by Renée Rosen
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen our little Gabby this tipsy before,” M said, the two of us standing off to the side laughing. “It’s nice to see her loosen up a little bit.”
“And it’s nice to see you in such a good mood,” I said to M. The past few months I’d been accustomed to hysterical phone calls in the middle of the night and crying jags in the ladies’ room at work.
“Aw, fucking Stanley,” she said with a shrug. “Did I tell you I have a date next week?”
“You don’t sound too excited about it.”
“He’s okay. He’s one of those ad guys. I’m done with newspapermen.” She clinked her glass to mine.
A Teenager in Love came on the radio and Gabby was on her feet dancing with no regard to the beat whatsoever. But she was smiling and looking happier than I’d ever seen her.
The next day we were all a bit hungover when we dragged ourselves into the city room. We took turns shaking out aspirin tablets and passing the bottle around. For lunch we all needed the hair of the dog and downed martinis with our sandwiches at Riccardo’s.
I was starting to feel like myself by the time I made it back to my desk. I looked over and saw M shove a pink leather case—that no one would confuse with a man’s attaché case—under her desk.
“What’s that?” I asked, twisting out of my sweater.
“Oh, let me show you.” M pulled the case back out and set it on top of my desk. She snapped it open, revealing bottles and jars of lotions, perfumes, cold creams, dusting powders, rouges and other makeup. “I’m an Avon Lady,” she said proudly. “I’ve been so strapped for cash lately—I’m hoping this will help.”
“Hmmm.” I peered into her case. I wouldn’t have known what to do with half the stuff in there. “So how’s business?” I asked.
“Not too bad. I had a big order yesterday from Marty’s wife. Can I interest you in a little something?” she asked, spiraling up a tube of crimson lipstick. “I’m hoping I can make enough money as an Avon Lady to quit working here and get as far away from Stanley as possible.”
As if on cue, Ellsworth came over to my desk. M slammed her pink case shut and did a quick about-face.
“Excuse me,” she said, brushing past him.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m getting ready to head down to the press conference now.”
He didn’t respond. He stood there watching M walk away, looking like someone had stolen his favorite toy. Obviously he hadn’t come over to talk to me at all. He’d just been trying to get close to M.
He hesitated for a moment, and I thought he was going to turn away. But then he stared down at his hands and said, “How’s she doing? Is she okay?” I could see that it pained him just to say that much. “She won’t even speak to me. I see her every day and she won’t even look at me. She hates me now, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t think she could ever hate you. She was in love with you for a long time.” I didn’t tell him that M had a date with a new guy coming up, although I couldn’t imagine why I felt the need to protect his feelings.
He nodded and dragged a hand across his face. “In case she’s wondering, in case she ever asks, will you tell her that I miss her?”
Chapter 37
• • •
It was official. On January 2, 1960, the handsome young senator from Massachusetts declared his candidacy for president. His opponent was Vice President Nixon. I was pleasantly surprised when Ellsworth put me on election coverage, working closely with Marty and Walter.
I did some preliminary reporting that spring and into the summer, and by fall the campaign began to heat up. On September 26, for the first time ever, a presidential debate was going to be televised. And it was going to be televised from Chicago and brought into the homes of millions of Americans.
While Marty and Walter were busy inside the studio with the candidates, Ellsworth had assigned me to cover the action outside WBBM. The streets were packed and the police were holding people back behind the barricades up and down McClurg Court. Cameras were flashing on every corner as people cheered and clapped. I saw the tail end of a black limo pulling up and that was about it. I didn’t even know if it was Kennedy or Nixon arriving. I interviewed people who proudly displayed their Kennedy and Johnson buttons and others who waved their Dick Nixon flags. I asked questions and scrawled down the answers as people talked about what the election meant to them and to Chicago.
After I called everything in to Higgs on the rewrite desk, I had just enough time to make it over to the Lincoln Tavern to watch the debate with M and some of the others. The owner, Billy Sianis, had a TV in the corner. That night I met M’s new beau, Gregory Bryant. Gregory was an account executive at Leo Burnett, working on Philip Morris. He sat with us, along with Gabby and Benny, waiting for the debate to begin.
The rest of the gang was at Radio Grill. It felt strange not being with everyone, but ever since M and Ellsworth had their falling out, there had been a split in our group. Now it was M, Gabby and the other sob sisters versus the fellows. For whatever reason, Benny and I managed to bop back and forth between the two sides.
It was clear to me from the moment I arrived that Gregory wasn’t a newspaperman, because while the rest of us were glued to the television set, anxiously awaiting the start of the debate, he was telling us about his current advertising project.
“Right now we have a whole team of talent scouts scouring the country looking for an actress to play a cowgirl.”
“A cowgirl?” I asked, barely turning away from the TV. “For a Philip Morris product? What happened to the Marlboro Man?”
“He’s still there. But now we’re introducing a cowgirl. The Marlboro Girl. We’re testing a new ladies’ cigarette.”
“The Marlboro Girl?” Benny scrunched up his face. “That sounds like a dumb name.”
