I’ve covered many stories about corruption but have only once been bribed in the line of duty. Turns out it may have been the best thing to ever happen to me.
The dirty deal happened in a working-class suburb on Chicago’s South Side, a place ruled by an imposing politician from the old-timey way of running things — a little patronage, some back-slapping and the ever-present certainty that you better not cross him if you know what’s good for you. People jokingly called him The Godfather. But not to his face.
The pol also had an entrepreneurial streak and was building a senior citizen complex. I heard whispers his contractors were cutting corners on sewer lines to save a few bucks. I started nosing around, looking at records and showed up to a zoning board hearing where it appeared the project would get approved. (It did.)
After his lawyer gave a pitch to the board, the pol and his counselor left and I followed them outside to get a comment.
While talking to the lawyer on the sidewalk, I felt a tug on my coat pocket. I reached inside and pulled out a crisp $50 bill.
The pol and I looked at each other, sharing a moment of silence, with him grinning and wondering if I was in on this or if I wasn’t. Any nefarious transaction requires two participants to properly seal the deal. There’s Quid. And there’s Pro Quo.
I handed him the bill, saying, “I can’t take this.”
He backed away, his hands up to show he wasn’t taking it back. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“It’s Jan. 23rd,” I countered, a bit perturbed. “I can’t take this.”
He waved me away, his town car pulled up and they drove off into the night, leaving me alone on the street, the $50 bill flapping in the wind.
I was going to give it back to him the next day. But I figured he had a witness to him bribing me, so I needed documentation of my honesty. I drove to a Catholic Church that my cousin pastored, a church in a tough, impoverished neighborhood that later became the backdrop for the movie Chi-raq. I told Father Joe that a local politician wanted to give his church a donation.
And I need a signed receipt, I added. With the pol’s name on it.
Sure, he said, and wished the generous pol a heartfelt “God bless you.”
Then I drove by the pol’s house to give him the receipt. He wasn’t home but his wife was.
“He’s got a big heart,” she said when I handed her the receipt.
“He sure does,” I agreed.
An hour later, the pol was on the phone, a bit shaken.
“You mistook my generosity,” he kept saying.
“Please, let’s not fool each other; I know what it was,” I said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Hey, if there’s anything I can do,” he added.
A couple weeks later, the Red Cross was holding a blood drive at my newspaper and I noticed that the young lady running the effort was a babe and someone I knew from college. She didn’t really like me all that much back then, thinking of me as a bit rowdy and somewhat of a knucklehead.
I asked about her blood drive.
The AIDS crisis was in full bloom and she told me how hard it was getting drives together. The system was often running drastically low on blood, she said, adding that if I knew of any prospects for future blood drives — Lions Clubs, Catholic parishes, etc. — please let her know.
We parted and my mind started churning. The Godfather ran a busy and active senior center and also an accompanying health center. I gave him a call and asked him to call the Red Cross and set up a drive. I gave him the blood drive lady’s number.
Weeks later, I got a call from the Red Cross lady thanking me for the tip. She had a blood drive set up at the pol’s health clinic.
Being in a giving mood, I arrived at the drive and noticed it was a rousing success. The old folks from the clinic were solid citizens who opened up their veins.
Caught up in the moment, I decided to donate, even though I fear thick needles and fainted the only other time I gave blood. I mentioned this to the Red Cross lady, so she sat cot-side as they drained the ruby from my veins.
Later, as I sipped on my post-donation juice, I asked, “Oh, by the way, can I have your phone number?”
We went out on a date and then another. As you might guess, it worked out. We got married, had four kids and are still happily together today.
That first date, as you might be wondering the point of all this, was 30 years ago this week.
I’ve told this story before, as a true Chicago Love Story. It’s a tale of machine politics, of opposites attracting, of romance spurred by malfeasance and, admittedly, someone using a bit of leverage to do good —for humanity and, ultimately his own love life.
A few years later, the pol ran into my Uncle Dick, a Chicago precinct captain, and asked about me.
“He keeps sticking it to me,” the pol complained. “What’s the matter with him?”
My uncle shrugged, it wasn’t his deal. He told him to ask me himself.
He never did. While I wrote about the pol often, we rarely talked at length after that cold night.
And I never got a chance to thank him.
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