“Lots of angry Irish Catholic women in that crowd,” I told Ed. “Cermak would have a better chance against Nitti.”
“Not funny, Nonie,” he said, “Cermak’s terrified. It was not very smart of him to order his personal bodyguard to raid Nitti’s office.” There had been a gunfight at the Outfit’s headquarters in which both Nitti and one of the cops had been wounded.
“Nitti could accept the raid, but why the shooting?” Ed said.
I nodded. By now I’d learned the dance between the good guys and the bad guys. Every day a few of the seven thousand–plus gambling joints around the city would be shut down, the operators arrested, then a week later tried and found not guilty. Prohibition was on its last legs, so the cops weren’t even bothering with bootleggers anymore. Non-gangland murderers were prosecuted and convicted but “the boys” were mostly left to sort themselves out.
“The Italians think Cermak wants to push them out so his pals in the West Side Mob can take over,” Ed told me.
“But that’s not true, is it?” I asked.
Ed shrugged.
We pulled up in front of the hotel and got out. Ed handed his keys to the doorman and nodded at the uniformed policemen stationed at the entrance. We walked into the lobby. A plainclothes detective came up to us and said, “He’s waiting for you, Ed.” We followed him to a private elevator that took us up to the penthouse suite, where two more detectives stood on guard in the hallway. One opened the door. Cermak was waiting for us inside.
“Farley has frozen me out,” he said to us after we’d settled down in the living room of the suite, which had been turned into a kind of office. Cermak sat behind a large desk, Ed and I on a couch, facing him.
“But I know if I could get to Roosevelt himself, I’m sure he’d approve an emergency federal grant to pay the teachers. All he has to do is give me his word and I can announce it. We can do the paperwork after the inauguration in March. But how do I get near him? Then I started thinking about that swell picture you took of me and the miners, Nora.”
Cermak stopped and looked around as if someone could be hiding in the room. He leaned forward on the desk, then lowered his voice. “You know he’s on the Astor yacht now.”
“Yes,” Ed said, “fishing. After that campaign he needed a vacation.”
“On the yacht of one of the richest plutocrats in the country?” Cermak said. “Man of the people, I ask you?”
No one has, I thought.
“Anyway,” Cermak went on, “there’s an American Legion convention in Miami. I’ve heard Roosevelt is going to get off the yacht near this park. The Legion guys are staging a rally for him there. Roosevelt will surely give a speech. Afterwards I’ll go up to him. You’ll be right there, Nora, with your camera. Get me and the president-elect shaking hands. Pals. Take a nice close-up. I’ll put that shot on the front page of every newspaper in Chicago with a big story about how FDR’s promised me millions in federal funds,” Cermak said. “Enough to pay the cops and the teachers. Save us from declaring bankruptcy. Force those bastards who are withholding their taxes to pay up. Can you do it, Nora?”
“You want her to ambush Roosevelt?” Ed asked. “I don’t know, he could take offense.”
“That’s why I want Nora to take the photograph. Roosevelt likes women even when they’re not so young. How old are you, Nora?”
“What age are you?” I said to him.
“Fifty-nine,” he said. “In my prime.”
“Well I’m five years younger than you are, so I’m even prime-ier.”
“Alright, alright,” Cermak said. “Here’s the deal. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars plus expenses.”
A fortune. Here was my chance to buy that boat ticket to Ireland. A good time to go. All the Kellys were doing well enough. Mike at St. Rita High School, the two youngest girls at Aquinas High School, and the older girls were studying to be teachers at the college in Normal, Illinois. Margaret was happy with her kids. Thompson had been vanquished. Wilcox was quiet. The great Franklin Delano Roosevelt would save the country. I would be able to see him close up, to take an important photograph that could have an impact. Plus I’d earn enough money to travel to Ireland and find Peter’s grave.
“I’d like to do it, Ed.”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at him and raised my eyebrows just a bit. I was telling him, not asking him.
Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you want to do, Nora.”
“Why don’t you come along, Ed,” Cermak said.
