P.S. (9 page)

Harold Washington was to become our first black Mayor in the country’s most segregated northern city. After an unprecedented brutal campaign, he was easily reelected. A great many white voters were impressed that the trains ran on time and the garbage was picked up regularly.

Let’s continue with Janus, the god of two faces. I worked with both sides of that Janus. One was my raffish colleague Vincent De Paul Garrity and the other was my sound engineer Frank Tuller. They represented all of Janus I needed to know, Chicago clout and innocents.

SQUINTY - EYED THROUGH THICK - LENSED GLASSES. Short, squat, with intimations of a potbelly. No Robert Redford, this one. So what? He was a celebrity in his hometown. It’s what he had in mind from the very first: that summer night so long, long ago—was it 1937?—when he, a face in the crowd, hopped onto the running board of FDR’s open car as it came off the Outer Drive, newly built and dedicated. Sure, the Secret Service men handled him roughly. At first. Then they came to know him. And who didn’t? As he wistfully recalled: “I thought it was time the president met Vincent De Paul Garrity.”

Sure, he was batboy for the Cubs. But that wasn’t it. Sure, he was office boy to Big Ed Kelly, the Daley of the day. But that wasn’t it. God Almighty, he even knew Walter Winchell. But that wasn’t it, either.

Every man is Parsifal, seeking the Holy Grail. For Vince,
to be known
was not quite the ultimate meaning of life, but it was close enough. He went along with Ecclesiastes: To everything there is a purpose under Heaven. To be known for its own sake was not quite what this pilgrim, traveling through this world of woe, had in mind. Any clod seen often enough on the tube or heard over the airwaves, day to day, can achieve that. Consider Zsa Zsa Gabor, Merv Griffin, Howard Miller, or any humpty-dumpty, Mr. or Mrs., you’d care to name. Any clod can achieve that through well-publicized scandal. Consider Clifford Irving. Any clod can make it truly big as a “world statesman” in this nutty society, fused to a sudden, crazy event thousands of miles away: the Sino-Soviet Era of Hard Feeling.
Consider Henry Kissinger, Peter Sellers’s most deadly deft mimic.

No, what Vince had in mind was wholly something else. He was determined to be known to every cop, every ambulance chaser, every city hall coat holder, as well as those whose coats were held, every hood, no matter how large or small his enterprise, every judge (not Supreme Court member, no, no, none o’ that; just the hardworking pie card, whose hard work—bringing in the sheaves—landed him, by virtue of this virtue, on the municipal court bench instead of in the defendant’s dock) and the sundry other worthies who have helped make this Frank Sinatra’s kind of town. And he was so known.

Unlike most red-blooded American boys, Vince did not want to grow up to be president. He didn’t even want to be mayor. All he wanted to be was another Paddy Nash, “the power behind the t’rone” in the days of Big Ed. Not in Washington, D.C. No, no, none o’ that. Just here, in the true Fat City, bearing a wild Potawatomi name. His devout wish was to be known for one glory purpose: to be the ultimate clout on his own turf. And in some wondrous cockeyed way, he succeeded. At least in one memorable instance.

Much has been written of the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. And the Big Dumpling’s lack of élan. Little has been written of the 1952 Republican Convention in Chicago. And the Little Dumpling’s exquisite display of élan. Vince De Paul Garrity admired Richard J. Daley, as Little invariably admires Big. Yet, the worshipped, in this instance, was much more hip to the religion of clout than his idol. By a country mile.

Historians, political scientists, and distinguished journalists may have written about that convention. But what do they know of the way of the world? Did Teddy White chronicle
that one, too? Dusty, dull, and pedestrian, all of them. What do they know of the comic art of clout? What do they know of the fine and lively art of Vincent De Paul Garrity?

To begin. Red Quinlan, the most original and imaginative of Chicago television executives, was, at the time, station manager of WBKB, an affiliate of ABC. Derring-do was Red’s most singular and endearing attribute. While TV executives, not just here but throughout our promised land, were ciphers, superfluous in swivel chairs, Red risked. He made errors, the kind a wide-ranging shortstop, say Marty Marion, was impelled to make. Hiring Vince for this one occasion was not one of them.

