by Ward Just
Charles turned away and moved up the iron stairs. The others were due any moment. He hurried through the circulation department on the second floor and through the rabbit warren of desks that comprised display advertising. His and Mitch’s and Tony’s offices were on the third floor. His father had the small corner office and Tony had the office next door. Mitch was down the hall, Charles’s office was the largest of the four, but it faced an alley and a blank wall. This office by rights should have been Amos’s but the old man preferred the corner—where he could watch the street and talk undisturbed. His office was approached through Tony’s, Tony acting as gatekeeper. At five o’clock no one was visible on the third floor. But Charles’s secretary was there, as she promised she would be. He asked her to go to the tavern across the street and buy a bottle of Scotch and one of bourbon and a bag of ice, and borrow half a dozen glasses. He handed her twenty dollars and she left the building.
When she returned, Townsend and Bill Eurich were there. She put the bottles and the glasses on her own desk and the bag of ice in the wastebasket. Then she said good night and left.
Charles told the others to help themselves. He’d have a weak Scotch. Eurich prepared it, using a heavy hand as always. Waiting for the others, he and Townsend were talking politics. Townsend was lamenting Tafts death and Enrich was nodding. Then Townsend asked Eurich what he did and the younger man began an explanation, He was a lawyer but he did not litigate. “What I do is try to get people together. To man owns an option on some land somewhere. Another man has got a piece of a construction company. Someone else has got a connection in Madison or Indianapolis or Springfield. Or Washington. And the fourth man has all idea. He knows where a highway’s going or a military base. A public building. To housing development, shopping center. These fellas come to us and we put them together and take a broker’s fee ...” Townsend listened, his face betraying nothing.
Charles sat heavily in his own chair. Eurich was explaining to Townsend how it worked. A lawyer was indispensable because only a lawyer could understand the regulations and write a contract to conform to them ...
Charles thought that Bill Eurich—“Irish” to his friends, “Bill” to his acquaintances—could convince Townsend if anyone could. They’d met a year before and made it a point now to lunch every six weeks. It was Bill Eurich’s opinion that Dement was on the edge of a boom, but needed a push. Get in early, he said, and you control it yourself. Get in late and you’ve lost control. He described a project near the Indiana line. It had all been done locally. They forced the city council to annex the land and finance a new sewer line. All local: local builders, local at-tourneys; local real-estate outfit was given an exclusive rental contract. Of course as a matter of courtesy they’d cut in one of the Chicago firms that happened to have a connection to one of the big retailers. The work was spread around, everyone was happy; everyone benefited. Most important of all, the financing was handled by the largest of the two local banks, in association with Eurich’s bank in the city. Part of that was federally guaranteed so the risk was minimal and the return on investment a sure thing (as much as anything was a sure thing). They’d only deal with top people; there was no room for fly-by- nights or heisters in operations like this one. The thing was, Irish said, you got everyone in tight. Each guy depended on his partner. He’d laughed then. “My friend, it’s like the buddy system in the army. You ever been in combat? You watch out for your buddy and your buddy watches out for you. You see a guy not holding up his end, you tall to him. Makes for efficiency, you bet.”
This was a month ago, and they were having drinks at the Chicago Athletic Club. Irish had flown in from Madison. Charles said, “Irish, it sounds dandy. But what bends?”
And Irish had laughed loudly, and signaled the barman for another round. “That’s the point,” he said. “Nothing bends. Nothing has to bend. No bend in the law, no juice for the local pots. Oh, there’s chicken feed here and there but nothing out of line. The point is, you go into a town where there’s some control already. Where you can put a few guys in a room and make decisions and have those decisions stick. Where the territory’s been staked out, you understand? The particular hook to this—” He took a long swallow and smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret because I like you.” He laughed again. “And because you’ll figure it out anyway. The catch is that there aren’t half a dozen guys in our three states who know how to put these deals together. They haven’t begun to understand the new connections between the towns and the counties and the state and the federals. The war changed it, at least that’s what I believe happened. And it’s still too early to see where it’ll lead but whatever it is the federals’ll be at the head of the parade. And it’s guys your age and mine that understand this. Take this town. They think you lay some moola on a precinct committeeman, get a curb cut, talk to the assessor, and that’s the end of it.” He shook his head in sympathy with those out of step with the times. “Hell, that’s just the beginning. Before you get into any of that you’ve got your tax lawyer in place, your bank, and whatever politicians you need. You have your group and each guy is responsible for his own sector. Now the other thing is obvious when you think about it and these other guys are getting smarter all the time and they’ll see it, too. You’ll see deals all over the place in the Loop. And that will be great, and a lot of guys will get rich, but they still haven’t discovered the underlying principle. They want to control the buildings. And those aren’t what’s going to be important. What’s going to be important is the land. Control the land and sell the buildings; or control the land and lease the buildings. That’s where the money’s going to be made for the next—hell, pick a number. Thirty forty years; long enough anyway. It’s a very simple law of economics. There’s going to be more of everything, more goods, more services, more money, more people.” He looked around the room, smiling slightly; then, confidentially, as if he were sharing military secrets, he extended his fist and began to tick off statistics on his fingers. He spoke of population trends, bank deposits, estimates of industrial growth north and west, estimates of capital investment, probable trends in transportation and land use. And the gradual expansion of government services, state and federal. These were precise, often