One day the Alderman was enjoying a brew at Jimmy Murphy’s crowded Blazing Rag saloon on South Street, just around the corner and down a jog from his home, when an irate man dressed in a very neat checked suit entered looking especially agitated. He went from man to man showing each his piece of paper and inquiring if any of them knew who “John P. Sullivan of the Sullivan Ice Co.” was. They all did, of course, since the Alderman was standing right there, but none betrayed him. The irate man held a check that the bank had turned down. It was November and cold weather was only just arriving. The ice company’s funds were depleted.
“Sullivan always makes good on his checks, sir, eventually,” the man was told at the bank. “But you might have to wait until the ice crop comes to harvest before we can cash that for you.”
The man had inquired around the neighborhood and was told that the Blazing Rag was one of Sullivan’s customary watering holes. He bounced from one Blazing Rag customer to another, asking the same question, until he reached the little red-haired man in the derby hat and cane, wearing the giant orthopedic shoe.
“Say, fella, do you know anything about this man Sullivan? I accepted this here check as payment because I was told it was as good as gold, but the bank refuses to cash it. I need to find this scoundrel! Do you know anything about him? What he looks like?”
“Well,” said the Alderman, stroking his chin as he displayed a far-off thoughtful look, “He’s a damned good looking man, I’ll promise you that much! Quite charming they say, and just about my height. And he walks something like this.”
And with that, Hop Sullivan turned and made his way out the door with the characteristic gait that provided his nickname, his limp an accompaniment since his younger days. The entire Blazing Rag erupted in laughter.
The irate man looked puzzled for a moment, and then his eyes widened to saucers. “Was that him?” he asked of no one in particular to even greater laughter, and quickly pursued the Alderman out the door.
“Sullivan! Hey! Is this you? Is this your check?”
The Alderman stopped and turned on his cane, and when the man caught up with him the jokester accepted and examined the note, holding it up to the light, squinting his eyes, inspecting both sides repeatedly. Then he said, “Well, by gosh, I do believe that is my signature! I’ll be damned!”
“So, what are you gonna do about it? I accepted this check because I was told it was as good as gold! But the bank won’t even cash it!” shouted the frustrated creditor.
“Well, not gold perhaps, my friend,” said the Alderman, “but silver, certainly.”
And with that the Alderman took out his change purse and counted out three and a half silver dollars, despite the personal agony that such an act visited upon the infamous tightwad.
The man accepted his silver and grumbled, “Now, there’s a fine how’d you do!” and stormed off toward Elk Street in a huff.
May 16. 1900
Fingy Conners’ luxury yacht Enquirer steamed westward through Lake Erie’s calm waters. Upon his most recent return from Montréal by rail, he immediately set sail for Chicago to confer with his partners in his ambitious Montréal project.
The Commodore, as he insisted he be addressed, was served a whiskey in his stateroom by his chief steward, along with toasted crumpets slightly burned—as was his preference—and spread thickly with creamery butter and loganberry preserves. His ever-present cigar stump never left his mouth. He was able to sip his whiskey and even to some extent munch his crumpets with the soggy butt still somehow firmly embedded in his lips.
He held the glass to his eye and looked through the ruby red glass rim, with its beautifully scrolled “Yacht Enquirer of Buffalo” proudly emblazoned on it. He looked around the elegant suite, just to see how it would appear if he should decide someday on a whim to have it all redone in red. The bottom half of the tumbler was of the finest deep-cut crystal, providing a firm grip on rocky seas for tipsy drinkers.
His intention this particular trip was to use the opening of his newest offices in Chicago on River Street as a pulpit to preach his latest plan to the newspapers, and thereby scare the shit out of everybody in Buffalo, and those well beyond.
The Enquirer was a fabulous vessel by anyone’s standards, but Fingy was especially proud of the validation provided by the framed clipping hung in the salon for all to see, cut from the Mariners’ Report magazine.
