by JM Gulvin
*
When they got to North Rocheblave Street De La Martin parked outside Gigi’s house. Quarrie got out of the car, went up the steps and opened the front door. Switching on the light he stood for a moment and considered the living room and kitchen. Then he left De La Martin to check downstairs while he went up to the bedroom. Standing in the middle of the floor he regarded the photo of Gigi and Nana on the dressing table. For a moment he thought about everything that old lady had told him then he went through the drawers. Nothing but Gigi’s clothes; he checked the nightstand then turned his attention to the closet. Two hanging rails sitting crosswise, there was a space for her shoes as well as a few shallow drawers that contained underwear and nylons in unopened packages. The bottom drawer was home to a file of papers. He went through them and found nothing but bank statements and bills from the power company.
He was at the door to the landing again when he paused. The closet was built into the wall but he noticed the hint of a gap at the top where it didn’t meet snugly with the ceiling.
‘You find anything, Texas?’ De La Martin’s voice lifted from the bottom of the stairs.
Quarrie did not reply. Grabbing the dressing table stool he climbed up so his head was level with the ceiling but it was too dark to see if there was anything hidden back there. He heard the detective on the stairs then he was at the bedroom door. ‘Got something, do you?’ De La Martin said.
Quarrie was fumbling in a pocket for his Zippo. ‘Can’t see yet, the overhead light ain’t bright enough.’ Locating the lighter he flipped the top, rolled the wheel and held the flame to the gap between the ceiling and the top of the closet wall.
A blue paper file so thin he almost didn’t see it. Scraping it clear he got down off the stool and flipped the opening page. He stared at a Xeroxed image of Wiley and Henderson getting into the Oldsmobile Super 88 he had pursued back in Texas. Beneath that was a copy of Wiley’s school record, together with a commentary on his level of anti-social behavior and how his mother had run out on him and his two younger brothers before he was ten years old. His alcoholic father had been found dead in their trailer house the day Wiley turned seventeen. He had spent twelve years in the army where he had numerous run-ins with officers. There were medical reports noting what could only be described as sociopathic behavior spawned from an ‘innate hatred’ of black people. At the bottom of the page Quarrie spied a comment from the waitress he had spoken to at the Deacon’s Mount Dairy-Ette.
As he read what she said he was aware of the hairs on the back of his neck. Catching the expression in his eyes De La Martin stared. ‘You OK there? Color of your face right now I figure I should check for a pulse.’
Quarrie’s mouth was dry. ‘D-Lay,’ he said, ‘the DA told me that at least two people shot Kennedy and if Oswald was one of them he was there just to take the fall.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he’s been shouting now for a while.’
‘I told you Wiley stole an M1C back in Texas?’ Tugging his wallet from his back pocket he pulled out the faded slip of paper where the word Jacinto was scrawled. ‘Well, he never was the shooter. This ain’t Dallas and it’s not Garrison they’re after at all.’
Downstairs in the living room he picked up the phone. When the operator came on the line he told her to connect him with the jailhouse in Wichita Falls. As he waited he glanced at De La Martin who was looking pretty confused. The connection was made and a man’s voice sounded in Quarrie’s ear.
‘Sheriff’s department,’ he said.
‘Who is that?’ Quarrie asked.
‘Deputy Olson.’
‘Deputy, this is Sergeant Quarrie out of Company C. Are you in the jailhouse or is that Sam Dayton’s phone?’
‘No, sir, it’s the jailhouse, graveyard shift till dawn.’
‘Scott Henderson. Did they ship him back to Ferguson yet?’
‘No, they didn’t. An attorney’s been in to see him but he’s still not been arraigned.’
‘Listen,’ Quarrie said. ‘I need for you to bring him to the phone.’
‘I can’t do that. I’m on my own here and I can’t let a prisoner out of a cell, not with no one else around. It’s against the rules.’
‘Sure you can. He’s my prisoner so tell him if he gives you any trouble I’ll make certain he gets the chair.’
