Fever City (35 page)

‘Steady, Loran . . . ' Morales came up to Hastings, standing right beside him, looking him up and down, measuring the flush of heat from Hastings's body. ‘Let the man eat in peace. He's travelled far, like we all have.'

Hall hesitated, then stormed off, humiliated by the subtext that even a beatnik dropout like him could understand: walk away now or this man will kill you. Luchino sipped his beer, enjoying the moment. He turned to Hemming. ‘You are from Miami, yes?'

‘No one's from Miami. I'm from El Monte.'

LA Loser. Nothing more to know. Hastings dipped his last sausage into the sauce, not looking as he spoke to Morales. ‘How about you?'

‘Arizona . . .' He was Mexican, not Cuban. That meant Morales had been working for CIA long before Fidel grew his beard and flipped his lid.

‘And now you both work with the Cubans out of Miami?' There was something that could have been a nod. ‘So you were with them in Chicago on Halloween?'

Hemming and Morales exchanged alarmed looks. ‘Who wants to know?' Hemming asked, running a comb through his ducktail. Hemming was the Jimmy Dean of Boys Town.

‘Two men who were also there,' Luchino said.

‘If you have questions about Chicago, ask him . . . ' Morales said, nodding over Hastings's shoulder. Hastings turned. Roselli was walking towards them, his head bowed, as though ashamed to be associated with such a crew of felons. ‘He's the asshole who screwed it all up.' Tagging behind Roselli, like a couple of empty cans tied to a honeymooner's car, were Nicoletti and Alderisio.

‘Okay, everyone, listen up. The last shooters have arrived . . . ' Hastings and Luchino glanced at each other. How many shooters could there possibly be? Was this assassination or insurrection? ‘I want you all inside for the briefing.' He looked at Morales. ‘The Cubans too.'

Roselli turned to go, banging into Alderisio, who was shadowing him too closely, both of them staggering backwards from the collision. Larry and Moe. Roselli shoved Alderisio out of the way, marching inside with as much dignity as he could muster, wearing Alderisio's shoeprints on the toes of his polished wing tips. Morales waved for the Cubans to follow. Hastings watched them getting up, brushing desert dust off their trousers, extinguishing cigarettes. Weary, battle-hardened men, wary of their commander, but following orders anyway. Foot soldiers, all.

‘I knew a Cuban kid called Hidalgo . . . ' Hastings said to Morales as they walked back to the house. ‘Used to work at Old Man Bannister's joint.' There was a single tremor in Morales's jawline. Good control. ‘It was around the time of the kidnapping . . . '

Morales stopped in his tracks and looked all around, making sure no one was lingering. ‘The information you have is still valuable. Very valuable . . . '

‘What about Hidalgo? He said he was working for you, for Operation 40.'

Morales started walking towards the house. ‘I cut him loose. Joe Kennedy got to Hidalgo, worked him against Nixon till Hoover found out. Forget what they say about the Outfit, about the Five Families. It's the Boston mafia that pulls the strings these days, especially that little shit, Bobby, breaking our balls. He's worse than goddamn Castro!' Morales held open the screen door for Hastings. ‘Remember what I said about the Bannister kid. Some people would pay big money . . . '

‘Some people like who?'

‘Are you kidding? Howard Hughes, for one.'

Morales disappeared through the steam. Hastings followed him inside, kitchen clamour greeting him; the opera of pots and pans. Hemming helped himself to a piece of pie as the stragglers traipsed through the kitchen, a pretty young female cook slapping theatrically at him, Hemming dancing out of her way with a winning grin, licking his fingers. He could have been the kid next door in his final year at college, but he was a baby-faced killer in charge of mercenaries damaged by betrayal and defeat. Judge the plan by the planners. It didn't take a giant crystal ball to predict the outcome, Hastings thought—this was all going to be one colossal, fucking mess . . .

They entered a library, the drapes drawn, filling the mistrustful room with the nitro cocktail of contained heat, unstirred air, and impatient testosterone. Chandeliers hung incongruously between the lethal horns and antlers that stabbed out of the walls, lighting the room with a funereal amber glow.

The spooks sat grouped in an adjoining music room, watching them all march in with the appraising eyes of casting directors. For Hastings they were just like the top brass in the Pacific, the old men who stared through binoculars from the bridge as the young men died, whispering orders then impatiently complaining about the wait, as though war were a drawn-out dinner in an overbooked officers' mess.

