Why not pick up a Florida filly for the night? I didn't owe Mary Ann Beame anything; she was just a client. So she'd given me her virginity; so what? It was just another retainer, wasn't it?
Well, I wasn't in Miami for the sunshine. I was here on a thousand-dollar retainer, which wasn't exactly anybody's cherry, but it was nothing you'd want to lose easily, either. And my night was already planned for me: I'd have to stick by His Honor, when he showed up, possibly through the night. That's why I'd grabbed the two hours sleep at the Biltmore; that's why I had a Thermos of hot coffee waiting in the Ford.
Pretending to read the front page of the News for an hour led to my actually reading most of it, in bits and pieces. There was news of Chicago; it had been two days since I had left, after all, the snow just starting. The storm had paralyzed the city, but fifteen thousand of the unemployed had been hired to dig out Cook County, and efforts to provide relief housing for the down-and-outers in the parks and Hooverville residents had been stepped up. So there were no more deaths by freezing, though some emergency snow-shovelers got hit by streetcars or had heart attacks. That was as far as the News article went. No doubt some of the Chicago papers were cheeky enough to point out that Mayor Cermak left for Florida just after the storm hit: even in the year of the fair, that couldn't go unreported.
General Dawes was on the front page, too. He was in Washington, D.C., subpoenaed by the Senate Stock Exchange Committee to testify' about his role in connection with Samuel Insull. Insull was the utilities tycoon who during the twenties headed companies worth some $4 billion and had a personal fortune around SI50 million. There was a new board game I had played with Janey a few times: Monopoly. Insull had turned the business of electricity and gas, and railroads, into a game of that; and when he was finished, his paper empire was worth about as much as the little colored "money" you used to buy Boardwalk.
Just two years ago, the Chicago banks were turning the city's requests for loans down and honoring Insull's; one of those loans came from the Dawes bank, to the tune of SI 1 million. Now the General was in front of a Senate committee, and Insull was in Europe somewhere.
Not that anything would come of it: the General would weasel his platitudinous way out of it. But the fact that this had made the front page of the Miami Daily News meant that the embarrassment was nationwide- hardly the sort of publicity the General might hope for, in the year of the fair. It made me smile.
More pertinent to my present interests was the small inset article announcing a testimonial dinner for James A. Farley, chairman of the Democratic National Executive Committee, to be held by the Roosevelt for President Club at the Biltmore Saturday. Also as honored guests would be "a group of leading Democrats who are guests of metropolitan Miami this week." That would include Cermak, undoubtedly. Tickets were two dollars each and reservations could be made at the Biltmore. Looked like I better rent a tux. I wondered if I could rent one my automatic wouldn't unduly bulge under.
It was ten till six. and I'd seen a lot of pretty girls, but no blond killer. Normally, that would be okay with me; but any hope of my getting this over with quickly was slipping away. I'd have to be Cermak's shadow for the next few days or week or however long His Honor decided to stay in a sunnier clime; and tailing somebody who knows you isn't the easiest thing in the world to pull off, particularly over a relatively long stretch of time.
You met the trains outside, in front of the station, right out in the middle of the street, with the courthouse looming at left. The sun was on its way down, but it wasn't quite twilight yet, and I felt conspicuous, though I probably wasn't. It was just light enough out to justify leaving the sunglasses on, and I leaned against the building and watched the people waiting, watched the Royal Poinciana come up the middle of a Miami street. Then it was a scramble of redcaps with carts and porters and people getting off the train and others greeting them. Several of the pretty girls I'd been daydreaming about met their husbands or boyfriends and walked out of my life. I watched for the blond. He could be meeting the train; he could even have been on it. I didn't see him.
I saw Cermak. He came down off the train, looking overweight and tired, a hand on his stomach, a conductor helping him down the couple steps. Two watchful bodyguards preceded him- one of them was the son of Chicago's chief of detectives, a pale fellow about thirty; the other was Mulaney, the skinny cop I'd seen in Cermak's suite at the Congress, that time with Miller.
