A President In Peril

Chapter Nineteen G₂ U₁ F₄ F₄ A₁ W₄ (n) a burst of loud laughter

Amid all the turmoil surrounding the presidential campaign and the nefarious activities of The New Reich, I managed to grind out my feature article on Preston Tucker and his automobile, which Mike Kennedy liked and which ran almost word for word in the Sunday paper as I had written it.

A Tribune staff photographer, Mike Mapes, got some good shots of a smiling and jaunty Tucker posing with one of the newly minted cars in the plant. But the printing baron, Warren Jones, refused to have his picture taken with his own new Tucker.

“Snap, I called him to set up a shoot, but he told me he’d already wasted enough of his time talking to you,” Mike said after the story had run. “And he was pretty damned rude about it, I’ll tell you.”

“Interesting. Jones’s office walls are filled with pictures of him with famous and semi-famous people. Maybe he’s become camera-shy all of a sudden.”

“I dunno, but when I tried to persuade him, he just hung up on me — after calling me a name I won’t dignify by repeating.”

“Shame on him. I’m sorry now that I even quoted the bum,” I told Mike.

At least one person in the story — its subject — was happy with my opus. Preston Tucker called me at work to thank me. “Very balanced article, Mr. Malek,” he said. “I can’t complain about it at all. I just hope it will translate into sales for us.”

“I didn’t write it for that reason,” I said. “But I am curious as to how things are going right now.”

“Off the record?”

“Yes, Mr. Tucker, off the record. I’ve done my story, and I’m taking off my reporter’s hat. I was personally curious about your situation.”

“I’ve had better times,” he admitted. “Your article talked about the problems we’ve had getting steel and other materials, and that’s still going on. Then there’s our friend, the well-known senator from Michigan.”

“That would be dear old Homer Ferguson, of course.”

“Yes, the best friend that General Motors and Ford ever had,” Tucker remarked dryly. “He’s still doing his darnedest to put me out of business.”

“Well, as a journalist, I’m supposed to be objective and impartial — and I try to be. But I really hope you’re able to tough things out. And that’s off the record, too.”

“I appreciate the words,” the automaker said, laughing. “Let it be known to all that we’re still on the job, trying to get Tuckers into the hands of an eager American public.”

I wished Tucker luck again and hung up, only to have my phone ring seconds later. It was Hal Murray on the Trib city desk.

“Snap, can you be in the Tower for a meeting tomorrow afternoon at three? It’s a planning session for our coverage of the Truman and Dewey visits. We’ll send somebody over to spell you till Garrity comes on at five.”

“Just what I like — a committee meeting. I suppose attendance is compulsory?”

“Let’s put it this way, Snap: Maloney called the session, and he assumes everyone who’s invited will be there. I’m sure he’d take note of any absences.”

“Sounds compulsory enough for me. See you there.”

At five minutes to three the next day, Friday, I sauntered into the Trib’s two-story high local room and said hellos to some old friends in the news staff, many of whom I hadn’t seen for months or even a year. Like reporters assigned full-time to the other press rooms around town — City Hall, County Building, Federal Building, Criminal Courts — I rarely have occasion to set foot in the Gothic tower bearing the paper’s name. This is fine by me, just as it is for those other beat reporters. There’s something to be said for keeping one’s distance from the home office, no matter what your line of work. For one thing, there’s less chance of becoming entangled in company politics and intrigues, to say nothing of being forced to listen to the latest gossip. ‘Out of sight, out of trouble’ is my motto.

A dozen or so of us gathered in the glass-walled conference room adjoining the local room. Managing Editor J. Loy ‘Pat’ Maloney sat at one end of the long table and called the meeting to order.

“Gentlemen,” he said, clearing his throat, “thank you all for coming. Our purpose here this afternoon is to go over our plans for the Truman and Dewey visits next Monday and Tuesday. This is an unusual situation, with both major presidential candidates coming to town on successive days. It’s going to be a busy forty-eight-hour stretch for all of us.”

“Pat, I gather you don’t count Strom Thurmond as a ‘major’ candidate,” one of the veteran Washington Bureau reporters piped up amid laugher around the table.

Maloney allowed himself a slight smile. “No, Walter, I don’t,” he said. “And don’t even ask me about Henry Wallace and his so-called Progressive Party.” More laughter.

The managing editor continued. “Seriously, we’re going to have to do a lot of planning. At this point, I’ll turn the floor over to Owen.”

Stewart Owen, the news editor, looked around the table and then down at a sheet in his hands. “Our political writers already have their assignments to cover the speeches Truman and Dewey will be giving at the Chicago Stadium,” he said. “And we—”

“Is it true that Truman’s address Monday night is going to be his concession speech?” one of the city desk reporters interrupted, generating yet another round of guffaws.

Owen grinned and admonished him with a wag of his index finger, then went on reading off the various assignments. Finally, he got to me.

“And Mr. Malek, our esteemed colleague who as a rule earns his salary toiling down at Police Headquarters, has graciously consented to once again regale us with colorful vignettes about the rabble who will line the route of the motorcades.”

