For Sale —American Paradise (27 page)

Nor was he impressed with the crowds who were being drawn to Florida.

“All country jakedom from Wyoming East & Maine south is moving in,” he wrote to H. L. Mencken.

Dreiser was critical even of Coral Gables.

“What is the matter with Coral Gables?” he wrote in his diary. “A cut and dried commercial proposition. Poetry and art manufactured to order. The mass told how and what to do.”

At about the same time that Dreiser was sniffing haughtily at George Merrick's creation, the boomers and builders in Miami suffered another crippling blow.

Ambitious developers looking for a way to circumvent the severe shortage of building materials hit upon an idea to get a structure up and operating quickly. They bought an old Danish steel-
hulled schooner named the
Prins Valdemar
. Their plan was to tow it into the Miami harbor and convert it into a floating hotel and casino.

The railroad embargo on freight shipping, which would be in effect for another four months, had jammed the harbor with ships waiting for a place to unload at the docks. As many as thirty ships often were waiting offshore for their turn to enter the harbor. Many of the ships carried building supplies that builders couldn't wait to get their hands on.

On January 9, the
Prins Valdemar
was being towed through the harbor channel when it ran aground and refused to be budged. The old ship blocked the entrance to the harbor like a cork in a bottle. Maritime traffic was halted, and no ship could enter or leave.

Marine engineers were trying to figure out how to move the ship when the outgoing tide caused it to suddenly capsize around noon on January 10.

More than a month would pass before the US Army Corps of Engineers could cut a new channel, and still more time before the old ship could be refloated.

Miami historian Paul George noted that the shipping tie-
up caused by the capsized schooner was devastating for Miami's economy.

“The dearth of building supplies caused by the shipping impasse crippled the boom, because without the continued construction of new buildings, a collapse of boom-time speculative prices was assured,” George wrote.

Five days after the
Prins Valdemar
locked up the harbor, George Merrick opened his sumptuous Miami Biltmore Hotel. Special Atlantic Coast Line and Seaboard Air Line trains brought around three hundred VIP businessmen from the Northeast for the opening.

The VIPs joined a gathering of about 1,500 guests that were part of a “formal in the extreme” splendor “rarely seen in the South,” the
Miami Daily News
noted.

The Biltmore's opening dripped with opulence. In addition to the 1,500 invitees decked out in formal evening finery, dozens of beautiful young fashion models also were brought in from New York. They were dressed in an “assortment of costumes, wraps, evening gowns, and exquisite creations for every occasion,” and draped with borrowed furs and jewels worth more than $200,000—more than $2.6 million in twenty-first-century dollars.

Several dining rooms were used to serve the celebrants, and stages were set up in each one. After parading across the stages to the accompaniment of
orchestras, the gorgeously attired women roamed among guests on the lushly landscaped grounds outside the hotel.

It was a scene that could have been torn from the pages of
The Great Gatsby
, a lavish display of the wealth, style, and excess that epitomized the Roaring Twenties, and it would become a high-water mark of Florida's Jazz Age splendor.

Three days after the extravagant opening of the Biltmore, a large advertisement appeared in the
Miami Daily News
that likely alarmed knowledgeable readers who had grand expectations of their real estate investments. The real estate firm of Meyer & Tritton was offering lots—business property and apartment sites—in Coral Gables at 50 percent below market price.

“Here is one of those opportunities that allow you an immense return on your investment in a short time—with absolute safety,” the ad copy read.

There was no explanation as to why Meyer & Tritton was making such a generous offer. But anyone who had been chasing a fortune in Florida real estate knew that prices had been going up, not down, for several years. If prices in one of Florida's blue-chip developments were going down, it must be because the simple but stern forces of the market were coming into play. Even a good product will not sell if no one wants to buy it. The implication of the ad was that Meyer & Tritton wanted to cut their losses and get rid of a product they couldn't sell.

Thursday, January 28, 1926, dawned clear and brisk in Stuart. Around 7:15 a.m., Governor John Martin arrived with his wife and entourage to celebrate the creation of the county named after him.

“The sun shone brightly, the birds sang sweetly, and everybody was happy,” the
South Florida Developer
reported.

There was not an official attendance count, but the
Developer
reported that ten thousand barbecue sandwiches were served to the crowd, and Governor Martin stood on a reviewing stand for well over an hour as a two-mile-long parade that included two thousand participants marched past.

The governor, immeasurably pleased that his name would be immortalized by having a county named after him, gushed with praise for Stuart and the people who'd led the effort to form that county.

“If ever a community had a personality in her people, it is our hostess today, in this atmosphere of enterprise and solidity of growth, in this place of friendliness and hospitality, in this beautiful land where nature has given all, we meet at every corner an environment that insures a future that must make the mind marvel,” Martin said to the gathering.

The festivities continued into the evening at a banquet and ball in the new Dixie-Pelican Hotel. Edwin Menninger was the master of ceremonies.

“Beautifully gowned women from all over the state, military uniforms, and the presence of the Governor and First Lady of Florida all combined to lend an air of distinction to the opening ceremonies,” the
Developer
reported.

There was a fireworks show, and the partying continued long into the night. Since it was illegal to sell or possess liquor, there were no overt references to intoxicating beverages being served. But the
Developer
did mention a private party attended by fifteen or so people. Some of those attending were especially proud of their Scotch ancestry, and several times drank to the memory of eighteenth-century Scottish poet Robert Burns.

