Touch and Go (10 page)

The rally was set for a fine spring day in 1886. Mayor Carter Harrison was there on horseback to see that all was orderly. He was a highly respected figure, known for his sympathies with working people and small businessmen. Things were going along peacefully. He rode home.

The rains had come and most of the crowd had gone elsewhere. Each of the speakers, including the eight who were to be tried for stirring up the riot, and for murder, had retired to their homesteads. Hardly anyone was left. Suddenly, a bomb was thrown. Nobody knows who threw it or why. Even now it is a mystery. Several policemen as well as several civilians were killed, scores more were injured. The hysteria that caught the city had never, anywhere been so wild. All the establishment newspapers carried headlines urging the hangings of the culprits. To all the Respectables, the speakers were the villains who had planned the chaos, stirred the violent temper. The fact that none was there when the explosion occurred was of no consequence. It was the Respected—indeed the most Respectabled—whose language was the most hortatory.

There was a trial that history now regards as a farce. “Frame-up” is not the word. The trial would have been hilarious in the W.C. Fieldsian manner were it not so profoundly tragic. The jury was chosen from big-time employers in town, middle managers, many of them righteous in their fury. The judge was Joseph E. Gary, who really made a prosecutor unnecessary. Historians tell us that Judge Gary was more than prosecutorial; he was the jury. Four who were on trial were convicted, sentenced to be hanged. One killed himself in his cell. The other three were sentenced to imprisonment for life.

From all over the world came a stirring plea for the lives of the condemned. The trial was described as barbaric. Among the signatories of the eloquent petition were George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, John Ruskin, and William Dean Howells. Even more moving was the signature of Henry Demarest Lloyd, son-in-law of William Bross, co-owner of the Chicago
Tribune
, who disinherited
him. Jessie Lloyd, Henry's wife, Bross's daughter, was also knocked off as a beneficiary. It was my honor and thrill to have walked the picket line on one or another issue—war, labor, color, or free speech—in the company of the son and daughter who bore their name.

Lucy, some forty-five years later, made old history once again aborning. With her frail old-woman's voice and her remarkable memory, she brought us back to the 1886 trial. She quoted August Spies, in his white gown, crying out through the muslin covering his hood before he was hanged: “The time will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today.” During the trial, it was Spies' eloquence and ring of truth, as well as his appearance, that impelled a spectator, Nina van Zandt, a debutante of high societal degree, to fall in love with him. They married while he was on trial. Her mother sympathized and worked hard for the defense. They were at once ostracized in full by all their fellow socialites and crucified in the press. Both women died destitute.
¹⁶

Lucy spoke of her beloved husband, whom she was not allowed to see on the day of his execution. Albert Parsons, during his slow walk to the rope, sang “Annie Laurie.” In Scots dialect. It was not “The Marseillaise” he offered, simply a love song to Lucy.

A few days after Lucy died in '42, there was a funeral for her at Waldheim, where some of the Haymarket martyrs were interred. My good friend Win Stracke sang. He sang “Joe Hill,” of course, but what knocked me completely out was his offering of “Annie Laurie.”

There was one instant, one observation, I most remember about Lucy that Bughouse Square afternoon. Ed Sprague, who was standing beside me, dropped a dollar bill in Lucy's hat as it was passed around. A whole buck at that time of Great Depression, from a guy who'd surrendered his teeth for a better world. So he had one less
dead man's stew to gum. To be fair, it must be pointed out that a fairly large group of Chicago industrialists, led by the highly respected Lyman Gage, had pleaded with Governor Oglesby, a friend of Lincoln, to commute the hanging sentences to life.

The plea appeared to have an effect until the Merchant Prince, Marshall Field I, intervened, in cold fury, his silvery mustache pointed heavenward. He called a meeting of all the Big Boys and, in effect, said, “Hang the Bastards.” The Merchant Prince, it now appears, had more clout than dozens of philosophers and authors and scores of other industrialists.

Several years later, Governor John Peter Altgeld, a child of the “Failed '48ers,” pardoned the survivors in an 18,000-word document. Clarence Darrow, who had begun his career as a corporate lawyer, described Altgeld's document as one of the most eloquent and telling he had ever read. It was certainly not the usual practice of a corporate lawyer such as Darrow to become an attorney for the have-nots. Attorney for the Damned, his biographers called him.

