"What do you mean?" Lane said.
"Just answer."
Lang shrugged. "His son-in-law's."
"Is he going to see Farley again tonight?"
Lane didn't answer.
"If he isn't," I said, "I could drop by around seven."
"I'll have to ask the mayor," Lang said.
"Why don't you?"
Lang looked at Miller, motioned with his head to come along, and the two went back up into the grandstand.
The rain had let up; the sun peeked through the palms. Some people started to drift out of the stands, now that the Cup was over. Panama hats and pretty women.
Lang came back alone.
He said. "The mayor says he'd like to meet with you in a public place."
"Why?"
"Maybe he thinks there's less likely to be trouble. He's got some people coming to the house this evening, and doesn't want you there, oaky?"
"Okay. Where?"
The Miami Aquarium was a beached ship, the Prim Valdemar, an old Danish barkentine that sank in a storm in the early twenties, blocking the harbor, paralyzing shipping traffic for months. A hurricane in '26 raised the ship and left it on the beach, like driftwood; but it was mostly intact, and in '27 it was turned into an aquarium. At the entrance of the white four-masted ship-tumed-building, pretty girls in pirate outfits drew sketches of patrons, for a modest fee. I stood and let a dazzling brunette do mine and gave her a buck and she gave me a smile and if she hadn't made me start thinking of Mary Ann Beame, I might have done something about it. Behind her, two monkeys chained to a revolving ladder went round and round- like my thoughts.
I strolled through the ship and looked at the glassed-in exhibits: sea turtles, alligators, crocodiles, a couple sea cows, stingrays, sharks, morays, and a slew of mounted specimens. On the upper deck of the sand-locked ship was a restaurant, where Cermak was waiting.
Cermak had a table at portside. perhaps so he could have Miller and Lang toss me overboard- they sat at a separate table opposite him. behind the chair where I'd be sitting; the other two bodyguards were at a table at His Honor's back. At any rate, we had a ringside view of Biscayne Bay. which at twilight was like a mirage, its many houseboats and yachts looking small, unreal, like toys floating in a big blue-gray bath.
The mayor was in a dark gray suit with a blue bow tie, and he rose from the table- there was no one else there- and extended his hand and gave me a smile that must have looked friendly to anybody looking at us. The eyes behind the dark-rimmed glasses were as cold as I remembered
I shook the hand; as before, it seemed a trifle damp. Whether from nerves or a recent trip to the lavatory, I didn't know. He gestured for me to sit and I did.
"I'm surprised to see you in Miami, Mr. Heller," Cermak said, still standing, looking down at me.
"Make it 'Nate.'"
"Fine," he said, sitting, putting his napkin in his lap. "Fine. I hope you like lobster. I took the liberty of picking one out for you."
"Sure. Thanks."
A busboy in white sailor garb came and poured us both some water, asked if we'd like some coffee, and we said yes. A waiter in a blue sailor suit walked by with a tray that bore a quartet of bright red lobsters, with claws like catcher's mitts.
"First goddamn aquarium I ever saw." Cermak said, "where you can eat the exhibits."
I smiled politely. "Right."
He sipped his water. "Why are you in Miami. Heller?"
"Nate. I'm here for a client."
"Who?"
"An attorney."
"What attorney?"
"I consider that privileged information. Your Honor."
"Really."
The waiter put some clam chowder in front of us. I started in on the soup; we'd been served some crackers on the side, Saltines, and Cermak began breaking them up over his chowder.
spoon into the mixture and said. "You were watching me today. Nate. Why?"
"I was watching you at the train station, too. And at your son-in-law's place. And at the Biltmore."
Cermak dropped his spoon; he dropped the smile, too.
"You want to tell me what this is about. Heller?"
"Nate."
"Fuck you, Heller." He was smiling again, and his voice was very soft: no one in the world could hear him but me. "Fuck your cute tough-guy shit. You can be dead in an alley in an hour, if I want it that way, you little bastard. Now what the hell are you doing here? And what does it have to do with me?"
"That's no way to talk to somebody who's trying to keep you alive."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The attorney I'm working for has a client. The client has an interest in your well-being."
"Who are you talking about?"