“I’m going to Havana with Pat Nash. He has a horse running on the main track there. We’re taking some of the boys that worked especially hard getting out the vote. It’s a way to say thank you.”
“Up to you,” Cermak said and turned to me. “Call my secretary. She’ll get you a ticket on the Florida Special. Probably good to get down there a day or two ahead of time. Let’s see, today’s the tenth. Can you leave tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said. Ed and I stood up.
“I’m heading out myself. I’ll go down with you,” Cermak said. He left the living room and walked into the bedroom. One of the detectives followed him. Through the open door I could see Cermak being buckled into a bulletproof vest.
Geeze Louise.
Part II
MAYOR
1933–1941
1
BAYFRONT PARK—MIAMI, FLORIDA
FEBRUARY 15, 1933
“Better get that thingamajig of yours ready—the motorcade just turned into the park,” the newsteel cameraman said to me.
He was very superior, stuck up there on a platform with his big Mitchell NC mounted on a heavy tripod. Totally immobile. I was happy to be right where I was, standing on the paved area where Roosevelt’s car would pull in, just below the bandshell in the amphitheater on the south side of Bayfront Park. This stretch of green moss grass palm trees was between the Bay of Biscayne, where the Astor yacht had docked a few hours ago, and downtown Miami. Redmond Gautier, mayor of Miami, had told Cermak and me that the president-elect was going to speak from the back seat of the big Buick convertible the city had lent him, so I was in a perfect position.
“He probably can’t get up on the stage,” Cermak had said to me, “you know Roosevelt’s legs are completely paralyzed. Wears these heavy braces.”
I nodded. “Ed told me how brave Roosevelt was at the convention, holding on to the podium for dear life but not letting on, speaking so easily and…”
“He’s something alright,” Cermak said, interrupting me. “I am going to shake his hand if I have to climb in next to him. You’d better get the picture.”
I showed him my Seneca. “This camera is light so I can move quickly and get in close,” I said. “But as soon as Roosevelt finishes speaking you’re going to have to come down those stairs fast.” I pointed at the one flight that went up to the stage where Mayor Cermak would be sitting with the American Legion delegation and all of Miami’s muckety-mucks.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clear a path for the mayor,” Jim Bowler said.
He was the Chicago alderman who had traveled down with Cermak and was acting as a kind of bodyguard. The Outfit probably wouldn’t try anything down here, but … “Just make sure there’s film in that thing.”
“You do your job and I’ll do mine,” I said to Jim, and walked over to the spot I’d scoped out.
Great energy in this crowd. Gautier said the police estimated it at twenty-five thousand—the largest gathering ever in Miami, and I believed it. The rows of permanent seats in front of the stage—seven thousand we had been told—were all filled. People were jammed together throughout the park. It was a lovely warm evening. Families sat on the ground. Kids ran around. The American Legion drum and bugle corps had marched the colors in, and we’d all stood and belted out a spirited “Star-Spangled Banner.” Could we really begin to hope? Could this man truly lead us out of the Depression?
Nine o’clock now. The rally was supposed to start at eight but nobody was complaining or lea
ving. Dark everywhere but in the floodlit area where I was. Enough light for a good exposure. I’d have to get the shutter speed just right and keep the aperture wide open, but if the newsreel cameraman could get an image, so could I.
Sirens now. And Roosevelt’s car was driving right toward me with two Secret Service men riding on the running board. Now I could see him. I could see the president. I was cheering along with everybody else.
A chant began: “FDR, FDR, FDR!” Someone started singing “Happy Days Are Here Again,” and we all joined in.
Roosevelt’s car stopped. Only about ten feet from me. I could’ve touched the fender. Great.
Then Mayor Gautier was on the stage. He explained that President Roosevelt was behind schedule. A ten o’clock train was waiting to take him to New York where he’d prepare for his inauguration next month, but he had insisted on coming to speak to all of them. “We welcome him to Miami. We wish him success and are promising him cooperation and support. We bid him Godspeed. Ladies and gentlemen, the president-elect of the United States of America.”
More cheers. I looked up the newsreel cameraman. All business now.
