by Don DeLillo
It looked like New Orleans was over. In a way it had never begun. Lee wanted her back in Russia to free himself of responsibility. She thought he would settle for Dallas, at least for now.
Ruth Paine was passing through New Orleans from the East or the Midwest and she could take Marina back to Dallas with her. This is what Marina discussed with Lee. He would go to Mexico City to get his Cuban visa and Marina and June would go to Dallas with Ruth Paine, a Quaker and good friend.
Then they would see what came next.
They stood firing their weapons in the misty light. He was detached from the action, empty, squeezing off a round, a round, another. Strictly pouring lead. The other men had little to say to him and kept a calculated distance. This was all right with him. It was a summer of things taking shape at the edges.
David Ferrie wore earmuffs, firing at cans of tomato paste, unopened. Mass-market gore spritzed in the morning air. He didn’t use the hearing protectors they wear on gun ranges. Ordinary dime-store earmuffs, but he could shoot. The Cuban could shoot. The rangy guy, Wayne, with the long wandering face, and kind of stoop-backed, fired only a couple of rounds, then drifted off.
Ferrie had to get back to New Orleans to speak to the Junior Chamber of Commerce. He said he’d be back next day to take Lee home.
The leader, T-Jay, seemed half amused by Lee. Strong-looking, a slight paunch, a tattoo bird flying out of his fist. Marlboro man, thought Lee.
T-Jay was aware of his desire to go to Cuba. Had Ferrie told him? Had Lee told Ferrie? Did Agent Bateman know? Had he told Bateman why he wanted a passport? These questions passed quickly through Lee’s mind. Didn’t mean a thing. Summer was building toward a vision.
T-Jay told him to train with the Mannlicher, not one of the new rifles. This was his intention all along. It was Lee who’d asked to, come out to the camp. He’d insisted to Ferrie. He needed target work, serious time with his weapon.
Except that he was out of ammunition. Ammo for this type carbine was hard to find. He’d hit every gun shop in New Orleans. T-Jay seemed amused, all-knowing. He said he had an ample sup-. ply, obtained directly from the Western Cartridge Company on the basis of past dealings. See? Everything is taken care of. It’s falling into place.
He curled into a sleeping bag on the floor of the long shack.
He has a lot to show the Cubans. There is correspondence from the Fair Play Committee and the Worker. He has handbills and membership cards.
He knows one thing sure. He is going to study politics and economics.
Take ’em to Missouri, Matt.
There is still this mix-up over his discharge, which they refuse to change to honorable.
Marina thinks he is in another parish looking for work in the aerospace industry.
The President reads James Bond novels.
He has proof of his subscriptions to left-wing journals. He has the court summons describing the incident that led to his arrest.
The revolution must be a school of unfettered thought.
Rain-slick streets.
Aerospace is the coming thing, with courses at night in economic theory.
He is working on a new project in his steno notebook. He has headings like Marxist, Organizer, Street Agitation, Radio Speaker and Lecturer. Under these he is writing concise descriptions of his activities, with attachments. He has the news story of his court appearance with his name spelled correctly. He has tax returns he took from the offices of the graphic-arts firm where he worked in Dallas, just to save, just to have in case of something like this, to take and keep. This would qualify as intelligence.
I am experienced in street agitation.
I have a far mean streak of independence brought on by neglect.
Aerospace.
It wasn’t until they hit the gleaming traffic, the raw flash on the edges of New Orleans, that Ferrie brought up the subject.
“President Jack has been working overtime. Did you know this? To put Castro in the ground. The deepest of cover operations. Ask me how I know. I do legal research for Carmine Latta. Carmine has knowledge of this thing. The Agency has worked with crime figures to put the hit on Fidel.”
The bright crush around them. Faces in side windows.
“Listen. They can’t do it without Kennedy’s knowledge. He has some dirty business, who does he consult? CIA is the President’s toilet.”
Children carried past, squinting in the hard light.