To refresh the memories of those old enough—and to offer unrecorded history for the newer people, who assume the world began with themselves—the American Broadcasting Company won every award in the books—Peabodies and et ceteras—for its coverage of the 1952 convention. Its most celebrated recipients were John Daly and Martin Agronsky, the commentators. Know who
really
won it for ABC, though he was, of course, accorded no such recognition? Vince. He was truly “the power behind the t’rone.”

An explanation is in order. Red Q decided to put Vince on the ABC payroll for the express purpose of easing the way for the network’s visiting firemen, whose faces and voices were so familiar on the TV screen, but who knew from zero about the city they were visiting. Vince knew, not in spades, perhaps, but in blue. He knew every cop who stood guard at the amphitheater, the convention’s arena. What’s more to the point, they all knew him.

So it was Vince who advised the officer at the press gate or mass media gate, or whatever it was called: “Watch me for the high sign. If I shake my head, don’t let ’em in. Got it?”

“Got it, Vince. Whatever you say.”

It came to pass that H. V. Kaltenborn, NBC’s most renowned pundit, accompanied by his producer and assorted gofers, was barreling toward the gate in an NBC special limousine. As is the wont of such Eastern hotshots working the benighted hinterlands, the air was one of towering confidence and, by its very nature, of cool contempt toward the natives. A card was flashed, en passant. But the Red Sea did not part. The cop said, “Just a minute.”

“We’re NBC,” somebody said, clarion clear.

“I said just a minute.”

The officer turned away. He was peering, it appeared, at somebody several yards distant. Somebody short, squat, and squinty-eyed. He waited for a sign. After what seemed an appropriate passage of time, the mysterious figure slowly, and with an air of dolor, shook its head.

“Sorry,” murmured the man in uniform. “Can’t get in.”

“Are you crazy?” A caterwaul in Manhattan nasal. “We’re the National Broadcasting Company! And that’s
H. V. Kaltenborn
back there!”

“I don’t care if it’s Gabby Hartnett. Ya can’t get in.”

“We
must
! He’s got an important interview with Senator Taft’s campaign manager. Can’t you read our credentials? N—B—C!”

“I can read. Move to one side, please.”

Another limo was pulling in. Again, the indolent, languorous flash of a card.

“Just a minute.”

“Just a minute? We’re
CBS
!”

The gentleman in blue turned away. Again, he peered toward the short, squat, squinty-eyed body several yards distant. After what seemed an appropriate passage of time, the
mysterious figure slowly, and with an air of dolor, shook its head.

“Sorry. Ya can’t get in.”

“Are you crazy?” Another caterwaul—this one in Scarsdale nasal.

“We’re the
Columbia Broadcasting System
. Do you know who’s sitting back there?
Ed Murrow and Eric Sevareid
!”

“I don’t care if it’s Luke Appling and Art Shires. Ya can’t get in.”

“We
must
! We’ve got an important interview with Eisenhower’s campaign manager. Can’t you read our credentials?
C—B—S
!”

“I can read. Move to one side, please.”

Another important-looking car was pulling in. Again, a card flashed. The policeman turned away. Once more, he looked for guidance. This time, the short, squat, squinty-eyed man of mystery nodded. Determinedly, quickly.

“Okay, sir. Sorry for the delay.”

The car whizzed by.

Thus it was that ABC scooped its two rivals, again and again and again, during that remarkable convention of 1952. And it was duly honored with plaques and plenty of adulatory ink. It is not that John Daly and Martin Agronsky deserved these tributes less, but that Vincent De Paul Garrity deserved them more.

There’s the story of Taft conceding the nomination to Ike, via ABC. As Vince passed it on to me, it went something like this:

Taft is staying at the Congress Hotel. Or is it the Blackstone? Vince and an engineer, fully equipped, get off at the senator’s floor. They are grabbed by Secret Service men.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“To see the senator.”

