Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? Read online

  BROTHER CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?

  A Harry Bierce Mystery

  JACK MARTIN

  Blank Slate Press

  Saint Louis, MO 63110

  Copyright © 2015 Jack Martin

  All rights reserved.

  For information, contact:

  Blank Slate Press

  An imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group

  4168 Hartford Street, St. Louis, MO 63116

  A Harry Bierce Mystery, Book 1

  Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Set in Adobe Caslon Pro and Desdemona

  Interior designed by Elena Makansi

  Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015948267

  ISBN-13: 9781943075089

  Dedicated to Anson and Zachary Martin, tied for the position of my favorite nephew

  BROTHER CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1: “They used to tell me I was building a dream …”

  CHAPTER 2: “Say, don’t you remember, I’m your pal …”

  CHAPTER 3: “Once I built a tower up to the sun …”

  CHAPTER 4: “And so I followed the mob …”

  CHAPTER 5: “With peace and glory ahead …”

  AFTERWORD

  PROLOGUE

  15 February 1933, Miami, Florida

  Giuseppe Zangara was an angry man. First, at God, for having made him less than five feet tall and ugly as a monkey. Then at the capitalists who had started the Great War to line their pockets with money squeezed from the bodies of soldiers. Then at the king and aristocrats of Italy who had drafted him, trained him to be a sniper, and then turned him loose to kill his fellow workers. Then at the Fascists, Mussolini especially, who had persecuted him for his beliefs and driven him to flee to America. But above all, he was angry at America and its promise of freedom and opportunity. America—he could practically spit each time he said the word—was no different from the rest of them. From sea to shining sea, it was ruled by more of the same blood-sucking capitalists. Fascists in all but name. It made him sick.

  Three years into the Great Depression and still people bought into the promise. Why couldn’t anyone else see it? While the rich lived lives of ease and luxury, millions of people had been thrown out of work, their lives ruined, their families starving on the streets. And now foolish Americans think Roosevelt will be their savior. The bitterness threatened to overwhelm him as he walked along the Miami street. “The millionaire son, of a line of millionaires going back a century,” he muttered. He wanted to scream at passers-by, “Can’t you see? He is a fraud, a liar, an oppressor of the proletariat!” However, he realized that the man who had given him the money to get to Miami and buy the Colt .32 automatic was right.

  His benefactor had said the charming lies and smiling face of Roosevelt had fooled the working class. Something needed to be done to wake up the workers, to free them from the charm of the deceitful, plutocrat. Only then would they realize there could be no hope of better treatment from their capitalist oppressors. Only then would they wake up to the truth that nothing but a glorious revolution would do.

  Zangara stopped walking for a moment, and stared at his reflection in a cafeteria window. Even he had to wince. The image that greeted him was of a shabbily dressed, underfed gnome, just one of the millions of “forgotten men” the Depression had bestowed on America. He reached into his coat pocket and fingered the Colt .32. His bitter frown turned into a knowing smile, and he held his five-foot frame a little more erect. Soon, he would not be a forgotten man. Yes, soon the whole world would know who Giuseppe Zangara was.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt laughed as he ran along the warm beach, the incoming waves tickling his feet. He gloried in the exercise of his animal strength, his lean yet powerful six-foot two-inch body easily maintaining a pace few of his acquaintances could have matched. He must have run for at least a mile, yet his breathing was easy, his powerful legs untired. He smiled at the warm morning sun shining on his face as he ran, and ran, and ran….

  “Sorry to wake you, Governor, but you need to get up. Folks will be expecting your speech.”

  Roosevelt opened his eyes to find George, his manservant, looking down at him.

  “Got your chair,” said George, wheeling the metal contraption to the left side of the bed. “Let me get you in so we can go to the bathroom and take care of the unpleasant duties nature requires.”

  George drew back the covers and Roosevelt looked down at his legs, two skin-covered sticks, devoid of any strength, devoid of any musculature. Of course the public knew he had suffered from polio ten years earlier and that it had permanently affected his legs. He smiled grimly at the thought that they had no idea just how crippling the damage had been. They’d seen him give public speeches, approaching the podium with the aid of two canes; they knew he wore braces on his legs. Only those closest to him knew he retained no use of his lower limbs whatsoever. The braces simply locked his legs rigid, and he simulated walking by swiveling his hips, enduring pain with each agonizing step. Out of sight of reporters and the public, he always used the wheelchair. Voters would sympathize with his fight against the ravages of the disease, but, if they once saw him in his metal prison, they would regard him as a weakling unfit for public office

  George, however, was no weakling. He deftly hooked his hands under Roosevelt’s armpits and lowered him into the chair in a single fluid motion that always reminded Roosevelt of a much-practiced ballet move. As George rolled the President-Elect into the hotel suite’s bathroom, Roosevelt once again gave thanks that the polio had, at least, not robbed him of his continence. A small blessing in light of everything else. In light of Eleanor.

