Fever City (39 page)

‘Neither do I.'

‘
Très bien
. . . ' Luchino drove fast out of the ranch, chickens feather-dancing out of the way. They flew past the checkpoint, Stetsons turning in surprise, Luchino accelerating dangerously onto the highway, tires screeching warning as he glided with confident indifference through the early-morning traffic: milk trucks, oil tankers; pickups stacked with hay bales honeying the air with golden chaff. They sped past a roadhouse, two men in suits and hats standing outside, watching the traffic, one with a walkie-talkie in his hand, the other with a camera. Luchino gave them a
bras d'honneur
, clenching his cigarette in his teeth as he laughed, the car swerving for an instant, Hastings steadying the wheel.

Dallas began to appear, mirage-mirrored on the bitumen's heat haze. It was unseasonably hot for November, as though the whole city were gripped in a fever dream. Hastings could feel the sweat slowly inching down his sides like a trail of scouting insects waiting for the swarm to follow. Heat. Nerves. The old war itch. There was a buzzing inside his head, an internal coring. Not going in, not going out. Just being there.

So many lives were at stake. Starting with the president's. Ending with those of the two killers inside the speeding car. To get it right would be almost impossible. But they had to try.

‘I'll take the first shot,' Luchino said. ‘Fire right after me.'

That sounded fine to Hastings. ‘Just make sure you miss.'

‘It will be difficult but . . . ' Luchino gave a sorrowful shrug. Professional pride. Hastings felt it too. Not in the work itself, but in their innate and unique ability. Once a marksman, always a marksman. It was like carrying a tune or riding a horse. Some skills never leave you. Until the vocal cords are severed with a blade, or the horse run down by a truck.

It was nearly half-past nine by the time they reached Dealey Plaza, Luchino parking up beside the railway yards in front of the overpass. The ground was still moist from dawn dew drying slowly in the shadows. Hastings would normally have worried about footprints but the parking was already filling up for the motorcade. That morning's evidence would soon go the way of the traditional Comanche hunting grounds of Texas: overrun and obliterated. Luchino ground out his cigarette against a car tire, then pocketed the butt. Instinctive; intelligent. A Chesterfield or a Camel would be invisible. But with one of Luchino's Gitanes Maïs, he might as well leave his birth certificate.

The pair grabbed coffee in a diner off Elm. ‘There are some things you never forget: the first time you made love, the first cigarette you ever smoked, and the first coffee you couldn't drink . . . ' Luchino pushed his cup away. ‘New York, September 8th, 1954. My first day in your country. I used to wonder why I was always tired when I came to America. And then one morning at breakfast, I realized: it was because I was deprived of caffeine. Even in prison in France, the coffee is better.'

Hastings filled up his own cup. ‘Here's hoping I never get the chance to compare.'

Luchino laughed. ‘Ah yes, the devil you know. But you might think about going to Europe. There's plenty of work in Marseille and Palermo for a man with your talents . . . '

Talents. Kill and not be killed. Hastings lit a cigarette, looked at the Corsican. Luchino was already thinking about the pleasures of going back home. But Hastings had no home; not after what he'd done in Adelsberg.

‘
Ça alors . . . !
'

Hastings turned fast, staring through the windows after the man that Luchino had just seen. ‘You know him?'

‘Pietro Cesari, I swear it was him!'

The man with the crew cut turned the corner, disappearing from sight. If he thought he had been recognized, he didn't show it. ‘Who is he?'

‘An interrogator. The best . . . He started on the Nazis for the OSS. Then on the Collaborators for the Unione Corse. And when they saw how good he was, the SDECE sent him to Indochine. He's still based in Saigon, but now he works for CIA.'

‘Are you sure it was him?' Luchino nodded sadly, like a veterinarian confirming there was no alternative to putting the dog down. ‘Did he see you?'

Luchino stubbed out his cigarette, tossed coins onto the table. ‘There is nothing he doesn't see.'

Hastings stared at the Corsican. There was something about him that he didn't recognize. Something he had never seen before. And when Hastings realised what it was, the hairs on the back of his neck rose in alarm.

Luchino was afraid.

‘Let's go,' Hastings said.