As Vince and his colleague are shoved toward the button and “down” is pressed by a hammy hand, he loudly proclaims. Though his voice carries through the corridors, the announcement is casually offered. Its import is thunderous.

Vince’s conversation was always offered in the manner of a proclamation. Except during those moments when he whispered state secrets conspiratorially, hand cupped to mouth—arcane mumblings I never at any time understood.

He never did tell me.

To the Secret Service men, one of whom has him by the collar: “You know who’s waitin’ to talk to Senator Taft on the other end? Cardinal Stritch.”

The heavy hand falls away. “Stay right here.”

In a moment, one of the SS men returns. A touch of apology. “Okay, go right in.”

In the senator’s room, whatever needs hooking up is hooked up; the telephone is beeped. The senator, stiff and formal, is ready. On the other end is John Daly of ABC. Another coup. As Vince later explains it: “John Daly’s Catholic.”

Consider this Vincentian tale of the same affair. He, Vincent De Paul Garrity, is experiencing some difficulty getting into the amphitheater on the night of Ike’s acceptance speech. The members of the Secret Service are, for some reason, less than appreciative of Vince’s stick-to-itiveness. So he does what comes naturally. He bedecks himself in the uniform of a Chicago policeman. “I was the shortest cop in the history of the force.” He finds himself on the platform. Of course, Ike is in the wings, awaiting the moment.

Do you understand that moment? There is always an anticipatory ten seconds or so, when nobody is quite sure what to do. The nominee is nervous, clutching the papers in his hand, waiting. The network commentators whisper softly, reverently waiting. Millions of Americans are watching, waiting. All is sweaty pomp. Suddenly, there appears on the TV screens, coast to coast, a singularly short, squat, squinty-eyed, bespectacled policeman, leading by the arm a bewildered, baldheaded national hero—toward the ABC microphone. Of course.

Huge figures grab at the cop; he is spirited off the screens. That he is unceremoniously booted out of the hall is of small matter. A friendly member of the local constabulary spirits him back in, so he—seemingly just another face in the crowd—may taste the fruits of his existential heroism.

History may indicate that General Eisenhower, in the year
1952, made his acceptance speech, haltingly, perhaps, but muddling through, into a microphone on which are writ large the letters
ABC
. Where did Teddy White chronicle that? Do any of those pundits know what time it is?

If you think the above anecdotes are apocryphal, you and I, dear reader, must part company. True, my sole source was Vincent De Paul Garrity himself. Nor will I deny that, at times, he did engage in flights of fancy. I’d be among the doubting Thomases, too, were it not for the fact that Vince and I worked together for two memorable years.

It was a post-midnight radio program,
Sounds of the City
. It was conceived by the diabolical Red Quinlan. Only a spirit with the soul of a freebooter, gloriously so, would bracket Vincent De Paul Garrity and me. As a mutual friend of times gone by, Chet Roble, reflected: “What a quinella!”

It was a two-hour compote, free form. Our challenge was to capture the after-hours life of this city. Sometimes I worked in the studio, interviewing a writer, perhaps, or One-Arm Cholly, the Mayor of Bughouse Square, or a small-time bird of prey (usually escorted into the studio by Vince as “our wonderful lifelong buddy”). Often there were beeped phone calls to anonymous heroes and heroines: a currency exchange clerk who pressed the alarm button, thus saving his employer fifty thousand dollars.

Most often, Vince was elsewhere: on the roof of city hall (how he got there was no business of mine); at the scene of a
robbery, no more than thirty seconds after it occurred (how he got there was no business of mine; when I’d ask, the index figure of his right hand tugged ever so slightly at his right eyelid); with a night-shift bridge tender; with an ecdysiast, whom he grandly led into the studio as “the best dancer since Irene Castle.” And when he called in with late news, he would offer it in truly Vincentian fashion: “Ya know who just died?” He’d name an octogenarian banker, intone a soulful eulogy, and add: “Now for some
sad
news. A small boy was hit by a truck on Ashland Av’noo . . .”