‘I don’t know. Really, I’m not sure.’
‘Do as I tell you, Deputy. Go bring Henderson to the phone.’
He waited almost five minutes before he heard the scraping sound of someone picking up the receiver. ‘That you, Scott?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did the jailer tell you what was going to happen if you gave him any trouble?’
‘John Q, I am not going to give him any trouble.’
‘So listen, the day you ran into me I want to know exactly what happened in the gun store.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that M1C, the rifle Wiley told you he was after. What did he do with it?’
‘Do with it?’ Henderson sounded confused. ‘He stole it. You know he did.’
‘I’m asking what he did with it after he took it down from where it was hanging on the wall.’
‘He stuffed it into the duffel.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Sure.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No, sir. No, wait a minute; I think he might’ve racked it. Is that what you mean? Yeah, he did that, checked the action was working and dry-fired.’
‘All right,’ Quarrie said. ‘There’s something else I need to know. The Dairy-Ette, before you robbed the store you were in there and an older waitress served you. Do you remember her?’
‘Sure I do, it was her at the window. After Wiley pistol whipped the old man it was that waitress who ran for the law.’
Quarrie was staring at Wiley’s file. ‘After it was over with she told a reporter that she didn’t like Wiley from the get-go on account of how he was cussing in front of the customers. “Sonofabitch don’t want to fight for his country then he won’t be fighting at all.” What was all that about?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Sure you do, Scotty. Think.’
‘Jeeze, you got me now. I don’t know, John Q.’ Henderson was silent for a moment. ‘No, hold on, wait a minute. Wiley was watching some interview on TV about the army and Cassius Clay.’
Thirty-two
By the time Quarrie got to Houston it was mid-morning and the turning onto San Jacinto was blocked by hundreds of black people carrying banners and placards. Pulling over in the ‘Do Not Park’ zone he climbed from the car and flashed his badge at a uniformed cop.
*
In the hotel room across the street Franklin crouched on his haunches wearing a bellhop’s uniform under a dust-colored raincoat. He wore a pair of tight-fitting leather gloves and he bent to the M1C. The barrel resting against the sill of the open window, he had his finger in the trigger guard and his eye to the scope. He focused on the entrance to the building where the people were deepest, but there was no sign of the doors opening. Panning across the gathering he spotted the pale blue station wagon as it came to a stop at the junction with Capitol Street. He saw Quarrie get out and watched as he started towards the hotel.
‘So much for your plans, old man,’ he murmured. ‘The boxer is late and the Texas Ranger early.’
*
Quarrie peered across Capitol Street to where the melee was deepest on the lawns out front of the ornate-looking building that housed the Military Entrance Processing Station. He ducked between the banks of protestors and uniformed cops and made it to the opposing sidewalk. He looked up at the hotel where a stone balustrade formed the lip of a balcony that straddled eight arches fronting the sidewalk. The balcony was wide enough to walk on; it was wide enough for someone to kneel down with a rifle if they had a mind. With the day as hot as it already was, every window was open and blood-colored drapes flapped like flamingo wings in the breeze. A clock carved into t
he stone facade dominated the street and Quarrie stared at the time. Then he fixed his gaze on the Processing Station where Muhammad Ali was refusing to join the army.
With no sign of any FBI agent yet, he went into the hotel and told the clerk he was the Ranger who had called in the early hours. The man confirmed that the room had been booked via a money order they received in the mail. He said it was on the second floor facing across the street and a bellhop had just gone up to check it had been cleaned.
Quarrie dashed up the stairs. Nobody in the carpeted hallway, just a soda machine and a water fountain; a cleaner’s cart stacked with towels and fresh linen. Drawing a pistol he made his way down the hall and stopped outside the room. The door was unlocked and he stood there trying to pick up any sound. There was nothing at first then he heard a collective shout go up from out on the street. Throwing the door wide he was in a short corridor with a bathroom to the right and bedroom ahead where the window gaped and the curtain billowed like some desperate alarm. Directly in front of the window a rifle was resting against the sill. No sign of the shooter. Quarrie kicked open the bathroom door.
