Homeland

by John Jakes

  Paul opened the folder. The large print showed a hinged clam shell, six or seven feet wide, lying amid some beach props he recognized. The top half of the shell was folded back. Standing in the shell was a young woman, posed with one hand near her startled rounded mouth, and another suggestively covering her intimate parts.

  The girl was voluptuous, with dark hair and eyes. She wore a garment resembling a white satin union suit, ornamented with a satin sash. Paul could understand why the picture had gotten Wex arrested. Material like this was sold from underneath a counter.

  Wex tore off a chunk of bread. “Work of art, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, definitely,” Paul lied. He closed the folder. “So that gentleman, Mr. Toots”—he had trouble saying the odd American name—“wanted your payment for the fund?”

  “Yes, and I haven’t got it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Same as I’ve done before. Worked out a trade. It’ll clear my account for six months. The Bath—Alderman Coughlin—wants a new portrait of himself for his family. He’s vain as a peacock. Those three pols who were here before recommended me, so Coughlin’s coming to the studio a week from tomorrow, five o’clock. Get home early that day to meet him. You never know when you’ll need a friend, or a favor, down on the Levee.”

  “Greetings, lad. John Joseph Coughlin’s the name.”

  He crushed Paul’s hand in his big paw. Six feet tall, Coughlin was built like an iron worker. His neck was thick and red, his shoulders broad. His chest and stomach formed a single corpulent curve. He wore his oiled hair in a high thick pompadour. Impressive sideburns reached an inch below his ears. His upswept mustache points glistened. His nails were manicured and polished, and he smelled of talc. He was carrying something flat wrapped in brown paper.

  “Happy to meet you, sir. I’m Paul, Mr. Rooney’s assistant. He’s waiting for you back there, if you’ll come along.”

  Bathhouse John Coughlin was no more than thirty-five, but he had a fearsome reputation. On the way home from a magic lantern lecture about the Great Fire, Nancy Logan had warned him. “Alderman Coughlin runs the gray wolves at City Hall. Hasn’t an honest bone in his body, they say. Don’t let him entice you into a bad way of life, you’re a smart fella. Kind and sweet, too. One of these days you’ll want to carry that other girl home to a little cottage. You be careful.”

  Wex had told Paul that the alderman was proudly, flamboyantly a product of Conley’s Patch, an enclave of Chicago’s poorest Irish. He’d begun his working career as a rubber at a Turkish bath on Clark Street, but he was ambitious and soon moved to the Palmer House, whose baths were famous throughout America.

  He next bought a bathhouse of his own on East Madison, then a second one in the Brevoort Hotel. He still operated those, as well as a saloon called the Silver Dollar; he was a free-silver Democrat.

  But Coughlin’s real business was Chicago—the control of it from City Hall and the dispensing of its municipal favors in return for boodle. He’d been elected to council for the first time in 1892 and overwhelmingly reelected two years later. People who disliked him said he insured his victories with flying squads of thugs who kept opposition voters away from the polls. Wex said that when Coughlin allied himself with saloon keeper Michael Kenna, nick-named Hinky Dink, their control of the First Ward had become unassailable. Although Hinky Dink Kenna was temperamentally different from the Bath, as political operators they were equally shrewd and tough. Hinky Dink had a majority of First Ward election judges in his pocket. He could turn up an unlimited supply of voters bearing names from gravestones. “The Hink brings in his repeaters from as far away as Lake County,” Wex said. “No secret about what he pays, either. Fifty cents a vote, plus all the sausage, bread, cheese, and beer you can swallow.”

  Coughlin dressed like a nob. A nob with debatable taste, but still a nob. To be photographed, he’d chosen a frock coat of shiny black silk with an ostentatious metal star pinned to the lapel. It said Alderman. He complimented his outer coat with a shirt of bright green silk, a sky blue cravat, and an ivory silk vest adorned with yellow flowers. His spats matched the flowers.

  “Here’s Mr. Coughlin, sir,” Paul announced. Wex popped from under the black camera cloth and rushed forward to pump the Bath’s hand.

  “Alderman. What a pleasure. Sit right down. Do you have, any suggestions about the portrait? Any particular pose in mind?”

  Coughlin’s choirboy face grew thoughtful. He pulled out a handkerchief and dusted the corner of a garden bench Wex had spent half an hour positioning in front of three Doric columns. Wex grew red with embarrassment.

