"I know a few people," I say. "And I can always make it my business to meet somebody I'd like to meet. Can you sketch out the situation for me?"

  "I teach English at Bochas Elementary full-time. Sixth and seventh grade."

  "Is that where you've got the problem?"

  "The school board gave me an official reprimand implying that unless I mend my ways my services will no longer be required."

  "What's the gist of their complaint?"

  "My suggested book list for a program of voluntary reading."

  "This ain't—isn't—the required list?"

  "No, I don't change that, though I don't altogether agree with the choices. My reading list is in addition."

  "Not instead of?"

  "I leave that up to the kids."

  "Tell me about this voluntary program."

  "Well, you know about the idea Newt Gingrich had about paying children two dollars a book for every book they read during the summer?"

  "He gets a good idea every now and then."

  "Well, I started a similar program. Not two bucks, only a dollar, and just for my seventh graders. Even then I had to ask Jake to help me out. He wrote up a little grant proposal and got me some funding."

  "How long's the list?"

  "I hand out two pages suggesting fifty books, but if any student wants to read a book not on the list, they just have to ask me for an okay. Not because I want to censor what they read but because the first year I tried it one clever kid handed in a list of sixty books he read, not one of which was longer than twenty pages. They were mostly children's picture books."

  "You give him the sixty bucks?"

  "We negotiated." She grins. "He held out for the whole sixty because he pointed out that he'd discovered a costly flaw in my plan and should be rewarded for helping me plug it up."

  "Maybe I should talk to this kid, line him up to be a precinct captain."

  "He's got a head on his shoulders, that's for sure."

  "So, about the sixty?" I ask again.

  "We worked it out I gave him thirty bucks and he came back to me with proof that he read five regular books. He got over on me even then."

  "How's that?"

  "None of the five were works of fiction or poetry or biography. They were computer manuals."

  "I really got to meet this kid," I say.

  "I can arrange it, but don't blame me if he cons you out of your wallet."

  "They ban the whole list? I mean is the objection that you're putting out an alternate list in the first place?"

  "Well, that's what they say I'm supposed to do. Stick with the required list. But the current flap is about just seven books."

  "That's a lot."

  "That's too much. One would be too much."

  "What books did they want removed from your list?"

  "Well, there are the perennial favorites of PTAs and school boards all over the country, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men is not acceptable, they say, because of vulgar language, and Grapes of Wrath because of that scene where the young woman nurses the starving old man at her breast. Nabokov's Lolita is banned because the older man is having a relationship with a young girl. A Thousand Acres is unacceptable as well."

  "I don't know that last one," I say.

  "It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1992."

  "What's the objection?"

  "It has no literary value for this community at this time."

  "Does that mean it might have some literary value later on?" I ask, making a little joke.

  Cora shrugs and grins. "You can't get vaguer than they've been about their objections. I don't doubt that most of them haven't even read the books they're banning."

  "What else they ban?" I ask.

  "Daddy's Roommate. It's the most challenged book in America. That's why I put it on the list, to let the kids make up their own minds about how unacceptable it may be."

  "Can I assume that this is a book about a man and woman living together without benefit of wedlock?"

  "No, it's about a man and a man living together without benefit of wedlock, which is another contemporary issue that should be argued and examined."

  "Uh, oh," I say.

  "Would you be offended by a book on the subject, Jimmy?"

  "I got to admit I'd need more than a minute to think it through. To paraphrase an old saying, I can decide about the obvious in a lifetime, the subtle takes me a little longer."

  When Cora doesn't say anything, I start to explain.

  "Oh, I understand," she says. "Just a little book-banning humor there."

  "I'll read them two books," I say. "But I'd like to know how important this is to you."

  "I'm ready to go to the wall for it, if I have to," she says. "I'm ready to make them fire me."

  "If they try to do that, how do you think the Teachers Union'll stand on the issue?"

  "I honestly don't know. You know how quickly the support you thought you had can disappear when the going gets tough. You remember what happened during the McCarthy era? All the decent people running for cover? Even Truman and Eisenhower wouldn't or couldn't shut him up."

  "Can you get me the names of the board members who voted to ban the books and then voted to censure you?"

  "I don't know about the banning but they all voted to censure me. I understand it has to be unanimous."

  "A lot of times, over something like this, people'll go along to get along."

  "That's the trouble, isn't it, Jimmy?"

  "Okay," I say, "I'll see what I can do."

  But, right that minute, I ain't got a clue about what I can do.

  EIGHT

  Since I became the warlord of the ward, Janet Canarias's been letting me use her storefront office, on selected days and at selected hours, in which to conduct my own ward business. Which is a benefit to her as well as to me.

  With Delvin gone and Dunleavy so old I don't think he cares about much except having a nice nap now and then, Janet's become the political person I like to consult when I need to talk something out.

  I wouldn't want this taken the wrong way, but the fact that she's a beautiful woman with a preference for members of her own gender when it comes to sex and companionship gives her opinions a very nice balance. I mean we ain't got a lot of politically correct knee-jerk reactions going on when we talk, which keeps a lot of good ideas from getting kicked out the door.

