young guys and Iris Towers. An angel strayed into hell. Part of it but still clean, still aloof from it. Clean and white-starched. Even through the fog he could see the Sen’s red nose, red eyes, the way the Sen got from drink. The Sen wasn’t having a good time. He was brooding over his glass of Scotch. He had plenty to brood about.
McIntyre was talking. “You wouldn’t know anything about my business, would you?”
Sailor kept his eyes on the Sen. He laughed some more. “I wouldn’t know if it’s business or if you came for the Fiesta.”
McIntyre said, “Quite a Chicago contingent here for Fiesta. There’s Senator Douglass over there.”
“Yeah. I saw him. And Iris Towers.”
McIntyre sounded a little surprised. Or he would have sounded surprised if McIntyre could. “You know Iris Towers?”
Sailor laughed out loud. “I know who she is.” He tilted up the bottle, drained it. “You don’t think a mug like me would know Iris Towers, do you?” He jarred the bottle down on the table. He felt good and cool and warm all at once. His eyes felt bright. He said, “Can you get that ape to bring us a drink?”
McIntyre turned his head barwise. He lifted a finger. The waiter came over swinging his gorilla arms. When he saw Sailor at the table the hate was fresh in his eyes.
Sailor said, “I’m buying, Mac, what’ll it be?” If the spic ape had a knife under his dirty apron, it was good to be on first-name terms with Chicago Homicide. Sailor wasn’t looking for trouble with the locals.
McIntyre said, “The same. Bourbon and water.”
“Same for me. Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
McIntyre was eyeing the Sen’s table again. “Know the rest of the party?”
“Uh-uh.”
“That’s Hubert Amity,” McIntyre pointed out. “Amity Engines. Mrs. Amity’s the one in the lace mantilla.” The hard-faced bitch. Old man Amity had been one of the Sen’s heaviest backers when the Sen was in Washington. A guy with a face like a hatchet. Nothing like son Hubert.
McIntyre went on, “Kemper Prague is the one in the sombrero. The one about to slide under the table.” Kemper Prague. Millionaire playboy of the North Shore. Plenty of dirty scandal tainting him. Always hushed up. McIntyre said, “Don’t know the others. Must be local talent.”
Sailor said and his voice was hard, “I’d be willing to bet they don’t have to work for a living.” Oh, the Sen had done all right for himself since he left off selling soap and had gone into politics. There’d been his wife’s money to get him started. She’d been older than he, ten years at least, but there wasn’t any age on her money. He’d come a long way from the little frame house on the South side. Graft and his wife’s money, all his now, he’d done well by himself. Only not well enough. Now he was going into the millionaire class. Nothing but the best for the Sen. But he’d welch out of a thousand-dollar debt if he could. He couldn’t
“Wouldn’t take that one,” McIntyre said. “I wonder what the Senator’s after now.” He was idly curious.
Sailor could tell him. McIntyre ought to be able to see it himself, he could see her there. Couldn’t McIntyre see her, the white rose, the pale white star?
“Maybe it’s the governorship.”
Sailor hooted his amazement “What would he want to be governor for? He’s been senator.”
“Being governor of the sovereign state of Illinois isn’t a bad job.” McIntyre was mild. “Not only does it carry prestige, it could be remunerative.”
The waiter was sliding in with the tray. He’d brought the beer. He glared at Sailor. “Sev’ty-seex sants,” he mouthed. Sailor peeled a dollar, threw it on the tray. “Keep the change,” he waved. The ape gave him hate instead of thanks. But the beer was cold. He trickled it into his mouth tenderly. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his knuckle as he set down the bottle.”I don’t think he needs dough that bad,” Sailor said. He was thinking of that
McIntyre was talking. “You wouldn’t know anything about my business, would you?”
Sailor kept his eyes on the Sen. He laughed some more. “I wouldn’t know if it’s business or if you came for the Fiesta.”
McIntyre said, “Quite a Chicago contingent here for Fiesta. There’s Senator Douglass over there.”
“Yeah. I saw him. And Iris Towers.”
McIntyre sounded a little surprised. Or he would have sounded surprised if McIntyre could. “You know Iris Towers?”
Sailor laughed out loud. “I know who she is.” He tilted up the bottle, drained it. “You don’t think a mug like me would know Iris Towers, do you?” He jarred the bottle down on the table. He felt good and cool and warm all at once. His eyes felt bright. He said, “Can you get that ape to bring us a drink?”
McIntyre turned his head barwise. He lifted a finger. The waiter came over swinging his gorilla arms. When he saw Sailor at the table the hate was fresh in his eyes.
Sailor said, “I’m buying, Mac, what’ll it be?” If the spic ape had a knife under his dirty apron, it was good to be on first-name terms with Chicago Homicide. Sailor wasn’t looking for trouble with the locals.
McIntyre said, “The same. Bourbon and water.”
“Same for me. Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
McIntyre was eyeing the Sen’s table again. “Know the rest of the party?”
“Uh-uh.”
“That’s Hubert Amity,” McIntyre pointed out. “Amity Engines. Mrs. Amity’s the one in the lace mantilla.” The hard-faced bitch. Old man Amity had been one of the Sen’s heaviest backers when the Sen was in Washington. A guy with a face like a hatchet. Nothing like son Hubert.
McIntyre went on, “Kemper Prague is the one in the sombrero. The one about to slide under the table.” Kemper Prague. Millionaire playboy of the North Shore. Plenty of dirty scandal tainting him. Always hushed up. McIntyre said, “Don’t know the others. Must be local talent.”
Sailor said and his voice was hard, “I’d be willing to bet they don’t have to work for a living.” Oh, the Sen had done all right for himself since he left off selling soap and had gone into politics. There’d been his wife’s money to get him started. She’d been older than he, ten years at least, but there wasn’t any age on her money. He’d come a long way from the little frame house on the South side. Graft and his wife’s money, all his now, he’d done well by himself. Only not well enough. Now he was going into the millionaire class. Nothing but the best for the Sen. But he’d welch out of a thousand-dollar debt if he could. He couldn’t
“Wouldn’t take that one,” McIntyre said. “I wonder what the Senator’s after now.” He was idly curious.
Sailor could tell him. McIntyre ought to be able to see it himself, he could see her there. Couldn’t McIntyre see her, the white rose, the pale white star?
“Maybe it’s the governorship.”
Sailor hooted his amazement “What would he want to be governor for? He’s been senator.”
“Being governor of the sovereign state of Illinois isn’t a bad job.” McIntyre was mild. “Not only does it carry prestige, it could be remunerative.”
The waiter was sliding in with the tray. He’d brought the beer. He glared at Sailor. “Sev’ty-seex sants,” he mouthed. Sailor peeled a dollar, threw it on the tray. “Keep the change,” he waved. The ape gave him hate instead of thanks. But the beer was cold. He trickled it into his mouth tenderly. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his knuckle as he set down the bottle.”I don’t think he needs dough that bad,” Sailor said. He was thinking of that
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