"I'm glad it was me instead of you."
And Cermak winked at the president-elect.
In the background. Bowler's eyes went wide.
Roosevelt smiled slyly; he'd seen the papers, too. For a moment I thought he might agree with Cermak: I'm glad it was you, too, Tony.
But instead he said, "I'll see you at the world's fair. Tony."
And wheeled out of the room, the entourage following- all but one doctor, the older one, who said to me, "Mr. Heller? Please?"
"Okay," I said, and moved toward the door.
As I did, Cermak began to cough; the doctor rushed past me. There was blood on Cermak's chin.
"Get the nurse," the doctor said to me.
I went out in the corridor and got her.
The doctor was wiping the blood off Cermak's face when I got back, but Cermak was grasping his stomach, his fingers like claws.
"How much pain are you in?" he asked.
"Terrible pain," Cermak said. "It's the… old trouble of mine. The stomach. Causing me terrible pain. Stomach hurts. It hurts."
I slipped out of the room; I didn't say good-bye to Lang and Miller.
I drove my forty-buck Ford back to the guy I bought it from and he informed me it was now a twenty-five-buck Ford, and I sold it to him for that and caught my 2:30 P.M. train back to Chicago.
Mayor Cermak's funeral was held in Chicago Stadium, where, the summer before. Franklin Roosevelt had been nominated for president. The floor of the stadium was elaborately landscaped into a huge cross of lawn and flowers. About twenty-five thousand people filled the stadium- approximately the same number who'd filled the bowl at Bayfront Park. Eulogies were presented by a priest, minister, and rabbi- a "balanced ticket," as one cynic said, reflecting Cermak's only true religion: politics.
And many politicians were on hand, of course; but President Roosevelt wasn't one of them. Just a few days before had been his inauguration. And today he was still in the midst of the banking crisis that had him declaring bank holidays and pushing an emergency banking act through a special session of Congress, among the many other bold moves that marked the opening days of his administration. He did send a representative to the funeral, though: Jim Farley, whose attention Cermak now, finally, commanded.
Governor Horner gave the political eulogy. He said, among other things, "The mayor met his public foes in battle array and attacked with such force and rapidity that the well-organized army of the underworld was soon confused and scattered."
The greatest public funeral in Chicago's history, they called it; and no matter where you were in Chicago on the bitterly cold morning of March 10, 1933, you couldn't miss it. I was in my office, trying out the radio that I'd finally bought- and found the two-and-a-half-hour ceremony being broadcast on most of the stations. I also found myself drawn to listening to it, dull as it was. I was fascinated by Chicago's efforts to turn Cermak into the "martyr mayor," and a little surprised at how little trouble Chicago was having swallowing it.
A few newspaper articles suggesting the mob connection appeared in the days following the shooting; but the chief of detectives- whose son was one of Cermak's bodyguards, remember- had publicly dismissed the theory, and it hadn't reared its head since.
And then the papers had been full of the up-and-down battle Cermak was waging for his life; that, more than anything, had turned him into a hero. The doctors issued statement after statement citing Cermak's "indomitable courage and will to live"; from the start he was given at least a fifty-fifty chance to pull through.
As for Zangara, he was tried for attempted murder, four counts: Roosevelt, Cermak, and two of the other victims. His story remained for the most part the same as the one he related to Winchell. Occasionally details would shift, but usually it was the same- often word for word the same, delivered with the quiet smile of somebody who knows something you don't know. The psychiatrists examined him and termed him sane; and the judge gave him eighty years. Zangara laughed and said, "Oh, Judge, don't be stingy. Give me a hundred years." And was taken back to his skyscraper jail cell.
A few things came out at the trial that nobody- including the defense- seemed very interested in. One was the testimony of several Miami Beach hotel clerks who said that Zangara was constantly receiving mail and packages postmarked Chicago, and always seemed to have plenty of money. The manager of the pawnshop Zangara bought his.32 revolver from said that he'd done business with Zangara for nearly two years and that "… he was supposed to be a bricklayer, but he didn't work at that trade- he always seemed to have money."
