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THE SIDEKICK’S SURVIVAL GUIDE
MYSTERIES

BOOKS 1-3
CHRISTY BARRITT
Copyright © 2020 by Christy Barritt

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission
from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
 CONTENTS

The Art of Eavesdropping

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Perks of Meddling
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32

The Exercise of Interfering

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Complete Book List
About the Author
To my friend Gina, who always entertains me with her stories about
being a Filipino in America.
To my friend Helza, who inspired me with stories of growing up in
Peru.
To my friends Rachel and Curtis, who served as missionaries in
Ecuador and showed me what it was like to have a heart for those
overseas.
 CHAPTER ONE

I USED to feel I had the whole world in front of me. Now, I was
certain that it wasn’t the actual world, but a mirage showing what
my life could have looked like.
So, instead of looking ahead, I decided to glance behind me.
Like, I literally peered back. As in, into my rearview mirror at the
street stretching there.
I couldn’t help but feel like my past was trailing me like a piece of
toilet paper unknowingly stuck on my shoe.
Though nothing suspicious caught my eye, my gut told me
someone was following me.
But what sense would that make?
I was Elliot Ransom. An introvert. The new girl in town. Someone
who prided herself in being fluent in English, Spanish, and Nerd.
In other words, I wasn’t a threat—not unless I was at a spelling
bee.
I sighed and turned my gaze back to the road ahead. It was my
first day on a new job, and the bright, sunny spring weather seemed
to hold promise.
I’d take whatever hope I could hold on to.
Nothing had felt right since I’d moved away from the Amazon
village where I’d grown up to this hoity-toity Virginia city that
masqueraded as a wholesome river town. For a goal-oriented
twenty-seven-year-old, the change had been traumatic, and lately
I’d eaten away my troubles with subpar mangoes and canned
pineapple.
I missed the cheerful sounds of the jungle in the morning.
The clean, dewy air.
The love of my life, Sergio.
Mostly, I missed feeling excited about the prospects of my future.
Instead, I’d been transported to this new place and left with the
realization that home was no longer attainable.
And it never again would be.
I glanced behind me one more time. Still nothing suspicious
caught my eye.
But the gut feeling remained, a feeling that had been finely tuned
by my father, Eduardo Lucas Eldorado Topeka de Torres. Yes, our
last names were different, but that was a story for another day.
Just then, my car sputtered. Smoke rose from the hood. The
vehicle lurched.
I pulled off to the side of the road, where my sedan—a silver
Buick with a red door—died faster than my social life as of late.
With a sigh, I climbed out, popped the hood, and propped it
open. Then I stared at all the car engine components in front of me,
trying to figure out what might have possibly gone wrong, causing
smoke to come out.
I knew a lot of things, but I had no clue how to fix a car.
I pressed my fingers against my temples as my head began to
throb. This is not the time for weakness. It’s time to operate at
peakness.
When I got nervous, I started to rhyme. The habit was weird, but
it was all mine. As I’d gotten older, it sounded less cute and more
like a wannabe half-Hispanic, half-Caucasian rapper.
I tried to start the car again. The engine clicked but refused to
turn over.
 I had to think here. I had exactly six dollars and thirty-four cents
in my wallet. No credit cards. And a dead car.
Not to mention that this was my first day at my new job. Being
late would be a horrible first impression. I knew I shouldn’t have
taken this new position. I should have stuck with my old, boring job
as an insurance specialist.
Just then, a car pulled behind me. It wasn’t just any car either.
The Bentley probably cost more than I would make in a decade.
My jaw tightened when I saw the man who climbed out and
strode toward me. He wore a white suit and expensive sunglasses
that made him appear important—not exactly the kind of guy who
stopped on the side of the road to help someone with a clunker like
mine. More like the type who hired people to iron his underwear and
separate his M&Ms by color.
“Looks like you’re having some problems.” He paused beside me.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’m not really sure what happened,” I started, the words coming
out too fast. “I was just driving down the road when I saw the
smoke and heard a strange sound.”
The man pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his gelled dark
hair, revealing beautiful brown eyes. As he fiddled under the hood, I
couldn’t help but worry he’d get grease on his crisp, white suit.
My dad had taught me to always be observant. He’d told me it
might save my life one day. I’d never forgotten that. During the
beginnings of the political uprisings in my country, my father had
given me survival tips instead of telling nighttime stories.
And that was why I had trouble relating to so many people
around me. Though my family had frequently taken trips to the
States, my upbringing wasn’t like most people’s.
“Oh, here it is.” My Knight-in-White-Armani fiddled with
something before looking back at me. “Do me a favor and start the
engine. Let’s see what happens.”
 I climbed back into the car and did as he said. As I turned the
key in the ignition, my engine purred to life. Relief rushed through
me. Maybe there was hope for the rest of my life—I mean, day.
Quickly, I climbed from the car and met the man. “Thank you so
much.”
He stepped back and grinned, his teeth gleaming like snow on a
sunny day. “It’s no problem. It looks like one of the spark plug wires
became disconnected. You still might want to take it into a garage,
just to make sure. But this should get you to where you’re going,
provided it’s not too far away.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” I offered a grateful
smile. This guy, despite his snooty appearance, really had been a
lifesaver.
The man pulled his sunglasses back over his eyes and flashed
that million-dollar grin again. “It’s no problem. Helping out a
beautiful damsel in distress is the least I can do.” With one more
wave, he strode back to his car. “¡Mantente alerta!”
I froze.
What had he just said? Certainly I’d misunderstood.
Because it had sounded like he said, “mantente alerta.”
Spanish for “Stay alert.”
A phrase my father had often used.
That couldn’t be a coincidence.
The uneasy feeling returned to me. Had that man been following
me? What sense would that make?
I glanced at my watch again before climbing back into my car
and heading down the road. With any luck, I’d show up for my first
day on the job right on time.
But I couldn’t shake the notion that something bad was speeding
toward me like a jaguar closing in on its prey.
AFTER GETTING STUCK behind every red light, I rolled into work ten
minutes late. I paused in front of the office to gather myself before
going inside. The building was a storefront located one block back
from the quaint tourist area along the beautiful Storm River. The
outside was painted robin’s egg blue, and cheerful white shutters
hung on either side of the wide windows.
It looked welcoming and warm, at least.
When I finally walked into the office building of Driscoll and
Associates, a private investigation firm, I noticed that I’d somehow
managed to get a streak of grease on my new blouse.
While the man who’d helped me with my car walked away totally
clean. Go figure.
Instead of changing, I buttoned my pale-yellow sweater, trying to
hide the evidence so I could look professional. Impressions were 90
percent of success. Another tidbit from my dad.
By nature, I was the neat but comfortable kind. I had straight
brown hair that wouldn’t hold a curl. A boyish figure—no hips or
chest. A no-frill way of dressing.
My dad had said that allowed my natural beauty to shine
through.
Dads were supposed to say stuff like that.
I paused and glanced around the reception area. The place was
decorated professionally with walnut-stained shiplap walls, rich wood
floors, and sleek furniture. The scent of sandalwood floated in the
air, and electricity seemed to zing through the atmosphere.
I smiled at the woman at the front desk. “I’m Elliot Ransom, and
I’m here to see Mr. Driscoll.”
A blonde with big hair, full lips, and oversized glasses
unapologetically studied me. “You must be the new girl.”
First impression: Ditzy. Slightly vain. A talker. From the Deep
South, based on her drawl.
“That’s me. Elliot Ransom.”
 She flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe
you’ll make it longer than the last one did.”
What did that mean? I didn’t know much about my new boss. I’d
read an online ad stating he was looking for an assistant. He paid
considerably higher than what I’d been paid at my old job, and the
position sounded entirely more interesting.
“Velma!” A deep voice rattled the room from a doorway in the
distance. “Is she here yet?”
Velma’s eyes widened, and she sat up straighter in her chair. Her
hand flew out and knocked some papers from the desk. The pile
fluttered to the floor like feathers in duck-hunting season. Instead of
picking them up, her fingers splayed across the desk as if hanging
on for dear life.
“Yes, sir. I’m sending her right in.” Velma looked at me with wide
eyes beneath her purple-framed glasses before whispering, “Good
luck.”
I hadn’t remembered my new boss being quite as scary when I’d
met him for my interview. Then again, we’d only talked for five
minutes in-between press interviews he gave in front of City Hall. His
job opening ad had stated he wanted someone detail-oriented who
spoke fluent Spanish, liked to read Agatha Christie, and wasn’t PC.
It was like the ad was written for me. I was bilingual, loved
mystery novels, and hated personal computers. I was more of a Mac
girl.
Mostly, what I remembered was the man had smelled like cigars
and bloated self-worth. Oscar Driscoll had asked a few questions,
looked me over, and then told me I was hired. Maybe that did seem
a little suspicious, but desperation won over complaining. I was so
over my job at the insurance company.
I stepped into the office and spotted my new boss sitting behind
his massive desk—a desk built for such a person. The man was large
and imposing, with a round face, a nearly bald head, and an awful
mustache below his shiny, bulbous nose. He looked to be in his early
fifties, and, based on the dish on his desk, he liked pistachios.
He had helped solve the highly publicized crime of the Ernesto
family five years ago, and he’d become somewhat of a celebrity.
Helena Ernesto had been accused of killing her husband, but Oscar
found a key piece of evidence indicating Helena’s brother was
actually guilty.
Media coverage had been intense and constant, and Oscar had
shone in the spotlight. Eventually, he’d even written a book about it,
and a made-for-TV movie had been aired with some actor named
Kevin James playing Oscar.
I’d done a little research on the man before coming today. The
Type A in me couldn’t resist.
He observed me for a moment before nodding. “Good. You’re
here. You’re from South America, right?”
“That’s right. I grew up in a town right on the edge of the jungle
and—”
“You look Hispanic.”
“I do, but my mom is actually American—”
“Say something in Spanish.”
“In Spanish?” I repeated, feeling my lungs deflate.
“Did I stutter?”
I flinched at his sharp words and knew he meant business. Then
I quickly blurted something in Spanish.
“What did you say?” he demanded.
I swallowed hard but refused to break eye contact. “That
kindness always wins.”
I’d actually said, “This man is prickly.” Oscar didn’t need to know
that, though.
He slowly nodded in a way that made me feel like I was livestock
being paraded before being butchered.
“Now act like you don’t speak English,” he barked.
 I straightened my back, realizing this wasn’t the job opportunity
I’d been dreaming about. Role-playing hadn’t been in the
description. All kinds of internal alarms were sounding right now.
I took a step back. “I think this is a bad idea—”
“No, please.” His voice softened, and he patted the air with his
hands. “Just try it. I’ll explain in a moment.”
I let out a sigh, glanced at the door, and then decided to humor
him for just another moment. After all, I’d already quit my old job. I
needed another income. Maybe he had a really good reason for
asking me to do this.
I blurted out another string of Spanish and made sure the words
came out fast and that I used quick, frantic motions.
Translation: I don’t know what you’re saying, you big jerk. And
I’m having second thoughts about your ethics, but I have a feeling
you don’t care.
A huge grin lit his face, and he nodded, leaning back in his chair
as if I’d just passed his audition. “Perfect. You just need to avert
your gaze more. Now, I need you to do a job for me.”
“Sure. What is it? Filing? Running background checks? Doing
some translation work on the Mac?” Paperwork was my specialty, as
of late.
I could organize forms alphabetically with my eyes closed. I could
label files until they were so pretty you wanted to cry. If there was a
Heisman Trophy for office work, I felt certain I’d be a contender.
It was one of the reasons I’d excelled at my job back in Yerba.
I’d been chief of staff for one of my province’s legislators. He’d never
missed a meeting or one of his staffers’ birthdays—thanks to yours
truly.
“I need you to go undercover.”
I blinked, certain I’d heard him incorrectly. “Come again?”
I was pretty sure that qualification wasn’t on my résumé. No, I’d
listed clerical skills. Like an overwhelming and nerdish knowledge of
Excel. Bragging rights on crafting irresistible press releases. Ability to
process payroll with the dedication of an addict flying high on
addition and subtraction.
None of which required subterfuge.
Oscar waved his thick finger in the air. “That’s right. I knew you
were perfecto when I hired you for this job.” He said “perfecto” with
the flare of an Italian who’d just made the perfect pasta dish.
I started to take a step back but stopped myself. “I’m not an
actress. Call it a quirk, but I don’t do that kind of work.”
Oh, no. I was nervous. Those rhymes always gave it away. I
turned into a less talented Dr. Seuss. If I’d written one of his books,
it would go: Oh, the places you’ll end up. Some of them you will
hate. But sometimes you need to understand that life isn’t great.
“You do now.” Oscar pushed a folder toward me. “Everything you
need to know is right in here in this dossier. Study it. You have a job
to do tonight. An innocent man is counting on you, señorita. Now,
auf Wiedersehen.”
Auf Wiedersehen? Oscar didn’t think that was Spanish, did he?
Because I was pretty sure that was German for goodbye.
Either way, I didn’t like the sound of his words. What in the world
could Oscar be getting at? I was about to find out.
Mantente alerta, I reminded myself. Stay alert.
Yes, Papa. I’d remain on guard.
But right now, I needed to remember everything my dad had
ever taught me about survival.
 CHAPTER TWO

