For a long time, Arthur Wirtz was just a name, like John Doe is a name-I had heard it, but I was not sure where and not sure why. I took an interest only when I started making my way in the concert business. I had two or three months' worth of shows a year and was looking to strike a deal in Chicago, that fantastic market. Chicago Stadium was the obvious place. It had about twenty thousand seats, which is as big as you get before you have to move outside. Other than the Bulls, the Blackhawks, the Ice Capades, and the Circus, which adds up to about a hundred nights a year, the place stood empty.
I went to Chicago and started asking around.
"Who do I have to talk to cut a deal on the Stadium?"
Arthur Wirtz, you've got to talk to Arthur Wirtz.
Arthur Wirtz was huge, six-foot-six, with gray hair. He wore wire-framed glasses, an odd, dandified touch on an otherwise classic Chicago face. He had been to college, but kept something of the street about him, the grit of the west side club rooms. He was like a boss in an old movie, a mountain of a man behind a desk, the city humming behind him-Chicago, with its steel towers and slaughter yards. He had fought his way to the top of a tough town, and I admired him. He made his first fortune in commercial real estate, but his true talent had always been sales. Sell, earn, invest, increase. His family still owns the Blackhawks. He began to acquire things, which is how an ordinary man becomes a titan. By the time I started asking around, Wirtz had become a power in Chicago, the man behind the aldermen, the man behind the mayor.
Though sensible and hard-nosed, he had an eye for showbiz. He built the stadium, then needed to fill the seats. He owned an NHL franchise. It did so well he acquired interests in several others. He came to own most of the teams in the league, including franchises in Montreal, Toronto, and Detroit. He also brought Sonja Henie to America and produced her ice shows, which led to the Ice Capades. He was a giant.
"I don't understand Arthur Wirtz," I told a Chicago friend. "Why doesn't he put other shows in the Stadium?"
"He doesn't want other shows," my friend told me. "He has the Ice Capades, he has the circus, hockey, and basketball. He doesn't know from anything else."
I called Wirtz's office and left a message. No return. I called again. Nothing. It was like shouting into a well. Nothing came back.
Around this time, I ran into Bob Strauss, from Texas. He was a big player in the Democratic Party. I asked him if he could help set up a meeting with Arthur Wirtz. He laughed.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"You can't just meet with a man like Wirtz," he told me.
"Well, then, how the hell am I supposed to do business with him?"
"You have to talk to Mayor Daley's people first," he told me. "You can't do anything in Chicago without the machine."
"Great, set up a meeting with Daley."
"No, no, no," said Bob, laughing. "You don't actually meet with Daley. You meet with Colonel Riley."
"Colonel Riley? Who the hell is Colonel Riley?"
"Everything in Chicago goes through Daley," he explained, "and everything that goes through Daley goes through Colonel Riley. You meet with him, work it out, then you get to meet with Wirtz."
"Work what out?"
"Just meet him."
I met Colonel Riley in the Bismarck Hotel across from City Hall. This is where the operators and aldermen hung out, where deals got done. We took a table in back. The Colonel hung his jacket on the back of his chair. It was nine in the morning, but the place was filled with newspapermen, union leaders, tough guys, and such. Riley was a skinny Irishman with a patch over his eye. We bullshitted a bit, then he said, "Okay, let's get down to it. What exactly is the nature of your business?"
I told him I wanted to cut a deal to put shows in Chicago Stadium.
"You mean you need to meet with Arthur Wirtz."
"Yeah," I said. "I guess that is what I mean."
"Okay," he said. "I'm going to get up and go the bathroom. And while I'm in the bathroom, you're going to put something in my jacket."
"What am I going to put in your jacket?" I asked.
He told me, and it wasn't two tickets to The Wiz.
"Well, I don't have that," I said.
"You have to get it," he said.
"Oh, God."
"Can you have it by lunchtime?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "I guess so."
"Good. Come back here at lunchtime, put it in my pocket, and you will have your meeting with Arthur Wirtz."
A few days later, I go to meet Mr. Wirtz. A two o'clock appointment. He had an office in the Furniture Mart, which he owned. I gave my name to the secretary, then sat, waiting. Now and then, I asked the secretary, "How much longer?" and she smiled and said, "Any time now." Her name, as I learned later, was Gertrude Knowles, and she was fantastic, a multimillionaire with a piece of every one of Wirtz's deals. (He could be very generous.) Two o'clock became three o'clock; three o'clock became four o'clock. I was angry. "What's his problem?" I asked Ms. Knowles. "We had an appointment. I got things to do."
"Relax," she said. "He does this to everybody. If you want something from him, you have to wait."
"I am thinking of leaving," I told her.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll get you in there."
Another thirty minutes went by. I couldn't stand it. I was going wild. I stood up and said, "To hell with this, I'm out of here."
"No, don't," she said, "I'll get you in right now."
She walked over, opened the door, stuck her head inside, and said, "Jerry Weintraub has been out here waiting three hours. It is time for you to see him."
A voice boomed back: "Okay, fine, bring him in."
It was the biggest office I'd ever seen. Everything was covered in brass and wood. Behind him was a credenza filled with Steuben glass. On his desk-it was the size of an aircraft carrier-was a model of the Wirtz family yacht, the Blackhawk, and a plane. Mr. Wirtz was alone in this office, and had been all afternoon, this enormous man, signing checks, which were piled beside him. He did not greet me. He just went on signing.
"What do you want?" he asked, without looking up.
That's what he said. After all that sitting and waiting and him being in here all the time by himself, with his checks and signing pen.
"What do I want?" I said. "I'll tell you what I want. Screw you! That's what I want!"
Now he looked up, stunned, as if I had slapped him across the face.
My God, he was huge!
"Excuse me," he asked, "what did you say?"
This man was power, you have to understand that. He was the boss, the man sitting on top of a very tough town. This was Chicago. Sam Giancana was there. Tony the Ant was there. Wirtz was no gangster, of course, but he had the gangsters, and had the police, and had the firemen, and had the aldermen, and had the attorney general, and had the mayor and the governor and everything else.
"You heard me," I told him. "Screw you."
He was more surprised than angry-confused, concerned.
"Why?" he asked. "What's the matter?"
"I've been waiting out there four hours," I said. "Then, I finally get in here, and you don't even look up and say hello, how are you? You don't shake my hand, or offer me a drink of water? What kind of bullshit is that? I'm a human being, you know. I'm standing here."