White Collar Girl (7 page)

“How do you keep all of this straight?” she asked.

For me it was easy. I grew up in a family that followed politics. My father had been covering the machine dating back to the days of Cermak and Kelly. He'd reported on Mayor Kennelly, too. We'd sit around the table, listening to my father read his articles aloud.

I looked over at Muriel. Her head was bent, her chin tilted down as she wrote the names and wards in the margins of her notebook. I was surprised that a reporter from the
Chicago American
wasn't better versed on her politicians.

“What about that other man?” Muriel asked
.
“See the tall one who keeps looking over here? He's been watching you all afternoon,” she said. “Do you know him?”

“No, actually, I don't.” I didn't know who he was or how he was connected to Daley. Or what it was about me that he found so interesting.

The reception wore on, and the bride and groom made their way from table to table, collecting thick white envelopes in exchange for hugs and handshakes. The cake had been served and the bouquet had been tossed. I had what I needed but not what I wanted. I spotted the tall man again over by the bar, and I excused myself from our table and headed toward him.

“Do we know each other?” I asked.

“I don't believe we do. I'm Richard Ahern.”

“Jordan Walsh.”

“So, Jordan, are you here for the bride or the groom?”

“Neither. And I'll bet you already knew that, since you've been watching me all afternoon.”

“Aw, you caught me.”

Something about this man made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I went out of my way not to reveal how uneasy
he made me. “Actually,” I said, placing a hand on my hip, “I'm here for the
Tribune
. And you?”

“The city. Actually.” He offered a cryptic grin. “I work down at City Hall.”

“I see. And what exactly do you do down at City Hall?”

“My but you're curious. Aren't you supposed to be asking me about the hors d'oeuvres and what I think of the bride's dress?” He laughed and gazed around the room before his eyes locked onto mine.

“I'm a reporter. It's my job to be curious.”

He took a pull from his drink and set the empty glass down on the bar. “Well, it's been nice meeting you. I'll be looking for your byline, Jordan Walsh.”

•   •   •

T
he next day, after I finished the wedding write-up, I began working on a piece inspired by Muriel at the reception: a sort of women's primer for Chicago politics.

“What's that?” Mrs. Angelo asked, coming up behind me, looking over my shoulder. “Precinct captains? Patronage jobs?”

“It's a piece on Chicago politics.”

Mrs. Angelo pursed her lips. “I can tell you right now they're not going to run a piece about that.”

“But they should.”

“Damn straight they should, but that doesn't mean they will.”

“I think women want to know how our local government works. I just covered the D'Arco wedding with a woman—a woman
reporter,
no less—who didn't know how Chicago fits into Cook County or that this city has fifty wards or that the power in this town all comes down to who can produce the most Democratic votes for their precincts and wards on Election Day.”

“Do me a favor—work on the stories I assign you. Nobody has time for this sort of thing, and they won't run it anyway.” She pulled the copy sheet from my typewriter and fisted it up. “Get
back to work, kid. Gabby's going to need a hand with her piece on the Jimmy Durante sighting at the Hi Hat Club.”

I did as I was told, but it wasn't long before I was glancing at the row of clocks mounted on the wall with
Injun Summer
:
Los Angeles. New York. London. Chicago.
It was only half past noon Central Standard Time and the hands on the clocks seemed to be moving in slow motion, making my eyelids heavy. I was about to get a cup of coffee when my desk phone rang.

“Jordan? Is this Jordan Walsh?”

I didn't recognize the voice. I had the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. “Who is this?” I was absentmindedly playing with a paper clip, bending it back and forth.

He paused for a moment. “I'd rather not say.”

I sat up a bit straighter. Reporters like Marty, Walter and Henry were always getting cold calls from people claiming they had a tip or some burning scoop. But me? No one even knew I was on the paper unless they were reading about debutante balls and wedding receptions.

“Okay, well, what can I do for you?”

“I think I have some information you could use. Meet me in an hour—”

“Wait a minute—wait a minute.” I shifted the phone from one ear to the other. “You have to give me more than that.”

“Let's just say I have some information that any young, hungry reporter would be interested in.”

I dropped the paper clip. “Where are you?”

“I'll be outside the main entrance at Wrigley Field. Meet me there in half an hour.”

“How will I know who I'm looking for?”

“Don't worry. I'll find you.” Before he hung up he said, “Trust me. I'll make this worth your while.”

I was mildly rattled when I placed the receiver down. I knew
most of these calls went nowhere, but every now and then a few turned out to be legit. I had nothing to lose in meeting this guy, and I understood that he was trying to be discreet. But still, I didn't appreciate him being so cryptic.

