You might remember Pete Flaherty simply as an old politician, who inexplicably was once an Allegheny County commissioner, and then went off to retirement in Mt. Lebanon in the twilight of his life.

	John Beale, Post-Gazette Pete Flaherty in a 1998 photo. Click photo for larger image. David Warner, a former city editor of The Post-Gazette, is an editor at The Detroit News (dwarner@detnews.com).

But you'd be missing the essence of the man who died last week at the age of 80. In his prime, which was politically when he was the mayor of Pittsburgh from 1970 to 1977, he was the most compelling figure in Western Pennsylvania public life, so much the star that he really didn't need a last name. He was just Pete, to friend and foe alike. He had plenty of both.

I chronicled as many of his moves as I could in those days, as a reporter for the old Pittsburgh Press, trying to keep track of a guy who basically disdained reporters and their newspapers. He knew television was more his medium, and he used it effectively. Years later, after he left office, I ran into him one day in a restaurant in PPG Place. He had mellowed by then.

"I guess I made some mistakes with you guys," he said.

Maybe, maybe not. It had this kind of Howard Hughes thing going on -- the more a man of mystery he became, the more intriguing he was.

His office staff used to put out a schedule of the mayor's activities every single day. But it always said the same thing, never more. "In office. General City Business."

But while he kept his distance from the press, he knew when to reach out -- when it best suited his purpose.

One summer day, Pete was scheduled to open the Three Rivers Arts Festival, then as now a city institution. Pete officially opened the festival with a nice little speech. I attended, as did the late Tom Hritz, who covered City Hall for the Post-Gazette then. As Pete was walking back toward Grant Street, with aide Jim Kelly, he spotted Tom and me.

"Tom, Dave," he called out, as if we had been old pals. He was clearly eager to talk about something, and the something was both a bombshell and revealing about how he worked. He was about to reverse a city policy of long standing.

I'll use quotation marks here, but it was more than 30 years ago, and I probably can't do it with precision. But it was roughly like this: "I can't give them city money any more."

"But you just wished them well, and complimented them on running a wonderful festival," I said.

"That's true, but I can't give taxpayer money to a private operation."

So, he did two things in one fell swoop: painted himself as the best pal the taxpayers ever had, and praised the effort of the committee that put the thing together.

As with most things he said, it made the front page.

Using those abilities, he turned political Pittsburgh on its head in short order after taking office in 1970. Suddenly, it was distinctly uncool to be seen with a ward chairman, when for years it had been the route to success.

He cut the payroll, and earned the wrath of many of the unions that represented city workers. I guess nowadays, they'd call it "rightsizing." But 30 years ago, they called it slashing the payroll, and that made Pete either a hero or a bum, depending on your perspective.

Many felt betrayed by him in the process. These people became the base of vocal opposition to the mayor.

Once, he was summoned by City Council to appear in council chambers. While there, a man rose from the audience, pulled out a city police badge and hurled it near Pete's feet, muttering a pretty specific epithet about possible places Pete could put that badge.

I followed the guy out to the corridor, where he dashed after the performance, and asked him what that was all about. Again, the quotes here are relying on a memory of three decades ago, but the conversation went something like this:

"What was that about?"

"I just retired as a police sergeant. You know all those spray-painted 'Pete!' signs that were all over town during the campaign? I painted them. I should be an inspector now, and I got nothing for it."

The issue was clear. The sergeant was playing by the old political rules in town -- you worked hard for a politician, you got something for it. The rules had changed -- but Pete really never told anybody that, so it took a long time for people to catch on, and in the process they felt betrayed.

He understood substance, and he understood style. He was a man who was adept at painting himself as David, always battling the Goliaths of his political life.

His battles with the city establishment were legend, too. He staged a coup at the Urban Redevelopment Authority, basically fired the board members and installed his feisty executive secretary, Bruce Campbell, as chairman.

And then there was Skybus. Those of you old enough to remember know that it was a transit system that nearly every established figure in town craved. They had a glimmer in their eye that if they could build it and make it work in Pittsburgh, a new industry -- developing transit systems -- would be born in a city that even then was sniffing the collapse of the steel business.

But logic would dictate that it couldn't be built without the support of the mayor of Pittsburgh, and he wasn't on board the Skybus at all. Indeed, he sent one of his lawyers, a genuine character named Albert Duff Brandon, into court to stop construction, and won.

All of it played well with the voters, who liked his parsimonious, tax-cutting ways. That, plus most voters seemed to instinctively get the David role.

Many of the folks who worked for Pete have passed away now. In my mind, they're all still young, and shining.

I'll bet almost anything that those who remain remember those seven years as a golden time in their lives -- exciting, challenging, fulfilling. Me, too.

So farewell, Pete, and thanks for the memories.