  “Nuh-uh,” the alderman said when he finished dusting. “Except I want it to have dignity, it’s for Mary and the wee ones.”

  “Dignity. My feeling precisely. Something completely befitting your station—”

  “That’s the ticket, pal.” Beaming, Coughlin yanked up the tails of his coat and plumped his rear on the bench.

  Wex had donned an ankle-length brown duster for the session. He tripped on it twice, which showed Paul how nervous he was. He ordered Paul to move a reflector two inches to the left, then back to the right one-half inch. This went on for fifteen minutes. After a further delay for polishing the camera lens, and another for adjusting Coughlin’s pose, and another for apologetically taking a comb to a wayward oiled curl on his subject’s head, Wex squeezed the bulb to make the first exposure.

  “We need Rembrandt lighting,” he said after stepping back. “High and from the side.” He was sweating mightily. So was his subject. The Bath gestured in an officious way.

  “Lad, fetch that package lying yonder. Rooney, let’s hang this up on one of these here columns. Some might call it commercial, but what’s wrong with that? Make money, I say. Make money and live long.”

  Paul gave him the parcel. The Bath unwrapped a yellow sign with strong chocolate lettering.

  CLEANLINESS GIVES HEALTH

  HEALTH IS RICHES—HEALTH IS LIFE

  THERE’S HEALTH IN COUGHLIN’S BATHS!

  “Oh, fine, very dignified,” Wex said. Coughlin preened “Dutch! Fetch a hammer and nail.”

  And so it went, an hour and a half of fussing and adjusting, with occasional interruptions to expose a plate. Finally the Bath consulted a huge silver turnip and said he had to go. He pumped the photographer’s hand. “Swell, just swell. We’ll take care of your insurance payment, don’t worry.”

  “That’s wonderful of you, Alderman, thank you.”

  Coughlin peered around the dusty rundown studio “Looks like business could be better.”

  “Yes, sir, very much so.”

  “I’ll pass the word downtown. If the aldermen don’t want pictures of their wives, maybe they’ll send their girlfriends. Call on me anytime you need a favor. That goes for you too, kid. That’s what my job’s all about. Service and prosperity. Prosperity and service.”

  He tipped his hat and blew out of the shop like a prairie cyclone.

  Wex fumed over the prints that came out of the darkroom “These are disgraceful. These are an insult to the profession. Look at that advertisement. ‘Cheap’ isn’t the word. I can’t think of a word bad enough.”

  In one print the Bath’s eyeballs were rolled toward heaven in a saintly way. The sign fairly screamed its message. Paul couldn’t help laughing. Not Wex. “God, the prostitution. If he has a scintilla of taste, he’ll hate these.’

  On his way to work Paul delivered the package of prints to the Silver Dollar saloon. A day later the postman brought a note on parchment notepaper with an elaborately engraved heading.

  HON. J. J. COUGHLIN

  Alderman

  Residence, No. 165 Van Buren Street

  Committees:

  Finance • Health • Wharves & Public Grounds

  Harbors • Viaducts & Bridges

  Streets & Alleys (South)

  The note quickly conveyed the alderman’s reaction.

  Swell pictures!! Washington Park ope
ns up next week. My horse First Ward will run. Be my guests in my box won’t you. Yrs admiringly,

  Coughlin

  The following Monday, Paul asked for Tuesday afternoon off. Albert Grace fiddled with a pencil for a minute to make him nervous. Then he said he’d allow the absence because Paul had proved himself dependable and a hard worker.

  “But your pay will be docked.”

  Washington Park’s grandstands, clubhouse, and landscaped grounds occupied an eighty-acre site at Sixty-first Street and Cottage Grove. Warm sunshine blessed the opening day. Paul and Wex rode the South Side Elevated, trying to stay as far from open windows as they could. The engine burned soft coal and threw off clouds of soot.

  The El let them off near the track entrance, in the midst of a large and festive crowd. Paul wore his gray cord suit and carried a Kodak from the shop. Wex looked flushed and sweaty. Earlier Paul had seen him stuff a roll of bills in his coat. How he came by the cash Paul couldn’t imagine.

