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."