Not all of the toasts were water, the
Developer
winked.

After a couple days of celebrating, the crowds departed and the cleanup began. A rumor began circulating around town that one person who'd played a very important role in making sure the festivities were happy was himself very unhappy. According to the tale, the bootlegger who'd brought in a boatload of booze hadn't been paid, and the people who'd hired his services didn't have the cash to pay him.

He was, so the story went, furious at being stiffed. He flung angry curses at them, and said he hoped all of their brilliant plans and bright dreams would dry up and be blown away.

They laughed at him, so the story went. Everyone knew the good times would never end.

Still, ominous indications of trouble in paradise continued to appear.

About a week after the celebration in Stuart, an ad appeared in the
New York Times
. An entire subdivision in Highlands County—in the interior of the peninsula, northwest of Lake Okeechobee between Fort Pierce and Sarasota—was for sale. The property should have sold for about $2.75 million; the asking price was $750,000.

One of the development's partners had developed a “sudden illness,” the ad said.

On the heels of the discount offering of Florida real estate came the news that Charles Ponzi was in trouble again. A grand jury in Jacksonville had indicted the convicted scam artist along with his wife and two partners for violating Florida laws regulating real estate sales. Ponzi, who said he was trying to repay the investors who'd lost money in the confidence scheme that had sent him to prison earlier, hadn't bothered to get a license to sell real estate in Florida.

On February 8, Solomon Davies Warfield's Seaboard Air Line Railroad continued its ambitious expansion in Florida, breaking ground for new tracks to extend its service to Naples. A few days later, Arthur Brisbane—who by now had more than a casual interest in Warfield's plans in Florida—was back in Stuart, and once again on the front page of the
South Florida Developer
.

Brisbane was accompanied once more by two Seaboard Air Line executives. He held court with some of the town's businessmen, and had more praise for Stuart.

“This is wonderful,” he told the
Developer
. “You are given by nature in Stuart what in Miami man is seeking to create with his own hands. Stuart has a magic location which will make it one of the great cities of Florida in coming years.”

The
New Yorker
magazine's edition of February 13 hit the newsstands the same day Brisbane was in Stuart. The magazine's cover, known for its quirky depictions of timely topics, featured a cartoon map of Florida showing palm trees, a train, and pleasure boats. It was a reminder that the nation hadn't lost its fascination with the state, despite the downturn in real estate sales.

The Miami social season was in full swing when the
New Yorker
's Florida cover hit newsstands, and hotels were advertising entertainment by nationally known artists. The influence of African-American popular music was spreading to white orchestras, and white patrons were finding their way to previously all-black nightclubs to hear jazz. Popular music had a harmonic richness that was unique.

The hotels and nightclubs in and around Miami were full of jazz.

The Jan Garber Orchestra was playing at Tahiti Beach in Coral Gables, and Gene Fosdick and his Orchestra were playing at the Fleetwood Hotel. Elsie Janis, billed as “America's foremost comedienne,” was appearing at the Hollywood Golf and Country Club. And the world-
renowned Paul Whiteman Orchestra was playing for the afternoon tea dance at the Coral Gables Country Club.

The crowds attending these festive affairs were thirsty, and they'd heard that it wasn't hard to get a drink in Miami despite the presence of Coast Guard cutters trying to enforce Prohibition.

The easy availability of liquor was due in no small part to Duncan “Red” Shannon, the audacious bootlegger who had thumbed his nose, literally, at the commissioner in charge of enforcing Prohibition.

Shannon, a jovial, fun-loving daredevil who spent his ill-gotten earnings almost as quickly as he earned them, had been compared to such legendary sea-going lawbreakers as Jose “Gasparilla” Gaspar and Jean Lafitte, pirates who had operated in the waters off Florida. To the Coast Guard sailors saddled with the nearly impossible task of enforcing the Volstead Act in Florida, Shannon was known as the “king” of Miami bootleggers.

But Shannon had made enemies among other bootleggers operating in Florida. In 1925, his testimony in federal court in Pensacola had sent three rival bootleggers to prison.

Coast Guardsmen reportedly had a begrudging respect for Shannon, but when he brazenly thumbed his nose at them in front of General Lincoln Andrews, he'd crossed a line. When Coast Guard officers got a tip—perhaps from friends of the bootleggers he'd sent to jail—that Shannon would be hauling a load of booze into Biscayne Bay, they decided to use a speedy captured rumrunner to set a trap for him.

Late on the afternoon of February 24, as the sunset tinted the skies and waters with shades of pink and vermilion, an orchestra was playing foxtrots and other popular dance music for the elegantly attired guests enjoying a tea dance at the Flamingo—the hotel that had hosted a president, and was currently hosting two famous movie stars.

Red Shannon was making his run from the Bahamas. The
Goose
was loaded with whiskey.

Coast Guard Ensign Philip Shaw, commanding the converted rumrunner that was waiting for Shannon, spotted his quarry cruising across Biscayne Bay. Usually the sharp-
eyed and ever-
alert Shannon easily spotted his adversaries, but this time, the Coast Guard's ruse worked. Shannon had no idea Coast Guards-men were watching him as he approached the shore.