Barbara D'Amato - [Cat Marsala 09] Page 12

  "She would never explain why," I said to Hal.

  In the 1950s, I told him, a Detroit librarian eliminated all the Oz series books from his system because there was "nothing uplifting or elevating" about them. Somebody else said they were "a cowardly approach to life," whatever that may mean. How could Dorothy's brave search for a way back home be called cowardly? A librarian from Florida said they were "untrue to life." You want to say, "Hello? True to life? These are whimsical stories for children."

  "So why," Harold said, "did this happen?"

  "I don't know. To be fair, not all librarians agreed with these stick-in-the-muds. Some people called the Baum style flat, but it isn't. It's humorous and lively. People thought librarians might have been worried about the expense of buying a whole line, but there were other series like Little House and Doctor Dolittle that they bought."

  "And so?"

  "Some said it was because the Oz books were commercialized. It seems strange to us today. I mean, look at Disney. Every new movie spawns product spin-offs. But in the early 1900s this was all new."

  "Can you get me the story on this within a few days?"

  "I think so. There were Wizard of Oz musical comedies, during Baum's lifetime, some written by him, and movies and toys later. He made several movies himself. Later on, a critic of the critics suggested that librarians might have objected to the 'commodification' of Oz. I wouldn't be surprised if that was it. I think we could do an article on Oz as the first case of product sales on this scale based around a children's story. And it all ties to Chicago, of course."

  "You're saying Oz laid the groundwork for Walt Disney enterprises."

  "Right. And suffered for it."

  "I'll buy that."

  "But will you pay me for it?" I asked.

  "Up to a point. Commodification only goes so far."

  "I expected that."

  "Cat, are you avoiding talking about the festival murders?"

  "Not really. Delaying, maybe." He'd heard only that I was there as a witness. I told him what had happened to Jeremy and me in the tunnels, extra details that he wouldn't have gleaned from the police reports, his own reporters, and his extensive gossip grapevine.

  When I finished, he said, "Dang!" It was his latest favorite word. "Makes me wish we were a daily."

  "Hal, you realize I couldn't write you an on-the-spot about it, even if Chicago Today were a daily. I'm not going to do anything to focus attention on Barry."

  I asked him, "Tell me about those three guys, Edmond Pottle, E. T. Taubman, and Larry Mazzanovich."

  "You think the three got together and stabbed Plumly?"

  "Honestly, Hal, much as I'd prefer that, I don't really see it. If three guys are gonna kill somebody together, wouldn't they do it in secret? Do Pottle, Taubman, and Mazzanovich have any kind of common history?"

  "Like they all went to school together, went out behind the barn, cut their fingers, and swore in blood one for all and all for one?"

  "Yeah, like that."

  "I hate to have to tell you this, Cat, but I doubt they even knew each other before the Oz Festival. They're totally different types of people from totally different backgrounds, and as you well know, doing totally different types of jobs."

  "I was afraid you'd say that."

  "Take Taubman for starters. I've known E.T. slightly for years. He grew up in Winnetka, which as you know is one of the highest-income suburbs in the country."

  "Or the planet."

  "Or the planet. But his family wasn't especially rich. There are a lot more modest houses in Winnetka than most people realize. He went to New Trier High School, did a lot of theater, which New Trier is known for, did art, and went on to Swarthmore. I'm told he's always been a real culture-vulture. He's also had a tendency to hang around the rich. He finally married one, sort of."

  "Sort of married somebody? I've heard of that."

  "No, sort of rich. Her name is Stephanie Mathilda Sotor. Her parents have a lot of money, but their idea of raising children is to deprive them of as much as possible for fear of their becoming 'spoiled,' so Stephanie won't have any serious money until the parents pass on to their reward."

  "I'm not sure that approach really works. I mean, when it's very artificial, the kids just think they're being punished."

  "Well, in Stephanie's case, it produced some odd behaviors. She married E.T., knowing he didn't have serious simoleons, either, but nags him incessantly to make more. She, by the way, works as a travel agent to the snazzy. Sends people to St. Tropez or whatever's the in place of the day. Brings in a small but for them significant amount of commission. Enough to keep them in brown rice and Chablis. Anyhow, she goes to the opera, the theater, classical concerts. In other words, she never goes to hear music that young people like. They both donate time to cultural causes. And she pushes people to hire E.T. as lighting designer. For concerts and galleries. Which I think embarrasses him. I don't know him well, but I've seen him wince sometimes when she's talking to a potential customer about how great he is."

  "I saw some of his work. It's good."

  "He is good. That's the heck of it. She makes him look like a fool. He could make it in the lighting design world better if she'd leave him alone and let him have at it."

  "He's got a huge studio on Chestnut Street that has to be pricey."

  "Yup. She insisted. In case a prospective client wants to do a 'studio visit,' she wants him to look successful."

  We drank coffee and contemplated the folly of Stephanie Sotor-Taubman for a few minutes. Then I said, "What about Pottle?"