AFTER EXITING OSCAR’S OFFICE, file in hand, I sat at a desk Velma had
shown me to. Apparently, this would be my space during my tenure
—however brief—at Driscoll and Associates.
There was no privacy here, just a glass wall behind the reception
area. Another desk stood beside mine, and I wondered who it
belonged to. I supposed I’d find out soon enough.
I still had so much to learn about this new town I’d moved to
three months ago.
Storm River was located anywhere from forty-five minutes to
three hours outside Washington, DC—depending on traffic. The city
was situated, as you might have guessed, on a small river that
branched from the Potomac. But this wasn’t just any river. This river
had a sandy beach, trendy restaurants, and a resort feel.
From what I understood during my brief stay, politicians from
Washington liked to escape to the area on the weekends. Large
homes had been built on the outskirts of town to house them. The
area’s original homes were bungalows, painted bright colors, with
white picket fences and an all-American feel. The structures
hearkened back to simpler times. Yet, for the simplicity, the town still
felt strangely complicated.
Initially, I’d thought it was strange that a PI had set up shop in
the small town as opposed to somewhere closer to the DC suburbs.
But then I realized just how many people came and went on
weekends. Not just any people. Powerful people. Politicians.
Executives. People drenched in old money.
Then it all made sense. Oscar Driscoll had known this area
offered a certain sense of privacy because of its distance from the
DC Beltway. It was really quite smart, I supposed.
I flipped through the pages in the file my new boss had handed
me. Oscar had been hired by a man named Flash “the Birdie”
Slivinski, a professional golfer who’d been accused of murdering
twenty-five-year-old Sarah Vance. Flash claimed he woke up in his
condo and found Sarah dead on the floor beside him. Her throat had
been slashed. He said he’d blacked out and had no idea what
happened.
But he knew he wasn’t a killer.
We needed to prove that.
The murder had happened a week ago, but Flash was out on bail
until his trial date.
He’d been seen leaving a bar with Sarah, but Flash claimed he’d
never talked to her before. He said the two had met for the first time
that evening. They hit it off and had gone back to his place to get to
know each other.
The last thing he remembered was talking to Sarah about a
recent trip he’d taken to Paris. Then everything went black. The tox
screen hadn’t shown any drugs in his system, nor had he had any
medical conditions that could have caused him to pass out.
Sarah Vance had worked as a cosmetics salesperson. She lived in
Georgetown, right outside DC, and, because of her job, she traveled
throughout the area to sell her products to various stores. She was
originally from Nebraska, and she had long, honey-blonde hair, big
eyes, and an overly confident smile. Interviews with friends,
neighbors, and coworkers were included in the file, as well as a note
saying that Oscar was working hand in hand with Flash’s lawyer.
 A handwritten note at the end made my eyes widen. “Your
mission, if you choose to accept it, is . . .”
What did that mean? Another American pop culture reference
perhaps? I really needed to learn more of those.
My eyes widened as I read the assignment. Then I read it again.
“I’m supposed to go undercover as a cleaning lady who doesn’t
speak English?” I blurted. “At the police station where the lead
detective on the Sarah Vance case works?” Horror laced my words.
Velma looked back at me. My voice had obviously carried through
the open glass door.
She frowned, the expression overblown but the sympathy
appreciated.
“It’s a great way to get information,” she offered. Her dangling
bracelets clanged together as she raised her hands in a shrug.
“I am going to be joining the afterhours cleaning crew,” I
continued, my gaze skimming the dossier, as Oscar had called it.
“You’re going to be like a mole. A very clean mole.”
“The animal?” What was she talking about?
She stared at me. “You know, a person planted inside an
organization to gain knowledge of situations.”
Another American expression.
“I’m supposed to spy on the police?” My mouth dropped open.
This seemed like a very bad idea.
“Pretty much. We need to know what they know—especially the
top-secret stuff.”
I closed the folder and walked toward Velma, afraid that Oscar
might overhear my question. “Is this normal? I really thought I was
going to be using my clerical and organizational skills here.”
Velma lowered her voice. “Oscar likes for people to do whatever
he wants them to do. It’s just the way he is. You’ll get used to him.”
“What if I have an ethical dilemma?” Could I really pretend not to
speak English? Wasn’t that lying? I hated lies.
 Velma raised her eyebrows as if she had no clue what I was
talking about. “An ethical dilemma?”
Did I really have to spell it out for her? Based on the clueless
look in her eyes, yes, I did. “What if I don’t want to pretend to be
someone I’m not? What if I don’t want to trick people?”
She tilted her head, her expression turning from sadly
compassionate to I-feel-sorry-for-you patronizing. “Maybe you’re in
the wrong line of work, sweetie. Oscar’s a PI. Do you think he finds
answers just being nice and sweet all the time?”
“No . . . I guess I never thought about it.” I really didn’t have
time to think any of this through. I’d applied for the job on a whim,
gotten the interview that same day, and had been hired five minutes
into my talk with Oscar Driscoll.
“Sometimes in the fight for justice you have to get dirty. Maybe
it’s better if you discover that now before you get in too deep. I’m
sure there are other jobs out there for someone who’s
uncomfortable with this.” Velma paused and stared at me. “Are you
uncomfortable with this?”
Was I? It was a great question. Initially, I’d say yes. But, deep
inside, part of me wanted to break away from the role I’d been
pushed into playing—the girl who was always responsible. Always
above reproach. The one people could count on.
Those traits were a part of me. But following the rules had gotten
me nowhere.
Fatherless. Single. Living in a place I didn’t want to live. Without
friends.
“I . . . I don’t know yet,” I finally said.
“You better figure it out pretty quickly.” She glanced at her smart
watch. “Now, it’s my lunch break, and I’ve got to get out of here so I
can work out. But if you have any questions for me, I’ll be around.”
“Have fun working out. What do you do? Zumba? Free weights?”
The subject seemed safe enough, like a good distraction from life’s
pressing questions.
 “Are you kidding? All of those classes require gym memberships.
Me? I go down to Easton’s.”
“The sporting goods store? I didn’t realize they had classes
there.” I thought they just sold baseball bats and jerseys, but I was
still learning the area.
She full out snorted. “Oh, no, sweetie. I use the treadmills there,
the ones that they have for sale. They’re perfect.”
I stared at her, unsure if I’d heard her correctly. She didn’t laugh
and say JK, like my seventeen-year-old sister sometimes did. She
was serious.
Working here was going to be much more interesting than I’d
anticipated.
Maybe it was just what I needed—to reboot my life and reinvent
Elliot Ransom.
The question was—could I reboot my life and still stay true to
myself?

