White Collar Girl (36 page)

He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Next time, consider a building with an elevator, would you?” He did a quarter turn in the middle of the living room, assessing it all. “So this is where you live, huh?”

“This is it. Do you want to sit down?” I asked tentatively, composing myself, clearing my eyes.

“You got anything to drink in here?”

“Just wine. Sorry.” I shrugged. “No whiskey, and I'm all out of vodka.”

“Wine, huh? Well, okay, then wine it is.” He hated wine.

I poured him a glass and asked if he was hungry. “I was just about to make some eggs.”

“Eggs for dinner? You know how to live, don't you?” He laughed.

“So are you doing okay?” I asked, handing him his wine and perching myself on the arm of the sofa where he was sitting.

He took a gulp and winced. “I don't know how you can drink this crap.”

“It gets the job done.” I took a long sip, painfully aware of the
silence mounting, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the building, the drip of the kitchen faucet.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” My father got up, went out to the hall and returned with a box held together by twine, which he presented to me.

“What's this?”

“Your brother's files—his paperwork, his notes, his clips. I didn't have the heart to go through any of it, but your mother thought you'd like to have them. There're two more boxes out in the car.”

I was speechless as I ran my hands over the box, blinking back tears. I took this offering as a sign, permission to finally talk about what really happened to Eliot.

“Dad, I know you never wanted me to look into his death. But I have a feeling some of the answers are in these boxes. . . .”

My father reached for the wine bottle and poured himself another glass.

“Dad?” I wasn't sure he'd heard me. “Are you prepared for what I might find?”

He gazed into his glass. “I always wanted to believe that it was an accident. Just a random, senseless act. That's what I told myself. That was easier for me. Easier for your mother. And for you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I knew you'd want to look into it and find out what happened. Hell, even that night at the hospital, you were questioning the police, the doctors.” His chin began to crumple, and his eyes were clouding up. “I knew then that you had the family curse. You're a reporter, Jordan, and that's what we reporters do. We question. We probe. We go into those dark places that scare everyone else. They even scare us, but we still do it because we have to. We just have to.” He paused and took a drink. “I didn't want that life for you. I wanted to protect you. In the back of my mind I always knew what happened to Eliot could have been tied
to his work. I'm not stupid. But if it wasn't an accident, I didn't want you involved.”

“But wouldn't you rather know what really happened? Wouldn't you rather seek justice for his murder? Doesn't Eliot deserve that?”

“But I—I can't do it.”

We were silent for a long time. Then I said, “I know. I know you can't do it. But I can. I can do this, Dad.”

For the second time in two days he broke down, his shoulders shaking. “I couldn't bear it if something happened to you too. You're all I've got.”

“Then don't shut me out. Don't push me away.”

With tears running down his face, he opened his arms and I fell into them.

•   •   •

A
fter my father left and I'd dried my eyes, I untwined the boxes and began sorting through Eliot's notes. I understood his fears, but I also couldn't deny my brother the justice he deserved, especially if it was sitting in these boxes on my living room floor.

I sat in the center of the room, surrounded by piles of yellowing papers and tattered folders. All his early clips were there, and I grew nostalgic reading through them. After I emptied the last box, I noticed a folder dated 1952:
Butcher Field Work.

I opened the folder and began to read through his familiar scrawl:

Willis Packing, Topeka, Kansas, verified shipment: 20 tons of horsemeat to Chicago each week. Chicago hamburgers contain up to 40 percent horsemeat. Illegal in Chicago and Illinois to sell horsemeat for human consumption. Multimillion-dollar horsemeat racket—traces back to Chicago Mob and Governor Stevenson's office.

The Chicago Mob? Governor Stevenson? I looked up and reached for my glass of wine. I knew some powerful people were probably involved, but I had no idea it went this deep.

I went back to the file:
See Department of Agriculture.
Get statement from mayor's office. . . .
No wonder the superintendent I met with got so jumpy.

