The Golden Room

ONE

Chet Foley was awed by what he was seeing and hearing.

It was a chilly spring afternoon in the last week of March in 1903, and although Foley had already spent his first week in Chicago, this was the moment he had been waiting for.

They were walking on the cobbled sidewalk of South Dearborn Street, scrawny young Foley in step with his older, huskier companion, Thomas Ostrow, veteran City Hall reporter for the Chicago Tribune. Ostrow had been assigned by the managing editor to show their new feature writer around.

Foley straightened his jacket as they proceeded. He was wearing his very best suit. It was a grey and black English worsted with a finely cut boxed coat. He had put on a red cravat and his shiniest lace-up shoes. It was an outfit he wore only for special occasions with young ladies, and he wore it now hoping that it would impress the charming young women he would meet today.

'We're almost there,' Ostrow said, less concerned about his baggy, worn blue suit with two cigarette burns on the rumpled jacket.

Foley nodded with anticipation.

'This is the notorious Levee district,' Ostrow went on. 'You've heard of it, of course.'

'Yes, sir, I have.'

'It got its name just before the Civil War,' Ostrow continued, 'when steamboats came up right near here and discharged southerners who wanted to go to the gambling places and enjoy sex shows and orgies in houses of ill fame. It hasn't changed in all the years since, just gotten wilder. It is not a large area. Only four or five square blocks, but there are over 200 whorehouses crammed into this space. However, you're only interested in seeing one of them.'

'Yes, just one.'

They strode in silence another thirty feet, and then Ostrow abruptly halted.

He waved his hand towards the three-storey building to their left. 'Here you are, Chet. Here it is. This is 2131 South Dearborn Street. This is it.'

Foley looked at the building – one broad stone mansion -with its smooth stones, solid lines, grand windows and its broad flight of steps leading up to the entrance.

'The Everleigh Club itself,' Ostrow announced. 'Actually, the most famous and elegant whorehouse in the entire world.'

'I heard of it many times in Peoria.'

'Just as everyone knows about it in New York, London, Paris, Berlin. What do you think?'

Foley gulped. 'I… I wonder what it's like inside.'

'You'll know very soon. I called Minna and Aida Everleigh and told them I was bringing you over to introduce you. I explained that you are our newest reporter on the Tribune. They love the press, and they can't wait to meet you.' Ostrow took the younger reporter by the arm and pointed him towards the stairs. 'Let's go in and meet the ladies. What they have to show you will be something you'll never forget.'

Inside the Everleigh Club, behind the oversized rosewood desk in the richly appointed study that served as her office, Minna Everleigh was having her usual late breakfast while awaiting her visitors. Her sister Aida was seated across the desk, reading aloud from the Chicago Examiner.

Nibbling at her sturgeon and truffles, Minna stood up to pour another glass of Mumm's Extra Dry champagne for herself from the bottle nestled in her monogrammed ice bucket.

Even standing straight, Minna was diminutive. She was five feet two, unstylishly slender (no corset necessary), 106 pounds, with auburn hair that had been brushed and curled high and adorned with sparkling rhinestone crescents. Her grey-blue eyes were small and intense. She was wearing a pale-pink taffeta blouse cut dangerously low, her favourite butterfly pin ringed with diamonds, a high-waisted skirt of dark cheviot serge and a maroon elastic belt. The skirt barely touched the tops of her high pointed kid shoes.

Across the desk, Aida, taller, heavier at 124 pounds, was definitely wearing a corset to accent her hourglass figure. She was more conservatively garbed in a Havana-brown cloth dress trimmed with silk braiding. She was reading aloud from the newspaper story about the mayor's latest re-election speech.

Listening, Minna took in her study to see that it was in order for her expected visitors. She knew that the study was an eclectic mix, and purposely so. Basically, the furnishing was Louis XIII, which Minna regarded as the most opulent of the French Revival styles. The high ceiling was gilt, panelled with elaborate swirling leaves designs. On the walls hung imported tapestries, colourful, costly. The chandelier had recently been converted from candlelight to electricity.

Viewing the study, Minna felt that the room had true elegance. Across the way was the fireplace, its white-veined marble mantel bearing a miniature bronze statue of Minerva, a vase overflowing with yellow daffodils, a tall German clock of the darkest, richest oak. On either side were bay windows. From each ebonized cornice descended embroidered lambrequins with tassels, behind which hung damask curtains, lace undercurtains, and muslin roller shades. On the Aubusson-styled rug sat two comfortable upholstered mahogany chairs – one covered in crimson leather, the other with a trellis back – and a mahogany sofa with spiral arms and lion's paw feet. Between her desk and the sofa stood a carved drop-leaf centre table.

