"I've always been a liberal myself."
~Richard Daley, Bill's dad.
An excerpt from 'Boss':
Mike Royko's book "Boss" was a sensation from the day it
appeared in bookstores in 1971. It is a riveting and
unflinching portrait of Mayor Richard J. Daley
and his unchallenged control of the city, its politics and
its patronage army.
Royko wrote the book, on a continuous roll of newsprint,
the kind used then in wire service Teletype machines, as he
continued to pound out five Page 3 columns a week for the
Chicago Daily News. (He won the 1972 Pulitzer Prize for
those columns.)
One of those columns detailed how the mayor's wife,
Eleanor "Sis" Daley, was so angered by the book's portrayal
of her husband that she briefly succeeded in having it
banned from a chain of supermarkets in Chicago and the
newsstands at O'Hare International Airport. The ban was
promptly overturned by reader outrage and demand for the
book, which featured Daley in the garb of a Roman emperor.
Today, "Boss" remains an essential primer on machine
politics and required reading in college political science -
- and journalism -- classes across the country.
This excerpt details Daley's fearsome "one man
rule." "You're dead if he doesn't like you," one
respectful ward boss told Royko. Here, Royko recounts the
undoing of one political aspirant who took his
case to Boss Daley --
and lost:
Fawn club
The ambitious curried favor
seeking to be Daley's men
Arnold Maremont, a millionaire industrialist and art
collector ... decided he wanted to go into politics and to
start at the top.
Daley does not dislike millionaires. He lets them
contribute to the party, serve on advisory boards, take on
time-consuming appointments, and help elect Machine
Democrats to office.
Maremont has done it all. He contributed money, worked in
Governor Kerner's campaign, led a campaign to pass a
$150,000,000 bond issue that revitalized the state's mental
health program, and pitched in on numerous liberal causes
and mental health and welfare programs.
His dream was to be a U.S. senator, and in early 1961 he
went to Daley's office and told him that he'd like to run
against Sen. Everett Dirksen. He made it clear that he
wanted to do it properly and not jump into the primary as a
maverick. The party's blessing was what he was after.
Daley showed interest, but said he had certain
reservations: mainly he wasn't sure if downstate county
chairmen would support a Jew. He suggested that Maremont
tour the state, talk to the county chairmen, and he
indicated strongly that if Maremont made a good showing,
he'd be Daley's man.
Maremont pushed aside his business and civic work and spent
most of the early summer barnstorming through Illinois. A
spunky, brash man, he'd walk into a bar in a tiny Southern
Illinois town -- grits and gravy country -- and
announce: "My name's Arnold Maremont. I want to run for the
Senate and I'm a Jew." People seemed to like him, as he
wolfed down chicken and peas dinners at the county
meetings, charming little old ladies and picking up support from the chairmen.
All the while, he sent back regular reports to Daley: They will go for a Jew!
Elated, he headed back to Chicago, ready to give Daley his
final report and the good news. He got back to town just
in time to pick up that day's papers and read that Daley
had, indeed, decided to slate a Jewish senatorial
candidate:
Cong. Sidney Yates, a party regular.
That ended Maremont's political ambitions. Furious, he was
convinced that Daley had merely used him to conduct a free
one-man survey of downstate Illinois. He wouldn't have even
tried had he ever heard Daley explain why he is so
dedicated a party man: "The party permits ordinary people
to get ahead. Without the party, I couldn't be mayor. The
rich guys can get elected on their money, but somebody like
me, an ordinary person, needs the party. Without the party,
only the rich would be elected to office."
If Daley's one-man rule bothers the men who sit on the
Central Committee, they are careful to keep it to
themselves. The meetings take on the mood of a religious
service, with the committeemen chanting their praise of his
leadership. "It has been ... my pleasure and honor ... to
give him my advice. ... The greatest mayor ... in the
country ... the world ... the history of the world ..."
Only once in recent years has anybody stood up and talked
back, and he was one of the suburban committeemen,
generally referred to around party headquarters as "a bunch
of meatheads."
The suburban committeeman, Lynn Williams, a wealthy
manufacturer and probably the most liberal member of the
Central Committee, had been angered by Daley's attacks on
liberals after the 1968 Democratic Convention. Daley had
been making speeches lambasting pseudoliberals, liberal-
intellectuals, suburban liberals, suburban liberal-
intellectuals, and pseudo-liberal-intellectual
suburbanites. He had been shouting: "Who in the hell do
those people think they are? Who are they to tell us how to
run our party?"
Williams, a strong supporter of young Adlai Stevenson, who
had angered Daley with an attack on "feudal" politics,
stood up, finally, at a Central Committee meeting and
delivered a scathing rebuttal to Daley, saying that without
liberal participation the party would be nothing but a
skeleton, it's only goal, power.
As he talked, the committeemen's heads swiveled as if they
were watching a tennis game, wonder and fear on their
faces. They had never heard such talk, and wondered what
Chairman Daley would do. Strike him with lightning. Throw
the bum out?
When Williams finished, Daley, in a surprisingly soft
voice, said, "I've always been a liberal myself."
Other committeemen joined in his defense, recalling
countless liberal acts by Daley. One man shouted at
Williams, "Perhaps you didn't know, but this happens to be
a very liberal outfit."
The shock of the committeemen at the sound of somebody
criticizing Daley didn't surprise Williams. He has
said: "Most of them are mediocrities at best, and not very
intelligent. The more successful demonstrate cunning. Most
are in need of slavery -- their own -- and they want to
follow a strong leader."
In March 1970, the committeemen met for the purpose of
reelecting Daley chairman. Alderman Keane nominated him and
eighteen other committeemen made lengthy speeches seconding
the nomination. One of the recited, "R, you're rare; I,
you're important; C, you're courageous; H, you're heavenly;
A, you're able; R, you're renowned; D, you're Democratic;
J, is for your being a joy to know; D, you're diligent; A,
you're adorable; L, you're loyal; E, you're energetic; and
Y, you're youthful."
Once again, Lynn Williams stood, but not to criticize. He,
too, joined in the praise and made one of the seconding
speeches. Daley had since slated young Adlai Stevenson III,
whom Williams had supported, for the U.S. Senate. Daley
and Williams even exchanged handshakes. In a way, Williams
seemed to emphasize his own point about the committee's
need to follow a strong leader.
from one of those Chicago papers he worked for. |
