Once Upon a Time in New York

by Herbert Mitgang

  Governor Smith believed he had exerted himself sufficiently in leading the fight to shelve Red Mike Hylan; he did not openly push for Walker as the next possible replacement. The selection of Jimmy Walker to run for the nomination against Mayor Hylan was made by George Olvany, Tammany’s new chieftain. Olvany had come to power with a comparatively clean reputation. He was an Al Smith man, and nobody had ever found the governor guilty of financial shenanigans.

  Walker won the nomination by a substantial majority. His Republican-Fusion opponent in the 1925 election was Frank D. Waterman, the fountain-pen manufacturer, who conducted a “Say It with Shovels” campaign to remind voters that he had forced the Hylan administration to begin subway construction. His supporters wore little brass shovels in their lapels. Although an unexciting candidate, Waterman did argue that the subway system would become politicized if Walker became mayor.

  “Municipal operation would mean that every subway employee from general manager to watchman would be selected on grounds of political pull,” Waterman predicted, not without reason. “Tammany control of our subways would mean Tammany free to give, without competition, contracts for cars, contracts for steel rails, contracts for equipment, contracts for all kinds of favored Tammany contractors.”

  Waterman’s prediction came true. In the field of public transportation, Walker’s business friends received contracts without bidding.

  Speaking in the Great Hall of the Wigwam, Walker—without blushing—praised Tammany as “the home of an organization which has done more to fight the fight of the City of New York than any political organization that you or I have ever heard of. Nearly all the humane measures that have been written in the statute books of the State in recent years emanated from this building.”

  At the same time that Walker boasted of his achievements as a state legislator, he felt the need to explain his way of life:

  “I am ready to admit that I would rather laugh than cry. I like the company of my fellow human beings. I like the theatre and am devoted to healthy outdoor sports. Because I like these things, I have reflected my attitude in some of the legislation I have sponsored—2.75 percent beer, Sunday baseball, Sunday movies, and legalized boxing. [Beer sales and sports and entertainment had been banned under Sunday blue laws.] But let me allay any fear there may be that, because I believe in personal liberty, wholesome amusement and healthy professional sport, I will countenance for a moment any indecency or vice in New York.”

  Although Walker had abandoned his songwriting dreams, Tin Pan Alley continued to cherish him as one of its own. Irving Berlin, a close friend, took time out from his highly successful career as a businessman with his own sheet-music and recording company to write a campaign song:

  It’s a “walk-in” with Walker

  It’s a “walk-in” with Jim

  He’s a corker—and one of the mob

  A real New Yorker—who’s fit for the job.

  Norman Thomas, the Socialist party stalwart, who was a candidate himself, raised the most courageous voice against Jimmy Walker. Thomas was in the tradition of such third-party and populist candidates in American history as Theodore Roosevelt (Progressive), Robert La Follette (Progressive) and Eugene V. Debs (Socialist). Beginning with his opposition to Alfred E. Smith and Herbert Hoover in 1928, Thomas would run for president on the Socialist ticket in the next five elections. He was the man to vote for if you didn’t like either the Democratic or the Republican candidate.

  With remarkable prescience, Thomas declared, “It is quite true that we have not shared any great enthusiasm for Mayor Hylan. We have felt that his devotion to the people, while honest enough, has been lacking in reason and understanding. But never for one instant have we shared the delusion that the people will be better off under Jimmy Walker than Mayor Hylan. The man whom Broadway calls ‘our Jimmy’ may be too clever to let the city slide back to the naked, roaring vice of the days of Boss [Richard] Croker, but there isn’t anyone who does not know that under Walker the underworld of New York will flourish as it never flourished under Hylan. There isn’t anyone who does not know that the transit interests and a lot of others will rejoice in Walker’s victory.”

  But The New York Times, which simultaneously called itself both Independent and Democratic, regarded State Senator James J. Walker as a progressive:

  “Among the legislation he has sponsored was a bill to unmask the Ku Klux Klan by compelling publication of its membership roll. He has also been the sponsor of legislation providing for a liberalization of the Prohibition Law. During the administrations of Governor Smith subsequent to 1922, he made a brilliant fight for the Governor’s legislative program, succeeding in 100 percent performance while the Senate remained Democratic.”