Speaking of whom, Miller and Lang followed Cermak off the train, and I said a silent Shit I'd hoped they wouldn't be along; I'd hoped their notoriety in the Nitti matter would've precluded Cermak's bringing them. But here they were.
Now my work was really cut out for me. The chances of Lang and Miller making me were far greater than Cermak, who might not recognize me if I walked right up to him; to him, I was just another nobody. But with Miller and Lang around, I'd have to keep my distance.
On the other hand, the four bodyguards, and their watchfulness, indicated Cermak was somewhat aware of the danger he was in. It meant this Florida trip might be at least partially an attempt to get away from Chicago till it cooled off, figuratively speaking.
Well, there was no blond killer here to greet the mayor. Instead, two wealthy-looking businessman-types in their late fifties approached him with smiles and outstretched hands. Cermak's tiredness fell away like a discarded garment and he beamed at them, his cheeks turning red, immediately pumping their hands like the politician he was. All the while, the four bodyguards kept around him, almost circling him, looking the crowd over. No one from the press seemed to be present; no fanfare at all. just these two businessman friends, who stood and talked with Cermak while a redcap rounded up his luggage.
I kept well back as I followed them around the station to the parking lot behind. Cermak and his wealthy-looking friends (who seemed to be apologizing for Miami's shabby train station) and Miller got into one of two waiting chauffeured Lincolns. So did Lang and the other two bodyguards; the luggage went with them.
I followed them over the county causeway to Miami Beach; as I expected, they went to Cermak's son-in-law's house. I didn't turn down the street after them, but pulled over and waited till they'd had a chance to unload the Lincoln and go inside. It was twilight by the time I parked across the road and down three quarters of a block, in the shadow of some palms, to keep watch.
The night was cool; I rolled the windows most of the way up, locked the doors, and sat in the back seat. That may sound stupid to you, but it's standard procedure: a person in the back seat is less noticeable, and people at a glance see only the empty front seat and assume the car has been parked and left.
Between eight and eleven, Cermak had several visitors: several more prominent-looking types I thought I recognized Chicago millionaire John Hertz- called on him. So did a carload of what I took to be politicos, come over from the Biltmore. Once in a while one of the bodyguards could be seen strolling across the front yard. That was a good sign, actually: if Cermak's bodyguards were keeping on their toes, I wouldn't have to keep an all-night surveillance.
I stayed till two. and noticed that a shift of bodyguards was keeping watch; once an hour, one of them- so far it had been the young son of the chief of detectives, followed by thin, pale Mulaney- would prowl around the lawn with a flashlight and a gun.
I drove back to the Biltmore and put in for a wake-up call at six. By seven I was sitting down the street from Cermak again, down the other way. three quarters of a block. It was raining; it was cold. Florida was doing its best to make us Chicagoans feel at home.
At eight, a chauffeured limo drove up to the house, and in a few minutes, Cermak and his four bodyguards were getting in, Mulaney holding an umbrella for the mayor.
I followed them back to the Biltmore. That was no surprise: I expected Cermak to meet with Farley as soon as possible. I waited till they were inside before turning the Ford over to the attendant; when I got into the lobby, Cermak was glad-handing it with six or seven politicians who we
re gathered around him, protecting him at least as well as the bodyguards, who seemed nervous about the crowd. I threaded my way through the lobby, but didn't see the blond- just the cigar-puffing, bullshitting Demos.
A buck bought me Farley's floor from a bellboy, and I went up and looked around: no bodyguards. Apparently Cermak was the only politician here on the run from gangsters. I waited around the corner from the elevators and listened as Cermak and his bodyguards and a couple of other men loudly got off. They went directly to Farley's room; I ducked down the stairs before Lang and Miller and company had a chance to look the floor over.
