They Tell Me You Are Wicked: Duncan Cochrane, #1

Chapter 1

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.

~ Carl Sandburg (1878—1967). Chicago Poems. 1916

***

A car. The boy just wanted a car.

For their sixteenth birthday, most guys on the North Shore copped their own ride. They’d snag their driver’s permit then drive to New Trier High the next day in a restored Mustang, or a cherry Camaro, or a convertible MGB, and slow roll through the parking lot. Tradition required it along the lakefront of Chicago, except in families either too tight or too punitive.

Which label applied to his dad? He had plenty of money and no reason to Bogart it. Still, for his sweet sixteen the boy got an Apple II, to help him with his homework, his mom had said, as if that glowing box could make him care about school.

All of which explained why he hung back in the night shadows, smoking a joint. The suburban street waited lifeless, all the house lights snuffed, but the Oldsmobile Cutlass glowed under the street lamp like a lightening bug: high-gloss yellow paint on the doors and roof, hubcaps to match, black air vents on the hood, a spoiler on the tail. Buffed out to mint condition, it would stand up on the cover of Car and Driver.

He took a final hit off the roach, looked both ways, and crossed. After a dozen silent steps on pavement still damp from a misting rain, he test-tugged the driver’s door, and it opened on squeaky hinges. The bench seat offered hard vinyl, slick and cold. The steering wheel was bound in leather, but it had turned viscous as oil.

Can I? he said to himself.

The owner must have been asleep and probably wouldn’t even notice its absence. Borrowing wasn’t stealing, especially if he refilled the gas tank. It would be no more than a test drive.

Behind, an El train screeched by, but once it passed everything was chill. He lowered the window to take in the vibe; the air smelled of tar and pine, and the street lamps buzzed.

The ignition popped with a flat-head screwdriver, and behind it he found the two wires—black and red—as his friend had said. On first touch the engine woke with a grunt. He eased the ball-head shifter to neutral and rolled silently back into the street, just like with the family’s station wagon when he snuck out at night. He switched into drive, and a window lit up across the street. No sense waiting for a hand to part the curtains. Time to motor.

He tapped on the accelerator and six dials stood up on the dash. The engine rumbled loud in his ears, so he kept the tachometer under 2K and waited for the end of the block to pull the plunger on the headlamps.

At the intersection with Emerson he idled, feeling the pants of the motor, the shudder in the flanks. Sheridan Road had fewer traffic lights, but Green Bay offered a straight shot, primo to test the 350 Rocket engine.

He tunneled under the railroad that pointed downtown and turned right. Lights flashed yellow as far as he could see, shining off the wet pavement. On the right, the berm of the train tracks formed a barrier like the grandstands at a speedway, while to his left lay the pit row of gas, food, and tire shops, their neon signs the only evidence of habitation.

He punched play on the 8-track, and the Bee Gees sang Night Fever in a flaming falsetto. Eject. He coiled to throw the tape out the window but instead pocketed it as a memento. Nobody would miss Saturday Night Fever. On the radio dial he found the Loop and the vibrato of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar.

I live my life like there’s no tomorrow,

And all I’ve got, I had to steal.

He amped up the volume and stomped on the gas. The car leapt, and the tachometer climbed to 4K then slapped down as the engine shifted into second, third, fourth. Its noise blew away even the music while the windshield pinched the world into a rectangle of onrushing lights. Soon his hands numbed from the vibrations of the steering wheel.

He leaned back into the hard vinyl and squinted at the wind raking his face. The pot was taking hold, dragging the corners of his mouth into a perma-grin, filling his head with helium light. He passed the music studio where he took guitar lessons, the chrome of Stratocasters glinting in the window; the A&P where his mom shopped, its parking lot big and vacant; the stony Presbyterian church where his family dragged him weekly. He imagined wheeling the Cutlass past them, people turning at the hum of the engine and staring at the gleaming paint, waiting to see who stepped out, then nodding at him—no longer the boy in his parent’s back seat.

At every manhole the car bottomed out, dropping his stomach with it, and on every crack in the pavement it bucked him off the bench seat. It handled nothing like the pathetic AMC Pacer from driver’s ed. or his family’s wood wagon, which creaked and swayed like hammocks. This ride held taut as a guitar string.

