White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  When he didn’t acknowledge my question, I pitched my snow cone and locked eyes with him. “So, what are you looking for in exchange? Because I’ll tell you right now, I won’t sleep with you for information.”

  He smiled as if this were thoroughly amusing. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  I lowered my chin, looking down at my shoes, hoping he wouldn’t notice my face was burning red. “So what is it that you want, then?”

  “A mouthpiece. And, of course, total and complete anonymity as your source. I’ll need that from you before we go any further. And speaking of which, I’m sure you’re wise enough not to mention this little meeting to anyone.”

  I straightened the strap on my handbag and pressed my lips together, trying to regain some ground here. Even though I was dying to know the information he was sitting on, I cautioned myself to be smart, methodical. Professional. Maybe I was thinking about Marty Sinclair and his source, but something about this didn’t feel right. There was something off about Ahern, something sinister. I had to know a whole lot more about him in order to figure out if I could trust him.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Let me think it over.”

  “Sure.” He served up another cocky smirk. “You think it over while you’re writing about bridal bouquets and taffeta gowns.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Ahern.”

  For the first time he laughed—really laughed—and it sounded genuine. “I know better than to do that.” He started to walk away, and then turned around. “You let me know whenever you’re ready to talk. You can reach me down at City Hall.”

  • • •

  Later that day I sat at my desk revising a fashion piece on “Tricks to Keep Your Slip from Showing.” I was thinking about my meeting with Ahern when M stretched her very shapely leg out from under her desk.

  “Oh, darn it.” She pointed her toe while hiking up her skirt, turning her ankle this way and that. “I got a run in my stockings.”

  “Don’t you just hate when that happens?” said Henry with a chuckle as he batted his lashes.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” said Walter. “Bring that gorgeous gam over here. I’ll fix you right up.”

  M giggled along with the rest of them.

  I liked M, but at times like this I wanted to go over and shake her. Did I have to remind her she had a brain? I feared it was women like her who convinced men like Walter and Henry that we were all half-wits, and that kept the rest of us stuck. But nothing sank my heart more than seeing that morning’s edition of White Collar Girl with my byline beneath an article entitled: “What a Tidy Desk Says About Your Work Ethic.” I didn’t know how much longer I could go on writing those kinds of pieces. They weren’t getting me any closer to my goal of the city desk.

  Maybe Ahern was the answer. I knew that my own attempts to get myself off the women’s pages had gotten me nowhere. I’d toned down my style of dress, hoping to be taken more seriously, opting for plain skirts and simple blouses with Peter Pan collars. I left my earrings and bracelets in my jewelry box and limited my makeup to a touch of lipstick and rouge. None of that seemed to help the situation. I still got patted on the rear end, still was referred to as little missy, sweetheart or honeybuns.

  I had recently pitched an important story to Mr. Ellsworth about the infant mortality rate inside Chicago’s orphanages. I had spent my nights and weekends working on it, had met with a doctor from the city’s Board of Health and had ventured into shady pockets of town to interview former orphanage employees. I wrote and rewrote and polished the entire article, and when it was ready, I showed it to Mr. Ellsworth. He had a way of stroking his beard while reading your work that said he was unimpressed and that you were wasting his time. I remember he was stroking his beard that day just before he set my piece aside.

  “But you didn’t finish reading it,” I said.

  “I didn’t need to finish it.”

  “But it’s a good story.”

  “It’s a story that I have no interest in running.”

  “All I’m asking for is a chance. Can’t you give me a break? I just want to be helpful.”

  Mr. Ellsworth gazed at me and rubbed his chin. “You really want to be helpful?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached for the mug on the corner of his desk. “Then go get me a cup of coffee. Black.”

  • • •

  After that I vowed not to pitch another article to Mr. Ellsworth, Mr. Copeland or even Mr. Pearson until I had something so big, so enticing that they would have to run it.

  All this was going through my mind as I went to the morgue and began digging for information on Richard Ahern.

  I could still hear the commotion from the city room, seeping in through the doorway as I glanced around. Naked bulbs swung overhead in a room lined with filing cabinets that stood five feet tall. There were heavy wooden drawers along with rows and rows of flat files that squeaked each time I pulled one out. When I stopped to think about what the morgue housed, the history of the paper and of the city, it was mind-boggling. If there was something written about anyone or anything, it was lurking in that room. And that’s when I decided to take a moment and locate the archives from June 1953.

  My fingers worked through the files, running over tattered labels and rumpled folders while I searched for anything reported on my brother’s death. I harbored a foolish hope that the answers I sought—some tidbit of information that would lead to my brother’s killer—were tucked inside these archives.

  I pulled a folder dated June 10, 1953:

  REPORTER KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN

  Sun-Times reporter Eliot Walsh was killed in a hit-and-run late last night on the corner of State Street and Grand Avenue. Walsh, twenty-five, was struck at approximately nine p.m., presumably on his way to the subway. Authorities say there were no eyewitnesses. However, a passerby, Adam Javers, heard the squeal of tires and then saw the body on the sidewalk and called for an ambulance. Walsh was rushed to Henrotin Hospital, where he later died at eleven fifty-three p.m., during surgery. . . .