"I'm telling you more than I really should. Your Honor. There's a line I can't cross."
The waiter brought us each a plate of coleslaw; I began to eat mine. Cermak ignored his.
"You're saying my life's in danger."
"What do you think? Are you down here strictly to court Jim Farley's favor? Or are you here partly at least to duck Frank Nitti's disfavor?"
"Keep your voice down."
"I wasn't speaking loud. Those words just seem loud. Your Honor."
"You were sent here to protect me? I have bodyguards."
"I know. I said 'boo' to two of'em in the toilet at Hialeah and they peed their pants."
"They're good men. What makes you especially qualified to be my protector?"
"I can recognize the man Nitti is sending."
"I see."
"I know? what he looks like. I've seen him before."
"When? Where?"
"After he shot a man. That's all I care to say about it."
Cermak looked at me for a long time.
Then he said. "What attorney are you working for?"
I thought about whether to answer him or not. Maybe he thought this was a shakedown, or a scam of some kind, growing out of hard feelings I harbored over the lies I'd agreed to tell for him; maybe I needed to make one more point, before he could buy it, before he could believe the truth.
"Louis Piquett," I said.
His face turned whiter than the chowder.
The waiter in blue served the lobsters. He put one in front of the mayor and another in front of me; they were enormous: like the flamingos at the racetrack, they were beautiful, ugly things. I began to crack mine open with the pliers we'd each been provided. The cracks were like gunshots, but Cermak didn't seem to hear them, or see the dead scarlet crustacean on the plate in front of him; he was staring, and not at me, and not out at the darkening bay. He was looking off, somewhere. Nowhere.
Then, suddenly, he dug into the lobster, cracking it apart like the enemy. He sat, determinedly, eating, dunking the lobster's flesh into the pot of melted butter, using his fingers as often as his fork, till they were dripping with butter and juice from the lobster. His table manners were lousy. He ate fast; he ate as if ravenous but I don't think he tasted anything. He was obviously a man who enjoyed eating, who
regarded eating a carnal pleasure- but he wasn't enjoying this meal. He barely noticed it.
He finished way ahead of me. It was the first lobster I'd ever eaten, and I was learning as I went. I liked the way it tasted, though it was nerve-racking, eating the last third of the thing with Cermak staring at me with large eyes behind the round frames of his glasses, looking out at me like the fish behind glass in the aquarium I'd walked through a few minutes ago.
"It surprises me," he said, "that Mr. Piquett's client would still have my best interests at heart, after all these years."
"Quite frankly," I said, through a mouthful of lobster and butter. "I don't think Mr. Piquett's client gives a goddamn whether you live or die. I just think he's somebody who learned the kind of damage bad publicity can do. After all. Saint Valentine's Day is just a few days away, if you get my drift."
He said, "It's a power play, then. To remind 'em who's boss. An attempt to one-u
p Nitti from inside."
I shrugged "You know how it is. Politics."
He nodded. Then he looked out at the pleasure craft on the bay. Twilight had turned into night and the lights on the boats winked at the mayor. The skyline of Miami shimmered on the water.
A waiter came and took our desert order: we both requested vanilla ice cream, but before it came. Cermak grimaced, apparently hit by a sharp pain. He stood, excused himself, and Miller trailed after his boss, who walked with one hand on his ample belly.
My ice cream came and I ate it. By the time Cermak returned, his ice cream had begun to melt; he ate it slowly, nibbling at it. with uncharacteristic lack of interest.
When he'd finished, he said. "You mean to shadow me. then? And wait for the assassin. And stop him."
I nodded. "I hoped to stop it before it got that far. but, realistically, yes."
"But Miller and Lang saw you at the track and you decided not to try to bluff your way out."
I shrugged. "I could've bluffed my way out if I was prepared to drop the matter. But I've got to stay on it, as long as you don't take steps to stop me."
He let out a short laugh. "Why the hell should I? You're here to keep me alive."
"It means a pretty penny to me to do so, Your Honor."
We had coffee.
"I'd like you to describe this man to me, and to my people," Cermak said.
"Sure."
"And you can maintain your surveillance on me with nothing but cooperation from Lang and Miller and the rest. You can report to me from time to time, if you like. Check with me daily regarding any of my plans." plans.
