Fever City (40 page)

Roselli seemed taken aback by the kid's naivety. ‘Huh? Sure, kid . . . ' He introduced him to Hastings and Luchino. ‘This here is the pats—' Stopping himself just in time. ‘I mean this here is Lee O—'

‘Hidell.' The kid shouted, pulling a face at Roselli. ‘We said code names.' He shook hands with Hastings then Luchino. ‘Alek James Hidell but you can call me Leon.'

‘I'm Elvis and he's Napoleon.'

Leon beamed, nodding at them for the sake of Roselli. ‘Code names . . . Good.'

‘Leon, or whatever the fuck his name is today, is going to take you to your positions. He's got a job at the Book Depository.'

‘That's right, and I can get you into the Dal-Tex Building too.'

Roselli frowned at him. ‘How the hell did you know about the Dal-Tex?'

‘I saw Wal and Hemming pointing it out to the Cubans.' Hastings could imagine what they'd told the Cubans. Follow him and Luchino out of the buildings and kill them the first chance you get. ‘Given the range and field of fire I assumed . . . '

‘You're one nosy fucking kid.'

‘I'm a spy, Mr. Roselli, what do you expect me to be?'

A passing woman looked up at them. Roselli hushed Leon down with a look of pain. ‘For crying out loud, keep it down.'

‘Listen . . . Leon? We need a phone, we have some urgent calls to make.'

Leon tapped his cheek with his finger, thinking; actually snapped his fingers. ‘There's a phone in the Dal-Tex building. Third floor.'

‘What the fuck is wrong with the Book Depository, it's closer.'

‘In case you've forgotten, I work there . . . People know me. They might get suspicious . . . '

This kid, Leon, was amazing. Lecturing Roselli, as though Roselli could be taught anything. As though he were Roselli's equal. It made Hastings wonder whether it was possible the kid was with CIA; that he was actually smarter and more senior than he seemed. Or was he just another rope-a-dope, playing cops and robbers like Hemming?

They followed him across the lawn and into the Dal-Tex building, their footsteps echoing loud against the stone floors up into the high ceilings of the sun-hardened shell of red brick. They rode the freight elevator up to the third floor.

Hastings took in the view of Dealey Plaza: one huge killing field. Leon's face appeared reflected in the window. ‘So, what's your story?'

Silence hummed like the traffic outside: muted, strained and threatening. ‘In Japan, gangsters share fingers, not stories . . . '

‘Excuse me?'

‘You cut off your finger and give it to your boss, as a mark of respect . . . ' Hastings turned to the kid. ‘I mean, who needs a man's story when you've got his fucking finger?'

Leon gave a low whistle. ‘Jeez, I didn't know that . . . I've been to Japan too. With the Marine Corps.' Looked like Leon was too attached to his fingers to sacrifice them for a story. ‘I signed up right after Civil Air Patrol. They sent me to a spy station in Japan. Kanagawa? Taught myself Russian and volunteered to go undercover as a defector.'

‘You defected?'

‘You better believe it.'

‘So how come they let you back into the country?'

‘Let's just say they were expecting me . . . ' He gave a small smile that hide a large pride. ‘Afterwards, I infiltrated the Pro-Castro movement.' Hastings didn't get it. How could a kid like this infiltrate the closed, duplicitous world of Castro and Anti-Castro? The only honest answer: he couldn't. ‘They think I'm a Commie!' His laugh was unnerving, divorced from any notion of humour; more the jumpy stutter of a fuse burning too fast. ‘Pulled one over their eyes . . . '

Hastings had an irresistible urge to grab the kid by the shoulders, to shake some sense into those slightly glazed eyes of his and tell the poor chump the truth.

‘Okay, no promises but it's looking good. Those Oil fuckers keep hundreds of grand in their office safes for emergencies just like this . . . ' Roselli paused, mulling possibilities: Oilmen with greedy appetites and more money than they knew what to do with. Too much ready cash lying around. Easy access to office safes. Overall, the big combo was irresistible. Roselli was already moving on to his next operation. ‘I should talk it over with Walter Stark. Now about them bombs . . . '

‘Bombs?'

‘Shut up, Leon, this don't concern you . . . '

‘I disagree, Mr. Roselli, this most certainly concerns—'

Roselli grabbed him by his skinny arms and tossed him across the room, into the wire cage gate of the elevator. The hinges squealed and squeaked, and Leon bounced back into Roselli. ‘Wise up and shut up.'