Before Gregory could launch into his defense, the debate began and a hush came over the Lincoln Tavern.
“What’s wrong with his face?” M pointed to the TV with her cigarette. “Nixon looks like he just got out of bed.”
“He needs a better tailor,” said Benny. “That suit doesn’t even fit him.”
Gabby laughed and playfully slapped his arm.
“Is he sweating?” I leaned in closer to get a better look. “Oh, God, he is.”
“He looks terrible.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“And would you look at Kennedy?” Gregory said. “Now, he looks like a president.”
“Oh, you can’t compare the two, can you?” said Gabby.
“No, you sure can’t,” said Benny.
It was true. Putting Nixon on the American stage next to Kennedy was like standing a plough horse next to a thoroughbred. Nixon was disheveled. He looked timid and lost in his chair, knees pressed together. He didn’t look like a commander in chief, whereas Kennedy was well dressed, handsome and seemed at ease and confident.
It sent a powerful message, and the next morning as I sat on the el, I read the front-page coverage by Walter and Marty. According to their reporting, TV viewers thought Kennedy had won, whereas radio listeners thought Nixon was the victor.
• • •
About a week later I could feel a new season in the air. It was the beginning of October, and the autumn winds had shifted. Leaves peppered the sidewalks, sweaters and jackets were brought out of their mothballed chests, and collars were turned up. There was something electric in the air. It was like the city was waking up to something—and I wanted to find out what it was.
“We’re running out of places to meet,” Ahern said, as we walked through the Potter Palmer Collection at the Art Institute.
“I figured we could take in a bit of culture along the way,” I said.
“So what is it that you wanted to see me about?”
“Well, we’ve got a presidential election around the corner.” I paused before Degas’s famous On the Stage. “And Adamowski’s running for reelection.”
“You
don’t say.” He smiled.
“C’mon, I need an angle. I need something that’ll give me an edge. We both know Daley will do anything to see to it that Adamowski is defeated. No way is he going to let him get elected to another term, right?”
“Right.”
“So are you aware of anything the Democrats have planned?”
“You mean like is Daley gearing up to steal the election from the Republicans?”
“Voter fraud?” I almost laughed and start walking again. “C’mon, that’s not news. Not in this town.” From the corner of my eye I saw something come over Ahern. Subtle, but still I caught it. “Wait a minute—you know something, don’t you? I can tell.”
“C’mon, Walsh.”
“I can help you,” I said, grabbing hold of his arm. “I can give you ink. You know that. I just need to know what you know.”
Ahern glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. “I don’t want to get you involved.”
I laughed. “Now you have to tell me what’s going on.”
He stared at the ground and muttered, “I shouldn’t have said anything. Should have kept my goddamn mouth shut. This could be dangerous, and I don’t think this would be good for you. At all.”
Now I was even more intrigued. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
We were facing each other. A game of chicken. I wasn’t backing down. And he knew it.
“Okay,” he said finally, looking around again. The lines in his face were set hard and firm. “You’re right. Daley will do anything to keep Adamowski from staying in office. So we have reason to believe that Daley is working with Kennedy and with the Mob to steal the election.”
I got that chill that I always got when it was something big, and this was huge. “Holy crap. Go on. Go on.”
“Kennedy’s in on it. We’ve got it on record that Joseph Kennedy, the father, had a meeting with Sam Giancana. Daley knew about the meeting. Oh, and believe it or not, Sinatra arranged it for them.”
“Sinatra? As in Frank?”
He nodded. “It’s no secret that Giancana’s got the labor unions in his pockets. He can snap his fingers and get all that manpower to do whatever he says. Including ballot stuffing. Including showing up to vote as the dead or as a comic-strip character, if you know what I mean.”
“I get it.” Chicago had a history of stuffing ballot boxes with bogus names. Mickey Mouse and Bozo the Clown were known to have voted, as well as a slew of people who had long been deceased.
“Joseph Kennedy’s just as ruthless as Daley. He’ll do anything to see that his son wins the presidency. We know they’re going to try to steal the White House. Now all we have to do is prove it before they get away with it.”
Ahern continued to talk while we made our way to the exit. I didn’t say a word. I was already way up inside my head, figuring out how I was going to tackle this one.
“I want you to really think hard about this before you start looking into anything,” he said. “This is the Chicago Outfit we’re talking about.”
I scarcely even remembered saying good-bye to Ahern. I just stood next to one of the lion statues outside the Art Institute and watched his tall figure disappear into the crowd on Michigan Avenue.
I thought about going after the Mob and wondered if I had the stomach for it. I regarded myself as pretty fearless when it came to reporting. I hadn’t shied away from the story about D’Arco’s auto-insurance scam. But this was Sam “Mooney” Giancana—the main man. The idea of snooping around in his business gave me pause. But only pause. I knew plenty of fellows at the paper who went drinking with members of the Outfit, gave them Christmas hams and attended their children’s weddings. They weren’t afraid. I could learn to play this game too.
