Jim said a quick goodbye to his eldest and rushed out as he heard the trolley bell ring further up the street.
He ran, boarded the streetcar, and opened his newspaper. The Morning Express filled column space with a prominent story having no more substance than a puff of Luna Park cotton candy. It was another ridiculous piece planted by the alderman. About his new suit:
NEW SUIT WAS WELL CHRISTENED
Alderman Sullivan on the Street, Slow Start, Got Uptown in Safety.
AND THEN THE RAIN CAME
But there are other Outfits, equally good,
and the Neighbors have Hopes.
Occasionally in life one comes upon a beauteous sight like a flower blooming alone in a barren field. It shines doubly beautiful by reason of its contrast with its surroundings. ‘Twas so with Alderman John Philpott Sullivan yesterday.
Four weeks ago this crypt of modern wit and mausoleum of ancient humor felt in one of the pockets of his winter suit and found a wad of something. It must have been in the pocket for many months. He drew it forth and was about to toss it away when he chanced to look at it. It was money. When he recovered consciousness, after the shock had subsided, Alderman Sullivan hurried himself to a tailor, known as a sartorial artist, and selected a new summer suit. It was very fine, with checks that could be cashed at almost any bank. The alderman then hied to a hattery and bought a gay Panama (named after the isthmus colonelovitch) and thence he hastened to a bootery and shoery and bought a pair of tan shoes. At a shirtery he bought a set of shirts, with the sunflower, honeysuckle and night-blooming cereus patterns intertwined. He acquired a tie that was a delirious dream.
All these things he had sent to his castle. When they arrived at the palace he examined them once more and smiled with merry mien. Then he made ready to wear them. It rained after he put them on, so he took them off to wait for a dry day. Three days later the sun shone and he put them on again. It rained as he took the Panama from the hat rack and made ready to saunter forth across the drawbridge of the castle. He went indoors and took them off again. Eleven times he did this. Eleven times he donned the new duds. Eleven times it rained before he got outdoors and eleven times he doffed the duds.
Yesterday morning the sun shone. Alderman John Philpott Sullivan stood before the long mirror. He arrayed himself in all his finery and forth he stepped into a startled world. Men gazed after him in admiration and awe. Women rubbered, and small boys followed in his wake. It was as if he were treading the golden highways of oratory in eloquent promenade, scattering sparking jets like diamonds along the way. He got uptown and there was greeted with loud acclaim. A few drops fell.
“What, rain?” mused Alderman J. Philpott.
It poured.
“ ‘Tis strange how clothing shrinks from the rain,” quoth the sage, “It seems to draw itself up, as if to say haughtily to the raindrops: ‘How dare you?’ The rain soaks some suits. Other suits are soaked in other ways. I have known suits to be hung up and I have known instances where others, tailors, for instance, were hung up for suits.
“A vest is something that vanished from America the day the waistcoat was discovered. A vest was peculiar, in that it depended not so much on what hung over as what lay under. A waistcoat is the reverse. It is more apt to be deceitful than a vest. I have seen many double-faced waistcoats. Another thing about a waistcoat is that it is mostly all front. All waistcoats are expansionists, politically. A waistcoat usually has the bulge on you.
“Shoes are important elements of a man’s haberdashery, so to speak. They are almost human. Their squeak often actually is human. Moreover, their soles have a hereafter, even if it is only a junk heap. All shoes have soles, black shoes as well as white shoes. There is no color line.”
Alderman Sullivan mused on. Almost every other sentence was a joke. He shook off the rain and glanced at the checks in the suit.
“I can hear the raindrops pattern on it as they fall,” quoth he, as he started homeward in the downpour.
He has still another new outfit to flash upon a waiting world.
Jim shook his head, irritated with himself for reading the piece of crap to its very end. But he knew that his brother would quiz him about it. He arrived at police Headquarters on Franklin street where he rendezvoused with Superintendent Mike Regan, the entire detective force, and scores of uniformed officers and fellow plain clothes detectives. Following the instructions, the initiates boarded horses, a motor bus, two patrol wagons and four motorcycles for the five minute trip to the Exchange street depot.
