The city of Chicago did not care about your name, your education, or your intentions. It only cared about one thing: what you could do for the Machine.
Jack Rourke learned this on his third day at City Hall, when he was still calling himself a typist and not yet understanding that there were no typists in City Hall, only cogs. The Machine was not a formal organization. It did not have a charter or a headquarters or a list of members posted on a wall. It was a network—a vast, invisible web of favors and obligations that connected the mayor to...
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