  On the crowded esplanade, a young man with blond, center-parted hair tried to press handbills on them. Waving him off with an oath, Wex seemed extraordinarily nervous. Overwrought, almost. No wonder he called horse racing his demon.

  For splendor and spectacle, Washington Park’s opening day could hardly be matched. Chicago’s well-to-do were arriving in huge four-in-hand coaches. Coaching was the rage among the rich, Nancy said, and Paul believed it. He’d never seen so many fine vehicles in one place.

  “Meet you inside,” Wex said, rushing off without explanation. Paul followed the line of gleaming victorias and phaetons and tallyhos through the gates. Plumes bobbed on the blooded horses. Tiny silver bells jingled. Metal and leather had been polished and rubbed to perfection. Well-fed men and women packed the coaches, waving to the less fortunate. The biggest vehicles had benches on top; those too were filled.

  A few gentlemen chose to arrive alone, on thoroughbred horses with docked tails. On winding paths around the clubhouse, the gentlemen made their mounts pace, side-step, kneel to the unwashed who pressed against the railings on each side. Presently the gentlemen seemed to grow bored. They dismounted one by one. Grooms led the animals away to stables.

  Wex came hurrying back with a newspaper sticking from his pocket. “All right, let’s hunt up our host.” Paul fell in step, glancing at the paper. It was devoted to horse racing.

  Located at the front rail of the center grandstand, the Bath’s box was one of the largest and best, with nine chairs and additional room for standing. Other guests were already seated. As Paul and Wex stepped in, Paul noticed several cardboard boxes stacked in one corner.

  The Bath greeted them boisterously. “Glad you boys could make it, hope you brought plenty of cash.” His infectious laugh boomed. He worked Wex’s hand up and down like a pump handle.

  “Handsome outfit you’re wearing, Mr. Alderman,” Wex said after he freed himself.

  “You like this here combination?” The Bath fingered his dove gray lapel. His shirt was pink, his cravat and spats white, his waistcoat dark green with a white check. “I call ’em my racing colors. Come along, meet the gang.”

  The first to be presented was a tiny dour man, five feet tall and about Coughlin’s age. Everything he wore was black except his stiff-bosomed shirt. He chewed an unlit cigar and regarded the newcomers with the chilliest blue eyes Paul had ever seen.

  “This is my associate Mr. Michael Kenna. Hink, meet Wexford Rooney and his helper, Dutch. Forgot your last name, Dutch, sorry. These are a couple of first-class artistes, Hink.”

  “Pleasure,” the dour man said, not shaking hands. He then sat down and ignored them.

  “Over here—” The Bath moved to a tall, powerfully built man. “My pal from Twenty-second Street, Colonel Shadow. Heck, give him his whole due—R. Sidney Shadow the Third. Of the Denver Shadows. Great old pioneer family! Puritan stock from Maine. This man’s a genius, boys. He’s an inventor, a showman—you’re gonna hear plenty from him.”

  Wex said, “I recognize your name, Colonel. You’re in the picture business.”

  With a stately bow, the man offered his hand. “Correct, sir.” The colonel’s voice was a marvelous instrument—stentorian, yet seductive as a preacher’s. “Call me Sid, won’t you? Permit me to introduce my nieces, Miss Waterman and Miss Akers.”

  Two young women curtsied and giggled. One was dressed like an admiral, with a yachting cap, the other like Sherlock Holmes, with a deerstalker. Both wore a lot of scarlet lip rouge.

  People were filling the stands and the landscaped infield. A brass band played. The sky was a fine light blue. Spring breezes fluttered the grandstand flags and the plumes of ladies’ hats, and riffled the silks of the jockeys parading their horses for the start of the first race. “Ooo, Sid, they’re almost ready to go!” Miss Waterman cried. If she and the other “niece” were related to the tall man, Paul was President Cleveland.

  Flushed again, Wex made a darting move toward the gate of the box. “Is there time left to wager?”

  The Bath eyed the horses. “Just—if you hurry. First Ward isn’t up till the third race. In this one I’d lay something on Tinker’s Dam. Keep your bloomers on, girls; that’s d-a-m, it ain’t dirty.” He laughed louder than either of the squealing tarts. Wex bolted from the box.

  “Dutch, how about taking a snap of us?”