I’D SPENT the rest of the day in the office with Velma. She’d had me
fill out a folder full of forms for human resources and another weird
questionnaire that even asked for my blood type, if I was double-
jointed, and if I’d ever participated in a lip sync competition.
I’d also had to call my new “boss” with the police station cleaning
crew and confirm that I was scheduled to work tonight. Oscar had
answered the ad for me initially, claiming he ran a temp agency.
He’d made up a false résumé and sent it in.
After that, Velma had explained the computer system to me, run
over the details of some of Oscar’s current cases, and given me a
few rules to keep in mind at work.

1. Never openly doubt Oscar. His ego couldn’t handle it.

 2. Never be late. Oscar was the only one allowed that privilege.
3. Never wear red dresses. Oscar would think I was a
seductress.
4. Never talk politics. I would regret it. Like, really regret it.
Like stick my head in a pot of boiling water regret. Those
had been Velma’s words, not mine.

I was still processing everything I’d learned, feeling a bit

overwhelmed and un poco excited.
At six o’clock, I went home to change before completing the
second part of my assignment. Thankfully, my mom was working at
the corner drugstore and my sister had an afterschool student
meeting. I’d donned some khakis and a white shirt, just as I had
been instructed.
I felt ready to face the jungle—literally. This was my exploration
outfit, minus the boots.
I then drove down to a local apartment complex, which was
actually an old motel. The place looked like it hadn’t been updated in
at least four decades, and the pool with its murky green water
looked more like a swamp.
Apparently, most of my temporary coworkers lived here.
Before I got out of the car, my phone rang. It was Oscar.
“Bonjour,” he started.
“Bonjour?”
“Just a few words of wisdom.” He plowed ahead as if he didn’t
hear me. “Remember, it never hurts to let the cops think you’re their
friend.” His words came out in abrupt syllables.
“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You’re a pretty lady. You’re bound to catch someone’s eye. Use
that to your advantage.”
“You want me to make friends with someone—possibly a cop—
just so I can use them?” I clarified.
 “It sounds so harsh when you say it that way. But, yeah, that’s it
basically.”
“But—”
“Remember, your target is Detective Dylan Hunter. He’s the most
incompetent cop on the face of the earth, but he could still be
useful.”
“I know, but how—”
“No one can know you speak English or that you work for me.”
“I gathered that.”
“Don’t let me down. Now, sayonara.”
Before I could argue with him, the call ended.
Being kind to someone just so I could get something from them
wasn’t my thing. At all. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here right now.
What had I been thinking?
I should simply drive home. Forget about this. I wasn’t the type
of girl to give in to whims. And this was why.
My insides were in a knot, and my moral compass fraught. Was I
selling my soul to the devil, just to take my life to a different level?
That settled it.
I started to crank my engine, ready to leave. Before I could, a
woman waved at me from beside a rundown, light-blue van.
That must be my new boss, Rosa.
A feeling of dread washed over me as I opened my car door. It
looked like I needed to see this through. Tonight, at least.
I could still stay true to myself and do this job.
I hoped.
 CHAPTER THREE