Having decided that the room was very much in order, Minna resumed sipping her second glass of champagne and began to revive. As was their custom – and the habit of the thirty girls on the premises – both Minna and Aida Everleigh had slept all morning and had just finished breakfast at two o'clock in the afternoon.

There was a brisk knock on the office door, and Edmund, their mulatto valet, put his head in. His hair was short, wiry, grey, his nose straight and long, his complexion light brown, set off by a perfectly fitted dark-blue valet's uniform. 'Miss Everleigh,' he addressed Minna, 'two members of the press here to see you, Mr Ostrow and Mr Foley. Mr Ostrow said that you were expecting them.'

'I am,' said Minna. 'Show them in.'

Seconds later Edmund opened the door again and held it open as Ostrow and Foley entered.

Quickly kissing both Minna and Aida on a cheek, Ostrow brought his companion forward. 'Ladies, I want you to meet our new reporter on the Tribune. This is Chet Foley. He just moved here from Peoria. His dearest wish was to see your Club.'

Minna extended a hand to Foley. 'How's my boy?' she said.

Momentarily dumbfounded, Foley shook her hand, and then Aida's hand. He swallowed. 'I am honoured.'

Minna turned to her sister. 'Aida, give him your chair. Why don't you and Tom sit back there on the sofa?'

Briskly, Minna signalled Foley to the seat across from the desk. 'First, let's lubricate you and Tom,' she said, pouring champagne for each of them. She served one glass to Foley and took the other to Ostrow.

Returning to the desk, Minna sat down and smiled brightly at Foley. 'So you want to know more about the Club,' she said. 'I'm sure you want to ask what every newcomer always asks first, "How did Aida and I get into this?" How did two classy sisters become madams? Am I right, my boy?'

Feeling more at ease, Foley could not resist a thin smile. 'You're quite right, Miss Everleigh…'

'Make that Minna.'

'Yes, Minna,' Foley said, nervously. 'But if you're tired of that old question, I can wait…'

'I'm never tired of that question,' said Minna. 'My sister is more reticent, but I love to talk about our past. How did we wind up opening the Everleigh Club? It's a long story, but I'll make it short and sweet.'

Minna swallowed the last of her second glass of champagne, and poured herself yet another. She settled back comfortably in the velvet-covered chair.

'Aida and I were raised in the bluegrass country of Kentucky,' Minna began softly. 'We still have relatives there, aristocratic, genteel, and struggling. Our brother Charles and his two children are our main family. Charles was once a successful lawyer like our father, and he would still be one if he had not suffered a stroke. He had to give up his practice and is having difficulty holding on to the family house and farm. We've tried to help him, but he doesn't like taking money from us.' Minna poured, then continued more cheerfully. 'Anyway, his daughter is marrying into riches. Charles wrote to us recently that our niece, Cathleen, whom we haven't seen since she was a child, is engaged to marry the son of Harold T. Armbruster, the Chicago meat-packing king. Anyway, to get back to Aida and myself. Our father was a well-off lawyer. We were both sent to a Southern finishing school. Later on, we both fell in love with two handsome brothers and were wedded to them. Very fancy. But our husbands turned out to be spoiled brats, and not above being violent with us. Wouldn't you agree, Aida?'

From across the room, Aida piped up in a small voice, 'You know they were worse than that, Minna. Some of my bruises never went away.'

Minna addressed Chet Foley again. 'When you get to know me better, Chet, you'll know I'd never stand for anything like that for long. So I just upped and left my husband, divorced him, and went to Washington, D.C. A short time after, Aida did the same and followed me to Washington. At finishing school, we'd both studied elocution and play-acting, and so for want of anything else to do, we decided to become actresses. I must say, it didn't hurt that we were fairly good-looking.'

'You both still are, Minna,' Ostrow called out from the rear of the study.

'I agree,' Foley said with enthusiasm.

'Well, thank you, boys,' said Minna. 'Soon after we joined up, Aida and I found jobs in a stock company and travelled across the country. While we were on the road, our father died, and we inherited $35,000. We learned about this when we reached Omaha, where the Trans-Mississippi International Exposition was taking place. We wanted to leave the stock company – it was miserable work – we wondered if we could invest our money in something more lucrative and pleasant.'