Meanwhile Fingy Conners chomped his saliva-saturated cigar as he stood by the tracks, making small talk with members of the Chamber of Commerce and Manufacturers Club with whom he had enjoyed an early breakfast at the Buffalo Club. They had dilly-dallied at that venue too long, arriving at the depot just minutes before the President’s train pulled in.
As Chairman of the Democratic party of New York State, Fingy did not consider himself at all out of place as part of the welcoming committee for the Republican President. What he so interestingly had in common with Alderman JP Sullivan was the dismissal of partisanship and an overwhelming self-interest which allowed him to play to whatever side would get him to where he needed to go the fastest. This shared attribute is what allowed the two to continue to work together year after year despite their angry differences and wild fluctuations in levels of supposed hatred toward one other.
As the train approached the outskirts of Buffalo, President Howard Taft listened patiently to Secret Service Chief Wheeler’s instructions. When he was finished and had moved on to confer with his security detail, Taft engaged Secretary of State Knox in private conversation.
“I am never conscious of any personal anxiety in large crowds. These guards are a large burden to the President. I can never go anywhere that I do not have to inflict upon those I wish to visit the burden of their presence. It is a little difficult for me to avoid the feeling after a while that I am under surveillance rather than under protection. These Secret Service men are level-headed, experienced and of good manners and they are wise in their methods. But if a person is determined to kill a President and is willing to give up his life to do it, no such protection will save him.”
At 7:25 o’clock the engine towing President Taft’s private car Olympia arrived to much cheering from the waiting crowds and the tense gathering of police. Taft was accompanied by his secret service detail headed by James Wheeler and David Jarvis, as well as dignitaries including First Ward native and congressional Rep. Daniel A. Driscoll, Secretary of State Philander C. Knox, the president’s military aide Archibald W. Butt, and a small army of representatives of the press.
Ansley Wilcox, who had offered his Delaware Avenue home to the President during his stay, just as he previously had President McKinley and subsequently President Roosevelt, boarded the Olympia first, followed by Mayor Fuhrmann and the reception committee including Fingy Conners. Fingy first tossed the cigar blunt under the train before stepping up, faltering a bit upon his cane before being rebalanced by the man behind him whose act of kindness he barely acknowledged. He looked around the Presidential car with its luxurious appointments. The door to the sleeping quarters was ajar. The oversized bed, custom made to accommodate the enormous girth of the President, almost entirely filled the compact room. The reception area was furnished with comfortable upholstered chairs and a meeting area was dominated by a conference table. Framed photos and documents decorated the walls. Silk curtains trimmed the windows.
Taft greeted each and every man with a big smile and a warm two-handed clinch. After the greetings the President walked out onto the rear platform of the car to loud cheering and acclaim. He paused to allow photographers to take snapshots of him before descending from the car.
Jim surveyed the crowd, on the lookout for deceitful eyes. The police sprang into action. “Everybody back 25 feet!” bellowed Police Chief Mike Regan. Jim and his fellow detectives, assisted by the secret service men in the Presidential part
y, pushed back against the crowds that had closed in to get a better view and perhaps a handshake from President Taft. A way was cleared to the train entrance of the station with some difficulty. The President and his party proceeded out onto Exchange Street. A roar rose up from the crowd filling the street on the other side of the trolley tracks. Before taking a seat in his Thomas limousine, Taft stood in the open automobile and bowed, turning left then right to acknowledge the gathered with his famous smile.
