White Collar Girl (6 page)

•   •   •

I
t was the end of June. Six weeks had passed since I'd started at the
Tribune
. I was eager and always among the first to arrive at the paper. I'd get to the city room before seven, just as the night men were finishing up their shift. Everything was different in those early hours—the air was clear of cigarette smoke, the typewriter racket was minimal and there were fewer telephone lines ringing, fewer voices to be heard. The sunlight seemed more translucent then than at any other time of the day.

I was told that Marty used to be one of the first ones in, too. Last I heard he was still in the hospital. No one knew when or if he was coming back to the paper. His wife had stopped by a few weeks earlier to get a sweater left behind, an extra pair of reading glasses and a book from his bottom drawer.

I was at my desk that morning in June, reading the day's headlines with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Benny came in and slapped his cap onto his desk and moaned as if in agony.

“Can you believe this?” he said, holding out the morning edition.

“Believe what?”

“Walter's piece on the mayor's latest appointee. Daley made an ex-con the head of one of his departments. And Walter says right here that the guy has no qualifications, no relevant training for this job whatsoever.”

“That guy doesn't need to have qualifications,” I said. “He's from Bridgeport. That's all the credentials he needs.” I turned back to the front page and scanned Walter's article: “Daley Appoints Ex-Convict.”

“But Jesus,” said Benny, clearly outraged. “The guy's been in prison.”

“Oh, but only for two years,” I said mockingly as I continued to read. “And according to what Walter says here, the ex-con's father went to high school with Daley.”

“That makes it even worse.”

I let my paper dip so I could get a good look at Benny to make sure he wasn't joking. He wasn't. “Oh, Benny, Benny, Benny,” I said, setting my newspaper aside. I knew he was young and that his cousin in sales had gotten him the job, but plenty of reporters got their start right out of high school. Not everyone went to journalism school like me. But still, the things Benny was questioning wouldn't have been taught in a classroom anyway. If the others suspected how green he really was, they'd never let him live it down. “Let me explain this to you. Don't you know that everyone on the city's payroll under Daley is there by design?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” he said with a shrug, as if to suggest he knew more than he did. “But still—”

“
But
nothing. Almost everyone in City Hall is either Irish or from Bridgeport or both,” I said. “They're all old pals from the neighborhood, and they've all got cushy patronage jobs now that their buddy is the mayor. They're all part of the machine.”

“I know all that, but . . .” He didn't finish his thought because he couldn't. He didn't know what he was talking about.

“Think of it like this: there are thousands of people working for the city of Chicago—from the street cleaners to the city councilmen—and that means there's plenty of jobs for Daley to give his friends. He's got his people sprinkled all throughout the system and some are in key places. Each one is a cog, or a lever, or a gear that's connected to Daley. All those gears and levers and cogs turn according to what Daley and the Democratic Party say. That's how Chicago works. That's the machine. It's how this city has always operated, going as far back as Mayor Cermak and Big Bill Thompson and even before that. And don't forget about the Mob. The mayor's office has been in bed with them since the days of Capone. You got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all that stuff. Of course I know that stuff. I was just saying that, cripes, the guy's an ex-con. . . .” He muttered and went into the kitchen for coffee.

One by one the other reporters began trickling in for work. I watched M touch up her lipstick at her desk while Henry opened a fresh box of Sugar Smacks and Peter adjusted his eyeshade. Walter came in with Randy, who was already whistling. Slowly the din of phones ringing and typewriter keys striking copy paper picked up steam, while the cigarette and pipe smoke rose toward the ceiling. By a quarter past eight, the floor began to rumble from the presses. The start of a new day.

Not an hour later, Mr. Copeland came up to Walter and said, “I just hung up with the mayor's office. You gotta ease up on Daley.”

“What do you mean, ease up? I've been easing up.”

“Apparently not enough. He's upset about today's paper. He doesn't like what you said about him. Says you're intentionally trying to hurt his image.”

“Well, too bad.” Walter laughed.