Outside, the streets were animated with bunting and flags, cops and sheriffs lounging against squad cars or motorcycles, smoking and squinting into the morning sun. It felt familiar enough to offer cover for the fear they knew was there. For the death that was lurking everywhere. For the secret knowledge that was inside them. There was no sign of Cesari. ‘What does it mean?'

‘It means, my friend, that if he is targeting your president, there is nothing we can do.'

‘If?'

He stared at Hastings, his ancient eyes blinking in the sunlight; guarding their shadows. ‘He could be targeting us.'

A tall, military-looking man in a dark suit and a short-brimmed cowboy hat slipped Hastings a hand bill as they passed him. Hastings glanced at both sides of the bill to make sure there was no secret message written on it, then showed it to Luchino. Above the title
Wanted for Treason
were photos of Kennedy mocked up as police mug shots.

‘The OAS did the same with de Gaulle. It is the spell of the Griot.' Hastings shook his head. ‘A shaman. He has a special power.' He leant in close to Hastings, whispering. ‘He tells a story and then it comes true . . . '

Hastings looked back at the man on the street corner, wondering where the tall cowboy would be in a few hours' time if his story came true. Celebrating in a bar, or under arrest for sedition? If Hastings could stop the assassination, then the cowboy would simply trudge back to the printers and order another story with a fistful of dollars and a heart full of hate. But it wasn't just the Griot's story; all the stories of the nation were in the balance. If Hastings failed, then in a year or two, a telegram would arrive at a house in Louisville, Kentucky, and shortly after a star would appear at a window. Black ties would be borrowed. And a church would fill with the scent of flowers and the sobs of family. Maybe a mushroom cloud would fill the horizon south of Florida . . . Or west of Berlin. Maybe flames would tongue the night sky in Watts or Harlem or Memphis. Maybe factories would close in Detroit, schools in Rapid City, hospitals in Pittsburgh. Maybe a few would grow richer while the rest would grow poorer. Maybe guns and drugs would invade the country's towns and schools; radiation poison its air and water. Maybe napalm would blossom over distant green jungles. All of history was balanced, knife-edged and dangerous, on a sunny autumn day in a bustling Texas city. Hastings felt the honed danger of the razor underfoot. One slip and the nation's arteries would split open with shocking speed, venting blood and gore.

They returned to the car, removed their bags from the trunk and walked down to the plaza in silence. If Luchino was worried about Cesari, he wasn't saying. Maybe he was guarding his own fears and doubts inside his silence. Or perhaps he was like Hastings, skimming the near future, jumping to that afternoon when they'd metamorphose from killers to saviours.

When they'd both start running.

Roselli was waiting for them, wearing Hollywood shades, his face turned upwards; a burnt offering to the sun.

‘Jesus Christ, when I think of all those years I spent freezing my nuts off in Chicago. To hell with the Windy City, I'll take sunshine any fucking day . . . So, you bring everything you need?' Hastings and Luchino raised their suitcases. ‘Fucking A! Let's do this.'

Roselli started to stride towards the Texas School Book Depository but Hastings stood in his way. ‘What about the rest of it?'

Roselli feigned ignorance. ‘Rest of what?'

‘The payment,' Luchino said.

Roselli made a gesture like a bird just shat on his hat. ‘What is this, a concert hall shakedown? I told you boys already. You'll get paid after the gig.'

‘Problem is, after the gig Alderisio and Nicoletti are planning a little extra work . . . We'd like to spare you the overtime.'

‘Wise guy, huh?'

‘More “alive guy” . . . Show him.'

Luchino looked all around, then opened his overnight bag. He held it towards Roselli, who refused to look inside. ‘Whatever the fuck you're selling, I don't want it.'

‘You need to take the look.'

Roselli took a deep breath, like a gambler about to stake his life savings on a pair of jacks. He glanced inside the bag, and saw three squares of ivory-coloured C3 wrapped in transparent plastic and wired to a clock and detonator. Roselli ripped off his sunglasses. ‘That looks just like a fucking bomb.'

‘That's because it is the “fucking bomb”, my friend.'

He turned to Luchino. ‘I ain't talking to you.'

‘That's his bomb, so maybe you'd better start.'

‘It's called
la strounga
. I learned how to make it in Oran.'

Roselli sucked in his lower lip, his chin creasing in phony defiance. ‘Your fucking plastic explosives don't scare me.'