"Good. What plans do you have?"
"I've done everything where Jim Farley's concerned that I can. He's made a few promises, but precious few. And I have a bigger fence to mend."
"What do you mean?"
"Farley told me Roosevelt plans to come to Miami next Wednesday. It hasn't been announced to the press yet. But there's a lot of big shots in Miami who put the pressure on to have him end up his yacht trip here. Good publicity for the city, and good for the president-elect, too. He's going to give a public speech. All the newsreel boys will be down here, brass bands, radio, the works."
"So?"
"You know about Roosevelt and me, Heller?"
"I know you backed Smith at Chicago."
"Did you know I turned down Farley's repeated personal pleas to switch sides? We were all set to give the favorite-son nomination to that dumb bastard J. Ham…"
J. Ham was J. Hamilton Lewis, the aging, dandyish senator from Illinois who, although a Democrat, was aligned with the reform-minded former mayor. Republican Carter Harrison II. son of Chicago's first world's fair mayor, who before the White City closed down had died from an assassin's bullet.
"… and then J. Ham double-crossed us, pulled out. and I stuck that banker Tray lor in as favorite son in his place."
"But that got J. Ham in solid with Farley, and he stole your patronage thunder."
Cermak frowned at that, but could hardly deny it. He said, "I delivered Chicago to the sons of bitches. Largest presidential vote in Illinois history. They owe me."
"Anyway, that's what you've been telling Farley today."
Cermak looked through me. Sipped his coffee. "I need to make a gesture. I need to be seen in public with FDR. I need to get his ear, privately if I can." He leaned forward. "Farley's going home. Sunday, after his banquet. Then the rest of the boys are planning a side trip to Cuba. By Wednesday, everybody'll be back home in New York or wherever, else layin' on their fat ass on a beach somewhere. But I'll still be here. It'll make an impression on him."
"On Farley? You said he'd be leaving Sunday"
"No! I mean Roosevelt. He'll take it like a personal tribute. Like a public apology for my doing him wrong at the convention."
"You really think so?"
Cermak laughed; it was sort of a snort. "Roosevelt is not only weak in the legs, he's also weak in the head."
"I don't think you should do it."
■
"What do you mean? Don't be stupid."
"Don't you. You figured you were safe down here. You figured because the Syndicate boys vacation down here themselves, because Capone and Fischetti and the rest have homes here, and stay on their good behavior to stay welcome here, you figured nobody'd try to hit you down here."
Cermak shrugged. "Yeah. Right. You don't shit where you eat. Heller."
"Not unless you can make it look like you're doing something else."
"How do you mean?"
"Political assassination. You're down here in the midst of politicians from all over the map, including Roosevelt's entire Kitchen Cabinet. Some nut starts shooting up the Biltmore lobby while you and a hundred other politicians are standing around, and you happen to catch one of the bullets, nobody's going to think Syndicate. They're going to think of the poor unemployed bastards out on the breadlinewho're looking for somebody to blame for their troubles. And nobody better to blame than a politician.
And now you want to shoulder up to Roosevelt in public? Did you bring that bulletproof vest you were telling me about along?"
Cermak leaned his elbows on the table, folded his big thick hands, and looked over them at me. "I have to do this. There's no way 'round it. I hate that crippled bastard but we got troubles in Chicago, bigger troubles than fucking Frank Nitti. We got teachers that ain't been paid in months. We need loans from the federal government, and we need 'em fast. Can you grasp that. Heller? Can you grasp something bigger than your own goddamn dick?"
Well. I could've made a smart comment or two. I could've mentioned that I knew one of the patronage posts he was after Farley for was one he intended for yet another son-in-law. that position being internal revenue collector for Chicago, which would come in handy, because word was Cermak was being investigated for income tax evasion. Oh, there were maybe a hundred cynical things I could've said, but, you know, somehow I thought the bohunk bastard meant it. I thought he really did want to get Chicago on its feet again; I thought, for just a moment mind you, that he really did care about the teachers and the cops and the other city workers who were getting paid in scrip…
Cermak said, "Besides, the Secret Service'll be all over that place. There hasn't been a successful presidential assassination since McKinley, you know, and there never will be. 'Cause those boys are good. And my boys'll be there. And you'll be there, Heller. Won't you?"