“Carmine has talked to people from Chicago, from Florida. This is amazing material, Leon, for you to think about. Think about it. On one level the government is seeking conciliation with Cuba. On another level it is sending out assassins.”
The next day—it was September 9—Lee picked up the Times-Picayune and read that Castro was charging the U.S. with plotting assassinations.
“United States leaders should think that if they are aiding terrorist plans to eliminate Cuban leaders,” he said, “they themselves will not be safe.”
Lee read the story several times. It was as if they had control of the news, Ferrie, Banister, all of them, all-knowing. Of course it was only coincidence that Ferrie mentioned the thing one day and it appeared in the paper the next. But maybe that was even stranger than total control.
Coincidence. He learned in the bayous, from Raymo, that Castro’s guerrilla name was Alex, derived from his middle name, Alejandro. Lee used to be known as Alek.
Coincidence. Banister was trying to find him, not knowing what city or state or country he was in, and he walked in the door at 544 and asked for an undercover job.
Coincidence. He ordered the revolver and the carbine six weeks apart. They arrived the same day.
Coincidence. Lee was always reading two or three books, like Kennedy. Did military service in the Pacific, like Kennedy. Poor handwriting, terrible speller, like Kennedy. Wives pregnant at the same time. Brothers named Robert.
His nosebleeds started again the second night he was home. There was blood on the pillowcase. Marina told him he’d been shaking in his sleep.
They knew all about him, even where to get cartridges for his rifle. Plus the Feebees were reading his mail. Plus Marina was almost eight months pregnant, complaining about the way they lived, sarcastic about his principles as a fighter for progress. He missed two meetings with Bateman. He didn’t care about the money. They could keep their money. They didn’t own or control him. He lost weight. He could feel the difference in his clothes and see it in his face in the mirror. He took a careful stance on the screened porch and aimed the rifle at a man crossing the street, holding right where the head and neck join, saying the word windage to himself. He decided to study Spanish again.
He got his tourist card from the Mexican consulate. He got his documents and clippings in order. It was all for little Cuba, so the Cubans could see who he was.
He could get his visa and have them stamp it with a future date. He could go back to Dallas and shoot the fascist Walker. Then return to Mexico City, knowing his visa was already set, a solid fact, guaranteed travel to Havana. They would welcome him there as a hero.
He’d studied Spanish once before, or twice before. It would come easy this time.
Ferrie called his rifle the Man-Licker.
He fastened the playpen and stroller to the top of Ruth Paine’s station wagon, a green Chevy, a ’55, with rust spots and soft tires. He jammed suitcases and boxes inside, everything they owned. It was Ruth Paine’s now. He sneaked the rifle in, disassembled in an old blanket wrapped tight with kitchen string. He tied a granny knot.
He told Ruth Paine he might go to Houston to look for work, or maybe Philadelphia.
Marina’s eyes were wet with worry and love. He ran his fingertips along her high white neck. He fought off the tears. He thought his face might crumple like a child’s, washed in sorrow.
That night he streaked through a heavy rain with bag after bag of leftover junk, pushing old newspapers into a neighbor’s garbage can, letting pop bottles crash. Was anyone watching? D
id a sleepless old lady keep track of these midnight sprints? He went back to the house at a shambling trot and was out again a moment later, quick-walking down the driveway with more junk pressed to his chest, the boy who spoke to no one on the street.
The next evening he stood on the porch waiting for the bus to pull up at the stop directly across Magazine. When it did, he hurried across the street carrying two canvas bags and owing fifteen days’ rent.
At the Trailways terminal he headed for the window to buy a ticket to Houston, which was the first stage of the journey to Mexico City. David Ferrie was standing by the window. He wore a rumpled plaid sport jacket with a newspaper sticking out of one pocket. He looked like a horseplayer with two days to live.
“Where to, Mexico? To pick up a visa for little Cuba?”
“That’s right,” Lee said.