‘But all I . . . '

Roselli raised a warning finger right in front of his nose. The kid took a deep breath and closed his mouth, tight. Roselli nodded approval. ‘What about them bombs?'

‘You get the info when we get the money.'

‘Money . . . ?'

Roselli flicked Leon hard across the nose. ‘What did I tell you?' Then back to Hastings: ‘You'll pay for this . . . '

‘Tell me one single thing any of us has ever done in our miserable lives that we won't pay for?'

Roselli stared at him for a long moment, then slid his sunglasses back on. ‘Ain't that the god-awful truth . . . '

Luchino turned to Leon. ‘I was told the second floor.'

‘That's right, there's a vacant office, in front of the fire escape.'

‘Let's see it,' Hastings said. Leon went to call the elevator. ‘Use the stairs. Less chance of people seeing us.'

Leon nodded. As they walked past the telephone booth, Roselli stuck his finger in the return coin slot, checking for missed dimes. The Godfather of loose change. It gave Hastings an idea. He leant in and ripped the receiver cord out of the box. Roselli nodded approvingly. ‘Good thinking . . . Elvis.'

‘Say, that's the property of Ma Bell.'

‘Who gives a rat's ass? You should take a look at your phone bills, Leon. Those crooks are worse than us.'

Roselli and Leon walked down to the second floor, holding on to the staircase handrail all the way. Hastings and Luchino exchanged looks. Maybe no one would sweep for prints. Recklessness wasn't dangerous in itself, it was the hallmark of an amateur. And that's what was dangerous.

‘There you go . . . ' He unlocked a door and handed the key to Luchino. Luchino walked in, his eyes calibrating the terrain. ‘Perfect.' He snapped open a small carry bag and began to assemble a Kongsberg Våpenfabrikk Mauser M59 sniper rifle with a precision Zeiss scope.

‘Nice piece.' Leon went to touch it but Luchino stopped him just in time. ‘It's like a Stradivarius,
mon ami
. You can look, you can listen . . . but never, ever, touch . . . '

Leon stood frozen with embarrassment and maybe fear. Hastings decided to rescue him. ‘Let's get to the Book Depository.' Leon and Roselli left the room without a word. Hastings paused, then turned back to Luchino. They looked into each other's eyes, then shook hands. It was meant more for complicity and luck, but if need be, it would also serve as farewell. Then Hastings closed the door behind him, his fist protected by his handkerchief.

Outside the sun was brighter, the air clammy with expectation. Hastings could hear music that sounded like it was coming from a carousel. They crossed the street, the asphalt tender underfoot. The music grew louder: unnerving in its inappropriateness; in its insistence on dominating the mood. It was coming from an organ grinder, sitting on the bottom step of the Book Depository. Roselli strode up to him. ‘Are you out of your mind? What the hell are you doing here?'

The organ grinder stopped his cranking, the thin music running on into silence. He said something Hastings didn't catch. ‘As God is my witness . . . ' Roselli grabbed the grinder by the lapels and yanked him off the steps. ‘You tell Marcello go fuck himself.'

A tall passerby stopped and stared. ‘Say, leave the poor fellow alone . . . ' He had a strange way of speaking. Mid-Atlantic. Roselli glared at him for a moment, his face breaking out into a leer of recognition. ‘Ned?' He removed his shades, the diamond on his pinkie finger flashing. ‘It
is
you.'

The man turned back to the organ grinder. ‘Good lord, don't tell me he's with you too?'

Roselli shook his head. ‘This asshole's with Marcello . . . ' Carlos Marcello was allied with Santo Trafficante. Trafficante was palled up with Meyer Lansky and the Eastern Establishment. Two different worlds, east coast and west coast, colliding in Dallas. You didn't need a weatherman to know a storm was due. ‘What is that, Ned, you putting shit in your hair now?'

Ned dabbed his forehead nervously, as though expecting the dye to run. ‘I'm incognito.' He glanced at Hastings and Leon. ‘So I'd be most obliged if you didn't address me by name.'

Hands on hips, shaking his head in disgust, Roselli watched Ned hurrying away. ‘Goddamn spooks . . . ' He shoved the organ grinder along after Ned. ‘It's always about them.' Roselli turned to Leon. ‘Move it, we're running out of time.'

‘I can handle it from here.'