  She stops by to pick up some papers on a Monday night and sticks her head in the doorway of my office which used to be a big storage closet with a window.

  "No customers, Jimmy?"

  "Things've been very peaceful tonight. You suppose all's right with the Twenty-seventh?"

  She makes an eye gesture to the visitor's chair and I nod and smile how pleased I'd be if she'd sit down and chew the fat for a while.

  "I'm glad you stopped by," I say. "I was going to come see you."

  "A little consultation?" she asks, sitting down and arranging her short skirt over her very pretty thighs.

  "I had a meeting with Maggie Lundatos."

  She lifts one eyebrow, which is a talent I always admired and which I more or less mastered after a lot of practice in the mirror.

  "She was very forthright," I say.

  "That's good", she says.

  "Put it right out there on the table?"

  "It?"

  "Her cards, I should've said. What she's ready to give and what she wants for giving."

  "Does one depend upon the other?"

  "There's no illegal or unethical, or even morally doubtful, quid pro quo here."

  "That's quite a legal mouthful there, Jimmy."

  "Well I just mean that she's ready to throw her support my way."

  "Which is not inconsiderable."

  "And all she wants in return is access to the way things work and the opportunity to make a suggestion now and then."

  "A suggestion?"

  "Which I am not obligated to act upon. I think what she wants is to learn the ropes. Maybe run for office herself one of these days."

  "That was all she had on offer?"

  She studies her fingernails as though they was tarot cards and she's about to tell my fortune.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is this purely a political consultation, Jimmy?"

  "What else do you think it could be?"

  "Well, since I believe in alternate lifestyles, you may believe that I'd be more liberal in my views about a person's choice of partners."

  "Partners?"

  "A person having more than one at a time, for instance."

  "You think I want to ask your blessing if I decide to take Maggie Lundatos up on some personal offer?"

  "So she made a personal offer?" she says, which is not quite a question but merely a confirmation of what she already suspected.

  "Well, it could be just my imagination," I say. "Sometimes, with a woman, it's very hard for a man to know the difference between an invitation or friendliness."

  "Don't play coy, Jimmy. You've been hit on plenty, just like I have, and I think you know the difference."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Because, as far as I know, your foot hasn't slipped yet and I've been around to witness some of the offers you've had."

  I fidget and look at the photo of Delvin at a summer picnic of the Sons of Hibernia held once long ago. I know my cheeks is red.

  "Well..." I say, which ain't much of a protest.

  "It wasn't a condition of her political support, was it?" Janet asks.

  "No, it wasn't. She made that clear."

  "And how about you, Jimmy? Do you think you might be looking around for some outside interest without even knowing you're looking around?"

  I don't say anything.

  "You're married—what?—ten years?" Janet goes on. "Dangerous time in a marriage."

  "Seven-year itch?"

  "Seven years plus three. Maybe you're overdue wondering about greener grass."

  "I don't think so," I say. "But you're right about one thing. It's a woman with what you could call an alternate lifestyle I'd like to talk to you about."

  "Not Lundatos?"

  "I think I've got my head straight about that. What would you think if I took Mabel Halstead on as my office manager and administrative aide?"

  "My first thought is to find you a gun so you can shoot yourself in the foot."

  "What's your second thought?"

  "I'd say you couldn't find yourself a better administrator anywhere. You mind telling me what brought her to mind?"

  "Well, back when she'd just changed from being a cop by the name of Milton Halstead to a big woman by the name of Mabel Halstead, she stepped into a situation where I could've been severely injured and saved my bacon. You already know what happened when she and Cleary were competing for the middle-aged, middle-class hooker trade. That business about Fay Wray? So I don't have to go into that. But I understand that I brought down so much heat on her, one way and another, that she had to get out of the financial consulting business. So that's why I thought of her to run my office."

  "You figure you owe her?"

  "I owe her something, but this ain't a case of favor for favor, or even a case of helping somebody I like get into something they might really want to do. I'm being selfish. I want the best person for a job that won't pay too good. If we both get something out of it, that's even better. I understand she's even been talking about really going into politics. Interning over to the state legislature. Maybe doing a summer with a United States representative."

  "Yes, she's talking about it."

  "Well, maybe this could help her get there."

  "There's risk," Janet says. "It gets out you've got a he/she running your office they could use it against you in a nasty way. After all you're not going after a seat in a tenderloin ward. You'll be running in the Mayor's Ward, the Eleventh, maybe the most conservative and Catholic ward in the city."

  "So, I'll be giving the voters a chance to show how compassionate and forgiving they can be."

  "You ever do anything the easy way, Flannery?" she says. I give her my best cocky grin.

  "One thing," she says.

  "Yeah, what's that?"

  "Johnny O'Meara's about ready to step down any day, right?"

  "I'm waiting for him to name the hour."

  "Well, then you better ask him how he'll feel about Mabel."

  She gets up, straightens her skirt and goes to the door, which is only three steps away.

  "One more thing, Jimmy."

  "Yeah?"