  "Different story altogether. He isn't originally from Chicago. Has family money. Went to Princeton, unless I misremember."

  "Which has never happened yet as far as I know."

  "Butter me up. I'll give you work. To continue: he came here to extend the family's banking empire. I don't mean he has world-class money. He's not Henry Ford, much less Bill Gates."

  "Bill Gates indeed! Microsoft has a larger GNP than Canada!"

  "I know. But Pottle is very, very comfortable."

  "Came here from where?"

  "Family's in New York. Illinois used to have a law against branch banks, but no more. You know, to found a bank, you apply to the Federal Reserve and get a charter, demonstrate you have assets, demonstrate you have no criminal record, and then you can open a bank. Banks lend money, and naturally, politicians who can dispense favors are among the borrowers."

  "Do banks really lend money to politicians? I've never thought about it. Of course, they must."

  "A politician can go to a bank and say, 'I need money for my campaign,' and borrow it. But suppose the bank is so friendly it doesn't press for repayment right away? Or suppose it sort of forgets about asking for interest?"

  "Isn't that illegal?"

  "If it's found out, sure. Now, Pottle himself I don't know much about. He's only been here ten years or so. There was a rumor he was maybe a tiny bit fast and loose in business dealings, but who knows? Humankind loves rumors, whether they're true or false."

  "You'd better hope they love rumors. You run a newsmagazine."

  "Hoist by my own petard. In any case, Pottle isn't from here, didn't go to New Trier High School, and lives in a Gold Coast penthouse on North Michigan Avenue. I don't think he likes theater or opera, or any of that kind of thing. His path doesn't really cross Taubman's."

  "Damn. Or as you might say, dang. What about Mazzanovich?"

  "Ah, a whole different kettle of fish. A kid from a poor family who worked his way up. With his fists, so the story goes. He was a big supporter of the alderman from his area, became a ward heeler, went around to get out the ward vote, drove elderly voters to the polls and so on, and when the man in office retired, Mazzanovich stepped into his shoes."

  "Drove dead voters to the polls?"

  "Cat!"

  "Never mind. How'd he get into the cement business?"

  "Well, now, that's a story. There was a cement business called Bio-crete in hi
s ward, owned by an older gentleman. Nice old guy, been in the business for decades, but he made the mistake of backing the wrong person for mayor, despite Mazzanovich warning him it was a bad idea. Anyhow, after the election, city inspectors just kept finding all these problems with Bio-crete's work. Profits fell."

  "As one might expect."

  "Finally, the man decided to sell out. Mazzanovich just happened to be able to put cash on the barrelhead to buy it."

  "Gee, I hate to hear stuff like that. This is my home-town."

  "And you want it pure? Cat, influence is everywhere. Payoffs. Vigorish. Connections. Example— a major city organization recently had its annual parade and cookout. Doesn't matter which organization, firefighters, cops, sanitation workers, whatever. You don't need to know. But the young man who was designated to make the refreshments arrangements happens to be the son of a friend of mine. So he called up one of our major fast-food retailers. McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, White Castle. This is another thing you don't need to know. He gets a price per person for a sandwich, side dish, and drink. They say they can provide a choice of two sandwich types, three side dishes, and about a dozen different drink choices. And the price is pretty spiffy, he thinks. Fine. Goes to his boss with the glad news. Boss is horrified. 'You can't use them! You have to use XYZ Catering.'

  "So he calls XYZ Catering. They'll provide just one 'choice' of sandwich, a burger. One side dish, coleslaw. And hot coffee. Bummer, thinks my young man. But maybe they're really cheap. And the punch line? No way, José. The cost was three times the cost of the other company! Was XYZ connected? Your choice, Cat, is (a) yes, (b) yes, or (c) yes."

  "But in this particular case, the Oz Festival is a city event. The city has always bragged that it tries to make most of the Grant Park events free. Like the lakefront fireworks are free and the GospelFest and all. How would somebody like Mazzanovich influence the festival?" "Let me count the ways. There are so many I don't know where to begin. Let's suppose there are thirty Little Toto Hot Dog Stands around the city that all want to have a booth at the festival. Obviously, you can't let all of them in. You'd have too many hot dogs and not enough ice cream. So somebody makes a decision. Choose Barky's Dogs. The point being, every time somebody makes a decision, somebody can influence that decision."

  "But it's a group decision, isn't it?"

  "Then it takes more influence. Listen, I'm not saying that all these events are influence-driven. I really believe that there's a lot of honesty in Chicago. But where there's money to be made, there's influence to be peddled."

  I got up, stretched, and succeeded in not yelping as my shoulder screamed at me. "Hal, can you keep an ear to the ground on this? I've got myself into a horrible position. Barry is innocent. Truly. He's just not the sort of person to shoot a defenseless young woman like Jennifer. There's got to be someone out there who had a lot to lose if Plumly talked about something he discovered. And don't look at me that way. I know people always say 'he wouldn't do anything like that' about their relatives. But I'm not naïve and I'm sure of this."