 

 

EVER SINCE MY MID-SIXTIES, I have had a habit of talking to myself. On the subject of Cubs, Sox, local corruption, international madness, and pampered dogs, any dogs, any subject. For years, and quite often while awaiting the number 146 morning bus to work, Monday through Friday. Though some in my neighborhood are aware of books I've put forth, it is for my logorrhea I am best recognized. However, there was one young couple with whom I did not score at all. I stood beside them each morning while bus-awaiting. But for them I was not there, wholly invisible. They were quite a handsome couple. He, in his Brooks Brothers or tailor-made suit, with the latest minted edition of the
Wall Street Journal
folded neatly beneath his arm. She, a stunner in Bloomingdale's or Neiman-Marcus, holding casually her
Vanity Fair
, could have been a model for
Vogue
.

I had in the past made advances to the pair. There was not even a
lack of response; nobody was there. They may or may not have been aware of a pestiferous old goofball.

On this one morning, the bus was late. I saw my opportunity. “Labor Day is coming up.” It seemed to be the phrase to do the trick.

He slowly, deliberately turned toward me as though seeing me for the first time. His face was unchanged, his manner fashionably cool. “We despise unions.”

Oh, wow. I had a pigeon here. The bus had yet to make an appearance. He looked at me as Noël Coward might have looked upon a tiny bug he was flicking off the sleeve of his tailor-made shirt cuff. He turned away.

My self-esteem, as well as my ego, had been bruised. I took a step toward him. Looked back once more, no bus. Oh, goodie. I touched his back. He turned around. I was now the Ancient Mariner fixing him with my glittering eye. He was for this flick of a moment transfixed. “How many hours a day do you work?”

“Eight,” he replied reflexively.

“How come you don't work fourteen hours a day? Your great-great-grandparents did. How come you only work the eight-hour day? Four guys got hanged fighting for the eight-hour day for
you
.”

Unsettled as any young man on the make would be under such singular circumstances, he stepped back and bumped into the mailbox. I'd got him trapped. (The bus was still tardy. I thought: I must remember that driver come Christmas day.) She, the stunner, tremulously dropped her
Vanity Fair
. I courteously bent (ouch!) and handed it to her. No—no bus yet. God was in his heaven. Kismet was with me. I said, with some delightful malice I must admit, having pinned him against the metallic box, “There was something called the Haymarket Affair, and the hangings that resulted made your life so much easier.” I'd had captive audiences before, but never one so anxious.

The bus was now in the distance but coming on fast. When it arrived, they scrambled onto it. I never saw them again. But I'll bet
you that each morning she'd look out of the window of the twenty-second floor of their condominium. I just knew it faced the great lake and the small bus stop. After a moment, he'd call out: “Is that old nut still out there?”

I did not blame young Lochinvar and his bride for their ignorance of our history. Why should they be an exception? Yet I think the truth may be a bit more serious: The big A, Alzheimer, has taken over my own generation, or, for that matter, that of our sons and daughters. “What past? What happened yesterday? You know what happened yesterday, grandma, daughter, sonny boy? You mean you've forgotten that Tank Johnson was forgiven and taken back by the Bears? Tank's been on the front page of the papers all week and you've already forgotten?”
¹⁷

As for me, my change from observer to activist is attributable to my Wells-Grand Hotel days. It was those loners—argumentative ones, deceptively quiet ones, the talkers and the walkers—who, always engaged in something outside themselves, unintentionally became my mentors. True, I did attend the University of Chicago law school, but whatever I am, for better or for worse, I owe to Ed Sprague, Teddy Tils, Bill Brewer, and even Civilization, Bughouse Square, and Polly Fletcher.

A
s Glenn and Betty Stauffer approach the hotel desk, I sense trouble. I'm not sure why. It has something to do with her, I believe. The way she smiles and frowns and glances about. Her bobbed hair is Clara Bow. Why did they have to choose our place? There are others in the neighborhood. Damn.