This wasn't the first time Daley's office had telephoned to complain about the paper's coverage. After all, the
Tribune
was a
Republican paper. Still, Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland couldn't afford to antagonize the mayor and had to walk a fine line between letting their reporters do their jobs and pacifying Daley's ego.

•   •   •

L
ater that afternoon Mrs. Angelo called me over to her desk. “I've got a wedding for you to cover this Sunday.”

“Another wedding?” I blew out such a deep breath it fluttered my bangs. “Maybe I could work on something a little more challenging.”

“Oh, yeah? What'd you have in mind, kid?” She'd taken to calling me kid, and I didn't know if she meant it as a term of endearment or a put-down. Try as I might, I couldn't get a bead on her. She gazed at me and tapped her pencil on her desk. “Have a seat.”

I knew I wasn't going to want to hear this, and reluctantly took the chair opposite her desk, staring into the Baccarat crystal paperweight on top.

“Let me tell you something, kid: if you want to work in this business, you have to be patient. I started here in 1923. My father got sick and I had to go to work to help support my family. My uncle knew someone at the
Tribune
and he put in a good word for me. I was seventeen—the first time they ever hired a copygirl. They paid me five dollars a week. I went and got coffee for the fellows, ran out and got their lunches, their cigarettes and even did their Christmas shopping. But I also did their fact-checking, routed their copy books and most important,” she said, accenting the point with her pencil, “I got to watch them in action. I learned the newspaper business by watching those men. I didn't get to write a word for the first three years I was here. Worked my rear end off and fought like hell to get promoted to the morgue. Spent five years there before they made me a listing girl. I listed every radio program for the paper. I did a good job, so they kept me there
for another five years. Eventually they moved me to the Sunday Room to help put together the Sunday edition, and then finally,
finally
, they gave me some assignments for society news and eventually made me the editor.

“I've known most of the guys in here from the time they were pups,” she said. “Marty was just sixteen when he came to work here as a copyboy. Walter wasn't much older. Same is true for Randy. I remember Henry had a full head of hair when he started in the mail room. So do you see what I'm saying? It doesn't happen overnight, kid.”

“But . . .” I wanted to say
, But look where they are now and look at what you're stuck doing.

“Nobody said this was going to be fair, kid.” It was as if she'd read my mind. “And I'm telling you for your own good, for your own peace of mind—don't expect too much too soon. Or at all.”

I was still staring into the spiral swirls of her paperweight. It was all circles within circles within smaller circles until there was nothing but a solid dot in the center. I hadn't been able to take my eyes off the paperweight, for fear I might start to cry.

And I almost did. But then something shifted inside me. I got mad. And then I got smart. I realized I'd been looking at this all wrong. After all, the most influential people in the city were attending the weddings and balls I was covering. They were the force and power of the city—the newsmakers. They were the very people I needed to know if I was going to make it as a reporter.

So one week later I attended another wedding, wearing a strand of pearls I'd borrowed from my mother along with her favorite Milore leather gloves. Usually I sat in the shadows, taking copious notes on flower arrangements, dresses and menu items, but at this wedding I had another agenda. The groom was a second cousin of
Mayor Daley and the bride was the daughter of the 1st Ward alderman, John D'Arco, one of the most powerful men in Cook County.

I arrived at the reception and entered the banquet hall in Bridgeport. It was filled with long aluminum tables covered with paper tablecloths and plastic flower centerpieces. A nearby bulletin board boasted flyers for yard sales, local plays and picnics. There was a small dance floor in the center and a three-foot-high platform stage where a band in white ruffled shirts and green bow ties performed.

Given that half the Daley administration was there, I'd been expecting something more elaborate and classy, but I had to remind myself that there was nothing fancy or sophisticated about Mayor Daley or his circle.

I spotted Paddy Bauler, the 43rd Ward alderman, over by the band, doing a little soft shoe, letting his three-hundred-pound body jiggle like gelatin.

