"I suess I did."
"I'd like to shake your hand."
I went over and shook his hand; it was a firm handshake.
"It's your quick thinking that has saved Tony's life." he said. "What's your name, son?"
I told him.
"Are you with the Chicago police?"
"Formerly. I'm a private operative. A bodyguard, last night. I'm reluctant to admit."
"I had good people all around me, Mr. Heller. There's not much you can do about a madman with a gun. Bob Clark, with the Secret Service and one of my best people, was right there, and he couldn't do anything about it- except get wounded himself. Just a graze, I'm pleased to say. You know, he's the man who accompanied one of your fellow Chicagoans to Atlanta Penitentiary a while back. A Mr. Al Capone. Of course I don't imagine either of you would run in the same circles as that fellow."
Roosevelt smiled at each of us, one at a time; Cermak and I returned his smile, but I was wondering if Roosevelt was just making a little joke or, if he knew of Cermak's reported Capone connections, a veiled reference indicating he suspected last night's gunplay was Chicago-bred.
In any event. Cermak changed the subject immediately. "Before you got to town," he said to Roosevelt. "I had a nice visit with Jim Farley."
Roosevelt looked at Cermak with surprise. "Yes, Jim has mentioned that to me. I spoke with him long distance today- he sends his best."
"We talked about the schoolteacher's salaries in Chicago, that have gone unpaid so long."
Roosevelt nodded.
"We've had difficulty collecting taxes in Chicago for two years. Big Bill left us a real mess; you know that. Mr. President. I am hoping you will be able to help us obtain a loan from the Reconstruction Finance Corporation sufficient to pay the teachers' back salaries."
Roosevelt was smiling, just a little; I thought I could see amazement in his expression. Amazement at Cermak's shamelessness in making political hay out of his situation. Cermak had him over a barreclass="underline" once the press got wind of the selfless requests from the hospital bed of the man who'd taken a bullet for him, Roosevelt would have little choice but to do his best to honor those requests.
"I'll see what I can do, Tony," Roosevelt nodded.
"Frank…"
"Yes, Tony?"
"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.