'No,' Zangara said.
'My name's Walter Winchell. Ever hear of me?'
Zangara thought about that. 'Maybe.'
'Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea…''
Zangara grinned. 'Radio. Sure. I know you. Famous man.'
'You want to be famous, Giuseppe?'
'Joe. Call me Joe. I'm American citizen.'
'You want to be famous. Joe?'
'I want to kill president.'
'To be famous?'
He thought about it.
'You talk to me.' Winchell went on, 'and you'll be famous. Talk. Joe.'
Zangara looked at me. Waiting for me to spill the beans, I guess. I wasn't talking.
He was: 'I try kill president. I try kill him because I no like government. Capitalists all crooks. Everything just for money. Take all president- kings, capitalists- kill. Take all money burn. That's my idea. That's why I want to kill president.'
'But you didn't kill the president, Joe.'
Zangara didn't seem too broken up about that. 'I failure,' he shrugged.
'You shot a lot of other people. They may die.'
Another shrug. 'Too bad.'
'Then you're sorry?'
'Yeah. sure, sorry like when bird, horse, cow die. Not my fault. Bench was shaky.'
'What do you mean?'
'Bench I stand on to kill president, it shaky.'
'It wobbled, you mean? That's why you missed?'
'Sure.' He looked at me again, puzzled this time. He wondered why I wasn't asking him about seeing him at Cermak's son-in-law's place; he wondered why he was getting away with his 'Kill-the-president' routine. I let him wonder.
Winchell got out a notebook, finally, said, 'Let's start from the beginning, Joe.'
'Fine.'
'How old are you?'
'Thirty-three.'
'Where were you bora?'
'Italy.'
'How long have you been in America?'
'Been here, 1923; September.'
'Ever been married, Joe?'
'No.'
'Your parents living?'
'My father living. My mother die when I was stepmother. Six sisters.'
'Where is your family now?'
'Calabria.'
'In Italy?'
'Yeah.' wo years old. I no remember my mother. I have
'What have you been doing since you got to America, Joe?'
'Oh, work. Bricklayer.' He glanced at me. smiled briefly, nervously, rubbed his small hand over his stubbly chin and cheek with tapering fingers, added, 'Sometimes gardener.'
Winchell kept shooting questions, taking the answers down with the fastest pencil I ever saw. 'Where have you lived in America?'
'Lot of time in New Jersey. Sometime Miami, sometime New York. I suffer with stomach'- he pointed to the six- inch scar across his belly- 'when cold, so I come Miami.'
'What have you been doing since you've been down here?'
'Nothing. I have little money.'