I dug a bit deeper and found his appointment book stuffed in the very back of that file. It was peppered with birthdays, city council meetings, names and phone numbers jotted in the margins. There was a random street address here and there. A few doodles. Telephone numbers, hastily scribbled down. Lots of dates penciled in with Susan Hirsh. A star next to her name in one instance. These all meant something to him. All bits and pieces of his life.

I was about to close the appointment book when my eyes landed on something that bewildered me one second and made my pulse race the next. There it was, right in the margin, written in black ink and underscored:
Richard Ahern
—
BELMONT 5-9081.

•   •   •

A
ll it takes is one thing to shuffle your deck and reprioritize everything for you. The worries that had consumed me just twenty-four hours or even twenty minutes before had now sifted to the bottom of the pile, and an investigation that had been on the back burner for years was suddenly front and center. My world was tossed upside down, and my thoughts kaleidoscoped into a million fragments. Ahern. Eliot. Marty. My father. The Mob. A horsemeat racket that went all the way to the governor's office.

When I left my apartment early the next morning, it was breezy and cold. The wind blew up my collar and sent a chill from the base of my neck down the length of my body. The clouds were hanging thick and low in the sky, bathing the whole city in a grayish cast. I was weary from the night before, having stayed up till four in the morning, reading through Eliot's notes, trying to piece it all together and decide what to do about it. With everything that had happened, I'd almost forgotten that today was Election Day. I passed by the flags displayed outside the school where I voted. There were posters in the windows and people already lining up to exercise their rights.

I knew I wouldn't be able to vote or do anything else until I spoke to Ahern.

I telephoned his office. It was only a quarter past seven and he wasn't in yet. I went around the corner and had a cup of coffee. I smoked two cigarettes before I went into the phone booth in back, fished for a nickel from my handbag and dialed Ahern again. When his secretary said he was in a meeting, I hung up the phone and headed for Dearborn and Washington, to the state's attorney's office.

It was a huge building, home to some nine hundred lawyers and investigators. I rode up to the sixth floor, where the Criminal Prosecutions Bureau was located. As soon as I got off the elevator, I could sense the somber mood in the place, and I wasn't surprised. Adamowski was on the ballot for reelection that day, going up against Daley's candidate, Daniel P. Ward.

I saw the big gold letters stenciled over the frosted glass on Ahern's door and headed toward his office.

“Excuse me, miss?” his secretary called to me. “Miss, you can't go in there—”

But I already had my hand on the door before she could stop me.

Ahern was reaching for the phone but put down the receiver as soon as he saw me. “Walsh? What are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry,” said the secretary. “I tried to stop her, but she—”

“It's okay,” he told her, a hand raised, followed by a gesture motioning her out of his office. “Come on in, Walsh. What's going on?”

“You knew my brother?” I rushed over to his desk. “How did you know him?”

He looked sucker punched. His eyebrows hiked up on his forehead as his mouth dropped open.

“Why didn't you tell me you knew him?”

“Calm down. Have a seat.”

“I don't want to have a seat.”

“Just give me a minute and I'll explain it all to you.”

“How did you know him?” My hands were clenched—my entire body was clenched. “Answer me, dammit.”

“Okay. All right. Just calm down and I'll tell you.” He rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago. Eliot saved my career. He saved my life.” He reached for a pack of Kools on the corner of his desk and lit a cigarette. “I was just getting ready to graduate from law school. I had my whole future ahead of me. I'd made it to the last semester of my final year. I was shooting pool one night with some buddies. We'd just come off of studying for the bar. We'd been drinking since noon.” He took a drag from his cigarette, as if to calm himself.

