"Are you an anarchist, Joe? A Communist?"
"Republican," he said.
That stopped Winchell, too.
Then he said, "So you wouldn't try to kill President Hoover, I suppose."
"Sure. If I see him first, I kill him first. All same, it makes no difference."
The sheriff interrupted. "Zangara, if Mr. Roosevelt came in this jail and you had your pistol back in your hand, would you kill him now?"
"Sure."
"Do you want to kill me? Or the policemen who caught you?"
"I no care to kill police. They work for living. I am for workingman, against rich and powerful. As a man. I like Mr. Roosevelt. As a president. I want to kill him."
Winchell jumped back in. "Do you believe in God. Joe? Do you belong to a church?"
"No! No. I belong to nothing. I belong only to myself, and I suffer."
"You don't believe there is any God. heaven or hell or anything like that?"
"No. Everything on this earth like weed. All on this earth. There no God. It's all below."
Winchell had run out of questions.
Zangara turned and walked toward the window in his cell. He could see Biscayne Bay out of it. A gentle breeze was coming through: I could feel it from where I stood.
The sheriff said. "We'll get you a lawyer tomorrow, Zangara."
His bare back still to us. he said, "No lawyer. I don't want nobody to help me."
The sheriff asked Winchell if he was done, and Winchell nodded, and we walked back out through the cellblock, our footsteps echoing, the black man still sitting on his haunches on his cot; he was laughing, now. to himself. Rocking back and forth.
At the elevator the sheriff shook Winchell's hand and spelled his name for Winchell three times; and we went down.
Winchell was silent in the elevator, but outside, in the Miami night air. he put a hand on my arm and said. "What's your name, kid?"
"Heller."
He smiled; showed some teeth for a change. "Aren't you going to spell it?"
"I don't want to be in your story."
"Good, 'cause you're not. You're Chicago, right?"
"Born and bred."
"What do you make of that back there?"
"You're New York. What do you make of it?"
"Hogwash."
"Is that what they call it in New York?"
"It's one of the things you can call it in print. Bullshit by any name would smell as sweet."
"That scar on his stomach isn't bullshit."
"No. It's real enough. Ever hear of Owney Madden?"
Raft's gangster friend.
"Sure," I said.
"He's a pal of mine," Winchell said. "He saved my life when Dutch Schultz got mad at me. I got a little fresh in my column, where Schultz and Vince Coll were concerned. Predicted Coil's murder the day before it happened."
"And Schultz didn't like that."
"No, and I was on the spot. I lived under the threat of a gangland execution for months; I had a goddamn nervous breakdown from it, kid. I ain't ashamed to say."
"Your point being?"
"I'm a public figure. They shouldn't have been able to bump me off without a major stink. I pointed this out to Owney. You know what he said?"
"What?"
"They could find a way, he said. They could find a way and nobody would even know it was them who bumped me off."
We stood halfway down the steps of the courthouse, the balmy breeze fanning us like a lazy eunuch.
"I think that little bastard hit Cermak," Winchell said. "I think he thinks he's dying from that stomach of his anyway, and they probably promised to support that family of his back in Italy in return for him taking Tony out. and for his silence. What do you think?"
"I think you're right on the money." I said. "But if you print it, nobody'll ever believe it."
"What's a guy to do?" Winchell asked. "The bullshit they'll believe."
And he walked off. looking for a taxi, now that traffic was moving again.
The next morning around seven. I read the Herald over breakfast in the Biltmore coffee shop: peeking out between the eyewitness accounts of last night's shooting at the park was an item about General Dawes. He was finally testifying to that Senate committee about the Insull case. Yes, it was true that he had loaned Insull eleven million dollars of the twenty-four-million-dollar capital and surplus of the Dawes bank; and he copped to "putting too many eggs in one basket." Puffing his pipe and nodding ruefully, he admitted, "The bankers of this country in retrospect look pretty sad." When asked for suggestions for new banking laws, he said, "I don't want to give any half-baked views on new laws- though that is a habit not unknown in Washington." The latter apparently got the General a laugh from the gallery. But not from me.
