With this mention of her name, Virginia swung off the bed and stood before Foley. He was held speechless by her splendour. She was as tall as he and wore only a gauzy white peignoir. Her breasts were firm and their nipples pointed straight at him. He could see plainly the outline of her curved waist and narrow hips.

'My boy,' Minna said to Foley, 'she's all yours, an introductory gift from the Everleighs.'

'Minna,' Foley gasped, 'I couldn't possibly afford anything like -'

'Didn't you hear me, my boy?' said Minna, starting for the door. 'I told you, this one's on the house.'

As she opened the door, Minna saw Virginia slip out of her peignoir. She was exquisitely naked as she moved towards Foley.

Minna smiled, quietly shut the door, and descended the stairs to the ground floor. She strolled over to the library, took down a volume of Balzac, fished a package of Sweet Caporals out of her pocket, lit one of the cigarettes, and sank into a sofa.

She read peacefully, and when twenty minutes had passed, she looked up to see young Foley coming down the last flight of stairs, appearing flushed and somehow older.

Minna stood up.

'Well, how was it, my boy?'

Foley seemed breathless. 'Incredible… it was incredible. I don't know how I can ever repay you.' He caught his breath. 'But I think I can. I know I can. Soon's I get back to the paper, I'm going to write a wonderful story about the Ever-leigh Club. There hasn't been one for months, and now I'm going to write the big story.'

'No, you're not,' said Minna.

'What do you mean?'

'There's going to be no story,' said Minna emphatically, 'at least not now. Usually we welcome publicity. It helps us. Right now any story would gravely hurt us. You know Mayor Harrison is running for re-election on a reform platform. Publicity about us would assure his election. If he is elected, he has promised that his first act will be to close down the Ever-leigh Club. I don't intend to cooperate in our demise.'

'But you're so important in Chicago – can't you prevent his being elected?'

'I intend to. Minna Everleigh always has something up her sleeve.' She winked at Foley and took his elbow. 'Leave it to me. As for yourself, you look a bit tuckered out. I think another glass of champagne is in order.'

Harold T. Armbruster was one of the three reasons why Chicago was called the Porkopolis of the world. The other two reasons were packing-house kings Philip Armour and Gus-tavas Swift. Among them, they owned almost all the city's stockyards and slaughterhouses. And among them, Armbruster was the third-richest, having cleared two million dollars in the last half-dozen years. But it was not his desire to become the richest that had brought him out to hear a speech this night – at an hour when normally he was preparing for bed.

Armbruster had come to Turner Hall to listen to the election campaign speech that Mayor Carter Harrison was scheduled to deliver before members of the Municipal Voters' League. Armbruster had squeezed into a vacant tenth-row seat with difficulty. He was grossly overweight, with his belly and sides bulging over his belt. He scratched his potato nose and his walrus moustache impatiently as he waited for the speaker to appear.

Ordinarily, Armbruster had no particular interest in politics. He was perfectly aware that Mayor Carter H. Harrison, a Democrat, was running for re-election against a popular Republican named Graeme Stewart. Only one facet of the campaign interested Armbruster, and that was Harrison's promise to enlarge the stockyards and spend more money on freight trains to carry more pigs, sheep, and steers into Chicago. His rival, Stewart, was against such civic expenditures.

Armbruster's presence at the lecture, despite his discomfort, was meant to provide him with first-hand reassurance that Mayor Harrison was the man who deserved his support and contributions.

After waiting restlessly for ten minutes, Armbruster saw an alderman he knew slightly appear on the platform to introduce the principal speaker. ' Chicago is fortunate in having a mayor who keeps his hands in his own pockets,' the alderman quipped. This drew a round of laughter, and then the alderman announced, 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honour and a privilege to introduce Mayor Carter H. Harrison.' Most of the audience broke into hearty applause.

Immediately, Mayor Harrison came out of the wings and strode to the lectern. Over the years Armbruster had seen Harrison many times, but always from a distance at social events – or he had noticed his picture in the newspapers. Armbruster had never seen the mayor this closely, and as he observed him, he was pleased with what he saw: a sturdy, darkly handsome man with black hair neatly parted on the side, flashing eyes, and a moustache similar to Armbruster's own, but tidier. Harrison was immaculately attired in a celluloid collar and bow tie, white shirt, navy-blue jacket over a vest and watch-chain, and sharply pressed darkish-grey trousers.

Once Harrison began speaking, Armbruster's attention drifted off. The packing-house magnate had come to hear Harrison address Armbruster's own interests, but instead Harrison was speaking passionately about his determination to clean up Chicago, and close down the Levee and its gambling houses and bagnios. Armbruster had no interest in this nonsense. He filtered the mayor out as his mind wandered to business matters. It was at the very end of the speech that Armbruster again became alert.

Besides his desire to clean up the city, the mayor was offering a few words about making Chicago more prosperous, adding elevated trains and extending freight transportation into the stockyards.

When Harrison 's appeal had ended, the audience was invited to line up and, in turn, shake the mayor's hand. A long line immediately formed.

Armbruster remained squeezed into his seat, wondering what to do. Then he realized that he very much wanted Harrison elected, and he knew what he should do.

He waited restlessly for the line of well-wishers to shrink, and finally he heaved himself up and took his place as the last in line. It was half an hour before he reached the stage. He inched ahead until he was able to shake hands with the mayor.

Facing Harrison, he gripped the mayor's limp hand and blurted, 'I've wanted to meet you. I'm Harold T. Armbruster, the meat-packer -'

Harrison 's hand tightened on Armbruster's. The mayor beamed. 'At last,' he said. 'Armour, Swift, Armbruster. I've always wanted to know you, and I'm honoured you came to hear my little speech.'

'The honour is mine,' replied Armbruster. 'Most impressive, your speech. I'm on your side, and now I want to be a backer.'

'A backer?'

'I want to do everything in my power to see that you are elected again. What's the most effective way I can support you, Mayor?'

Harrison stared at the meat-packer. 'Well, I suppose I should be honest with you.'

'Be honest with me.'

'Like all politicians, I need contributions – cash donations – to be used to inform the electorate about my platform.'

'You tell me how much,' said Armbruster. 'I'm prepared to help.'

Harrison coughed. 'I… actually I don't deal in campaign contributions directly. I have two aldermen who run my campaign. One is John Coughlin.' The mayor gave an embarrassed laugh. 'He's more familiarly known as Bathhouse John, because he owned a Turkish bathhouse before venturing into politics. His partner is Michael Kenna, also an alderman, better known as Hinky Dink, because of his short stature.

They're very astute men. They're the men to see. They'll know what I could use, and how it might best be spent.'

'Where do I contact them?' Armbruster asked.

'Give me your card. I'll have one of them telephone you. They'll set a date to meet with you anywhere at your convenience.'