He didn’t even see the pothole, only felt the car dip and lurch toward the curb, as for a second the Olds drove him. Then the tires grabbed and straightened. These gopher holes hid everywhere on the city streets, but he’d never hit one in a ride this tight.

It was no sweat until his left leg started to shake, at first just a tremor timed with the vibrations of the engine. Then it found its own rhythm, bouncing as though he was playing a bass drum. He tried to restrain it but couldn’t. Luckily, the other foot controlled the gas.

When he looked up again, a garbage truck was crawling round the corner ahead, but with three lanes open he didn’t need to slow. He ticked left a couple degrees, except the Cutlass didn’t want to reset, fixing itself on a line to the curb and a huge elm, the trunk thicker than a phone pole. He stomped the brakes and tugged the wheel right with both hands, but the car fought back, fishtailing and mashing him into the door. As it spun, his head rebounded off something both firm and spongy.

Then everything blurred.

A jolt ended the slide. Lights trailed around him. He groped for something solid but found only the smooth and slick. All over his body felt bruised, and he heard himself panting as if recovering from a run powered by bone and muscle, rather than by gas and steel. He couldn’t tune into his other senses. Finally, he grasped something cold and metallic, then held on until the dizziness faded.

He revived on the passenger side of the bench seat. The Cutlass lay in the oncoming lane, facing the wrong way. In the headlights, black skid marks stretched beyond his sight, and the scent of scorched rubber mixed with that of his sweat.

He slid back to the driver’s side and checked all his mirrors. In the wing, he saw the curb that had saved him from wiping out into the tree. Other than the tire tracks, he couldn’t see any damage. Still his stomach burned orange and acid.

Behind him, the garbage truck waited too, its brake lights glowing red. The cab revealed only darkness, but he sensed somebody watching.

The Olds idled low and ready, so he eased on the gas, but the tires turned only once and locked. What was the hang up? He tried again, with more gas this time, but the car lurched and fell. On his third attempt the wheels only ground, metal on metal.

Another look at the side mirror told him the truck still waited. The garbage man would see if he stepped out. At least inside the cockpit he hid from sight.

If his dad found out, he’d freak. The old man acted as though everything was irreplaceable. Once, when the boy accidently knocked over a lamp taking batting practice, his father grounded him for two months. After a wreck like this, he’d probably be banned from driving, and definitely wouldn’t get a car of his own—ever. He’d be walking to school until graduation.

He stared at the little reflection of the garbage truck in the mirror. Go on, he told it.

Maybe the driver wanted some sign he’d given up.

He threw the shifter into park and waited for the truck to move on, but it just sat there, its exhaust drifting in the window, a sweet scent that made him nauseous and dizzy again.

The dashboard clock ticked fifty times at least during the standoff. Then the truck driver’s door opened, and a round man stepped onto the ladder, hanging there as though he couldn’t decide what to do.

Hey!

His deep voice echoed off the street, threatening to wake up everybody within a mile. He sounded mad, as though he knew what had happened, but that was impossible. Nobody had seen the boy swipe the Olds.

Hey! the guy repeated even louder.

He descended a rung and waited as if expecting someone to step out and meet him.

The lights! They threw a pair of cones on the asphalt. The boy reached for the plunger to drain them, but his wrist cramped with a spark of pain from finger to shoulder. Since his hand wouldn’t obey, the boy punched the toggle with a knuckle, killing all illumination inside and out. Once his eyes adjusted, he checked the side mirror again.

The man hung half out of his cab. Hey, flyboy, you okay?

Now his voice sounded friendly. Maybe he’d push-start the car, help get it over the curb’s hump and pointed back to the duplex. Because right then, all the boy wanted was a do-over.

Hey, if you’re hurt, don’t move.

The boy flexed his fingers, but they wouldn’t stretch more than an inch, and his forearm ached, every movement winding the muscles tighter around a spindle. What if he couldn’t drive? In the wood wagon he needed only one hand to steer, but the Cutlass had proven to be way too potent for that.

A glance back showed the garbage guy had descended to the lowest rung. How far back? Like the fine print said, the mirror distorted the distance, especially in the dark. By looking over his shoulder, the boy saw the driver waiting at least twenty-five paces away.

