Fortunately, the public wouldn't be able to get close enough to the stage for anybody to take a shot at His Honor, not unless it was with a rifle, and short of climbing one of the royal and coconut palms separating the amphitheater from the Miami skyline, Cermak should, even in the first row, be safe. Because the area in front of the bandstand, a semicircular paved area, was where the president-elect would be speaking, from his car.
I sat there studying the situation, and began hearing muffled conversation behind me; I turned and looked and, though it was barely five o'clock, the green benches were starting to fill up. I got up and had a walk around, but didn't see the face I was looking for. By five-thirty, I realized I needed to stay put, if I wanted to hold onto my ringside seat.
A little after six some Secret Service guys began having a look around. I identified myself to one of them as one of Mayor Cermak's bodyguards, showed some identification, and another of them checked a list on a clipboard, found my name there, nodded, and let me be. As twilight settled in, there wasn't a seat to be had in the joint- and FDR wasn't set to talk till nine-thirty.
Of course, if this mixture of Miamians and tourists had read the paper, like I had, they'd known downtown traffic was going to be stopped at eight-thirty, and had decided to get down here while some parking- for their cars and their backsides-- was still available. A parade would be leaving the pier where Astor's yacht. Nourmahal would dock, around nine, and hundreds of local cops, by foot, motorcycle, and motorcar, would accompany Roosevelt and his people and some local dignitaries along Biscayne Boulevard to the band shell. They'd be preceded by various drum-and-bugle corps, and the press would bring up the rear.
I was nervous about Cermak making this public an appearance. But the blond killer was a pro, and he'd have to know this was a suicidal situation- with FDR here, the place would be swarming with security: cops and Secret Service and bodyguards. And here it was barely seven, and the areas to either side of the sloping benches were already filling with people. The crowd might give him a certain anonymity, but it would be impossible to move through quickly. Of course, if he used a silencer, his slug could take Cermak down before anyone knew what happened; and he might be able to disappear into the throng. The street was close by; Miami was close by. It could be done. But it was hardly ideal.
I was beginning to think either Capone's information was wrong, and the blond had never come at all; or my efforts to have Cermak lie low had paid off. His only public excursion had been the Farley banquet, which I attended in black tie and shoulder holster, and I'd stood by the doorway within the Biltmore Country Club and watched every dignitary and his lady enter, and there was no ringer; nor was any of the Biltmore help a blond hired killer posing as a busboy or waiter. I sat in the front, facing the head table, and Cermak's four bodyguards were variously placed- one on either side of the banquet room, standing, and the other two outside, one in front of the building, one in back. I'd given Lang, Miller, and crew a description of the blond and figured them competent enough to spot him, should he try to party-crash.
But he didn't, and I suffered through a night in a monkey suit, swallowing cigar smoke and dull speeches and tough beef, for nothing.
The rest of the time Cermak stayed at home; I kept a watch from outside, sitting in my forty-buck Ford, stopping in a couple times a day to report to the mayor, and keep track of his itinerary. He entertained various Demos, and an alderman from Chicago, James B. Bowler, showed up, and various millionaire Chicagoans who kept winter homes in Greater Miami called on him; but he made no public appearances. It turned out his son-in-law had hired a gardener to get the place beautiful for the mayor, so the bushy-haired bowlegged guy, while not the neighbor's kid, was apparently legit.
I had hoped for a cool night: the wind was swaying the palms gently, but it was muggy, and I wished I could take my coat off; the guns prevented that. Around eight- the crowd having swelled to at least twice the arena's capacity, many of them sitting on the sides of the grassy bowl Miller and the thin bodyguard, Mulaney, showed up.
"Too many people," Miller said.
"Could be a blessing," I said.
"Only a goddamn crazy man would try something here."
"Yeah, I agree with you. But keep your eyes open anyway."
"I know how to do my job. Heller."
"I know you do."