MY HANDS WERE sweaty as I sat in the back of the van, which smelled
like cumin, lavender, and Electric Youth. Someone in this vehicle was
apparently obsessed with the eighties fragrance. I only recognized it
because someone had gifted some to my sister once.
It’s not too late to get out of a situation that’s not too great.
I could still back out of this. I could fulfill my duty by cleaning
tonight, just as I’d promised, then I could turn in my resignation
tomorrow.
But then I remembered my sister, Ruth. She had cystic fibrosis
and desperately needed a double lung transplant.
I needed a job that would help pay for medical treatment. It was
the main reason my family had come here from Yerba. Healthcare in
my home country had been inferior to that in the States. Since my
sister and I had dual citizenship, the decision had been a no-brainer.
Yerba was a small country located beside Peru, best known for its
Festival of the Chicken—Fiesta del Pollo—celebration. Our national
holiday was a weeklong event where people dressed like—you
guessed it—chickens. We did chicken dances and had contests to
see who could peck food the fastest. We covered ourselves in honey
and rolled in feathers. We drank milk with berries and called it . . .
never mind. But it was tasty. Then we ate chicken. Lots and lots of
juicy, spicy chicken.
 It might sound corny, but it had been my favorite time of year,
better than even Christmas. The community had come together,
differences were set aside, and celebrating was the number one
priority.
My dad had been native to the country, and my mom had gone
there to work as a missionary after college. The two of them had
fallen in love, gotten married, and two years later I came along.
Things were going well until political unrest flared. During those
times of fretting, as I heard whispers of an uprising, my dad had
taught me the importance of keeping my mind busy. We’d begun
coming up with rhymes. To this day, I still tried to stay focused by
practicing the art.
My family left Yerba just in time. A couple weeks later, the
economy had imploded and the borders had been closed. Now I
couldn’t go back if I wanted to.
Sergio was still there, though. We had so many unfinished
conversations. Knowing that we might not ever speak again or see
each other face-to-face left me without the closure I craved. We’d
gone from planning our future together to living like strangers.
How did one get over that?
The women around me talked about various things, including
some knockoff Spanx one of them had bought and whether or not
Maria was crushing on her neighbor Alexandro. A few of them even
tried to include me, but I just smiled politely instead of jumping into
the conversation. My mind was too preoccupied with the task at
hand.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to the Storm River Police Station.
The building didn’t look like the police stations back in Yerba, which
had been cement buildings with bars over the windows. This place
looked like an oversized beach house with its dormers and hurricane
shutters.
Then again, this whole town needed to keep up appearances if it
was going to remain a playground for rich politicians.
 This cleaning crew worked in the evenings when the majority of
law enforcement wasn’t at the station. I was instructed to be
invisible while inside. They’d been hired because the language
barrier offered a certain level of privacy. And since sensitive
information could be left out in the open or discussed among them,
discretion was priority.
But, since I secretly spoke English, eavesdropping would be easy
for me.
I needed to locate Detective Hunter’s desk and see if I could find
any information pertaining to the case there. And, as a backup, I
could snoop into his files—but Oscar would deny any plausibility if I
was caught.
The thought was not comforting.
Rosa doled out instructions. The woman was matronly, and I
hadn’t seen her smile once. She obviously ran a tight ship. As she
should.
She tossed an apron at me, and I pulled it on. I squinted when I
read the words across the front. The Happy Hispanic? Really?
“¡Tú! Limpia los baños.”
Rosa had just assigned me to the bathrooms. Bathrooms? That
wasn’t going to work, though. No way would I get close to that
detective’s desk if I was cleaning the bathroom.
I needed to fix this.
As the rest of the crew disappeared inside, I turned to Rosa and
squirmed in front of the building, trying to think quickly. The fact of
the matter was that I was a terrible liar.
Finally, I told her I couldn’t breathe chemicals in confined spaces.
I told her cystic fibrosis, a lung disease, ran in my family. The words
were true, even though I didn’t have the disease.
God, forgive me. On second thought, I didn’t deserve forgiveness
right now. Help me live with myself.
Even that request didn’t seem fair for me to ask.
I held my breath as I waited for Rosa’s response.
 Unsmiling, Rosa narrowed her eyes and finally told me to mop
the floors instead.
Perfect.
I grabbed a mop from her and pushed away my shame as I
entered the station.

