by Tim Baker
‘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 L
uchino 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.
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 s
erve 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.’
