Irish Above All

by Mary Pat Kelly

  Even seated, Thompson was massive. More flab than muscle though, in spite of the way he always bragged about his time as a water polo player. What kind of a sport was that anyway? Played in country club pools. Ed was still the trim boxer of his youth. He stood up, walked around his desk, towered over Big Bill. If only Thompson’s nickname had been Fats, we wouldn’t be stuck with him now.

  “Heard you had your own bailiwick over here, Kelly. Set yourself up like a little king.”

  Now Ed’s office was nice enough. Two big windows looked out on the drive. He had an antique walnut desk Margaret found for him, two green leather chairs, and a matching sofa. Nothing outrageous. The big draftsman’s table in the corner, piled with blueprints and plans, took up most of the space. A working office.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Mayor,” Ed said. “If I knew you were coming I’d have arranged for some refreshments.”

  “Refreshments? I don’t waste time on tea and cookies. I heard you can’t hold your liquor anymore. Have become a teetotaler,” Thompson said.

  Ed said nothing.

  “Look, Kelly, I don’t have much time. I know you hate me so let’s not pretend.”

  “Hate’s a very strong word, Mr. Mayor,” Ed said. “You’re a political opponent. You won. We lost. But I work for the people of the city of Chicago, so whoever’s mayor, I’ll do my job.”

  “Hogwash, Kelly. Hogwash.”

  Ed laughed. “You’ve got quite a vocabulary, Mr. Mayor. I do want to cooperate with you. In fact, I’d like to have a photograph with you for my wall. This is my photographer.”

  “I heard about her. Some relative and screwy to boot. I didn’t come here to play nice. Here’s how it’s going to be. I’ll let you do your projects, Kelly, because they’re good for Chicago and, therefore, for me. But I want you to tell Pat Nash and those ward heelers in the Democratic Party that all the jobs and patronage will stop if they try to double-cross me. If I find out, and I will find out, that you’re putting together a ‘Stop Thompson’ group, there won’t be another foot of concrete laid in this city by any Mick contractor. And stay away from that Bohunk Cermak if you know what’s good for you. I can do business with you Micks, but not those Bohunks. And don’t try to blarney me or play me for a fool. I’m smarter than you are. A genius.”

  Doesn’t Thompson know, I thought, that we Micks had eight hundred years of practice in pulling the wool over the eyes of people like him?

  “But here’s the thing, Kelly,” Thompson said. “I need my first year as mayor to be spectacular.”

  Thompson stood.

  “I’m going to be president, Kelly,” he said.

  “President of what?” Ed asked.

  “Of the United States, you moron. I’ve got the Republican convention next summer all lined up. Already have a bunch of delegates committed to me. But I want to get a lot of good press. I’ll give you whatever you need to get your projects up and running by the summer so I can go to the convention in Kansas City with a reputation as a fellow who gets things done. I’m going to beat that sissy Hoover on the first ballot. President Thompson. It has a ring.”

  Ed said nothing.

  Big Bill Thompson as president. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  It wasn’t even an hour later that Pat Nash was in Ed’s office and me there too.

  “President? Thompson is going for president? Hard to believe,” Pat said.

  “Nora heard him too,” Ed said.

  “I did, Pat, and he was serious. But the Republican Party would never nominate a buffoon like Thompson would they?” I said.

  “They might,” Pat said. “I didn’t expect him to be elected mayor. Thompson knows how to get attention and he’ll promise to put his own money into the campaign. Probably buy off a good few delegates and intimidate the rest in the same way he scared the voters here. He’s got a bully’s self-confidence and that can be dangerous.”

  “We have to stop him,” Ed said.

  “Why?” Pat said. “He’ll be a terrible candidate for the general election. If we can convince the Democrats to nominate Al Smith, opposing Thompson might be the only way a Catholic like him will get elected.”

  “But isn’t that taking a chance?” I said. “What if Thompson won?”

  “Nora’s right,” Ed said. “Strange things happen in elections and Capone will give him all the money he needs. We have to tip off somebody in the Republican Party.”

  “They won’t appreciate advice from us, Ed,” Pat said. “They’ll think it’s some kind of a trick and be more determined than ever to back Thompson.”