A fellow in a white suit came running up to the car and handed Roosevelt a microphone. And now who was standing right there across from me? Mayor Cermak! Not waiting for Roosevelt to speak, getting near the car. Good. We wouldn’t interrupt the president, but as soon as he finished …
A husky, strong-looking fellow helped Roosevelt onto the top of the convertible.
Roosevelt’s words weren’t that memorable, but something about the sound of that voice piercing the darkness. So cheerful, so confident. He didn’t orate. He was talking to his friends—to us. Roosevelt said that he was glad to be in Miami, though he’d visited before and would come again. He’d had a great time fishing but had gained ten pounds. Something he’d have to take care of. He was laughing. We were laughing. That was it. That was the speech. He handed back the microphone. Sat down in the back.
A wall of people surrounded the car. I felt myself being pushed from my spot and Cermak had disappeared. Wait … there he was. I should’ve known that a man who’d elbowed his way to the top of the Democratic Party in Chicago could get through a crowd. Cermak stepped onto the running board. Grabbed Roosevelt’s hand and turned to me. Both men were smiling. I looked through the lens.
“Move closer,” I said, “move closer.” Cermak leaned into the car, his shoulder touching Roosevelt. Perfect. Hold the camera steady and now … Then that sound. Sharp. Pop.
The assassin fired at the same time I pressed the shutter because one second, I was looking at an image in my viewfinder of the two men smiling and shaking hands, and the next a woman was yelling, “He’s killed Roosevelt! He’s killed Roosevelt!”
Four more shots. Screams. The crowd running for the exits surrounded the president’s car, blocking it. The driver laid on the horn.
“Get out of the way,” I shouted at the people around me.
Gunshots don’t have to kill. I nursed enough wounded soldiers during the Great War to know that it’s shock that’s fatal. The husky man I’d noticed before was lying on top of Roosevelt.
“Get him to the hospital,” I yelled.
The car started moving. Thank God. Cermak was leaning against Jim Bowler. I ran up to them.
“Oh dear God,” I said, “the president.”
Cermak asked me, “Did they get him away?”
I nodded.
“And the picture? Did you get it?”
“I did, but the president…,” I started and then I looked at Cermak. His hand was at his waist. Blood was leaking through his fingers.
“Plugged,” Bowler said.
Without thinking, I lifted my camera and photographed Cermak. I looked past him and saw that Roosevelt’s car had stopped. “What are they doing?” I asked. “They’ve got to get him to the hospital.”
“Might be dead already,” Bowler said.
“Roosevelt can’t be dead,” I said.
Then the husky man got out of the back seat of the convertible and ran over to us.
“The president said to put the mayor in with him,” he said, as Roosevelt’s car backed up toward us.
The man practically carried the mayor as Jim Bowler and I guided them to the car. Roosevelt himself opened the door and we settled Cermak next to him.
“I’m glad it was me instead of you,” Cermak said.
Roosevelt put his arm around the mayor’s shoulders and I heard him reply, “Take it easy.”
“Call Ed,” Cermak said to me, “and my daughters.”
More sirens. Uniformed cops cleared a path in front of the car. It took off. Behind me I heard a commotion. I turned and saw that two or three of the Legionnaires in helmets had someone on the ground. The gunman. Then two cops dragged him toward the car that had been following Roosevelt, and jammed him into the open trunk.
“Hey paisan. Como sta?” The gunman turned and looked. A flash went off in his face. “Get out of here, you vulture!” a cop yelled.
“Hiya, Nora,” said Manny Mandel.
Manny snapped pictures of the four other victims as they were carried into ambulances. Then he came over to me.
“Let’s team up, Nora,” he said. “You go to the hospital. I’ll head for the police station.” He started walking toward Biscayne Boulevard.
“For God’s sake, Manny. The president was almost killed. Cermak might be dying.”
“Why it’s such a big story, Nora, and it fell in our laps. All the big-shot reporters are at the train station.” He smiled, balancing his Speed Graphic camera on his hip. Manny, who jumped out of the bushes to catch aldermen coming out of speakeasies at 2:00 a.m. and photographed the dead bodies at every Outfit rubout, was looking at a national story.