  He still found her behavior perplexing. She’d made it abundantly clear she wanted no further physical relations and yet had been enraged when she discovered that not every woman was appalled by the ravages of his disease. Perhaps it was just that it was her own social secretary who had welcomed him into her bed. One thing was certain, after all they’d been through together, after all they’d shared, he would never understand his wife.

  “There we go, Governor. I’ll step outside to give you some privacy. When you be done, just call out. Then I’ll come in and shave you.”

  Settled in on the toilet, Roosevelt couldn’t help but laugh. In two weeks he would be the most powerful man in America—possibly the world—yet he was unable to have a bowel movement unaided.

  Lillian Cross, a middle-aged unemployed seamstress, had been up since daybreak, waiting to hear the newly elected president speak. Penniless, with two small children to support, she was desperate to hear some words of hope. Anything that would indicate that the remote and uncaring Washington would change under the new administration. She made her way toward the front of the gathering crowd with determination. She didn’t want to miss a single word Roosevelt said.

  “There you go, Governor,” George said as he finished settling Roosevelt in the back seat of the open Buick parked at the loading dock of the hotel. “Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Roosevelt replied as he searched his jacket pockets for his cigarettes, lighter, and elegant cigarette holder. “The Florida Party organization has provided a
driver. I’ll be back about two o’clock. Get yourself some rest until then.”

  George nodded, then turned, pushing the wheelchair before him, and headed back to the hotel’s rear door. Roosevelt watched as his trusted valet disappeared behind the swinging door. Then a few seconds later, the door swung outward, and two figures scurried toward the convertible: the uniformed chauffeur, and behind him, Anton Cermak, the reform mayor of Chicago.

  “It’s about time,” grumbled Roosevelt.

  “Don’t blame the driver, Mr. President,” replied the portly Cermak as he threw himself into the seat to Roosevelt’s left, while the red-faced chauffeur vaulted into the driver’s seat and immediately started the Buick’s powerful engine. “The oysters from last night’s banquet came back to haunt me, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not ‘Mr. President’ for another two weeks. Sorry I snapped. Just want to get this speech over with as soon as possible. Need to get up to Washington and finalize the Cabinet selections before the inauguration.” The driver put the Buick in gear, and pulled out onto Miami’s main waterfront drag.

  “I understand that, sir. Still, don’t worry about the speech. You’ll knock it out of the park, as you always do.”

  The fool, thought Roosevelt, he thinks I’m worried about the speech. Immediately he chastised himself. He knew Cermak was no fool. The Chicago mayor was a sincere reformer, fearlessly taking on the remnants of the imprisoned Al Capone’s criminal organization. He also had been a key supporter at the convention last summer, and Roosevelt knew he owed the man. That was why he was allowing him to share the car with him. Cermak would be the only major Democratic politician at this open-air speech, and the publicity would help him in back in Chicago.

  As they approached the park, he saw that a crowd of thousands had already assembled. The Miami police, forewarned of his requirements, were struggling to keep a pathway open for the Buick, so it could reach the middle of the crowd. Sighing, Roosevelt screwed a cigarette into his elegant holder, ignited the end with his gold-plated lighter, and set the holder at a jaunty angle. For some reason, the crowds loved that. He closed his eyes and prepared himself for the agony of leveraging himself erect, locking the damnable braces in place, and posing as a healthy man in the prime of his life.

  By the time Zangara arrived, the speech had already started. He pushed his way through the crowd listening with rapt attention as Roosevelt spoke from the back of some rich man’s car. Zangara scowled. The President-Elect spoke into a jerry-rigged loudspeaker system, haranguing the people with lies. The newspapers had said the speech would be short, and Zangara knew he dared not delay else Roosevelt finish, sit down, and roar away.

  He slipped through the crowd with ease finding, for once, that his negligible size was an advantage. Closer and closer he drew to the front. Finally, only one woman stood between him and Roosevelt. She would afford him some cover after—and during—the upheaval that would follow, allowing him ample time to flee. Zangara took a deep breath, drew the automatic from his coat pocket, snapped the slide to chamber a round, and took aim.

  Except for the fact that the man who had wormed his way up behind her smelled of sausage and sweat, Lillian paid little attention him. She sensed him peering around her and stepped aside politely to give him a better view when out of the corner of her eye she saw the glint of metal and heard the distinctive snap of a gun being cocked. Involuntarily, she turned to see a gnomish man raise an automatic weapon. With an inarticulate cry, she grabbed the man’s arm just as he fired. With surprising strength, he tossed her aside and she heard the sharp report of four more shots. She grabbed at him again, but before he could fire another round, several men in the crowd tackled him, disarmed him, and forced him to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and turned to look at Roosevelt, who was staring directly at her, his face blank with astonishment. At that moment, the driver of the Buick started the massive engine. With a roar, the car shot forward, throwing the President-elect back into his seat with a spine-shuddering thud. Panicked listeners dove in all directions to avoid the car as it lunged through the crowd. Reaching the main street, the driver careened off to the south, back toward the hotel.

  Roosevelt was in agony. His braces were still locked in place. He fumbled to release the catches as the Buick sped down the street. Successful after a few moments, he used his arms to drag himself into a marginally more comfortable sitting position.