‘They should . . . '

Roselli grabbed Hastings by the shirt lapels, his eyes bloodshot and murderous. ‘What are you going to do, blow me up in the middle of downtown fucking Dallas?'

‘Better. We're going to blow up all your guests from last night.' Roselli let go of Hastings, defeated.

‘You see, I hid
la strounga
in their bags and . . . how do you say ‘chassis'?'

‘Never fucking mind, I get the drift . . . ' Roselli went over to a park bench and plunked his weight down. ‘It's enough to make you cry . . . ' Luchino offered him a cigarette. Roselli stared at them for a long moment, then knocked them away. ‘Who the fuck ever heard of yellow cigarettes? Like smoking old teeth.' He leapt to his feet, reinvigorated by his anger. ‘Do you clowns have any idea what you've done?'

‘Naturally,
mon ami
. . . And I object to being called the clown.'

Roselli cursed so savagely both men took a step away from him, avoiding contamination. ‘So whose fucking car did you booby-trap?'

‘We picked five of them.'

‘Oh, Christ! Who?'

‘
Mais non, mon ami
, it's not fair, you must guess.'

‘He's right. It could have been Hughes or Hoffa. Maybe it was Nixon? Or one of your Big Oil buddies. Or maybe that little banker, what's his name?'

Roselli sobbed twice, the second ending in a snarl. He slumped back down on the bench, a man defeated, staring into the big sky. His voice sounded far away. ‘So what do you crumbs want?'

‘Alderisio and Nicoletti off our backs.'

‘Done.'

‘And full payment, now.'

‘Give me a break, you know I can't . . . '

‘Why?'

‘You know why. We never brought the money.'

‘Then you have a very big problem,
mon ami
. . . '

‘Tell me something I don't know.'

‘You need to get the money. Now.'

‘No fucking kidding . . . ?' Roselli thought for a moment. ‘So what's to stop me just telling everyone to look under their cars?'

‘You can do that, if you want. Tell me, who was in charge of security last night?'

A passing klaxon filled the silence. ‘Monsieur Roselli, of course.'

‘Or you can find out where the bombs are and have your own people remove them nice and quiet. No one needs to know.'

‘
Oui
, save face. And your skin too . . . '

Roselli stared at Luchino. ‘Fucking French fancy pants.'

‘This way at least you know where to look. Who knows, you might even decide to leave the bombs there when you find out who we picked.'

‘Very funny. Wait a minute . . . ' Roselli leapt off the bench, illuminated and wrathful. ‘You fucking hustler. You didn't mention the Old Man. That doesn't make sense. He'd be the prime target. Why wouldn't you put a bomb in Old Man Bannister's car too?'

‘Because I've already put one in his head.'

This time it was Roselli who stepped backwards. He was like Saul on the Road to Damascus . . . Blinded by revelation. And fear. He crossed himself, touched his corno. ‘Mother of God . . . '

Hastings looked at his watch. ‘You better talk to your oilmen. Two cases. Three hundred grand each in five-hundred and one-thousand notes.'

‘Six hundred grand at short notice?' He actually stopped to think. ‘Let me see, Gene Brading's in town.' Hastings knew him. Shakedown artist. ‘I could send him and Jackie Ruby to pass the hat around the Oil assholes, but I don't know if we can pull this one off in tim—' Roselli's voice faded away. Hastings looked in the same direction as Roselli. A slim young man with a large head and thinning hair was marching meaningfully towards them.

‘Hi, Mr. Roselli,' He said with a light, strangely flat voice and an open smile just the wrong side of vacant.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?'

‘I saw you talking and . . . ' He turned, nodding to first Luchino and then Hastings, ‘I figured these gentlemen must be the shooters.'

Roselli grabbed the kid by the shoulders. ‘Not so loud, for Christ's sake. We don't want it broadcast.'

The kid frowned, pulling himself free. ‘No need to be hostile,' he said, unable to hide the hurt in his voice. ‘We're all on the same side, right?'

Hastings felt a twinge of pity for this kid. Try as hard as you like, no one can ever be on the same side as the Outfit or CIA. But they were both masters of optical illusion. If you looked in the mirror, you'd swear they were standing right there beside you, arm around your shoulder, smiling . . . When they were really standing right behind you, with a gun pointed at your head.