“Vic! Good to see you have time to turn out for young Brian, even if a judicial campaign is beneath you.”
“Judge Coleman, congratulations on your election.” I had turned down my invitation to a fundraiser for Coleman’s campaign—Illinois treats its judiciary like any other commodity for sale—and Arnie clearly had kept a list of friends and foes. Another Illinois tradition.
“You keeping your nose clean, Vic?” the judge asked genially.
“Wipe it twice a day, Judge, on my sleeve, just like we used to do at Twenty-sixth and California . . . Judge Coleman, this is Mr. Contreras.”
My old boss gave a fake laugh and turned back to his own party, ignoring my neighbor’s outstretched hand.
“Cookie, that’s no way to talk to a judge,” Mr. Contreras scolded.
“I don’t know. From what I hear from my old pals at the bar association, justice in Coleman’s court isn’t just blind, she’s deaf and lame, too. The only one of the five senses she has left is touch, to feel how big the bills you’re pressing into Coleman’s hand are.”
“That’s terrible what you’re saying. It can’t be true. People wouldn’t stand for it.”
My mouth twisted in an involuntary grimace. “When I was with the PD, Coleman and the state’s attorney—Karl Swevel, it was then—fell over each other to see who could line up the most support for the local Dems. Who we defended and how we did it, that took a far distant backseat to licking local asses. Nobody minded then, and nobody seems to care much now.”
I saw that my neighbor was looking seriously aggrieved—as much at my choice of words as what I was saying—and patted his arm consolingly. “Let’s find the kid. We need to prove to her that we showed up.”
We worked our way through the press of people until we stumbled on Petra near one of the bars. She was talking to an assorted collection of lobbyists and legislators, who all had the round shiny faces of people who’ve spent too many years with their heads in the public trough.
Petra squealed with delight and flung her arms around Mr. Contreras. “Uncle Sal, you made it! Look at you with all your decorations! And, Vic, you’re so splendiferous! I wondered for a second who Uncle Sal’s gorgeous date was.”
She gave a peal of laughter, and the group she’d been talking to, jaded old party hacks though they were, joined in. Mr. Contreras brightened instantly. Petra herself was wearing a chiffon flower-child dress over shimmery tights. In her spiky heels, she towered over almost everyone around her, including me.
“I have to find the senator, I mean Mr. Krumas—I keep forgetting we have to elect him first!—I know he’ll want a picture with Uncle Sal,” she explained to her group, adding to Mr. Contreras, “I’m going to take you to Uncle Harvey’s table so I know just where to find you.”
She linked her arm through Mr. Contreras’s and started to steer him through the crowd. I followed meekly in their wake. Twenty-three years old and she was already a pro, tapping shoulders, laughing, stooping to hear what an old woman with a hearing aid was shouting up at her.
About a dozen numbered tables, festooned with red, white, and blue balloons and giant RESERVED signs, stood near the band and a podium. Pretty soon, we’d get to hear a bunch of soul-stirring rhetoric. The tables were set aside for the people who had really come through for Krumas. According to the program, they cost a hundred fifty grand, fifteen grand a chair. Which just proves that adage about real-estate prices being all about location; the chairs were the same metal folding kind you can pick up at any church rummage sale.
The seats would fill when the speeches started. Right now, only a handful were taken. Petra took Mr. Contreras over to Table 1, right in front of the podium. Jolenta Krumas, the candidate’s mother, was sitting with a small knot of older women who were all talking at the same time. Two younger women sat across from them. I recognized Jolenta from the newspaper photos of Brian with his family. I think the younger women were a sister and sister-in-law, but they weren’t as striking as Jolenta. Her thick dark hair, well streaked with gray, was swept back from her face with a couple of diamond butterflies. At sixty-something, her posture was still perfect. She was intent on what the woman to her left was saying, but she looked up with a good-humored smile when Petra bent down.
“Aunt Jolenta! This is Salvatore Contreras. He’s, like, my newest honorary uncle, and I know the senator-to-be would adore meeting him and having his picture taken!”