hands while Helen Gulanos and a dozen editors and columnists waited for his questions to end. “Is this a pipe dream or a stunt? What do we truly know except that he’s a seventy-year-old legend who ran our World’s Fair?”
The morning meeting was hijacked by the
Times
article, which didn’t actually break new ground, but its then-and-now photos of Morgan in the exact same pose, pointing with his left forefinger as if shooting the photographer, were provocative enough to spread consternation that, God forbid, they were getting beat here.
Birnbaum stared at Lundberg, a multichinned walrus who’d been ruminating over city and state politics both in and out of his column for twenty-three years now. “So, who is this guy,
really
?”
Lundberg didn’t burn a calorie summoning a reply before Webster, a blue-blazered editorial writer who’d been here even longer, blurted, “He was the most important guy to have on your side if you wanted to get any civic project off the ground for two or three decades after the fair. Led the defense of the Market, helped turn Gas Works into a park, played a role in saving farmlands and got the Kingdome built, among other things. Then, I guess, he helped establish height limits on skyscrapers in the mid-eighties and … I don’t know what else.” Webster scanned the room, palms up. “Guess you’d have to call him a political consultant, too, though he’s never publicly endorsed anyone I know of.” He glanced at Lundberg, whowas preoccupied with balancing a loafer on his toes. “Also been told he’s advised all sorts of companies,” Webster added, less confidently now, “on how to deal with the city, state and feds, though I don’t know that he’s ever registered as a lobbyist. Lundy?”
The columnist let his shoe fall and nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “Hell no,” he said in a breathy falsetto. “He’s a handshake guy. Never signs contracts. Won’t find his name on anything since the fair.” He sat up, though his voice remained a smug whisper, forcing everyone to lean in. “He’s got no staff, no real political base, yet he’s probably advised the last five governors and mayors, including the one he now wants to unseat. If Rooney wasn’t worried about him, he wouldn’t have bothered to hint that he might be a Republican.”
“Yes, yes!” Birnbaum said, knocking everyone back with his volume. “So he’s an old-money, behind-the-scenes guy who’s also one of the best public speakers the city’s ever seen, right? That’s unusual in itself, isn’t it? Granted, most of those speeches were a long time ago, but he was known to light up crowds—wasn’t he, Lundy?”
“I’ve only heard him on a few occasions,” Lundberg reluctantly admitted, “but he’s as good as anyone I’ve seen without notes. He’s got an
incredible
memory. Names, faces, conversations. People’ve seen him take a blank map of the state and pencil in all forty-nine legislative districts. And he knows the story behind every building in this city—who built it, who owns it, who leases it. He doesn’t grant many interviews, but when he does, he’s a straight shooter. Best time to talk to him is on one of his downtown walks. He’s a Mariners fanatic. Polite as a prince, too, and dresses like he’s heading to a funeral, which he often is, seeing how he’s the youngster of his crowd. Not a name-dropper, but a real storyteller. And he’s got something going for him that very few politicians ever have—even his
opponents
love him.” Helen watched everyone suck on this nugget. “He’s a
straight
shooter,” Lundberg repeated, louder this time.
As hard as she tried to play it calm and neutral, her tone got away from her. “Is there such a thing as a straight shooter who’s been involved in politics at every level for the past forty years?”
Everybody stared at her, taking her in as if for the first time. She was still
the new girl
to them, more than half of whom were
The morning meeting was hijacked by the
Times
article, which didn’t actually break new ground, but its then-and-now photos of Morgan in the exact same pose, pointing with his left forefinger as if shooting the photographer, were provocative enough to spread consternation that, God forbid, they were getting beat here.
Birnbaum stared at Lundberg, a multichinned walrus who’d been ruminating over city and state politics both in and out of his column for twenty-three years now. “So, who is this guy,
really
?”
Lundberg didn’t burn a calorie summoning a reply before Webster, a blue-blazered editorial writer who’d been here even longer, blurted, “He was the most important guy to have on your side if you wanted to get any civic project off the ground for two or three decades after the fair. Led the defense of the Market, helped turn Gas Works into a park, played a role in saving farmlands and got the Kingdome built, among other things. Then, I guess, he helped establish height limits on skyscrapers in the mid-eighties and … I don’t know what else.” Webster scanned the room, palms up. “Guess you’d have to call him a political consultant, too, though he’s never publicly endorsed anyone I know of.” He glanced at Lundberg, whowas preoccupied with balancing a loafer on his toes. “Also been told he’s advised all sorts of companies,” Webster added, less confidently now, “on how to deal with the city, state and feds, though I don’t know that he’s ever registered as a lobbyist. Lundy?”
The columnist let his shoe fall and nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “Hell no,” he said in a breathy falsetto. “He’s a handshake guy. Never signs contracts. Won’t find his name on anything since the fair.” He sat up, though his voice remained a smug whisper, forcing everyone to lean in. “He’s got no staff, no real political base, yet he’s probably advised the last five governors and mayors, including the one he now wants to unseat. If Rooney wasn’t worried about him, he wouldn’t have bothered to hint that he might be a Republican.”
“Yes, yes!” Birnbaum said, knocking everyone back with his volume. “So he’s an old-money, behind-the-scenes guy who’s also one of the best public speakers the city’s ever seen, right? That’s unusual in itself, isn’t it? Granted, most of those speeches were a long time ago, but he was known to light up crowds—wasn’t he, Lundy?”
“I’ve only heard him on a few occasions,” Lundberg reluctantly admitted, “but he’s as good as anyone I’ve seen without notes. He’s got an
incredible
memory. Names, faces, conversations. People’ve seen him take a blank map of the state and pencil in all forty-nine legislative districts. And he knows the story behind every building in this city—who built it, who owns it, who leases it. He doesn’t grant many interviews, but when he does, he’s a straight shooter. Best time to talk to him is on one of his downtown walks. He’s a Mariners fanatic. Polite as a prince, too, and dresses like he’s heading to a funeral, which he often is, seeing how he’s the youngster of his crowd. Not a name-dropper, but a real storyteller. And he’s got something going for him that very few politicians ever have—even his
opponents
love him.” Helen watched everyone suck on this nugget. “He’s a
straight
shooter,” Lundberg repeated, louder this time.
As hard as she tried to play it calm and neutral, her tone got away from her. “Is there such a thing as a straight shooter who’s been involved in politics at every level for the past forty years?”
Everybody stared at her, taking her in as if for the first time. She was still
the new girl
to them, more than half of whom were
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