Fever City (3 page)

‘Knowing's not the truth.'

‘The truth, Mr. Alston . . . ? I thought you were just after a story?' He smiles, his teeth a row of decaying tombstones, yellowed by winter frost. ‘Look all you want, you'll never find the truth. Not here, in Dallas. Mind your step.'

I turn to go, the sun spitting blindness, and I miss the curb, nearly turning my ankle. There is that same, mirthless laugh behind me. Indecent in its divide from joy.

The car is an assault on survival, the air torpid and pressing, like the blast from the crematory door. I turn the air-conditioner up high and think of the child left in the back of the station wagon by his father. The psychologists called it quotidian amnesia; that cycle of mindless routine that most families succumb to. Turn off the alarm, turn on the coffee. Toothbrush, car keys. Drop the kids off . . . The detail the father missed in his exhaustion with the everyday. His wife was sick. She normally took the boy to school on Thursdays. The kid fell asleep in the backseat, the way he always did. That was how they got him to sleep in his first year: they just put him in the car and drove. The dead boy was my welcome to Dallas. On radio talk shows strangers demanded the death penalty for a father on suicide watch. Events are big when the victim is small.

I drive off, squinting into the setting sun.

H
astings was heading south to Ciudad Juárez. He would disappear in the barrios of the hard town and when he knew he had lost them, he'd start travelling west through Mexico before heading up the coast to Los Angeles. They were expecting a frontal attack, explosive and loud. They were expecting Samson in the temple. But they'd wake in silence and feel the cold bite of the
navaja sevillana
scouring their throats. No time for panic, not even for pain; just the quick sting of realization: it's over.

He was allowing six months for the trip. He didn't want to return until well after the elections. Otherwise they might think he was going after LBJ too. Bella sat in the passenger seat next to him, her head half out the window, breathing in the strange fragrances of chase.

He had received the call almost a year before from Ragano, a mobbed-up lawyer for Carlos Marcello and Santo Trafficante. They had condoned a hit and Sam ‘Momo' Giancana would control it. There was the first problem. Giancana, like all vain but unintelligent men, surrounded himself with stupid lieutenants; men like Johnny Roselli. The money was two hundred thousand down; three hundred thousand after. Ragano levelled with Hastings up front. This hit would be no picnic. High security. High probability of capture. Capture meant death—no one could ever be allowed to testify.

There was no mention of the target. Hastings figured Castro or some other foreign bigwig. Or maybe someone domestic, causing problems for the syndicate, Jimmy Hoffa or Howard Hughes or maybe even J. Edgar Hoover. Someone big enough to be scary.

Roselli set the meeting at the old Monogram Pictures Ranch. Hastings got there two hours early, checked for sniper and ambush positions, and then hid three weapons in separate locations. Bella sat in the slim shade of a stand of eucalyptus that filled the hot air with the scent of medication. Roselli arrived late with two cars full of goons. A display of power that only made him look weak. The two of them went for a stroll along a horse track, the hoods watching them with binoculars, Bella padding silently at their side, her bouts of sudden, frozen attention making Roselli nervous. ‘What the fuck is that?'

‘Nothing.'

‘He's seen something.'

‘It's a she. And she's just scenting.'

Roselli looked around, his pale face sweating in the sunshine. ‘Do you believe what they say, that dogs can sense ghosts?'

There was no point in sharing the truth with a man like Roselli. ‘I don't believe in ghosts.'

Roselli stared at him for a long moment, sweat trailing like tears down his cheeks. ‘A man like you don't believe in nothing.'

Hastings whistled and Bella trotted up to him. He raised his chin and the dog sat. ‘I believe in well-trained dogs.'

‘I seen a ghost once. Willie Bioff. That fink!'

‘So why did he come back to haunt you?'

‘I didn't say he was haunting me. I just said I saw him, right after he died. Reflected in the swimming pool. Practically shat in my trunks. There was this fucking dog barking. No one could shut it up.'

‘Bella doesn't bark.'

‘All dogs bark.'

Hastings looked back at the parked cars. ‘I suppose we're far enough away to talk?'

‘Sure,' Roselli said, wiping his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘So here's the deal. You, Chuckie Nicoletti and a Frenchman. The best.'

The best. Charles ‘Chuckie' Nicoletti had killed his own father when he was 12 years old. Not even a teenager and an Oedipal hit to his belt. He was Chicago—that meant Giancana was watching carefully. Hastings figured the Frenchman was Albert Luchino, a Corsican killer and drug runner for the French Connection. Rumour had it he was the lead gunman in the Trujillo hit. Fearless. Flashy. Highly dangerous to work with. And Hastings. War hero. Purple Heart. Honest man betrayed. Husband; widower. Lover. Loner. Loser.

‘Three shooters, one patsy.'

‘Who's the patsy?'