Miller looked at me. searching for sarcasm; there wasn't any to find, and he figured that out, and took a position over toward the left of the stage. The other bodyguard moved over right. A few uniformed cops were on hand, by now; they were keeping people off the paved area, except for occasional children playing, who the cops tolerated good-naturedly. Vendors were moving through the crowd, as best they could, selling peanuts and lemonade. I had some.
Floodlights- red, white, and blue- swept the palms that fringed the amphitheater. A silver-helmeted drum-and-bugle corps from the Miami American Legion, preparing to march down the pier to greet FDR, assembled in the paved area in front of me and blared out half a dozen "tunes." They apparently didn't know I was armed.
The aisles were filled now; the areas to either side of the band shell and, I imagined, behind were clogged with people: men in shirt sleeves, women in thin summery frocks, a man's white shirt alternating with a woman's colorful dress, a flower bed of a crowd, a smiling crowd, despite the balmy night. The air hummed with conversation, as the crowd anticipated the presence of the man who, in just two weeks, would be inaugurated our thirty-second president, the crippled aristocrat who promised to lead us out of hard times. What the hell I voted for him myself, and nobody paid me to, which in Chicago speaks well for both voter and candidate.
Once the band had gone, limos bearing dignitaries swung around through the paved area, and the crowd, getting waved at, waved back and applauded, occasionally cheered; the limos went back behind the band shell, the dignitaries were unloaded, and they walked around front and up the steps at the center of the stage, and climbed the makeshift reviewing stand. Cermak. escorted by Lang and the other bodyguard, the chief of detectives' son, was one of the last to take his place, in the front row of the stands.
Lang came over to me. "Anything?" he asked.
"Nothing so far," I said
"Nothing's going to happen."
"It might. Stay on top of it."
He smirked and wandered off, toward Miller.
The chief of detective's son, whose name was Bill, said, "You think something's going to happen?"
"I don't know. I don't like the mayor sitting in the front row of those stands. I don't think anybody in this crowd could hit him, with a revolver, where he is. But he'd be better off on one of the back rows."
"Impossible. He's got to be able to get down quickly to Roosevelt before that car pulls out of here."
"What do you mean?"
"We got word Roosevelt isn't staying the night. He's catching the ten-fifteen train out of here."
"That means Cermak's got to make his move, where FDR's concerned, here and now."
"That's right."
I heard myself sighing. "He'll make a nice target," I said.
Bill shrugged; but he seemed a little uneasy, even frightened. I was glad somebody else was taking this seriously: Miller and Lang were talking, over at the left, smiling, smoking. The dopes.
Me, I was still watching the crowd, looking for that blond head, seeking that face that had been seared into my memory the afternoon Jake Lingle died in a subway tunnel. I didn't find the face I was looking for; but there were twenty or twenty-five thousand faces here by now, I figured. It was just possible I'd missed one or two.
The crowd was getting excited now, and a little loud, but off in the distance the sound of a Jolin Philip Sousa march could be heard. That really got 'em whipped up; that meant the parade was making its way here, and as the march got louder, the crowd did too, and they were cheering by the time the drum-and-bugle corps marched through the paved area in front of the band shell, blaring the president-elect's immin
ent arrival.
The band filed back around the band shell and a motorcycle escort rumbled across the paved area, and, just behind them, a light green touring car, its top lowered, rolled in to a stop in front of the steps leading to the stage. In the front seat was a uniformed police chauffeur and a plainclothes bodyguard. Half a dozen Secret Service men ran alongside the car or rode the running boards. In the back seat was the mayor of Miami- a heavyset balding man- and, in a dark suit with bow tie. hatless, Franklin D. Roosevelt.
