The Clutches of Circumstance

By Talmadge Walker

A fascist spy, undercover for nearly 10 years, is ordered to complete a miscarried assassination attempt. Now FBI agent Mike McLauren, with help from Frances Perkins and Will Rogers, must stop her before she kills again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Talmadge Walker
• Release date: Dec 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005583606

Talmadge Walker

Originally from Alabama, Talmadge Walker is a semi-retired former EC teacher. He lives in Hillsborough, NC with his wife and three kids.

Book preview

The Clutches of Circumstance

By

Talmadge Walker

Copyright 2014

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

From Invictus

By William Ernest Henley, 1875

Contents

Unlucky Voyage

The Last of the Light Brigade

Line of Fire

The Hunt

Plots and Plans

Sui Generis

Pursuit

Caught by the Kingfish

Scandal amidst the Maps

Plans Go Awry

Predator and Prey

The Cowboy’s Demise

Sacrifice

The Drawing of the Snare

Debriefing

Notes and Sources

Unlucky Voyage

Giuseppe Zangara stood on the dock at Reggio de Calabria as the sun rose over the hills behind him. His contact was late, but they were always late. They never cared about him. They only paid him because it was convenient. He would do a job for them and they would give some money to him and to his family, the ones he loved but could not tell the world about.

It was almost as bad as working for Papa. Except for the pay. And the medicine they gave him for his stomach. And so far they hadn’t beaten him. If only they would treat him with more respect. Another cramp wrenched its way through his stomach, but Giuseppe resisted the urge to bend over and make a spectacle of himself. He heard a chuckle and spun around. There was Ricardo, smiling and watching him.

You’re late! Giuseppe growled.

Giuseppe! Ricardo replied with a honey-coated voice. I’m here, and I’ve got what you need. Ricardo gave him a bottle of pills and a folded bundle of lira. Giuseppe opened the bottle and immediately popped two of the pills into his mouth.

You need to go slow with those. That bottle will have to last you a while, Ricardo warned.

Giuseppe grunted, closed the bottle and stuffed it in his pocket. Behind Ricardo Giuseppe could see a third man standing back at the corner, older than Giuseppe and much taller. Ricardo waved him forward.

This is Eduardo, Ricardo said. He is your uncle, at least as far as everyone else is concerned. Eduardo will be your contact person. Everything you need from us – cash, pills anything – will come through him. If you have something to send us that you can’t trust the post office with, send it through Eduardo. Don’t lose contact with him, or you won’t get paid. Understand?

Giuseppe nodded. Ricardo gave him a hefty pat on the shoulder, which did not help Giuseppe’s stomach. Do a good job for Il Duce and you’ll be rewarded, and your sweet one will stay respectable. Good luck and stay out of trouble.

Giuseppe picked up his bag and followed Eduardo down the dock and up the gangplank, as they boarded the ship that would take them across the Atlantic.

As he watched them go, Ricardo lit a cigarette and began to smoke. After a minute he heard footsteps approaching behind him, feminine footsteps in heels. Ricardo smiled as they stopped beside him.

Livia! I’m sad to see you go.

The woman nodded without expression. She stepped in close to Ricardo and took the cigarette from his mouth. As she took a couple of puffs, she asked: What about the younger one? Giuseppe?

What about him?

I think he’s too excitable. He’ll cause trouble.

Nonsense. We need an excitable man over there. He’ll do what needs to be done. When we needed someone to kill Victor Emmanuel, Giuseppe volunteered…

But you didn’t let him go forward with it.

Ricardo shrugged his shoulders. It proved unnecessary.

He would have botched it, the woman asserted.

He’s a good little soldier. He’ll do what we tell him to do.

I hope so. I don’t want to have to clean up his mistakes. Livia took one last drag on the cigarette and handed it back to Ricardo, then she took her suitcase and headed down the dock toward the steamship. Ricardo continued to puff until he saw her board the steamship, then he turned and walked away, confident that things were in order. Livia would go over to America to ferret information out of the politicians and businessmen. Eduardo would keep track of any anti-Mussolini émigrés who might create trouble for Il Duce. And Giuseppe – he was special – angry young Giuseppe would be available if there was ever any need for extraordinary action.

Ricardo threw away the butt he was now smoking, and lit a new cigarette. He puffed and smiled as he walked on, making mental notes on what to say in the report.

