Rooney has grown old.
In thirty-five years he’s never stopped watching the boy, tracking each development in his curling scrapbook: his rise to frat president, entrepreneur, team owner, mayor. It’s all so horribly effortless. Chicago isn’t just eating from his hand, it’s hooked and strung out, begging for another hit.
Now Rooney watches the weekly parade march through downtown, Bueller cackling as a dozen underlings strain to pull his Ferrari. They say he’s got higher political ambitions, very soon. Governor. Senator. Maybe even–
Rooney was in the army; Rooney keeps his rifle clean. Rooney knows what he’s got to do.