The crowd was on its feet, now, cheering; Roosevelt's smile was infectious, and when he waved, the sound of cheering swelled even louder, and Miami waved back at him. On the stage, the dignitaries were on their feet, too, applauding, and I could see Cermak anxiously trying to catch Roosevelt's eye. When Roosevelt turned to acknowledge those on the reviewing stand, he immediately recognized Cermak and registered surprise- as Cermak had known, the other big-shot Demos had all headed home or to Havana by now, and this made him the ranking national figure on the stage- and FDR waved at Cermak, called out to him. I couldn't hear over the crowd's roar, but he seemed to be inviting Cermak to come join him; surprisingly Cermak shook his head no, smiling as he did, and shouted something down to the president-elect, which I also couldn't make out. but assumed was something on the order of, "After you've finished speaking, sir."
Behind the light green touring car was a blue convertible of Secret Service men; several carloads of press had emptied out behind the band shell, and reporters with flashbulbs popping were moving around the edges of the paved area. A newsreel crew was hastily setting up at right. There had been a press conference on Astor's yacht, which this same batch of newshounds had just covered, so there'd been no opportunity to set up in advance.
From the touring car, the mayor was speaking into a hand mike. He was saying,"… We welcome him to Miami, we wish him success, and we are promising him cooperation and support, and bid him Godspeed."
The crowd began applauding again, and the applause really built as Roosevelt raised himself up. using his aims to push up into a sitting position on the lowered top at the rear of the car. The microphone was passed to him: he looked tanned, relaxed, after his twelve days of fishing. Loudspeakers sent his voice out to the eager crowd, most of whom were on their feet.
"Mr. Mayor, friends." Roosevelt began, with a smile like a half-circle, adding, "and enemies…"
He paused, so the crowd could laugh, and they did.
"I certainly appreciate the welcome of my many friends in Miami," Roosevelt said. "But I am not a stranger here…"
Looking at him perched there, a perfect target. I was glad it was Cermak I was here to protect and not Roosevelt; the crowd was milling a bit, reporters moving about, the newsreel cameras grinding, people pushing through the throng to try to get a closer look. Meanwhile, the president-elect continued his chatty, regular-folks monologue.
"I have had a wonderful rest and caught a great many fish," he was saying. "However, I will not attempt to tell you a fish story."
That's when I saw him.
He wasn't a blond anymore; that's part of why I'd missed him. He was to my left and stage right, off to the side, just where the green benches stopped and the standing-room-only started; he must've been back behind a layer of people, but had squeezed out in front, now. He wore a white suit; hatless, his hair was now dyed brown or had it been dyed blond? He was pale; that was the tip-off: among the tans of the Miamians and even most of the tourists, his pale countenance glowed like neon.
"I put on ten pounds during the trip," Roosevelt was saying, "and one of my first official duties will be taking the ten pounds off."
I moved away from the bench and the wall of flesh behind me closed tight as I edged alone the front of the first row; no one bothered me, or noticed me, because reporters and Secret Service men were stirring around, anyway. Miller and Lang were closer to the ex-blond than me, but their eyes were on Roosevelt, caught up in his charisma instead of watching the people like they were being paid to.
"I hope that I am able to come down next winter," Roosevelt said, finishing up, "see you all and have another ten days or two weeks in Florida waters."
Roosevelt smiled wide and nodded and waved and the roar of applause would have led you to believe the Gettysburg Address had just been spoken for the first time. Everybody was on their feet, some of them jumping up and down, whooping, hollering, and the people began moving forward, to get near him, right onto the paved area- the cops and Secret Service men didn't bother to try to stop the mass of humanity, perhaps realizing it wouldn't do any good. I could still see the ex-blond, moving in himself, unbuttoning his coat, but his eyes weren't on Roosevelt: his eyes were on the stage.
The newsreel boys were climbing up on the back of the green car, hollering at Roosevelt to go through the speech again, because one of their cameras had got fouled up; he said, "Sony, boys," and slid down onto the back seat, motioning to Cermak up on the stage.
As I did my best to plow through, moving against the tide. I could see Cermak, beaming, come down the steps off the platform toward Roosevelt. I even heard Roosevelt raising his voice above the din: "Hello there, Tony!"