Zangara had money, all right: he admitted losing two hundred dollars at the dog track a day or so before the shooting, and in addition to the money he'd had on him- fort)' bucks- he had two hundred and fifty dollars in a postal savings account. His bankbook showed that the account had. not long ago, contained twenty-five hundred dollars. No one asked Zangara what became of the money, whether he'd sent it home to his father and stepmother and six sisters in Italy, with whom even now he was corresponding. The prosecution did ask Zangara where the money came from, and he had no explanation, other than insisting that he'd earned it as a bricklayer- even though he'd been out of work three years.
Other stories circulated that had no apparent basis in fact: some of the papers reported that Zangara had a drawerful of clippings about Roosevelt's visit to Miami, as well as others about the assassinations of Lincoln and McKinley. Testimony on the witness stand by investigators made no mention of any such clippings.
But Zangara's litany- "kill the president, kill any president, kill all president"- drowned everything else out. Nobody seemed to notice that Zangara's raving usually was accompanied by a nervous smile, like a child actor who knows the lines but doesn't really have the maturity to give a convincing performance.
I didn't see any of this in person, of course; but it made the newsreels. That sheriff whose shorts Winchell had dropped the fame bug down appeared with Zangara in most of the reels; and Zangara seemed to have been bitten by the bug, too, as he was pictured more than once sitting in his cell surrounded by newspapers with his name in headlines. The judge at Zangara's trial also made the newsreels, giving interviews about the special summation he'd made before pronouncing sentence, in which he'd made an urgent plea for control of handguns: several civic groups took the judge's lead but went another step with it. urging handguns be outright banned.
On hearing of Zangara's eighty-year sentence, Cermak, in the midst of a rally (a political rally, by the time Cermak got through with it), said, "They certainly mete out justice pretty fast in this state." He went on to wistfully wonder why other states didn't learn from Florida's example, and stamp out crime via speedier trials.
And when, after the daily reports of improvement alternating with crisis came to an end, Cermak died in a coma on the morning of March 6, the state of Florida didn't disappoint him. Zangara was retried within three days, and sentenced to die at Raiford Penitentiary on March 20. The papers said the electric chair sat in the midst of a little cubicle at the end of a long corridor; when Zangara sat in it, he must've looked like a kid in a grotesque high chair.
He'd taken that seat of his own accord, shaking free from the grasp of two guards who meant to lead him to it; he sat and said, smiling, "See? I no scared of electric chair." But then he looked about and saw no cameramen among the handful of reporters present in the visitors' gallery. And he said, "No camera? No movie to take a picture of Zangara?"
The warden said, "No. That isn't allowed."
"Lousy capitalists!"
Guards placed a black hood over his head and he said, "Good-bye- adios to all the world, lousy world." And then: "Push the button."
And Zangara got his way.
Of course it came out. within days of the execution, that the real cause of Cermak's death was colitis, despite an autopsy report attributing the primary cause of death to the gunshot wound, enabling Florida to rush Zangara to judgment. The nine physicians who signed the report, with colitis listed only
as a contributing factor, later admitted that the wound was at best "indirectly" responsible; that, as earlier reports indicated, the wound had in fact healed; that Cermak had indeed died of ulcerative colitis, that "old problem" of his.
Of course the way I saw it, fair was fair: Zangara's bellyache had killed Cermak, in a way; why shouldn't Cermak's bellyache return Zangara the favor?
The morning the state of Florida was frying Joe Zangara, the state of Illinois was attempting to try Frank Nitti for shooting police Sgt. Harry Lang in the hand while resisting arrest. I hadn't been called to the grand jury indictment hearing in January, due no doubt to Cermak's string-pulling and the general assumption that the case was cut-and-dried; but for the trial I was present, sitting next to Lang with Miller on the other side of him, as we all waited to see if we'd get to speak our pieces today. Lang and Miller had been very friendly to me, so far; just three pals getting their day in court.
Nitti and his counsel approached the bench. Nitti, looking tan and healthy but a trifle thin, was wearing a blue serge suit with a blue tie; he looked like a business executive, except perhaps for the barber-slick hair.