When he was done I applauded with everyone else and made my way over to introduce myself. “Perhaps we could talk sometime about your thoughts on reform.”

He rested his hands on his belly and laughed. “Haven't you heard, little lady? ‘Chicago ain't ready for no reform yet.'”

“
Everybody's
heard you say that,” I said, letting him know that I was well aware of his famous saying. “That's why I was hoping—”

A group of loud men interrupted me mid-sentence and whisked Alderman Bauler off to the bar. He never looked back. It was as if I'd never said a word to him.

I scanned the room, looking for other familiar faces. The guest list was teeming with local politicians, who, for the most part, looked like they could have been street vendors who'd put on a suit for the day—including Earl Bush, Daley's press secretary.

I waited while he posed for a photo. Round-faced and balding, he seemed open and approachable, so I introduced myself. As soon
as I mentioned that I was with the
Chicago Tribune
he frowned and said under his breath, “Not here. Not now.” He excused himself and I stood watching him sift through the guests until my eyes landed on the mayor himself.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Daley in person. He had thick jowls and a double chin that rested on his collar as if he had no neck at all. He was shorter in person, too, or maybe he seemed so because the man standing next to him was so tall—six three or four. I watched the mayor, knowing that he hated reporters even more than his press secretary did. While I observed Daley, I felt the tall man's eyes still on me. My fingers protectively fluttered toward my open collar, and I held his gaze until he turned his attention back to the mayor.

Moments later I found myself standing next to Danny Finn, the assistant chief of police. He was in his early thirties, tall with a strong, sturdy build. He wasn't my type, but I was certain that plenty of women were taken with his rugged, dark looks. I reached inside my purse for a cigarette, a prop I used as an excuse to ask him for a light. I thanked him as I leaned in to his flame, aware of him eyeing me up and down. I extended my hand and introduced myself.

“Tell me something,” he said, rubbing my gloved fingers. “Is there a ring underneath there?”

I ignored his question. “I'm with the
Chicago Tribune
,” I said.

“Well, you sure are a hell of a lot prettier than Peter,” he said with a laugh.

“Maybe we could talk sometime?”

“Sure. We could talk any old time you'd like.”

“Maybe we could talk about the Peterson-Schuessler murders?”

His smile morphed into a smirk. “We've told the press everything we know.”

“Oh, c'mon now.” I didn't believe him. The Peterson-Schuessler
murders had been front-page news all week. Three young boys had been found dead and the city was on edge, holding its breath while the police conducted their investigation. If I could get even one new detail out of Finn, I'd have something to run with. “There must be something you can tell me. Some new piece of information that just came in.”

“Honest, we've already told the press everything we know.”

“Listen,” I said, “how about if I come see you down at police headquarters?”

“Come down and see me anytime,” he said, his smile coming back. “But don't shoot me down for a drink if I don't have any information for you.”

“Then I'll be seeing you down at headquarters.” I shook his hand again before I went to my table to sit with the other female journalists—my fellow sob sisters from competing papers like the
Daily News,
the
Sun-Times
and the
Chicago American
.

We'd all met before at various weddings and charity balls and had become friendly enough to share notes and make sure we all got the dinner courses right, the correct spelling of who was officiating the ceremony and the details on the wedding dress. I doubted that sort of camaraderie would have existed among our male counterparts. Because of the public figures at the wedding, there was a good deal more fact-checking needed than usual. One of the girls, Muriel from the
Chicago American,
knew I was up on politics, and during the reception I found myself fielding her endless string of questions.

“So who's that man over at the bar with the groom?” she asked.

“Fred Roti,” I said. “He's also from the 1st Ward. Big pals with D'Arco. Rumor has it he's part of the Chicago Outfit. They both are. And the one next to him with the mustache”—I pointed discreetly with my pen—“he's the 1st Ward precinct captain. And see that man over there with the red carnation in his lapel?
See him? He was the former alderman of the 42nd Ward. He was defeated in a big Republican upset.”