'And this was your first idea?' asked Foley.

Minna thought about it. 'No, not really,' she said. 'We thought of becoming hat makers or tearoom hostesses. But then something happened. One day we overheard another actress say that her mother thought that being an actress was no better than being a prostitute. Aida and I looked at each other as if to say – hey, why not? We never became prostitutes, but we liked the idea of becoming madams. Business women, to be exact. I was always good at handling people, and Aida was efficient at handling finances and details.'

'So just like that you became madams,' Foley said.

'Right then and there,' Minna affirmed. 'Remember, Aida?'

Aida was remembering. 'It was a memorable decision.'

Addressing Foley once more, Minna went on. 'We acquired a rundown house, redecorated it with our own money, and opened it up to the free-spending males swarming over the fair. By the time the fair wound up, our $35,000 holdings had doubled to $70,000. Without the fair, we knew that Omaha couldn't do much for us. We needed a bigger city. Also, equally important, we needed the fanciest, most unforgettable house in the United States. Then Aida and I had the same idea at the same time. To take a trip. Travel around and see the best brothels in Europe and the U.S.A. to pick up hints from them. So that's what we did. We spent a year visiting the most luxurious houses and meeting the most successful madams. We learned what we could before going into our own business once more. By the time we returned from our travels, Aida and I had a fairly good idea what a perfect brothel should be.'

'All we didn't know was where to put it,' said Aida.

'That's right,' agreed Minna. 'So I wrote again to Cleo Maitland in Washington, D.C., and said we'd like to visit her and get some advice. And that's what we did. Aida and I checked into the Willard Hotel, and we found Cleo at – what was it? – yes, 1233 D Street, a brick row house. Cleo was posing as a landlady, and the six girls living there were her female boarders. Cleo was most cordial. I told her we had finished our research, and now we needed a city, a big city with plenty of wealthy men, a city with no luxurious houses. Immediately, Cleo had the answer to that. " Chicago, Illinois," she told us. "A city rich with millionaires, a well-protected red-light district, and without one high-class beautiful bordello." She said, "I even know the perfect house you can get for yourselves in Chicago. It's really two adjoining three-storey mansions with fifty rooms at 2131 South Dearborn Street. It was built by a madam, Lizzie Allen, for $125,000 for the World's Columbian Exposition. After the fair, Lizzie decided to retire. She leased the house and sold its furnishings to Effie Hankins, another madam. Recently, Effie wrote to me that she wanted to retire too, and told me to keep an eye out for a possible buyer. Well, ladies, there's your seraglio in Chicago – $55,000 for the furnishings, with the girls already on the premises, the goodwill, and a rental price of $500 a month on a long-term lease. I'd look into it right away." So Aida and I hurried to Chicago, and looked over the house. It couldn't have been more perfect. We leased it at once.'

'Already – just like that,' Foley marvelled.

Minna shook her head. 'No, we began to make changes. The first thing we changed was our name. We were Minna and Aida Lester. But our grandmother in Kentucky always ended her letters to us by signing them, "Everly Yours". Well, that sounded better. We became the Everly – spelled Everleigh – sisters. Then we got rid of all the sloppy, uncouth, hardened prostitutes. We ransacked the entire country for the most attractive, sexually skilled, ladylike girls we could find, starting with young actresses we knew from our earlier career. We dressed all of them in evening gowns and good manners. We fired the uppity white servants, and replaced them with decent, more respectful, efficient coloured valets and maids. Then there was the matter of fees.'

Minna took another sip of her champagne and went on. 'The average madam in the Levee charged customers fifty cents to a dollar for a toss in bed. Since we were offering more, we charged more. It cost our customers fifty dollars for a session with a girl. We installed a restaurant, with a minimum charge of fifty dollars for dinner and twelve dollars for a bottle of wine. We shared our profits with our staff.'

'And no one objected to your higher prices?' asked Foley.

Minna shook her head vigorously. 'No one objected. They welcomed paying for what we gave them. Our customers have included Ring Lardner, Edgar Lee Masters, Marshall Field, Jr, Stanley Ketchel, Percy Hammond, George Ade, James J. Corbett, John Barrymore, John "Bet a Million" Gates, and Jack Johnson, whom I mentioned before, as well as certain United States senators who often spend their vacations here.'

