Chicago

  Dedication

  To the memory of J.M.

  370th Infantry 1917–1919

  St. Mihiel, Soissons

  Chicago Police Department

  1924–1953

  Epigraph

  . . . Til upon thine Inland Sea

  Stands CHICAGO great and free;

  Turning all the world to thee,

  Illinois Illinois.

  —Charles H. Chamberlin, 1898

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Two Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  The Retirement Party Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by David Mamet

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Parlow and Mike sat quiet in the duck blind. A camouflage screen of marsh grass and twigs had been set before them; the blind itself was five feet deep, dug into the soft earth, and lined with discarded lumber. The day was dry, and the blind was dry.

  Parlow and Mike half-rested against the blind’s lip. Parlow was by far the better hunter; Mike came for the company and a day in the air.

  Parlow faced west, and Mike east. The wind was out of the west, but the chances were even: they might come in on the wind, or they might turn into the wind to land. Fifteen decoys bobbed in the marsh before them. “No, they might come from anywhere,” Mike thought. It was a joy for him to be in the winter sun.

  “I am jealous, yes, of others’ success,” Parlow said, “but I never envied anyone’s achievement.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mike said.

  “Some swine made more money than I,” Parlow said. “Sold a story to Harper’s, fooled a critic—there are those,” he said, “who fall with the right side up, and, thereverafter, whoever sees them, thinks, that fella looks like ‘Heads.’ You know them names. Edmond Harper Gaines, Lucille Brandt Williams, anybody with three names. Read the review, choke down the prose, of what in the world was the Reading Public thinking?

  “No, it’s not impossible that culture is a field. Of good or bad potential, but capable, presumably, of bringing forth some fruit. What does it require to promote growth . . . ?”

  “Shit,” Mike said.

  “It requires manure,” Parlow said, “animal or vegetable.”

  “Write it up for the Little Review,” Mike said.

  “I sent them my article on the Prairie school of architecture,” Parlow said.

  “And?”

  “They wrote they were considering it, and I found myself ashamed. But fuck it; it all comes from the Japanese. Those who have seen that Land of Cherry Blossoms; who have inhaled the mixed, suggestive fragrances of that ancient land; for those, e’en the unquenchable longing to return is small price to pay for having witnessed it.”

  “The longing to return could, conceivably, be quenched if you got on a fucking boat,” Mike said.

  “Who’s got the time?” Parlow said. “And then there’s seasickness.”

  “What did you like best about Japan?” Mike asked.

  “Diminutive women, reasonably priced,” Parlow said. “What makes the world go round? The world’s like a hamster wheel, revolves as the motive force runs against it. The world goes around, as everyone is running in the wrong direction.”

  “And, of course, over there,” Mike said, “they’ve got the direction wrong.”

  “What a terrible thing to say,” Parlow said. “Why would their direction be wrong?”

  “Because they’re in the Southern Hemisphere,” Mike said.

  “Japan,” Parlow said, “lies in the same latitude as Cleveland. Didn’t you read my book?

  “That fucking book, speaking of envy, was on the short short list for a Most Prestigious Literary Prize,” Parlow said.

  “What impeded your reception of it? Evil forces?” Mike said.

  “I attribute the injustice to a public gorged on accounts of the fire, the earthquake, the waterspout, and the tidal wave, now grown inured, and uninterested in the mundane but necessary work of reconstruction,” Parlow said.

  “You should have come home sooner,” Mike said.

  “My God, you’re right,” Parlow said.

  Parlow had come home in the spring of ’24. He’d taken a six-month leave from the City Desk and gone to Japan. Four days from the end of his leave the earthquake struck, and Parlow was the Man on the Ground. When the wires were, though intermittently, restored, he filed with the Tribune.

  The competition, with several hundred journalists bidding for wire time, restricted Parlow to the barest facts. They would, he knew, be colored, shaped, and inflated by Rewrite. That was reporting, and that was his job. But he wanted to write not just the facts, but the story of the tragedy.

  At the end of the earthquake, when the tally showed one hundred thousand dead, and, as Parlow said, “That’s the score,” most reporters came home. Many wrote magazine pieces and books. But Parlow stayed on through the first efforts of reorganization and rebuilding. He took the boat home one half year after the disaster. He assumed, correctly, that all would have heard the story of the quake; and he, himself, was sick of it. So he wrote about rebuilding, and sanitation, and architecture, which had been his study before the War. Nobody bought his book.

  “That’s the reason it didn’t sell,” Mike had said. “Here’s what you should have wrote: A young naval ensign, call him Yoji, is in love with the poor but lovely daughter of a traditional Japanese craftsman. Let’s make him a potter. The hills out beyond his traditional rice-paper shack, alone in all the soil of Japan, bear that clay, renowned through the ages, from which and which alone Japanese emperors have caused to have fashioned the ceremonial bowls, which . . .”

