A small crowd had gathered around the stage by the time Mayor Fish arrived. He wore a blue suit and red tie, impressively cool-looking in the heat, his hairline weirdly low, like a ballcap’s brim. He had a lockjawed smile and reddish hairs on the back of his hands. The sheriff stood beside him, observing us from behind reflective shades.

The theme of the mayor’s speech was law and order.

“Four years ago, I stood right here and read the crime statistics,” he said. “They were shocking—so shocking, people asked why anyone in their right mind would run for mayor in Mimico. My administration inherited the worst crime epidemic in our city’s history. But I don’t need to tell you that. You know it already. You feel it each morning as you drive through the west side, hoping to God there’s no gridlock so you won’t have to slow down. And you feel it each night when you bolt your doors three, four different ways, praying your family will be safe.”

But those four years had seen remarkable gains, said Fish, gains previously unimaginable. In close partnership with Sheriff Doyle, and in tandem with a variety of creative charitable initiatives, his administration had overseen a 50 percent reduction in violent crime. Were it not for the situation on the west side, which remained city hall’s top priority, that number would be even higher.

“Now I’m asking you to let me finish the job,” he said. “If reelected, I promise a complete revitalization of our most troubled urban communities. It is our collective goal to make Mimico, all of Mimico, safe for families and open for business. Vote for me, and vote for a 21st-century Mimico.”

The applause was tepid but not cruelly so. Driving around the city, I hadn’t seen signs for any political opponents. It seemed that Fish’s reelection was a matter of course. He was just going through the motions, and the crowd did the same. They were here for hamburgers.

As the mayor came offstage, I tried approaching him, but a handler intercepted me. I told her I was a journalist, but she hadn’t heard of the Bystander and wouldn’t grant me an interview. He stood just a few feet away, talking into a tape recorder held by a man about his age, though heavier, with sweat soaking through his shirt in shapeless patches.

I introduced myself to the journalist when he came away from the interview. His name was Tim Braun, a reporter with the Mimico Messenger.

“The Bystander,” he said. “Seems like there’s a glossy new mag out of New York every couple months.”

Braun assembled a burger, two patties and a bolt of mustard.

I asked if his beat was city hall.