Minna stood up, and set down her empty glass.

'Now, Chet, I'm going to give you a personally conducted grand tour of the Everleigh Club. You'll see what we learned in our travels, and you'll see some innovations of our own… Aida, you keep Tom Ostrow occupied right there. He's had the tour. I'm going to take this boy around. Come along, Chet.'

In the hall, Minna took Foley's arm and led him to the Everleigh Club's library, which had books on every wall, most of them leather-bound. Foley ran a finger along the sets of books, one the complete works of Honore de Balzac, another the complete poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Minna chuckled. 'You know what "Bet a Million" Gates said when he saw this library? "Minna, that's educating the wrong end of a whore.'"

Next door was the art gallery, where oils and lustrous marble sculptures were shown, among them a copy of Bernini's Apollo and Daphne.

Entering the dining-room, Foley saw a handsome restaurant, tables laid with gleaming silverware on damask linen. Centred on each table was a burst of fresh flowers.

'One millionaire brought his business associates for dinner,' said Minna with pleasure, 'and his bill came to $1,500. We threw in the orchestra free.' She moved through the restaurant. 'Now come closer, Chet. What do you see at the far end?'

'A railroad Pullman dining-car,' said Foley with amazement.

'Correct. It's a replica, really, with the interior done in mahogany. Here we are. Look inside. There's the buffet. The guest may choose the food he wants and take it to one of the small tables in the Pullman, or go into the dining-room itself. Now I'll show you my very favourite chamber, used for conversations – and sometimes for orgies.'

Foley followed Minna into a parlour that glittered like El Dorado. He stood breathless, gaping at what he saw.

'The Gold Room,' announced Minna happily. 'You can see the furniture is all gilt, the hangings gold, the fishbowls edged in gold. Those eighteen-carat cuspidors cost me $650 apiece. The fountain in the middle of the room is spraying perfume. My favourite object is over there – the gold piano, real gold, cost me $15,000. It's two-thirds normal size, and except for the keyboard, every inch of it is pure gold, including the foot pedals. This is a wonderful room to chat with other male guests, or have some fun relaxing with one of our young beauties.'

As they left the Gold Room, Foley had a question. 'Minna, how do you decide which girls you want to work for you?'

'It's easy,' said Minna. 'You see a pretty and shapely girl, no more than twenty-one, working behind a counter in Mandel Brothers or Carson, Pirie, Scott. She works endless hours every day for six dollars a week. You learn if she's had sexual experience – the chances are she has – and you ask her if she'd like to make $300 a week with little real work and if she'd like to live in the lap of luxury. The odds are she'll grab at the offer. She must be over eighteen and use no drugs or alcohol or foul language. We never take on inexperienced girls or widows, because they are more apt to want to leave the moment someone asks them to marry. Every girl must be healthy, be polite, have the gift of being amusing. She must be ready to learn how to use make-up, how to dress well, how to have good Southern manners, and how to stay well informed. I encourage my girls to read the books in my library. Above all, I tell each new girl to give sex, but give it interestingly and with mystery. Now let's move on. I have more to show you on this floor before I take you upstairs.'

They entered what Minna described as the Japanese Room. The floor was covered with finely woven straw matting and there was a bamboo umbrella stand inside the door. Dominating the room was a carved Oriental chair on a dais over which was hung a canopy of silk. The chandelier suspended from the deep-blue ceiling had small Osaka parasols instead of lamp shades. The walls were painted with Japanese flowers in their natural colours. Above was a frieze of flying storks, with bronze panels depicting sacred dragons of mythology. Decorative artifacts strewn about ranged from iron tea kettles from Kyoto to hangings of Japanese fans.

Next door was the Chinese Room. The chandelier was a fringed temple lantern with painted scenes of Peking life. Carved ebony furniture was everywhere, and on one wall in a teak frame was an embroidered peacock. In the room's dim corner, Foley made out cabinets filled with exotic artifacts – snuff bottles, porcelains, and small bronze figures.

Dizzied, Foley trailed Minna into a vast ballroom with bandstand, divans, cushions, and statuary arranged on the parquet wood floor. Adjoining the ballroom was the Copper Room, with walls of hammered brass, and beyond that, the Silver Room, ornamented with filigreed lace and silver, and the silver statue of a mounted horseman next to a plush brocade chair.