I grabbed my things and headed to the el. It was unseasonably warm and felt more like August than the middle of June. I hopped on a packed train, holding on to the ceiling strap as the car shimmied over the tracks, nothing but hot air blowing through the windows. The train hadn't thinned out much by the time we got to Addison.

There was a game that day: the Cubs were playing the Brooklyn Dodgers. The sidewalks up and down Clark Street were congested with fans, and I was pacing back and forth outside the main entrance among the vendors selling T-shirts, baseball caps, pennants and stuffed animals. A big roar came from inside the stadium. The Cubs must have done something right.

As I checked my watch, I heard the voice, recognizing it from the telephone call earlier. “Jordan Walsh?”

I turned around and fought to keep myself in check as a rush of adrenaline flooded me. It was Richard Ahern, the tall man from the D'Arco wedding. I knew nothing about him aside from his working at City Hall, but that was enough for me.

“Nice to see you again,” I said.

He didn't extend his hand, and when he explained that he was one of Mayor Daley's special aides, I did my best to conceal my excitement.

He gestured with a nod toward a vendor selling snow cones. “Cherry or grape?” he asked.

“I'm not hungry, but thanks.” I followed him over to the vendor. “So what was it you wanted to see me about?”

He ignored my question and turned to the man behind the cart. “Give me two cherries.” I felt like I was being handled
and I didn't like it, but I was at his mercy. He had me on the hook, and we both knew it. He gave the vendor a dime and handed me one of the snow cones. I followed him down the street, away from the stadium, the giant red Wrigley Field sign looming behind us. We were surrounded by horns honking, people shouting, the rumble of the el in the distance. The snow cone was melting, so I took a bite and licked at the syrup running over my knuckles. The light changed to red, and we paused and looked at each other. He had me pinned down with his eyes, and it unnerved me.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence, trying to sound casual, “what exactly is this all about?”

“You're dripping.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to me. “Let's just say I think you and I are in a position to be of great service to each other.”

“Okay, well, you've certainly got my attention.” I dabbed away the syrup and returned his handkerchief.

“I
have
information. You
need
information.”

“Information about what?”

“Information that belongs on page one.” He took a bite of his snow cone and tossed the rest in the trash can on the corner.

My senses kicked into high alert. I squinted at him, trying not to appear too eager. “And why would you want to share that sort of information with me?” Any reporter, except for the rare Marty Sinclairs of the industry, always had to ask,
Why me?
Out of all the reporters in this city, why would a source come to them with their scoop? This was especially true in my case. I wrote for the women's pages, and if Ahern's information was as good as he said, he could certainly have found a reporter to get him better coverage than I could.

When he didn't acknowledge my question, I pitched my snow cone and locked eyes with him. “So, what are you looking for in
exchange? Because I'll tell you right now, I won't sleep with you for information.”

He smiled as if this were thoroughly amusing. “I wouldn't expect you to.”

I lowered my chin, looking down at my shoes, hoping he wouldn't notice my face was burning red. “So what is it that you want, then?”

“A mouthpiece. And, of course, total and complete anonymity as your source. I'll need that from you before we go any further. And speaking of which, I'm sure you're wise enough not to mention this little meeting to anyone.”

I straightened the strap on my handbag and pressed my lips together, trying to regain some ground here. Even though I was dying to know the information he was sitting on, I cautioned myself to be smart, methodical. Professional. Maybe I was thinking about Marty Sinclair and his source, but something about this didn't feel right. There was something off about Ahern, something sinister. I had to know a whole lot more about him in order to figure out if I could trust him.

“I don't know,” I said. “Let me think it over.”

“Sure.” He served up another cocky smirk. “You think it over while you're writing about bridal bouquets and taffeta gowns.”

“Don't underestimate me, Mr. Ahern.”

For the first time he laughed—really laughed—and it sounded genuine. “I know better than to do that.” He started to walk away, and then turned around. “You let me know whenever you're ready to talk. You can reach me down at City Hall.”

•   •   •

L
ater that day I sat at my desk revising a fashion piece on “Tricks to Keep Your Slip from Showing.” I was thinking about my meeting with Ahern when M stretched her very shapely leg out from under her desk.

“Oh, darn it.” She pointed her toe while hiking up her skirt, turning her ankle this way and that. “I got a run in my stockings.”

“Don't you just hate when that happens?” said Henry with a chuckle as he batted his lashes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” said Walter. “Bring that gorgeous gam over here. I'll fix you right up.”