Think fast, he said to himself. Don’t count on help from this gawker.

A siren crept through the open window, and the boy’s mind went tense as his hand. Was it the paramedics or the police? Would one come without the other? The cops would definitely ask for his license and registration—check who owned the Cutlass.

In the slow crescendo, he locked eyes on the trash man, who walked toward the Olds, his head cocked to one side. No sense waiting on him or the fuzz. Hesitation meant fessing up, humiliation with his friends, and who knew what hell from his dad.

He clawed the door handle but couldn’t close his grip, the cord in his forearm so taut it kept no slack for movement. Instead, he worked the lock with his right hand, then shouldered the door open, lost his balance, fell to one knee, and instinctively reached out the bad arm. The pain paralyzed him in that stance, like a runner on the blocks waiting for the gun. Behind, he heard the sani-man striding toward him heavy and slow.

Don’t move, he said.

Up close, the garbage guy looked old and rotund, way stronger than him, but slower, too. The boy forced himself to his feet, and the ground shifted. He stumbled and nearly fell again, but pausing gave him back his legs.

I’m cool, he said.

Running seemed impossible, so he race-walked off cradling the lame limb.

Hold on, the dumpster driver said.

At a half jog, the boy passed the windows to a flower shop with a neon yellow rose, and a record store with a spinning disc. He couldn’t hear any steps or breathing behind but didn’t want to look back in case he lost his balance again. Up ahead, the sidewalk ended at an intersection, the crosswalk glowing like a ladder under the street lamp. Even stoned and scared he knew enough to get off the main drag. To his right lay the darkness of suburban homes, their black lawns and big backyards an escape, so he veered onto the side street. It held a dozen places to hide—high bushes, shadowy corners, tall gates—but all still too close. And what if someone heard?

He scanned the street for a gas station with its lights dimmed or a restaurant with a side entrance, but he saw only more homes. All the businesses hid behind him with the Cutlass, the trash trailer, and the siren.

Which had stopped now, he noticed. Quiet had returned, as though the sani-man and the alarm, all those officious gnats, had given up. Still, he couldn’t stop. Luck had landed him there, and he couldn’t count on it to save him.

If he could just get out from under this. If no one found out, not his dad or his friends....

Please God, he said. Let me walk, and I’ll get you back.

He didn’t mean to wreck the car; it was just a joyride. The irony of that term ricocheted through his thoughts, his arm throbbing, head spinning, heart banging. How much could it cost to fix? Didn’t matter. He’d save his allowance for months, if he had to, and drop the money (anonymously) through the owner’s mail slot.

He could make this right, as if it had never happened.

Chapter 2

The death of Richard J. Daley on December 20, 1976 left a political vacuum in Chicago, the suction of which reached far beyond the city limits. For 21 years, as mayor and chairman of the Cook County Democrats, Daley commanded Illinois’ liberal voters. In the city, no one bought a business license without his say-so. Statewide, he made out the party’s ticket then got out the voters to support it. Rumor even held that he’d swung the 1960 election to J.F.K.

After the mayor’s passing, many Windy City politicians plotted to replace him, but no less likely candidate emerged than Duncan Cochrane, a self-made magnate of salted pork who owned the city’s largest supplier of hot dogs, brats, and sausages. Unlike the majority of local pols, who had been schooled and disciplined by The Machine, Cochrane brought no political experience, but he imagined himself overstepping the party to become the state’s next governor.

Only his first steps faltered. With six weeks left to the election, he trailed by ten points. Ten. This was why no big name politicians had run for governor, and why newspaper columnists had labeled Duncan the token offering. With his massive war chest, most pundits considered Big Bill Stratton to be unbeatable. So far he was proving them right.

That was why at the fundraiser to save his campaign, Duncan circulated like Tarzan swinging vine to vine, his hands always seeking a new hold, never releasing one before taking up another, shaking with so many people he couldn’t track whom he was gripping. Voices converged and peppered him.

How’re you going to beat Big Bill? they said.

Same way I won the primary: enterprise, Duncan said.

But what’s your pitch?

This state needs a leader who knows how to use all the parts of the pig.

How do we know you’ll remember us?