a number and a decimal point, and each fact was related to the others and all of them spelled growth. “There’s going to be more of everything except land, and there’s going to be less of land. Land: that’s the goose and the golden eggs. Control it and you control the growth. Five guys in a room can shape an entire town. Own it, for the matter of that. And it goes like dominoes, or did near the Indiana line. You have a shopping center. Next you throw up a housing development convenient to it. Then you sell some land for an industrial park convenient to that. Click, click, click. Gas stations, restaurants, an outdoor movie, an office building. In three or four years you’re going to see money come out of Washington like the Johnstown Flood. And the government is friendly, for a change. This government is going to see that the businessman gets his fair share. And let me tell you something else, friend. The boom, when it comes, isn’t going to happen here”—he gestures out the window, in the direction of the Outer Drive—“because this place is going to be black as the ace of spades in twenty years. A dying asset. No, it’s going to be out there on the periphery. Everything is, Charlie. The periphery.” He drew the word out, parry-furry. “It’s not at the center anymore but the edges. That’s where the opportunity is. The center is a mine that’s played out because we’ve been digging at it too long. The smart guy tomorrow is the guy who runs his business like they run the government. Borrow on your assets and expand. It’s like printing money.” He was silent for a moment, brooding, then went on in a low voice. “Nothing’s going to be done the way you’re used to doing it or I’m used to doing it. You’ve got to watch the government with a hawk’s eye because that’s where it all is. Watch the edges, they’re always in shadows. The periphery. The thing I like about your town, and the thing my partners like about your town and the reas
on we’re spending time and energy on this project, is that it’s under control. It’s like an old-fashioned family, close-knit. Everyone knows who’s in charge, you don’t have to go to the Supreme Court to get a sewer line extended or a few hundred acres annexed to the town in. order to get the fire and police and thereby knock down the insurance rates—” He paused to draw breath. “Guys like to be under the umbrella of a close-knit town. Where the people are friendly.”
Irish had continued in a blizzard of facts and figures in the quiet bar of the Chicago Athletic Club. Charles understood at once that the lawyer was talking a different language from his friends in Dement, and it seemed impossible that he would not succeed. Confidence bred confidence. It took time for new ideas to trickle down to places like Dement, and having Bill Eurich was like having a key to the future. He’d watched his face, the direct blue eyes and the strong chin and the mouth that always seemed poised on the edge of a joke. His ebullience was infectious, a native-born optimism and an entirely different style from the dour conservatism of his father and Elliott Townsend and the other Dement old-timers. Charles was in no way worried. Bill Eurich was a different breed of man, a man in motion, not landlocked; a man who worked the edges.
“It’s going to go all right,” Charles said finally. “It’s good for everybody and you couldn’t kill it with an ax. But Dement’s different. Understand that. It’ll take some effort, getting everyone in line.”
“I’m relying on your advice and good counsel absolutely.”
Charles reached across the table and they clinked glasses. “Tell me one thing. Where did you get those statistics? That was all new to me.”
“It’s private, I can’t get into that.” He looked at Charles, whose eyes had narrowed. There was a sudden chill between the two men. What could be “private” about facts? “What the hell,” Irish said. “This is between us, right?” He motioned for the waiter to bring them another round of drinks. “I get them from my kid.”
“What do you mean, your kid?”
“My kid’s at the university. They have all that stuff there. They have teams of students gathering data. ‘Sociology.’ My kid funnels the stuff to me and it’s pure gold. What the hell, I’m paying the university for his education.” Irish laughed then, as the waiter put down their drinks. “And the university is paying me back. With interest.”
“You’re the only guy I know who’s actually gotten anything back from the bastards.”
“Let me tell you something,” he said. “There’s nothing that can beat good information. And this stuff is solid, rock hard.”
Charles laughed out loud: a true partnership, father and son. Unorthodox, but a partnership nonetheless. Later that night, over a steak at the Blackhawk, Charles told Bill Eurich about Frank, his promise as a newspaperman and his cruel death in Korea. The other man, hearing the story, put his knife and fork on his plate and turned away, genuinely moved. “Oh Christ,” he said. “That’s the worst luck a man can have. I’m sorry as hell to hear about it.” Charles shrugged. He was tight and trying to appear nonchalant, “And Frank was your only son?” Charles nodded. “Any other kids?” Charles put up his forefinger: “One daughter.” Eurich said, “I’ll bet she’s lovely.” Yes, Charles said; yes she was. She was beautiful and smart in the bargain and impetuous as hell but a good girl, growing up too fast. “But it’s not like having Frank,” Charles said. “A son, particularly when there’s a family business involved.” Eurich nodded in agreement. “Of course not.” Charles looked across the table at the other man, a more experienced, more worldly man. He said, “t’s not something that I can explain very well. But she’s growing away from us already. She’s”—he laughed gruffly—“very sophisticated. I guess that’s the word. She doesn’t seem to like Dement, I wouldn’t be surprised if she moved away, when she grows up and gets married, I don’t know what to do about it,” he said thickly. Eurich nodded; he understood that. Thank God he and Bill, Jr., had an understanding. “They get those ideas,” Eurich said. “Just try to ride with it.” Charles said, “That’s what I’m doing.” What the girl didn’t understand, Eurich said, was that the Dement of today wasn’t going to bear any relation to the Dement of tomorrow. It would be a different place altogether. “You’re lucky as hell, you’re tapping into it right at the start. All the towns are going to change sooner or later because all the money and most of the talent is outside. But you’re coming in on your own terms, and at the beginning of it. And if you’re like the rest of us”—he smiled triumphantly—“you’ll be doing it mainly for your kids, and their kids ...” Charles looked up, surprised. He had not thought of it in that way, and was pleased.
