coats now stood outside the group, and farther off, a cop atop a horse.
Cal lit a cigarette, bent his face low against the flame. Michael Foley looked better fed than he had in their days together on the Avenue as kids and more like his father, a longshoreman who’d turned to politics and graft and had dominated the unions in the late thirties. There had even been a time long before that when both his own father and Foley’s had been friends. The congressman stood over six feet, broad-shouldered, wearing a tan wool coat, leather gloves, and a fine fedora with a feather angled under the black silk band. He shook hands with a few vagrants, patted one on the shoulder, and nodded enthusiastically when another said something to him. A reporter called out beside him, and he turned with a natural grace, put his hand on the back of a bearded man wearing a tattered raincoat, and posed as several more flashes went off.
“Christ, what a load of shit,” someone said.
Cal tightened his collar and moved to the rear of the crowd. There, the wind cut a little bit less and he could hear Foley speaking.
“I’m not going to stand here and tell you I can give you a home and a job right away. And I’m not going to say that the road ahead will be an easy one. But I can tell you that as your future senator, I can bring more opportunity, more money into this city, eventually get you back on your feet, and put some pride back into your lives.”
More bulbs went off as the photographers moved within the circle trying to capture the best angle; Foley in the forefront, tall, almost regal, and all those decrepit faces looking up at him. Foley even took off his fedora to create the brief illusion that he and those before him were more alike than not, and so the crowd and the press could see his face plainly, the harsh wind pressing back his oiled, leonine hair. It was an image taken right out of Mayor Curley’s notebook, and Cal could imagine how it would look on tomorrow’s front page.
“Foley, you’re a fucking lowlife!” someone hollered, and Foley paused as heads turned searching for the culprit. Then it came again, and an old man standing shook his fist. “Who do you think is the bigger crook?! You, or your no-good brother?!”
One of the cops hooked his club through the loop on his belt and went to the man. Foley raised a hand as a peace offering—another flashbulb went off—shook his head, and went back to conversing with two homeless men.
“You’re a crooked blowhard, Foley! Just like your father who fucked up the unions, just like your criminal brother. Full of shit, that’s what you are!”
A thin man with a hard, sharp face and wearing a fur-collared greatcoat whispered something in Foley’s ear and then walked back to the limousine, where a chauffeur stood. The chauffeur opened the rear door and, after the man climbed in the backseat, carefully shut the door behind him.
“You’re a no-good, cocksucking crook!” the old man continued, and then gestured wildly to the crowd. “Don’t fall for his bullshit, none of you fall for it!”
The cop grabbed the old man by the arm and pulled him away from the crowd. The man spat in the direction of Foley, but with the wind against him, it didn’t get very far. Phlegm hung from his lower lip; he struggled and cursed the cop holding him. “Get your filthy hands off me!” he shouted as another cop took hold of him and dragged him out of the crowd.
Cal turned to watch them, and a young woman with bright cheeks and a red, white, and blue stovepipe hat came at him out of the crowd, pressed a large button into his hands.
“What’s this?” Cal said, looking at Foley’s face on the embossed tin smiling up at him.
“It’s in support of Congressman Foley, our next senator.”
“What makes you think I’d vote for him?”
The young woman opened her mouth, stared at him wide-eyed and incredulous. The wind whipped the hair into her face, and she pushed it roughly
Cal lit a cigarette, bent his face low against the flame. Michael Foley looked better fed than he had in their days together on the Avenue as kids and more like his father, a longshoreman who’d turned to politics and graft and had dominated the unions in the late thirties. There had even been a time long before that when both his own father and Foley’s had been friends. The congressman stood over six feet, broad-shouldered, wearing a tan wool coat, leather gloves, and a fine fedora with a feather angled under the black silk band. He shook hands with a few vagrants, patted one on the shoulder, and nodded enthusiastically when another said something to him. A reporter called out beside him, and he turned with a natural grace, put his hand on the back of a bearded man wearing a tattered raincoat, and posed as several more flashes went off.
“Christ, what a load of shit,” someone said.
Cal tightened his collar and moved to the rear of the crowd. There, the wind cut a little bit less and he could hear Foley speaking.
“I’m not going to stand here and tell you I can give you a home and a job right away. And I’m not going to say that the road ahead will be an easy one. But I can tell you that as your future senator, I can bring more opportunity, more money into this city, eventually get you back on your feet, and put some pride back into your lives.”
More bulbs went off as the photographers moved within the circle trying to capture the best angle; Foley in the forefront, tall, almost regal, and all those decrepit faces looking up at him. Foley even took off his fedora to create the brief illusion that he and those before him were more alike than not, and so the crowd and the press could see his face plainly, the harsh wind pressing back his oiled, leonine hair. It was an image taken right out of Mayor Curley’s notebook, and Cal could imagine how it would look on tomorrow’s front page.
“Foley, you’re a fucking lowlife!” someone hollered, and Foley paused as heads turned searching for the culprit. Then it came again, and an old man standing shook his fist. “Who do you think is the bigger crook?! You, or your no-good brother?!”
One of the cops hooked his club through the loop on his belt and went to the man. Foley raised a hand as a peace offering—another flashbulb went off—shook his head, and went back to conversing with two homeless men.
“You’re a crooked blowhard, Foley! Just like your father who fucked up the unions, just like your criminal brother. Full of shit, that’s what you are!”
A thin man with a hard, sharp face and wearing a fur-collared greatcoat whispered something in Foley’s ear and then walked back to the limousine, where a chauffeur stood. The chauffeur opened the rear door and, after the man climbed in the backseat, carefully shut the door behind him.
“You’re a no-good, cocksucking crook!” the old man continued, and then gestured wildly to the crowd. “Don’t fall for his bullshit, none of you fall for it!”
The cop grabbed the old man by the arm and pulled him away from the crowd. The man spat in the direction of Foley, but with the wind against him, it didn’t get very far. Phlegm hung from his lower lip; he struggled and cursed the cop holding him. “Get your filthy hands off me!” he shouted as another cop took hold of him and dragged him out of the crowd.
Cal turned to watch them, and a young woman with bright cheeks and a red, white, and blue stovepipe hat came at him out of the crowd, pressed a large button into his hands.
“What’s this?” Cal said, looking at Foley’s face on the embossed tin smiling up at him.
“It’s in support of Congressman Foley, our next senator.”
“What makes you think I’d vote for him?”
The young woman opened her mouth, stared at him wide-eyed and incredulous. The wind whipped the hair into her face, and she pushed it roughly
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