O’Sullivan was Looney’s most trusted lieutenant. In some ways, an odd duck (you’d never find him at a Bel Aire orgy), the war hero had earned himself and his boss respect all around Midwestern mob circles. Looney had loaned Mike out to Chicago numerous times; and somewhere along the line Mike had become a living legend — the Angel of Death, they called him.
This melodramatic sobriquet supposedly derived from O’Sullivan taking no pleasure in killing — it was said he wore a somber, even regretful expression when pulling a trigger.
Though O’Sullivan’s relatively lowly duties included bodyguard and occasional driver, Looney trusted the man like no one else in his organization. Someday there would be a place for Mike at this table; someday, perhaps, at its head.
When such a thought crossed his mind, John Looney would wince, feeling he’d committed a small betrayal against his own blood. At the eventual head of the table — the seat he would one day vacate — should be his son, Connor. But Connor was... a troubled boy.
Looney did not mind that his son had done poorly in school; the reports that Connor was a bully, and a mean one at that, did not discourage him, either. The family business was a brass-knuckle affair, after all. But Connor had other unattractive traits — he was impulsive and violent; and he drank, and he got emotional over women.
Yet John Looney loved his son; he often paired Connor with Mike O’Sullivan, in hopes that Mike’s self-control and professionalism might rub off. That Connor and Mike would form a bond, so that O’Sullivan could sit at Connor’s right hand one day, and help John Looney’s son rule.
Tonight, at the conference table in the booklined room with lamps glowing yellow, Connor sat at his father’s right hand. Connor, wearing a gray suit with vest and dark blue silk tie with diamond stickpin, looked sharp indeed; a youthful version of his father, albeit with a longer nose and slightly weaker chin, and minus the mustache. He seemed to be just a little drunk.
At Looney’s left hand sat the lawyer Frank Kelly, affable and prosperous-looking in a brown suit and red bow tie, a gray-haired fleshy man of fifty with a confident manner. Kelly had been Looney’s law partner since the last century.
Next to the lawyer was Emeal Davis, a brawny cueball-bald black man in a light blue suit with his dark blue derby before him on the table like a meal he was contemplating. In his mid-thirties, Davis oversaw the transporting of liquor, guns, and whores between Rock Island and Chicago.
Across from Davis, seated next to Connor, was a striking blonde in her late twenties, Helen Van Dale. She wore a tight-fitting black satin dress with a lace collar, her hands in white gloves folded primly before her; on the back of her chair was her mink coat (she had not trusted it to the Looney butler). A former whore herself, Helen was the madam who coordinated all prostitution in Looney’s realm.
“Let’s start with the recall effort,” Looney said, hands flat on the table. “Frank, what do you have for me?”
Kelly beamed, leaning back in his chair, arms folded. “We’ll have our people all through the Market Square rally tonight. Both speakers, Harry McCaskrin and Ed Gardner, will be demanding the mayor’s recall, and—”
“I want you to talk to them beforehand,” Looney said.
Frowning, Kelly removed his pocket watch and made a show of checking it. “The rally’s in less than an hour, John — what do you want me to talk to them about?”
“I’ve made a decision,” Looney said. All faces turned toward him expectantly; what trick did the Old Man have up his sleeve this time? “Several prominent, highly respectable citizens have approached me, and I’ve decided to accept their draft.”
Reactions around the table were varied, starting with Kelly, whose face fell, as he said, “You want to run for mayor, John? Why in God’s name?”
Connor was smirking, Helen Van Dale laughing quietly to herself, her full bosom jiggling, Emeal Davis wearing no more expression than a cigar-store Indian.
“We all know Mayor Schriver has to go,” Looney said.
“No argument,” Kelly said. “But this recall passes, we can put in a puppet, and—”
“Why not save myself the trouble of pulling the strings? Frank, you know that I came to this town with political ambitions, only to be viciously quashed by the ruling class. Now I’m in a position to take the reins.”
“John,” the lawyer said, shaking his head, his voice oozing with friendly familiarity, “drumming Schriver out of office is well and good — but a man with your kind of power stays in the shadows... not the spotlight.”
“Pop,” Connor said, “don’t you think bein’ mayor would be kind of a... comedown?”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Helen Van Dale said, savoring her words. “John Looney has found the ultimate way to spit in Rock Island’s eye.”
Kelly was shaking his head again, the mop of gray hair losing its shape, locks drooping onto his brow. “John, I don’t know if McCaskrin will play ball.”
“He’s our man, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’s after the nomination for state attorney, and he’s a Republican. You’re a Democrat.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Frank.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll say nothing against you, and he’ll praise you as a good citizen... but endorse your candidacy? I think not.”
Looney shrugged. “Gardner’s a more fiery speaker, anyway. And he’ll jump at the chance to ally himself with us.”
Connor’s eyes and nostrils flared. “Pop! Gardner? You can’t be serious — the guy’s a goddamn socialist!”
“We’ll need the votes of both the socialists and the Democrats to swing it.” Looney turned to O’Sullivan, seated by a table next to a Tiffany-shade lamp, having backed away from its light into darkness. “Mike... join us, would you?”
And Looney gestured to the table.
Slowly, O’Sullivan rose and went to the chair next to Davis. Connor was frowning — having this bodyguard invited to the table where insiders made key decisions, surely galled Looney’s son. But it couldn’t be helped.
“I realize, Mike,” Looney said, “that these socialists stick in your craw.”
O’Sullivan said, “Not up to me, Mr. Looney.”
During the patriotic fever of 1917, socialists like Davenport newspaperman Floyd Dell and his radical writer pal John Reed had led antiwar efforts, preaching peaceful draft resistance and US neutrality. They and other socialists had been treated like traitors by the government.
But along the way, the socialists had become a viable political party, and right now, across the river, Davenport’s mayor was socialist, as were five aldermen and several other elected officials. In Rock Island, the socialists hungered to gain this side of the Mississippi, greedily coveting the mayor’s seat and various city commission seats.
“This has to rub you wrong, Mike,” Looney acknowledged, with a somber shake of his head.
O’Sullivan said nothing.
Connor said, “These socialists are a bunch of blow-hard rabble-rousers! Privileged-class intellectuals who never done an honest day’s work.”
O’Sullivan shrugged. “I can’t disagree with that. But could I ask a question?”
“Of course, Mike,” Looney said. “I want your opinions and advice — that’s why I asked you to sit down with us.”
O’Sullivan leaned forward. “Mr. Looney, surely you can’t respect a bunch of pacifists, who were against the Great War — can you?”