A buck bought me Farley's floor from a bellboy, and I went up and looked around: no bodyguards. Apparently Cermak was the only politician here on the run from gangsters. I waited around the corner from the elevators and listened as Cermak and his bodyguards and a couple of other men loudly got off. They went directly to Farley's room; I ducked down the stairs before Lang and Miller and company had a chance to look the floor over.
I had breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, and sat in the lobby and pretended to read the paper again. At eleven-thirty all heads turned as Farley, a big, bald-headed, pleasant-looking man. and a beaming Cermak. bodyguards bringing up his considerable rear, paraded across the Biltmore lobby. This public display meant the Roosevelt forces were at least pretending to be making up with Cermak for his failure to back their boy at the Chicago convention.
They went out and got in a Cadillac limo that was apparently Farley's, with only Miller accompanying Cermak. The other bodyguards followed in the Lincoln. I followed in the Ford.
Soon I was driving along an avenue of royal palms towering eighty or one hundred feet, and up ahead was Hialeah Park Racetrack. Amid more palms was the massive, vine-covered grandstand with its bougainvillea-overgrown trelliswork. It was early, but there were plenty of people, despite the damp weather (the rain had let up but the sky remained overcast), and I had plenty of faces to look at.
Farley, Cermak, and crew disappeared into the clubhouse, a little Spanish villa whose back was turned to the grandstand. They went in the side entrance, next to the grandstand, up wide steps that passed a terraced porch where millionaires sat behind a wrought-iron fence, like prisoners, and lunched. I followed Farley's party, or tried to: they went in through an archway, where a guy a bit too big to be a jockey was dressed like one. He stopped me.
"Are you a member, sir?" he asked.
"Pardon?"
"A member of the Jockey Club. It's a private club, sir."
"I'm sorry. I thought it was just a restaurant."
"It's a fine restaurant, sir. But you have to be a member."
I reached in my pocket. "No temporary memberships?"
Deadpan, he said. "No, sir. Excuse me."
That meant I was supposed to leave.
I hung around in front of the grandstand, studying the crowd.
At one-thirty. Farley and Cermak and an ever-increasing entourage went in to watch the races. So did I. They shared a special, centrally located box. I got as close as I felt prudent, and used the binoculars I rented from a vendor to study the crowd around the box.
I didn't place any bets; the damp, grass track would've made handicapping unreliable, anyway. But the crowd- the dampness had kept no one away, apparently, except maybe my blond quarry-- was having a loud, roaring time; many familiar faces from the Biltmore lobby were among the spectators, and they particularly were having a ball.
Even on this dreary day, Hialeah was impressive. It was a new track, built just a year or so ago, or actually rebuilt, as a track had been operating here since 1925, even though legal pari-mutuel betting didn't come to Florida till '31. But Joe Widener, the man who had reportedly spent fifty grand getting that bill pushed through at Tallahassee, had transformed Hialeah into something special. Along the backstretch was a green wall of feather)' pines, against which the jockeys' colors were a bright, bold moving design. The wide oval track surrounded a huge, landscaped area where lawns and flower beds circled a lake that seemed to be a bed of pink water lilies. The water lilies were actually a couple hundred pink flamingos.
"How do they keep those birds quiet?" I asked the guy next to me. between races. "Why don't they flap around more, with all the horses galloping and gunshots and everything?"
He shrugged. "They catch 'em down in Cuba and bring 'em up here and then clip their wings."
I thought about that. The pool of pink flamingos had seemed beautiful; now it didn't.
I had a hot dog and a Coke. The voice on the loudspeaker was getting the crowd worked up over today's big race, the Bahama Cup, which may have explained why so big a crowd was here on so dismal a day. I took a look at Cermak and Farley through the binoculars. They were all smiles, but the smiles seemed forced: they seemed to be talking, more than watching the race. Anyway, Cermak did. Maybe things hadn't gone as well at their meeting this morning as the mayor's smile in the Biltmore lobby might've led one to believe.
The Coke went right through me, and during the Bahama Cup, I figured it would be a good time to hit their normally crowded public facility. I walked out of the stands down to the John and went in. I had it to myself: I stood and emptied my bladder, and thought about what a dull business it was I was in.
A hand settled on my shoulder.
I looked back.
It was Miller. Lang was just behind him. Their smiles were as dull as their eyes.
"Zip up, Heller," Miller said. "You're coming with us."
I zipped up.
Unbuttoned my coat.
Turned around slowly and smiled. "Nice room you got" I said, reaching back, flushing the urinal. "You guys're lucky to find something so suited to you. at the peak of the tourist season. Close to the track and all."
"I said, you're coming with us, wise guy." Miller said, and grabbed my right arm.
With my left I jerked the Police Special out of my waistband and buried it in Miller's gut so hard it backed him up; but I followed him. and the gun stayed where it was, as I reached in under his suitcoat and got his.45 revolver.
I backed him right into a toilet stall, and said, "Sit."
He sat.
Lang had his mouth open and his gun out, a.45 revolver; his.3 8 was back in Chicago being held as evidence in the forthcoming Nitti trial.
I pointed the Police Special at the seated Miller and Miller's .45 at Lang. Pretty soon Lang put his gun away, holding his hands out, palms up, empty, and put on a small but ridiculous conciliatory smile.
I didn't put my guns away.
I said. "You boobs are finished telling me where to go."
"Go to hell," Miller said still sitting.
I leaned in the stall and rapped him on the side of the head with the Police Special; his hat fell off. hitting a damp spot near the stool. He wasn't bleeding, but he wasn't cracking wise anymore, either.
Lang had taken this as an opportunity to move on me. and he was as fast as a fat old lady; I slapped him with Miller's.45 and he went down on his side. He bled, a little. I put the Police Special away, dropped the.45 in the refuse bin, went over and got Lang a couple of paper towels, got one of them wet at the sink, tossed 'em to him.
"Did you guys want to talk to me or something?" I asked.
Lang, on the floor, and Miller, from his stall, exchanged glances; they were big men, and the two of them together could certainly take me. But the Police Special was stuck in my waistband where I could get at it quickly, and they knew my mood was such that going any further with this was going to be expensive.
About this time a man came in and took a leak. With Lang on the floor, and Miller sitting on the stool with his pants up, and me with a thumb and a gun in my waistband, it was obvious something was going on; so the guy didn't bother washing his hands. He probably only did half of what he came to.
"There's better places to talk," Lang said, getting up. brushing himself off. Miller was coming slowly out of the stall, examining the damp spot on his hat, keeping his owllike face blank, but the eyes behind the Coke-bottle lenses were seething.
I buttoned my coat. "Let's go talk outside." I said.
I held the door for them.
The results of the Bahama Cup were being announced over the loudspeaker, and enough people must've placed the right bet. because a cheer went up. We walked down out of the stands and down the stairs onto the lavishly landscaped grounds of Hialeah Park. We found a palm tree to stand under, which was no trick.