Looney pretended to recognize the cops, saying “Hello, boys,” and reached past them for the knob of the pebbled-glass MAYOR OF ROCK ISLAND door. Davis and O’Sullivan fell in line behind him.
In a firm, not quite threatening manner, the cop nearest the door placed his hand on Looney’s arm. Looney looked up, eyebrows raised, making sure his expression told the man this act was an affront.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, a young pale lad who was probably Irish himself, “but we have instructions that only you are to pass.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Your men here need to stay in the hall. His Honor said to inform you he’s requestin’ a private meeting.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Looney shrugged to his men.
Davis said, “We’ll be right here.”
O’Sullivan said, “You don’t have to take this meeting, John.”
Rarely did O’Sullivan call Looney by his first name; when he did so, it was not out of a lack of respect, rather a show of affection. This was a friend, not a bodyguard, advising him not to go in there.
Looney twitched a pixie smile. “If you hear me holler, boyos, come runnin’.”
“Yes, sir,” Davis said, smiling wide for the first time that evening, and revealing two gold eyeteeth, which even in this dim hallway found light to wink off.
Looney went into the reception area; behind the counter were several desks for the mayor’s secretary and various assistants, all empty at the moment, not surprising for midevening. But leaning against the wall, casually, both smoking cigarettes, in rumpled brown suits that mirrored each other, were two plainclothes men who Looney did recognize — Simmons and Randell. These were the mayor’s personal coppers, his bodyguards, really.
Tough birds.
“Evening, fellas,” Looney said.
“Mr. Looney,” Simmons said, tipping his fedora. He was a big man, six two easily, with a powerful physique, and an impassive homely pockmarked face.
Randell tipped his hat, too, another big man, though only six foot, but beefy; a paunch on him, though his arms were muscular. His face was round and bland with small dark eyes, watermelon seeds stuck in putty.
Looney pushed open the little gate into the private office area, where the two plainclothes men waited, and could feel their gaze on him.
“Should I go on in?” Looney asked, pausing.
“Better knock,” Simmons advised.
And Looney went forward to rap on a pebbled glass door labelled MAYOR HAROLD M. SCHRIVER — PRIVATE.
“Come in!” a deep voice called.
Looney opened the door into the mayor’s large office, its light-green plaster walls hanging with framed diplomas, civic awards, and photographs of the mayor with various dignitaries, local, state, and national. No one could say Harry Schriver had a low opinion of himself.
Along the right wall, as if proof work was done here, were wooden filing cabinets; but snugged against the left wall was a well-worn leather sofa with pillows. The mayor’s desk was central, a massive ancient oak affair, suspiciously free of paperwork — just a phone, an ink blotter, a pen-and-pencil holder, and an ashtray in which a lighted cigar resided, curling smoke. A newspaper, folded, was off to one side.
Shade drawn on the window behind him, in the swivel chair behind the desk, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, sat the would-be Boss Tweed of Rock Island, Illinois.
Stocky Harry Schriver had a disheveled look, due mostly to a pile of graying hair like a pitchfork of straw had been dropped on his head. His eyes were large and dark blue and bulged, giving him a toad-like quality, which his double chin only underscored. His nose and eyes were bloodshot. His Honor obviously did not respect the Volstead Act.
“How kind of you to accept my invitation, John,” Schriver said through a big yellow insincere smile.
Looney, hat in hand, took the visitor’s chair across from the desk; he slipped out of his topcoat — the radiator was working overtime — and draped it over the back of the chair; then he crossed his legs, resting ankle on knee.
The Irish kingpin said, “My pleasure, Harry. I assume you’d like to reopen discussions about our business affairs.”
Schriver’s smile was so tight, his skin seemed about to burst; his eyes had a maniacal gleam. “What’s this I hear about you supporting this goddamn horseshit socialist recall?”
Looney shrugged, gestured mildly. “Well, that’s how America works, Harry. If the people are dissatisfied with their government, they throw the rascals out.”
The smile disappeared, and Schriver waved a thick forefinger at his guest. “The people of Rock Island are behind me. They’re behind me because I’m striking out at lawbreakers like you, Looney!”
Looney merely smiled, folded his arms. “Save your breath, Harry — you’re not out on the campaign stump now. These raids you’ve been having the police make, these charges you’ve been bringing against my people... what can you be thinking of?”
Schriver leaned on an elbow; he withdrew the cigar from the ashtray and puffed it nervously. “I just think Rock Island would be better off without a certain element.”
Looney uncrossed his legs, unfolded his arms; leaned forward. “No, you think you can take over. You think you can run this city and all the vice on top of it. You don’t need a John Looney to oversee things.”
Schriver leaned back, rocking in the swivel chair, cigar jutting. “Maybe I don’t think a city this size needs two bosses.”
“You could be right.” Looney gestured with the homburg. “That’s why I’m throwing my hat in the ring.”
The mayor lurched forward, the cigar almost falling out of his mouth. “What?”
“Well, when you’re recalled, somebody will have to sit behind that desk. Might as well be the one boss this city needs... me own self.”
Schriver turned purple; he grabbed the folded newspaper in both hands and snapped it open for Looney to see — the News, with today’s headline: SCHRIVER’S SHAME, and slightly smaller, NIGHT AND DAY OF FILTHY DEBAUCH IN PEORIA.
“Good to know people in low places,” Looney chuckled. “I have the best sources for tips in the Middle West.”
“These lies stop now,” the mayor said, voice trembling.
Looney drew in a deep breath. Calmly, he said, “This is still America, Mayor Schriver. There’s a little thing called the First Amendment. Freedom of the press.”
Schriver’s upper lip curled back. “There’s a little thing called I don’t give a shit. Boys!”
The door behind him opened, and Looney glanced back to see the two plainclothes dicks enter.
“It’s time,” the mayor said. To them.
Looney frowned, getting up.
The two coppers were climbing out of their suitcoats, letting the garments drop to the floor; their guns were holstered on their hips.
Patting the air, Looney said, “You don’t want to make this mistake, fellas. The likes of the mayor here are a dime a dozen — the John Looneys last a long time.”
“Is that right?” Schriver said, but the voice was next to Looney now. “I think you’ve lasted long enough.”
Looney saw the fist swinging but couldn’t duck, and his thought, his ironic self-mocking thought was, Brass-knuckle business is right, because His Honor was wearing them. The punch shattered Looney’s nose, and he would have gone down on his knees, but the two burly coppers were holding onto him.
Blood running through his mustache into his mouth, Looney half-choked as he asked, “What do you want, Schriver?”
The mayor slammed a fist into Looney’s belly.