“Please do.”
“Mr. Ferrie is an individual who we keep something of an eye on. He’s a predatory pedophile, for one thing.”
“Did your investigator think I was under eighteen?”
He ignored that. “My investigator noted you were in a rather... intense discussion with Mr. Ferrie, and he inquired of the manager of the establishment, Frank Ferrara, and he knew who you were. That’s how your name came to my attention... that and this morning’s report of a stolen car.”
“So I got on your radar twice. But there’s nothing to it.”
“We brought Mr. Ferrie in,” Garrison said, relighting his pipe, puffing it till its bowl’s contents glowed orange, “just four days after the President’s assassination.”
The back of my neck prickled.
“We had a tip from an ex — CIA man that Ferrie — he’s a pilot, you know, a disgraced one, fired by Eastern Airlines on moral grounds — had been hired to fly some of the assassins out of Dallas.”
“Assassins?”
“There are those, Mr. Heller, who don’t accept the government’s lone gunman assessment. You think a man with a bolt-action rifle, with a loose telescopic sight and a tree in the way, could have done that crime alone?”
I shrugged. “Ferrie was in court in New Orleans on November twenty-second last year. With Carlos Marcello.”
The DA of Orleans Parish surely knew all about Carlos Marcello. Hell, he was probably on Uncle Carlos’s payroll... which meant I needed to take care with what I said.
“That was in the early afternoon,” Garrison said, “and we understand Ferrie left for Texas by car later in the day. Frankly, all we did was pick Ferrie up, question him some, and hand him over to the FBI... who promptly sprung him.”
“Maybe they didn’t have anything on him.”
“Well, we have since learned that Lee Harvey Oswald and Ferrie were in the Civil Air Patrol together... and Oswald was not yet eighteen, to pick up that thread again.”
“What makes this your concern, Mr. Garrison?”
“It’s my jurisdiction. Should I ignore the possibility that the men who planned the murder of the President did so right here in New Orleans? Understand, the extent to which Lee Harvey Oswald was involved in certain questionable activities locally is extremely interesting.”
“I suppose so, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“What was your business with Ferrie at the Sho-Bar, Mr. Heller?”
“It’s as you say, Mr. Garrison — it’s my business.”
The prosecutor pressed. “You must have known the man Ferrie used to work for... Guy Banister? He headed up the Chicago FBI a decade ago, I understand.”
“I knew him. He was a drunk and a bigot.”
“That’s what got him fired as police chief down here. We understand also that he was active with the John Birch Society and collected and stored weapons at his address on Lafayette Street for anti-Castro Cuban exiles.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And here’s another interesting fact — Lee Harvey Oswald was a frequent caller at Banister’s office, and apparently worked out of there when he was distributing pro-Castro leaflets on Canal Street.”
“Sounds like typical spook stuff.”
“As well it might. Banister’s address is in the thick of Intelligence Central here in New Orleans — offices of FBI, CIA, and Naval Intelligence, easy walking distance. Banister died the night before the Warren Commission interviewed Jack Ruby in his jail cell, by the way. What do you make of that, Mr. Heller?”
“Why should I make anything of it?”
He sat puffing on his pipe, leaning back, his manner casual, almost lazy, his eyes hard and alert. “You were on the rackets committee with John and Robert Kennedy.”
“That’s right. I don’t remember that being mentioned in the Life article, though.”
“I said I’d read about you elsewhere. So you knew Jack, and you know Bobby.”
“I knew Jack a little. I worked for Bobby.”
“Robert Kennedy’s made public statements backing this lone assassin conclusion. Is that what he really thinks, Mr. Heller?”
“I can’t speak for him.”
“Well, you might mention to him that you and I spoke, and that I would be pleased to speak with him. That I have a strong feeling that New Orleans might be the key to his brother’s murder.”
“You do know he’s not attorney general anymore, right?”
He nodded slowly in that irritating way wise men do.
“I don’t think I have anything for you, Mr. Garrison. Am I free to go?”
“Certainly, Mr. Heller. Just leave your full contact information with my secretary, so we can deal with your rental car theft properly. You know there was some slight damage to it — I hope you picked up the optional insurance.”
“I’m covered.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
At the door, I paused and turned to him. “What if I said I suspected significant mob involvement in the assassination?”
“I would not be surprised.”
“Would it be a conflict of interest?”
The cow eyes tightened. “I’ll choose not to take that as an insult, Mr. Heller.”
“Fine. Then I’ll say this. Never mind Bobby. You’re in a unique position to get to bottom of this. You can subpoena people. A lot of the principal players involved hung around New Orleans. You can ask questions. You can do something.”
He was sitting there, pulling on the pipe, rocking gently, thinking about that, when I went out.
Shep Shepherd had again managed the small miracle of putting an empty booth on either side of us in the VIP Room at the Chicago Playboy Club. We had enjoyed a late supper and were on to drinks, the hour approaching midnight. The CIA security chief was in a gray Brooks Brothers and I was in a gray Botany 500, the major difference being I had more color in my necktie. He was finishing up his third Gibson and I was downing my second vodka gimlet. The jazz combo was playing “What Kind of Fool Am I?”
“There’s no way I can give you an absolute assurance,” he said, “that the Company was blameless in the Kilgore matter.”
“Not ‘matter,’ Shep. Murder.”
“Maybe murder,” he said with a gap-toothed smile, as inappropriate as it was boyish. “You said yourself it might have been accidental.”
“Then where are the tapes?” I asked. “Her notes?”
“Who knows? As for murder, do you rule out the husband?”
“Not entirely. Frank Felton is a washed-up radio star, a failed producer, who single-handedly lost that breakfast show of theirs while Flo was away. Now he’s inherited that town house, which is already on the market for two hundred grand, plus whatever insurance money and retirement funds come in.”
“But you don’t think he did it?”
“No. Somebody said to me, rightly, that Felton didn’t have the balls. And I also think he still loved her.”
His shrug accompanied a shake of the head. “Men have been known to kill women they loved. Perhaps more than any other kind. And then there’s that young reporter from Indianapolis.”
Our Bunny stopped by, bringing a fresh round; she was a golden blonde named Connie who’d been a Playmate last year.
“Mark Revell is no murderer,” I said. “He’s just a Midwestern kid with stars in his eyes. A nobody who likes to get next to somebodies. A fan. And basically a decent enough kid, if I read him right.”
“So he’s off the suspect list.”
I sipped the gimlet. “Actually, no. There’s a way he could be involved.”
“How is that?”
“What if he were one of your assets?”
“My assets?”
“Well, the Company’s. I mean, he’s a reporter for an Indiana newspaper, but he globe-hops. Rome, Paris, London. Where does he get the money? Yeah, sometimes those junkets are paid for by movie studios, but not usually for a smaller market like Indianapolis. He was in a perfect position to do minor international courier jobs for Uncle Sam.”