Joe Cimperman hopes to tear down his former hero, Dennis Kucinich

But underneath the fight was the thinly veiled issue of race. Spy brought a black clientele to the street. Other club owners saw it as a root of increasing hostility that would drive suburban customers away. Cimperman may have been taking up a popular cause, but that cause seemed in part to play on race.

"My clients are willing to take the councilman at his word, that he's simply responding to complaints from his constituents," says Spy's lawyer, Subodh Chandra. But he adds that Cimperman "regrettably permitted himself to be used by people who are uncomfortable with people who look different than themselves."

Spy co-owner Raj Singh doesn't see a councilman wedded to levelheaded forgiveness. He sees a politician who was willing to ruin a business for his own gain. "He's never stepped foot in the bar," says Singh. "He does not know the nature of our clientele. They don't like black people in the neighborhood, and he just wants to get publicity."

Cimperman shouldn't even have a shot in this race. To attend a Kucinich appearance in the district is to understand why the congressman never worried about the safety of his seat. A speech at a Lutheran church takes on the air of a prayer meeting, with Kucinich playing the role of miracle worker who's stared down powerful evils. He speaks slowly and simply, taking the time to gaze at each person in the audience with watery eyes.

"I'm the only one in Washington that's fighting for you," he tells the congregation. "I always take you with me, and I never forget: The 10th District seat isn't mine. It's yours."

His supporters, yellow "Dennis!" stickers plastered over their hearts, watch him with eyes wide, heads nodding. During the question-and-answer session afterward, there are no questions — only testimonials of gratitude.

"I want to thank you for writing your beautiful book," says one woman, referring to Kucinich's recent memoir. She spent a weekend driving to every address he listed as a childhood residence.

The unions, so important on the West Side, are also firmly in Kucinich's clutches. "We certainly consider Joe Cimperman a very good friend," says Harriet Applegate, executive director of the North Shore AFL-CIO. "But it isn't about Joe for us; it's about Dennis. Our support for him is steadfast, reliable, and unchanging. You could be Jesus Christ, and we wouldn't endorse you over Dennis."

Yet outside the unswayable core, Kucinich has done his best to alienate lay Democrats. His two presidential bids seemed like the antics of a kid brother who's constantly trying to play with the older boys. Despite three years of nonstop campaigning, he rarely scored more than 1 percent in the primaries.

He became a go-to punch line on the talk-show circuit. The nation's jester-in-chief, Daily Show host Jon Stewart, seemed to sum up America's reaction when he called Kucinich a "creepy elf."

The laughs were unwelcome to West Siders, who'd endured decades of Cleveland jokes. Kucinich's job approval rating plummeted. His image as the absentee congressman reached full bloom.

He also showed telltale signs of becoming the purely political species he'd always denounced: the man who says one thing and does another.

At home he was anti-abortion, anti-gay-marriage, praising the merits of bowling and sausage. In California he was a vegan liberal. At home he refused to debate his opponents; in New Hampshire and Nevada he sued to be included.

And during his last congressional race, he vowed to forgo another presidential bid — only to renege as soon as the race was over.

It's the kind of behavior that breeds enemies from allies. Count Ron Harold among the transformed.

When reached by Scene, Harold was in the lobby of a Louisiana Marriott. He'd just been booted from his room, unable to pay the bill and with nowhere else to go. "I used to revere that little bastard as a fighter for the people," drawls Harold, "and now he's taking a shit on the little guy."

That little guy he speaks of is Ron Harold. He used to produce ads for Kucinich's presidential campaign — until the congressman stiffed him on a $28,000 bill, he claims. Now he can't get Kucinich to return his calls.

"If somebody would pay for my plane ticket, I'd march right to Dennis' door, and the cameras better be rolling," says Harold. "I'd leave a stain. I'm so mad, I can't speak the English language right now."

Then he pauses, envisioning a moment of revenge. "Actually, when you see Dennis, tell him Ron Harold's in the room next door. Watch his face drop."

Unfortunately, Scene couldn't get Kucinich on the phone either. His cell phone picks up after one ring. This is Dennis. Thanks for calling. I'm looking forward to speaking with you . . .

But he never calls back.

In a small studio tucked in the bowels of the Time Warner Cable complex on Lakeside Avenue, four candidates for the 10th Congressional seat pose rigidly in a half-circle, making awkward small talk before the cameras start rolling for the cable debate.