“A fair question from a fair man. Do you know the phrase ‘Irish need not apply’?”
“Sure. When I was a kid growing up in Pilsen, I saw signs saying that in the windows of shops that were hiring. Haven’t seen one in years, though.”
“There was a veritable plethora of them when I came over with my folks and my sisters in ’97, you can believe it. I was but seventeen then, and we were church-mouse poor. My father, rest his noble soul, got a job working nights in the Stock Yards, and he was happy as a leprechaun to have it. And I had to go to work, too — school was beyond the question. So I hit the pavement all around the South Side looking for work, and when these butchers and tailors and other shopkeepers heard my brogue, that was it.” He snapped his fingers. “I was out the door without so much as a fare-thee-well.
“Now Snap, as the good Lord is my witness, it’s fair to say I’m as proud of being Irish as the next chap, indeed maybe a shade more so. But we needed money badly, even with my fine father’s salary, so I got rid of the brogue and forced myself to speak ‘American.’ There you are.” He spread his arms.
I nodded. “I remember my mother telling me that my father’s Bohemian accent hurt him early on, too. But he’s still got the accent, and somehow he persisted and finally landed with the streetcar company, our good old Chicago Surface Lines, where he’s been ever since.”
“Good for him,” the Killer said. “I don’t mean to disparage him or the fine Bohemians, but I honestly don’t believe anybody had it as bad as the Irish. There was a lot of hatred back then — worse than it is today, I feel. But we were talking about Dick Daley.”
“Sorry, I get sidetracked easily. So you think the young Daley’s pretty well wired into the Kelly-Nash machine?”
The Killer flipped a hand over. “I didn’t say that — what I said was, Dick is honest. But yes, although he’s pretty young — probably just about your age, I’d say — he’s already had a good lot of experience, and from what little I know, he knows a multitude of well-placed people in the party.”
“Would you give him a call for me?”
“Why not, given that you’re such a loyal patron of this establishment. I can get his number from his folks. Pray tell, what am I supposed to say?”
“Ask him if he’d be willing to talk to me. You don’t have to say what it’s about, or he might get spooked, but tell him I’m prepared to go down to Springfield to talk to him — the Legislature’s in session now. And Killer, make sure he knows that even though I work for the Trib, I vote Democratic. Which happens to be true. By the way, straight ticket in ’36.”
Kilkenny said he’d make the call. And he did. Two days later, he phoned me at home. “Snap, I just got off the line with young Richard in Springfield — and you owe me for that call, by the way. He was a mite suspicious about why some Tribune reporter would want to go and see him, especially when your paper already has a fellow down there covering the State House. That threw me for a second, but I told him you were on a confidential assignment. And I also said you were honest, trustworthy, and a passel of other fine adjectives. You wouldn’t go and make a liar out of me now, would you?”
“Killer, I’ll be on my best behavior. And I owe you. Feed me that Springfield number.”
Three days later, Friday afternoon, I hoofed it the three blocks east from Police Headquarters over to the Illinois Central Station at 12th and Michigan with my small suitcase. I had gotten our evening man, Ellis, to relieve me early so I could catch the 4:45 to Springfield. He couldn’t very well gripe about it, given all the times I’d hung around the pressroom waiting for him to drag in anywhere from ten minutes to a half hour late.
I bought a round trip ticket in the dreary, drafty old waiting room of the depot and went down the stairway to my track. What greeted me looked unlike any train I’d ever seen; it was low and tubular and green, sort of an elongated earthworm with windows, and it had a grille on the front end that must have been copied straight from a ’34 Chrysler Airflow sedan.
“Is this thing safe?” I asked the portly conductor, who stood on the platform whistling “Camptown Races” off-key.
“Safe? Darn tootin’ right it’s safe, son,” he grunted, peering at me over half-glasses. “You mean to say you haven’t seen the Green Diamond before — pride of the Illinois Central line? You been off hibernatin’ someplace like ol’ Rip Van Winkle? The Diamond’s been running better’n two years now.”
He shook his head, as if pitying my ignorance. “Hellfire, son, this is the last word, the smoothest thing on the rails. Rides like you’re floating on air. Is this safe? Huh!”
I felt like I should say something after that spirited defense of the Green Diamond, but I didn’t know what the etiquette is about apologizing to a train, so I grinned sheepishly and climbed aboard. I settled into a window seat and had to admit to myself that I couldn’t even tell when we began to move.
The earthworm picked up speed quickly as we headed south, with Lake Michigan off to the left and apartment buildings on the right. At one place two or three miles south of the station, we were so close to the windows of the flats that I could see a baby bouncing in his playpen on a sun porch and grinning toothlessly as we flew past. He reminded me of the way Peter welcomed me home from work by jumping up and down in his own little barred enclosure when he was a tyke. That had been only ten years ago, but it seemed like a lifetime had passed, and in a sense, it had.
When I had phoned Dick Daley, he wanted to know what I needed to see him about. After I told him I’d rather discuss it in person, he sounded dubious but told me to come ahead, that he’d meet me in the lobby of the St. Nicholas Hotel at nine o’clock, which was fifty minutes after the train was due to arrive in Springfield.
And the earthworm arrived exactly on time. “Told you it rode smooth, didn’t I, son?” the conductor said as I swung off onto the platform.
“You did, and you were right. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I’ll even ride it back to Chicago tomorrow,” I answered.
He chuckled as I headed off in the direction of the St. Nicholas a few blocks away, enjoying a spring warmth that hadn’t yet arrived farther north. I checked in and splashed water on my face in my room, which was plain but clean. At 5 before 9:00, I went down to the lobby and saw a guy with a well-fitting suit and slicked-down hair standing near the front door. He had clean-cut written all over him.
“Richard Daley?” I asked.
He nodded somberly. “You’re Mr. Malek?”
“Steve Malek,” I said, sticking out a hand, which he gripped firmly. “Thanks for taking the time to see me tonight.”
“Time is something I got right now,” he said in a slightly husky Chicago voice. “I try to get home weekends, but I got a special committee meeting tomorrow, so I’m stuck here until the end of next week.”
“Can I buy you a drink someplace?”
“I’d rather just take a walk,” he answered. “I walk a lot nights when I’m down here.”
I said that was fine with me, and we stepped out into the mild evening air. It was refreshing being without a topcoat. I let Daley set the course, which took us through the streets of downtown Springfield and over into the area around the domed State Capitol.
“You know, I’ve lived in Chicago all my life,” I told him, “and I’ve never been here before. We were supposed to come down on a class trip when I was in school, but there was a scarlet fever epidemic, so it got canceled.”
“I enjoy it,” Daley said off-handedly. “When I walk around at night, the streets are quiet, peaceful, and I think it must have been a lot like this when Lincoln was here himself, before he went to Washington. He walked these same streets, past some of these same houses.”