American tabloid

Pete ran by the Adolphus Hotel. He shot Heshie full of heroin and slipped him some Hershey bars to nosh on. Heshie thought his tuxedo was the fu

Dick bounced for a wedding gift: the Adolphus bridal suite through the weekend. Pete and Barb moved their things in an hour before the ceremony.

Pete’s gun fell out of his suitcase. The bellhop almost shit.

Barb tipped him fifty dollars. The kid genuflected out of the suite. A hotel limo dropped them at the chapel.

The preacher was a juicehead. Ruby brought his yappy dachshunds. Dick banged some wedding numbers on his squeezebox.

They said their vows in a dive off Stemmons Freeway. Barb cried. Pete held her hand so tight that she winced.

The preacher supplied imitation gold rings. Pete’s ring wouldn’t fit on his ring finger. The preacher said he’d order him a jumbo-he got his stuff from a mail-order house in Des Moines.

Pete dropped the too-small ring in his pocket. The Till Death Do Us Part pitch got him weak in the knees.

o o o

They settled in at the hotel. Barb kept up a refrain: Barbara Jane Lindscott Jahelka Bondurant.

Heshie sent them champagne and a giant gift basket. The roomservice kid was atwitter-the President’s riding by here on Friday!

They made love. The bed was flouncy pink and enormous.

Barb fell asleep. Pete left an 8:00 p.m. call-his bride had a gig at 9:00 sharp.

He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t touch the bubbly-booze was starting to feel like a weakness.

The phone rang. He got up and grabbed the parlor extension.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me, Pete.”

“Ward, Jesus. How’d you get this-?”

Littell said, “Banister just called me. He said Juan Canestel’s missing in Dallas. I’m sending Kemper in to meet you, and I want the two of you to find him and do what you have to do to make Friday happen.”

98

The plane taxied up to a loading bay. The pilot rode tailwinds all the way from Meridian and made the run in under two hours.

Littell arranged a private charter. He told the pilot to fly ballsto-the-wall. The little two-seater rattled and shook-Kemper couldn’t believe it.

It was 11:48 p.m. They were thirty-six hours short of GO.

Car headlights blinked-Pete’s signal.

Kemper unhooked his seat belt. The pilot throttled down and cranked the door open for him.

Kemper jumped out. Propeller backspin almost knocked him flat.

The car pulled up. Kemper got in. Pete punched it across a string of small-craft runways.

A jet whooshed overhead. Love Field looked otherworldly.

Pete said, “What did Ward tell you?”

“That Juan’s loose. And that Guy’s afraid that Carlos and the others will think he fucked up.”

“That’s what he told me. And I told him that I didn’t like the risks involved, unless somebody tells Carlos that we helped him out and saved Banister from blowing the whole fucking hit.”

Kemper cracked the window. His goddamn ears kept popping.

“What did Ward say to that?”

“He said he’ll tell Carlos after the hit. if we find Canestel and save the fucking day.”

A 2-way radio sputtered. Pete turned it down.

“This is J. D. Tippit’s off-duty car. Him and Rogers are out looking, and if they get a spot on Juan, we go in. Tippit can’t leave his patrol sector, and Chuck can’t do anything that could fuck him out of showing up for the hit.”

They dodged baggage carts. Kemper leaned out the window and popped three Dexedrine thy.

“Where’s Banister?”

“He’s flying in from New Orleans later. He thinks Juan’s solid, and if something happens and they lose him, he’ll move Rogers into his slot, and go out with him and the pro shooter.”

They knew Juan was volatile. They didn’t have him tagged as a possible sex killer. The job was fucked up and full of holes and reeked of amateur-night on-the-job training.

“Where are we going?”

“Jack Ruby’s place. Rogers said Juan likes to dig on the whores there. You work inside-Ruby doesn’t know you.”

Kemper laughed. “Ward told Carlos not to trust psychopaths with bright red sports cars.”

Pete said, “You did.”

“I’ve had some revelations since then.”

“Are you saying there’s something I should know about Juan?”

“I’m saying I quit hating Jack. And I don’t really care whether they kill him or not.”

o o o

The Carousel Club was midweek listless.

A stripper was peeling on the runway. Two plainclothes cops and a hooker clique sat at ringside tables.

Kemper sat near a rear exit. He unscrewed the bulb on his table lamp-shadows covered him from the waist up.

He could see the front and back doors. He could see the runway and stage tables. The shadows made him close to invisible.

Pete was out back with the car. He didn’t want Jack Ruby to see him.

The stripper stripped to Andrй Kostelanetz. The hi-fi played off-speed. Ruby sat with the cops and spiked their drinks with his flask.

Kemper sipped scotch. It jump-started the Dexedrine. He got cozy with a new revelation: You’ve got a chance to toy with the hit.

A dog ran across the runway. The stripper shooed it off. Juan Canestel walked in the front door.

He was alone. He was wearing an Ike jacket and blue jeans.

He went straight for the whores’ table. A hostess sat him down.

He’d enlarged his prosthetic bulge. Check that shiv in his left hip pocket.

A sash cord was bunched into his waistband.

Juan bought drinks all around. Ruby schmoozed him up. The stripper tossed a few hips his way.

The cops checked him out. They looked mean and full of hate for non-Anglos.

Juan always carries a gun. They might shake him on general principles.

They might book him on a weapons charge. They might rubberhose him.

He might betray Banister. The Secret Service might cancel the motorcade.

Juan loved to drink. He might show up for the hit hung over. He might jerk the trigger and miss Jack by a country mile.

Juan loved to talk. He might arouse suspicion between now and noon on Friday.

The sash cord leaked out his front waistband.

Juan is a sex killer. Juan kills with his surrogate balls.

Juan chatted up the whores. The cops kept, sizing him up.

The snipper bowed and walked backstage. Ruby a

They’ll walk out the front door. Pete won’t see them. Their combustion might affect Juan’s hit performance.

Kemper popped the clip out of his piece and dropped it on the floor. He left one round in the chamber-let’s toy with the hit a little more.

The brunette stood up. Juan stood up. The cops looked them over.

The cops huddled. One cop shook his head.

The girl walked toward the parking-lot door. Juan followed her.

The lot fed into an alley. The alley was lined with hot-sheet-hotel doorways.

Pete was just outside.

Juan and the girl disappeared. Kemper counted to twenty. A cleanup man started slapping tables with a rag.

Kemper walked outside. A light mist stung his eyes.

Pete was pissing behind a dumpster. Juan and the whore were strolling down the alley. They were moving toward the second doorway on the left-hand side.

Pete saw him. Pete coughed. Pete said, “Kemper, what are you-?”

Pete stopped. Pete said, “Fuck… that’s Juan…”

Pete ran down the alley. The second door on the left opened and closed.

Kemper ran. They hit the door together at a full sprint.

A center hallway ran back to front. Every door on both sides was closed. There was no elevator-the hotel was one story only.