But that was a month ago. Now they were in his office, all assembled, drinks in their hands; it was time to do business. Charles said he was glad they could come on short notice and nodded at each one, Eurich, Elliott Townsend, Marge Reilly, Tom Kerrigan, and the newcomers, Joe Steppe, chairman of the county board, and Harry Bohn, the banker. Charles said he’d thought of delaying the meeting but decided against it because there was a certain amount of agitation in the county and if it were possible to reach a meeting of minds here, that was in every way preferable to a drawn-out controversy, with the risk always that the project would be lost altogether. He knew that several of those present had doubts. But he thought that once his friend Bill Eurich explained it those doubts would dissolve. The point, after all, was what was good for the community: housing and jobs. He stepped aside and Eurich rose and moved behind Charles’s desk. He wanted to be able to look directly at the woman and at the judge, Kerrigan. He began with a joke, and then spoke in earnest.
First he dealt facts, the changing nature of the county from rural to urban. Overcrowded housing, a decaying downtown. “In ten years your downtown will look like Nagasaki.” He deftly compared Dement to similar towns, similar distances from large cities. Then he described to them the details of the housing project and the shopping center to come. A thousand houses, four point two thousand people. But in many cases, most cases, they would not be new people; they would be Dement people. The new houses would be built as fast as it was possible to build them, but to begin next spring they would need the zoning variation now. Nodding at Kerrigan. And an annexation. Nodding at Steppe. He did not understand the objections. The Reilly Bog was now a bog; reclaim it, and it was prime land.
Marge Reilly was listening intently, almost painfully, very nearly mesmerized by the rhythm of Bill Eurich’s voice. She was nervous and disconcerted; this was her first meeting of this kind. She’d watched Joe Steppe, the most powerful politician in the county, first nodding in agreement with Eurich, then openly smiling as he disclosed his facts. Eurich was so practical, his facts so well collected; she felt a little stupid. And she felt it was all happening very quickly.
“I don’t quite understand ...” she began. Eurich leaned forward, perched on the edge of Charles’s desk, encouraging her. “You say it doesn’t matter what we do, the town is going to grow by leaps and bounds anyway.”
“That’s essentially correct.”
Well, she thought, they might as well get right down to it. “There are people here who are worried about the colored. This project would be a magnet to them.”
“I can understand the concern,” Eurich said. “And it’s shared, believe me. I can assure you absolutely”—he clapped his hands together—“that this project will not be a Little Ivory Coast. Or a Little Italy or a Little Ireland. In the first place”—he looked up, smiling at the ceiling—“the mortgages will be federally guaranteed and of course they will have to have assurances ... No, this is not a project that will collide in any way with the values of the community—”
“A. little United Nations,” Kerrigan said under his breath.
“—and I think that Charles and the paper can be helpful in that regard.” He looked at Charles and Charles nodded.
“I have another question,” Marge said. “Hard to put into words.” She picked up her handbag and put it
in her lap, fussing with the clasp. Then she laughed hesitantly. “It’s so much. All at once.” She glanced at Eurich, who was nodding sympathetically, waiting for her to finish. “Four thousand people. You know, that land used to be owned by my family.” She described the contours and history of the land, and told an anecdote about the various Reillys who had lived on it. Then, “You bought that land through nominees, a parcel at a time.” She went on, her voice hard now. “If I had owned it, I never would’ve sold. But my cousins had different ideas. Because you bought the land through nominees you got it for less than you might’ve if you’d bought it—aboveboard. In your own name.”
“Correct on all counts,” Eurich said. “But your cousins drove hard bargains. Understand, as it is the land is almost valueless. It only has value if someone is willing to finance the drainage. We couldn’t afford to do that if we’d paid inflated prices for the land. As it was, we did pay top dollar; for the land as it is now. We were not out to shyster anyone. My partners and I do not do business that way. We looked at her but she avoided his eyes, and he knew he’d won—“businessmen.”
“It seems to me that we’ve got an opportunity here to grab hold of the future,” Charles said, speaking for the first time. “I think it’s time we recognize a break with the past—”