  On election day, Walker defeated Waterman by a plurality of 400,000 votes. All the warring elements of the Democratic party had rallied behind him. He was indeed the people’s choice.

  No mayor of New York took office under more favorable auspices. The primary election had shown that the public was weary of Mayor Hylan and the quarreling that had marked the meetings of the Board of Estimate.

  One of Mayor Walker’s first acts was to adopt a comprehensive system of subway routes. The Board of Transportation began to let contracts for one of the largest engineering undertakings in municipal history—the construction of $700 million worth of underground transportation.

  Mayor Walker announced that he favored a citywide system of bus operation, and he induced the Board of Estimate to award a monopolistic franchise to the Equitable Coach Company. Subsequently, Walker’s dealings with his friends at Equitable became the basis of one of the most damaging charges against him during the citywide investigations.

  Two major administrative accomplishments took place during Mayor Walker’s initial term in office. The first was the consolidation of all the city’s public hospitals. Dr. William Schroeder Jr., the new commissioner of hospitals, was the mayor’s close friend and personal physician. The second was the creation of a department of sanitation. Dr. Schroeder also headed the sanitation commission. In both jobs, his deputies were Tammany appointments. This arrangement came under sharp criticism from professionals in both departments.

  The Walker administration made large appropriations for parks and playgrounds and materially improved the park system. Here was a side of Walker that belied his reputation for inactivity and showed that he could reach out to people living in the far corners of all five boroughs.

  “I can never forget that Jimmy Walker gave us the city water-supply easements in Nassau County which became the backbone of the Long Island State Park system and the means of access to Jones Beach and the finest oceanfront park in the world,” Robert Moses later declared. Then, in one of his flights of fancy that said as much about his own amour-propre as about Walker’s, Moses added, “Jimmy was the extrovert, the spontaneous eccentric, the sidewalk favorite, the beloved clown, the idol of those who seek companionship and mercy above and beyond justice.”

  Actually, more credit for the establishment of Jones Beach could be given to Governor Smith, who promoted the idea of an oceanfront park area for city dwellers who wanted to avoid the Coney Island crowds and tinsel. The wealthy residents of Long Island opposed the acquisition of the land. A member of the Old Guard with a large estate complained, “Where are we going to find a place to live, with all this rabble coming in?”

  “What rabble?” Smith riposted. “I’m the rabble.”

  Mayor Walker’s accomplishments were achieved at a price. During his first term, Tammany Hall kept its hammerlock on certain administrative and appointive positions in the city government. The boroughs were divided into lucrative enclaves, each ruled by local club leaders who were allowed to get a piece of the action as long as they shared the wealth with the higher-ups in the Hall.

  He had his basic salary increased by subservient city legislators from $25,000 to $40,000 a year (plus such perks as his chauffeured limousine). Eighty-five district leaders received salar
ies of more than $7,000 a year for no-show sinecures with fancy titles—county clerk, register, sheriff and deputy sheriff, city marshal—that often included under-the-table payments from businessmen.

  Those below the leadership ranks had to content themselves with what they could get by extortion, from fixing traffic tickets to arranging for judicial “contracts” and departmental licenses. If there was an indictment to be quashed—whether it was a simple charge of breaking and entering by a neighborhood youth, or a storekeeper’s violation of fire and safety laws—the normal place to appeal was the local Democratic clubhouse. There ambitious young lawyers loyally gave free legal aid, under the watchful eye of the district leader, in the hope of gaining a place of their own at the public teat.

  In the spoils system that Jimmy Walker inherited but could hardly be blamed for initiating, political advancement worked like a farm team in big-league baseball. An adept lawyer (in those days law clerks earned between $5 and $25 a week) might go from the bush leagues as an assistant district attorney or law secretary to a seat in the legislature as a city councilman, state assemblyman, or state senator. From there the next step was the bench, as a magistrate, municipal court judge, criminal court judge, or state Supreme Court judge. Like Surrogate Foley’s job, judgeships were often the best sinecures in the system. A surrogate had the power to name law guardians and referees to administer estates. These estates often paid large fees.