Then came the Moorish Room, with foxskins on the floor, and incense burners in every corner. The furnishings consisted of a circular sofa with round tufted back, a potted palm beside it, numerous small octagonal tables, and chairs upholstered with rich gold-threaded brocade that touched the floor. On the fireplace mantel was set a hookah crusty with hashish sediment.

'There are no pictures on the walls,' Minna noted, 'because representational images are forbidden by Muslim law.'

With Foley by her side, Minna moved on to the Egyptian Room. On a frieze around the room and on the ceiling were drawings of ancient Egyptian scenes. A large stone fireplace bore sphinx heads which had been carved into the mantel.

Next, like a breath of fresh air, was the Blue Room. Its atmosphere was youthful, very American, with deep-blue divans and leather pillows printed with pictures of Gibson girls. Fittingly, each wall was decorated with lively college pennants.

Minna was particularly proud of her Music Room. A grand piano stood in one corner, not gold, not fancy, but very grand. Mirrors framed in Moorish arches lined the walls, and tufted Turkish furniture was scattered about.

Foley grew more and more dazed as they pushed on through the Green Room, the Rose Room, and the Red Room.

'Finally, the Mirror Room,' stated Minna, drawing Foley inside. 'What strikes you most?'

'The floor,' Foley gasped. 'The entire floor is mirrored.'

'Every inch of it,' said Minna proudly. 'It's often where we bring our guests when they can't decide which of our girls to choose. It's far more effective than the House of All Nations in Budapest. There, men surveyed a panel of photographs of nude women to select their favourites. A visitor would pick the photograph of the girl he liked most, and then touch the bell-push under her photograph. Immediately, the photo was covered, so the next visitor would know the lady was engaged and he would have to pick someone else. This Mirror Room is much better for making choices. Many of the things you've seen were created by Aida and myself. But the idea for this Mirror Room came from Babe Connors, the fat Negress in St Louis whose teeth were inlaid with diamonds. Babe had a Mirror Room, and I installed the same thing in this room immediately.'

'But why a mirror for a floor?' Foley asked.

Minna looked at him impatiently. 'This is where we have some of our best floor shows,' she said. 'Our girls come in here to dance for the guests. They're wearing evening gowns, but absolutely nothing beneath them. Those dresses are long, but not so long or narrow that you can't see anything. That mirror floor reflects what the girls are offering – which is to say, they're entirely naked underneath and that's what you see in the mirror floor. Titillating, don't you think?'

Foley reddened and stared at the floor.

'Yes, Ma'am,' he said.

Still bemused, he followed Minna out of the Mirror Room until they arrived at the staircase leading to the boudoirs upstairs. There were potted palms and Grecian statuary on either side of the stairs, and two thickly carpeted flights rose ahead of them.

'Usually,' said Minna, 'we allow the local press to have the run of the downstairs facilities. The upstairs suites are off limits. However, since yours is an introductory visit, I will show you a typical boudoir and introduce you to its occupant.'

Minna went nimbly up the staircase, with Foley immediately behind her. At the landing, she walked a few feet, paused before a door which looked like the others, and firmly rapped on it. Then she quickly opened the door and stepped inside, signalling Foley to join her.

The first thing Foley saw was a magnificent young blonde stretched languidly on a marble-inlaid brass bed. She put aside the book she was reading, and lifted her head as Minna brought Foley into the bedroom. 'Chet, this is Virginia. And Virginia, this is Chester Foley of the Chicago Tribune. I told you he would be here.' With a wide, sweeping gesture Minna went on. 'That's a white cashmere blanket Virginia is lying on. Note the mirrored ceiling, and the divan with the silver-white spotlight directed towards it. The other door beyond leads to Virginia 's bathroom, which has a gold bathtub. The roses next to the bed are freshly cut. There's a push-button concealed in the headboard that can call up another bottle of champagne. The oil paintings on the walls are all originals and imported from Italy. But the most brilliant work of art here is Virginia.'

With this mention of her name, Virginia swung off the bed and stood before Foley. He was held speechless by her splendour. She was as tall as he and wore only a gauzy white peignoir. Her breasts were firm and their nipples pointed straight at him. He could see plainly the outline of her curved waist and narrow hips.

'My boy,' Minna said to Foley, 'she's all yours, an introductory gift from the Everleighs.'