  Parlow’s eyes narrowed as he heard them. Mike squinted, and could just make them out: four of them, in echelon, coming left to right, low and fast. The left was Parlow’s side. And Parlow waited, admirably, until, as Mike thought, the right instant, which was just before “too late.” He stood, swung through the lead duck, dropped it, and dropped the second. Mike shot behind the third duck, then the fourth was flying away, out of range, and Mike shot again, knowing the shot was pointless.

  Parlow’s birds had folded up and fallen like stones. They were some forty yards out in the marsh. Parlow was already levering himself out of the blind. He passed the shotgun to Mike and waded out. “Well, he heard them first,” Mike thought. “I lost my hearing to a radial engine; and he’s a much much better shot. He’s a good shot.”

  Parlow looked awkward as he waded out, the water up to his waist. He was of medium height, stockily built, round-faced and balding. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, smoked an
ancient bulldog pipe, and affected in winter tweed, and in summer cream linen suits.

  He and Mike were of an age, and of the same height, but any witness would have described Mike as the taller.

  They walked back at sunset, along the Fox River to the Fox River Hunting Club. Outside the door Mike turned back.

  “Ain’t it grand?” he said.

  “What?” Parlow said.

  Mike waved one forefinger around the horizon, taking in the beautiful low vista, the marsh, and the lowering day.

  The club was just a small cabin purchased and moved from a tourist camp. There was room for a woodstove and two cots. Every inch of the walls held hooks. The hooks were salvaged cast iron, wooden pegs, tips or racks of antlers, and nails. They held hunting gear, waders, coats, hats, shooting bags, game bags, dog leashes, duck straps. Strings of cheap, farmer-made decoys were hung on the walls. Two magnificent carved mergansers sat on a window ledge.

  As Parlow and Mike entered the cabin, the local boy was tending the stove. He was a redheaded Pole, fifteen years old and broad as a barn. Parlow held up the duck strap and said, “You want to do eight?” The boy smiled and took the strap from Parlow. The ducks were threaded through the loops in the strap by their feet.

  “Hang this against the wall,” Parlow said, “and you’ve got a peachy painting by some Dutch guy, got sick of the rain, painted dead birds.”

  “Lot of people, loop ’em in by their heads,” the boy said.

  “I always thought that monstrous,” Parlow said.

  The boy took the ducks and started out back, to the shed, where he would clean and dress them.

  “How many you want? One? Two?” Parlow called. “Keep two, you greedy son of a bitch, why don’t you grow up?”

  The boy had dressed the ducks, and wrapped the breasts in butcher paper.

  The owner of the Tokio bowed Parlow and Mike in at the restaurant door. Parlow handed him the large brown-paper parcel and spoke to him in Japanese.

  The owner accepted the parcel in two outstretched hands, and bowed his unworthiness for such a gift. He and Parlow exchanged a few ceremonial phrases. Mike said, “Knock it off, I need a drink.

  “These son of a bitches,” Mike said, “you can’t help but love ’em, kicked the ass of the tsar.”

  “So what?” Parlow said.

  “Well, they get credit for the win,” Mike said.

  The owner brought them a teapot and two coffee cups. The teapot was full of bad scotch. Parlow poured their cups full. A waiter scurried in from the kitchen, holding a tray. The tray held two small bowls of soup. He put the soup in front of the two men and bowed himself away from the table. He passed into the kitchen as a young woman was coming out. They exchanged a word, at which, Mike saw, Parlow smiled. The young woman passed their table, and all nodded their courtesy. She continued, through the small dining room, to her post at the cash, and the boy spoke to her again.

  Mike pointed back at the kitchen. “What’d that kid say?” he said.

  “Something in Japanese,” Parlow said.

  It was, of course, something to do with Parlow and the young woman. Her name was Yuniko, she seemed to be somewhere between eighteen and thirty-five. She had been Parlow’s mistress since his return from Japan.

  Parlow nodded in the direction of the girl, who smiled and hid her face behind her hand. “I believe,” he said, “that, at some point, that point following close upon the conclusion of our meal, I will absent myself from Felicity awhile, and spend the evening with a friend.”

  “Who’s this Felicity?” Mike said.

  “No, I shall never kiss and tell,” Parlow said. “But you, I know, are yourself not unacquainted with the Biological Imperative.”

  “Oh, my,” Mike said.

  “I have offended you,” Parlow said. “You think that your love is pristine, while mine must savor of more earthly things. Is that it, is that the thing?”

  “She’s out of town,” Mike said.

  “. . . The Irish girl?” Parlow said.

  “The Irish girl, yes.”

  Parlow shook his head at the vagaries of an uncertain world.

  “Well, there you have it,” he said. “Poor fellow. Puts me in mind of the old tale, young swain, dying of love. Love is denied him, standard-issue cruel father, whisked her away. Young swain fashions her image out of straw—”

  “Why’d he whisk her away?” Mike said.

  “‘Match unsuitable. Details to follow. Send collect.’ Image made of straw. Spends his last few coins on finery, dresses the straw image up. He worships it. Girl? Pines away. ‘How can you be so cruel, O Father?’ Father relents. Brings the girl home, ‘You want him so much, go have him.’ They return. The young swain has just been beheaded for worshipping idols.”