  I finished that article and checked through the rest of the folder, going through his obituaries and other reports about the accident in the Chicago American, the Daily News and the Sun-Times. I’d already read all those articles when they first appeared back in ’53. By the time I’d looked at the last one, I was drained and agitated. There was nothing new to be found. I slapped the files shut and slammed the drawer closed. Even after two years my anger was still raw.

  I took a step back and leaned against another file cabinet, clenching and unclenching my fists until the frustration left me. Or maybe it just subsided, because really, it never fully disappeared. Afterward I cleared my throat and got busy looking for what I’d come for in the first place.

  I spent the next couple hours in the morgue concentrating on Ahern, and when I surfaced, I had clips that had been cross-referenced five or six times. I returned to my desk and abandoned a set of revisions for my “Slip Trick” article and began reading through the files.

  Turned out Ahern had graduated law school from the University of Chicago in 1947. He’d worked for the former mayor, Kennelly, and after three years had accepted a job as one of Daley’s special aides. He had a young wife named Suzanne. There was no mention of children. Thirty minutes later, after shuffling through the clips, I had turned up nothing that would suggest Ahern’s motive for leaking information to the press.

  As I was about to close the file, something did jump out at me. Just a minor mention, not more than three column inches long. It stated that Ahern had wanted to run for the state senate but that Daley had backed another candidate, Paul Douglas. That right there could have been enough, but it seemed thin. I got the feeling there was something else about Ahern that I wasn’t finding here. And I was still questioning why he had come to me of all people.

  A million ethical questions raced through my head, everything I’d learned at Medill about fairness, anonymity, confirming a source’s motivation
. I closed the folder and leaned back in my chair, making the joints squeak. I knew I was right to question Ahern’s motives, but I also had to recognize an opportunity when it was standing right in front of me.

  I packed up all the clips and carried them home with me, along with the day’s papers tucked under my arm. Yes, I was desperate to get off society news, but was this the way to do it? I felt like Faust about to make a pact with the devil.

  Chapter 6

  • • •

  After a night of fitful sleep, I awoke just as conflicted as I’d been the day before. I stumbled to the bathroom, squinting to avoid the burst of light from the overhead fixture. My vision took a moment to adjust, and once I could see, I looked in the mirror and brought my hands to my face, my fingers pulling on the skin beneath my eye sockets. I looked like a basset hound. What happened to jumping out of bed before the alarm went off? Was I already beaten down? All I knew was that I was dreading the day ahead, filled with recipes for the Mary Meade column and a write-up about a Tony Curtis sighting for They Were There.

  I splashed water on my face, and as I reached for the towel, I caught ahold of myself. What was the matter with me? Those pieces were supposed to be a stepping-stone, not the be-all and end-all. I was Hank and CeeCee Walsh’s daughter. Eliot Walsh’s sister. I’d made a promise to my brother and to myself. What was I waiting for?

  At that moment I knew what I had to do.

  I hurried back to my room. Sitting on the side of the bed, I rolled on my stockings and fastened them to my garters before slipping into the same dress I’d worn two days before. I hardly even bothered to do my hair, not that it mattered much since my cut was already growing out, losing its shape. With a slice of toast in hand, I said a quick good-bye to my parents and headed down to the paper.

  As soon as I got into the city room, I telephoned Ahern. The back of my neck grew clammy as I dialed and held my breath waiting for him to come on the line.

  “Let’s talk,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  We met two hours later at an out-of-the-way diner west of the Loop. He was waiting for me at a booth way in the back. The place was quiet. We were there between the breakfast and lunch crowds.

  “Tell me one thing,” I said right off the bat. “How did you feel about Daley backing Paul Douglas for state senate instead of you?”

  He smiled and began absentmindedly stacking sugar cubes on the table, one on top of the other. It was as if he were building an igloo, or maybe a skyscraper. “I see you did your homework. Not many people remember that I wanted to run for office.”

  “Well?” I waited while he carefully set another sugar cube in place.

  “Let’s just say I wasn’t happy about it. But I’m a loyal servant of the city. I only want what’s best for Chicago.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes.

  “Anything else you need to know?”

  “I’m still wondering why you came to me. I know you have your reasons. I just don’t know what they are.”

  “Maybe I didn’t want someone as jaded as a Walter Harris or a Marty Sinclair.”

  “Maybe so.” I didn’t believe a word of that and pursed my lips to keep from saying more. No point in pressing for an answer he clearly wasn’t ready to give. “All right then, let’s cut to the chase—what have you got for me?”

  He rubbed the excess sugar granules off his fingertips and pulled a document from his breast pocket, creased in a trifold. “Why don’t you take a look at this and tell me what you see?”

  I unfolded the document and began to read. “City council meeting agenda?” I glanced up at him. “This is public record. There’s no scoop here.”

  “Keep going.”

