1Chapter Three
Harding popped the top off a beer bottle and took a long chug. He checked before he closed the refrigerator door, and saw that there were five bottles left--enough to get him pretty well plastered before the night was through. He pulled off his uniform shirt and hung it over a chair, then drew his nightstick and dropped it on the table beside his pale-blue helmet.
Suspended! Two days without pay, right in the middle of a week-long citywide security crisis. By order of Mayor Daley all vacations and leave had been cancelled and every cop in the city was working mandatory overtime, but he'd just been sent home like a naughty schoolboy! As he opened the window and turned on the little fan to stir the sultry August air, he laughed at the irony--his Sears window-mounted air conditioner had just become another victim of the riots.
Maybe six beers wouldn't be enough.
He opened a can of Campbell's vegetable soup and dumped the contents into a saucepan, then added a canful of water. That went on the smaller burner of his two-burner stove to heat. He then assembled a "Dagwood Bumstead" sandwich on one of his three dinner plates, using just about every ingredient in the fridge that wasn't either spoiled or moldy. A double-handful of potato chips and a dill pickle spear rounded out the meal. He tossed a blue tea-towel onto the table and put the saucepan of hot soup on it; eating his soup directly from the pot meant one less dish to wash. He finished off the first bottle of beer and opened a second bottle to have with his supper.
He turned on the TV, and adjusted the rabbit ears to the best position for bringing in Channel 4. David Brinkley was reporting from the NBC booth at the convention, commenting on a nomination speech that apparently had just ended. Harding took another swig of beer and sat down to eat his supper and watch another politician nominate Vice President Humphrey for President of the United States of America.
By the time the speech ended, Harding was wiping up the last of the soup with the crust from his sandwich. Up in the NBC booth, Brinkley turned to the camera and for the first time described what was going on outside the convention hall, in the streets of Chicago.
The anti-war demonstrations had moved. After three disastrous days in Lincoln Park, the leaders of the Youth International Party had finally got wise and moved their followers south to the more strategically placed Grant Park. The rest of the mob followed the Yippies. All day long they had been singing, dancing, chanting, listening to speeches and music in the park that graced the lakeshore beside Chicago's famous Loop, less than a mile from the convention center and only blocks from the big hotels where the delegates were staying.
Only blocks from the Conrad Hilton, where Vice President Humphrey was staying.
Harding glanced over his shoulder at the open window. The sun was low in the sky, almost an hour before dusk. He rushed over to his desk and dug rapidly through a pile of unpaid bills, advertising circulars and newspapers, searching for his AAA map of the city. He found it among his bank statements, and swept the remains of his supper out of the way so he could spread the map out on the table.
Grant Park. A mile and a quarter of premium lakeshore real estate. The Chicago Art Institute. The Shedd Aquarium. The Chicago Yacht Club. The Buckingham Fountain. The park was isolated from the magnificence of downtown Chicago by the subterranean Illinois Central Railroad tracks, which were crossed by grand ceremonial bridges at only five places: Roosevelt, Balbo, Congress, Jackson, and Monroe. Seal off the bridges completely, and the demonstrators would be trapped inside the park. Allow the demonstrators to cross, and there would be a bloodbath.
His telephone was on the floor beside the threadbare sofa. He sat down and dialed his parents' home; his mother answered on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Mom."
"Hardy! How are you?"
"Fine, Mom. I'm fine. You?"
"Just peachy, dear. You know, it's so sweet of you to call, but this isn't a very good time. It's Wednesday, honey--bridge night, remember?" She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though she was sharing sensitive state secrets. "I have a house full of very demanding guests."
"Actually Mom, I need to talk to Wilson. Is he home?"
"Wilson? No honey, I thought he was with you!"
"With me?"
"I know how you boys like to hang out, watch TV, talk about your girlfriends. . . . Oh! I see, you're calling because he hasn't gotten there yet. Don't worry honey, I'm sure he'll arrive soon. Everything is just mixed up and slowed down because of those awful hippies. Now you boys have a fine evening, and don't drink too much!"
Harding realized that she was about to hang up. "Mom, wait! This is important--do you know what he was wearing when he left?"
"Don't be silly, Hardy. You sound just like your father sometimes." Her voice took on its most patient, 'I'm-your-mother-and-I-know-what's-best' tone. "You are not taking a Missing Persons report, because Willie is not missing. Just be patient, and he'll be there before you know it."
"Mom, please! What color shirt?"
"I have to go, son. Mrs. Gilmore just bid three spades, and now she needs another martini. Be good! Love you! 'Bye!"
Click.
Harding slammed the telephone down savagely. Stupid kid! When was that little moron going to learn that if you're going to use somebody as an alibi, you have to make sure they know about it! He looked up at the television, where another Democrat was at the podium, extolling the virtues of Vice President Humphrey. With a snarl he turned off the television, and turned on his transistor radio instead.
". . . mood in Grant Park is a giddy mixture of joy, defiance, and fear. Just half an hour ago, someone in the crowd rushed up to the flagpole at the center of the park, and as the delirious and quite probably intoxicated mob chanted, 'Take it down! Take it down! Take it down!' lowered the Stars and Stripes, and raised in its place a red flag, possibly that of the Communist. . ."
Harding groaned and slammed his fist on the city map in frustration. How could Wilson get mixed up in such a stupid crowd? Their leaders were playing strained emotions of the city like an ill-tuned instrument, masterfully orchestrating chaos and discord.
His attention was caught by a reflection of light off his badge, which was pinned properly on the left side of the shirt that hung over the back of the chair. He hesitated for several long seconds while he bitterly remembered the captain's cool disdain and the unquestioningly clear terms of his suspension, then plucked the shirt from the chair and began to get dressed.
". . .Viet Cong. Some witnesses say it was the flag of Red China, others insist it was only a red-colored t-shirt. I have spoken with several members of the Youth International Party, who tell me that the word is that they will march out of the park en masse . . . "
He grabbed his helmet and nightstick, and dashed out the door as the radio continued to describe the unfolding events. ". . . to Michigan Avenue. Apparently, whether the city will give them a parade permit or not, they are determined to bring their message personally to the Democratic National Convention at the Chicago Convention Center."