  “Did this take place?” Mike said.

  “Too good to check,” Parlow said. “Also, where is your sense of poetry?”

  “They took her,” Mike said, “to Wisconsin.”

  “No, that’s unfortunate,” Parlow said.

  Mike’s girl had gone away for the weekend, taken, by her parents, to Milwaukee.

  All knew she was too old to be forced into the excursion, but she went. And it was not necessary to pronounce the actual reason for her sentence.

  Mike was lonely.

  The City Room was quiet. The bulldog edition had been put to bed, and most of the men were down in the Sally Port, drinking from relief, or from fatigue, or from habit, or for the hell of it. Mike had decided “to make the Great Hegira,” as Parlow had once put it, and join them.

  The Hegira involved levering oneself away from the desk, the appurtenant bottle, and the company of the reporters, and descending those four stories to the Sally Port, there to imbibe much the same hooch, in quite the same company.

  As he put on his coat, he gazed absently at a proof tacked to the wall. It read:

  . . . missing from the armory of the National Guard are seventy-five .45-caliber Thompson guns, two hundred fifty Colt 1911 .45 pistols, and twelve thousand rounds of .45 cal. ammunition. Packed with each submachine gun were: one instruction manual; two stick magazines, capacity twenty rounds; one drum magazine, capacity fifty rounds; a canvas carrying case, and a sling; and a rudimentary cleaning kit.

  Mike muttered, “Yeah, okay . . . ,” and started downstairs to the speakeasy.

  He had often thought that the stories told at the bar were far superior to those printed in the rag. He had often expressed this view, and been hooted down for it.

  “What do you think they’re paying us for?” Crouch had said.

  “Man bites dog,” Mike had said.

  “Bullshit,” Crouch said. “Man bites dog is too interesting to be news.”

  “Then what is news?” Mike said.

  “News,” Crouch said, “is that which makes its consumer self-important, angry, or sufficiently whatever the hell to turn to page twelve, and, turning, encounter the ad for the carpet sale.”

  “I thought news was supposed to interest,” Mike said.

  “That’s why your stories get spiked,” Crouch said. “Interest City Hall, you get yourself fired. Interest Al Capone, you wind up dead as Jake Leiter. Interest Colonel McCormick, means maybe you’ve screwed the pooch, he thinks your name is more important than his, you’re not only sacked, but unemployable. For, mark, lad,” Crouch said, “there are forces alive in the land. We are not of them, but, rather, a distraction from the troubling knowledge of their presence.”

  He picked up the copy of the newspaper, folded, on the bench next to him. “See here.” He read, “‘More Luxury Autos Disappear from the North Shore. The current spate of coach-built auto disappearances: Packards, Duesenbergs . . .’”

  He turned the paper over.

  “‘Public outcry over repeated thefts from the National Guard armory . . .’”

  He let the paper fall.

  “A newspaper is a joke. Existing at the pleasure of the advertisers, to mulct the public, gratifying their stupidity,
and render some small advance on investment to the owners, offering putative employment to their etiolated, wastrel sons, in those young solons’ circuit between the Fort Dearborn Club and the Everleigh House of Instruction.”

  “Well, fuck you,” Mike had said, “as we said in the Great War.” The company had tapped its glasses, and murmured approval. Some half-stood and said, “Hear him.”

  “Fuck you, too,” Crouch had said, “as we said in the Great War, in which, though debarred by age from fighting, many suffered not only regrettable casualties to our youth and purse, but the dull pain of disillusion and uniformly wretched quality of reportage.”

  “Those with the best minds were fighting,” Mike said.

  “And those with the best minds are fighting still,” Crouch said. “Not on some forgotten field in France, no, not in Flanders’s fields, obscured by those unfortunate ‘poppies,’ but here, here, my man, on the streets of our fair city, for the right to control territory, and routes and methods of distribution of that very substance we, in what I understood prior to this contretemps to be ‘fellowship,’ called hooch. This battle—”

  Mike had stood.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said. And the bar grew silent. “I, like plucky little Belgium, and her noted nuns, have been getting fucked.” There was some small applause, and Mike stilled it by raising his hand.

  “I have been debauched by journalism, but. But. And here I ask you to restrain both your incredulity and, if it be, your contempt: I have come, in my shame, to a conclusion so foreign to the general understanding, that—”

  “Get to the hook,” Crouch said.

  “I have decided not to write a novel,” Mike said.

  In the respectful pause, most signaled for another drink and waited. Mike lit a cigarette, still holding the floor. “Write for the rag,” a reporter yelled.

  “I shall,” Mike said, “but, I shall not write about the small freshwater shark, abstracted from the best of aquaria, and placed in the pool of the Fort Dearborn Club; nor of the remorseful police captain who, one half hour from irremediable disgrace, attempting to blow out his brains in the confessional, shot, instead, an altar boy, though not him whose story was about to bring the penitent to ruin.”