I had breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, and sat in the lobby and pretended to read the paper again. At eleven-thirty all heads turned as Farley, a big, bald-headed, pleasant-looking man. and a beaming Cermak. bodyguards bringing up his considerable rear, paraded across the Biltmore lobby. This public display meant the Roosevelt forces were at least pretending to be making up with Cermak for his failure to back their boy at the Chicago convention.
They went out and got in a Cadillac limo that was apparently Farley's, with only Miller accompanying Cermak. The other bodyguards followed in the Lincoln. I followed in the Ford.
Soon I was driving along an avenue of royal palms towering eighty or one hundred feet, and up ahead was Hialeah Park Racetrack. Amid more palms was the massive, vine-covered grandstand with its bougainvillea-overgrown trelliswork. It was early, but there were plenty of people, despite the damp weather (the rain had let up but the sky remained overcast), and I had plenty of faces to look at.
Farley, Cermak, and crew disappeared into the clubhouse, a little Spanish villa whose back was turned to the grandstand. They went in the side entrance, next to the grandstand, up wide steps that passed a terraced porch where millionaires sat behind a wrought-iron fence, like prisoners, and lunched. I followed Farley's party, or tried to: they went in through an archway, where a guy a bit too big to be a jockey was dressed like one. He stopped me.
"Are you a member, sir?" he asked.
"Pardon?"
"A member of the Jockey Club. It's a private club, sir."
"I'm sorry. I thought it was just a restaurant."
"It's a fine restaurant, sir. But you have to be a member."
I reached in my pocket. "No temporary memberships?"
Deadpan, he said. "No, sir. Excuse me."
That meant I was supposed to leave.
I hung around in front of the grandstand, studying the crowd.
At one-thirty. Farley and Cermak and an ever-increasing entourage went in to watch the races. So did I. They shared a special, centrally located box. I got as close as I felt prudent, and used the binoculars I rented from a vendor to study the crowd around the box.
I didn't place any bets; the damp, grass track would've made handicapping unreliable, anyway. But the crowd- the dampness had kept no one away, apparently, except maybe my blond quarry-- was having a loud, roaring time; many familiar faces from the Biltmore lobby were among the spectators, and they particularly were having a ball.
Even on this dreary day, Hialeah was impressive. It was a new track, built just a year or so ago, or actually rebuilt, as a track had been operating here since 1925, even though legal pari-mutuel betting didn't come to Florida till '31. But Joe Widener, the man who had reportedly spent fifty grand getting that bill pushed through at Tallahassee, had transformed Hialeah into something special. Along the backstretch was a green wall of feather)' pines, against which the jockeys' colors were a bright, bold moving design. The wide oval track surrounded a huge, landscaped area where lawns and flower beds circled a lake that seemed to be a bed of pink water lilies. The water lilies were actually a couple hundred pink flamingos.
"How do they keep those birds quiet?" I asked the guy next to me. between races. "Why don't they flap around more, with all the horses galloping and gunshots and everything?"
He shrugged. "They catch 'em down in Cuba and bring 'em up here and then clip their wings."
I thought about that. The pool of pink flamingos had seemed beautiful; now it didn't.
I had a hot dog and a Coke. The voice on the loudspeaker was getting the crowd worked up over today's big race, the Bahama Cup, which may have explained why so big a crowd was here on so dismal a day. I took a look at Cermak and Farley through the binoculars. They were all smiles, but the smiles seemed forced: they seemed to be talking, more than watching the race. Anyway, Cermak did. Maybe things hadn't gone as well at their meeting this morning as the mayor's smile in the Biltmore lobby might've led one to believe.
The Coke went right through me, and during the Bahama Cup, I figured it would be a good time to hit their normally crowded public facility. I walked out of the stands down to the John and went in. I had it to myself: I stood and emptied my bladder, and thought about what a dull business it was I was in.
A hand settled on my shoulder.
I looked back.
It was Miller. Lang was just behind him. Their smiles were as dull as their eyes.
"Zip up, Heller," Miller said. "You're coming with us."
I zipped up.
