The first speaker, Harry McCaskrin, a stocky mustached fellow in bowler and topcoat, had a mild appearance but shook his fists in the air, spouting gloriously invective oratory as he railed against the corruption of the mayor’s office, along the way praising the efforts of the editor of the News.
“Without the endeavors of John Looney,” McCaskrin said, nostrils wide, “Rock Island would be a Midwestern Gomorrah!”
Only half-listening to this as he threaded through the receptive crowd of mostly working-class joes in their caps and coats and heavy work shoes, Connor Looney — in a tan camel’s hair topcoat and green Stetson fedora that a month’s pay from any of these hicks wouldn’t cover — smiled, well aware that everything the mayor was being accused of, Connor’s father could match sin for sin.
Cheers and applause met McCaskrin’s attacks, and fliers demanding the mayor’s recall were circulated by Looney’s news boys, some “boys” as old as Connor. The body odor of these lowlifes got to him after a while, and he paused in his efforts — looking for the Looney shills in the crowd, to encourage them on — to have a smoke on the edges of this madness. Leaning against a feedstore window, he watched as McCaskrin bellowed — these orators could really work up a head of steam — and reflected on the brief conversation between his pop and himself, right before Connor headed over here.
Did the Old Man really think Connor could find an over-the-hill floozie like Helen Van Dale attractive? Sure, by some men’s standards, the Van Dale dame still had it; a shape, a nice face, a sassy manner that a guy might go for.
Personally, Connor found it repellent to be with a woman older than himself, and was repulsed by the idea of being with a woman who’d borne a child. To him, only the budding beauties of the early teenage years really appealed. He was no pervert: he wouldn’t be with a girl under, say, twelve.
That was about right, he thought, just as they were becoming women — flat chests, round little bottoms, innocent faces, tiny flappers in the making. Such living dolls were his passion; were, in fact, the only females he could achieve excitement over.
Helen Van Dale knew that, and she kept her eye out for him, when a new young thing came on the market. She saved such morsels for Connor, and she never charged him a dime — out of respect. Connor realized Helen knew which side of the bread the butter went on: that he would one day be the boss of the Tri-Cities, and she had best keep him happy.
And he would rule from Looney’s Roost one day, though it galled him to see his father cater to that underling, Mike O’Sullivan. No question Mike was a good guy and a real top hand with a gun. But the man was Shanty Irish trash, and Connor was blood.
Sometimes he just couldn’t figure his pop — bad enough Mike had been invited to sit at the conference table in the library; must his pop treat that nigger Davis like an equal? Connor understood the coloreds were good customers, and he knew, too, the likes of Davis had connections that were useful.
But his father let that nigger drive for him — was seen in public with him! And the one time Connor had found the nerve to complain about it to the Old Man, a slap had been his reward. That’s what he got, for showing an interest in the family business! The Old Man talked about wanting Connor to be more involved, to think, to express ideas, and then when he did? A fucking slap, like Connor was some whore!
A hat was being passed around now — to finance the recall of Mayor Schriver — and between the Looney goons in the crowd, and the strong pro-Looney, anti-Schriver sentiment in this hooping and hollering riffraff, Connor felt sure no fool would try to make off with that money.
As he studied the throng, Connor noted here and there a pocket of better-dressed, obviously educated folk — teachers, lawyers, clerics, doctors — who were likely among the instigators of this socialist flapdoodle. It bothered him that his father would go along with such traitors.
As his eyes were drifting idly over the crowd, he stopped on a familiar figure — a young man of about eighteen, in a shabby shirt and loose pants and shoes patched with tape. He recognized the boy, who had a distinctive birthmark on one cheek, though he didn’t know the lad’s name.
A week ago, the kid had cornered Connor, who’d been seated alone with a beer in a back booth at the Java House.
The boy had stood before Connor, his face dirty, his light blue eyes wide, his upper lip pulled back over blackened teeth. On his left cheek was a disgusting brown birthmark bristling with little hairs, shaped like a fat C.
“I know what you did to my sister,” he said.
“What? Go away.”
“She went to work for Mrs. Van Dale. She had to do it. We didn’t have no money. She didn’t ask my mama, she just run off... She come back last week, cryin’. With stories about what Mr. Looney’s son did to her... in her... her backside.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“You have a dirty mouth, mister.”
“Well, you’re just plain dirty, kid. Beat it!”
“Does your papa know what you do to young girls? Maybe the Argus would pay to know. Maybe Mayor Schriver would.”
“...You want money?”
“No! I want to get even for Colleen! You’re a bad man, mister. Maybe I’ll catch up with you again someday.”
But as the boy stood on the edge of the crowd, he merely seemed to be watching the speaker as McCaskrin riled up the rabble further. Or was this kid here to shadow Connor? To take some stupid hick hayseed revenge upon him?
And now Connor had a new mission for the night. He would keep an eye on the kid. Maybe follow him home, to whatever hovel he’d crawled out of — in Greenbush, maybe, or some shoddy farm. If the kid went to the mayor or the Argus, that would be embarrassing.
Connor might even get slapped again.
“Mayor Schriver,” the speaker was yelling, “is a disease in human form — and he must be eliminated!”
The crowd roared, fists raised, shaking at the sky.
What a buncha rubes, Connor thought, eyes on the boy.
The city hall, which included the police station, was at Third Avenue and Sixteenth Street, a block away from Market Square. The massive three-story brick building, formerly an armory built in the late 1800s, had a one-story jail annex. Because of the rally, Emeal Davis dropped John Looney and Mike O’Sullivan in front, and drove off in search of a parking place.
As they waited, Looney — dapper in a dark topcoat and black homburg — said to his trusted lieutenant, “Maybe His Honor will listen to reason.”
“Maybe,” O’Sullivan said.
It was just cold enough for their breaths to plume. They could hear, like nearby explosions, the applause and cheers at the rally.
“Maybe,” Looney said, “we won’t even have to throw in with these damn socialists.”
“Not my business, sir.”
Looney put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “How I wish I had a thousand of you.” But he was thinking, How I wish I had one son like you.
Then Davis returned, saying he’d got ten lucky two blocks down, and John Looney took the lead with Davis and O’Sullivan right behind him. The police station was on the bottom floor, and the entryway fed a short flight of stairs on either side down to the police area, while a wide central stairway went up to the offices of the city government.
The mayor’s office was on the third floor; Looney and his two men walked up the metal-plated stairs, their feet making pinging sounds. After hours, free of most employees, the building had a disconcerting stillness, but for some police-station bustle floating up, hollowly. Their footsteps echoed like gunshots off the marble floor; down at the end of the hall, where the mayor’s corner suite of offices waited, two uniformed coppers stood guard.