where it says not just ‘Ernest Hoffman,’ but ‘Ernest Hoffman III’? Like he really was a king—King Ernest the Third. His grandfather owned the big mines over in Stilton. That’s where it started.
“His father was the one who brought in the state police toput down the strikes. Crushed the union forever, people thought. But now, today, that union is back in power, a real force. What a comeback, huh? Only Hoffman, he owns it. It belongs to him. The president, McCormick? He’s so deep in Hoffman’s pocket that he probably thinks he’s back down in the mine shaft.
“You know what a man like Ernest Hoffman could do, if he wanted, Cyn? It’s his trucks that move goods; it’s his factories that keep people working; it’s his . . . his everything. During the war, why do you think they built that huge munitions plant down in Morgan County? Because, with Hoffman at the helm, the government had an ironclad guarantee that there wouldn’t be any union nonsense getting in the way. In New York, on the docks, they had to deal with Luciano to keep things moving—in these parts, it’s Ernest Hoffman. You see what I mean, honey? The real government isn’t sitting in the statehouse. It never is.”
“But it could be? Is that what you’re saying, Beau?”
“I thought about this a lot,” the man in the wheelchair said. “Some nights, when I can’t sleep, it’s all I think about. What you just said, it’s the secret to . . . everything. Like a magic key, that unlocks any door.”
“I don’t under—”
“Remember when you said it could be, girl? That’s what they think. Even what they believe, like in church. Let’s say you’re a politician, and you want to clean up Locke City, okay? Here’s your plan. First, you start small. You go along to get along. You take the money, you look the other way, you wait your turn. Then, one day, you’re in charge. The mayor, say. Now what do you do? You clean house. Top to bottom. The chief of police, the municipal judges, the commissioner of public works . . . You sweep them all out, then you bring in your own people. Honest men, every one of them. You make Locke City into the straightest town this side of heaven. And you know what that does, Cyn?”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“It kills the town. It kills Locke City like somebody put a bullet into the heart of every man, woman, and child who lives here. This town, it rose from the ashes once. When they closed down the mills, that should have been it. The only reason Locke City’s not a deserted village right this minute is because of the same things this great ‘reformer’ would be wiping out.”
Beaumont contemplated the tip of his burning cigarette—he couldn’t remember having lit one. “And that’s when the truth comes out, Cyn. Under pressure. The harder things get, the closer to the truth they are.”
“If things happened like you say, people would see it, wouldn’t they? They’d turn on him. And vote him out of—”
“The town couldn’t wait for that to happen. It wouldn’t survive. Takes too long for people to wake up, most of them. But not people like us. We know. A man who takes our money, our support, to get where he is, it’s because we expect things from him. We have a deal. And if he doesn’t keep up his end, all the new police chiefs in the world won’t help him.”
“People like us . . .”
“I don’t make the mistake the others make,” Beaumont said. “I know I’m no better than Dioguardi. Or Shalare. Or anyone else in our game. I may be smarter; I may have a tighter crew; I may be dug in deeper; but I’m the same as them. And you know what that means, hon?”
“No, Beau.”
“It means Ernest Hoffman, he’s the same as me,” Beaumont said, his voice steeled with utter conviction. “I’m a boss; he’s a bigger boss. He sees everything I see, but he’s standing on top of a much higher mountain, so he sees more. Maybe all the way across the country.”
“Why is he so important now?” Cynthia asked. “Because of the election next year you keep talking about? If you’re right, what difference does it make who wins? Locke City will still be the same.”
“It matters who wins because the power flows down through every political machine in every city in America, Cyn. I don’t care