White Collar Girl (34 page)

“What kind of funny business?”

“You know what kind of funny business I'm talking about. You know what those sons of bitches did? The Democrats sent out these postcards to every registered voter in Cook County telling them
the issues
and now they'll wait to see what cards come back as
address unknown
or
return to sender
, and they'll turn each and every one of those into a vote for the Democrats.”

The next day, over a beer, I asked Sean O'Hara, a Democratic precinct captain, how he felt about the upcoming elections. He laughed. “It's gonna be a great day for Americans to exercise their right to vote. Tell the Republicans to quit their bellyaching.”

After I left O'Hara, I went into a barbershop and talked to a couple of customers waiting their turn beside the red, white and blue helix pole. One gentleman chewed on his cigar and said, “I don't like any of 'em. Politics is a dirty business. Especially in this town.”

“Does that mean you're not going to vote on Election Day?”

“I didn't say that.”

Another man sitting in the barber's chair peeked around the side of his newspaper and said, “If a man's not going to vote, then he's got no right to complain.”

I wasn't hearing anything new at this point and couldn't get anyone to discuss the Mob. They were all so tight-lipped about it, which only told me that Ahern was right. I needed to dig deeper. I went back to the city room and began writing up my notes. Walter was one desk over, working on his own election coverage, but he was focused on the candidates, whereas I was concerned about the voters. Marty seemed to be covering a bit of both.

I was typing hard, rattling all the pencils in my penholder, when Marty came up to me. “Did you see this?” He slapped a copy of the
Daily News
on my desk. “Told you Georgie would be all over this.”

“Everyone in this city is expecting voter fraud,” I said. “But I can't get anyone to even utter Giancana's name. Can you think of anyone I should talk to?”

“I've interviewed so many people, I can't keep them all straight,” he said. “But I know for sure I never asked anyone about the Mob.”

“I'm gonna go back and double check what we've got in the archives. See if I can find anything.”

“Suit yourself, Walsh.”

I went straight to the morgue and looked up Marty's recent stories. In one article he had interviewed an elderly woman named Gertrude Lammont, who said that her precinct captain told her he would give her a raffle ticket if she voted the right way. “And by ‘right way,' I knew he meant Democratic. I don't need to win a turkey that badly,” she said. I wondered who the precinct
captain was and if he was connected to the Mob. I knew then that I needed to speak with Gertrude Lammont.

I reached for the telephone book and turned to the
L
s. I didn't find a Gertrude, but there were three G. Lammonts and a dozen or so other Lammonts in the book. I called them all and did track down a Gertrude Lammont, but her mother said she was only eleven years old. Next I ran a check with voter registration and was surprised that they didn't have a Gertrude Lammont on record.

I assumed the copy editor or someone else had gotten the name wrong. It happened from time to time, so I went back to Marty and found him hunched over his typewriter, clacking away on a piece. He sensed me standing there and looked up.

“Yes?”

“You wouldn't happen to have a phone number for Gertrude Lammont, would you?”

“Who?” He stopped typing and propped his eyeglasses up on his brow.

“Gertrude Lammont. She's the elderly woman you interviewed last week.”

He steepled his fingers and leaned back. “Why do you need to talk to her?”

“She mentioned something about her precinct captain bribing her, and I want to track him down.”

He mumbled something about having to go through his notes. “Give me till tomorrow. I'll see what I can get for you.”

I went back to work on my article for that day about people complaining that their
Nixon for President
and
Reelect Adamowski
signs had been destroyed. After I turned that in, I focused again on the issue of voter fraud. And I wasn't the only one. A few articles here and there at the
Tribune
and other papers—mostly
the
Daily News
—alluded to concerns about trouble at the polls, but no one said anything about Giancana, so I kept going down that path.

I went to see more precinct captains and spoke to election judges, the Chicago election commissioners, members of the city's election board and canvassers. After I gathered what information I could from them, I met up with a group of men from the Iron Workers Local #1 and had a drink with them at their favorite water hole on Southport.

“So, guys,” I said, taking a swig of beer, trying to act like one of them. “We all know the union's backing Kennedy, right?”

“Yeah, I don't care for Nixon,” said Smitty, who sat at the head of the table. “He doesn't impress me at all.” Smitty had big beefy fingers and propped his arm up on his yellow hard hat resting on the tabletop. “And you can forget about Adamowski. He'll never see another term.”

The others nodded.

I took a sip of beer and lit up a cigarette to bide my time while I thought through my next question. “What do you boys think about the allegations of voter fraud that are circulating?”

“I think it's horseshit,” said Smitty as he shifted in his chair and took a long slug of beer.