The Last of the Light Brigade

There were thirty million English who talked of England’s might,

There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.

They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade,

They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,

That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.

They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;

And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

Rudyard Kipling, 1891

The old man pushed aside the coats, jackets and suits to find what he was looking for. In truth he wasn’t that old, but the wounds and the malaria and the exhaustion and the typhoid had taken their toll on the man, and though he was still physically strong and active the years had made their mark on his face and hair. The general hadn’t helped himself by engaging in all the fights with the Navy and the politicians.

When he found the dress blue uniform, he pulled it forward a bit, eyeing the campaign ribbons and the pair of Medal of Honor ribbons. After a moment he shook his head and pulled out the fatigue uniform instead. Dressing quickly, he went downstairs to join his wife, sons and daughter.

Smedley! You’re not going to wear your dress blues? Ethel asked.

No Dear. None of the boys will be in dress uniform. I don’t want them to think I’m above them.

Ethel nodded. Okay, you do what you think is right. The papers are starting to say those men are all reds. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?

Bunny, if I’d been jobless for three years I might be a red too. But those boys aren’t commies, they’re just desperate.

Desperate men do desperate things, Dear.

I know. That’s why I need to talk to them. I want to make sure they don’t lose control, because if they do every politician and newspaper in the country will pick up on it.

Just be careful.

Oh, don’t you worry. I lived through the Boxer Rebellion. I can live through this.

You were younger then, Dear, Ethel replied with a smile.

You got me there, Bunny, her husband grinned back. Then he added: The boys and I will be back tomorrow afternoon.

Ethel continued to smile as her husband, Major General (Ret.) Smedley Darlington Butler, opened the front door to face the not yet hot summer morning air. But once he left her sight Ethel’s expression changed to concern. She rose and stepped to the window, watching from behind the curtains as the three Smedley men drove away, and wondering whether her husband wasn’t getting in over his head.

He’ll be fine, her daughter – young Ethel, Snooks to her friends – said as she stepped over and gave her mother a hug.

Butler and his sons made good time driving to D.C, and by the early afternoon they were with the crowd along the Anacostia River, near the southeast corner of the District. James Van Zandt, the commander of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, had called Butler a few days earlier to invite him to speak, and they had agreed on a rendezvous point. Once they found each other, Van Zandt led the General and his sons through the crowd of men. Talking as they walked, Van Zandt filled him in on what had been happening over the last few days.

The men are close to giving up and going home, General. Now that the Patman bill’s been voted down half of them have left already and some of the ones who are still here are getting testy and talking about violence.

That’s a shame, Jim. They earned that bonus: it’s not a handout. And they need it now! If they have to wait another twelve years half these boys might be dead!

Van Zandt nodded in agreement and pointed ahead. Atop a make-shift platform stood another man in army fatigues, addressing the crowd and urging them to keep up the fight. Van Zandt managed to get the speaker’s attention and pointed to Butler, at which point the speaker ended his speech and hopped down the steps.

Van Zandt introduced the two: Commander Waters, this is General Butler. General, this is Walter Waters. He started this whole business.

The General and the unofficial commander shook hands, and Waters led Butler up onto the stage. He started to introduce Butler, but quickly found it wasn’t necessary. The marines in the audience recognized the retired general almost immediately, and the soldiers and sailors joined in the roar once they found out who it was.

Butler rolled his sleeves up and stepped over to the microphone. First he urged the men to keep pushing for the bonus: If you don’t hang together, you aren’t worth a damn! he told them, and he went on to say You have as much right to lobby here as the United States Steel Corporation!

Butler told the crowd to disregard the conservative newspapers: You hear folks call you fellows tramps, but they didn’t call you that in ’17 and ’18. I never saw such fine soldiers. I never saw such discipline. Then he told them what to do if Congress and the President didn’t listen: When you get home, go to the polls in November and lick the hell out of those who are against you. You know who they are…

At the end of the speech General Butler and his sons stuck around, accepting an invitation to spend the night with the encampment. Though Smedley Jr. and Thomas went to bed before midnight, the General stayed up until 2:30 a.m., listening to the individual soldiers and their stories.