“Anyway, we started shooting pool, and your brother showed up with another guy. We'd never seen them before. They seemed like good enough fellows, so we started playing a game of eight-ball with them. Then, I don't know—too many beers, too many shots of whiskey and things got out of hand. Somehow we got into a fight. I was drunk. I started the whole damn thing—it was my fault. The cops were called in. They cuffed me, threw me in the slammer. I was sure your brother was going to press charges. I know I would have. If he had, I probably wouldn't have gotten my license, and that would have been the end of my career. But for whatever reason, Eliot took mercy on me. He decided not to press charges. And because he did that, I went on to pass the bar and got my job, and I vowed that I'd do whatever I could to help him in his career.” He got up and started pacing the room.

“So I landed a job working for Mayor Kennelly and I was privy to certain goings-on. Pretty heady stuff for a kid just out of law school, and so I started giving Eliot tips and leaking things about what was going on inside City Hall. I stuck my neck out to bring
him information and he ran with it. He was a good reporter. Discreet. Smart. The way I saw it, we were doing each other a favor.”

I pulled out the chair across from Ahern and dropped down in it. “You were Eliot's source? Before you were mine? You were Eliot's?” I felt kicked in the stomach. “I asked you—how many times did I ask you—why you came to me? Why didn't you ever tell me it was because of Eliot?”

He sighed and examined the tip of his cigarette. “Because I didn't want you to think of my help as a handout. Or charity.”

“But it was. That's all it was.” I'd always believed I'd earned Ahern's respect and trust. Learning now that he'd been my brother's source first undid all of that. It made me feel like a fraud. Like I hadn't gotten to where I was on my own. I'd been thrown a bone. “So what—you took pity on me?”

“No, I did
not
take pity on you.”

“Jesus Christ . . .”

“Look, I knew Eliot had a younger sister. He said you would make a brilliant journalist. Said you were smarter than he was, and I found that hard to believe. Jordan, I may have come to you because of your brother, but you proved yourself. And that is no lie. I remember seeing you at the funeral. You didn't shed one tear. You just stood between your parents. You were a rock. And I'll tell you something else—you're a lot like your brother, you know. He didn't like me in the beginning either.” Ahern laughed and ground out his cigarette.

It was still smoldering in the ashtray as he fished another cigarette from his pack, struck a match and inhaled deeply. “You know, I got into politics because I was naive and green and I actually believed I could make a difference. But once I got inside, it didn't take long for me to realize that it was futile. I could bust my hump and not even make a dent.”

He reminded me of Scott just then. I could have cried.

“I admit that after Daley interfered with my run for the state senate, I had an ax to grind. All I wanted was to bring down the machine. But then, when I saw what was going on inside City Hall—all the corruption—I wanted to do something about it, and that gave me a chance to repay my debt to your brother. And after he was gone, I figured he'd want me to help you out, so I did.”

“You did help me out,” I said begrudgingly, my voice cracking on every word. It was true. I'd gotten ahead in my career in part because of Ahern. “Just tell me one thing. Did you know Eliot was investigating the horsemeat scandal?”

“Honestly, I'd never even heard about that investigation until you brought it up. I asked around the office here, too. No one has any information on it. I don't know who told Eliot about it, but I swear, I didn't tip him off.”

I couldn't say why, but it made me feel better to know that Ahern hadn't had a hand in Eliot's death. I'd actually grown fond of Ahern through the years and I'd been disillusioned enough lately. I was glad that hadn't been spoiled.

As we sat in silence, the world outside his office began seeping back in: telephones ringing, voices chattering, footsteps walking across the marble floor.

“There is something else that I've been wanting to tell you. Can you keep a secret?”

“Can I keep a secret?” I laughed sarcastically.

“I'm leaving Chicago.”

“You're what?”

“I'm leaving. Getting out of politics, too. My wife and I are moving to Vermont. Her father's got a business up there—a printing company—and I'm going to go work for him. My wife's pregnant. Finally. And she wants us to raise our child up there. Away from all the sin in the city.” He laughed, but it came out sounding more like a choked-off sob.

“When? When is this happening?”

“I'm just waiting until after the election. I'm sure that by tomorrow at this time I'll be out of a job anyway. I realized we can't go up against the Mob. We tried—you and I—but we can't stop it. Or the machine.” He glanced down at his wristwatch and offered me a gentle smile. “What do you say? Shall we go cast our votes?”

