It occurred to Lee that this man thought he'd performed some function for Agent Freitag in Fort Worth. He must be in the files as a cooperating Marxist, ha ha, or part-time political informer.
"There's a detective agency here in town," Bateman said. "It operates as a nerve center for the anti-Castro movement in the area. A man named Guy Banister runs the office. He is ex-FBI. Normally speaking we are on the same side. We trade information with Banister all the time. But sometimes there is the necessity of, we turn around, we turn about. I want to get inside Guy Banister Associates. I need a little opening, a crack in the wall. By the way I want to ask. Were you with the Office of Naval Intelligence, going into Russia? Because I know a communication was sent from our Fort Worth desk to ONI."
"They had a false defector program."
"Inserting people. This I'm aware of."
"There are gray areas in ONI. I'm one of those areas."
Bateman seemed to appreciate the remark. He said, "That's only fitting because in this city at this particular time, black is white is black. In other words people are playing havoc with the categories. "
There was a trace of enthusiasm in his voice.
"Banister recruits students. He has students go into campus situations to monitor leftist activity. You're student-age. You're familiar with the language of left and right. You know your Cuba."
"I approach Banister for an assignment but I'm actually an informer for the Bureau."
"We use the word informant. It's not sleazy and ratty terminology. What would you say to being developed along those lines? You'd be surprised at the status of some of our informants. Off the top of my head I'd say we could stock the alumni association of a fair-size college."
They sat over their lunch plates for a moment, thinking it all out. There was a Merry Xmas sign going gray on the wall.
"Now tell me, do I keep going? Because this business implies trust. It is tricky to bring off. It requires a certain kind of individual. There is risk and chance in these things. But there's also solid trust. There is complete backing. I give that to an informant."
Lee ate his food, showing nothing.
"How it might operate goes something like this. You walk into Banister's office. It is convenient to your place of work, right around the corner. You tell them you're an ex-Marine and you mention contacts with the Bureau in the state of Texas. Make it clear you're a Castro hater. Tell them you want to pose as a leftist, to infiltrate local organizations."
"I could tell them I'm starting an organization."
"This is a thought."
"A local office, like, Fair Play for Cuba."
"This has possibilities."
"I could get pamphlets from New York in large quantities, plus application forms."
"This is promising," Bateman said. "You tell Banister you will start a chapter right here in town. This will draw pro-Castro people to your door. You'll gather names and addresses. Banister loves a good list."
"It goes round and round."
"You seem to pretend."
"But I'm not pretending."
"But you are pretending."
They ate their lunch. Bateman explained that if Guy Banister wanted to check Oswald's background, he would naturally contact the local FBI office, specifically Bateman, who would provide highly selective information. He also explained that he wasn't allowed to drink coffee. The Director had placed a ban, making the Bureau free of addictive stimulants.
"I think Banister will be interested. But don't expect funds. This would be a tiny sideline for him. I'll arrange an informant's fee of two hundred dollars a month. Out of this, you run your project. And of course you tell me what they're doing at 544 Camp Street. Because they're doing something all the time."
"I want to study politics and economics."
"You're an interesting fellow. Every agency from here to the Himalayas has something in the files on Oswald, Lee. One thing I have to be sure about. No one else shares your services. This is Bureau policy. I can't do business with an informant who has a relationship with another agency. Are we okay on that?"
"We're okay," Lee told him.
"You can carry on your politics in the open. That's the charm of the thing. And you're right around the corner from those people. Location-wise, it's perfect."
Lee took a bus down to Camp Street, the placard back in the envelope, and walked around the building several times. Streets in deep shade. No one around but winos in Lafayette Square and a woman in a long coat and heavy white socks who seemed upset that he was walking behind her. She stopped to let him pass, muttering urgently, her hand making a motion like hurry up.
Trotsky is the pure form.
The rear seat of an automobile lay in the middle of the sidewalk. A man coated in dirt and vomit was spread out there, one arm dangling, and he looked so sick or hurt or crazy it was not possible to enjoy the picture of a car seat without a car, plunked down on a sidewalk.
Trotsky brushing roaches off the page, reading economic theory in a hovel in eastern Siberia, exiled with his wife and baby girl.
On Monday, during his ten-minute break from work, he went to 544 and got an application from a secretary. The building had two entrances, two addresses. One for who you are, one for who you say you are.
He bought a Warrior-brand rubber stamping kit for ninety-eight cents. He wrote to the Fair Play for Cuba Committee, asking for a charter, and before getting a reply he went to a printer, said his name was Osborne and got a thousand handbills printed. Hands Off Cuba! He stamped some with his own name, some with Hidell. Then he rented a post-office box, went to another printer, ordered application forms and membership cards. He got Marina to forge the signature A. J. Hidell in the space for chapter president and sent two honorary memberships to officials of the Central Committee, Communist Party U.S.A.
He went out in his gold shorts and thong sandals at midnight, dumping garbage in other people's cans, sometimes ranging three or four blocks before he found a can with room to spare for one more bag of bones and slop.
When he took the filled-out application back to Guy Banister Associates he saw a man at the building entrance who looked familiar. It was Captain Ferrie, the Civil Air Patrol instructor, the man who kept mice in a cage in his hotel room back about seven years ago, Lee recalled, when he and his friend Robert were tracking down a.22 for sale. Lee drew closer and saw there was something very different about the man. He seemed to have tufts of fur glued to his head, like handfuls of animal hair just pasted on. His eyebrows were high and shiny.
Ferrie seemed to be expecting him.
"You were in the office yesterday or day before. Am I right?"
"I was applying for a job part-time."
"Undercover work. I heard your voice. I said to myself I know that voice. Another lost cadet come back to Cap'n Dave."
They laughed, standing in the entranceway. A car stopped suddenly and pigeons fired up from the square across the street.
"Isn't life fantastic?" Ferrie said.
The Fair Play Committee discouraged him from opening a branch office. But they were nice and polite and made spelling mistakes and anyway the important thing was the correspondence itself. He would keep everything. These were his papers. When the time came he would be able to present Cuban officials with documentary proof that he was a friend of the revolution.
Besides he didn't need New York's backing to open an office. He had his rubber stamping kit. All he had to do was stamp the committee's initials on a handbill or piece of literature. Stamp some numbers and letters. This makes it true.