Then I went up to my room and packed my white suit and my two guns, and checked out and drove the forty-buck Ford to the northwest section of Miami. Up a winding lane lined with hibiscus, oleanders, jasmine, and crocus bushes was Jackson Memorial Hospital, a two-story building with any number of long rambling white stucco wings with red tile roofs and awnings on the windows, set amid lush palms.
I parked in the adjacent lot and walked to the entrance, where twenty or so beautiful young nurses were standing around chattering, all smiles and excitement, apparently awaiting the arrival of someone special; that someone did not seem to be me.
Within the reception area in the main wing were most of the reporters from the park last night, and then some. No Winchell. however. He'd filed his big story? and was leaving the pickings for lesser lights. Over against one wall Western Union had set up wires and typewriters for the press.
Two Secret Service men stopped me as I entered and asked who I was; I told them, showed them ID, and asked if there was any possibility of seeing Cermak. Without answering, one of them took me by the arm and walked me through the wall-to-wall reporters to a corridor just past the reception desk.
Still holding onto my arm. the Secret Service man said, to two more of his ilk guarding this corridor, "This is the guy Cermak's been asking to see."
Everybody except me nodded gravely, and I was escorted by the same guy down the corridor- which was bordered on either side by more pretty nurses. It was like a hospital scene in the latest production of Earl Carroll's Vanities: the cuties were all smiles and giggles as if about to break out into a song and tap dance.
The Secret Service man saw me falling over my feet, trying to look at both sides of the nurse-lined corridor at once, and said, "There's a nurses' training school here. The reporters have been taking a lot of pictures this morning."
"I bet."
Between clusters of nurses, doorways to hospital rooms stood open, and patients in bed were sitting up, leaning over in some cases, to get a look at me. Or who they hoped I'd be.
"When are you expecting Roosevelt, anyway?" I said.
The Secret Service man frowned at me, like I'd just let something big out of the bag. "He's due any time now."
Like any good parade, this one had pretty girls and flowers: floral displays lined the walls, stretching to the end of the corridor, where some people were grouped, among them Alderman Bowler, some more Secret Service men. a couple Miami detectives, and several white-coated doctors. Standing on either side of the door to the nearby hospital room were Lang and Miller.
"Doctor," the Secret Service man said. "This is Mr. Heller. The gentleman Mayor Cermak has been requesting."
Lang and Miller exchanged smirks at the word "gentleman."
White-haired Alderman Bowler gave me a weary smile and extended his hand. I took it, and Bowler said, "You kept your wits about you last night, young man. Thank you for that."
"That's more thanks than I deserve," I said. "How is the mayor doing?"
One of the doctors, a middle-aged man who, prematurely, was as gray as Bowler, said, "We're hopeful."
The other doctor, a younger man with glasses and a parchment tan, said, "There's no use deluding ourselves. The mayor's life
's in danger. The bullet- which is still in him, just over his right kidney pierced his right lung, and he's been coughing up some blood. There's a strain on his heart. And there's always danger of pneumonia developing, and/or infection."
The other doctor shot a withering glance at the younger one. who didn't seem to notice, or anyway care.
"I suppose." the older doctor said, "my colleague's reason for telling you all this is to give you a sense of the caution you need to take."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just that the mayor insists on seeing you; he's a stubborn man. and arguing with him on the subject will cause the very sort of excitement that we would like to avoid. So we're acquiescing to his wishes, where you're concerned."
"I'll take it easy with him. Doc. How are the other victims?"
"Only Mrs. Gill was seriously wounded," the younger one said. "She's in critical condition. The other four sustained only minor wounds."
The older doctor said, "Why don't you go on in."
I put my hand on the door to push it open and, just before I went in, said to Miller, as if noticing him for the first time, "Oh? Do you still work here?"