•   •   •

I
left Ahern and went up north and stood in line at my polling station, wondering
What's the point of even voting?
The outcome was predetermined. But when my turn came, I went into the booth, drew the curtain closed and filled out my fruitless ballot.

Afterward, I hopped an el car and got off in the Loop. All my thoughts were twisted inside out and backward. Part of me felt like Ahern, like I was done with this racket, frustrated and convinced that I could never make a difference. And like politics, journalism had its dirty little secrets, and I had to ask if I still wanted to be a part of that. I'd already had a front-row seat for the demise of Judge Casey, and I'd seen what the system had done to Scott Trevor. Nothing felt clean, cut-and-dried. I knew Daley was stealing this election, if for no other reason than to kick Adamowski out of office. He needed that Democratic vote, and Kennedy was just along for the ride. Maybe if I'd been brave enough, I could have stopped it from happening. I could have broken that story. But instead, I'd let the story break me.

Walking over the Michigan Avenue Bridge, I had a view of the whole downtown.
Oh, the filth and corruption behind those white marble buildings.
I'd wanted to expose the Daley machine, but the powers that be still controlled the city and shaped the message. As much as the press tried to hold their feet to the fire, there was still so much deception that no one would ever know about.

I headed into the Tribune Tower and looked around the great lobby with those wonderful quotes carved into the limestone walls. Voltaire. Jefferson. Madison. I'd once aimed to live up to their words. But now I knew better. Or I thought I did. As I looked into those passages, something shifted inside me. Out of nowhere, a surge of clarity grabbed ahold of me, and despite my exhaustion, the adrenaline was already pumping. I wasn't a quitter. I was Hank Walsh's daughter. Eliot Walsh's sister. I wasn't ready to give up. The Daley machine and Giancana had beaten me up pretty good, but there was still one fight left in me.

I knew enough bits and pieces of what had really happened to Eliot, and I knew that the men who killed him were still out there. I had it in Eliot's notes that the horsemeat scandal went as high up as the governor's office, and if there was any truth to that, then those politicians down in Springfield would have known that some reporter at the
Sun-Times
was connecting the dots. Eliot had been getting close to running that exposé and they would have known it. They would have needed to stop him. So they did. I may not have had proof of this yet, but in my mind, that was how the puzzle fit together. It made me furious that they thought they could get away with it.

The fourth-floor city room was all abuzz. It was election night, and I could feel the pulse of the building from the presses in the basement to the composing room and straight up to the nerve center where I was. There was a giant map of the United States up on the wall with red and blue pushpins marking the states that had already been called. It was still early, but at a glance it looked like Nixon had a comfortable lead.

I saw Walter and Henry working the phones. Peter adjusted his eyeshade as he typed away, and Benny was running around verifying quotes and facts while Randy sketched the editorial cartoons for the next morning, humming softly to himself. Funny,
but ever since his contract with Pendulum Records had been canceled he'd pretty much stopped singing in the city room. But that hum, that he couldn't suppress. Even the sob sisters were busy, as if recipes, leather gloves and home-decorating tips were just as important as electing a president.

And there was Marty typing away with one hand, the telephone receiver in the other, his eyeglasses pushed up on his head. With one fluid movement, like I'd seen him do so many times before, he hung up the phone, ripped the page from his typewriter, waved it in the air and shouted, “Copy!”

Despite all the excitement, in the time it took to ride the elevator up from the lobby, a bigger scoop—something more important to me than the election and stealing the White House—had hatched inside my head. It was bubbling up inside me and I knew what I had to write. I also knew that Ellsworth probably wouldn't be too thrilled about it. I was prepared for him to fire me because of it. And if he did, then so be it. I knew I'd still do this piece and I knew I'd find a home for it.

A reporter's job was to expose the truth, and that was exactly what I was going to do.