“Okay with me-I just work here. I once threatened to make her debate everything from streetcars to taxes. How about it, Torn?”
“Anything to make some noise.”
I phoned at once. “Is this the Stooge with the Light Brown Hair?”
“That must be Jack Ross. Hello, Nasty. How’s the baby-kissing?”
“Sticky. Remember I promised to debate the issues with you? How about 8 p.m. Wednesday the 15th?”
She said, “Hold the line — ” I could hear a muffled rumble, then she said, “Jack? You tend to your campaign; I’ll tend to mine.”
“Better accept, kid. We’ll challenge you publicly. Is Miss Nelson afraid to face the issues, quote and unquote.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Uncle Sam won’t let you, will he?” The phone clicked in my ear.
We went ahead anyway. I sold some war bonds and ordered a special edition of the Civic League News, with a Ross-for-Councilman front page, as a throwaway to announce the rally-prizes, entertainment, movies, and a super-colossal, gigantic debate between Ross in this corner and Nelson in that. We piled the bundles of papers in Mrs. Holmes’ garage late Sunday night. Mrs. Holmes phoned about seven-thirty the next morning — “Jack,” she yipped, “come over right away!”
“On my way. What’s wrong?”
“Everything. Wait till you get here.” When I did, she led me out to her garage; someone had broken in and had slit open our precious bundles-then had poured dirty motor oil on them.
Tom showed up while we were looking at the mess. “Pixies everywhere,” he observed. “I’ll call the Commercial Press.”
“Don’t bother,” I said bitterly. “We can’t pay for another run.” But he went in anyhow. The kids who were to do the distributing started to show up; we paid them and sent them home. Tom came out. “Too late,” he announced. “We would have to start from scratch — no time and too expensive.”
I nodded and went in the house. I had a call to make myself. “Hello,” I snapped, “is this Miss Nelson, the Independent Candidate?”
“This is Frances Nelson. Is this Jack Ross?”
“Yes. You were expecting me to call, I see.”
“No, I knew your sweet voice. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’d like to show you how well your boys have been campaigning.
“Just a moment — I’ve an appointment at ten; I can spare the time until then. What do you mean; how my boys have been campaigning?”
“You’ll find out.” I hung up.
I refused to talk until she had seen the sabotage. She stared. “It’s a filthy, nasty trick, Jack-but why show it to me?”
“Who else?”
“But — Look, Jack, I don’t know who did this, but it has nothing to do with me.” She looked around at us. “You’ve got to believe me!” Suddenly she looked relieved. “I know! It wasn’t me, so it must have been McNye.”
Tom grunted. I said gently, “Look, darling, McNye is nobody. He’s a seventeenth-rater who files to get his name in print. He wouldn’t use sabotage because he’s not out to win. It has to be you-wait! — not you personally, but the machine. This is what you get into when you accept the backing of wrong ‘uns.”
“But you’re wrong! You’re wrong! I’m not backed by the machine.”
“So? Who runs your campaign? Who pays your bills?”
She shook her head. “A committee takes care of those things. My job is to show up at meetings and speak.”
“Where did the committee come from? Did the stork bring it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the Third District HomeOwners’ League. They endorsed me and set up a campaign committee for me.”
I’m no judge of character, but she was telling the truth, as she saw it. “Ever hear of a dummy organization, kid? Your only connection with this Home-Owners’ League is Sam Jorgens…isn’t it?”
“Why, no-that is — Yes, I suppose so.”
“And I told you Jorgens was a tame dog for Boss Tully.”
“Yes, but I checked on that, Jack. Uncle Sam explained the whole thing. Tully used to support him, but they broke because Uncle Sam wouldn’t take the machine’s orders. It’s not his fault that the machine used to back him.”