AS I SLUNG my mop on the floor, my gaze stopped at a poster on the

bulletin board. It was an image of a faceless man—one of those
outlines with a question mark where features should be.
“That’s the Beltway Killer,” someone said beside me.
I glanced up and saw an officer. He was on the younger side with
a baby face and neat blond hair. He smiled, and I immediately knew
he was an extrovert and a talker. Body Language 101.
I remembered I wasn’t supposed to understand English. Instead,
I smiled and nodded. “Sí.”
The language barrier didn’t seem to deter him. “I sure do hope
we find him. He’s a nasty one. Killed four women already.”
Four women? It seemed like I had heard something about this
guy, some murmurings around town. I tried my best to avoid
watching the news, but it was hard to avoid talk of this crime.
“I never thought a serial killer would hit this area.” The man
shook his head as he stared at the wanted poster.
I glanced at the man’s name badge.
Bradford.
Seemed like an easy enough name to remember.
I continued mopping, trying to be polite but productive.
It never hurts to let the cops think you’re their friend. Oscar’s
words echoed in my head. It was one thing to clean this place, but it
was a whole different story to use someone. I wouldn’t take it that
far.
Another random document with
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one of the last legislatures, who might have come out of one of
Lever’s novels. He was undoubtedly a bad case, but had a genuine
sense of humor, and his “bulls” made him the delight of the house.
One day I came in late, just as a bill was being voted on, and
meeting my friend, hailed him, “Hello, Pat, what’s up? what’s this
they’re voting on?” to which Pat replied, with contemptuous
indifference to the subject, but with a sly twinkle in his eye, “Oh,
some unimportant measure, sorr; some local bill or other—a
constitutional amendment!”
The old Dublin Parliament never listened to a better specimen of a
bull than was contained in the speech of a very genial and pleasant
friend of mine, a really finished orator, who, in the excitement
attendant upon receiving Governor Cleveland’s message vetoing the
five-cent-fare bill, uttered the following sentence: “Mr. Speaker, I
recognize the hand that crops out in that veto; I have heard it
before!”
One member rather astonished us one day by his use of the word
“shibboleth.” He had evidently concluded that this was merely a
more elegant synonym of the good old word shillalah, and in
reproving a colleague for opposing a bill to increase the salaries of
public laborers, he said, very impressively, “The throuble wid the
young man is, that he uses the wurrd economy as a shibboleth,
wherewith to strike the working man.” Afterwards he changed the
metaphor, and spoke of a number of us as using the word “reform”
as a shibboleth, behind which to cloak our evil intentions.
A mixture of classical and constitutional misinformation was
displayed a few sessions past in the State Assembly when I was a
member of the Legislature. It was on the occasion of that annual
nuisance, the debate upon the Catholic Protectory item of the Supply
Bill. Every year some one who is desirous of bidding for the Catholic
vote introduces this bill, which appropriates a sum of varying
dimensions for the support of the Catholic Protectory, an excellent
institution, but one which has no right whatever to come to the State
for support; each year the insertion of the item is opposed by a small
number of men, including the more liberal Catholics themselves, on
proper grounds, and by a larger number from simple bigotry—a fact
which was shown two years ago, when many of the most bitter
opponents of this measure cheerfully supported a similar and equally
objectionable one in aid of a Protestant institution. On the occasion
referred to there were two assemblymen, both Celtic gentlemen, who
were rivals for the leadership of the minority; one of them a stout,
red-faced man, who may go by the name of the “Colonel,” owing to
his having seen service in the army; while the other was a dapper,
voluble fellow, who had at one time been a civil justice and was
called the “Judge.” Somebody was opposing the insertion of the item
on the ground (perfectly just, by the way) that it was unconstitutional,
and he dwelt upon this objection at some length. The Judge, who
knew nothing of the constitution, except that it was continually being
quoted against all of his favorite projects, fidgeted about for some
time, and at last jumped up to know if he might ask the gentleman a
question. The latter said, “Yes,” and the Judge went on, “I’d like to
know if the gintleman has ever personally seen the Catholic
Protectoree?” “No, I haven’t,” said his astonished opponent. “Then,
phwat do you mane by talking about its being unconstitootional? It’s
no more unconstitootional than you are!” Then, turning to the house,
with slow and withering sarcasm, he added, “The throuble wid the
gintleman is that he okkipies what lawyers would call a kind of a
quasi-position upon this bill,” and sat down amid the applause of his
followers.
His rival, the Colonel, felt he had gained altogether too much glory
from the encounter, and after the nonplussed countryman had taken
his seat, he stalked solemnly over to the desk of the elated Judge,
looked at him majestically for a moment, and said, “You’ll excuse my
mentioning, sorr, that the gintleman who has just sat down knows
more law in a wake than you do in a month; and more than that,
Mike Shaunnessy, phwat do you mane by quotin’ Latin on the flure of
this House, when you don’t know the alpha and omayga of the
language!” and back he walked, leaving the Judge in humiliated
submission behind him.
The Judge was always falling foul of the Constitution. Once, when
defending one of his bills which made a small but wholly indefensible
appropriation of State money for a private purpose, he asserted “that
the Constitution didn’t touch little things like that”; and on another
occasion he remarked to me that he “never allowed the Constitution
to come between friends.”
The Colonel was at that time chairman of a committee, before
which there sometimes came questions affecting the interests or
supposed interests of labor. The committee was hopelessly bad in its
composition, most of the members being either very corrupt or
exceedingly inefficient. The Colonel generally kept order with a good
deal of dignity; indeed, when, as not infrequently happened, he had
looked upon the rye that was flavored with lemon-peel, his sense of
personal dignity grew till it became fairly majestic, and he ruled the
committee with a rod of iron. At one time a bill had been introduced
(one of the several score of preposterous measures that annually
make their appearance purely for purposes of buncombe), by whose
terms all laborers in the public works of great cities were to receive
three dollars a day—double the market price of labor. To this bill, by
the way, an amendment was afterwards offered in the house by
some gentleman with a sense of humor, which was to make it read
that all the inhabitants of great cities were to receive three dollars a
day, and the privilege of laboring on the public works if they chose;
the original author of the bill questioning doubtfully if the amendment
“didn’t make the measure too sweeping.” The measure was, of
course, of no consequence whatever to the genuine laboring men,
but was of interest to the professional labor agitators; and a body of
the latter requested leave to appear before the committee. This was
granted, but on the appointed day the chairman turned up in a
condition of such portentous dignity as to make it evident that he had
been on a spree of protracted duration. Down he sat at the head of
the table, and glared at the committeemen, while the latter, whose
faces would not have looked amiss in a rogues’ gallery, cowered
before him. The first speaker was a typical professional laboring
man; a sleek, oily little fellow, with a black mustache, who had never
done a stroke of work in his life. He felt confident that the Colonel
would favor him,—a confidence soon to be rudely shaken,—and
began with a deprecatory smile:
“Humble though I am——”
 Rap, rap, went the chairman’s gavel, and the following dialogue
occurred:
Chairman (with dignity). “What’s that you said you were, sir?”
Professional Workingman (decidedly taken aback). “I—I said I was
humble, sir?”