  My eyes scanned down the list of proposed ordinances and new appointments all put forth by Alderman Frank O’Connor, the city council chairman. Nothing stood out to me. I looked up again and shrugged.

  “Stop when you get to the fourth item under Miscellaneous Number 25.”

  I read silently to myself: Miscellaneous Item Number 25 (4). Orders authorizing the payment of hospitalization and medical expenses of police officers injured in the line of duty. “So? They risk their lives every day. The city should pay for their medical needs.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  I looked at him. I didn’t get it. “Am I missing something here?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, you are.” He reached into his other pocket and produced an envelope. “Here’s a report with a list of the officers’ names, their injuries, their doctors and the amount of their claims.”

  I opened the report and glanced at the list of about seventy-five names, neatly typed in uniform columns.

  “Now, I don’t know about you,” said Ahern, “but I think there’s something mighty suspicious about all this.”

  I looked at the list again. The first thing that struck me was that several of the officers were from one district. “Looks like a lot of the injuries happened in the 35th District.”

  “You’re getting warmer.”

  The second thing I noticed were the staggering dollar amounts—$825, $900, $1,150, $2,165—all being paid to one doctor: Dr. Stuart Zucker. My pulse began racing because I knew. I knew I was onto something. They don’t teach you this in journalism school. It can’t be taught, but there’s a feeling you get in your gut—pure instinct. “This is major insurance fraud we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  “You didn’t hear me say that, did you?” Ahern gave me a thin, rigid smile. “Oh, and Miss Walsh, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but you may want to take down some of that information, because I’m not about to leave that list with you.”

  Heat crawled up my neck and cheeks as I reached inside my bag and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, scratching down names and dollar amounts as quickly as I could.

  “I’m sure you know what to do from here,” he said.

  I continued to write, and when I set my pen down, he plucked the list from my hand and folded it up, tucking it back in his pocket as if it had never existed.

  “Trust me, Walsh. This is a house divided.” He picked up his knife and sliced it through the igloo, sending the sugar cubes crashing down.

  I reached for a cigarette, struck a match and watched it burn between my fingers.

  “You think you can do something with this, Walsh?”

  I gave him a nod and lit my cigarette, the flame still flickering in my grip.

  • • •

  The first thing I did after I left Ahern was talk to Mr. Ellsworth. I found him at the horseshoe, slashing someone’s copy with his red pen. “Yes?” he said, striking out an entire paragraph. He didn’t bother to look up.

  “I just spoke to someone about a possible insurance-fraud case,” I said. “It involves the Chicago City Council and the police department.”

  “Where are you getting this from?”

  “I have a contact. A source inside City Hall.”

  He looked at me as if this were all so amusing. “Okay, fine. Let Peter, or better yet, let Walter know—give him the information on your source. We’ll have him follow up on it.”

  There was no way I was just going to hand over this lead to Walter. Or Peter. So I kept my mouth shut, and the next morning I paid a visit to the District 35 Police Station on Superior Street. I wanted to see if Commander Graves could explain why so many of his officers had been injured. It was midmorning and the station was quiet. I was one of three people there; the other two were seated on folding chairs before a table covered with newspapers and magazines. I smelled burnt coffee coming from a little pot on a hot plate off to the side.

  While I waited to speak with Commander Graves, I smoked a cigarette and studied the beat map pinned to the bulletin board. District 35 was sandwiched in between Lake Michigan and the Chicago River and encompassed the Gold Coast and a section of downtown called Streeterville—not exactly the roughest neighborhoods in the city. They had a sign that read 35TH DISTRICT MOST WANTED on their bullet
in board. There were two photographs: one of an elderly man wanted for indecent exposure and one of a teenage boy wanted for a purse snatching outside Bonwit Teller on Michigan Avenue.

  It was nearly an hour before Commander Graves emerged from the long hallway and was willing to talk to me. His office was at the end, cramped and windowless. He kept his cap parked on the edge of his desk next to an ashtray that needed emptying. A portrait of Mayor Daley was mounted on the wall behind him.

  “So I understand you’re with the Chicago Tribune. What happened to Peter? He’s the one who always calls on me.”

  His reaction didn’t surprise me. Peter was a crime reporter. I was a nobody. And a woman. “Peter isn’t working on this story. I am,” I said with as much authority as I could muster. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the number of officers in your district that have been injured on the job.”

  “What is it you’d like to know?” He leaned forward on his desk and laced his meaty fingers together.

  “There appears to be a disproportionate number of injuries from District 35 as opposed to the other districts—even districts with a higher crime rate—and I—”

  “I don’t know what you mean by disproportionate.” He cut me off. “My officers put their lives on the line every day. There’s bound to be injuries.”

  “Yes, I agree. But I’m wondering if you could verify that the following officers have been injured?” He didn’t object, so I showed him the names that I had jotted down during my meeting with Ahern.

  He looked at the list, twisted up his mouth and slid the paper back across the desk toward me. “Yes, I recall they were all injured.” His face relaxed, went expressionless. He cleared his throat and pushed himself back in his chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”