  "Roger-dodger. Will do."

  "I'll have the Baum story to you by Tuesday."

  "What's wrong with your shoulder?"

  "Fell."

  "Oh."

  * * *

  There was really no likelihood that Mazzanovich, Pottle, and Taubman had any mutual history. Add to that the unpleasant nature of Chicago politics, and I had gotten so depressed I went out for a drive.

  16

  PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

  Early in his life, L. Frank Baum wanted to be an actor. He came to Chicago briefly when he acted in his own play The Maid of Arran in October 1882.

  Theater was unpredictable and low-paying. The more things change, the more they stay the same. For a while, as a young man, he tried to make a go of business enterprises, but he was just too nice a guy. He opened a variety store called Baum's Bazaar in Aberdeen, South Dakota— then Dakota Territory— in 1888, and although he worked hard at it, he could not bear to take money from the very poor. By the time the store went bankrupt, there were over a hundred and fifty nonpaying customers on the books. He tried running a newspaper in the same town, but that went bankrupt, too.

  Finally, in 1891, Baum moved to Chicago with his wife and their four boys, the youngest one just a baby. He had secured a job at a newspaper, the Chicago Evening Post, and earned $18.62 a week. This was so little, even then, that he finally quit and took a job as a traveling salesman, working on commission, selling china and glassware, which he had to transport in large trunks. With four children, his income still wasn't enough, and his wife supplemented it by giving embroidery lessons at ten cents each.

  They lived at 34 Campbell Park, a site that is now renumbered 2233 Campbell Park, changed during the Great 1909 Chicago Street Number Rationalization, but the house is gone. No wonder; it was primitive. There was no electricity in the place, of course, which given the year was only to be expected, but also no running water, and not even gas for gaslight or heat. In the evenings they read by kerosene lamp, and if Baum wanted to write after sundown, he wrote by kerosene lantern or candlelight. If you tried to live like that today, with no heat or light or running water or indoor plumbing, the health department would close you down. For that matter, if you tried to raise children in an environment like that, you'd be arrested for felony child endangerment.

  Several days earlier I had driven past the site where the Baums' first house had stood. Campbell Park is a bit south of the Loop and fairly far west. But there was nothing left to see except the general environment, which is totally different now.

  Today I drove to his second house, which is still in existence. All the way, I checked the rearview mirror. Nobody had tried to attack me today, but there was a killer out there who thought I'd seen something incriminating to him. I hoped he knew I'd told everything to the cops.

  In 1895 Baum and his family moved to this somewhat more livable building at 120 Flournoy Street (now numbered 2149). More livable by their standards, anyway, even though most of us today would consider living like this the equivalent of camping out. This house at least had gaslight and a coal-fired range. The house was near the old Cubs Park at Wolcott and Polk. Baum loved baseball, and went to the park whenever he could afford it. When Baum's wife's mother, a straitlaced old lady, came to visit, she was offended that they could hear the cheering from the park on Sundays.

  During all this time, he was writing, and sometimes publishing, stories for children. Mother Goose in Prose sold fairly well. Father Goose sold very well indeed.

  As Baum became more prosperous, he moved the family to 68 Humboldt Boulevard, now renumbered 1667. It was only a mile or so from Tripp Avenue, where Walt Disney would be born a couple of years later. In this house Baum had a study of his own for the first time. The family liked to bicycle in Humboldt Park and picnic on the grass. It was here he began work on The Emerald City, which eventually was to become The Wizard of Oz. He couldn't sell it. Publishers considered it too radically different from children's stories of the time. It was very "American" in flavor. That was not considered a good thing. It didn't draw a specific moral. That was a serious deficiency. It was quirky. That couldn't be fixed. Finally, a small Chicago publishing house agreed to bring it out, as long as Baum and his illustrator were willing to pay all the expenses.

  And then a miracle happened.

  There were a few copies of The Wizard of Oz produced in August 1900, but distribution of the ten thousand first-printing copies did not begin until September. There was so much demand that another twenty-five thousand were printed in October, thirty thousand in November, and by the new year, ninety thousand had been printed. It was the best-selling children's book of the year. Christmas 1900 was the first year children found an Oz book under their tree. Since then the holiday giving of Oz books to happy children has never stopped.

  * * *

  With evening coming on, I drove from Humboldt Boulevard to Grant P
ark. It took me three complete turns around the area, up Michigan Avenue, then east on Balbo to Lake Shore Drive, south on Lake Shore, then west, and back up Michigan, to get up the nerve to park in the Grant Park Underground. I hadn't realized how cowardly I was until now. Each circuit ate up about twenty minutes, with the worst of the rush-hour traffic just coming to an end. Yes, there's a rush hour on Saturday evening, although it tends to be in both directions, into town and out of town, unlike weekdays when it's out of town. It was hard to imagine amid the exhaust fumes and bumper-to-bumper cars that the automobile had been considered a great boon to Chicago when it was invented. City planners were thrilled to get rid of the problems of horse manure and dead horses on the downtown streets.