little dark in there, like a cloudy day.

Across the room from me were windows looking out on Grant Park and Michigan Avenue; the south corner suite, this was. In front of me was a coffee table, a low marble-topped one, with a silver champagne bucket full of ice and brown bottles. Beer. The only thing between me and the view of the park was an empty chair, not a soft-looking, plush chair, but a wooden one with a curved shape to its back, like a captain’s chair, or a throne. It was not a chair that had come with the room.

Miller parked himself over by the window, leaned against the sill, and looked out; he was miles away. The other guy, who introduced himself as Mulaney, sat as far away from me as he could and still be in the room, over on a sofa at left. He had put the gun away shortly after we entered. There was the faint sound of a radio playing Paul Whiteman from next door, off to the left, beyond Mulaney.

To my right, on either side of the fireplace, were doorways standing open; from the room beyond the door nearest me came the muffled sound of a flushing toilet.

His Honor, hitching up his trousers a bit, rolled into the room like a pushcart.

“Heller!” he said, beaming, like we were the oldest, bosomest of buddies, thrusting a hand forward; I stood and took it — it was a bit damp.

He gestured for me to sit and I did. He went to his chair across from me but did not sit, as yet; he just stood there studying me, with the friendliest of smiles and the coldest, hardest of eyes. Like Miller, he wore glasses with round lenses — but the frames were dark and thick and clumsy and rode his face uneasily, like the foreign object they were.

He was in his shirt sleeves and suspenders, but his tie wasn’t loosened ’round his neck; he looked a bit like a participant in the Scopes trial, if cooler. It was, in truth, a bit warm in the room, and he bent down and pulled a bottle of beer from the champagne bucket and took an opener from somewhere and popped the cap and handed me the bottle. All the time smiling, almost apple-cheeked, a big man, barrel-chested, thick-bodied, broad-shouldered, larger than life, getting himself a beer now.