The article pictured gathered together the top ten luxury yachts in the United States, and there among the giant private craft owned by the Astors, the Vanderbilts, J.P. Morgan and the like, was William J. Conners’ spectacular Enquirer, the noble photo having been snapped by Mr. George Hare.
Conners had first met Hare at the launching of his ship on June 14, 1896. Hare was present to photograph the festivities for the Buffalo Express for its Illustrated Sunday edition. As the ship careened down the launch and slid into the water at the Union Dry Dock Company’s slip, Hare’s two cameras recorded the spectacular sight. Once it had hit the water with a tremendous slap, propelling an explosion of spray going as high as her smokestack, the gorgeous ship righted herself and sat the water like a duck.
Fingy had used a rare bottle of Veuve Clicquot Champagne to christen the $75,000 ship, as sad thirsty eyes watched the exotic bubbly drain wasted into the filthy harbor waters. The Enquirer’s hull was of steel construct, the decks of white pine with deck trimmings of brass. The hull was painted white from head to stern, giving the ship its nickname, The White Flyer. Her length measured 144 ft.; the water line measurement 123 feet; 17 1/2 ft. beam and 10 ft. hold. She was fitted with a triple expansion Hodge engine with cylinders 10 1/2, 17, and 23 by 16. The electrical apparatus was of the very latest pattern. The dynamos were automatic, and anywhere from a single light up to four hundred could be lighted or extinguished at will. The search light was of 7,500 candlepower, and the rigging gaily dressed with 200 colored globes of electric luminescence. The yacht was of 140 tons burden. She boasted a Taylor water tube boiler and the contract with the builders called for a speed of 18 miles an hour, but the Enquirer would prove to significantly exceed that rate.
The exposed woodwork of the boat was of solid mahogany and the interior of curly birch with the exception of Fingy’s private stateroom which was paneled in bird’s eye maple.
Conners had recently purchased a spectacular Captain’s bed from one of the early luxury steamers being dismantled in New York that had plied the lakes, a ship he himself had once served aboard as a boy. He remembered being jaw-dropped upon first seeing the bed as a thirteen-year-old. He had carried a tray up from the galley to the ship’s Captain, a man who especially disliked Fingy, attesting to the keenly intuitive sort he was, much experienced in encounters with scoundrels of all sizes and ages.
The Captain’s bed was a spectacular creation, a four-poster mahogany carved fantasy swirling with mermaids, dolphins, starfish and octopi, topped supremely at the crown of its headboard by a beautifully turned figurehead of the god Neptune, brandishing a 14 carat gold trident. Fingy had never seen anything like it, the mattress piled high with goose down pillows and snowy linens and topped with an alpaca blanket dyed the precise color of the Lake Huron depths that had swallowed his severed thumb.
He dreamed of that bed nightly as he struggled to fall asleep on his hard shelf bunk fitted deep within the ship’s fetid hold, fantasizing of someday being able to rock gently off to dreamland snuggled in precisely the sort of luxury that his Captain enjoyed. And now here he was. He’d located the Captain’s bed and purchased it for a song, and every night before he closed his eyes he looked up at the watchful presence of the great King Neptune gazing down upon him and whispered, “Keep us safe, yer Majesty.”
On its maiden voyage to the Metropolis Of The West, the Enquirer had carried Fingy Conners and all his friends, including William Randolph Hearst, to the Democratic National Convention of 1896, for which Conners served as delegate from the Great State of New York. Captain Sam Golden guided the ship to Chicag
o through lake waters he knew at least as well as the back of his own hand.
But presently, this particular voyage had its own specific purpose.
Waiting to disembark, Fingy looked out and chuckled to himself as the Enquirer tied up amid the maneuvering of a gaggle of news reporters awaiting him on the Chicago docks.
He disembarked to hold court.
“Sir, Mr. Conners, can you tell us about the contract you’ve signed with the Montréal people?” queried one newsman.