Running a state’s no different than a company: it’s all about relationships.

Will you be a friend to business?

I will.

Will you forget your friends?

I won’t.

Can we count on your vote?

You can.

We’re counting on you to win.

I know.

All the while, the meat and wine from the banquet soured on Duncan’s palate. Something was missing. The Drake Hotel’s ballroom sat properly attired: the tables laid with white linen and cream china; the podium chiffoned in red, white, and blue bunting. The guests lined up for seconds on prime rib and drained every bottle of red Bordeaux. Waiters all in white trundled by a sheet cake with Cochrane in ‘78 written in icing over the eagle and crest of the state flag. An octet played swing music even though the floor offered no space to cut a rug.

However, in back sat three empty tables, and even with the lights lowered, Duncan couldn’t overlook them. When his face ached from smiling and his hand throbbed from shaking, he worked his way to the rear and stepped behind a gold brocade curtain hiding a hallway.

He finger-combed his auburn-tinted hair, but its sprayed stiffness reminded him: hands off. Instead, he tweaked the buttons on his tuxedo coat and adjusted his silver cufflinks. He’d paid $2,000 for custom formal wear, and already he’d sweated through the shirt and scuffed the wing tips. He felt like a little boy dressed up for church.

Dad.

Duncan turned to see his teenaged son, Aden, slouched in the stairway to a side door. His hair stood up in a military flat top for prep school, bringing out his blue eyes. Already he’d removed his blazer and hiked up the cuffs of his slacks.

What’re you doing here? Duncan said.

Same as you. Vegging out.

I’m practicing.

Duncan extracted his speech from a coat pocket, squinted, reached for his reading glasses, then stopped himself. His consultants had used a large-print typewriter so he wouldn’t look myopic in public.

The boy pulled loose his bow tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

Don’t relax yet, Duncan said. We’ve got an hour to go.

Not me. I need a chill pill.

The boy slumped in his chair and slipped off his black wing tips.

Aden, I need you to play along for a while longer.

That’s why I’m here, to play along?

That’s not what I meant.

So why am I here?

Duncan didn’t want to say that he didn’t trust his son at home alone, even at age sixteen. Instead he said, To whom much is given, of him shall much be required. Before he could indulge a fatherly impulse to lecture about public service and privilege, a hand drew back the curtain.

His wife, Josie, surveyed them, hands on hips. Why are you two hiding?

We’re chilling, Aden said.

I’m preparing, Duncan said.

She stepped between them like a school principal breaking up a fight, her grey jacket and pantsuit as blockish as any man’s, her blush, lip stick and rouge muted.

People need to see you, she said

In a minute, Duncan said.

Screw up your courage.

Enclosed by the airless curtain, Duncan smelled his own sweat overwhelm the soaps and deodorants.

How many people do you think we got? Duncan said to her.

Five hundred? Josie said.

The room only holds three.

Josie turned to Aden, surveyed his dishevelment, and said, Get dressed, then lifted him by the elbow and attacked his tie until he recoiled.

I just wish I knew how we’re doing, Duncan said.

You want me to ask Lindsay? Aden said.

Duncan peeked around the curtain to the entry, where his adult daughter used her blue eyes and orthodontist’s smile to coax people into larger donations. Compared to the other guests, she dressed like a hippie in a sleeveless dress that fell like a slip and blond hair so straight it looked ironed.

I’ll do it, Duncan said. While Josie redressed their son, he stepped back into the open room.

His campaign manager, Kai Sato, quickly spotted him and closed in. He wore the uniform of tuxedo and cummerbund, although his collar and cuffs spread too wide for Duncan’s taste. As a drama buff, Kai’s wardrobe tended to the theatrical.

Nervous? Kai said.

No, Duncan said, too quick and automatic to be convincing.

Then don’t look it.

How’d we do?

Kai turned to the crowd. His broad nose and olive skin appeared German, but his straight black hair lay restrained in a Samurai’s ponytail.

I’d say we got about two hundred.

Thousand?

People. It’s too soon to count the money.

Two hundred people at $500 a plate grossed them $100,000, a solid amount but not nearly enough. Subtract the hotel rental, the dinner, the French Cab, which tallied at least $20,000. It never seemed important when they were planning this shindig. Now, only big donations would get them to their goal of $250,000.