Nobody, nothing, both bathroom and bedroom were empty. He figured the bellhop must’ve spotted him when he got out of the car and he was pretty sure it was Franklin. He crossed to the window as another cheer erupted and he saw Ali emerge from the Processing Station. The boxer stood just outside the doors with every news hound in Texas stuffing a microphone under his chin. Tall and serene he looked utterly calm despite the mass of young black men whooping and hollering as flashbulbs went off like firecrackers.
Holstering his pistol again Quarrie focused on this side of the street as a couple of Fords pulled up and half a dozen gray-suited men piled out. Emerging from the passenger seat of the second car he recognized Patterson, the SAC. Stepping back from the window he dropped to one knee and studied the rifle. A Garand M1C, like the one he had found in Wiley’s bag, only this had a four-power scope. No muzzle flash hider, unlike Colback’s, and no leather on the stock to stop any chafing.
He gazed across the street to the mass of people then a noise in the corridor made him turn. Two police officers in uniform, handguns drawn and cocked, were standing either side of the open door pointing their weapons at him. They stared at Quarrie and he stared back at them, thinking how they looked so jumpy one of them was bound to shoot.
‘Mister.’ The first one didn’t sound too sure of his voice. ‘I need you to stand up real easy and unbuckle that pistol belt.’
‘It’s OK.’ Quarrie rose to his feet indicating his badge. ‘I’m a Ranger out of Company C.’
The two cops looked at him and then briefly at each other and they did not holster their guns. ‘The pistol belt,’ the cop repeated. ‘Use your left hand only. Do it nice and slow.’
With a shake of his head Quarrie reached across with his left hand and unfastened the buckle. The gunbelt fell to the floor and he kicked it a foot away. ‘It ain’t me you want,’ he said. ‘The shooter is dressed as a bellhop and all the time we’re stood here, he’s getting further away.’
The first cop stepped into the room and bent for Quarrie’s weapons. He inspected the badge on his chest as if he did not believe it was real. Quarrie looked coldly at him as voices sounded from the hallway. Moments later two men in gray suits appeared followed by Patterson, the SAC.
‘You took your own sweet time,’ Quarrie said. ‘These two boys don’t seem to recognize a Ranger’s star when they see one and the shooter is getting away.’
*
It was very late when finally he made it home to Wilbarger County. A long drive from Houston and all the way from New Orleans before that, he was listening to a snippet of Chuck Boyle’s ‘Snake Pit’ talk show on KLIF where some guy from Dallas was lambasting the Boxing Commission over their stance with Muhammad Ali. Switching the radio off Quarrie got out of the car.
Judging by how the main house was in darkness he figured Mrs Feeley was away, which meant Pious was too. Lights burned in the kitchen of his place though, spilling from the window in a corn-colored glow. When he was on the road Eunice stayed over and it looked like she was yet to turn in. Opening the fly screen door Quarrie saw a woman at the table with a glass of wine at her elbow, but it wasn’t Eunice, it was Gigi.
With a smile she put down her magazine. ‘John Q, we weren’t expecting you.’
Quarrie returned the smile. ‘I wasn’t expecting me either, Gigi. Where’s Eunice at? I figured her for being here not you.’
‘Eunice went out on a date.’
‘Did she now; how about that? I always thought it was Nolo she was sweet on. You’re saying that ain’t so?’
‘Oh, he’s the one all right. I’ve seen the way she looks at him and whoever she’s with tonight, the way she was all made-up when she crossed the yard, I think it’s all part of the same show.’
Quarrie fetched a quart bottle of milk from the fridge and sat down at the table to pry off the top. ‘So how’d you like Texas?’ he said.
‘Apart from the snakes and spiders, I guess I like it fine.’
‘Have you been settling in?’
‘Pretty much. Everyone’s been really nice to me, including Mrs Feeley, and I’m getting on great with James.’
‘Sleeping right now, is he?’ Quarrie threw a glance towards the hallway door.
