White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  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.

  • • •

  Later 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.”

  “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.”

  Chapter 5

  • • •

  The 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.