  Hearing a groan from the backseat, the driver screamed over his shoulder, “Mr. Roosevelt, are you hit? Should I take you to the hospital?”

  “I’m all right. Just some bruises. Nothing serious.”

  “Wish I could say the same,” came a nearly imperceptible whisper.

  Roosevelt jerked his head to his left. Anton Cermak clutched his belly with both hands. Blood oozed through his fingers. In Cermak’s pale grey face and glazed-over eyes, Roosevelt saw the unmistakable mark of death.

  “My God, Anton, you’ve taken a bullet meant for me!” Roosevelt leaned forward and screamed at the driver, “The Mayor’s been shot! Get us to a hospital!” The driver said nothing, simply shifted the Buick into a higher gear and laid on the horn as he flew through intersection after intersection, avoiding collisions with cross-traffic by mere inches.

  Roosevelt pressed his hands over Cermak’s and held the dying man’s gaze. “This should not have happened to you, my friend. Stay with me, we’re almost there.”

  “I’m glad it was me instead of you,” Cermak whispered. “Country needs you. People … need you.” Cermak grabbed Roosevelt’s arm with his bloody fingers. “You give them hope. Hope no one else can.” Anton Cermak shuddered, and his gaze was suddenly dull, fixed. Lifeless. For the first time since his father died, Franklin Delano Roosevelt cried.

  MONTHS LATER

  Zangara stared moodily at his last meal on Earth, unwilling to partake of the fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits. In a few hours, he would be marched down the corridor to meet the device the Americans were pleased to call “Old Sparky.” To his own surprise, he found he was trembling with fear. He had imagined himself perfectly willing to be a martyr. As a good Marxist, he was an atheist, having no hope of any future life. Yet, the moment the judge had uttered his sentence, it hit him that the state of Florida would extinguish his existence. When death had seemed far away and abstract, this had not worried him, but the knowledge that his life would end at a set time and place, unsettled him more than he had imagined. And, he had not even born the satisfaction of killing Roosevelt, just some unimportant civic official.

  In his weakness, Zangara even thought of bargaining for his life, of telling the authorities who had paid him and given him the gun. But, to his amazement, not long after he was moved to death row, that man himself had come to talk to him, the guards having been dismissed.

  Nothing drove home the power of the man—and the people for whom he worked—more than him obtaining a private interview with a condemned man, unsupervised. The man had chortled as he casually described Zangara’s relatives—down to second cousins—in both America and Italy. He rattled off where they lived, where they worked, and told Zangara what would befall them if he breathed one word of his existence. Zangara looked into the crazy man’s eyes and believed him—and remained silent.

  Down the corridor, Zangara heard a rattle of keys, then the squealing sound of a metal door being opened, then closed. He listened as brisk footsteps approached his cell. His heart leaped into his mouth. This is it! They have come to execute me early. They wish to cheat me of my last few hours of life!

  But it was not the guards. A single man appeared in front of the bars to his cell. He was a short, slight, and Zangara noted that he, too, was dressed in an expensive double-breasted suit, a dark fedora perched neatly on his head.

  The man, his sky-blue eyes intent, encircled with gold-rimmed spectacles, stared at Zangara.

  Still sitting on his bunk, Zangara mumbled, “Who’re you?”

  “Harry Bierce, Bureau of Investigat
ion,” replied the visitor in a soft, cultured voice, with a trace of a Southern accent.

  “One of Hoover’s thugs,” snarled Zangara. “Should have known. Only one of your kind could get onto death row the night of an execution.”

  “Mr. Zangara, I have an offer. A one time, never to be repeated offer. I know you tried to murder Roosevelt at the behest of others.” Zangara started to protest, but Bierce waved him to silence. “Do not waste my time. I know this beyond any doubt. You did not have the money to buy the Colt pistol, much less travel the rails down to Miami. What I do not know is who those people are. I have talked to the Governor in Tallahassee, and he is willing to commute your death sentence to life imprisonment if you provide me the information I need. Well, Mr. Zangara?”

  Zangara ached with temptation. His terror of death had been growing with every passing hour. But he thought of his brothers and sisters, his nephews and nieces, and what the earlier visitor had promised would be done to them, if the secrets were spilled. Somewhat to his own surprise, Zangara said, “I have nothing to say to any lick-spittle servant of the capitalist plutocrats.” He then rolled over on the bunk and turned his face to the wall. He heard only silence, then the brisk footsteps of Bierce as he walked back to the entrance to death row.

  Zangara’s mind drew into itself, and he tried to think of the few times in his life he had been happy. He was still searching within when the guards came for him. As if in a dream, observing himself from a distance, he saw himself walking down the short hallway to a small room. There, in the midst of the room, a heavy wooden chair with straps attached to the arms and legs, loomed before him. Wires attached to the back of the chair connected to a junction box on the far wall. A large-handled switch anchored alongside. The guards were efficient in strapping him to the chair, wiping the top of his shaved head with saltwater, and attaching the ominous metal cap. Their experience in this procedure evident.