“Rabble?” I reacted with mock outrage. “A fine way to describe the noble members of this great nation’s highly educated and sophisticated electorate.” That drew scattered applause around the table as I bowed.

“Considering that a good percentage of the motorcade route both nights will be through Skid Row, we’ll all be interested in just how sophisticated these so-called members of the electorate turn out to be, Snap,” piped up Marty Walsh, one of the city desk reporters.

“I’m sure Mr. Malek will give us an interesting potpourri of individuals, opinions, and reactions,” Owen responded. “Anything to add, Snap?”

“No, I don’t think so. I plan to start in the Loop and work my way west on Madison Street gathering comments and observations, just as I did for those campaign motorcades in ’40 and ’44. There’s bound to be a few eccentrics — and not just along Skid Row,” I said, nodding to Walsh.

“I’ll be interested in whether Truman gets tomatoes thrown at him, given his current approval ratings,” commented an assistant city editor.

“Or something a lot worse than tomatoes,” interjected Walsh. “Snap, you’d better be on the alert. There could be some real fireworks.”

Little did he know how much that possibility had occupied my thoughts over the last several days.

Our weekend at home was fairly typical: grocery shopping, a trip to the dry cleaners, and a date Saturday night at the Lamar Theater in downtown Oak Park to see Rosalind Russell, Sydney Greenstreet, and Leon Ames in ‘The Velvet Touch,’ a murder mystery, which we both liked. Ever since I’d seen Greenstreet as the ‘fat man’ in ‘The Maltese Falcon,’ I had made it a point to catch every one of his films. But even in that darkened movie house, the president’s visit lurked, never far from my consciousness. I was glad when Monday rolled around and I could head off to the normalcy of Headquarters before my evening assignment on Madison Street.

It may have been my imagination, but the mood in the press room that morning seemed tense. Nobody was inclined to talk about Truman’s visit — maybe they all were as edgy as I was. Packy Farmer wanted to talk about Northwestern’s chances of winning the football championship of the Western Conference, or the ‘Big Nine,’ as it had been called since the University of Chicago had dropped out a few years earlier. Dirk O’Farrell and Anson Masters ignored him and argued about whether the United States had to drop the atomic bombs in 1945 in order to finish the Japanese off quickly — a debate they had had many times before, with Masters as usual arguing for dropping the bombs and O’Farrell against it.

I spent a few minutes off in one corner with Jeff, the current City News Bureau reporter, advising him, at his request, on his next career move in journalism. Being a local boy from the north suburbs, he wanted to move right on into a job at one of the Chicago dailies. I suggested he go to a middle-sized paper someplace like Peoria or Rockford or Madison, where he could get a wide variety of experience in a relatively short period rather than going straight to one of the local rags where he would, in all likelihood, get quickly pigeonholed.

“You can always get back here,” I told him. “All four dailies are loaded with reporters and copy editors who have had experience on papers all over the Midwest — and the country.” He acted doubtful, but was polite enough to say I had given him something to think about.

In a departure from our routine, I said I was going down to see Fergus Fahey even before Masters had a chance to pronounce that the morning bull session was ended. Anson and Dirk were still arguing when I walked out and took the flight down to the chief’s quarters.

“Is there some coffee in the pot for a battered old warhorse?” I asked Elsie as I stepped into her anteroom.

“No sir, but I’ve saved some for you,” she said sweetly, filling a mug with the brew and handing it to me. I thanked her and knocked on Fahey’s door, announcing myself.

I got a “come in” and went in. “Big day,” I told him.

“If you want to call it that,” he muttered. “To me, it’s nothing but headaches and more headaches.”

“I see you’re in one of your periodic funks, Fergus,” I remarked, dropping a half-full pack of Luckies on his desk. “Normally I would try to jolly you out of it, but today I seem to have run out of jolly. Are you still worried about Truman?”

“Damn right I am. I would be even if we hadn’t had these killings. A president comes to town, it’s a pain in the ass. And this week, we’ve got a second pain in the ass, Dewey. By Wednesday morning, I’ll be ready to ask for admittance to the funny farm.”

“You couldn’t get in. They would turn you away as being too ornery,” I said as I torched a Lucky. “You going to hang around here tonight?”

“Damn right again. I won’t leave until I know the president’s safe back in his hotel. Same tomorrow night with Dewey. And the commissioner will be sticking it out in his office, too, getting reports every quarter hour. Part of what makes the job so much fun.”

“Well, I’ll think about you back here keeping the lonely vigil while I’m out on the street asking people why they’re wasting a perfectly good late October evening standing on a curb waiting for a bunch of waving politicians to pass by in convertibles — an event that for the onlookers will last for all of thirty seconds.”

“Maybe a little longer than that, if you count the marching bands and bugle corps and bagpipers,” Fahey grumped.

“Okay, maybe ninety seconds then,” I conceded. “Anyway, seems like there are a lot better ways to spend time — for them and for us.”

“Amen. And Snap?”

“Yes?”

“For Christ’s sake, be careful, will you?”

“You know me, Fergus.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”