  “Couldn’t you call Colonel McCormick, Ed?” I said. “An article in the Tribune about Thompson’s plans might—”

  “No,” said Pat. Just like that, a flat no. “Thompson will find out where the information came from. We have to work with the bastard for the next four years. Can’t rile him up now.”

  After Pat left, Ed said there was nothing to do but keep our heads down and concentrate on the work. Over that summer, Buckingham Fountain was finished and ground was broken for both the planetarium and the aquarium.

  On August 26, 1927, Ed, Margaret, and I walked through the fading twilight toward the dark shape that was Buckingham Fountain. In an hour, Kate Buckingham would say the word and the memorial to her brother would be turned on for the first time. A humid Chicago night with the lake just managing to send a breeze across the gathering crowd.

  “No stench from the stockyards here,” I said to Ed as we approached the entrance to the raised outdoor stage where I could see Big Bill and the woman I thought of as his poor wife although she was rich enough. As we got closer, I noticed that Kate Buckingham was sitting right next to the mayor. Ed had told me that the final cost of the fountain was $750,000 and Kate had paid the whole kit and caboodle plus added another $300,000 as a maintenance fund and gave the money happily.

  “A kind of immortality,” she’d told Ed.

  A line of aldermen on the stage. It made me angry to see how even Democratic politicians had fallen in line behind Thompson.

  “Waiting in the tall grass,” Ed reassured me, but I wasn’t so sure. Capone kept Thompson supplied with unlimited cash that he spread around. A squad of uniformed policemen and a few of the ushers stood at the entrance to the stage.

  “Hi, boys,” Ed said to the cops. No answer. Then one of the ushers said, “Only special guests of the mayor allowed in this section. No more room.”

  I expected Ed to ream the guy out, but he said nothing. So I spoke up. “This is Edward J. Kelly, head of the South Park Commission. This fountain wouldn’t exist without him. You go tell the mayor…” But the fellow was pointing to the stage where Thompson stood looking in our direction. The mayor very obviously put his thumb down.

  I raised my arms ready to wave back at Thompson and shout, but Ed stopped me. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  And so the three of us stood near the back of the crowd during the ceremony. I couldn’t believe Ed could be so still and stoic as Thompson went on and on about how Buckingham Fountain was only the beginning of what Big Bill the Builder was going to do for the City of Chicago. He talked about the aquarium and the planetarium and the lakefront beaches and parks that he was bringing to Chicago. I couldn’t take my eyes off Kate Buckingham who was nodding and smiling at Thompson’s boasts and bluster. And then one by one each of the aldermen stepped up to the microphone to praise the mayor. Democrats kissing the ring of this buffoon.

  “All that’s missing is Al Capone,” I whispered to Ed.

  “Look who’s in the back row,” he said. “Frank Nitti.” Capone’s cousin and second in command.

  The ceremony ended with a quartet of uniformed policemen singing a song whose refrain was “Big Bill the Builder, Big Bill the Builder, Big Bill the Builder. He’s Number One.”

  “Let’s go,” I said to Ed and Margaret. She hadn’t said a word during the whole fiasco but now she spoke up.

  “It’s Ed’s fountain. Let’s watc
h the lights come on.”

  “One, two, three,” Thompson bellowed.

  And then magic. From every corner of the plaza, floodlights illuminated the pink marble basin, and kazam—water shot up from dozens of jets, frothing out of the mouths of the sea horses and then as a geyser rushing toward the dark sky. Colored lights turned the water red and blue and green. There was music. A recorded orchestra played from hidden speakers.

  Margaret looked up at Ed. “You did this. You. What do you care about…” and she pointed to the stage. But he did care and so did I. Maybe Ed would be safer if he did his work and let Thompson take the credit. But Big Bill the Builder was using these projects as a springboard to the White House. He had to be stopped.

  12

  “Miss Buckingham! Miss Buckingham!” I called out. Finally. I had been lurking for an hour in the lobby of her building at 2450 North Lakeview, which was quite a bit north of the Gold Coast but had a great view of the lake and Lincoln Park. Here she came. Two weeks after the dedication of Buckingham Fountain.