“But you're aware of the rumors, right?”

“Rumors—that's all they are. No one's got any evidence.”

“What about the rumors that the Mob is somehow connected?”

“That's bullshit, too. That's just the Republicans getting desperate.”

“But don't you think—”

“I
think
I ain't interested in saying anything more about this.” He stared me down, squinting one eye as he drew on his cigar.

The others were staring at me, hoping to make me squirm. I was trying to play it cool, trying to think of something to say when
Smitty began to snicker. They all found this humorous and went from glaring at me to laughing. It was the kind of laughter that gained momentum, growing louder and bolder until it became a raucous uproar. There was a nasty edge to it, and soon the whole table of men were howling and snorting and sniggering. A chill raced up my back, and I knew we were through talking.

•   •   •

T
he next day it was Indian summer, nearly eighty degrees even though it was the last week in October. Ahern had his suit jacket hooked on two fingers and draped over his shoulder. We were walking down Maxwell Street, an open-air market that sold everything from produce to used appliances. It was a bargain hunter's paradise, where shoppers could haggle with the vendors. We passed tables butted up against one another and piled up with every kind of item imaginable: picture frames and old shoes, bolts of fabrics and secondhand lawn tools. Street musicians were stationed all around playing blues and jazz.

“You need to watch yourself,” Ahern said to me.

“What do you mean?”

“We've heard some chatter that Giancana didn't like the idea of a reporter going around and talking to the unions. Even a female reporter.”

The sharp smell of sausages and barbecued ribs hung heavy in the air. “What exactly did you hear?”

“I just know that he's aware of what you're doing. And he doesn't like it.”

“How am I supposed to get the story if I can't talk to people? I'm just doing my job. Other people are reporting on voter fraud, too, you know.”

“Yes, but they're not trying to tie it to the Mob.”

“But that's what I'm trying to prove. Otherwise I'm just rehashing what every other reporter is saying.”

“I think you need to back off.”

“What?” I laughed.

“I'm serious.”

“Is there something you're not telling me? Am I in danger or something?”

“It's the Outfit. C'mon—what do you think?”

“I think you're overreacting. Unless you know something that you're not telling me.”

“No. I don't know anything specific. I told you all along that I was uncomfortable with this.”

“So you really expect me to forget about this story? To just cover the election like everyone else? Speculate about voter fraud but not try to prove that it's going to happen? Or better yet, try to stop it? And if the Mob's behind it, how can we stop it unless people know they're connected to it?”

“As your friend, I'm saying—”

“Some friend.”

“Goddammit, Jordan. I'm telling you to back off the story.”

“I can't.”

“I'm not trying to scare you, but this isn't worth it. I'm serious, Jordan. This is why I didn't want you to get involved in the first place. Please back off. I mean it. You have to let this go.”

I'd never seen him so adamant. I could tell that he was genuinely scared for me. The sun was beating down. People were walking around in sleeveless shirts, and yet a chill came over me, turning my skin to gooseflesh. I hugged myself to keep warm.

Ahern pulled his suit jacket off his shoulder and held it open for me. “Here,” he said, draping it over me.

“Okay. All right.” I bit down on my lip and nodded. “Okay. I'll back off the investigation.”

•   •   •

W
e left Maxwell Street, and by the time I made it back to the
Tribune
, I'd shaken off the chills and was now sitting at my desk, perspiring. It was balmy hot inside the city room, even with all the windows thrown open. The oscillating fans stationed about on file cabinets and desks did little good.

Benny came up to me, his shirt sweated through, half-moons forming beneath his arms. “Hey, Jordan,” he said. “Guess what today is, huh? Guess.”

“Ah, I don't know. Thursday?”

“No. No, well, yes, it's Thursday, but it's also my birthday.”

“Oh, well, happy birthday.”

“Twenty-three today.” He tucked his thumbs up under his sweaty armpits.

“Twenty-three and he don't look a day over twelve,” said Walter, laughing.

“Maybe one of these days he'll need to start shaving,” said Henry.

“So anyway”—Benny ignored them and leaned in closer—“I was wondering if you'd let me take you out tonight. You know, to help me celebrate. I have reservations at Chez Paree. Nat King Cole's performing there tonight.” His face was slick with sweat and all lit up, waiting for my response.

I could see it in his eyes. So much depended on me, and I felt horrible knowing that I was going to let him down. I could feel my coworkers watching us. M was glued to the situation.

“That's so sweet, Benny,” I said. “But . . .”

“But, I know—you have other plans. Or another date. Or else you wouldn't be caught dead with me.”

“No, Benny. No. That's not it.”

He dragged his arm across his brow to clear the sweat. “I thought you liked me, Jordan.”