“The picture is Roosevelt at Cermak’s bedside,” Manny said. “Here’s your chance to be a real news photographer, Nora, not Ed Kelly’s flack,” he said. “That is if that peashooter of yours can take decent pictures.” He waggled his big camera at me.
“Shut up, Manny. I’m not interested,” I said and started walking toward the lights of the avenue. There must be a drugstore with a phone booth, then a cab to the hospital, and then … But Manny grabbed my arm. “Look, they’d never let me near Cermak, but you can be in the room when Roosevelt comes. Ask Cermak if he thinks Nitti set up the hit—probably on orders from Big Al.”
I remembered the mayor buckling himself into that bulletproof vest at the Morrison Hotel. He didn’t bother with it tonight. Should have.
“But then again Roosevelt probably was the target. All those oilmen in Texas would love to have John Nance Garner as president. They’d be riding high,” Manny said.
“I can’t listen to any more of this, Manny,” I said. “Cermak’s daughters have probably heard the news of the shooting. They’ll be beside themselves. I have to get in touch with them.”
“Here,” Manny said, “gimme the roll of film you shot. I got a lab waiting.”
I hesitated.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he said, “the coppers might take it off you. Evidence.”
I popped the film out of the camera. Handed it to Manny. He took off.
Most of the park was dark now. Only a few people standing in front of the amphitheater, lit by the newsreel crew’s klieg lights. Their cameraman had been forced to stay above the action. Wonder if he got anything. Come on Nonie, move. Hard to put one foot in front of the other. Biscayne Boulevard seemed very far away.
Finally, a drugstore. A phone booth. It only took five minutes for the operator to connect me with the front desk of the Havana Hilton. “Mr. Ed Kelly,” I said to the fellow who answered, desk clerk, I guessed.
“Part of the Chicago group?” He had an American voice.
“Yes,” I said.
“I believe they’re still in the bar. Celebrating a victory I understand,” the clerk said.
So Pat Nash’s horse had won. Shannon Farms, he called his stables. Raced under green and gold c
olors.
“What is it with you Micks and horses?” Cermak had said to me just a few hours earlier, annoyed that Ed had gone to the Havana track with Pat Nash, instead of accompanying him to Miami.
What if Ed had been here, I thought, as I waited for him to come to the phone. He might have stopped Cermak from pushing his way to the car, or maybe it would have been Ed standing next to Roosevelt. The bullet might have hit him.
“What’s so important?” Ed said.
“Ed, it’s bad news. There’s been a shooting.”
“Jesus Christ, not Roosevelt?”
I tried to answer but suddenly my teeth were chattering, and no words came.
“Is Roosevelt dead? Answer me Nonie … is Roosevelt dead?”
“No, no, but Cermak’s been hit. He was walking and talking but you’d better come. Do boats sail at night?”
I heard Ed talking to someone. Pat Nash, I supposed, and then he was back on the phone.
“We’ll fly at first light,” he said.
“Fly? But you hate flying. You’ve never even been on an airplane.”
“Get out of there. Get out.” Some nut was pounding on the door of the phone booth, yelling so loudly that Ed heard him in Havana.
“You’d better hang up, Nonie. Get to the hospital.”
“Right,” I said. “Take it easy,” I said to the man. He was short and skinny and looked familiar. He was dressed in a white suit and wore a panama hat.
“I’m Walter Winchell,” he said. “I’m trying to get a call through to my editor. Move your ass.”
I held up my Seneca as a kind of shield and stepped forward.
“Give me that camera,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Are you crazy?”
“I got a cop getting me in to see the Dago, the gunman. I need a picture. Don’t move.”
He stepped into the phone booth but grabbed my arm and held it while he put a nickel into the phone. I shook him loose but he stepped out of the booth holding the receiver, pulling the cord in front of me.
“Oh, please,” I said.
He shouted into the mouthpiece.
Irish Above All Page 18