Cermak, propped up in bed- an older, nontrainee nurse hovering at his side- looked at me and managed a lopsided smile. His skin was gray, his eyes half-closed, his lips pallid. His hands were folded over his belly. All around the room, and in an adjoining sunroom where the other two bodyguards sat.
were flowers.
"I haven't seen so many flowers since Dion O'Bannion got killed," I said.
He laughed at that, just a little, and the nurse frowned at me, then at him.
I was at his bedside now. "How you feeling. Mayor?"
He shrugged with his face. "I wouldn't buy me if I was for sale," he said. His voice was breathy. "We need to talk."
"Fine."
He turned his head toward the nurse; it was an effort, but he did it. "Get out," he said.
She didn't think that was at all friendly, but she didn't bother arguing the point. She'd already spent some time with His Honor, apparently, and knew the futility of fighting him.
When she had gone, he said, "Shut the sunroom door for me, Heller."
I did that.
"And the window," he said.
I did that, too: two uniformed cops were standing outside the first-floor room, and they turned and danced at me as I brought the window down.
Then I went to his bedside; on the stand next to the bed was a stack of telegrams, thick as a book. The one on top was from the mayor of Prague.
"You know, Heller," he said, "I didn't know I'd been shot. I felt something stun me, like a jolt of electricity. But I didn't hear the shots, what with the noise of the crowd. Then my chest felt like the center of it was on fire."
"He got away, Your Honor."
"I was told they got him."
"I mean the blond."
"Oh."
"Assassins work in teams, usually. One of them shoots, the other is simply backup. The blond was the backup. Only if the assassin had missed you would the backup have started shooting, and probably would've got away with it, too, since the crowd's attention was on the little man emptying his gun at the president's car. The blond probably had a silenced gun, or was planning to pass himself off as a cop or Secret Service man in the confusion. He's worked a crowd before. Anyway, I made the mistake, because I knew he'd pulled a trigger in the past, of assuming he'd pull the trigger this time. I was wrong."
"You did what you could. If the other people working for me had done as good as you… well. They didn't, did they?"
"You'll get no argument from me on that score."
"I guess ultimately I got myself to blame."
I wouldn't have argued with him on that score, either, but didn't say so. Instead I said. "Have you seen the papers?"
"They haven't shown them to me." Cermak said. "I've been told the basics. Zangara? Is that the name?"
"That's the name."
"Italian, they say."
"That's right."
"What do the papers say exactly?"
"That this guy Zangara was trying to shoot Roosevelt."
He smiled a little. "Good."
"I thought maybe you'd feel that way. That's one of the reasons why I've been keeping my trap shut."
"About what?"
"Remember that gardener I was suspicious about? I had you check with your son-in-law to see if he'd hired any yardwork done?"
Cermak nodded.
"Well. I didn't check that out thoroughly enough. Another mistake I made. Your son-in-law undoubtedly did hire a gardener; but the guy I saw? trimming the hedges around that house wasn't who he hired. It was Zangara. Checking out the lay of the land."
Cermak said nothing.
"I got into the jail last night. I heard Zangara's story. It isn't much of a story, but it's probably going to hold up. He'll stick by it, anyway. I can see it in his eyes."
"You think Nitti sent him."
"Yeah. And so do you."
Cermak said nothing. His breathing was slow, heavy.
"I was hired to stop this." I said, "and I didn't. But one of the reasons I was lured to stop it was to avoid bad publicity. My client's business interests would not be served by having it widely known that you were shot by a Syndicate torpedo."
Cermak said. "Nor would mine."
I shrugged. "Fine. Then I'll keep your gardener's identity a deep dark secret, and you'll be a hero to all concerned- despite the fact that half the eyewitnesses say Zangara was shooting directly at you. By the way. did you really say that to the president?"
He looked puzzled. "Did I really say what?"
"The papers have you saying. 'I'm glad it was me instead of you.'"
Cermak laughed. "That's a crock of shit."
"Good for your public image, though."