“Without a word to Cap’n Dave? I don’t like this, Leon.”
“You won’t tell me what it is they want me to do. I have to make my plans best I can.”
“They knew you were going. They’ve been watching extra close. I am personally put out about this. Cuba now, Leon? We haven’t done our work yet.”
“I’m planning I might come back.”
“You’ll come back all right. You know why? They don’t give visas to Americans so easy. Plus you want to come back. You want to finish our work.”
“What do they want me to do?”
“We both know the answer to that by now.”
“You know. I don’t.”
“You’ve known almost all along. I think you knew before I did. You came to the swamps to shoot your Man-Licker. You know what side we’re on. You know we’re not about to choose a target suited to your tastes. But you wanted to come. I think you picked it out of the air. I honestly believe you beat me to it.”
A Negro in hip boots wandered through the terminal selling yo-yos that lit up in the dark.
Ferrie talked Lee into having a meal together. Raymo would drive him to Houston tomorrow if that’s what he wanted. Save the bus fare. Enjoy the comfort of the family car.
They ate scrambled eggs in Ferrie’s apartment. There were explosives stored under the kitchen table. Ferrie kept his jacket on, wagged the fork as he spoke.
“I’ve seen the Fair Play material you keep at 544,” he said. “I’ve noticed something you haven’t noticed. Librans never notice references to themselves. The official symbol of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee is a man’s hand holding aloft a pair of scales. Two weighing pans hanging from a rigid beam. Everywhere you go. It’s all around you. Which way will Leon tilt?”
“I don’t know what they want me to do.”
“Of course you know.”
“Tell me where it happens.”
“Miami.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“You’ve known for weeks.”
“What happens in Miami?”
Ferrie took a while to finish chewing his food.
“Think of two parallel lines,” he said. “One is the life of Lee H. Oswald. One is the conspiracy to kill the President. What bridges the space between them? What makes a connection inevitable? There is a third line. It comes out of dreams, visions, intuitions, prayers, out of the deepest levels of the self. It’s not generated by cause and effect like the other two lines. It’s a line that cuts across causality, cuts across time. It has no history that we can recognize or understand. But it forces a connection. It puts a man on the path of his destiny.”
25 September
Lee woke up on the sofa some time after midnight. He was wide awake almost at once. The TV was on a bookshelf, picture flipping, no sound. He heard Ferrie gargling in the bathroom. The smell of hashish stuck to everything, to Lee’s hair and clothes, the fabric on the sofa.
He watched Ferrie walk into the room naked. His eyebrows and toupee were gone. He was sad and pasty, decolored, moving out of the background glow into the stutter light of TV. He resembled someone in the land of nudo, a shaved nude in a booth in Tokyo, a nude monk you pay to photograph, some endless variation on the factual nude, a satire for tourists. He looked unclear, half erased. Could he tell Lee’s eyes were open?
He stood a moment among the books and pole lamps as if he’d forgotten something. What could he forget, naked? Lee shifted around so that his back was to the room. He shifted like someone asleep, just rolling over. He closed his eyes. He groaned like someone deep in sleep.
Ferrie sat on the edge of the sofa, reaching around to put a hand on Lee’s belly over the shirt, a hand on Hidell, leaning closer now, his breath sharp with mouthwash.
“People have to be nice to each other.”
He moved his hand around. Wandering hands, Lee thought. An old term, an old thing they said in junior high, what a girl said about a boy. He’s got wandering hands.
“People be nice,” whispered Cap’n Dave.
He seemed to be easing his body lengthwise onto the sofa, arranging himself behind Lee, the hand circling a central area, moving slowly over Lee’s pants. Lee wouldn’t let him undo the belt. They actually grappled for a moment. They fought over the belt buckle without changing positions on the sofa. Lee kept his eyes closed. They hand-fought and slapped at each other. Ferrie was strong. He was using one hand, gripping Lee’s wrist hard. It’s called an Indian bum when you put your hands around someone’s wrist and twist in opposite directions. Another old term, a thing from grade school maybe.