In the morning over a scant breakfast he heard some angry talk about rioting, but he urged the soldiers not to go that route. You’re alright so long as you keep your sense of humor. If you slip over into lawlessness of any kind, you will lose the sympathy of a hundred twenty million people in the nation.

Butler and his sons left for home about mid-morning. What do you think will happen? Smedley Jr. asked as they drove through Maryland.

I don’t know, Butler muttered. If Hoover’s smart he’ll work out a deal with them, or at least treat them with respect. But he’s not smart, at least not politically. He’s done some great things in his life, but he can’t admit there’s a problem and he won’t admit he’s wrong. Plus he pissed me off.

Both the sons grinned. You mean the Mussolini thing? Thomas asked.

I sure do. A tyrant is a tyrant is a tyrant. I’ll be damned if I’ll keep my mouth shut about a damned fool tyrant.

What will you do if this doesn’t turn out well?

The Bonus Army?

Yep.

"I will do my damnedest to make sure that man becomes an ex-President. I’ve never voted Democrat in my life but if things keep going the way they are, I swear I’ll campaign for them.

Nine days later, while General Butler was sitting at the dinner table with Ethel, the phone rang. I’ll get it, Butler told his wife, and he stood up to reach for the receiver.

Hello, this is the Butler residence… Hello James. Is this urgent? We don’t like having dinner interrupted… The Hell you say…

Ethel watched her husband as his face went pale. He slumped down into a nearby seat and continued to listen.

When? Anyone hurt? Dear Lord! I’ll do what I can…Bye James. Thanks for letting me know.

Still pale, Butler hung up the receiver and sat back down at the table.

What’s wrong, Smedley? Ethel asked.

That bastard!

Who? Someone in the Navy? The President?

President Hoover himself. Bunny, he ordered the Bonus Army booted out. When they wouldn’t go voluntarily, he sent in General MacArthur. Mac used tanks and teargas on those veterans…

Oh dear Lord…

Once he cleared them out Mac had his troops burn down the tents and shanties.

Ethel was speechless. Butler picked up his water glass. I’m calling the Democrats in the morning. Raising the glass high the general said: Here’s to President Roosevelt. Then he drained the glass.

Line of Fire

Giuseppe looked at the note again: Cermak headed to Miami to greet Roosevelt. Both are considered problematic by Ramone. You must eliminate both if chance arrives. If you back out or reveal secrets, we cannot guarantee safety and honor of Sabrina and little ones. Succeed and we will take care of you.

He closed the note and thought. Giuseppe understood why they wanted him to kill Cermak. The newly elected mayor was promising to clean up Chicago, so this was probably a favor for Capone and his crowd. If war comes in a few years Il Duce might need Capone and the others to do some favors in return.

But why the new President? That seemed risky. Was Il Duce still mad over that general a few years back? The one who insulted him? No. Couldn’t be. If the target were a poor Italian like Giuseppe Il Duce would have it done without batting an eye, but not an American President. Too much risk to just avenge an insult. Maybe it was the booze. The new President promised to legalize it, and that would put half the gangsters in the country out of business. Il Duce’s fifth column would have to split up and find work.

Giuseppe grinned bitterly. That must be it. Well, I don’t mind much. This new President is rich, just like the other bosses. I hate him. But Il Duce, he’s rich too, and he’s a bad boss. If what that general said was true, Il Duce deserved the insult. And he’s holding my woman and kids. Giuseppe groaned and grabbed his stomach. He looked for the pillbox, but it was empty. They were probably holding back on him till the job was finished.

The crowd was huge, the largest anyone in Miami could recall. But then newly elected Presidents rarely came to southern Florida. Roosevelt himself was only here at the tail end of a fishing trip he had taken with some of his advisors. Now the President-elect had disembarked at Miami with his entourage, and tomorrow they would ride up the coast to Washington to prepare for the Inauguration and everything that would follow.

First though he was going to speak to the crowds. Roosevelt and his group rode through the streets to Bayfront Park, where he would speak from the back of the convertible. He preferred it that way. The crowd could see and hear him, but the limping and the awkwardness and the dead weight of his legs remained hidden, not secret perhaps, but stowed away. Out of sight, out of mind.

The crowd had been cheering the entire route but the cheers grew even louder when their cars reached the park. The sides of the streets were packed with people, and behind them were even more people, standing on chairs, cars or anything that would support them, straining to get a view of the new President.