Then Cermak was shaking hands with Roosevelt, talking to him, on the side of the car next to the stage, away from the crush of people.
And the ex-blond was reaching under his coat- but I was there. I grabbed the arm and pulled it away from the coat, and the hand came out with no gun in it, he hadn't got that far, but I saw the gun under his arm as his coat flapped, and he looked at me amazed and I buried a fist in his belly, and he doubled over. The people around us didn't seem to notice, as they continued to press forward.
I yanked the automatic out from under my shoulder and grabbed him by one arm and put the barrel in his face. He didn't look at it, though: he looked at me.
And the damnedest thing happened: he recognized me.
"You," he said. Eyes wide.
It had never occurred to me that the blond would recognize me; he'd only seen me that once, in the street, but the same was true for me, and I remembered him, didn't I? And he had no doubt followed the Lingle case, having a vested interest in its outcome, and my picture turned up in the papers in regard to that, so I
was a part of his life, just as he was part of mine. My image was as seared into his brain as his was in mine, and I said. "I got you this time, fucker."
Firecrackers went off.
That's what it sounded like, but I knew better. I whirled, without releasing my grip on him. and saw Cermak, well away from Roosevelt (who was being presented with a gigantic mock-telegram from the city of Miami), double over.
Shot.
And the firecrackers continued to so off.
I looked to where they were coming from, over to the right, stage left, and a bushy-haired head on a stumpy body was floating oddly above the mass of people around him, about five rows back, and then I realized the man had stood on one of the benches to do his shooting. The muzzle flashes from his long-barreled revolver made fireworks above the crowd.
And more people were going down.
The blond pulled away, and I swung at him, hard as I could, putting every fucking thing I had into it, right in the side of his face, and he crumpled, unconscious, and I moved toward Cermak, pushing, shoving, almost throwing people out of the way to get there.
Miller and Lang were crouching near him. and lanky, white-haired Alderman Bowler was kneeling, too, as if praying.
Cermak looked up at Miller and Lang; his glasses had been lost in the shuffle. He said, "Where were the goddamn bodyguards?"
I pushed my way past Bowler. "I had the blond, Your Honor. He didn't fire the shots."
Cermak smiled wanly. Sort of shrugged. "What the hell. They got me, Heller."
Roosevelt's touring car was still in place; the air was filled with screams, men and women both, and over toward where the shots had been fired, the crowd had turned into a mob.
"Kill him!"
"
Lynch him!"
Roosevelt, momentarily shielded by his bodyguard, a sea of Secret Service men around him waving their aims, urging him to get out but getting a repeated curt "No!" from him, climbed out from under and pushed himself up in the back of the car and waved and smiled at the crowd, and yelled, "I am all right!"
A Secret Service man shouted, "Get out of here!" to Roosevelt's cop chauffeur. "Get the president out of here!" The cop moved forward and a couple motorcycle cops hit their sirens and began clearing a path.
I yelled to the moving car. "For Christ's sake. Cermak's shot! Take him out of here!"
Roosevelt must've heard me. because he turned and looked and leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur and stopped the car. Cermak had caught it in the front, under his right armpit, along his rib cage, and he was bleeding, but able to get to his feet. Bowler and a couple Miami politicos helped me walk Cermak to the waiting car. We helped him in back with Roosevelt, who looked at me and smiled and nodded. Cermak looked at Roosevelt and smiled- he finally had his private audience with the president-elect; then he passed out, and the car shot away.
A white-haired man holding his head, blood seeping between his fingers, staggered by; over on the steps to the band shell, a woman in her thirties in an evening gown crouched in pain, a hand on her stomach cupping red. The blue convertible that had followed Roosevelt into the paved area was still there, and a confused-looking young uniformed cop was still behind the wheel: I went over to him and said, "Get another man and load these wounded people up and get 'em the hell to a hospital."
True Detective Page 22