I nodded. "But till then, stay low. No more public places."
"That could be tricky. It's open to the public."
"Only six hundred seats."
"All right. We can cover that. We'll just run tight security."
"Otherwise. I'll stay at my son-in-law's. With my bodyguards. I have some people to see. but they can come see me."
"Good." I said. "Nitti won't expect that. He won't expect you to lie low. And I don't think he'll hit you at home. I think it has to be a public appearance, to make it look like something the Syndicate wasn't part of."
"Then we've just got two events to deal with. The Biltmore dinner for Farley. Saturday; and Bayfront Park, Wednesday."
"What?"
Cermak pointed off to his left. "Bayfront Park. That's where Roosevelt is speaking."
"You really ought to take a rain check on that one, Mayor."
For the first time, the cold eyes softened a bit, and the smile seemed genuine. "I undere^ didn't I. Heller?"
"Maybe not. Maybe I'm just coming into my own."
"Maybe."
"Where are you headed next?"
"To the toilet," he said, standing, grimacing, holding his gut.
This time I followed him, and he motioned Miller to stay put.
His Honor was washing his hands when I said, "You got to tighten your security up on the home front, too."
"What do you mean?"
"I told your gardener I was with the Herald and he told me everything but your date of birth."
Cermak dried his hands on a p
aper towel; he shrugged with his face. "We don't have a gardener."
"What?"
"Not really. Some neighbor kid does it: when my son-in-law's down, he does it himself. Relaxes him."
"Your neighbor's kid isn't Cuban, is he?"
"Not hardly. Why?"
"Some Cuban was trimming your shrubs the other day."
Cermak shrugged again, this time with his shoulders. "My son-in-law probably hired somebody else to do the yard, to get it ready for when I got here."
"Yeah. You're probably right."
Anyway, it wasn't a Cuban I was looking for. Not unless it was a blond Cuban. But my blond could have a Cuban backup man, couldn't he?
"We'll call long distance and check on it," Cermak said, "if it'll make you feel better."
"Please," I said.
"Now," Cermak said, "let's go break the news to Miller and Lang that you're pals."
A Goodyear blimp glided overhead. Out on a strip of land opposite the park, pelicans and gulls came in for flapping landings, then took off again. It was late Wednesday afternoon and sultry, and couples of varying ages strolled around Bayfront Park, sometimes stopping for a game of shuffleboard or to sit on a bench and watch the blue bay and the white boats.
I about tripped over one of the nearly invisible guy wires anchoring a big palm against the wind; those wires were a danger you could overlook, in this peaceful, lushly landscaped park. The main promenade, from the foot of East Flagler to the bay. was lined with flower beds, clipped pine hedges, royal palms, and couples on benches. It made me wonder what Mary Ann Beame was doing; it made me wonder if she was thinking about me at all, while I was down here trying to keep Chicago's mayor alive.
Other than the guy wires, the park seemed free from hidden danger. I strolled all forty acres of it, forty acres that had been pumped from the bay less than a decade ago and turned into a tropical paradise. I didn't see the blond anywhere; the automatic was under my shoulder, and the Police Special was nudging my middle, and if he came early, to look over what might be the scene of his crime, I might still get to plant the.38 on him and get this over with, before it started.
With the sun still sharing the sky with the blimp and a few lazily soaring planes, I took a seat in the front row of the amphitheater. Green benches that would seat eight thousand sloped down in a wide semicircle to face the band shell. The central dome of the stage was painted a garish red, orange, yellow, and green design, vaguely oriental, and on either side of it were two towers with acorn domes decorated in bands of silver, green, yellow, orange, and red. It looked like a Shriner's idea of Egypt, right down to the yellow stucco stage with its blue platform, red-fringed brown curtain, and paintings of Cairo street scenes on either side of the proscenium. On the stage, a makeshift wooden reviewing stand had been assembled, six rows high, with room for maybe twenty-five or thirty dignitaries, of which Cermak would be one. He was, in fact, to be in the front row.
True Detective Page 21