Police mounted their horses and motorcycles in hot haste. Chief Regan, Jim Sullivan and four other detectives filled a car that led the Presidential auto. Other detectives and five more bluecoats filled the cars that followed. Taft’s secret service men stood on his auto’s running boards, alert to rooftops and to those taking refuge in the shadows. Farther back yet another car filled with headquarters detectives headed by Assistant Chief Taylor and six other autos occupied by members of the entertainment committee fell into line. Then the caravan pulled down Exchange Street to Main, where flags waved from every edifice, then down Niagara street past the McKinley monument. Taft regarded the imposing white marble pillar dedicated to the memory of his assassinated predecessor with some trepidation. The parade rounded Niagara Square’s circle and headed up manicured and regally-mansioned Delaware Avenue. Large crowds filled the walks and spilled over curbs, the President serenaded with cheering for the entire length of his route.
The entourage arrived at the manor of Ansley Wilcox at 7:45 o’clock. The entertainment committee escorted the President to the house, then took leave of him.
President Taft, Secretary Knox and Capt. Butt entered the stately home to have a private breakfast alone with Mr. Wilcox. Afterward Taft retired to the Wilcox library to dictate letters to his stenographer. It was the same room where his direct antecedent, Teddy Roosevelt, had taken the presidential oath of office following the death of President McKinley.
At a little past noon with crowds of onlookers filling the sidewalks and lawns surrounding the Wilcox home, the President emerged to gather with his honored guests and his host Mr. Wilcox for a photograph on the front steps. Then he stepped into a Pierce Arrow for the trip to Seneca Street and the building of the Chamber of Commerce. The car could barely proceed what for the dense crowds that waited to see him, and a flowing river of men and boys pursued the auto for several blocks to allow themselves a continuous view of the nation’s leader.
One thousand members of the Chamber of Commerce and Manufacturers’ Club stood on queue to shake the hand of President Taft in the lobby of the building between 12:30 and 1:30 o’clock. Nowhere among them was Alderman JP Sullivan. One might think that the Alderman, owner of the city’s largest ice business, would be a member of the Chamber of Commerce, but he shunned the organization. Exclusive admission to the meet and greet proceeded via presentation of a special card, with only club members provided admittance.
The reception advanced quickly and without upset. The President was stationed midway between the front entrance and the rear exit in the corridor, near the north wall. Capt. Butt, the President’s aide, stood to his left. As each man approached, Butt learned his name and called it to the President, who repeated the name as he shook the man’s hand. Taft’s handshake was a genuine hearty grasp. His smile and sincere words of greeting to each well-wisher stripped the ceremony of all formality.
There was little display of ostentation in the guard of police protection. Chief Regan and Capt. Forrestel, followed by the plain clothes detectives and bluecoats, lined the corridor, forming a lane through which the guests passed from the entrance to the receiving line. The entire headquarters staff of detectives were in force under the charge of Assistant Chief Taylor. Each citizen in line had already been carefully scrutinized by a dozen pairs of circumspect eyes by the time he neared Mr. Taft.
Jim stood nervously just feet from the President. He recalled that awful day at the Pan American when just such a line formed to greet President McKinley. He accepted that logically he was not responsible for facilitating the shooting that afternoon, but he did hold himself to some extent accountable, having scrutinized suspiciously many in line holding bags, purses, brolleys—hands in pockets or otherwise out of sight. He saw and wondered, but said nothing. No one did. No one expected such a brazen and sorrowful act on that direful day. And yet it happened.
Things had changed since then. None present at this ceremony would be allowed shrouding, clandestined gestures or concealment of any sort. No bags or packages were permitted, and all hands were to remain visible and empty.
Despite these commands read aloud to the guests at the Main Street entrance as they queued for their presentation, some anxious men stood with hands in pockets thoughtlessly as the line moved slowly forward. One such man was a prominent member of the school board, Arthur W. Hickman. He happened to have one hand casually in his coat pocket.
As Mr. Hickman passed Detective Jim Sullivan, grim guardian of the law, Jim intercepted him and rudely yanked Hickman’s hand out of his pocket. Wordlessly he gave the garment a series of slaps to determine if there was a weapon concealed there. Hickman was mortified. Everyone present, including the President, witnessed the pat-down. Jim stared right through Hickman with a cold dead eye. He offered no apology for his frisking, turning his scrutiny to those next in line once the task had been completed. Observers were inclined to smile witnessing Hickman’s red-faced discomfiture.