Roosevelt waved and waved, and the crowd cheered some more and waved back. After nearly four years of worry and misery here at last was someone who promised to do something more than just say things aren’t that bad. Everyone in the crowd was cheering and smiling. Everyone except for one small man in the shadows, trying to peek over the crowd from atop a chair.

As the car pulled to a stop some of the politicians and big shots trotted up to greet the President. The first person to reach him was Anton Cermak, the new mayor of Chicago. He and the President were shaking hands when havoc struck.

Several popping noises were heard from the crowd and people started screaming. Mayor Cermak fell forward, holding onto the door of the convertible. A police officer ran up to the car and yelled to the driver to get the Hell out of the park and get the President to the hotel, quickly. As the driver started to speed away, dragging poor Cermak for several feet before he fell, the President began screaming Stop the car! while the police officer kept yelling Go! Go! The driver decided the President had greater authority and stopped the car.

Get Tony in here! Roosevelt yelled, pointing back to Cermak. He needs to get to a hospital!

Sir, the officer yelled back, we need to get you to someplace safe. There may be other assassins here!

Roosevelt wouldn’t budge. Then let’s stop talking and get Tony in the car quickly.

The officer and several other policemen ran to the wounded mayor and helped him over to the President’s car, where he joined Roosevelt in the back seat. The driver raced away to the nearest hospital, followed by another car carrying one of the wounded bystanders.

In the back seat of the convertible the President put his arm around Cermak and told him: You’re going to be alright, Tony. We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll fix you right up.

Cermak nodded and relaxed a bit. When the bullet hit he had panicked, but now he thought he might make it after all.

Livia received the telegram three days after the assassination attempt. Just as she had predicted ten years earlier, Zangara had botched his job, and just when they really needed him to do it right. Now everyone depended on Livia to finish things up. Normally she wouldn’t have minded. Years earlier, when Il Duce and his men marched to power back in Rome, Livia had been willing and able to do her part. If necessary she would have killed, though in the end it never came to that.

Now she was still willing, but somehow it felt different. Now, even though she was willing to kill, she felt regret. Maybe she had grown more mature (or more soft), or maybe it was the personal connection she felt to Mayor Cermak. A year earlier she had contemplated approaching him. Cermak had some potential influence on the 1932 Presidential race going into the conventions, and if she had become his paramour Livia might have gained access to secrets at the highest level. But the Mayor backed the wrong horse (Garner), so his own importance was diminished. In the end Livia didn’t even bother to approach him, but shifted her observations to another Chicago politician: Harold Ickes. This was lucky, since neither Mayor nor Mrs. Cermak was likely to recognize her.

Livia still seemed to have a soft spot for Cermak though, and she could not rub it out. Perhaps just the thought of being intimate with him had created a bond within her. Livia scowled at herself, angry at the complications these feelings might bring. This was a job. She would put the man out of his misery. Her methods would be as merciful and as painless as possible, but she would kill the man.

Suddenly another thought occurred to her: Giuseppe. Poor Giuseppe. If Cermak dies, he’ll die too no doubt. Livia sighed. But it couldn’t be helped. And his pain would end.

The acrid air stung the nose, but what brought tears to the eyes was not the haze but what everyone could see through the smoke. Young women were leaping from the upper floors, terrified of the flames below. In spite of the pleas of the firemen on the ground, many of the women had already jumped to their deaths.

Frances tried to steel herself to watch the flames and the smoke and the women. She insisted to herself that she would never forget this moment, that she would do everything she could to make tragedies like this impossible.

The crowd groaned as another woman jumped. In spite of her best efforts Frances looked away. For a moment the tears and the nausea returned, but she fought them down and turned her face back toward the factory. She had seen fires like this before, but never with so many people trapped. Sometimes before there would be a handful of young men and boys urging people to jump, cracking jokes and making bets on the outcome. That wasn’t happening today though. There were too many people in the crowd who had sisters or mothers or wives or friends up in the windows.

Above – or around? – the noise of the crowd Frances could hear a voice calling. The voice was familiar somehow, and what they were calling was familiar too.

Mrs. Perkins!

Frances Perkins woke up to the sound of her housemaid calling from the hallway. Mrs. Perkins! the woman repeated with a bit more emphasis and volume.

Yes, Mrs. Thompson? Perkins called out.

"You