I walked up Michigan Avenue weighing it all with each step. The sun was setting, the temperature dropping. Even before I made it back to the Tribune Tower, I knew there was no way I could turn my back on this story. This was a chance to hook the big one. I quickened my pace.
Ellsworth was already gone for the day when I got back, but I found Marty sitting around the horseshoe shooting the breeze with the slot man. It was late. The night shift was coming on, and I realized Marty was the perfect person for me to talk to. I asked if I might have a word with him in private and followed him into the conference room.
“I need your advice, Marty.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, I just got wind of something important and I’m not sure what to do.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.” He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down.
I laid it all out for him, told him what had been secretly shared with me.
“The Mob, huh?” He adjusted his eyeglasses. “I can’t say I’m surprised. What can you tell me about this source of yours?”
“All I can say is that I’ve got someone inside the state’s attorney’s office. I can’t tell you anything more about the source.”
He nodded. “That’s all well and fine, but I’m telling you the Tribune’s not going to run a story about the mayor of Chicago and the Mafia stealing the White House unless you’ve got the goods to prove it. And now the big question is, are you sure you’re prepared to go after this and go up against Giancana?”
“So you think I should pursue it?”
“I didn’t tell you that. Listen to what I’m saying and not what you want to hear.” He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses, setting them on the table. “You know, there was a time when I was just like you. I would have gone after this. I remember when Robert Merriam ran for mayor in 1955. We suspected the Democrats were manipulating the vote. It was a mess. But that’s Chicago for you.” He laughed. “I used to be a lot like you. I used to think it was my personal responsibility to get to the truth and bring it out.”
“But now?”
He rubbed his eyes. “But now I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting too old for this business. Maybe I’m jaded. Or maybe Big Tony scared the hell out of me. But now I know you can’t change certain things. Some things are bigger than we are, and I think some things are better left unsaid.” He put his glasses back on and looked me square in the eyes. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but if I were you, I’d cover the fraud—hell, George Thiem at the Daily News will be all over that—but I’d leave the Mob out of it.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but . . .” I shook my head because what he’d told me only made me want to go after it all the more.
“You can’t do it, can you?” he said. “You can’t leave it alone.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, Marty, but I just can’t.”
• • •
The next day I set up an interview with Frank Durham and David Brill who were in charge of an operation called the Committee for Honest Elections.
“Have you looked into the Board of Commissioners?” asked Brill as we sat in a tiny office on LaSalle Street overlooking the Chicago Board of Trade. “They’re practically all Democrats.”
“Ask them about their polling lists,” said Durham as he drummed his pencil against the edge of the desk.
Brill nodded. “They’ve got thousands of ghosts on there. People who’ve either died or moved away or got married and changed their names.”
“And what’s amazing,” said Durham, “is how every name on that list—whether dead or alive—is going to magically appear as a Democratic vote.”
I was writing all this down when Brill started telling me about their meeting with Daley.
“We sat in his office yesterday afternoon,” said Brill. “He accused us of being a bunch of Republicans—”
“Can you imagine that?” said Durham with a smirk, still drumming his pencil.
“Daley said we wanted to suppress the Democratic vote.”
“Although Daley said ‘depress the Democratic vote.’” Durham chuckled. “Look, we’re doing this for the good of the Chicago people and the nation. We all know Daley doesn’t want Adamowski serving another term, and w
e know that if he can get Kennedy in the White House, he’ll have some favors coming back around. It all comes down to power. That’s how it works. You know it. I know it. We all know it. Now, the question is, how do we stop it?”
“Have you heard anything about the Chicago Outfit getting involved, using their muscle to sway voters?”
Durham set his pencil aside. “We don’t know nothing about that sort of thing,” he said. “We won’t touch the Mob.”
After I left Durham and Brill, I met with some members from the Joint Civic Committee on Elections. They echoed similar grievances and insisted they had no knowledge of the Mafia’s involvement.
From there I canvassed various neighborhoods, speaking with Republicans and Democrats, anyone who would talk to me. I had a cup of coffee with Trey Nelson, a Republican election judge.
“What are your thoughts on Election Day?” I asked.
He gave his coffee a stir and tapped the spoon against the lip of the cup. “I don’t trust the Democrats.” He shook his head. “We’re asking for extra security at the polls to make sure there’s no funny business.”
“What kind of funny business?”
“You know what kind of funny business I’m talking about. You know what those sons of bitches did? The Democrats sent out these postcards to every registered voter in Cook County telling them the issues and now they’ll wait to see what cards come back as address unknown or return to sender, and they’ll turn each and every one of those into a vote for the Democrats.”
The next day, over a beer, I asked Sean O’Hara, a Democratic precinct captain, how he felt about the upcoming elections. He laughed. “It’s gonna be a great day for Americans to exercise their right to vote. Tell the Republicans to quit their bellyaching.”
After I left O’Hara, I went into a barbershop and talked to a couple of customers waiting their turn beside the red, white and blue helix pole. One gentleman chewed on his cigar and said, “I don’t like any of ’em. Politics is a dirty business. Especially in this town.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to vote on Election Day?”