As he looked down the line Jim’s eyes widened. What is Butler doing here? he wondered. E. H. Butler needn’t have waited in line as he was meeting with Taft at the Buffalo Club in just a short while. Then Jim spotted Jacob Lang and his question was answered. Lang was the son of Gerhard, the late founder of the exceedingly successful Lang Brewery. The two were unlikely close friends. Edward Butler was the publisher of the Buffalo Evening News, the paper that had printed the vile piece that maligned Jim’s sainted mother in such a slanderous light shortly before she fell sick with her final illness nearly thirty years previous. Jim had never forgotten that Butler had neglected to print a retraction of the slander after he’d learned that Mary Halloran would not be taking action, legal or otherwise.
As the line moved along, Jim kept pace, tracking Butler with a steely gaze, waiting for his chance.
Go on, put your hand in your pocket you fat bastard. Go right ahead, Jim beseeched him from inside his head. He waited and hoped. Then, with just one person between himself and Taft, Butler removed his spectacles and pulled his coat outward for the breast pocket to receive the eye glasses. Jim practically tackled him, yanking Butler’s hand from his pocket so hard his glasses flew to the floor. All were agape. Jim invaded Butler’s pocket aggressively, then patted him down from top to bottom as the President stood silent and motionless, waiting. Butler leered at Jim before changing his expression to as pleasant a countenance as he could muster considering the mortifying circumstances. When Jim was satisfied that Butler had been fully humiliated, he moved on to the next man, Lang, and did a cursory pat down of his pockets.
“I do enjoy your fine brew, Mr. Lang,” Jim said as he finished.
Butler did not need to be introduced to the President, for he and Taft had met a number of times previous. The two shook hands, then Butler introduced Lang, who would not be among the chosen attending the Buffalo Club luncheon. As the men left, Butler turned and met Jim’s waiting eyes with a look of hostility. The detective nodded, the corners of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly. That’ll teach you to print lying shit about my poor old mother, Jim said to himself, stifling a smirk.
He knew that word of Butler’s indignity would get back to Fingy Conners, earning Jim a few points with The Thumbless One. Fingy despised all his newspaper competition, but especially Butler. He also hated Lang for the sins of his father, for they too had competed years back in the brewery business. Lang the Elder’s success was a model for Fingy when he was first starting out. Lang’s Brewery had owned dozens of saloons at which only Lang’s beer was sold. Fingy Conners adm
ired that idea and envisioned himself owning saloons throughout Western New York and Southern Ontario selling solely his own brew. He initially tried to emulate Lang’s business model but found that his own saloon boss system of contracting labor from just a handful of taverns was far more lucrative. He settled for strong-arming Western New York saloons into serving his Magnus Beck beer exclusively, which turned the Langs into dedicated enemies, as if Fingy hadn’t already cultivated enough of those.
Taft seemed unfatigued by this long public exercise, as exuberant at meeting the last man in line as he was the first. From there the entourage departed the Chamber of Commerce Building for their cars and the entire parade moved to a luncheon at the Buffalo Club, where Taft received 300 more visitors as he stood between the portraits of former U.S. Presidents and Buffalo Club members Millard Fillmore and Grover Cleveland. Among these well-wishers were more than a few Democrats, chief among them State Chairman Fingy Conners and Party scion Norman E. Mack. Mack was also a direct competitor of Fingy’s in the newspaper business as publisher of the Buffalo Times. Besides ex-presidents, the Buffalo Club’s membership included men prominent in all walks of life, from bankers to doctors, merchants to attorneys.
During the luncheon the president was presented with a fountain pen by the Secretary of the Ad Club. The President made a short reply. Catching newspaper owner Fingy Conners’ eye he said, “It always gives me pleasure to meet men connected with the newspapers, and I am therefore more than glad to be your guest at this time. I can assure you that I appreciate your gift and will think of you when I use it.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 51