'Minna,' Foley gasped, 'I couldn't possibly afford anything like -'

'Didn't you hear me, my boy?' said Minna, starting for the door. 'I told you, this one's on the house.'

As she opened the door, Minna saw Virginia slip out of her peignoir. She was exquisitely naked as she moved towards Foley.

Minna smiled, quietly shut the door, and descended the stairs to the ground floor. She strolled over to the library, took down a volume of Balzac, fished a package of Sweet Caporals out of her pocket, lit one of the cigarettes, and sank into a sofa.

She read peacefully, and when twenty minutes had passed, she looked up to see young Foley coming down the last flight of stairs, appearing flushed and somehow older.

Minna stood up.

'Well, how was it, my boy?'

Foley seemed breathless. 'Incredible… it was incredible. I don't know how I can ever repay you.' He caught his breath. 'But I think I can. I know I can. Soon's I get back to the paper, I'm going to write a wonderful story about the Ever-leigh Club. There hasn't been one for months, and now I'm going to write the big story.'

'No, you're not,' said Minna.

'What do you mean?'

'There's going to be no story,' said Minna emphatically, 'at least not now. Usually we welcome publicity. It helps us. Right now any story would gravely hurt us. You know Mayor Harrison is running for re-election on a reform platform. Publicity about us would assure his election. If he is elected, he has promised that his first act will be to close down the Ever-leigh Club. I don't intend to cooperate in our demise.'

'But you're so important in Chicago – can't you prevent his being elected?'

'I intend to. Minna Everleigh always has something up her sleeve.' She winked at Foley and took his elbow. 'Leave it to me. As for yourself, you look a bit tuckered out. I think another glass of champagne is in order.'

Harold T. Armbruster was one of the three reasons why Chicago was called the Porkopolis of the world. The other two reasons were packing-house kings Philip Armour and Gus-tavas Swift. Among them, they owned almost all the city's stockyards and slaughterhouses. And among them, Armbruster was the third-richest, having cleared two million dollars in the last half-dozen years. But it was not his desire to become the richest that had brought him out to hear a speech this night – at an hour when normally he was preparing for bed.

Armbruster had come to Turner Hall to listen to the election campaign speech that Mayor Carter Harrison was scheduled to deliver before members of the Municipal Voters' League. Armbruster had squeezed into a vacant tenth-row seat with difficulty. He was grossly overweight, with his belly and sides bulging over his belt. He scratched his potato nose and his walrus moustache impatiently as he waited for the speaker to appear.

Ordinarily, Armbruster had no particular interest in politics. He was perfectly aware that Mayor Carter H. Harrison, a Democrat, was running for re-election against a popular Republican named Graeme Stewart. Only one facet of the campaign interested Armbruster, and that was Harrison's promise to enlarge the stockyards and spend more money on freight trains to carry more pigs, sheep, and steers into Chicago. His rival, Stewart, was against such civic expenditures.

Armbruster's presence at the lecture, despite his discomfort, was meant to provide him with first-hand reassurance that Mayor Harrison was the man who deserved his support and contributions.

After waiting restlessly for ten minutes, Armbruster saw an alderman he knew slightly appear on the platform to introduce the principal speaker. ' Chicago is fortunate in having a mayor who keeps his hands in his own pockets,' the alderman quipped. This drew a round of laughter, and then the alderman announced, 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honour and a privilege to introduce Mayor Carter H. Harrison.' Most of the audience broke into hearty applause.

Immediately, Mayor Harrison came out of the wings and strode to the lectern. Over the years Armbruster had seen Harrison many times, but always from a distance at social events – or he had noticed his picture in the newspapers. Armbruster had never seen the mayor this closely, and as he observed him, he was pleased with what he saw: a sturdy, darkly handsome man with black hair neatly parted on the side, flashing eyes, and a moustache similar to Armbruster's own, but tidier. Harrison was immaculately attired in a celluloid collar and bow tie, white shirt, navy-blue jacket over a vest and watch-chain, and sharply pressed darkish-grey trousers.

Once Harrison began speaking, Armbruster's attention drifted off. The packing-house magnate had come to hear Harrison address Armbruster's own interests, but instead Harrison was speaking passionately about his determination to clean up Chicago, and close down the Levee and its gambling houses and bagnios. Armbruster had no interest in this nonsense. He filtered the mayor out as his mind wandered to business matters. It was at the very end of the speech that Armbruster again became alert.