I thought this was the best way to fundraise, Duncan said.

It’s copacetic. We’ll shake down everyone on their way out.

Kai’s word choice grated—these were friends and associates, after all—but his flippancy helped Duncan to ID the flaw in the room: it had a Presbyterian restraint, everyone chatting quietly, the scrape of knives audible above conversation. Even the lighting simmered. What was lacking? Enthusiasm.

Is anyone here from Marshall Field’s? Duncan said.

Don’t know, Kai said.

Meaning no.

What about the party? Duncan said.

Focus on who’s here.

Don’t tell me The Machine is still bitter about us beating their man in the primary.

I’ll put together a confab, see what’s shaking.

Duncan looked away. Sometimes Kai sounded like a teenager—all lingo and no content. He’d survived only twenty-eight years, almost the same as Duncan’s eldest. His daughters called Kai a mod, while his son dubbed Kai a closet disco queen. Still, the strategist had won three local campaigns. The problem wasn’t Kai.

Even now Duncan caught himself frowning against the advice of his consultants who’d warned him never to look unhappy in public.

He scanned the room for joyous faces until an unexpected one stopped him. At the entry, next to his daughter, stood a thick man in a long, black leather coat. If he were a cow he would have been well marbled.

Hang on, there’s someone I need to talk to, he said.

He crossed the room with back pats and arm squeezes, weaving through the guests like Walter Payton evading tacklers, until he stood by the door.

...with the American Brotherhood of Laborers, the big man said to Lindsay.

Hello, Joe. Duncan offered his hand only to find it compressed in a grip that paralyzed his strength.

Years before, this bull of a man had lost most of the fingers on his right hand to a grinder; now he compensated by overpowering people with the good one. For such a big guy, Joe Sturmer’s face looked small and delicate, with a child’s soft nose, a receding chin, and pale blue eyes; but his grip displayed no such weakness. Union guys didn’t soften their words, and the meat cutters spoke brutally after breaking bones all day.

It took all Duncan’s concentration to maintain his candidate’s smile.

"I hear the governor’s started calling you the butcher," Sturmer said.

Typical insult from a farm boy, Duncan said. I take it as a compliment.

Good, cause you know Chicago’s a working man’s town. We got to roll up our sleeves and plunge our hands into the fleshy parts. He turned to Lindsay, who stared up at them like a little girl overhearing her parents argue, stunned to silence but logging every word. You probably don’t know about this cause your dad’s the boss now, but we used to cut up carcasses together back when he was a college kid.

Proud to be hog butchers to the world, Duncan said.

You got it.

The union man finally released Duncan’s hand after winning his submission.

You get some prime rib? Duncan asked them both.

Don’t worry, I’m not staying, Sturmer said. Nobody sent me an invitation, which is too bad. I hear you need more money. I might be able to help you out with that.

You know I appreciate your support, Duncan said.

Then how come you don’t return my calls? Your secretary hears my voice more than my wife. Seems like you’re ducking us.

Instinctively, Duncan straightened, giving him half a foot over Sturmer. Not at all. With the campaign, I haven’t been at my office much lately. But I want to hear what you have to say, you and... your people.

I hear you, but the membership isn’t so patient. You gotta understand, our votes aren’t given, they’re earned. People like us can’t afford fancy fundraisers. We’re workers, but together we pack a lot of strength.

An innuendo of snobbery, like his opponent and media critics. Why say it now, here? Every candidate needed fundraisers, and Duncan had to invite people with money. Yet another reason to get out of meat packing.

You don’t need to donate any more to get my attention, Duncan said. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, myself.

Sturmer stepped back but kept his gaze fixed on Duncan. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got to say. He turned to Lindsay and offered her a delicate handshake. Good to meet you. He then turned back to Duncan. Talk to you soon.

He stalked through the hotel’s lobby, leaving behind a medicinal odor of cheap cologne.

He works with you? Lindsay said.

Duncan shook his head and turned from his daughter, searching for the words to explain.

Before he could answer, Kai stepped in. It’s time, he said.

The lights dimmed, and Duncan ascended the podium to the ping of silver against glass. The lectern reminded