‘Maybe you can and maybe you can't, but I'm not going to find out.'

Leon actually put his hand out to stop him. ‘I work here. You cannot compromise my position.'

Impressed, Hastings turned to Roselli, nodding. ‘The kid's got a point . . . '

Roselli knew enough to give up. ‘Fuck you all, I'm out of here.'

‘What about my payment?'

Roselli paused for a moment, but not long enough to construct a lie. ‘Jackie will come by with your bag, Gene with Frenchie's.'

‘Napoleon's,' Leon corrected.

‘What are you, a history teacher?'

‘How will we know the other one hasn't been double-crossed?' Hastings asked.

‘When you get your bags, you can wave at each other through the windows.' Roselli sulked away, then stopped and took a step back towards Hastings. ‘Do you have any idea . . . any fucking appreciation of how hard this has been to put together?'

‘Don't. You'll break my heart . . . '

‘Wise guy.'

They watched Roselli turn the corner and disappear. ‘Unpleasant, isn't he . . . ? You'll find my colleagues much nicer.'

‘CIA nice?'

‘The workers at the Book Depository.' The air inside was cooler but musty with damp and the strident stench of varnish. ‘They're replacing the floorboards . . . ' Leon led Hastings into a changing room and handed him a grey coverall. ‘It'll make you damn near invisible.'

Leon was right. No one even looked at Hastings as he was led past the soda pop machine, into the elevator and up to the top of the building. Leon showed him the windows at the end. The trajectory was far more acute than Luchino's in the Dal-Tex building. Did that mean they thought he was the better shot? Or did they just toss a coin. There was a rifle lying parallel to the window on the floor, half-hidden by newspapers—a Mannlicher-Carcano. ‘What the hell is that?'

Leon leaned over his shoulder, craning to see. ‘A rifle . . . '

‘I can see that.' It was a model 91. ‘What I want to know is, what's it doing here?'

‘I've never seen it before in my life.'

Hastings looked around suddenly. ‘What floor are we on?'

‘Seventh.'

‘We're supposed to be on the sixth floor.' Hastings slipped the bolt out of the rifle, then wiped the weapon down for prints.

‘Why did you do that?'

‘Call it anticipation . . . '

Hastings pushed past Leon, taking the stairs, Leon hurrying behind him, catching the door onto the sixth floor before it slammed shut in his face. Hastings went over to the far windows. Boxes had been stacked around them, forming a sniper's nest. Leon gestured to it. ‘I built it myself . . . ' Hastings ignored him as he started to assemble his weapon, a Springfield Model 1903-A4 carbine. ‘Nice,' Leon said. ‘What are they?'

‘Custom rounds . . . Remember what Napoleon said. No touching.' He started loading the magazine, then glanced back up at Leon and froze. The kid had just drawn a Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver. It looked like he might have completely underestimated Leon. ‘What are you going to do with that?'

‘Huh? Oh, this . . . ?' Leon hurriedly tucked the revolver behind his trousers' waistband, embarrassed. ‘I was just—you know: you show me yours . . . '

Hastings finished assembling his rifle, not looking up as he spoke. ‘So what's the .38 Special for, cat burglars or target practice . . . ?'

‘Heck . . . It's for a job.'

‘Really? And what have you got planned?'

‘Have you heard of this hotshot called Gerry Hemming?'

Hastings stopped what he was doing, looked up at Leon. ‘. . . Sure. He's the one that acts like an escapee from juvy hall.'

‘That's the one.' Leon said, beaming with pride. ‘Well, after we kill Kennedy, we're going to kill Gerry Hemming . . . '

T
he Hotel was lit up like an ocean liner beached against the shadowy sea of the Del Mar Racetrack. Black sedans gathered at the entrance gates, their headlights fisting trembling barriers of light. ‘You better watch your batteries . . . '

‘You better watch your mouth.'

If it isn't my old pal, Sergeant Barnsley. ‘Isn't it past your bedtime, Barnsley? Must be a full moon.'

Barnsley's huge hands are at my throat. The heat of his anger roars out through his fingers; they tremble from the barely controlled desire to maim and scar. I reach down fast and snap his balls. Barnsley crumples to the turf. Flashlights circle, then trap me. ‘What the hell . . . ?'

I shoulder through them. ‘I'm Mr. Hoover's personal guest. He's expecting me.' I point back to the sergeant, sobbing in his sick. ‘That man needs medical attention . . . '