I heard Lang whisper to Miller, "Jesus, look at Nitti. He's brown as a berry. Where'd the wop get the tan?"
I said, in less of a whisper than Lang, "Haven't you guys heard? Nitti's been in Miami vacationing, and looking after his business interests."
They turned and looked at me blankly.
Then Lang whispered, "No kidding?"
"No kidding. He went down the day after Cermak got shot. Probably a show of support for the people who work for him, down Miami way. Sort of a busman's holiday, while he healed up from your police-work."
Lang thought about that and swallowed; behind the Coke-bottle lenses, Miller seemed to be putting two plus two together, too.
Then, forgetting to be nice, Lang sneered and said, "What makes you so well-informed?"
"Ever hear of a guy named Ness?" I said.
They thought about that awhile, too, as up at the bench Nitti's lawyer- a well-dressed Italian shorter than his client- was filing a motion for a continuance.
"I want to question the three officers in the case," the attorney said. "I just got into this case last Friday, and need time to prepare thoroughly."
The judge asked Nitti to step forward and approach the bench, and asked him to plead.
"Not guilty," Nitti said. "And I want a jury trial."
Lang was shifting nervously in his seat.
Nitti's attorney asked for a ruling on the continuance, and, despite the prosecutor's demand for an immediate trial, the case was held over till April 6.
I had the end seat, and got up and started to leave.
Lang stopped me in the aisle, smiled. "I guess I'll be seeing you in April."
Miller was standing behind him like a fat shadow.
"I guess so," I said.
Then, in a stage whisper, Lang said, "A deal's a deal, Heller."
I smiled at him. "That deal's with a dead man. You're on your own, jackass."
Lang sputtered. "Listen, Heller, Cermak"
"Is dead. See you in court."
And I left. Behind me. Lang and Miller huddled like a football team that wondered where the hell their quarterback went to.
I wasn't sure yet whether I was just giving them a bad time, or if I really meant something by all that; but the prosecutor, a feisty little guy who didn't dress as good as Nitti's lawyer, was waiting for me out in the hall.
"Got a minute, Heller?" he asked.
"I got to get back to my office."
"I just want to say one thing: You didn't give testimony at the inquest. And you weren't called at the grand jury hearing."
"That's two things."
"No it isn't." he said. "It's one thing: you haven't perjured yourself yet." Like any good trial lawyer, he knew when to pause dramatically; he paused dramatically, and said, "Now. Got a minute?"
We went to his office.
It was Thursday, April 6, and I was sitting in a speakeasy with Eliot Ness.
"I don't usually have a beer for breakfast," Eliot was saying, raising the mug to his wry smile.
It was Barney's speak, of course, and it was closed. We were the only ones in the joint, except for Barney himself, who was sitting in the booth next to me and across from Eliot, saying, "Might be your last chance to break the law this way, Mr. Ness."
Despite the fact they were both my friends, Barney and Eliot barely knew each other; and on the few occasions I did get them together, they insisted on calling each other "mister." I tried to stop 'em, but it didn't do any good: they respected each other, and I just couldn't seem to talk 'em out of it.
"So it's all over, tonight at midnight," I said.
Eliot shrugged. "It's been over for months. But, technically, just because beer's legal again doesn't mean the dry agents'll dry up, not right away anyway." He gestured over toward Barney's bar, behind which bottles lined the mirror. "That stuffs still a crime, you know."
Barney said, "I just haven't crated that up, yet. We're only serving setups, till Repeal comes in a hundred percent."
"It's only in three point two percent, at the moment," Eliot said. "Can I have another one of these?"
"Sure. HI get it…"
"I can get it. It'll be a change of pace, drawing a beer without using an ax."
Eliot went over behind the bar and got himself a beer.
"No kidding, Barney," I said, "you're really packing the hard stuff up and sticking with beer and setups?"
He nodded. "Winch and Pian have been on my case about a nice respectable Jewish contender like me running a speakeasy, so now that I can open up legal, I'm gonna. You'll be able to buy your rum here aboveboard and over-the-counter, 'fore too long. Roosevelt'll come through for us, wait and see."