Unbuttoned my coat.
Turned around slowly and smiled. "Nice room you got" I said, reaching back, flushing the urinal. "You guys're lucky to find something so suited to you. at the peak of the tourist season. Close to the track and all."
"I said, you're coming with us, wise guy." Miller said, and grabbed my right arm.
With my left I jerked the Police Special out of my waistband and buried it in Miller's gut so hard it backed him up; but I followed him. and the gun stayed where it was, as I reached in under his suitcoat and got his.45 revolver.
I backed him right into a toilet stall, and said, "Sit."
He sat.
Lang had his mouth open and his gun out, a.45 revolver; his.3 8 was back in Chicago being held as evidence in the forthcoming Nitti trial.
I pointed the Police Special at the seated Miller and Miller's .45 at Lang. Pretty soon Lang put his gun away, holding his hands out, palms up, empty, and put on a small but ridiculous conciliatory smile.
I didn't put my guns away.
I said. "You boobs are finished telling me where to go."
"Go to hell," Miller said still sitting.
I leaned in the stall and rapped him on the side of the head with the Police Special; his hat fell off. hitting a damp spot near the stool. He wasn't bleeding, but he wasn't cracking wise anymore, either.
Lang had taken this as an opportunity to move on me. and he was as fast as a fat old lady; I slapped him with Miller's.45 and he went down on his side. He bled, a little. I put the Police Special away, dropped the.45 in the refuse bin, went over and got Lang a couple of paper towels, got one of them wet at the sink, tossed 'em to him.
"Did you guys want to talk to me or something?" I asked.
Lang, on the floor, and Miller, from his stall, exchanged glances; they were big men, and the two of them together could certainly take me. But the Police Special was stuck in my waistband where I could get at it quickly, and they knew my mood was such that going any further with this was going to be expensive.
About this time a man came in and took a leak. With Lang on the floor, and Miller sitting on the stool with his pants up, and me with a thumb and a gun in my waistband, it was obvious something was going on; so the guy didn't bother washing his hands. He probably only did half of what he came to.
"There's better places to talk," Lang said, getting up. brushing himself off. Miller was coming slowly out of the stall, examining the damp spot on his hat, keeping his owllike face blank, but the eyes behind the Coke-bottle lenses were seething.
I buttoned my coat. "Let's go talk outside." I said.
I held the door for them.
The results of the Bahama Cup were being announced over the loudspeaker, and enough people must've placed the right bet. because a cheer went up. We walked down out of the stands and down the stairs onto the lavishly landscaped grounds of Hialea
h Park. We found a palm tree to stand under, which was no trick.
"What's going on, Heller?" Lang said. It wasn't a demand: my presence here, understandably, had him confused, and he seemed to be doing his best not to come on tough.
"I'm down here on business," I said. "For a client. An attorney."
Miller, who was standing behind Lang like another palm, said, "What are you doing carrying a heater?"
"I'm here as a private cop," I said. "I'm licensed to work in Florida, and I got a special permit to cany a gun. I'm legal and aboveboard. You boys are nothing but glorified bodyguards, in Miami. Not that you're anything else in Chicago. But you got no jurisdiction here. You got no call to put the strong-arm on me, or anybody."
Miller was openly scowling, now, but Lang was thinking that over.
"Okay," he said. "That sounds reasonable, I guess. What were you doing watching the mayor?"
"What do you mean?"
"We caught the sun glinting off your binoculars, Heller. You been watching Cermak, and he ain't running today."
"Maybe he should be," I said.
Miller said, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll tell Tony," I said. "That's who I'll talk to. Not his stooges."
Lang thought some more. "The mayor can't be bothered right now. He's with some VIPs at the moment."
"He's begging Jim Farley for scraps, you mean."
Lang and Miller looked at each other; it bothered them that I even knew who Farley was.
I surprised them some more: "Is Tony going to move to the Biltmore, now. or stay at his son-in-law's place again?"
That really threw them.
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