Surviving a mob car bomb and his first encounter with his future in-laws are indisputably two of the most decisive moments of Charlie Dunne’s life.
In the latter instance, Mr. Dunne, was 16 and waited on the stoop for Cynthia Fosse. It was Valentine’s Day 1959. And their first date.
A man wearing WWII combat boots, a dress made from a potato sack and a wig made out of furniture stuffing answered the door and laid down some ground rules: If you want to date my daughter: Come to the door. Never honk. And see her to the door upon return.
His date appeared, handed her pet woolly monkey to her mom, who was dressed as a hula dancer, and the couple waved goodbye.
Mr. Dunne was raised in a conservative Irish Catholic family in Andersonville that affixed holy water fonts to the doorway of every room in their home. But he’d veered off the beaten path into the eccentric home of Cynthia Fosse, whose parents, Bud and Marge, were champion ballroom dancers and whose uncle, Bob Fosse, was a legendary actor, dancer and musical director.
“We went to a party, and Charlie didn’t mention any of it until the end of the night — I explained that my parents were having a Halloween party that had been canceled in October, and that I got my monkey on my eighth birthday from my dad, who saved it from a research lab in Pennsylvania,” recalled Cynthia Fosse, who married the guy at the door and became Cynthia Dunne.
“I thought he’d never come back. But I have to hand it to him, he didn’t blink. Nope. Not once, and called me two days later,” she said.
Mr. Dunne died Dec. 29 from brain cancer. He was 80.
“We couldn’t have been more different, but it worked, for 59 years. We were the boxer and the ballerina. The greaser and the hippie. We let each other have a very long leash,” said Mrs. Dunne, a dancer who performed at the Lyric Opera and the old Germania Club.
Mr. Dunne, who competed in amateur Golden Gloves boxing matches in his youth, became a union electrician who worked for years at the old Chicago Stadium. His jobs included setting up lights for concerts and operating the scoreboard. When Elvis Presley played there, Mr. Dunne donned The King’s famous jumpsuit to act as a decoy so Presley wouldn’t get mobbed as he left the building, his family said.
He later became a business agent with the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local 134, where he lobbied politicians and worked to get union labor on more job sites.
Mike Caddigan, a longtime friend and fellow union electrician, said Mr. Dunne loved helping union members who were struggling to find work or pay for health care.
“He’d drop everything and help you, any way he could,” Caddigan said.
Mr. Dunne was also the heir apparent to the local’s boss, Tim Bresnahan, who was in poor health and serving his last term when Mr. Dunne became locked in a power struggle with others in the union.
Mr. Dunne made moves to shake up the union. One was to include more women and people of color, something his wife — a civil rights and anti-war activist — strongly suggested.
“I would nag at him,” she said. “And to this day, I’m not sorry.”
In 1987, Mr. Dunne was about to get into his car in the parking lot outside Edelweiss Restaurant in Norridge when a remotely-detonated car bomb exploded.
The blast sent a car axle halfway across the parking lot, Mr. Dunne told the Sun-Times in a 1991 interview.
He suffered shrapnel wounds and a perforated eardrum that caused permanent hearing damage, but he left the hospital the next day.
Three men were charged in connection to the bombing, including fellow union member James Salerno, who told authorities he was acting at the request of a higher-up union member, the Sun-Times reported.
The Dunne family remained intact, but not unscathed.
“I tried to keep things as normal as possible. I had two daughters. People wouldn’t allow them in their carpools and they lost friends who weren’t allowed to come to our house ever again,” said Mrs. Dunne, who had a daughter who attended Queen of All Saints grade school and another who went to Regina Dominican High school.
One positive thing that came from the bombing was Mr. Dunne’s lasting friendship with James Wagner, an FBI agent assigned to the case who later served at the head of the Chicago Crime Commission.
“It’s funny because at first things were combative with the FBI because when they first came to our house and sat at our dining room table, one of the first questions they asked was ‘Charlie, were you fooling around with anyone else’s wife or girlfriend? We have to ask.’ And Charlie said ‘No. Absolutely not.’ And took offense to it.”
In addition to his wife, Mr. Dunne is survived by his daughters, Melissa Fosse-Dunne and Kirsten Dunne.