Besides his desire to clean up the city, the mayor was offering a few words about making Chicago more prosperous, adding elevated trains and extending freight transportation into the stockyards.

When Harrison 's appeal had ended, the audience was invited to line up and, in turn, shake the mayor's hand. A long line immediately formed.

Armbruster remained squeezed into his seat, wondering what to do. Then he realized that he very much wanted Harrison elected, and he knew what he should do.

He waited restlessly for the line of well-wishers to shrink, and finally he heaved himself up and took his place as the last in line. It was half an hour before he reached the stage. He inched ahead until he was able to shake hands with the mayor.

Facing Harrison, he gripped the mayor's limp hand and blurted, 'I've wanted to meet you. I'm Harold T. Armbruster, the meat-packer -'

Harrison 's hand tightened on Armbruster's. The mayor beamed. 'At last,' he said. 'Armour, Swift, Armbruster. I've always wanted to know you, and I'm honoured you came to hear my little speech.'

'The honour is mine,' replied Armbruster. 'Most impressive, your speech. I'm on your side, and now I want to be a backer.'

'A backer?'

'I want to do everything in my power to see that you are elected again. What's the most effective way I can support you, Mayor?'

Harrison stared at the meat-packer. 'Well, I suppose I should be honest with you.'

'Be honest with me.'

'Like all politicians, I need contributions – cash donations – to be used to inform the electorate about my platform.'

'You tell me how much,' said Armbruster. 'I'm prepared to help.'

Harrison coughed. 'I… actually I don't deal in campaign contributions directly. I have two aldermen who run my campaign. One is John Coughlin.' The mayor gave an embarrassed laugh. 'He's more familiarly known as Bathhouse John, because he owned a Turkish bathhouse before venturing into politics. His partner is Michael Kenna, also an alderman, better known as Hinky Dink, because of his short stature.

They're very astute men. They're the men to see. They'll know what I could use, and how it might best be spent.'

'Where do I contact them?' Armbruster asked.

'Give me your card. I'll have one of them telephone you. They'll set a date to meet with you anywhere at your convenience.'

Armbruster handed over his card. 'I'll be waiting. I'll be available all of tomorrow afternoon.'

Harrison shook the meat-packer's hand again. 'You are very generous, Mr Armbruster. You don't know what a lift this gives me. It's going to be a heated election next week, and I need every bit of help I can get.'

'You've got mine,' Armbruster promised him.

'Of course, if there's ever anything I can do for you, Mr Armbruster -'

'We'll see,' said Armbruster.

The following afternoon, Armbruster summoned John Coughlin and Michael Kenna – Bathhouse John and Hinky Dink – and met them in one of the private rooms reserved for members in the Chicago Club.

Armbruster observed that the pair looked like scoundrels. Coughlin wore a pompadour, long sideburns, a moustache, and was almost as beefy as Armbruster himself. Kenna was a glum little man, less flamboyant than his partner – and clearly the brains of the pair. Armbruster told himself no matter that they resembled pirates; if they were good enough for the mayor, they were good enough for him.

'The mayor tells us you want to contribute to his campaign,' began Coughlin.

'I definitely want Harrison elected. How can it be guaranteed?'

Kenna spoke up. 'Nothing in politics can be guaranteed, Mr Armbruster. But we can do our best.'

'How much do you need?' inquired Armbruster.

Coughlin came forward on the sofa where he sat with Kenna. 'Let me explain the realities of the situation,' said Coughlin. 'The mayor can hold his own throughout the city. Where he is less popular is in the First Ward, which Hinky Dink and I represent. The First Ward is the Levee – where houses of prostitution are presently flourishing. With the" proper handling, we can still turn the First Ward around, and that could ensure the mayor's election.'

'What is the proper handling?' Armbruster demanded.

'I'll be frank with you, sir,' said Coughlin. 'The First Ward is filled with pimps, tramps, the unemployed, and drunks. Distributing free drinks – whisky, beer – and cigars could go far. Added to that, a free silver dollar for each of their votes would go further.'

'Would they really vote for Harrison?'

'No question,' Kenna piped up. 'They'll all owe us, and will be looking for more of the same in the future. They'll vote for Harrison, all right.'

Armbruster peeled and clipped an Uppmann cigar. Coughlin bent over to light it. Armbruster inhaled and exhaled a cloud of smoke. 'How much?' he asked.

Coughlin glanced at Kenna, who also leaned forward. '$15,000 cash should do it.'

