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That young man was, of course, Willie Lane, who before deciding to go to Temple University and pursue a political science degree had been an electrician’s apprentice. His boss, who had handed him his first union card, was an engaging young man that Lane had come to call Joey Fitz with great affection.
Within a year’s time on the job, however, Lane had decided he didn’t really care for laying wires all day. And when he witnessed a coworker cross the wrong wires—one of which had been hot as hell, a deadly two hundred milliamps—Lane, then and there, experienced a moment of remarkable clarity.
First,
he became a faithful believer in the electrician’s often uttered warning It’s not the volts that kill you, it’s the amps. And, second, he realized he knew of no politicians—his father was at that time a freshman city councilman with his eyes on the mayor’s office—who were risking death by electrocution.
Soon thereafter, Willie Lane had enrolled in poli-sci classes at Temple.
Joey Fitz kept up with Willie Lane over the next ten years, often prodding him about when he was going to run for office. So when it came time for Lane’s first run for a council seat, he went to see his old friend at United Labor.
Joey Fitz announced that he was not only happy to support the candidate, he said he could also overlook the fact that Lane’s union card had been long expired and issue him a new one, and add him as head of Local 556’s Office of Public Policy. It was a new position, he told Lane, one paying sixty thousand dollars per year, and it reported directly to the business manager of Local 556.
William G. Lane, with the hardy public endorsement of Joseph Fitzgerald and the United Workers membership, was elected ten months later.
Philadelphia city council members each were paid an annual salary just over one hundred and thirty thousand. While the wage was one of the highest of any city council in the U.S., it had been decided that Philly’s members could not be expected to make ends meet on that amount in the country’s fifth-largest metropolis. Thus, the city charter allowed elected officials to hold outside employment in addition to performing their elected duties.
Members held one or more positions, some at for-profit companies, others at nonprofits such as charities, as a hedge against, God forbid, having to apply, as half the city’s impoverished population had, for food stamps and the like.
There was the risk of business coming before the council that was connected with the employer of one of its members, thus creating a possible conflict of interest. In such a case, the member would simply abstain, in effect saying that they would remain impartial, that their vote was not for sale.
In reality, what then happened was the council member met in private with certain of his or her peers and made it clear that when it came time to vote, if one’s back were to be scratched, it would be reasonable to expect, when those peers excused themselves from voting on business before the city, that they would have their backs scratched, too.
Because the general public appeared to accept that the system kept the esteemed members of the city council pure as newborn babies, Lane had felt more than comfortable announcing at the celebration of his second reelection to office: “If it wasn’t for my good friend Joey Fitz, I really wouldn’t be where I’m at.”
It was very likely the only truthful statement to slip from the lips of Councilman William G. Lane in quite some time.
—
As Lane approached the group of men, Joey Fitz nodded toward him, and the three men turned.
“What ya drinking there, Willie? How about a bit of whiskey?” Fitzgerald said, holding up balled fists to feign shadowboxing before offering his enormous right hand to shake Lane’s.
Lane nodded at the men in Fitzgerald’s group. Fitzgerald introduced them first by name and then as union members. Lane noticed that they all held squat glasses dark with whiskey—and they all looked as if they already had had more than a few. Joey Fitz’s fat, crooked nose and pudgy cheeks glowed red.
“And youse guys were just getting ready to leave, right?” Joey Fitz said, waving the bartender over. “So, what’s your poison, Willie?”
Lane looked at the bartender and said, “Let me have a Woodford Reserve, a double, on the rocks.”
A minute later, as the bartender slid Lane’s Kentucky bourbon whiskey across the polished black marble, Joey Fitz nodded once at the union men. They drained their drinks, told the president of the city council that it had been a pleasure meeting him, then left.
“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Lane said.
“We were done when you called,” Joey Fitz said. “You don’t look so good. It have to do with why you asked to meet me?”
Willie Lane considered how to answer, deciding to say nothing and simply nodding twice.
“You’re gonna have to give me more than that. I ain’t a mind reader, ya know.”
“We’ve got to talk.”
“So you said on the phone.” He gestured with his glass at Lane’s. “Drink up first, will ya? They don’t call this happy hour for nothing.”
Lane swirled the amber drink, savored its heavy oak smell, then took a healthy sip.
“Can we go someplace quiet?” he said. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Ah, hell,” Joey Fitz said, “that can wait. Relax. You look like shit!”
