"I'm supposed to stay with the car," he said.
I grabbed him by the shirtfront and some shiny buttons popped off. "Fuck the car!"
He swallowed, said, "Yes, sir," and got out of the car and started rounding up the wounded.
Off toward the left, people were piled on top of each other like a couple football teams all in on the tackle. Some uniformed cops and Secret Service men were trying to pull the people off.
Over the loudspeaker came: "Please leave the park! Please leave immediately!"
I went over and started pulling people off the pile and one of the cops used his nightstick judiciously, and we got the assassin out from under the onslaught, and it was a small man. little more than five feet tall, naked but for a few shreds of his khaki clothes, which had been ripped from his body by the mob.
The cop I'd got tough with was helping the white-haired bleeding man into the blue convertible; the woman in the evening gown was already in the back seat. So was another man bleeding at the head. I pointed at the car. and two uniformed officers who had the small, barely conscious figure by either arm, and another who held the assassin's nickel-plated revolver, nodded at me and we made our way toward it, and tossed him on the trunk rack of the car. The cops climbed on top of the little man, sat right on him, and the car moved away. As it did, the groggy little assassin looked at me and managed a little smile and blurted something; the cops sat on him harder. It wasn't the gentlest way to treat him, but it probably saved his life: the crowd wanted blood.
If they wanted it, all they had to do was look on the paved area where Roosevelt's car had been: pools of blood were scattered here and there, like color in one of the paintings in Mary Ann Beame's Tower Town flat. The people were still milling around, but the crowd was thinning.
I sat on the steps to the band shell. Next to me was some of the wounded woman's blood.
Miller and Lang wandered up to me. They stood and looked at me and shrugged.
Lang said, "What now?"
"If you want to stay employed." I said, "I'd find out what hospital Cermak was rushed to. and be on hand"
Miller and Lang exchanged glances, shrugged again, and wandered off.
One of the other two bodyguards. Bill, had overheard this; he came slowly up. He looked haggard.
■
"We should have stopped it." he said.
"Right," I said.
"Do you think it was an accident?"
"What?"
"Maybe the guy was after Roosevelt."
"Go away."
He went away.
The blond, who was now brown-haired, was long gone. I'd had him. and he was gone. Cermak was shot, possibly dying; and a little bushy-haired man had pulled the trigger.
The gardener I'd seen at the son-in-law's.
Well. I knew where they'd taken him: the county courthouse. That was where the jail was. I wanted to get in and talk to that Cuban or whatever the hell he was. Maybe the fools would believe Roosevelt was the target.
But they hadn't heard what the bushy-haired assassin had muttered to me. as the three cops sat on him and drove him away.
'Well." he'd said, looking right at me, with brown shiny eyes. "I got Cermak!"
The towering Gothic Dade County- Courthouse was starkly white against the night, lit up so you could see it for miles. Or anyway for blocks: it was only a matter of eight or so from Bayfront Park to the courthouse, which I walked, since traffic was still blocked off. Cops and sheriffs deputies swarmed the two flights of steps that rose to the entryway, where a row of two-story fluted columns loomed, like a reminder of more civilized times.
A cop, his hand on the butt of the revolver at his side, was pacing nervously at the curb.
I approached him. "I was at Bayfront Park," I said, showing him my identification. "A Cermak bodyguard."
"You did a swell job," he said.
"You're telling me. I take it they aren't here with the gunman yet."
"No. I don't know what the hell's keeping 'em; it ain't that far from the park."
"The car they threw the guy on the back of had some of the wounded in it. They probably went to the hospital first."
The cop nodded. "That must be it."
When the blue limo rolled up a few minutes later, the assassin was off the luggage rack and in the back seat with two cops sitting next to him. not on him; the chauffeur cop and the other cop were in front. They ushered the dark, bushy-haired little man out of the limo and up the steps- he was completely naked, even the khaki shreds I'd seen hanging on him at the park were gone now. and no one seemed concerned about providing him with something to cover up with, not that he seemed particularly concerned about it: he seemed calm, and had the faintest of smiles on his face. The swarm of cops parted like the red sea and moved in waves up the steps. I dove in.