  To achieve such an appointment or a place on the ballot, one gave a sizable contribution to the “club.” Sometimes it was legitimate—a payment to help defray the cost of a political campaign; sometimes it was not—a contribution for which there was no accounting. Some officials and appointees paid outright bribes, and Republicans as well as Democrats were involved. Payments were made in crisp, undeclared currency, in amounts roughly equal to the first year’s salary on the bench. The usual cost of a magistrate’s job was $10,000; for a criminal court or Supreme Court judge, $25,000.

  “The political history of our organization,” Walker said glibly, “shows that the successful leaders of Tammany Hall, such as Charles Murphy, John Kelly and Richard Croker, were district leaders. There is nothing too big for a Tammany leader that democracy can give. They are the outstanding benefactors of this town.”

  Hypocritical as it sounded, Walker, a Tammany beneficiary like his father before him, may well have believed what he was saying. To be sure, he omitted the name of Boss Tweed from his list of so-called Tammany benefactors.

  At the beginning of Walker’s tenure in office, Tammany’s Sachems temporarily loosened their reins. Boss Murphy had a certain dignity; his leaders always addressed him as “Mr. Murphy.” He also had a businesslike reticence; it was said of Murphy that even on the Fourth of July he refused to open his mouth to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” for fear of committing himself.

  Jimmy Walker admired Charlie Murphy because he had a certain way of operating behind the scenes that gained him the respect of his Democratic party associates. They cited the fact that when Red Mike Hylan, then a Brooklyn county judge, was being considered as a candidate for mayor, Murphy asked John McCooey, Tammany’s Brooklyn chieftain, “Is Hylan a man we can trust and do business with?” McCooey replied, “He certainly is—do you want to meet him?” Murphy said, “No, but I want you to ram him down my throat.” Thereafter, Democratic clubs in Brooklyn attested to Judge Hylan’s independence, resolutions were passed, and Boss Murphy bowed to the public clamor and accepted him as candidate for the good of the party.

  Eventually, when Governor Al Smith persuaded the bosses that Hylan did not have the mental equipment for the mayor’s job, a deal was struck to prevent him from running as an independent candidate. Hylan announced his retirement and promised to support Tammany’s choice. A few years later, the payoff came when Mayor Walker appointed Hylan a judge of the Children’s Court in Queens. Walker did get the last word, however. When Alva Johnston, one of New York’s astute reporters, asked the mayor why he had appointed a man who had impugned his character, Walker replied: “The appointment of Judge Hylan means that the children can now be judged by one of their peers.”

  With a mixture of affection and sarcasm, Jimmy Walker’s newspaper drinking pals called him the Night Mayor of New York. He wasn’t offended by the title, laughing it off in the presence of his friends and accusers. Only half in jest, he frequently referred to his assistant, Charles F. Kerrigan, as the Day Mayor.

  During the daylight hours, Mayor Walker did manage to keep busy as a toastmaster and off-the-cuff speaker, especially on the steps of City Hall and in ticker-tape parades. He was at his best greeting dignitaries, foreign and domestic. The public festivities gave him an excuse to get all dressed up in his cutaway, striped trousers, and four-button spats. The task of striking up the ceremonial municipal bands helped get Walker out of the office, into the streets, and onto the front pages of the tabloids.

  “What a wonderful sight it was, when the weather was right and the happy, cheering crowds turned out to see great statesmen and returning heroes,” recalled Grover Whalen, praising the mayor as a host for the high and mighty. “After meeting a ship from Europe after it docked on the Hudson River, we rode our royalties through the canyons of downtown Manhattan to City Hall, that graceful gem of a building, contrasting so happily with the surrounding skyscrapers, to be greeted by the smiling, personable Jimmy Walker.”

