“Where to?” the wide-eyed young cop behind the wheel asked.
“St. Anthony’s Hospital,” O’Sullivan said.
Unaware that his wife was already a patient there.
Four
The riot outside city hall ended only when the police began to fire volley after volley into the mob.
How the coppers had held up so long was anybody’s guess — shots fired over their heads, bricks breaking windows, stones tossed their way. Such dangerous indignities could not forever be withstood.
But they did not fire spontaneously — they waited for Captain Doherty’s orders, which were to shoot to wound, and thanks to the captain’s caution, not one of the rioters was killed, although around twenty did go down bleeding. One malcontent climbed a pole and tried to cut an electric line, presumably to plunge the building into darkness, but a police shot picked him off, an arc light coming down with him, sputtering to the crowd in a shower of sparks.
Finally the mob dispersed, hauling away their casualties into the downtown. There they lingered, however, roaming and occasionally looting. But by dawn Market Square and the block between it and city hall were deserted, albeit resembling a battle field — spent shells, bricks, rocks, shards of glass, chunks of wood, strewn like ominous refuse.
The next morning, the governor — receiving a call not from Chief Cox but from the sheriff — declared martial law and six hundred militia from Galesburg, Monmouth, Sterling, and Geneseo poured in, mobilizing at the Rock Island Armory. Public speeches and meetings were forbidden — groups on the street could be no larger than two. For several days, these uniformed soldiers patrolled the streets with rifle in hand.
But this cavalry arrived after the fact, the rioters long gone. Schriver’s police raided speakeasies and bawdy houses, and thirty-four arrests were made. The opening gun of this “clean-up campaign” was closing down the Rock Island News on charges of “indecency,” with eighteen employees, mostly newsboys, arrested.
Mayor Schriver’s efforts to quell John Looney’s power of the press were, ironically, seriously undercut by the other Tri-Cities papers — even the archenemy Argus.
His face bruised and decorated with bandages, including one around his head that brought to mind the Spirit of ’76, John Looney — midmorning of the day after — held court in his hospital gown from his bed in a private room at St. Anthony’s, in the modern wing his money had largely made possible. His eyes almost swollen shut, the publisher of the Rock Island News clearly wasn’t faking.
An armed bodyguard, Emeal Davis, was posted outside the door; and at Looney’s bedside sat the patient’s son, Connor, solemn and dressed in black, as if his father had passed away (despite the man’s presence next to him). Already the place was filled with flowers; to Connor Looney, it was more like sitting in the winner’s circle at the Kentucky Derby than the sick room of a guy who just got the shit kicked out of him.
But Connor was impressed by the crowd his old man had drawn. In addition to the Argus, Moline Dispatch, and Davenport Democrat, reporters had come from as far away as the Register in Des Moines and the Trib in Chicago, driving through the night to get to the scene of a riot that would be reported ’round the world.
“I realize, gentlemen,” Looney said through bruised lips, his battered condition well-suited to his melodramatic tone, “that some of us have had our little differences.”
Differences like calling the editor of the Argus insane, in print, Connor thought, managing not to smile.
“The beating I received at the hands of the mayor,” Looney was saying, “shows the disregard this evil mountebank has for freedom of speech, freedom of the press. The bedrock of our nation.”
“Three people died, Mr. Looney,” a young Democrat scribe said. “Including a police officer, killed by a stray bullet through a window. Surely you don’t condone the actions of these rioters.”
Looney shifted in the cranked-up bed. “Two citizens also died, when the police recklessly fired their guns into a crowd that had assembled because news had spread of my kidnapping and assault. These brave, foolhardy souls ran to my rescue, and I love them for it, even when their judgment failed them. Remember, some two dozen suffered gunshot wounds from police volleys, or so I am told.”
An Argus reporter asked, “Will you continue to lobby for the mayor’s recall? Do you still intend to run yourself?”
“My newspaper has been unlawfully shut down,” Looney said. “And until I have my constitutional freedom of speech restored, I can lobby for nothing. That said, I understand the sheriff’s office is opening an investigation into graft and corruption in the Schriver administration.”
A Davenport Daily Times man pressed, “Do you or don’t you intend to run for mayor?”
“No. And I never did. I appreciate the enthusiasm of my many friends and supporters in Rock Island... but I frankly don’t know how that rumor ever got started... In fact, I will be leaving Rock Island very soon, to recuperate from these injuries at my ranch in New Mexico.”
The Argus reporter dared to ask, “You don’t mean to say that the mayor is driving you out of town, Mr. Looney?”
Looney pointed a trembling finger. “Young man, he has threatened to kill me on sight. Ask him about that. And see if Harry Schriver dares deny that, while his men pinned back my arms, he brutally bestowed this beating upon me.”
A reporter from the Tri-Cities Worker asked, “Is the talk true that one of your associates, Michael O’Sullivan, rescued you from an almost certain death?”
Looney managed a smile. “If you remove the word ‘almost,’ my friend, your statement will be more accurate. And you all know that as publisher of the News I insist upon accuracy to the finest detail.”
Connor, watching smiles blossom across the little press conference, wasn’t sure whether his father was kidding.
“We’d like to talk to Mike O’Sullivan,” the reporter persisted.
Raising a hand like the pope passing a benediction, Looney said, “I’m sorry, no. Mr. O’Sullivan has other more important matters on his mind and hands, at the moment.”
The Dispatch reporter asked, “More important than the welfare of his employer?”
“Much more, gentlemen. While we have been having our little fun, over these long hours, Mrs. Michael O’Sullivan has been doing God’s work — delivering into this cruel city a sweet young citizen.”
Connor did his best not to betray the nausea he felt, when his father coughed up such sentimental phlegm. As if the world needed another Shanty Irish brat. As if the existence of another O’Sullivan mattered a whit, in the great scheme of things.
Getting to his feet, Connor said, “That’s all, gents — my father needs his rest. You have your story. We appreciate you stopping by.”
And Connor rounded them up and guided them out.
At his father’s bedside, Connor stood and said, “We need to get you out of here, toot sweet, Pop. Before Schriver has a warrant sworn out, on one trumped-up charge or another.”
Looney touched his son’s hand; the battered face beamed. “You do care about your old man, don’t you, my boy?”
“I do, Pop. You know I do.”
And as his father gazed up at him through loving if slitted, puffy eyes, Connor Looney felt a rush of emotion. He did love his father, and his father loved him. Neither one of them was perfect, Connor thought. But then neither was this fucking world.