Hastings scanned the library. New faces. Strange faces. One without any eyebrows or eyelashes, the resulting naked gaze alarming under an orange wig. There were Outfit faces. Small-time hoodlum faces. Three-grand-a-pop killers. There were Dallas police and sheriff uniforms. Hobo hopheads. The picture was getting even clearer. Hastings, Luchino and one or two other professionals would execute the hit, as originally planned. And then the rest of the men in this room would converge and kill the killers. It was going to be the way Hastings always imagined it. The only thing that had changed was the scale. It was overwhelming. It would be mayhem writ large.

Roselli clapped his hands in a futile effort for silence, then barked through the cigarette smoke. ‘Everybody, keep it down.' He turned to Hemming and his group. ‘For Christ's sake, for once in your life can't you shut the fuck up?' Hemming pulled a face but fell silent fast, feeling the faces staring at him. Roselli beamed at the hesitant quiet in the room. ‘That's way better. We got special guests here, so show some respect.' He nodded to the music room. ‘Now Frank here is gonna take us through the plans for the Big Event once and once only . . . ' A song started up, tinny music coming from the kitchen.
It's My Party
. Roselli looked up with annoyance, speaking over the music. ‘If you got any questions, I don't want to hear 'em. Frank don't want to hear 'em. You go back to your section boss and ask him, understand?'

Sturgis stepped forward, yanking a chart down that was hanging from the top of a projection stand. He tugged so hard that the stand toppled over. Guffaws all around. Vegas vaudeville. A ripple of appreciative anticipation. After the clowns, there's always the girls. Sturgis picked up the stand, briefly making eye contact with Hastings before looking away. Hastings had read him right. He was scared shitless that Hastings knew who he was and what he had done. What he had tried to do. And Sturgis had very good reason to feel scared, starting with the most obvious question: how the hell did Hastings survive the old heave-ho into the sea?

Sturgis wasn't the only one with questions. Why the hate during the interrogation? For Sturgis it had been personal, powering down on every single punch. Somewhere along the line, Hastings had made an enemy but he didn't know why. He needed to find out before he killed Sturgis.

Sturgis prodded the map with a pool cue. ‘This is the map of the motorcade, Jackie Ruby got it off the Secret Service, thank you, Jack . . . ' A short, stocky man with a fedora saluted acknowledgment. ‘A Team goes here . . . ' Sturgis tapped a building marked Texas School Book Depository. ‘Rendezvous with patsy, then up to the sixth floor, last two windows, B Team goes here.' He tapped the building opposite. ‘Dal-Tex Building. Second and third floors. Windows and fire escape.'

Hastings exchanged looks with Luchino. Shooting from a fire escape on a main street, in daylight? ‘C Team and D Team . . . ' Luchino turned to Hastings, mouthed, ‘What team are we?' Hastings shrugged. All the shit about team leaders and alphabet armies didn't make sense. It had to be a distraction: cover for the real hit teams. ‘ . . . At the Trade Mart. E Team on the motorcade going back, right here . . . ' Sturgis hit the overpass so hard with the cue, he left a blue chalk mark on the map. ‘And Love Field Team back at the airport.' He turned and looked at a young man with a preppy air standing at the front of the music room, who frowned and whispered to a beefy man with glasses next to him. Sturgis looked worried. ‘Final backup only, sir. We're talking emergencies here, highly unlikely.' The young man coloured, whether from anger or embarrassment, Hastings couldn't say. ‘How come the rich prick gets a name and we only get an initial?' a gangster next to Hastings asked. Henchmen muttered indignantly. ‘One more thing: see a camera, nab it. Steal it, break it, buy it. If you can't, put a name to its owner.'

A voice spoke up. ‘How do we do that, Frank?'

‘How the fuck do I know, use your brains.'

Ruby stuck his hand up. ‘What about press? The place will be crawling with them.'

‘Forget the newshounds, that'll be handled by our guests.' Faces turned towards the music room. ‘One more thing, and this is for all you people dressed up as cops. Anyone detained is to be taken to the sheriff's. Not to the police station, to the sheriff's. You must prevent fingerprinting and mug shots. The idea is to release all detainees within two hours. Got that? Two hours max.'

A tall man with tousled blond hair dressed like a tramp raised his hand. ‘How will the cops know it's us?'