That was when I noticed a guy at my side, in plainclothes; he definitely wasn't a deputy. He was wearing a gray snap-brim fedora, a black suit, a dark blue shirt, and a yellow tie. He was in his mid-thirties, but his brown hair was grayed, and he had a nervous, ferretlike manner.
We were in the midst of the crush of cops and inside the high courthouse lobby, when I turned to him and said, "Can I have your autograph, Mr. Winchell?"
He had a smile about two inches wide- tight, no teeth- and beady blue eyes that were cold as the marble around us. He pressed something in my hand. I looked at it: a five-dollar bill.
"Keep your trap shut, kid," he said, "and let me tag along with you."
"Be my guest," I said.
"Atta boy," he said. "There's another fin in it for you, you play your cards right."
I managed to pocket the five as. across the lobby from us. the elevator was opening and the assassin and a few of the cops squeezed in. apparently. Anyway, as soon as the elevator went up. the crowd of cops and deputies began to thin a bit. and they began milling about, and going their separate ways.
"Shit," Winchell said.
"How'd you get here so fast? You're the only reporter around."
"The rest of those jerks are probably at the hospitals and tagging after Roosevelt."
"I didn't see you with the press at the park."
"I was at the Western Union office, sending my column off to the Mirror, when I heard two guys arguing about how many shots the nut got off at Roosevelt. That's all I had to hear: I got over here so fast my ass won't catch up till Tuesday."
"The rest of the newboys'll catch up with you before it does."
"I know. Can you get me upstairs? The jail's on the twenty-eighth floor. I hear."
"I can try."
We moved over to the elevator, where two cops were stationed to keep the likes of Winchell away, I supposed. We wouldn't have got any farther than that, but one of the cops had been at the park and had seen me helping load the assassin on the back of the limo. So when I said I was Mayor Cermak's personal bodyguard and wanted to question the assassin and flashed my ID. he let me on the elevator.
"What about him?" the cop said, pointing at Winchell. He didn't seem to recognize the columnist; normally that would've hurt Winchell's feelings. I supposed. But he didn't seem to mind, under the circumstances.
"He's with me," I said.
The cop shrugged and said, "Okay. It's the nineteenth floor. That's where the isolation cells are."
We got on the elevator.
Winchell rocked on his heels, looking up at the floor indicator.
"I didn't think this sort of thing was your line." I said.
"My by-line's my line." he said, "and anytime I can pin it on a story that's more than just entertaining the poor slobs on Hard Times Square with how some chorus girl got a diamond bracelet for laying some millionaire, I will."
The door opened on the nineteenth floor, and the sheriff, a big, lumpy man in dark suitcoat, white pants, colorful tie, and misshapen hat, was standing talking to a uniformed cop, who had a nickel-plated.32 long-barreled revolver in the palm of his hand, like something he was offering the sheri
ff. The sheriff turned a glowering gaze upon us, his dark eyebrows knitting, but before he could say anything. Winchell stepped forward with a smile as confident as it was insincere.
"I'm Walter Winchell," he said, extending his hand, which the sheriff, whose mouth had dropped open, took. "Let me in there for five minutes with that lunatic and I'll put your name in every paper in the world."
The sheriffs expression had shifted from foul to awestruck and, now that fame was pumping his hand, to a fawning, simpering grin.
"Glad to have you in my jail, Mr. Winchell."
"As a temporary visitor, I hope," Winchell said, spitting words like seeds. "What can you tell me about the guest you just checked in?"
"He says his name's Zangara. Giuseppe Zangara. That's about all we got so far. His English is pretty bad. But I'm something of a linguist myself… speak a little Italian. I can translate for you, if you can't make out what he's trying to say in American."
"You're a gentleman. Sheriff. Lead the way."