M giggled along with the rest of them.

I liked M, but at times like this I wanted to go over and shake her. Did I have to remind her she had a brain? I feared it was women like her who convinced men like Walter and Henry that we were all half-wits, and that kept the rest of us stuck. But nothing sank my heart more than seeing that morning's edition of White Collar Girl with my byline beneath an article entitled: “What a Tidy Desk Says About Your Work Ethic.” I didn't know how much longer I could go on writing those kinds of pieces. They weren't getting me any closer to my goal of the city desk.

Maybe Ahern was the answer. I knew that my own attempts to get myself off the women's pages had gotten me nowhere. I'd toned down my style of dress, hoping to be taken more seriously, opting for plain skirts and simple blouses with Peter Pan collars. I left my earrings and bracelets in my jewelry box and limited my makeup to a touch of lipstick and rouge. None of that seemed to help the situation. I still got patted on the rear end, still was referred to as
little missy, sweetheart
or
honeybuns
.

I had recently pitched an important story to Mr. Ellsworth about the infant mortality rate inside Chicago's orphanages. I had spent my nights and weekends working on it, had met with a doctor from the city's Board of Health and had ventured into shady pockets of town to interview former orphanage employees. I wrote and rewrote and polished the entire article, and when it was ready, I showed it to Mr. Ellsworth. He had a way of stroking his beard while reading your work that said he was unimpressed
and that you were wasting his time. I remember he was stroking his beard that day just before he set my piece aside.

“But you didn't finish reading it,” I said.

“I didn't need to finish it.”

“But it's a good story.”

“It's a story that I have no interest in running.”

“All I'm asking for is a chance. Can't you give me a break? I just want to be helpful.”

Mr. Ellsworth gazed at me and rubbed his chin. “You really want to be helpful?”

“Yes.”

He reached for the mug on the corner of his desk. “Then go get me a cup of coffee. Black.”

•   •   •

A
fter that I vowed not to pitch another article to Mr. Ellsworth, Mr. Copeland or even Mr. Pearson until I had something so big, so enticing that they would have to run it.

All this was going through my mind as I went to the morgue and began digging for information on Richard Ahern.

I could still hear the commotion from the city room, seeping in through the doorway as I glanced around. Naked bulbs swung overhead in a room lined with filing cabinets that stood five feet tall. There were heavy wooden drawers along with rows and rows of flat files that squeaked each time I pulled one out. When I stopped to think about what the morgue housed, the history of the paper and of the city, it was mind-boggling. If there was something written about anyone or anything, it was lurking in that room. And that's when I decided to take a moment and locate the archives from June 1953.

My fingers worked through the files, running over tattered labels and rumpled folders while I searched for anything reported on my brother's death. I harbored a foolish hope that the answers
I sought—some tidbit of information that would lead to my brother's killer—were tucked inside these archives.

I pulled a folder dated June 10, 1953:

REPORTER KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN

Sun-Times
reporter Eliot Walsh was killed in a hit-and-run late last night on the corner of State Street and Grand Avenue. Walsh, twenty-five, was struck at approximately nine p.m., presumably on his way to the subway. Authorities say there were no eyewitnesses. However, a passerby, Adam Javers, heard the squeal of tires and then saw the body on the sidewalk and called for an ambulance. Walsh was rushed to Henrotin Hospital, where he later died at eleven fifty-three p.m., during surgery. . . .

I finished that article and checked through the rest of the folder, going through his obituaries and other reports about the accident in the
Chicago American,
the
Daily News
and the
Sun-Times
. I'd already read all those articles when they first appeared back in '53. By the time I'd looked at the last one, I was drained and agitated. There was nothing new to be found. I slapped the files shut and slammed the drawer closed. Even after two years my anger was still raw.

I took a step back and leaned against another file cabinet, clenching and unclenching my fists until the frustration left me. Or maybe it just subsided, because really, it never fully disappeared. Afterward I cleared my throat and got busy looking for what I'd come for in the first place.

I spent the next couple hours in the morgue concentrating on Ahern, and when I surfaced, I had clips that had been cross-referenced five or six times. I returned to my desk and abandoned
a set of revisions for my “Slip Trick” article and began reading through the files.

Turned out Ahern had graduated law school from the University of Chicago in 1947. He'd worked for the former mayor, Kennelly, and after three years had accepted a job as one of Daley's special aides. He had a young wife named Suzanne. There was no mention of children. Thirty minutes later, after shuffling through the clips, I had turned up nothing that would suggest Ahern's motive for leaking information to the press.