He thought about it. Then he said, "I was elected to clean up Chicago's reputation, Heller. I was elected to be the goddamn world's fair mayor. And that's what I'm gonna be."
"Take it easy, Your Honor."
"It'll take more than one fucking bullet to pull this tough old hunky down. You go back and tell Chicago
I'm gonna pull through."
"But don't tell 'em anything else." I said.
"Right," he said.
The door opened and Bowler stuck his gray head in. "FDR's coming up the drive. Mr. Heller, would you mind…?"
I started to go, but Cermak said, "Why don't you stay."
"Okay," I said.
Bowler found that curious, but said nothing and went out.
Cermak said, "I could use a steak right now."
"What with that stomach trouble of yours?"
"Yeah, and I can feel it acting up. But I could still use a steak."
"Or some liver and dumplings?"
"Yeah, that's an idea. That'd plug up this goddamn hole."
There was scattered applause out in the corridor: the nurses were finally getting to greet who they'd been waiting for. No singing or tap-dancing, though.
Bowler stepped in and held the door open and President-elect Roosevelt, in a wheelchair, rolled in with a big smile and a number of people following him, among them the two doctors and the Secret Service man who'd earlier taken my arm. Roosevelt, in a cream-color suit, looked tan and fit. but, despite that patented smile, the eyes behind his glasses were red, worried.
"You look fine, Tony!" Roosevelt said, wheeling over to the bedside and extending his hand, which Cermak managed to take. "The first thing you know you'll be back on your feet."
"I hope so," Cermak said, his voice sounding suspiciously fainter than it had when we had spoken moments before. "I hope that'll be in time for your inauguration."
"Well, if you can't make it by then, you'll come and see me at the White House a little later."
"It's a date, Mr. President."
Roosevelt glanced at me. "I know you," he said.
"Not really, sir," I said.
"You called out to
me last night, and asked me to wait for Tony, here."
"I suess I did."
"I'd like to shake your hand."
I went over and shook his hand; it was a firm handshake.
"It's your quick thinking that has saved Tony's life." he said. "What's your name, son?"
I told him.
"Are you with the Chicago police?"
"Formerly. I'm a private operative. A bodyguard, last night. I'm reluctant to admit."
"I had good people all around me, Mr. Heller. There's not much you can do about a madman with a gun. Bob Clark, with the Secret Service and one of my best people, was right there, and he couldn't do anything about it- except get wounded himself. Just a graze, I'm pleased to say. You know, he's the man who accompanied one of your fellow Chicagoans to Atlanta Penitentiary a while back. A Mr. Al Capone. Of course I don't imagine either of you would run in the same circles as that fellow."
Roosevelt smiled at each of us, one at a time; Cermak and I returned his smile, but I was wondering if Roosevelt was just making a little joke or, if he knew of Cermak's reported Capone connections, a veiled reference indicating he suspected last night's gunplay was Chicago-bred.
In any event. Cermak changed the subject immediately. "Before you got to town," he said to Roosevelt. "I had a nice visit with Jim Farley."
Roosevelt looked at Cermak with surprise. "Yes, Jim has mentioned that to me. I spoke with him long distance today- he sends his best."
"We talked about the schoolteacher's salaries in Chicago, that have gone unpaid so long."
Roosevelt nodded.
"We've had difficulty collecting taxes in Chicago for two years. Big Bill left us a real mess; you know that. Mr. President. I am hoping you will be able to help us obtain a loan from the Reconstruction Finance Corporation sufficient to pay the teachers' back salaries."
Roosevelt was smiling, just a little; I thought I could see amazement in his expression. Amazement at Cermak's shamelessness in making political hay out of his situation. Cermak had him over a barrel: once the press got wind of the selfless requests from the hospital bed of the man who'd taken a bullet for him, Roosevelt would have little choice but to do his best to honor those requests.
"I'll see what I can do, Tony," Roosevelt nodded.
"Frank…"
"Yes, Tony?"
True Detective Page 24