  Among those who received the full Walker treatment (at considerable expense to the city, especially for police and sanitation department overtime) were Queen Marie of Rumania, Crown Prince Gustavus Adolphus and Princess Louise of Sweden, Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald of England, Charles A. Lindbergh for flying the Atlantic solo, and Gertrude Ederle for swimming the English Channel.

  In honor of the visit Queen Marie paid before she went on a national tour with her children, Mayor Walker decided to present her with a hand-illuminated scroll and a special medal from the City of New York. Standing on the steps of City Hall, he was about to pin the medal on her coat, somewhere in the vicinity of her ample bosom, when he hesitated for a moment.

  “Your Majesty, I’ve never stuck a Queen, and I hesitate to do so now.”

  “Proceed, Your Honor,” she replied graciously. “The risk is mine.”

  “And such a beautiful risk it is, Your Majesty,” said Jimmy Walker gallantly.

  Even though Jimmy Walker’s own crown was lopsided, City Hall offered him a throne room and palace. He could be depended upon to put on a royal performance for his constituents. With his quick-witted comebacks and nocturnal wanderings, there was little question that Jimmy Walker cherished the life that only New York offered.

  The same could not be said for the average citizen. Cronyism, payoffs, and corruption were costly to any man or woman—whether a shopkeeper or a home builder—doing business with the city. The financial fun and games enriched Tammany’s minions and the Hall, at the expense of the public.

  Certainly the Empire City had its bright side—an endless carnival of attractions and kaleidoscope of opportunities in almost every field. In later years, the essayist E. B. White expressed those feelings about the city’s meaning with unmatched eloquence: “New York is to the nation what the white church spire is to the village—the visible symbol of aspiration and faith, the white plume saying the way is up.”

  But Jimmy Walker’s way was destined to take a different, crooked turn.

  FIVE

  Lullaby of Broadway

  Mayor James J. Walker attained the height of his fame, if not his power, during the giddy Jazz Age of the 1920s. For a while it appeared that squabbles between the Goo-Goos and Tammany, between Democrats and Republicans, would fade under the bright lights of the pre-Depression years. It was a time that Westbrook Pegler, a misanthropic Hearst columnist who constantly ranted against Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, called the Era of Wonderful Nonsense. So it was, for the fortunate ones.

  The mayor was idolized; even his critics considered him merely a charming
rogue. People enjoyed watching him dip into the Fountain of Youth fully clothed, like the reckless Scott Fitzgeralds cavorting in front of the Plaza Hotel. The under-the-table money that Walker obtained from the corporate corrupters was not really aimed at building up his personal bank account but, rather, at helping him travel through life in first class. He literally did so during his frequent crossings to Europe on bubbly transatlantic liners while singing the glories of the city of New York—“the renowned and ancient city of Gotham,” in Washington Irving’s romantic vision, which Walker seemed to follow.

  The times were celebrated in a song written by Jack Yellen, with music by Milton Ager, that went:

  Happy days are here again,

  The skies above are clear again,

  Let us sing a song of cheer again,

  Happy days are here again!

  The tune enlivened national conventions and would become the campaign song of Governor Roosevelt and future Democratic presidents.

  Eventually, the economic boom that began after the First World War began to run out of steam. Yet even when prosperity failed to appear just around the corner, Mayor Walker continued to trip the light fantastic. “He wore New York in his lapel like a boutonniere,” wrote one of his newspaper friends. By personal example, Walker offered the citizenry a form of entertainment. He tended to follow his heart more often than his head, and his heart beat to the music of Broadway. In Shakespeare’s genteel phrase, Jimmy liked to tread “the primrose path of dalliance.”

  Dalliance became personified, for the mayor, in the shape of a gorgeous brunette who sang and danced in Broadway musicals. Originally from the Isle of Wight, Betty Compton arrived in Canada with her ambitious stage mother, Mrs. Florence Hailing Compton—Jimmy affectionately nicknamed her the Duchess—after studying singing and winning a beauty contest in Toronto. Inevitably, mother and daughter set their sights on the splendors of Broadway. Season after season in those years, hundreds of dramas, comedies, and musicals appeared on the New York boards.