The Golden Room Page 2

  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 al
l 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.'

  Minute
s 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.'