“People be nice, be nice, be nice.”
He seemed to be pressing with his body now. The hand sort of quieting down. Lee put his legs tight together. His eyes were still closed. He felt the rough fabric of the sofa on his face. Ferrie was breathing all over him, covering his head and neck with heavy breath.
Hide the L in Lee.
No one will see.
Then he felt it on his pants, seeping in. He tried not to take it personally. They separated themselves and Ferrie got a towel for him and then put on a robe. This was achieved mostly in the dark.
“When you get back to Dallas, there are some places you ought to know about.”
“I’m going to Mexico City.”
“But when you get back. There’s a place called Gene’s Music Bar. You ought to drop in some night. Or the Century Room, which I hear just opened.”
“What for?”
“Meet people.”
“What kind of people?”
“People you- want to meet. I don’t know Dallas bars myself. I’m passing on the word. Stay away from the Holiday. That’s rough trade. Not for you, Leon.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. Gene’s Music Bar is number one on your list. You definitely want to catch the action. Tell me what it’s like.”
Out came the hashish.
David Ferrie said, “Hashish. Interesting, interesting word. Arabic. It’s the source of the word assassin.”
Jack Ruby liked his juice fresh-squeezed in the morning. He bought eight grapefruits at a clip, grabbing them out of the bin with a steely look, like this is the only thing that can save me. There were grapefruits wedged in every part of the fridge. He liked to slap the surface of a good grapefruit. Dependable. He liked to heft the thing in his hand. The whole business of juice was allied in his mind with swimming laps in a pool or working out with weights. He was a physical-culture nut when he had time.
When he stepped out of the kitchen, that’s when the bachelor chaos began to flow. The place resembled a lost-and-found. To Jack it was okay. He hated and feared a hotel look. All he had to do was recall the time ten years ago when he became depressed over business failures, when money problems were climbing up his back and pressing on his skull. It got so bad he took a room in a cheap walk-up hotel and isolated himself for eight weeks with the shades drawn, eating only enough to stay alive. He was a nothing person. He had no desire to live. It was the one time in his life he was guilty of despair, which is the deepest misery of the spirit, the hardest to overco
me.
Maybe this is why Jack had a roommate. To avoid the scariness of being alone. Or was it just his habit of taking in strays, people of untremendous means? George Senator was fifty, a postcard salesman, divorced through the mail, with an eighth-grade education. He’d been in and out of jobs for years, a short-order cook, a novelty man, a salesman of women’s apparel whose territory had been reduced from the entire state of Texas to the jackrabbit wastes. He helped out at the club and cooked Jack a meal now and then, although he didn’t broil things right and could never learn the organics of another person, the little niceties of diet that mean so much.
Coming out of the kitchen with the juice glass in his hand, Jack barely glanced at George, who sat bloated on the sofa in a beat-up robe, coughing into his cupped hands.
“I’m expecting a huge phone call. Stay away from the phone. Like into next week I’m referring.”
“Who do I ever call?” George said.
“I don’t know. The weather.”
“I don’t follow the weather. I don’t go anywheres near it.”
Jack barely heard. He had the ability to share an apartment with a roommate and just barge and rush around as if the guy wasn’t there. His mind raced too fast for a guy like shapeless George to catch a ride. He didn’t even know what the spare room looked like since George moved in. Maybe he painted it orange. Not that he didn’t like having George around. It’s a matter of once you’re used to a human presence, growing up like I did with seven brothers and sisters plus two dead in infancy, you feel there’s something missing in a household.
Living alone is a pressure situation. The roommates agreed on that.
Jack took a Preludin with his grapefruit juice. He walked around the living room, trying to say in his mind what he was thinking. Six weeks and no word. They were letting him dance in midair. He went into the kitchen and made more juice. He needed a scalp treatment. He was falling behind in every area of personal care.