Chairman (reproachfully). “Are you an American citizen, sir?”
P. W. “Yes, sir.”
Chairman (with emphasis). “Then you’re the equal of any man in
this State! Then you’re the equal of any man on this committee!
Don’t let me hear you call yourself humble again! Go on sir!”
After this warning the advocate managed to keep clear of the
rocks until, having worked himself up to quite a pitch of excitement,
he incautiously exclaimed, “But the poor man has no friends!” which
brought the Colonel down on him at once. Rap, rap, went his gavel,
and he scowled grimly at the offender while he asked with deadly
deliberation:
“What did you say that time, sir?”
P. W. (hopelessly). “I said the poor man had no friends, sir.”
Chairman (with sudden fire). “Then you lied, sir! I am the poor
man’s friend! so are my colleagues, sir!” (Here the rogues’ gallery
tried to look benevolent.) “Speak the truth, sir!” (with sudden change
from the manner admonitory to the manner mandatory). “Now, you
sit down quick, or get out of this somehow!”
This put an end to the sleek gentleman, and his place was taken
by a fellow-professional of another type—a great, burly man, who
would talk to you on private matters in a perfectly natural tone of
voice, but who, the minute he began to speak of the Wrongs (with a
capital W) of Labor (with a capital L), bellowed as if he had been a
bull of Bashan. The Colonel, by this time pretty far gone, eyed him
malevolently, swaying to and fro in his chair. However, the first effect
of the fellow’s oratory was soothing rather than otherwise, and
produced the unexpected result of sending the chairman fast asleep
sitting bolt upright. But in a minute or two, as the man warmed up to
his work, he gave a peculiarly resonant howl which waked the
Colonel up. The latter came to himself with a jerk, looked fixedly at
the audience, caught sight of the speaker, remembered having seen
him before, forgot that he had been asleep, and concluded that it
must have been on some previous day. Hammer, hammer, went the
gavel, and—
“I’ve seen you before, sir!”
“You have not,” said the man.
“Don’t tell me I lie, sir!” responded the Colonel, with sudden
ferocity. “You’ve addressed this committee on a previous day!”
“I’ve never—” began the man; but the Colonel broke in again:
“Sit down, sir! The dignity of the chair must be preserved! No man
shall speak to this committee twice. The committee stands
adjourned.” And with that he stalked majestically out of the room,
leaving the committee and the delegation to gaze sheepishly into
each other’s faces.

OUTSIDERS.
After all, outsiders furnish quite as much fun as the legislators
themselves. The number of men who persist in writing one letters of
praise, abuse, and advice on every conceivable subject is appalling;
and the writers are of every grade, from the lunatic and the criminal
up. The most difficult to deal with are the men with hobbies. There is
the Protestant fool, who thinks that our liberties are menaced by the
machinations of the Church of Rome; and his companion idiot, who
wants legislation against all secret societies, especially the Masons.
Then there are the believers in “isms,” of whom the women-
suffragists stand in the first rank. Now I have always been a believer
in woman’s rights, but I must confess I have never seen such a
hopelessly impracticable set of persons as the woman-suffragists
who came up to Albany to get legislation. They simply would not
draw up their measures in proper form; when I pointed out to one of
them that their proposed bill was drawn up in direct defiance of
certain of the sections of the Constitution of the State he blandly
replied that he did not care at all for that, because the measure had
been drawn up so as to be in accord with the Constitution of Heaven.
There was no answer to this beyond the very obvious one that
Albany was in no way akin to Heaven. The ultra-temperance people
—not the moderate and sensible ones—are quite as impervious to
common sense.
A member’s correspondence is sometimes amusing. A member
receives shoals of letters of advice, congratulation, entreaty, and
abuse, half of them anonymous. Most of these are stupid; but some
are at least out of the common.
I had some constant correspondents. One lady in the western part
of the State wrote me a weekly disquisition on woman’s rights. A
Buffalo clergyman spent two years on a one-sided correspondence
about prohibition. A gentleman of Syracuse wrote me such a stream
of essays and requests about the charter of that city that I feared he
would drive me into a lunatic asylum; but he anticipated matters by
going into one himself. A New Yorker at regular intervals sent up a
request that I would “reintroduce” the Dongan charter, which had
lapsed two centuries before. A gentleman interested in a proposed
law to protect primaries took to telegraphing daily questions as to its
progress—a habit of which I broke him by sending in response
telegrams of several hundred words each, which I was careful not to
prepay.
There are certain legislative actions which must be taken in a
purely Pickwickian sense. Notable among these are the resolutions
of sympathy for the alleged oppressed patriots and peoples of
Europe. These are generally directed against England, as there
exists in the lower strata of political life an Anglophobia quite as
objectionable as the Anglomania of the higher social circles.
As a rule, these resolutions are to be classed as simply bouffe
affairs; they are commonly introduced by some ambitious legislator
—often, I regret to say, a native American—who has a large foreign
vote in his district. During my term of service in the Legislature,
resolutions were introduced demanding the recall of Minister Lowell,
assailing the Czar for his conduct towards the Russian Jews,
sympathizing with the Land League and the Dutch Boers, etc., etc.;
the passage of each of which we strenuously and usually
successfully opposed, on the ground that while we would warmly
welcome any foreigner who came here, and in good faith assumed
the duties of American citizenship, we had a right to demand in
return that he should not bring any of his race or national antipathies
into American political life. Resolutions of this character are
sometimes undoubtedly proper; but in nine cases out of ten they are
wholly unjustifiable. An instance of this sort of thing which took place
not at Albany may be cited. Recently the Board of Aldermen of one
of our great cities received a stinging rebuke, which it is to be feared
the aldermanic intellect was too dense fully to appreciate. The
aldermen passed a resolution “condemning” the Czar of Russia for
his conduct towards his fellow-citizens of Hebrew faith, and
“demanding” that he should forthwith treat them better; this was
forwarded to the Russian Minister, with a request that it be sent to
the Czar. It came back forty-eight hours afterwards, with a note on
the back by one of the under-secretaries of the legation, to the effect
that as he was not aware that Russia had any diplomatic relations
with this particular Board of Aldermen, and as, indeed, Russia was
not officially cognizant of their existence, and, moreover, was wholly
indifferent to their opinions on any conceivable subject, he herewith
returned them their kind communication.[7]
In concluding I would say, that while there is so much evil at
Albany, and so much reason for our exerting ourselves to bring
about a better state of things, yet there is no cause for being
disheartened or for thinking that it is hopeless to expect
improvement. On the contrary, the standard of legislative morals is
certainly higher than it was fifteen years ago or twenty-five years
ago. In the future it may either improve or retrograde, by fits and
starts, for it will keep pace exactly with the awakening of the popular
mind to the necessity of having honest and intelligent
representatives in the State Legislature.[8]
I have had opportunity of knowing something about the workings
of but a few of our other State legislatures: from what I have seen
and heard, I should say that we stand about on a par with those of
Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Illinois, above that of Louisiana, and
below those of Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and
Wyoming, as well as below the national legislature at Washington.
But the moral status of a legislative body, especially in the West,
often varies widely from year to year.

