True Detective

'Otherwise. I'll stay at my son-in-law's. With my bodyguards. I have some people to see. but they can come see me.'

'Good.' I said. 'Nitti won't expect that. He won't expect you to lie low. And I don't think he'll hit you at home. I think it has to be a public appearance, to make it look like something the Syndicate wasn't part of.'

'Then we've just got two events to deal with. The Biltmore dinner for Farley. Saturday; and Bayfront Park, Wednesday.'

'What?'

Cermak pointed off to his left. 'Bayfront Park. That's where Roosevelt is speaking.'

'You really ought to take a rain check on that one, Mayor.'

For the first time, the cold eyes softened a bit, and the smile seemed genuine. 'I undere^ didn't I. Heller?'

'Maybe not. Maybe I'm just coming into my own.'

'Maybe.'

'Where are you headed next?'

'To the toilet,' he said, standing, grimacing, holding his gut.

This time I followed him, and he motioned Miller to stay put.

His Honor was washing his hands when I said, 'You got to tighten your security up on the home front, too.'

'What do you mean?'

'I told your gardener I was with the Herald and he told me everything but your date of birth.'

Cermak dried his hands on a paper towel; he shrugged with his face. 'We don't have a gardener.'

'What?'

'Not really. Some neighbor kid does it: when my son-in-law's down, he does it himself. Relaxes him.'

'Your neighbor's kid isn't Cuban, is he?'

'Not hardly. Why?'

'Some Cuban was trimming your shrubs the other day.'

Cermak shrugged again, this time with his shoulders. 'My son-in-law probably hired somebody else to do the yard, to get it ready for when I got here.'

'Yeah. You're probably right.'

Anyway, it wasn't a Cuban I was looking for. Not unless it was a blond Cuban. But my blond could have a Cuban backup man, couldn't he?

'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