Fingy replied, “Certainly. I have the support of all the large grain interests of Chicago and Duluth. The Montréal route will afford an all-water way to the sea, which can compete with the railroads because of its cheapness. Montréal is 300 miles nearer Liverpool than is New York, a decided advantage. Besides the three elevators at Montréal, we expect to build an elevator of 1,500,000 bushels at Port Colburn, Ontario, sixteen miles from Buffalo. Through-grain going to Montréal in large cargoes will be broken there.”
“Are you starting a war with the railroads, the city of Buffalo, or both, Mr. Conners?” another reporter asked.
William J. Conners smiled broadly at the delicious thought.
“During the season just ended, boys, only a little more than 11,000,000 bushels of the vast amount of grain which came to Buffalo from the West by lake and rail was shipped east through the Erie Canal. The great bulk of it rather went by rail. The water route to Montréal will be much cheaper than any rail route, and the end result is that bread for your family will cost you less. Yes, you heard that right. Less. No, son, we’re not trying to kill the railroads. We’re just engaging in a little friendly competition, that’s all. It’s the American way, is it not? May the best man win.”
The Chicago Tribune editorialized the following day:
It may be that the labor troubles which Mr. Conners was involved in last season may prove a roorback, sort of a boomerang to the people, especially the grain scoopers and their leaders who tried to down W.J. by all means in their power. Looking at it from this end of the line it is easily seen that every extra bushel that goes through the Canadian Welland Canal will be so much less for the Buffalo scoopers to handle. Mr. Conners seems to be a fighter and one that will hit back harder than his best opponent every time. Besides, he has the influence and wherewithal to do it.
Chicago’s Tribune apparently failed to realize that Conners’ power and influence was not entirely without limits. Fingy Conners was as yet unaware that Willie Van Horne and Prime Minister Laurier had pounded the final nail into the coffin of his grand Canadian endeavor. And with the appearance of a bicycle messenger from Western Union at the front door of No. 12 Hamburg Street, bearing an urgent telegram from Ottawa, Alderman John P. Sullivan was granted his wish as expressed to Willie Van Horne.
JP would have the honor of being the tidings-bearer.
The Banquet
The great banquet was set for the Iroquois Hotel.
JP was starving, newly energized by the excitement of what was to come. He picked up the handsome eight-page banquet program, the cover beautifully printed by Fingy Conners’ own Courier Litho Press, a full color reproduction of the stunning poster by Evelyn Rumsey Cary chosen as the official image of the Pan American Exposition.
JP opened it, and immediately his stomach began to growl.
MENU
Massachusetts Bays
Celery
Old Amorosa
Green Turtle Americaine
Kennebec Salmon, Hollandaise
Cucumbers Potatoes, Parisienne
Varies Varies
Liebfraumilch
P.A. Mumm & Co.
Filet of Beef Pique, Fresh Mushrooms
Green Peppers Farcie String Beans
Pontet Canet
Vol-au-Vent of Chicken, a la Reine
Gem Peas
Moët & Chandon
White Seal
Sorbet Iroquois
Quail Sur Canape aux Cresson
Lettuce and Tomatoes Mayonnaise
Vanilla Ice Cream
Jelly Macedoine
Assorted Cakes Bonbons
Fruit
Fromage de Brie and Roquefort
Amid the hubbub and distraction of men who had gathered to celebrate themselves, the Alderman withdrew the telegram from his breast pocket. He opened it just for as long as it took to quickly reread the soothing words that would change everything. Then he tucked it back into his coat and took another sip of his Moët & Chandon. The brilliant news had come from Willie Van Horne that very morning. The Canadians would build the Montréal grain elevators themselves with no interference whatsoever from Fingy Conners. The only person with whom JP had shared the splendid news was the Mayor.
Conners’ grand plan was now just so much rubble, but he hadn’t a clue.
A pall was cast as Fingy stalked into the Iroquois’ banquet room, his disposition overconfident and overbearing.