FOOTNOTES:
[6] The Century, January, 1885.
[7] A few years later a member of the Italian Legation “scored”
heavily on one of our least pleasant national peculiarities. An
Italian had just been lynched in Colorado, and an Italian paper in
New York bitterly denounced the Italian Minister for his supposed
apathy in the matter. The member of the Legation in question
answered that the accusations were most unjust, for the Minister
had worked zealously until he found that the deceased “had taken
out his naturalization papers, and was entitled to all the privileges
of American citizenship.”
[8] At present, twelve years later, I should say that there was
rather less personal corruption in the Legislature; but also less
independence and greater subservience to the machine, which is
even less responsive to honest and enlightened public opinion.
 VI
MACHINE POLITICS IN NEW YORK CITY[9]

In New York city, as in most of our other great municipalities, the

direction of political affairs has been for many years mainly in the
hands of a class of men who make politics their regular business and
means of livelihood. These men are able to keep their grip only by
means of the singularly perfect way in which they have succeeded in
organizing their respective parties and factions; and it is in
consequence of the clock-work regularity and efficiency with which
these several organizations play their parts, alike for good and for
evil, that they have been nicknamed by outsiders “machines,” while
the men who take part in and control, or, as they would themselves
say, “run” them, now form a well-recognized and fairly well-defined
class in the community, and are familiarly known as machine
politicians. It may be of interest to sketch in outline some of the
characteristics of these men and of their machines, the methods by
which and the objects for which they work, and the reasons for their
success in the political field.
The terms machine and machine politician are now undoubtedly
used ordinarily in a reproachful sense; but it does not at all follow
that this sense is always the right one. On the contrary, the machine
is often a very powerful instrument for good; and a machine politician
really desirous of doing honest work on behalf of the community, is
fifty times as useful an ally as is the average philanthropic outsider.
Indeed, it is of course true, that any political organization (and
absolutely no good work can be done in politics without an
organization) is a machine; and any man who perfects and uses this
organization is himself, to a certain extent, a machine politician. In
the rough, however, the feeling against machine politics and
politicians is tolerably well justified by the facts, although this
statement really reflects most severely upon the educated and
honest people who largely hold themselves aloof from public life, and
show a curious incapacity for fulfilling their public duties.
The organizations that are commonly and distinctively known as
machines are those belonging to the two great recognized parties, or
to their factional subdivisions; and the reason why the word machine
has come to be used, to a certain extent, as a term of opprobrium is
to be found in the fact that these organizations are now run by the
leaders very largely as business concerns to benefit themselves and
their followers, with little regard to the community at large. This is
natural enough. The men having control and doing all the work have
gradually come to have the same feeling about politics that other
men have about the business of a merchant or manufacturer; it was
too much to expect that if left entirely to themselves they would
continue disinterestedly to work for the benefit of others. Many a
machine politician who is to-day a most unwholesome influence in
our politics is in private life quite as respectable as anyone else; only
he has forgotten that his business affects the state at large, and,
regarding it as merely his own private concern, he has carried into it
the same selfish spirit that actuates in business matters the majority
of the average mercantile community. A merchant or manufacturer
works his business, as a rule, purely for his own benefit, without any
regard whatever for the community at large. The merchant uses all
his influence for a low tariff, and the manufacturer is even more
strenuously in favor of protection, not at all from any theory of
abstract right, but because of self-interest. Each views such a
political question as the tariff, not from the standpoint of how it will
affect the nation as a whole, but merely from that of how it will affect
him personally. If a community were in favor of protection, but
nevertheless permitted all the governmental machinery to fall into the
hands of importing merchants, it would be small cause for wonder if
the latter shaped the laws to suit themselves, and the chief blame,
after all, would rest with the supine and lethargic majority which
failed to have enough energy to take charge of their own affairs. Our
machine politicians, in actual life act in just this same way; their
actions are very often dictated by selfish motives, with but little
regard for the people at large though, like the merchants, they often
hold a very high standard of honor on certain points; they therefore
need continually to be watched and opposed by those who wish to
see good government. But, after all, it is hardly to be wondered at
that they abuse power which is allowed to fall into their hands owing
to the ignorance or timid indifference of those who by rights should
themselves keep it.
In a society properly constituted for true democratic government—
in a society such as that seen in many of our country towns, for
example—machine rule is impossible. But in New York, as well as in
most of our other great cities, the conditions favor the growth of ring
or boss rule. The chief causes thus operating against good
government are the moral and mental attitudes towards politics
assumed by different sections of the voters. A large number of these
are simply densely ignorant, and, of course, such are apt to fall
under the influence of cunning leaders, and even if they do right, it is
by hazard merely. The criminal class in a great city is always of
some size, while what may be called the potentially criminal class is
still larger. Then there is a great class of laboring men, mostly of
foreign birth or parentage, who at present both expect too much from
legislation and yet at the same time realize too little how powerfully
though indirectly they are affected by a bad or corrupt government.
In many wards the overwhelming majority of the voters do not realize
that heavy taxes fall ultimately upon them, and actually view with
perfect complacency burdens laid by their representatives upon the
tax-payers, and, if anything, approve of a hostile attitude towards the
latter—having a vague feeling of animosity towards them as
possessing more than their proper proportion of the world’s good
things, and sharing with most other human beings the capacity to
bear with philosophic equanimity ills merely affecting one’s
neighbors. When powerfully roused on some financial, but still more
on some sentimental question, this same laboring class will throw its
enormous and usually decisive weight into the scale which it
believes inclines to the right; but its members are often curiously and
cynically indifferent to charges of corruption against favorite heroes
or demagogues, so long as these charges do not imply betrayal of
their own real or fancied interests. Thus an alderman or
assemblyman representing certain wards may make as much money
as he pleases out of corporations without seriously jeopardizing his
standing with his constituents; but if he once, whether from honest or
dishonest motives, stands by a corporation when the interests of the
latter are supposed to conflict with those of “the people,” it is all up
with him. These voters are, moreover, very emotional; they value in a
public man what we are accustomed to consider virtues only to be
taken into account when estimating private character. Thus, if a man
is open-handed and warm-hearted, they consider it as a fair offset to
his being a little bit shaky when it comes to applying the eighth
commandment to affairs of state. I have more than once heard the
statement, “He is very liberal to the poor,” advanced as a perfectly
satisfactory answer to the charge that a certain public man was
corrupt. Moreover, working men, whose lives are passed in one
unceasing round of narrow and monotonous toil, are not unnaturally
inclined to pay heed to the demagogues and professional labor
advocates who promise if elected to try to pass laws to better their
condition; they are hardly prepared to understand or approve the
American doctrine of government, which is that the state cannot
ordinarily attempt to better the condition of a man or a set of men,
but can merely see that no wrong is done him or them by anyone
else, and that all alike have a fair chance in the struggle for life—a
struggle wherein, it may as well at once be freely though sadly
acknowledged, very many are bound to fail, no matter how ideally
perfect any given system of government may be.
Of course it must be remembered that all these general
statements are subject to an immense number of individual
exceptions; there are tens of thousands of men who work with their
hands for their daily bread and yet put into actual practice that
sublime virtue of disinterested adherence to the right, even when it
seems likely merely to benefit others, and those others better off
than they themselves are; for they vote for honesty and cleanliness,
in spite of great temptation to do the opposite, and in spite of their
not seeing how any immediate benefit will result to themselves.
 REASONS FOR THE NEGLECT OF PUBLIC
DUTIES BY RESPECTABLE MEN IN EASY
CIRCUMSTANCES.
This class is composed of the great bulk of the men who range
from well-to-do up to very rich; and of these the former generally and
the latter almost universally neglect their political duties, for the most
part rather pluming themselves upon their good conduct if they so
much as vote on election day. This largely comes from the
tremendous wear and tension of life in our great cities. Moreover, the
men of small means with us are usually men of domestic habits; and
this very devotion to home, which is one of their chief virtues, leads
them to neglect their public duties. They work hard, as clerks,
mechanics, small tradesmen, etc., all day long, and when they get
home in the evening they dislike to go out. If they do go to a ward
meeting, they find themselves isolated, and strangers both to the
men whom they meet and to the matter on which they have to act;
for in the city a man is quite as sure to know next to nothing about
his neighbors as in the country he is to be intimately acquainted with
them. In the country the people of a neighborhood, when they
assemble in one of their local conventions, are already well
acquainted, and therefore able to act together with effect; whereas in
the city, even if the ordinary citizens do come out, they are totally
unacquainted with one another, and are as helplessly unable to
oppose the disciplined ranks of the professional politicians as is the
case with a mob of freshmen in one of our colleges when in danger
of being hazed by the sophomores. Moreover, the pressure of
competition in city life is so keen that men often have as much as
they can do to attend to their own affairs, and really hardly have the
leisure to look after those of the public. The general tendency
everywhere is toward the specialization of functions, and this holds
good as well in politics as elsewhere.
The reputable private citizens of small means thus often neglect to
attend to their public duties because to do so would perhaps
interfere with their private business. This is bad enough, but the case
is worse with the really wealthy, who still more generally neglect
these same duties, partly because not to do so would interfere with
their pleasure, and partly from a combination of other motives, all of
them natural but none of them creditable. A successful merchant,
well dressed, pompous, self-important, unused to any life outside of
the counting-room, and accustomed because of his very success to
be treated with deferential regard, as one who stands above the
common run of humanity, naturally finds it very unpleasant to go to a
caucus or primary where he has to stand on an equal footing with his
groom and day-laborers, and indeed may discover that the latter,
thanks to their faculty for combination, are rated higher in the scale
of political importance than he is himself. In all the large cities of the
North the wealthier, or, as they would prefer to style themselves, the
“upper” classes, tend distinctly towards the bourgeois type; and an
individual in the bourgeois stage of development, while honest,
industrious, and virtuous, is also not unapt to be a miracle of timid
and short-sighted selfishness. The commercial classes are only too
likely to regard everything merely from the standpoint of “Does it
pay?” and many a merchant does not take any part in politics
because he is short-sighted enough to think that it will pay him better
to attend purely to making money, and too selfish to be willing to
undergo any trouble for the sake of abstract duty; while the younger
men of this type are too much engrossed in their various social
pleasures to be willing to give their time to anything else. It is also
unfortunately true, especially throughout New England and the
Middle States, that the general tendency among people of culture
and high education has been to neglect and even to look down upon
the rougher and manlier virtues, so that an advanced state of
intellectual development is too often associated with a certain
effeminacy of character. Our more intellectual men often shrink from
the raw coarseness and the eager struggle of political life as if they
were women. Now, however refined and virtuous a man may be, he
is yet entirely out of place in the American body-politic unless he is
himself of sufficiently coarse fibre and virile character to be more
angered than hurt by an insult or injury; the timid good form a most
useless as well as a most despicable portion of the community.
Again, when a man is heard objecting to taking part in politics
because it is “low,” he may be set down as either a fool or a coward:
it would be quite as sensible for a militiaman to advance the same
statement as an excuse for refusing to assist in quelling a riot. Many
cultured men neglect their political duties simply because they are
too delicate to have the element of “strike back” in their natures, and
because they have an unmanly fear of being forced to stand up for
their own rights when threatened with abuse or insult. Such are the
conditions which give the machine men their chance; and they have
been able to make the most possible out of this chance,—first,
because of the perfection to which they have brought their
machinery, and, second, because of the social character of their
political organizations.

ORGANIZATION AND WORK OF THE MACHINES.