'That's a lot of money,' said Armbruster.

'That's a lot of votes,' said Kenna.

'When do you need the cash?' asked Armbruster.

'Today,' said Coughlin. 'The election is next week.'

'You've got it,' said Armbruster, taking out his chequebook. 'Go to work.'

Minutes after Armbruster had left them, Coughlin and Kenna received a telephone call from Minna Everleigh.

'Bathhouse,' Minna said, 'Aida and I want to see you and Hinky Dink as soon as possible. We have some business to discuss.'

'How soon?' asked Coughlin.

'Right now,' said Minna.

'Uncork the champagne,' said Coughlin. 'We're on our way.'

A half-hour later, Coughlin and Kenna were seated on a gold divan in Minna's beloved Gold Room, with Minna and Aida on a divan across from them.

'You know what we want to see you about, Bathhouse,' began Minna.

'Haven't the faintest idea,' said Coughlin innocently. 'But if we can be of service in any way -'

'You're damn right you can be of service.'

'We need some help from you,' chimed in Aida. 'My sister will explain.'

Minna rose and poured champagne for Coughlin and Kenna, then for Aida and herself.

She remained standing, drinking from the crystal goblet as she eyed the two aldermen. At last she spoke. 'Bathhouse… Hinky Dink… you both know what that rotten mayor friend of yours is trying to do to us.'

'You mean his reform movement?' said Kenna. 'He's going after the entire Levee, not just you.'

'Nonsense,' snapped Minna. 'There may be 200 brothels in the area, but you know and I know Harrison is after only one. He's been very open about that in all his speeches. He wants to shut down the Everleigh Club because it is the best-known sporting house in the city, the country, the world. He wants to make an example of us. We don't intend to let him do that. We want him beaten in this election. We want Stewart to beat him.' Her voice rose. 'You hear me – Aida and I cannot allow Harrison to be elected.'

'What do you expect us to do?' asked Coughlin.

'Oh, come on,' said Minna with exasperation. 'We know you two have the First Ward in your pocket. If you can get your army here to vote against Harrison, he'll be licked.'

'I repeat,' said Coughlin, 'what do you want us to do?'

Minna put down her glass. 'We want you to do what you've done for years. Buy the votes. Buy votes against Harrison.'

'That takes considerable money,' said Coughlin.

'How much?' demanded Minna, aiming her question at Kenna. 'How much will it cost us to stay in business?'

'$15,000 cash on the line today,' said Kenna.

Minna whistled. 'That's a lot.'

'You're asking a lot,' said Kenna smoothly.

Minna's eyes went from Coughlin to Kenna. Finally, she said. 'No. You're skimming too much off the top for yourselves. Aida and I will offer you $10,000.'

Coughlin shrugged and said, 'I don't know.' He squinted at his partner. 'What do you think, Hinky Dink?'

Kenna stared down at the carpet. He murmured, 'Well, of course, Minna and Aida are old friends.'

'Okay,' said Coughlin, meeting Minna's gaze. 'I guess $10,000 could do the job.'

Minna broke into a smile and picked up her glass. 'It's a deal.' She swallowed her champagne. 'Let's go to the study and we'll give you the money.'

John Coughlin and Michael Kenna did not discuss the newest deal they had made until they were safe in the confines of their City Hall alcove.

Seated, they both loosened their collars as Kenna poured two whiskies. 'Quite a day,' Kenna said.

'Productive,' said Coughlin.

Kenna sat down again with his whisky and drank it. 'Okay, Bathhouse, how do we do it?'

'Do what?'

'How do we spend Armbruster's money to elect Harrison and spend the Everleighs' money to see that Harrison is not elected?'

'Easy,' said Coughlin, gulping his drink.

'Yeah, how?'

Coughlin sat up. 'We go with the highest bidder. We elect Harrison.'

'But the Everleighs are old friends, Bathhouse.'

'Never mind,' said Coughlin expansively. 'We'll make it up to Minna and Aida after Harrison wins. We'll elect the mayor, which will make our meat-packer happy. But we won't let Harrison shut down the Everleigh Club. That way, both sides get what they want.'

Kenna squirmed. 'Sounds impossible.'

Coughlin finished his whisky. 'I don't know. All hell'll bust loose, but we can do it. I have a few ideas. Trust me, Hinky Dink. Everyone's coming out on their feet – I think.'