Glenn Stauffer is a frail, small-boned, mild-mannered man. Come each Saturday, he pays his rent. My mother is delighted. Theirs is one of our few light-housekeeping rooms, and the most expensive. Eight dollars a week. With the early evening
Three-Star
under his arm, he offers no more than a brief comment about the weather as he urges the rent across the desk. Each morning at eight, he walks down the stairs. Each evening at six, he walks up the stairs. He never appears in the lobby. He is no trouble. Betty Stauffer is something else.

She is always in the lobby. She works but two days a week as a part-time waitress at the Victoria down below. Otherwise, time hangs heavy on her hands. The pensioners, busy at cribbage, pinochle, hearts, and the perusal of obituaries, pay her little attention.

I'm playing cribbage with John Barkie. Usually, I'm quite nimble at this game. Not this day. For some reason I'm having trouble.

Damn. Why does she have to cross her legs in that manner? True, I'm a hotelier and it's really none of my business. Still. The turn of
her calf is interfering with the turn of my card. How can a boy who has just turned sweet sixteen play a good game of cribbage under these circumstances? Damn this daughter of Eve.

I look up from my cards. Betty has gone. Uh-oh. Suppose Glenn Stauffer comes home unexpectedly. Ben, who should know, says, “Watch out for those little guys. The quiet ones. Don't ever cross a jockey. Murder.” That's why Ben has never fooled around with Betty Stauffer. God knows she's made fat eyes at him often enough. Oh, yeah,I notice these things. And it doesn't help my cribbage game at all.

I toss in my cards. Mr. Barkie is surprised. I've never done that before, especially a sixteen hand. “I guess I'll go upstairs and study my catechism,” I say. It's one of Horace Bane's catchphrases. He's full of such folksay. Another: “I guess I'll go get my ashes hauled.” That's on Sunday morning, when he visits the girls on Orleans Street. Horace Bane is always bragging.

I find myself in the darkened corridor, near Glenn Stauffer's room. It's Betty's room, too. (I've never been an anti-feminist.) I rap, tentatively, on the door of the adjacent room. “Lucille, Lucille.”

Our chambermaid, Lucille Henry, had earlier in the day asked for some fresh linen. On my arm are a Turkish towel, two pillowcases, and a sheet, all freshly laundered.

No response.

I pause before the Stauffer door. I call softly into the dark, “Lucille.” Is that a bed squeak I hear? I have been blessed—or cursed—with keen hearing. Uh-oh. Suppose Glenn Stauffer appears at the head of the stairs. As Lord Arling did at the head of the bed. Returning unexpectedly from Henry VIII's coronation, he discovered his new-wedded wife under the sheets with Mattie Groves.

Ben thought that was going a bit too far. Nonetheless, Betty, to him, was out of bounds.

How often have we read of mild little men who, on discovering betrayal, commit murder? Theirs is a sudden and gloriously gory transformation from bloodless vassal to bloody nobleman. In any event, Lucille did ask for fresh linen. Once again, I call out her name. My voice sounds so small and tight and far away.

I open the door. She looks up. Her face is sad. I stare at her. Imperceptibly, a slight smile appears. My Adam's apple is bobbing wildly. “If you happen to see Lucille . . .”

My voice trails off. I walk away from the open door toward the other end of the corridor, bawling out, louder than need be, the name of our chambermaid.

Betty hardly comes into the lobby any more. I barely glimpse her white dress as she flits up and down the staircase.

The following day, Ben appears to be in good spirits. I feel so much better.

“How you feelin', kid?”

“Fine,” I say, feeling far from fine. Something tells me Betty Stauffer has a good deal to do with it. Daughter of Eve.

Years later, on hearing Cherubino's plaint,
Voi che sapete
, I get the drift. Cherubino, pageboy of the lovely countess, has that feeling. He's about sixteen, my age. No wonder it's my favorite of all Mozart arias. But if you think for one moment that I'll run Cherubino's risks, you're out of your mind. Imagine hiding in the closet of the countess's boudoir as the master returns. Okay, Count Alma-viva, a dim-witted baritone, doesn't have too much to complain about, tomcatting around as he does. But suppose it were Lord Arling or, more to the point, Glenn Stauffer.