True Detective (29 page)

"We'll call long distance and check on it," Cermak said, "if it'll make you feel better."

"Please," I said.

"Now," Cermak said, "let's go break the news to Miller and Lang that you're pals."

A Goodyear blimp glided overhead. Out on a strip of land opposite the park, pelicans and gulls came in for flapping landings, then took off again. It was late Wednesday afternoon and sultry, and couples of varying ages strolled around Bayfront Park, sometimes stopping for a game of shuffleboard or to sit on a bench and watch the blue bay and the white boats.

I about tripped over one of the nearly invisible guy wires anchoring a big palm against the wind; those wires were a danger you could overlook, in this peaceful, lushly landscaped park. The main promenade, from the foot of East Flagler to the bay. was lined with flower beds, clipped pine hedges, royal palms, and couples on benches. It made me wonder what Mary Ann Beame was doing; it made me wonder if she was thinking about me at all, while I was down here trying to keep Chicago's mayor alive.

Other than the guy wires, the park seemed free from hidden danger. I strolled all forty acres of it, forty acres that had been pumped from the bay less than a decade ago and turned into a tropical paradise. I didn't see the blond anywhere; the automatic was under my shoulder, and the Police Special was nudging my middle, and if he came early, to look over what might be the scene of his crime, I might still get to plant the.38 on him and get this over with, before it started.

With the sun still sharing the sky with the blimp and a few lazily soaring planes, I took a seat in the front row of the amphitheater. Green benches that would seat eight thousand sloped down in a wide semicircle to face the band shell. The central dome of the stage was painted a garish red, orange, yellow, and green design, vaguely oriental, and on either side of it were two towers with acorn domes decorated in bands of silver, green, yellow, orange, and red. It looked like a Shriner's idea of Egypt, right down to the yellow stucco stage with its blue platform, red-fringed brown curtain, and paintings of Cairo street scenes on either side of the proscenium. On the stage, a makeshift wooden reviewing stand had been assembled, six rows high, with room for maybe twenty-five or thirty dignitaries, of which Cermak would be one. He was, in fact, to be in the front row.

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 imminent 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.