She nodded. ‘He’s a good kid, John Q: you’ve done a fine job with him.’
Taking a long draught of ice-cold milk Quarrie worked a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt and offered it to Gigi.
She shook her head. ‘I only smoke when I’m stressed.’
‘And you’re not stressed anymore?’
‘Not right now.’
‘Is Pious about?’
‘No, he’s away with Mrs Feeley and the plane. Denver, I think he said.’
‘On the phone James told me how when he’s around you he gabbles like he ain’t going to quit.’
Gigi smiled.
‘That ain’t like him, mam, I can tell you.’
‘He’s a good guy,’ Gigi said.
‘Yes, he is.’ Quarrie sat back. ‘Did him some prison time he didn’t need to be doing. Did he tell you that?’
‘Yes, he did.’ Hunching onto her elbows she looked keenly at him then. ‘So I know they murdered Earl. What else has been going on?’
Sitting back in the chair Quarrie exhaled a heavy breath. ‘What ain’t been going on is the better question.’ Lighting a cigarette he told her all that he’d found out. He told her about the file he had discovered in her house and what happened in Houston that morning. When he’d finished her eyes were fixed on his.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I got there before they could shoot him. He doesn’t know anything about it, and unless the Feds want to tell him, he probably never will.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why would they go after Cassius Clay?’
Quarrie made an open-handed gesture. ‘You said it right there. He ain’t Cassius anymore, he’s Muhammad Ali. And he’s not just a boxer, he’s a symbol for a lot of people in this country and he isn’t going to Vietnam. Gigi, this whole deal with black power, the Nation of Islam, Ali’s a rallying point.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean for disaffected colored kids, and with the way things are right now there’s a hell of a lot of them.’ He upturned a palm. ‘The kind of people prepared to pay an outfit like this to kill someone don’t allow for folks like him.’
Reaching for his package of cigarettes Gigi pried back the foil. ‘You say you found that file on top of my closet?’
‘Yes, mam, I did.’
‘And you figure it was Earl who hid it there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘John Q, why would he have it in the first place?’
‘I think he found it in Anderson’s apartment.’
She looked at him with her brows knit.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
G
igi shook her head. ‘I never gave Earl a key. He hasn’t been to my house but once since he stole those meds and that was just the living room with me.’
For a moment Quarrie stared.
‘You told me you figured he was in that apartment the same night you were, right?’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘That was long after he took those meds and he hasn’t been back to the house.’
Quarrie thought about that as she got up from the table and stepped outside where the air was a little cooler. ‘John Q,’ she called through the screen, ‘if that old man is behind all this then . . .’
Nana’s admission seemed to rattle in Quarrie’s head. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It means everything that happened to you happened on account of him.’
He followed her out and Gigi peered through the gloom. ‘I asked Nana who he was and if she was scared of him.’
‘And is she?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’m wondering if maybe she should be.’
‘That gun she keeps in the cabinet, would she use it if someone got in?’
‘Sure she would,’ Gigi said.
She stared across the yard to where the corral was shaped by shadow and beyond it the bluff where the big house stood. She said goodnight and he watched her cross to the Noons’ cottage and then he closed up the kitchen. Pausing in the hallway he pushed open his son’s door and stood watching him for a while. In his own room he shut the door and sat on the bed staring through the window at a crescent moon.
*
When he got back to New Orleans Franklin went home to take a shower and change his clothes. Wrapping the bellhop’s uniform in a plastic bag he taped the top then poured himself a drink. Downstairs once more he drove to the Garden District and stopped outside a coffee bar. Grabbing the plastic bag from the back seat he tossed it into a dumpster.
It was late when he pulled up to the gates. The house was in shadow save a light that burned in an upstairs window. Franklin parked the car and made his way around back. He paused on the gravel pathway watching the old man talking on the phone. He was on his feet, a lamp lighted on the desk; he looked up as Franklin opened the doors to the patio. He spoke for a few minutes longer and then he put down the phone.