Eliot was back; sat down. Sipped his beer and said to Barney, "When are they going to give you your shot at Canzoneri? After you put Billy Petrole away at the stadium last month, I don't see how they can deny you."
"You spoiled my surprise, Mr. Ness," Barney grinned, "I haven't told Nate yet, 'cause we won't get the contracts back signed and sealed till this afternoon. But I put my John Henry down a couple days ago. I'm getting my title shot."
I said, "Barney, that's great. When's it set for?"
"June. Gonna take advantage of those world's fair crowds."
"That's just great, Barney."
"I'll have tickets for you guys if you want 'em. I hope you both'll be there."
Eliot said. "Try and stop us." and raised his mug of beer in a toast.
Barney turned to me. "Can I get you a beer or something? Help me celebrate a little?"
"No thanks, champ. I got to testify in half an hour."
Eliot looked at his watch. "That's right." He drained the beer. "Let's 20."
Near the Bismarck there was a parking lot. where Eliot left his government Ford, and we walked over to City Hall, half of which was the County Building, where the courtroom was. The day was cloudy and in the lower forties, windy enough to be chilly; a light rain fell. We walked with our heads lowered and our hands dug in our raincoat pockets.
"Eliot," I said.
"Yeah?"
"This prosecutor."
"Charley, you mean?"
"You just answered my question."
"What question?"
"I've just been wondering if the prosecutor was a friend of yours, that's all."
He pretended not to get my drift.
But before we went in the building, I stopped him, put a hand on his arm and we stood in the rain, close enough that I could smell the beer on his breath.
"I know you got my best interests at heart," I said.
"Yeah,'but'..."
I grinned. "No 'buts' about it. I know you got my best interests at heart. Thanks, Eliot."
He grinned back. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Eliot sat next to me in the courtroom, and that made Lang, a couple rows up,
nervous. He kept craning his neck around to look at us, a vaguely desperate look on his face. He'd brought some of the nervousness along with him, apparently, as he'd also brought his lawyer, who sat next to him- the same dapper little fat attorney who'd come to that ditch in the Indiana dunes to identify the body of Ted Newberry, back in January- and who noticed Lang turning to look at me and stopped him doing it.
But Miller, sitting on the other side of Lang, wondering what his partner was looking at. turned and looked at us, too, and seemed similarly disturbed.
I hadn't had any contact with either of them since Nitti got his continuance, in this same courtroom, a few weeks before. No threatening phone calls or bribes or confrontations. Not that I had expected them to try anything. They probably wouldn't have risked doing anything to me themselves, at this point; and as far as I knew the only gang affiliation they had was with the Newberry/Moran group, who weren't much of a threat to anybody these days, many of their various members having defected to sign up with other factions, primarily the major one: Nitti's. But I'd been sleeping with my gun under my pillow just the same.
Besides, for all they knew I might get on the stand and tell the story they wanted me to.
The judge came in, and we all rose, and, despite his lawyer's admonitions, Lang turned and looked at me again, and I winked at him, like Cermak did at Roosevelt.
And Lang was the first witness called.
He walked to the stand and as he passed Nitti, Nitti muttered something, presumably nasty. It wasn't loud enough for the judge to rap his gavel and reprimand Nitti- but it was plenty to unnerve Lang another notch. He took the stand and, after the prosecutor had asked a few perfunctory questions to establish the legality of entering the office at the Wacker-LaSalle without a warrant. Nitti's lawyer rose from the defense table and approached the bald cop.
"Who shot you?"
Lang looked at me.
"Who shot you. Sergeant Lang?"
The answer to that question, of course, was supposed to be. "Frank Nitti."
But Lana said. "I don't know who shot me."
Over at the prosecution table, the prosecutor jumped to his feet, as did several associates of his. and a wave of surprise- noisy surprise rolled over the courtroom. Several people stood; one of them was Miller. His fists were clenched, and he said, "Dirty son of a bitch."
True Detective Page 25