The machinery of any one of our political bodies is always rather
complicated; and its politicians invariably endeavor to keep it so,
because, their time being wholly given to it, they are able to become
perfectly familiar with all its workings, while the average outsider
becomes more and more helpless in proportion as the organization
is less and less simple. Besides some others of minor importance,
there are at present in New York three great political organizations,
viz., those of the regular Republicans, of the County Democracy,[10]
and of Tammany Hall, that of the last being perhaps the most
perfect, viewed from a machine standpoint. Although with wide
differences in detail, all these bodies are organized upon much the
same general plan; and one description may be taken in the rough,
as applying to all. There is a large central committee, composed of
numerous delegates from the different assembly districts, which
decides upon the various questions affecting the party as a whole in
the county and city; and then there are the various organizations in
the assembly districts themselves, which are the real sources of
strength, and with which alone it is necessary to deal. There are
different rules for the admission to the various district primaries and
caucuses of the voters belonging to the respective parties; but in
almost every case the real work is done and the real power held by a
small knot of men, who in turn pay a greater or less degree of fealty
to a single boss.
The mere work to be done on election day and in preparing for it
forms no slight task. There is an association in each assembly or
election district, with its president, secretary, treasurer, executive
committee, etc.; these call the primaries and caucuses, arrange the
lists of the delegates to the various nominating conventions, raise
funds for campaign purposes, and hold themselves in
communication with their central party organizations. At the primaries
in each assembly district a full set of delegates is chosen to
nominate assemblymen and aldermen, while others are chosen to
go to the State, county, and congressional conventions. Before
election day many thousands of complete sets of the party ticket are
printed, folded, and put together, or, as it is called, “bunched.” A
single bundle of these ballots is then sent to every voter in the
district, while thousands are reserved for distribution at the polls. In
every election precinct—there are probably twenty or thirty in each
assembly district—a captain and from two to a dozen subordinates
are appointed.[11] These have charge of the actual giving out of the
ballots at the polls. On election day they are at their places long
before the hour set for voting; each party has a wooden booth,
looking a good deal like a sentry-box, covered over with flaming
posters containing the names of their nominees, and the “workers”
cluster around these as centres. Every voter as he approaches is
certain to be offered a set of tickets; usually these sets are “straight,”
that is, contain all the nominees of one party, but frequently crooked
work will be done, and some one candidate will get his own ballots
bunched with the rest of those of the opposite party. Each captain of
a district is generally paid a certain sum of money, greater or less
according to his ability as a politician or according to his power of
serving the boss or machine. Nominally this money goes in paying
the subordinates and in what are vaguely termed “campaign
expenses,” but as a matter of fact it is in many instances simply
pocketed by the recipient; indeed, very little of the large sums of
money annually spent by candidates to bribe voters actually reaches
the voters supposed to be bribed. The money thus furnished is
procured either by subscriptions from rich outsiders, or by
assessments upon the candidates themselves; formerly much was
also obtained from office-holders, but this is now prohibited by law. A
great deal of money is also spent in advertising, placarding posters,
paying for public meetings, and organizing and uniforming members
to take part in some huge torchlight procession—this last particular
form of spectacular enjoyment being one peculiarly dear to the
average American political mind. Candidates for very lucrative
positions are often assessed really huge sums, in order to pay for
the extravagant methods by which our canvasses are conducted.
Before a legislative committee of which I was a member, the
Register of New York County blandly testified under oath that he had
forgotten whether his expenses during his canvass had been over or
under fifty thousand dollars. It must be remembered that even now—
and until recently the evil was very much greater—the rewards paid
to certain public officials are out of all proportion to the services
rendered; and in such cases the active managing politicians feel that
they have a right to exact the heaviest possible toll from the
candidate, to help pay the army of hungry heelers who do their
bidding. Thus, before the same committee the County Clerk testified
that his income was very nearly eighty thousand a year, but with
refreshing frankness admitted that his own position was practically
merely that of a figure-head, and that all the work was done by his
deputy, on a small fixed salary. As the County Clerk’s term is three
years, he should nominally have received nearly a quarter of a
million dollars; but as a matter of fact two thirds of the money
probably went to the political organizations with which he was
connected. The enormous emoluments of such officers are, of
course, most effective in debauching politics. They bear no relation
whatever to the trifling quantity of work done, and the chosen
candidate readily recognizes what is the exact truth,—namely, that
the benefit of his service is expected to enure to his party allies, and
not to the citizens at large. Thus, one of the county officers who
came before the above-mentioned committee, testified with a naïve
openness which was appalling, in answer to what was believed to be
a purely formal question as to whether he performed his public
duties faithfully, that he did so perform them whenever they did not
conflict with his political duties!—meaning thereby, as he explained,
attending to his local organizations, seeing politicians, fixing
primaries, bailing out those of his friends (apparently by no means
few in number) who got hauled up before a justice of the peace, etc.,
etc. This man’s statements were valuable because, being a truthful
person and of such dense ignorance that he was at first wholly
unaware his testimony was in any way remarkable, he really tried to
tell things as they were; and it had evidently never occurred to him
that he was not expected by everyone to do just as he had been
doing,—that is, to draw a large salary for himself, to turn over a still
larger fund to his party allies, and conscientiously to endeavor, as far
as he could, by the free use of his time and influence, to satisfy the
innumerable demands made upon him by the various small-fry
politicians.[12]

“HEELERS.”
The “heelers,” or “workers,” who stand at the polls, and are paid in
the way above described, form a large part of the rank and file
composing each organization. There are, of course, scores of them
in each assembly district association, and, together with the almost
equally numerous class of federal, State, or local paid office-holders
(except in so far as these last have been cut out by the operations of
the civil-service reform laws), they form the bulk of the men by whom
the machine is run, the bosses of great and small degree chiefly
merely oversee the work and supervise the deeds of their
henchmen. The organization of a party in our city is really much like
that of an army. There is one great central boss, assisted by some
trusted and able lieutenants; these communicate with the different
district bosses, whom they alternately bully and assist. The district
boss in turn has a number of half-subordinates, half-allies, under
him; these latter choose the captains of the election districts, etc.,
and come into contact with the common heelers. The more stupid
and ignorant the common heelers are, and the more implicitly they
obey orders, the greater becomes the effectiveness of the machine.
An ideal machine has for its officers men of marked force, cunning
and unscrupulous, and for its common soldiers men who may be
either corrupt or moderately honest, but who must be of low
intelligence. This is the reason why such a large proportion of the
members of every political machine are recruited from the lower
grades of the foreign population. These henchmen obey
unhesitatingly the orders of their chiefs, both at the primary or
caucus and on election day, receiving regular rewards for so doing,
either in employment procured for them or else in money outright. Of
course it is by no means true that these men are all actuated merely
by mercenary motives. The great majority entertain also a real
feeling of allegiance towards the party to which they belong, or
towards the political chief whose fortunes they follow; and many
work entirely without pay and purely for what they believe to be right.
Indeed, an experienced politician always greatly prefers to have
under him men whose hearts are in their work and upon whose
unbribed devotion he can rely; but unfortunately he finds in most
cases that their exertions have to be seconded by others which are
prompted by motives far more mixed.
All of these men, whether paid or not, make a business of political
life and are thoroughly at home among the obscure intrigues that go
to make up so much of it; and consequently they have quite as much
the advantage when pitted against amateurs as regular soldiers
have when matched against militiamen. But their numbers, though
absolutely large, are, relatively to the entire community, so small that
some other cause must be taken into consideration in order to
account for the commanding position occupied by the machine and
the machine politicians in public life. This other determining cause is
to be found in the fact that all these machine associations have a
social as well as a political side, and that a large part of the political
life of every leader or boss is also identical with his social life.

THE SOCIAL SIDE OF MACHINE POLITICS.

The political associations of the various districts are not organized
merely at the approach of election day; on the contrary, they exist
throughout the year, and for the greater part of the time are to a
great extent merely social clubs. To a large number of the men who
belong to them they are the chief social rallying-point. These men
congregate in the association building in the evening to smoke, drink
beer, and play cards, precisely as the wealthier men gather in the
clubs whose purpose is avowedly social and not political—such as
the Union, University, and Knickerbocker. Politics thus becomes a
pleasure and relaxation as well as a serious pursuit. The different
members of the same club or association become closely allied with
one another, and able to act together on occasions with unison and
esprit de corps; and they will stand by one of their own number for
reasons precisely homologous to those which make a member of
one of the upper clubs support a fellow-member if the latter happens
to run for office. “He is a gentleman, and shall have my vote,” says
the swell club man. “He’s one of the boys, and I’m for him,” replies
the heeler from the district party association. In each case the feeling
is social rather than political, but where the club man influences one
vote the heeler controls ten. A rich merchant and a small tradesman
alike find it merely a bore to attend the meetings of the local political
club; it is to them an irksome duty which is shirked whenever
possible. But to the small politicians and to the various workers and
hangers-on, these meetings have a distinct social attraction, and the
attendance is a matter of preference. They are in congenial society
and in the place where by choice they spend their evenings, and
where they bring their friends and associates; and naturally all the
men so brought together gradually blend their social and political
ties, and work with an effectiveness impossible to the outside
citizens whose social instincts interfere, instead of coinciding with
their political duties. If an ordinary citizen wishes to have a game of
cards or a talk with some of his companions, he must keep away
from the local headquarters of his party; whereas, under similar
circumstances, the professional politician must go there. The man
who is fond of his home naturally prefers to stay there in the
evenings, rather than go out among the noisy club frequenters,
whose pleasure it is to see each other at least weekly, and who
spend their evenings discussing neither sport, business, nor scandal,
as do other sections of the community, but the equally monotonous
subject of ward politics.