  Dave Murphy, the doorman, another Bridgeport fellow, had assured me that Miss Buckingham took a walk through the park every afternoon at two o’clock. I’d come at one o’clock, and he’d let me wait in the mailroom of this grand building. Even the rich were living in apartments now.

  I had written to her asking for a meeting and had gotten no response. She was ashamed of herself, I thought. She knows she should have insisted that Ed be on the stage at the dedication ceremony for her fountain, but then I wondered if rich Protestant women surrounded by servants who tell them they’re wonderful ever did feel guilt. Isolated. The way she was right now with a woman in a white nurse’s uniform holding one of her arms and a young blond man in a gray business suit holding the other. He was the one who answered me. “Please. Miss Buckingham doesn’t wish to be disturbed by strangers,” he said.

  “But I’m a friend of hers. Well, an acquaintance anyway and I have an important message for her.” Kate Buckingham and the nurse had stopped at the front door when the young man turned and spoke to me. Now I stepped forward.

  “You remember me, Miss Buckingham, don’t you? I’m Ed Kelly’s cousin, the photographer.”

  “Now look here,” the young man said, “if you don’t leave right now, I’ll have the doorman eject you.”

  “She’s not dangerous, sir,” Dave Murphy said and then turned to Kate Buckingham. “I can vouch for Nora Kelly.”

  “Oh, yes, now I recall,” Miss Buckingham said. She turned to the young man. “She’s the woman who took those quite extraordinary photographs of the fountain under construction, Stanley.” She smiled and told me, “I have framed the series. Your work hangs on my walls right next to Cézanne and Renoir. Those are very important French painters.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, if you recall when we met in Ed’s office, he told you that I lived in Paris. In fact, Henri Matisse and I—”

  But Stanley interrupted me. “Miss Buckingham has an appointment.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s very exciting,” Miss Buckingham said. “I’m planning to erect a statue of Alexander Hamilton in the park just down the block from this building.”

  “Alexander Hamilton,” I said. “Why?”

  “He’s the forgotten man,” she said. “He was a great favorite of my brother Clarence. After all, Hamilton invented our banking system. And he had such a fascinating background. Much more interesting than George Washington who was after all just another Virginian.”

  “I don’t recall much about Hamilton,” I started.

  Stanley couldn’t resist explaining to me that Hamilton had been born in the West Indies and though his father had been some kind of a Scottish lord, he had not married Hamilton’s mother. He looked over at Miss Buckingham, who nodded. “Hamilton’s mother was French,” he went on, “with some African heritage possibly.”

  “He had quite a time breaking into the inner circle of the Founding Fathers,” she said.

  “Because he was an immigrant?” I said. “Hamilton’s lucky there was no President Big Bill Thompson at that time or he would have been shut out entirely.”

  That got her attention. “President Thompson? What do you mean?”

  “Big Bill thinks he’s got the Republican nomination sewn up. He’s lined up lots of delegates. Now, it’s one thing to tolerate a few years of him as mayor, but dear God, president of the United States? Washington and the others won’t just be turning over in their graves, they’ll be rising up, running amuck. They’ll—”

  “Easy, Nora, easy,” Dave Murphy said.

  I’d moved very close to Kate Buckingham. I didn’t want to spray her with my earnest spittle. “I know Ruth McCormick is a power in the Republican Party but I have no way to get to her. But you do.”

  “Ruth is a friend of mine,” she said.

  “Could you arrange a meeting with her? I can invite Mrs. Potter Palmer,” I said. “She worked with Ed to save the Palace of Fine Arts and she has influence. The convention is next month. We have to do something quickly. Please, look I’ll leave my phone number with Dave here. Call me and tell me when it’s convenient.”

  “I am Miss Buckingham’s secretary,” Stanley said, very offended. “I arrange her schedule.”

  And now the nurse spoke up. “And she has to conserve her energy.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Kate, you’re seventy, not dead. You owe Ed and me, and the country for that matter, at least two hours of your time,” I said.

  Which is why a week later, Kate Buckingham, Mrs. Potter Palmer, and I sat in the lobby of the Palmer House enjoying their high tea of scones, strawberry jam, and whipped cream while we waited for Ruth McCormick. Pauline and her husband, Potter Palmer II, were spending more and more time in Florida, but they were in Chicago for the spring season, she told me.

