Not that he had time to enjoy it. Something hard struck him in the small of the back and he was thrown forward. He landed on the fallen Russian and grabbed for his gun, trying to shake the bullet-dented vase off his left hand the whole time, but all he got was a cloud of ash. Still, he had the gun in his right hand, and he rolled onto his back and waved it at the second Russian.
“Back off,” he said, inching backward across the marble floor, the brass vase clanking with every step.
“This shit is the best!” someone said. “You would not believe what I’m seeing right now!”
Other partygoers were less sanguine, or less stoned.
“Call the cops!”
“Take it outta here, man. You’re bringing down the vibe!”
Just then Peggy Hitchcock came into the hall.
“Oh my God,” she yelled, looking not at the gun in BC’s right hand but the vase on his left. “Grandma!”
“Call Billy,” BC told her. “Tell him you’ve got a dead KGB agent in your foyer. He’ll know what to do.”
To her credit, Hitchcock just nodded and ran from the room.
The Russian seized the moment, diving behind the console beneath the painting. From his position on the ground, BC tried to aim underneath it, but before he knew it the console had flipped up in the air and was coming down top-first on his body, looking for all the world like a coffin falling from the sky. His right hand slammed into the marble floor and his fingers lost their grip on the gun.
Before he could move a second weight crashed into him. The console exploded in pieces, and he found himself staring at a pair of quivering jowls.
“If you think de Kooning is bad,” the grinning Russian said, “wait till you see what I do with your face.” He grabbed BC’s throat with both hands and banged his head against the marble floor.
BC slammed the urn into the side of the Russian’s head. It wasn’t a strong blow, and all the Russian did was blink as a cloud of Peggy Hitchcock’s grandmother’s ashes burst into the air, but at least he stopped banging BC’s head against the floor. BC hit him again, angling for the man’s bulbous nose this time, which showered his own face with blood. A third blow. A fourth. It was the Russian’s face that resembled the de Kooning painting, but still he refused to let go of BC’s throat. Spots dancing in front of BC’s eyes obscured the Russian even more.
He was about to go for one last blow when the Russian’s head fell on his chest and his hands finally slackened their grip. BC looked up to see Peggy Hitchcock standing over him with an African-looking totem in her hands. She was holding it by a penis the size of its abdomen.
“Just go,” she said before BC could speak.
BC lifted his left hand, still stuck in the dented urn. Peggy Hitchcock waved it away.
“Grandma’s seen worse.”
BC retrieved the unconscious agent’s gun and stumbled into the hall, pressed the button for the elevator. He’d just managed to extricate his hand from the urn when the doors opened. A shower of ash shot into the air like a desiccated thundercloud. The elevator operator pretended not to notice the ash or the blood or the skewed wig.
“Find what you were looking for, sir?”
BC straightened his vest and walked onto the elevator. “More like it found me.”
The operator was nice enough to hail a cab for BC when they reached the street level, and he raced back to the Village. The cab got stuck in a traffic jam at the end of Fifth, and BC had to run the last five blocks to the hotel. Sweat mixed with the ash and blood on his face to form an acrid gruel that kept dripping into his mouth, but as soon as he pushed the door to the hotel room open, he realized he needn’t have bothered.
Chandler was gone.
Chicago, IL
November 19, 1963
Sam Giancana’s guards didn’t just frisk Melchior: they untucked his shirt and lifted it up to check for a wire, took off his shoes, felt inside the band of his hat, leafed through his wallet. They even opened his pen and scribbled on a piece of paper to make sure it was real—then kept it for themselves. Satisfied he was neither armed nor miked, they ushered him into Giancana’s private office.
“I’m gonna want that pen back before I go,” Melchior said to the guards as they left, then turned around to face the kingpin of the Chicago mob.
Giancana didn’t get up as Melchior, still disheveled from his frisking, approached his desk. He was a lean, nattily dressed man, with a sharp dimpled chin and a softly rounded head, largely devoid of hair. Melchior’d only seen him in photographs, usually wearing a pair of Hollywood shades and a spiffy hat to hide his baldness, but now he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and looked more like a businessman than the lady-killer who, in addition to a long-term relationship with Phyllis McGuire of the McGuire Sisters, had dated Judith Campbell at the same time she was seeing Jack Kennedy (this was after Miss Campbell was done with Frank Sinatra). The then-candidate was looking for a little help with the Chicago ballot, and rumor had it that his mistress had helped to broker a deal between him and the man sitting on the other side of the desk, whose well-tailored suit did nothing to mask the street-kid accent that filled the room like squealing brakes as soon as Giancana opened his mouth.
“So. Who is this mook who’s been calling every two-bit con artist, numbers man, street hustler, and pimp in Chicago saying he wants to meet Momo Giancana?”
There was a chair in front of Giancana’s desk just as there was in front of Drew Everton’s, but Melchior remained standing. He knew the theatrics that had so annoyed Everton wouldn’t fly here.
“My name is Melchior,” he said, biting back the urge to add, “sir.”
Giancana swatted the answer away like a fly. “I didn’t ask your ‘name.’ I know your ‘name.’ I asked who the hell you are.”
“I work for CIA. I was in Cuba for most of ’62 and ’63—”
Giancana’s nostrils flared as he let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re wasting my time, Mr. Mook Melchior of the Central Fucking Intelligence Agency, or whoever you work for. Now. Who in the hell are you, and why the fuck did you wanna see me?”
Melchior found himself fiddling with his lapel, feeling for the familiar, comforting bullet hole. But although he was still wearing a dead man’s suit, this one had come from a man he’d killed himself, and he’d taken care not to leave any marks. He knew he had to tread every bit as delicately here.
“Here’s the situation, Mr. Giancana. I know you helped Jack Kennedy carry Chicago in 1960, and I know you’ve been helping the Company try to knock off Fidel Castro for the past couple of years. And I also know that you feel double-crossed because, despite the money and manpower you’ve expended in good faith, Bobby Kennedy is still trying to throw your ass in jail.”
Giancana’s expression didn’t change, but for the first time he paused.
“Look, you wanna go tit for tat,” he said, “I can talk shit too. I got letters on CIA stationery thanking Lucky Luciano for his help fighting the Commies in Italy and France right after the war. I got photographs showing Company agents shipping Southeast Asian heroin to San Francisco in order to outfit a private army to fight the Viet Cong. And I got a unique collection of souvenirs—cigars packed with C4, pens filled with cyanide, and a couple-a fungusy-looking things that I don’t wanna get too close to—all made in Langley labs and destined for our good friend on the other side of the Florida Straits.”
Melchior took a moment to absorb this. On the surface, the words were as hostile as everything else Giancana’d said, but the tone was different. The boss was curious. Was sending out feelers to see just how much Melchior was willing to say.
He took a deep breath. It was going to be all or nothing.