"Wait a minute," the sheriff said, and turned to me. I was standing just behind Winchell, trying to be inconspicuous. "Who are you?"
I told him; the cop standing nearby, who had been one of the three I'd helped in wrestling the assassin onto the limo luggage rack, confirmed what I said.
"No Chicago people." the sheriff said, waving his hands. "We don't want any of you Chicago cops in here. We'll handle this our own way."
Winchell said. "Sheriff, he's with me."
The sheriff thought about that, said, "Well, okay, then. Come along."
We followed the sheriff, and I said to Winchell, "Thanks."
"Now we're even," he said. "Or we will be when you cough up that fin I gave you."
I gave him his five back.
The sheriff and the cop, the gun the assassin had used stuck in his belt, led us down a cellblock lit only by the lights coming from the corridor behind us. The individual cells stood empty, for the most part; we walked past one where a Negro squatted on his cot, watching us, mumbling. He was the only other prisoner on the floor.
At the end of the cellblock corridor, standing naked in the middle of his cell, was the man named, apparently, Giuseppe Zangara. He stood erect, unashamed. But not exactly defiant. As we joined two cops standing staring at their prisoner, I got a good look at him: about five feet six inches tall, weighing perhaps 115. with a wide scar across his stomach; his face long, narrow, square-jawed; his hair jet-black: his eyes bulging, dark, intense. That faint smile was still on his face; when he saw me- recognized me- that smile, momentarily, disappeared.
The sheriff looked through the bars at the calm, detached prisoner. He said, "I'm going to put you in the electric chair, friend."
Zangara shrugged. "That's okay. Put me in chair. I no afraid."
The sheriff turned to Winchell and said, "That's what you're up against, Mr. Winchell."
Winchell moved in, stood as close to the bars as he could get. "You know who I am?"
"No," Zangara said.
"My name's Walter Winchell. Ever hear of me?"
Zangara thought about that. "Maybe."
"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea…'"
Zangara grinned. "Radio. Sure. I know you. Famous man."
"You want to be famous, Giuseppe?"
"Joe. Call me Joe. I'm American citizen."
"You want to be famous. Joe?"
"I want to kill president."
"To be famous?"
He thought about it.
"You talk to me." Winchell went on, "and you'll be famous. Talk. Joe."
Zangara looked at me. Waiting for me to spill the beans, I guess. I wasn't talking.
He was: "I try kill president. I try kill him because I no like government. Capitalists all crooks. Everything just for money. Take all president- kings, capitalists- kill. Take all money burn. That's my idea. That's why I want to kill president."
"But you didn't kill the president, Joe."
Zangara didn't seem too broken up about that. "I failure," he shrugged.
"You shot a lot of other people. They may die."
Another shrug. "Too bad."
"Then you're sorry?"
"Yeah. sure, sorry like when bird, horse, cow die. Not my fault. Bench was shaky."
"What do you mean?"
"Bench I stand on to kill president, it shaky."
"It wobbled, you mean? That's why you missed?"
"Sure." He looked at me again, puzzled this time. He wondered why I wasn't asking him about seeing him at Cermak's son-in-law's place; he wondered why he was getting away with his "Kill-the-president" routine. I let him wonder.
Winchell got out a notebook, finally, said, "Let's start from the beginning, Joe."
"Fine."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-three."
"Where were you bora?"
"Italy."
"How long have you been in America?"
"Been here, 1923; September."
"Ever been married, Joe?"
"No."
"Your parents living?"
"My father living. My mother die when I was stepmother. Six sisters."
"Where is your family now?"
"Calabria."
"In Italy?"
"Yeah." wo years old. I no remember my mother. I have
"What have you been doing since you got to America, Joe?"
"Oh, work. Bricklayer." He glanced at me. smiled briefly, nervously, rubbed his small hand over his stubbly chin and cheek with tapering fingers, added, "Sometimes gardener."
Winchell kept shooting questions, taking the answers down with the fastest pencil I ever saw. "Where have you lived in America?"