“I do like you, but—”

“But?”

I looked into his downcast eyes and watched as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and hung his head.

Walter slapped Benny on the back, laughing. “Shot down on your birthday. Them's the breaks.”

“Walter,” I snapped. “Shut up. For once in your goddamned life, would you just shut the hell up?” I turned back to Benny and stared at him for a minute. Then I said, “You know what, Benny? Actually, I'd love to go to Chez Paree with you tonight.”

That stunned everyone, including Benny. Including me. But I couldn't turn him down. Not on his birthday. Not after what Walter had said.

Gabby appeared out of nowhere, holding a flaming birthday cake. After everyone sang to Benny and had their cake, I went over and talked with Marty. I explained that I was taking his advice and the advice of my source and backing away from the story.

“I think you're doing the right thing,” he said.

“But I just don't know how to turn it off. I'm not good at giving up.”

“The only way is to get involved in your next story. Trust me, the only cure for one investigative piece is another investigative piece.”

But still I couldn't let it go. I remembered one of Marty's pieces, which ran a few days before, that mentioned Simon Richter. I'd never heard of him before, and I thought by then that I knew all the
key players. This Simon Richter was a gentleman whom Marty referred to as
a poll watcher with nonspecific ties to the Board of Commissioners
. Simon Richter went on record saying he suspected there would be voter irregularities at the upcoming election. “Without naming names,” Richter was quoted as saying, “I know several
very connected
precinct captains who have a few tricks up their sleeves for Election Day.” I wondered what he'd meant by
very connected
and
tricks up their sleeves.

I wanted to ask Marty for a phone number, but he was in a meeting with Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland, so I dug in on my own. I searched the telephone directory, but couldn't find Simon Richter. Anywhere. And when I couldn't find him in the phone book or listed on the board of commissioners, a wave of nausea overcame me. The name
Gertrude Lammont
came to mind. Marty never did get back to me with a phone number for her. Initially I had chalked the whole thing up to fluke, a typo on the name. But this second time with Simon Richter made my heart pound faster.

I pushed away from my desk and looked around the city room. Marty was still in his meeting with Mr. Copeland and Ellsworth. Just as well because I couldn't have faced him anyway. All the chatter of the phones ringing, the typewriters going, the conversations volleying back and forth and the wire machines—all of it seemed to push itself far, far into the background, and I was left with an overwhelming sense of isolation. I was separated from everyone else by this
thing
that I'd just uncovered. I walked the perimeter of the city room, hoping this discovery of mine wasn't true, hoping it would go away, dissipate like a cloud of smoke from Walter's pipe.

Ten minutes later I was still pacing. I knew what I had to do—what everything inside me had been trained to do—but I didn't want to face it. The eerie quiet shattered and the noise picked up as alarms sounded inside my head. The din grew louder until I
finally drew a deep breath, went into the morgue and began pulling Marty's stories.

I pulled all his articles from the previous month and went back to my desk and started to read. The hour grew later and the city room thinned out as my colleagues, including Marty, drifted over to Boul Mich for drinks.

I had forgotten about Benny. He was sitting at his desk waiting for me.

Finally, he said, “I thought we could get going soon. Nat King Cole goes on at Chez Paree at eight. We could still make it if we leave now.”

“Oh, God, Benny.” I looked down at my desk covered with Marty's clips.

“I know what that means.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You're not gonna come with me tonight, are you?”

I was thinking of what I could say, what I could do.

“I don't know why you don't like me.” His voice began cracking. “I really like you, Jordan. I love you. I've loved you since the first time I saw you.”

“Oh, Benny.” I stood up and hugged him, his little boy–like body fitting into my embrace as I patted him and rubbed circles on his back. “I'm flattered. I really am. And I know you're going to find a wonderful girl who loves you every bit as much as you love her. You deserve that. You're a good guy.” And then something took hold of me and I looked into his eyes and I kissed him. I kissed him long and hard right on his mouth.

“Happy birthday, Benny.”

He looked stunned, his fingers pressed to his lips, his eyes sparkling wide and bright. So even though I didn't go to Chez Paree, I sent Benny on his way that night feeling happier than he had all day.

Meanwhile, I stayed at my desk and finished going through
Marty's articles. There was another
missing
person he'd quoted. No listing in the phone book, and when I called the restaurant at the address next door and asked about their neighbor, I was told there was nothing there but an abandoned storefront. I hung up and shoved the phone away, as if it were to blame. I was queasy, growing sick inside. I couldn't be sure, and I hoped that I was wrong, but my gut told me that Marty Sinclair, my journalist hero, had been fabricating his sources.