‘Good question. Anyone detained will be us.'

‘What about the patsy, Frank?'

For the first time there was ringing silence in the room. Sturgis turned to Ruby. ‘The patsy will not be detained. I repeat, the patsy will not be detained. That's all. Good luck, gentlemen.'

Hastings pushed his way through the crowd towards Sturgis, who was being mobbed with questions. He reached through the others, and grabbed Sturgis around the bandage below his elbow. Then squeezed.

Hastings had to give Sturgis credit. Other men would have buckled under the pain. Sturgis remained standing, steeling his features as he turned slowly to his tormentor. ‘What is that, a riding accident?' Hastings asked.

Jack Ruby laughed, his voice nasal and self-important. ‘What happened, Frank, got bucked by a filly?'

Some of the men laughed as Sturgis pushed past them, trying to escape Hastings's grip. Hastings pressed harder, Sturgis going white, finally on the verge of collapse. ‘Tell the Old Man we need to talk . . . '

‘Fuck you, tell him yourse—' There was the shrill, whistled gasp of internal agony, of acute combusting pain, perspiration swelling like blisters on his forehead. Then Hastings let go, Sturgis staggering, then straightening, his forearm slick with blood.

Hastings leant in close. ‘What have you got against me?'

‘I was on Iwo Jima with Tommy Alston, that's what.' He shouldered past Hastings, cradling his arm as he lurched out of the room, blood pitter-patting after him. Hastings hurried after Sturgis, but Roselli blocked his path, Nicoletti and Alderisio huddling protectively around their boss. ‘So? How do you think that went?'

Hastings felt like slapping him. ‘What do you think this is, a fucking game show?'

‘Now look . . . '

‘You look. I'm walking unless you come up with a real plan. And that includes escape routes I trust.'

‘Escape routes? What are you, chicken?' Alderisio's sneer slid off his face when he saw the anger in Hastings's eyes. Even he was smart enough to know he'd gone too far.

Hastings wiped his bloodied fingers on Alderisio's jacket. ‘Free sample. Next time, it'll be yours . . . '

Alderisio went for his gun. Roselli stopped him. ‘Are you fucking nuts?' He turned back to Hastings. ‘Jesus, relax for Christ's sake. That speech, it was just for the chump change boys.'

‘You're trying to tell me this rent-an-army's here just for diversion . . . ?'

Roselli shrugged his shoulders into a big, fucking question mark. ‘What can I say?' he lied. ‘Everyone's got a role to play, it's all part of the plan. Here . . . ' He steered Hastings towards the music room, Hastings staring back at a still-seething Alderisio. ‘I want you to meet some important people . . . Wal? This is the guy I told you about.'

The heavy man with spectacles turned to them, instinctively pulling his hands in to his sides as though protecting his wallet, his eyes glued to Hastings's forehead as he spoke. ‘Sure, sure, Johnny told us all about you.'

Roselli patted Hastings on the shoulder. The hand of Judas. ‘The best is what you asked for and the best is what you get . . . ' Other heads turned, eyes locked. Hastings brushed Roselli's hand away, but the mark remained. Roselli may as well have hung a sign around his neck. Hastings: dead man walking. ‘Nothing but the best for our pals in Miami . . . '

Wal smiled with a bashful self-effacement. ‘Sure, sure, we appreciate it. We always knew we'd be in safe hands with Johnny Handsome . . . ' He rubbed his bulbous nose speculatively, as though it were a tuber that might just snap off, and turned back to the other suits.

‘What did I tell you . . . ?' Roselli said, leading Hastings away. ‘Salt of the earth . . . '

‘Can the bullshit. Where do Luchino and I go?'

Roselli frowned. Very convincingly. ‘You and Frenchie? You ain't a team . . . ' Hastings studied his face. Roselli was a good liar about little things and a bad one about big things. This was a huge fucking thing. ‘You and Nicoletti in the Book Depository and Frenchie and Alderisio in the Dal-Tex building.'

Meaning Hastings and Luchino would kill the president, and Nicoletti and Alderisio would then kill them. They were back to the exact same setup as Chicago, with the Cubans thrown in somewhere along the line to run false trails and distract any authorities not in on the conspiracy. ‘Where are the details?'

‘Relax, we all rendezvous with the patsy in Dealey Plaza at eleven sharp . . . Kennedy don't fly in till just before noon . . . '