Congressman Sweeney was a former judge who had been in Congress for a while. He reminded him of the Irish rabble-rousers of his father’s generation, the men who sat around American tables and talked of Irish freedom, seven hundred years of British oppression, and Irish patriots, but who wouldn’t go back to Ireland if you paid them. It was an identity. People needed that. But it wasn’t grounded in anything but nostalgia and a desire to connect.
Sweeney was no Michael Collins or Eamon de Valera, but he played the same strings and used some of the same tactics. Malone didn’t mind it, but he didn’t buy it either. He recognized that most politics required manipulation and overwhelming self-interest.
He supposed that was why he liked Eliot, who looked a bit like a kid at a church dance, though he was dutifully making the rounds and shaking hands. He would likely make the social page the next day for coming to the event by himself.
“Poor Eliot,” Dani murmured, and he pulled her closer in a pretense of not being able to hear her over the band.
“Yeah. Poor Eliot,” he agreed. “But nobody knows how it all works better than he does. In Chicago, Eliot knew he had to court the press. It’s a propaganda war. He had the picture with the axe, breaking down the door of the distilleries. He knew he had to frame his job a certain way, tell the story he wanted printed. He who controls the narrative wins the game. It backfired a few times, and he was embarrassed a few times. But he won more rounds in the press than he lost. I don’t know if that will happen here.”
“What about you? Anybody ever take your picture and talk about your heroic adventures?”
“No. And it’s a good thing. I wouldn’t be able to do my job otherwise. Eliot can hardly do his.”
“We’re hardest on our heroes, aren’t we?” she said.
“Eliot never took a bribe, and that made him a legend. He set an impossible standard for himself and made every other politician look bad in the process. They haven’t forgiven him for that.”
“It’s the reason people secretly adore villains. Villains make them feel better about themselves. It’s why the Butcher never gets caught,” she mused.
“Give the lady a big, gold star.”
“Well, really. The Butcher is no threat to the people in this room,” she said, warming to her subject. “If he were . . . he’d have been snagged long ago. The politicians use him to rouse the base and excite the crowd. But they aren’t concerned. Not really. He’s useful to them.”
“Ah, Dani. You’re starting to sound like me. I’m afraid I’ve been a very bad influence,” he murmured, spinning her out and drawing her back to him. They let the subject rest for the remainder of the song, swaying to a Bing Crosby number called “Sweet Leilani” that he didn’t even like. But damn did he like dancing with Dani.
He found himself changing the words. Sweet Daniela. Sweet Daniela. And though he felt like a fool, it stuck in his head.
The song ended and the nuns of St. Alexis began to file up onto the dais as the audience clapped for the orchestra. No more dancing tonight. At least not for him and Dani. The speeches and arm twisting were about to begin, and it was time to do a little snooping.
“Every year we gather in this hall, in this hospital, in this city, to support an institution built on the faith and fortitude of two good sisters who lived the commandment that we love our neighbors. At St. Alexis, no one was turned away. Everyone was a neighbor. Everyone had value. Everyone, regardless of their status in life, was cared for,” Congressman Sweeney intoned.
Michael had swiped two flutes of champagne from the table, and Dani had drunk it a little too fast. She liked the bubbles more than the taste, but all the dancing had made her thirsty.
“Members from my own family have served at this hospital . . . ,” Congressman Sweeney continued as they left the ballroom and headed for the coat check. Just as Michael had predicted, there was no one in sight.
A prim bell was centered on the counter in case someone wanted to duck out early, but Malone shoved it aside and hoisted himself up and over the counter in one smooth motion.
She gasped.
He reached over the counter, put his hands on her waist, and said, “Give a little jump on three.”
She jumped on three, and he plucked her off her feet and swung her over the counter like she was Ginger Rogers.
“What if they see us back here?” she said when he set her on her feet.
“Then we’ll pretend like we’re here for a tryst. I promise you, it won’t be the first time someone retired to the cloakroom at a Catholic fundraiser.”