  "Mary's my best friend next to you. If you decide to do anything about the other half of Maggie Lundatos's offer, I don't want to know about it."

  NINE

  When I walk into Schaller's Pump, at O'Meara's request, there's a dozen old pols hanging around. They each give me the old one-eye and then they smile, one and all, and say things like, "How's it hangin', Flannery? Tell your old man hello. Tell Mike that Breezy sends his regards," and other such remarks.

  O'Meara's sitting in the back at what I see is his usual table, but he ain't alone. He's having a few laughs with these two guys and don't look up until he hears my footsteps approaching them.

  Then he says, "Welcome home, Jimmy," and the other two guys look up at me and I recognize these two gazooneys I helped put away in the long ago.

  These two is homophobes. One night they get drunk and beat to death two homosexuals who worked in Janet Canarias's campaign, then put them in the steam room of this bathhouse I found to keep Baby, the gorilla, from freezing to death when the heating system in the zoo goes down.

  I scare them half to death by trapping them in a cage with a lion so they give it up with Captain Pescaro standing close enough to hear.

  At their trial they put up the old "diminished capacity" defense but what they did is so outrageous and excessive that they get put away for manslaughter—ten years. Out in six and a half with good behavior.

  Which is not to say that what they did don't go down pretty good with some of the old bigots I know and talk to nearly every day of the week. And which is also not to say that when they get out, there ain't somebody ready, willing and able to give them work. Especially now that they got reputations for being bone-breakers.

  They shove their chairs back a little bit when they see it's me and for a second there I'm wondering if I'm going to be in a fight whether I like it or not. But, instead, they grin kind of sheepish and stand up.

  "We got no hard feelings, Flannery," Pat Connell says. "I hope you ain't got no hard feelings."

  "Hi there, Jimmy. You don't mind I call you Jimmy?" Buck Bailey says.

  "Are these special friends of yours, Mr. O'Meara?" I say, not taking my eyes off the two of them. "Because if they are, I won't interrupt your conversation. I'll come back another day."

  "They were just chewing the fat with me while I was waiting for you," O'Meara says. "Go ahead, boys. I'll see you around."

  They say sure and go on their way, but not before they toss me a couple of looks which shows the hate they got for me under their sheepish smiles.

  "Sit down, Jimmy. Have a ginger ale," O'Meara says.

  I keep looking after the two gazooneys until they're out the door.

  "They're nothing to worry about, Jimmy," O'Meara says.

  "I'm not worried about them. I just like to know what they're doing when they're behind my back."

  "I understand you had something to do with putting them in the slam."

  "I did my best to put them there. My only regret is the law didn't keep them in longer."

  "That don't sound like you, Jimmy. I've always been told you're a man of charity and compassion."

  "To them what deserves it."

  "That may not always be ours to decide," O'Meara says in a voice like a priest in the confessional. "To err is human, to forgive divine. They paid the price and maybe learned a couple of lessons."

  When I don't say anything or nod my head in agreement at such wisdom, he goes on. "They're ten years older and their lives in ruin. I figure how about we give them another chance?"

  "I can guarantee you, if they don't hurt me or mine, I'm more than happy to keep my hands off them," I say. "But I don't feel so generous about giving them any chances."

  "I'm glad to hear you say that you'll keep your hands off them at least. Not interfere should a little bit of good fortune come their way."

  This is leading somewhere but I don't ask where. I got this business of him stepping down as committeeman and me being appointed to fill out his term of office to get over with.

  "I'm glad you asked for a little sit-down," he says, making it clear that I was the one asked for this meeting though he's the one who called me. "We should hammer out the details of how we're going to work it, my stepping down, I mean. We can do it with some fanfare, the whole bit, or we can do it quiet and discreet."

  "I think I'd like it quiet and discreet," I say.

  "Me, too, but Jim Buckey and Maggie Lundatos think otherwise. She said something about the benefits in what you could call a photo opportunity. So, maybe just you and me and Mrs. Lundatos and the chairman in my office and some members of the press. Maybe a few party officials and friends. We don't want you to be accused of being a stealth candidate or a carpetbagger or anything like that."

  I can understand what he's saying here. Buckey wants the chance to show that, as the new State Democratic Party Central Committee chairman, he's inherited the clout that Ray Carrigan once exercised. Like naming committeemen to fill out terms of them what retire midterm not being the least important.

  Maggie wants to take the first chance she can get to show that Maggie Lundatos, now that she's ending her marriage as well as her political ties with Lundatos, is now a player in her own right.

  O'Meara wants his favor to me and the party to be as public as he can make it. Retired he may be but out of the game altogether he ain't.

  "How about my office?" I ask.

  "Your office is over in the Twenty-seventh, ain't it? Well, that wouldn't look so good, would it, pointing up to the fact that you're bailing out of a minority ward to sit yourself down in my butter tub?"

  There's always this edge to whatever O'Meara says to me. Like there's more than a little bit of disdain for me, a man who climbed the ladder so far without the trouble of running for any office. A little bit of dislike, too. And, maybe, a little bit of envy.

 

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