“Yes,” he said.
“Pevsner,” I said, not bothering to extend my hand. My plan was to one-up him on bad manners and efficiency before he could get the chance. “I haven’t much time so I’ll be brief. I want to know if the City of Chicago will cooperate in the making of A Song in the Fire. If not, we’ll shoot it on the lot and use Detroit for the exteriors.”
“I see,” said Prune, giving the evil eye to Maureen Kelly. “And what will this cost the city?”
“Cost?” I said, looking at him in disbelief. “Why should it cost? We’re prepared, in fact, to make certain guarantees for housing, publicity, food contracts, local talent, security.”
“I see,” said Prune, trying to smile and failing. “Well, perhaps I can arrange a short meeting with the Mayor.”
“Well,” I said. “It’s either now or not at all. I’m on a very tight schedule.”
“Well, give me just a few minutes to check,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“A few minutes is about all I can spare.”
The prune went through a door marked “Private” and Maureen Kelly smiled at me-a pale smile from a child of the city made anemic in the molehill of City Hall.
“Can I get you anything?” she said. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” I said. “Coffee.”
She went through a second door, and I moved quickly to the one Prune had gone through. I could hear him talking inside, but I couldn’t make out the words. I put one hand on the door and turned the handle slowly and gently till it was open a thin crack.
Prune’s voice came through clearly.
“Late thirties or early forties, hair greying at the temples, about my height, with a flat nose. No I don’t think he’s dangerous, and I don’t know how he got past Alex. No. Of course not. He’s in the reception room of the Mayor’s office. That’s right. No, I do not know what you’re waiting for. Get up here fast.”
As he put down the phone I closed the door and turned to find Maureen with a steaming cup in her hand. My grin was enormous.
“Hold that for me just one second,” I said. “I have to find the men’s room.”
I lowered my hands and moved leisurely but distinctly to the outer door, closing it behind me on the image of the slightly bewildered Maureen Kelly. There were a few people in the tile-floored hall. The sound of footsteps and the shaft of light from a single window made it feel like an old drugstore. I hurried to the stairway and went up half a flight. The footsteps from below were heavy and slower than they should have been. Leaning over the rail, I saw three blue uniformed cops come up and run down the hall toward the mayor’s office with guns drawn, ready to blow away intruders and complainers.
I went down behind them with one hand on the rail, going two steps at a time. When I hit the main floor I lifted my collar, regretted giving my scarf to the kid on the West Side, and walked to the nearest exit. A cop stood in the street looking toward me. I retreated back into the cool echoes of the hallway. The cop from outside came through the door. In the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the grey electric light, I opened the nearest door, went in and closed it behind me.
I was in a small office with two men. A thin guy in a white shirt with a big Adam’s apple leaned over a guy at a desk who looked like a cop. The guy at the desk was short, stocky but not fat, with serious dark eyes. He was about my age, and wearing a neat, dark suit. His clothes reminded me of the uniforms Catholic kids had to wear in high school. His eyes met mine and I knew he was going over the description of the mad chopper killer. Instead of turning away and rushing into the possibility of a waiting cop outside the door, I smiled and stepped forward with my hand out.
“My name’s Derry, Charles Derry,” I said. “From Cleveland-Maple Heights, really. Looking into some investment possibilities. Contacting politicians, people around City Hall.”
The stocky man didn’t get up and he didn’t take my hand. Without taking his eyes from me he said to the thin man, “Thanks Ed.” Ed looked at me suspiciously and backed away from the desk. The stocky man said nothing until Ed had left the room.
“Ed’s a waiter at Henrici’s around the corner, brings food over for people when they can’t get away from the desk.” He nodded to the desk in front of him and I noticed a plate of food.
“The special,” he explained. “Fried scallops, julienne potatoes, cole slaw, rolls and pie and coffee for seventy-five cents. Not as good as eating at home but the next best thing.”
He opened his palm and pointed to a chair next to the desk. I sat down and watched him eat for about five minutes.
“My name’s Daley, Richard Daley,” he said, pushing a fruit cup toward me like a short college lineman giving a handoff. I took the fruit cup and a spoon. “I’m a state senator,” he went on, “and I didn’t shake your hand for a reason. You picked the wrong guy for a patsy, fella. So, eat your fruit cup and walk out of here.”
He spoke with what seemed a careful choice of words, almost rehearsed, but delivered with an accent that said he would never get rid of the old neighborhood where guys said duh instead of the and gunna instead of going to or even gonna.
“Your name’s not Derry,” he said, sitting back warily with his hands on the desk while I ate the fruit cup, almost choking on an unseen watermelon seed. “If your name’s Derry, you changed it from Nathan. You’re a Jew. And you’re no businessman looking for investments. Businessmen looking for investments aren’t jumping unannounced into City Hall offices. They’re downtown setting up lunches and having lunches set up for them. So, as soon as you finish choking, you can say goodbye before you pull whatever you were going to pull on me.”
“Hold it,” I said, drinking the juice from the fruit cup to stop my spasm. “O.K. I’m not a businessman. My real name’s Pevsner.”
He nodded with his eyes on me.
“I make my living knowing the difference between a Pole and a Rumanian and a businessman and a con man.”
“Democrat?” I guessed.
“Right,” he said soberly. “You?”
“Democrat,” I said.
“All right, fellow Democrat. Why don’t you tell your tale quickly while I digest my lunch?”
With nothing better to do while I hid from the cops and nothing much to lose, I told Senator Daley of Illinois my story. He was a damn good listener who threw in two or three questions to be sure I wasn’t making it up.
“I’m from a part of Chicago called Bridgeport,” he said when I had finished. “It’s a tough neighborhood, but it’s a good one. When you first came in, I thought you were someone I once knew in the Valentine Club from the neighborhood. We were taught not to kill people and not to cheat people. You might have to shake a few hands and a few heads and pull a few deals, but you do what you can in this town and it’s a good town. When the Republicans had Chicago with Thompson, people like Capone did what they wanted. Not just with the city but the whole state. The Democrats are changing that. It’s not going back the way it was.”
He had gradually gotten more and more excited by his little speech, which had started as an explanation to me and moved into a statement to himself and an unseen public. His face flushed and he gave me a lopsided Irish grin.
“The Nittis and Capones and Servis are through,” he said. “The gang killing is going to stop. Chicago and Illinois are going to be the best run city and state in-”
“I’m not even a voter,” I threw in.
He chuckled, which was better for his digestion than turning red and angry.
“A man who wants to get somewhere in politics has to know when to trust people,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “If he makes too many mistakes, he proves himself a poor judge of character and doesn’t deserve the trust and loyalty of others. That’s a small campaign speech, but I believe it. Sit still a few minutes and I’ll see what I can do.”
He left the room and I polished off the roll he had left while I waited. I wasn’t sure whether he had decided I was someone to trust or someone not to trust. If I was the latter, a couple of cops would be coming through the door. If I ran now, I might make it out of the building if no one was waiting for me, but I had the feeling that if Daley wanted me to stay he would have taken care to see that I didn’t try to run. When he came back in five minutes or so, Daley was smiling. He moved back behind the desk and pulled out his wallet. Before he sat down he handed me his card.