As the director of numerous commercial enterprises, all of which performed better under his leadership than they ever had before he came crashing into the picture, his untarnished record of achievement spoke for itself. The malevolent sneer and primitive wharf rat aspect of the man were invariably present. Threat was always implied behind his suspicious smile. Slippery as butter when it came to having to atone for two decades of criminal malfeasance, imminent violence was a foreshadowed implication in his every steely glower and reticent handshake. Each man who encountered Conners had the deeply disturbing feeling at the initial locking of eyes that they were being probed and analyzed for future benefit or misuse.
JP observed that there were two kinds of individuals in the room; those who gravitated to Conners out of owing him or needing him for something, and those who were repelled by his mere presence whether for moral or social reasons. The latter did their utmost to avoid him. It was always an uncomfortable situation, encountering Fingy, which was exactly what Conners intended. But having to work with the man, confer and plan and allow his opinions and influence to pollute a splendid enterprise like the Pan American Exposition was too much for many of those present. They had worked tirelessly for two years, and now there hovered Fingy like some underwater mine, lurking, threatening, relishing an opportunity for destruction, anticipating sending the entire fleet to the bottom.
Fingy made it clear that Mayor Diehl was dead to him. And in recent times he barely paid any notice to the Alderman’s existence either. When JP caught Conners’ eye, Fingy quickly looked away. Eventually, the signal was sounded for the attendees to take their seats. The feast was served and gobbled and champagne and wine heartily enjoyed, and before the alcohol could finish its fine work on the crowd entirely, JP rose to speak.
As chief toastmaster, the Alderman would be making the welcoming remarks. Mayor Diehl, recalling now the fantasized scenario of publicly humiliating Fingy Conners that he himself had conjured during their meeting with Willie Van Horne at Niagara, suddenly gulped, realizing that it might well be just like the jokester of the City Hall to pick up the ball and run with it. Suddenly uncomfortable, the Mayor began to sweat a little.
JP had indeed been energized by the Mayor’s humorous scenario that day at Niagara. The look on his face as he rose to speak was that of impending triumph.
“Mayor Diehl. Exposition President Milburn. Director Scatcherd. Gentlemen,” he began. “I am honored and humbled to be able to speak here tonight in your esteemed presence, the most influential, forward-looking and hard-working of Buffalo men, responsible for bringing to fruition the grand idea of the great Pan American Exposition of nineteen hundred and one.
“When as President of the Common Council of this great city I offered the resolution directing the Corporation Counsel to draft a special act giving Mayor Diehl power to appoint a Provisional Committee to attend at the birth of this spectacular new enterprise, I had great hopes for the success of the venture. But not in my wildest dreams did I entertain the idea that we might have an opportunity to match, or might I even be so bo
ld as to project, exceed the astonishing success of the Chicago Fair of 1893.
“Tonight we have as our honored guest, I am pleased to say, the venerable Mr. Daniel Burnham, the chief architect and visionary of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, the Chicago Fair’s exquisite White City.”
Applause and excited chatter greeted the architect’s introduction. Burnham looked pleased with the ovation, and the Alderman continued.
“It was Mr. Burnham who conceived and built the most celebrated architectural jewel in our own beloved metropolis, Buffalo’s Ellicott Square Building, which grandly occupies an entire city block just two streets away from where we are now seated. It is celebrated as the largest office building in the entire world. Fully occupied from the very day of its grand opening, within Mr. Burnham’s breathtaking masterpiece, Mr. Thomas Edison set up his Edisonia Vitascope Theater, the first theater in the world exclusively dedicated to exhibiting the new moving pictures.
“Indeed, once Mr. Burnham agreed to honor us tonight with his presence, we conceived the idea of moving the site of this great feast to the heart of his masterpiece, to the Ellicott Building’s grand interior courtyard, beneath that great sky-lighted glass roof. But alas, the banquet plans were already too far along, and the idea proved impossible to carry out within the limited time left us. Nonetheless, we are complimented just to be in the company of this imaginative and accomplished artist. Gentlemen, please join me in welcoming here tonight the esteemed genius, Mr. Daniel H. Burnham of Chicago.”
Fingy Conners & The New Century Page 15