  “At least we don’t have to travel to Europe as much. My husband’s mother Berthé loved to spend time in the great houses of England. She was a special friend of the Prince of Wales.”

  “Who Thompson wants to punch in the nose,” I said.

  “I try not to think about Mayor Thompson,” Mrs. Palmer said. “After all, the beautification of Chicago is going forward.”

  “Because of Ed Kelly,” I said. “Maybe Chicago could survive a term with Thompson as mayor, but the country cannot. The harm he could do as president will affect generations.”

  “President?” she said and half stood up.

  “Sit down, Pauline,” Kate Buckingham said, and turned to me. “When I asked Pauline to meet us I didn’t tell her why. I thought you could be more emphatic about the risk of Thompson getting the Republican nomination.”

  And emphatic I was.

  Thompson and Capone were partners, I told them. Big Bill had no morals. He cheated on his wife. Spent time in the Levee. It was one thing for men like Hinky Dink Kenna and Bathhouse John Coughlin to run that place. They had come from nothing, but Thompson had opportunities and still he wallows … but Mrs. Palmer stopped me.

  “You’ve convinced me and I’ll certainly make the case to Ruth McCormick.”

  Ruth Hanna McCormick, the colonel’s sister-in-law. Daughter of a Republican senator and wife of another, she had been married to the oldest McCormick son, Joseph. He was the fellow meant to run the Tribune but word was that his nerves couldn’t take the pressure, so he’d gone into politics. Which didn’t make a lot of sense to me except, to the McCormick family, the Republican Party was an extension of the family business.

  Joseph had been a congressman and then senator. But two years ago the party had withdrawn its support and nominated someone else. He died in Washington. Now Ruth was running for his seat in Congress

  “Ruth is a very brave woman,” Mrs. Potter Palmer said. “Her husband’s death was a terrible blow.”

  “What was it?” I say. “A heart attack?”

  Mrs. Palmer lifted her teacup and took a sip. “Well I don’t know all the details but his body was found in a hotel room in Washington and, well �
�� the circumstances were never revealed.” She stopped, split open a scone, covered it with strawberry jam and whipped cream and took a bite.

  “Oh,” I said. “Did he take his own life?”

  “Don’t say anything to Ruth,” Mrs. Potter Palmer said.

  “I wouldn’t,” I said.

  Ruth McCormick had one of those austere faces that upper-class women seemed to be issued with. I panicked a bit as she sat down. She waved away the scones. Poured herself a cup of tea and looked at the two of us.

  Mrs. Palmer launched into the story of how she and Ed and I had teamed up to save the Fine Arts building, which proved that Ed Kelly was able to take a broader view than most of Chicago’s politicians. And Kate Buckingham added her bit. No Buckingham Fountain without Ed.

  “Yes,” I said. “Ed cares about getting things done and is willing to look beyond party labels. In that same spirit the women in the Democratic Party want to help you get elected, Ruth.”

  Ruth nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “We can pass the word that having a woman in Congress is important, even if she is a Republican. Though I was surprised to find out that Thompson is going to be your candidate for president.”

  “What!” she said. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Please keep this information confidential, but I heard him myself. He’s making a run for it, Ruth.” All Ruth McCormick’s self-possession dissolved.

  “Never,” she said. “Not while I have breath in my body. I’ll stop him.”

  And stop him she did. She organized the delegates at the convention and Thompson wasn’t even considered. Thompson never forgave her. Ruth was elected to Congress that year, but when it came time for her to run for the Senate, Thompson put the kibosh on it. It would have been great to have a woman senator from Illinois. Or even a president. How did a deplorable man such as Thompson stop such a capable woman? Inexplicable.

  AUGUST 1928

  Thompson stayed away from Chicago for the rest of the summer after the convention in Kansas City. He was humiliated. We had a big celebration in Eagle River. Pat Nash and his family came up from his place on Paw Paw Lake in Michigan, where he had built his bit of Ireland, as Ed had in Eagle River. Idyllic really. Every morning Margaret and I would take the two-year-old twins down to the lake. We’d each hold one up and let them kick their feet in the water. “This is what’s really important,” I said to Margaret. “The kids growing up, healthy and happy.”