"Lot of time in New Jersey. Sometime Miami, sometime New York. I suffer with stomach"- he pointed to the six-inch scar across his belly- "when cold, so I come Miami."
"What have you been doing since you've been down here?"
"Nothing. I have little money."
The sheriff touched Winchell's arm. He said, "He had forty dollars on him, in what was left of his trousers."
Winchell nodded, filing that away, went on. "Ever been in trouble before, Joe?"
"No, no trouble, no, no. I not been in any jail. This is first time."
"Did you ever try to hurt anybody before?"
"No, no. no."
"How long did you plan this shooting? When did it first come into your mind?"
"All the time my stomach is in my mind." He held two hands like claws in front of his scarred stomach and frowned; this much he seemed to be telling the truth about.
"Tell me about your stomach, Joe."
"When I work in brick factory, I burn my stomach. Then I become bricklayer."
"Your stomach still bothers you?"
"Sometimes I get big pain in my stomach. I suffer too much. Fire in my stomach. Make fire in my head and I turn 'round like I am drunk man and I feel like I want shoot myself, and I figure, why I shoot myself? I am going to shoot president. If I was well, I no bother nobody."
"Don't you want to live, Joe? Don't you enjoy living?"
"No, because I sick all time."
"Don't you want to live?"
"I don't care whether I live or die. I don't care for that."
"Joe. there's something I gotta ask."
"You famous man. Ask what you like."
"Is there any insanity in your family. Joe?"
"No."
"Nobody crazy?"
"Nobody in crazy house."
"Are you a drinking man, Joe?"
"I can't drink. I can't drink. If I drink. I die. because my stomach is fire. I can't drink nothing."
"Can you eat?"
"I can't eat. Eat just a little bit, hurt me. Burn me. I come Miami for specialists but nobody can help the trouble."
"You said you're a citizen, Joe?"
"Yeah. Bricklayer union make me."
"Anybody in this country ever harm you?"
"No. nobody, no."
"You made a living here, didn't you? What kind of trouble did you have here?"
Zangara grimaced, impatient with Winchell for the first time; he pointed a finger at the scar. "Trouble is here. What is use of living? I better dead, suffer all the time, suffer all the time."
That stopped Winchell; amazing that anything could stop him. but it did, momentarily, and I stepped in and said, "Are you dying, Joe? Did you come here to Miami to die?"
His teeth flashed in the whitest grin I ever saw. "My job done," he said.
Winchell glanced at me, irritably, probably wishing he hadn't allowed me along, and started back in. "Why did you wait till Mr. Roosevelt had finished speaking? He was a better target when he was sitting up on the car."
That threw Zangara, just a bit, and he almost stuttered as he said, "No have chance because of people in front. Standing up."
"They were standing up when you shot at him. You had to stand on a bench to do it, right?"
"I do best I can. Not my fault. Bench shaky."
"That's where I came in." Winchell said to himself, glancing at his notes so far.
I said. "Did you know Mayor Cermak?"
The hand nervously stroked the rough chin and cheek again; the dark eyes avoided mine. "No. I didn't know him. I just want to kill the president."
"You don't know who Mayor Cermak is?"
"No, no, no. I want just the president. Just know president because I see picture in paper."
"Cermak had his picture in the paper lately. A couple of times."
Winchell butted back in, but picked up my thread. "Are you worried that Cermak might die?"
"Never hear of him."
"Joe, what's the Mafia?"
"Never hear of him, either."
Winchell looked at me; I smiled at him blandly.
He said, "You didn't shoot at Mayor Cermak? The Mafia didn't hire you to shoot at Mayor Cermak?"
Cocky now, almost laughing, Zangara said, "That's a baloney story."
"Why didn't you try to get away in the park, Joe?"
"Couldn't get away there. Too many peoples."
"Wasn't that suicidal, Joe?"
Zangara blinked.
"Risky, Joe," Winchell said. "Wasn't that risky?"
The naked little man shrugged again. "You can't see presidents alone. Always peoples."
True Detective Page 23