Lemme tell ya somethin’, pal. When it comes to Chicago, coincidences are about as rare as a teetotaler in a speakeasy. You get shot in this town, odds are somebody meant for it to happen. And when you’re talkin’ about Mayor Anton Cermak and the so-called attempted assassination of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, you’d be a real idiot to think that was just a case of bad aim.
See, the real story ain’t what they tell ya in the history books. It’s not some lone nut with a wobbly chair and a shaky hand. This is Chicago, pal. This is the Chicago Outfit. And if you think the Outfit lets things happen by accident, you ain’t been payin’ attention.
The Setup: A Political Chess Game
Back in April 1931, Anton Cermak took over as mayor of Chicago. Now, he wasn’t exactly an angel, see? Cermak’s political machine had its fingers deep in the gambling rackets. According to crime expert Virgil W. Peterson, Cermak’s whole operation thrived on the gambling business—meaning he had to make nice with the boys downtown. But there was a problem. The Outfit already had their own ideas about how things should run, and they didn’t much care for Cermak makin’ deals with the wrong guys.
One of those wrong guys was a fella named Ted Newberry. Now, Newberry had been tight with Bugs Moran, but after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, he flipped and started lookin’ to take over the North Side gambling scene. And wouldn’t ya know it, Cermak’s crew was more than happy to back him. Trouble was, Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti was already running the show, and he wasn’t about to roll over for Newberry or Cermak.
So what happens next? Newberry supposedly puts out a $15,000 contract to whack Nitti. That’s a whole lotta clams back in ’32. And wouldn’t ya know it, not long after, the mayor’s own special police detail comes knockin’ on Nitti’s door.
The First Hit Attempt: Gunning for Nitti
December 19, 1932. Nitti’s sittin’ in his office at the La Salle-Wacker Building, probably mindin’ his own business—or at least mindin’ his own crimes—when in busts a couple of Mayor Cermak’s pet detectives, Sergeants Harry Lang and Harry Miller. These guys ain’t just lookin’ to make an arrest. No sir. They’re lookin’ to put Nitti in the ground.
Now, the official story goes that Nitti pulled a piece and got off a shot at Lang before Lang fired back, pumpin’ three slugs into Nitti. One in the neck, one in the chest, and one in the back. But that don’t quite add up, see? Turns out Nitti was unarmed. One of Cermak’s own men, Officer Chris Callahan, later testified that Lang musta shot himself in the hand to make it look like self-defense. And if that don’t stink like yesterday’s fish, I don’t know what does.
Somehow, against all odds, Nitti survives. He’s rushed to the hospital, beggin’ for a priest and his father-in-law, Dr. Gaetano Rongo. The papers start writing his obituary, but The Enforcer ain’t done yet. He recovers, and by April 1933, he’s sittin’ in a courtroom, listenin’ to Callahan spill the beans about how Lang and the boys tried to assassinate him on the mayor’s orders. Lang gets indicted, fired from the force, and the whole thing blows up in Cermak’s face.
Now, if you think that’s the end of it, you ain’t been payin’ attention.
Miami, February 15, 1933: The Real Hit Goes Down
A couple months later, Cermak finds himself down in Miami, shakin’ hands with President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt. Big deal, right? Well, it was a big deal to a fella named Giuseppe Zangara, an Italian immigrant with a grudge and a gun.
Or so the story goes.
Zangara, supposedly some nutjob with a beef against the government, squeezes off a few rounds toward Roosevelt’s car. But instead of puttin’ a hole in FDR, he hits Mayor Cermak. Coincidence? You believe in those, do ya?
See, a lotta folks in Chicago never bought that story. Alderman Ed Burke, one of the last guys who really knows where the bodies are buried in this town, says it plain: “Most people who’ve examined the facts surrounding it would believe that Anton Cermak met his untimely demise at the hands of Frank Nitti and the Chicago mob.” And who am I to argue with a guy like Burke?
Think about it. Cermak sends his boys to whack Nitti in December. That hit fails, and Nitti survives. A couple months later, Cermak’s the one with bullets in his gut. And wouldn’t ya know it, less than two weeks after Cermak dies, Zangara gets the ol’ fast track to the electric chair. Fourteen days. That’s gotta be some kinda record. You think maybe somebody wanted to make sure he didn’t get chatty?
The Chicago Way
The Outfit didn’t just send messages. They sent messages in lead. Cermak stepped on the wrong toes. He tried to muscle in on the wrong business. And he put out a hit on a guy who was just a little too slippery to stay dead. If you think Nitti was gonna let that slide, you’re dreamin’, pal.
So they took care of it the Chicago Way. A couple bullets in a crowded place. Blame it on some patsy with crazy eyes. Get the papers to print the story the way you want it. Then make sure the fall guy don’t live long enough to change his tune. That’s how it’s done.
Whether or not FDR was ever a real target is anybody’s guess. Maybe they wanted to make it look like a botched presidential hit to keep the heat off. Maybe Zangara was just a convenient fall guy. But make no mistake—Cermak wasn’t supposed to leave Miami alive. And he didn’t.
The Aftermath
So what happened after all this? Well, Newberry—the guy who put out the hit money on Nitti—got his own ticket punched in January ’33, just a month before Cermak took his final bow. Found in a ditch near Bailey Town, Indiana, riddled with shotgun blasts. That sound like an accident to you?
And Nitti? He went on runnin’ things for another decade, until the feds started sniffin’ too close in ’43. This time, he made sure the job was done right—by himself. One bullet to the head on a railroad embankment, and The Enforcer was finally outta the picture.
Case Closed?
So was it really an attempted assassination of a president gone wrong? Or was it exactly what the Outfit wanted—a nice, clean way to get rid of a mayor who crossed the wrong guys?
You ask me, the answer’s clear as day. And if you still believe the history books, well… I got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell ya.
Crafted by C.F. Marciano – The Don of the Written Word.