“No, I didn’t know,” I lied. My reporter pal had informed me that Ferrie had been fired by Eastern for “homosexual activity on the job.” Prior to that, he’d been tossed out of a Catholic seminary for “emotional instability.”
“But also,” I went on, “I wanted to keep an eye on what the Kilgore woman found out. To make sure she didn’t get... too close.”
The big dark eyes under the red mohair strips turned to slits. Barely audible over a blaring Dixieland “Ain’t She Sweet,” he whispered, “You didn’t... didn’t liquidate Miss What’s My Line?, did you?”
“No,” I said. “But I found out something disturbing.”
“What, man?”
“A lot of witnesses are dying.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean committing suicide or having traffic accidents or just plain old-fashioned getting shot.”
“Could be coincidental,” he said, but his wheels were turning. “Texas is a violent place. Lots of guns in Texas. Lots of spics and niggers there.”
Said the brother of the Cubans.
“I don’t think it’s happenstance,” I said. “I think it’s a cleanup crew, David. I think loose ends are being clipped off. Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be one.”
He smiled again. His teeth were too big for the little mouth. “Maybe that’s true, but we’re not loose ends. We’re major players, Nate.”
“Not as major as Uncles Carlos or Santo Trafficante. Or H. L. Hunt. Or Allen Dulles — the fired CIA chief on the Warren Commission?”
“I know who he is.”
“Or Lyndon Johnson, either.”
He had the expression of a guy viewing his own bad X-rays. “Uh, well, you’re right. We’re not that big, but I don’t think...”
“David, could Guy’s death have been murder?”
“What?”
“Heart attack — inducing or — simulating drugs are child’s play for the CIA. Ever hear of Dr. Sidney Gottlieb? He’s their number one Dr. Feelbad.”
He was visibly nervous now. The confidence had drained from the nasal voice. “If you’re right, this is terrible. What can we do? How can we assure the people in charge that we are reliable? I wouldn’t betray the cause, Nate. I’m sure you wouldn’t, either.”
“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Look at Ruby. Look at Oswald.”
He nodded. “That’s true. And it’s so sad. I was Lee’s captain, you know, in the Civil Air Patrol? That’s where I met up with him. I saw such potential in the boy. I recommended him.”
“I’m sure he was grateful. And I’m a patriot, David, like you are, but I don’t want to be the next sacrifice.”
“My God, Nate, what do you suggest?”
“I want to meet with Uncle Carlos.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s a big fish. One of the biggest. I want to convince him that I’m trustworthy, and that I still have value to him. And I’ll put in a good word for you, too, David.”
He sipped some fizz and nodded, his mood brightening. “Well, I can arrange that. He’s at Churchill Farms right now, so that’s out — no phone out there. But I can get you a meeting tomorrow, probably, at his office at the Town and Country Motel.”
“No. It has to be a public place. A neutral place. I don’t want to become Yankee Gumbo, David. You do know what that is?”
“I know. I know.” He looked around anxiously. “I’ll see what I can do. See what I can do. Where are you staying, Nate?”
“The Roosevelt.”
“I’ll call you there, sometime tomorrow.” He slipped out of the booth. Nikki was just finishing up to “Muskrat Ramble.” He thrust his hand out again and I shook it.
He leaned close. “You’re a good man, Nate. I appreciate you thinking of me in this tricky situation.”
I was holding my breath, trying not to take in his BO. “Pleasure to meet you, too, David.”
His confidence was back and he gave me a little military salute and headed out.
What a fucking lunatic.
I had wanted to size him up, and confirm a few theories, and I had. But what I mostly wanted was that sit-down with Uncle Carlos. I wanted to convince Marcello that I was not a threat. And try to determine whether he was behind the cleanup crew or whether a group of the Dealey Plaza boys had taken it upon themselves to tidy up, for their own benefit.
This was not to say settling scores was not on my mind. A penchant for revenge was perhaps not my best quality, but it was a trait I was not likely to shed at this late stage of my existence. I would be sharing everything I knew with Bobby Kennedy — including every syllable of the Ruby interview. My capacity for remembering conversations damn near rivaled that James Bond gizmo Flo had recorded him on.
Eventually RFK would be in the White House, where he could deal with his brother’s killers in a much better, more complete way than I ever could.
I sat through Janet’s first set — her trademark “Hold That Tiger” routine was enough to put a smile on my face, as I thought about having Jada to myself in my room at the Roosevelt all day tomorrow, jing jing jing — and then I made my way out of the club and onto the sidewalk.
Funniest damn thing, a car pulled up at the curb looked exactly like the lime-green ’64 Galaxie I’d rented at the airport. But I hadn’t driven here, I’d walked over from the Roosevelt, and anyway there were a lot of Fords in the world.
“Your ride’s here, Mr. Heller,” intoned a mellow baritone, with just a tinge of Texas in it, and I turned to see Mac Wallace, his eyes half-lidded behind the heavy black-framed glasses, his smile more a smirk on his five-o’clock-shadow-smudgy face.
Then Ramon Rodriguez — one-half of the Chicago sniper team from last year, who I’d last seen almost running Sam and me down after that Beatles concert — sidled up beside me with a smile.
And a gun.
Muffled Dixieland from within the Sho-Bar provided background music as Wallace said softly, “Get in the backseat, Mr. Heller.” His smile was awful, the smile of a man just drunk enough to be dangerous. “This may be New Orleans, but we’re going to do this Chicago-style.”
Close to me, digging the snout of a revolver into my side, the Cuban said, “Take you for a ride, maricón.”
Somebody was behind the wheel, but I couldn’t see him. I wondered for a moment if it was Ferrie — if so, I’d seriously misjudged him.
They looked like tourists, Wallace in a light-blue shirt jac, the Cuban in a straw fedora with a wide black band and a black-and-white geometric-pattern shirt, the driver in a tan-and-white plaid sport shirt. I was in a Crickteer suit, dark gray, not one of my tailored-for-shoulder-holster numbers.
Then the back door was opening and the nose of the gun in my side was nudging me, and if I cried out to the happy people on this noisy, neon-washed street, that gun would go off and I’d be the next dead witness. I had to let this play out.
I had to take the ride.
With the Cuban next to me in back, the driver glanced over his shoulder at us before pulling out into the slow, steady traffic of Bourbon Street. I realized he was no one I’d ever seen before, though he reminded me of somebody. He had a Gable-style mustache, and a hint of Latino in his heritage; but if I looked past that, he really, really reminded me of somebody.
Lee Harvey Oswald.
They cut over to Royal Street, just a block down from the raucous nightly party that was Bourbon Street, into an area where the ghosts of fashionable New Orleans of a century ago might be strolling right now, but hardly anybody else. On this sleeping street of closed curio and antiques shops, art galleries and fine restaurants, the Oswald look-alike pulled over and the Cuban dragged me out onto the sidewalk into the darkness under an overhanging balcony.