  Paul gladly obliged the alderman, first posing Coughlin with his arm around the tarts, then enlarging the group and leaning back over the rear rail to get them all in. Kenna wouldn’t stand up for the photograph. He sat, chewing his cigar and reading his racing form. He was either the shyest man in the world or the most arrogant.

  Wex came back and crowded into the last shot. The horses were in the gate. A bell rang, everyone in the stands jumped up, yelling, and for the next two and a half minutes programs were brandished and kerchiefs waved while sunlight flashed on the lenses of expensive field glasses. A horse named Prince Hal won the race. Tinker’s Dam came in sixth in the field of seven. Wex tore up his tickets.

  Paul was fascinated by Colonel Shadow. If Wex was something of an Irish pixie, Shadow was a granite statue. His features were craggy, his jaw line long and powerful. He dressed in elegant Western style: tooled calf boots, twill trousers, a spring overcoat of smooth black wool melton. His shirt was cadet blue; the pointed ends of his cravat flowed down over the front. His sand-colored sombrero was the match of that worn by Buffalo Bill in his Wild West show. It had a band of russet leather embossed with Indian designs. Altogether, Colonel R. Sidney Shadow the Third was an imposing personage, though quite pale, as though he stayed indoors too much.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Paul said, “do I understand correctly, you are in the picture business?”

  “That’s right, son.”

  “The moving pictures,” Wex said. “The flickers.”

  “The rage of the coming age,” Colonel Shadow intoned. “What’s your name again, sir?”

  “Wexford Rooney. I am a photographer.”

  “Fine! This is your assistant?”

  “Paul Crown, sir. Everyone calls me Dutch.”

  “Dutch. Fine.” They shook. The colonel flipped back his overcoat to reveal a scarlet satin lining. He handed cards to Paul and Wex. The cards bore his name and the words CHICAGO LUXOGRAPH COMPANY, together with an address.

  “I’m proud to say I’m the inventor and holder of the patent on the Luxoscope peep show machine. We’re in five Midwestern states already and expanding at a furious rate. I’m also working on a Luxograph projection system.”

  “Wonderful,” Wex said with a distracted air. “I’d like to hear all about it. But the next race is coming up. Excuse me.”

  He left and Paul took the empty chair beside the colonel. Excited, he said, “I first saw flicker pictures at the Exposition. It was thrilling. Do you really believe such pictures will be shown on large screens someday?”

  “Absolutely. Where do you come from, Dutch? Germany?”

  “Yes, Berlin. But I am a Ch
icagoan now.”

  “Interested in our infant industry, are you?”

  “Very much. I like all kinds of photography. I am studying it with Mr. Rooney. But I’m fascinated most by the moving pictures.” Fascinated. Chicagoan. He hoped Colonel Shadow noticed his effort to use those big words; Paul wanted to impress him.

  “Smart,” the colonel said. “That’s the future. I’m not satisfied with earning pocket change from a film, I want to earn thousands. That’s why we’re rushing to perfect a projector, and a camera to go with it. So keep your eye on us.” His hands framed a banner in the air. “Luxograph Pictures. Big as life—bright as day—and better than Edison’s.”

  Laughing, the Bath said, “The Wizard ain’t gonna like that, Sid. Neither will all the shysters he keeps on the payroll so he don’t get his designs stolen.”

  “My projector will be original, patent-protected,” Shadow said. “Mr. Thomas Alva Edison had better start to realize he can’t have the whole pie to himself.”

  Paul wanted to ask about opportunities in Shadow’s business, then felt a stab of guilt. As if he was betraying Wex just by being interested.

  Bugles announced the next race. Wex rushed into the box with more tickets. “I bet on Evangeline to win.”

  “Hmm, I dunno,” the Bath said. Evangeline finished last.

  Moments after the race was over, two young men walked into the box. Paul had seen one of them before—the blond with his hair parted in the middle. He pulled handbills from the stacked boxes, then tapped his companion on the shoulder.

  Facing away, scanning the crowd, the other young man didn’t turn around immediately. When he did, Paul got a shock. It was the delivery boy who had stolen the Crown china. And, very likely, the roper who’d tried to trap Nancy.

  He looked much more prosperous than he did when he was working for Frankel’s. He wore a derby, high stiff collar, plaid suit, gleaming brown shoes with needle-point toes. His darting eyes showed that he recognized Paul.