‘How the fuck do I know?'

‘Do the other shooters know about me?'

‘I don't know about you—are you in?'

Dumb question. There was only one answer now. If Hastings said no, Roselli would nod and talk about some amusing bullshit or his bad hip on the way back to the cars. And then they would kill him, dismember him, and cover him in lime. ‘I'd appreciate it if you don't use my name.'

‘Fucking A. That's why I just said Frenchie and Chicago.' Except he'd used Nicoletti's name. It was impossible to tell if Roselli was just dumb, or if it was an act designed to misdirect and control. ‘I'll call you fucking Elvis, okay?'

‘Call me anything you want, except my name.' Hastings saw the glitter of a telescopic lens from the cars. The goons were scoping them for fun. He hoped the safety was on. ‘How?'

‘Two scenarios. The first is a bedroom whack, the broad included.'

‘Where?'

‘How the fuck do I know? Somewhere with a bed and a broad.'

‘Security?'

‘Heavy. Very. Always.'

‘The second?'

‘Sniper attack in public. Moving target, limited opportunity.'

‘Who chooses the scenario?'

‘A fucking telephone. What do you need?'

‘I'll take care of it myself.'

‘We can get you anything you need.'

‘I'll take care of it myself . . . ' He was thinking of a Springfield Model 1903-A4 with custom mercury rounds for the sniper shot; suppressed .22 to the temple for the bedroom invasion. He didn't want any materiel from Roselli, which would be traceable, probably back to CIA.

‘When?'

Roselli grimaced. ‘As soon as possible. You'll all be on alert as of Saturday.' He slapped Hastings on the back. Bella froze, staring hard, her teeth exposed. Hastings signalled it was all right. Roselli laughed falsely. ‘Half a million. Think about it. You can retire on this job.'

Of course he could retire. In style. But he would have to make do with a cool two hundred grand; they were never planning on handing over the second payment. They'd clip him first. They'd clip the others; they'd clip their own families and their children and anyone who stood in the way for that kind of money. The target had already become incidental. What was really at play was nine hundred thousand dollars, with the possibility of tracing much of the other six hundred grand. All Roselli had to do was move in fast and capture, torture and murder the top three hit men in the world.

‘So who's the target?'

‘JFK.'

‘Jesus Christ!'

‘ . . . What are you, a Democrat?'

Hastings liked JFK as well as anyone could like a politician. He was young; he was bright. He was dangerously extravagant. Hastings knew all about Kennedy's father—the Rum Row days before he became ambassador. Before he sided with Hitler, he had sided with Frank Costello. Joe Kennedy wasn't drawn to Nazis, but what they had to offer: prosperous appeasement on the back of a warring Europe. His folks had emigrated from Ireland to escape poverty and brutality. What point was there in placing America in the heart of all that centuries-old hate? Joe Kennedy had voted for self-interest and was vilified, but that was all forgotten when Joe Jr. was blown from the sky; when PT-109 sank in the Pacific. Then Joe Kennedy became the father of heroes and decided to back JFK all the way. Hastings didn't care about Joe Sr.'s history, just like he didn't care that JFK couldn't keep his hands off women.

Not admirable but audacious. JFK was the first American president who looked his country in the eye and said: I have a hard-on for power and it makes me want to fuck. Men got off on that. It made them feel good about their own dicks. Women got off on it too.

But then Johnny Roselli came along and hung a bull's-eye on JFK's hat. It occurred to Hastings: was this all because of Nick Alston . . . ?

‘The President. You're serious?'

‘Fucking A.'

‘But why . . . ?'

‘Fucked if I know, Momo wants it done, is all.'

Except Giancana didn't have that kind of money. Neither did Marcello and Trafficante. One and a half million was Cold War level cash. Cold War level target. Cold War level hatred. They had to be mobbed up with CIA or Big Oil on this one. And they wanted Kennedy dead. They were so out of control, they might even be able to pull it off. Danger simmered in the heat haze. Hastings was trapped. He maintained the patter, trying to think through a survival strategy. ‘Bedroom or sniper job, the getaway will be tough.'

‘You've got five hundred thousand reasons to figure something out. Are you in?'

He was dead, no matter what he said. ‘Stand-by from Saturday? I can do it.'

Roselli stuck out his hand, sealing the deal with a sweaty palm. ‘We'll be in touch.'

Hastings watched Roselli stomping back up towards the cars. He could hear the swivel and stutter of Roselli's mind as he sweated through the sun, counting all the cash. CIA doesn't ask for receipts.

Hastings collected his stashed weapons, formulating his plan. He would kill the other hit men before they ever had a chance to kill the President.

Then he'd snatch their dough.

And start running.

T
he mansion's cellars are vast, vaulted crypts of damp and gloom, the stone walls protected by the turrets of wine racks, hills of coal and the easy clutter of the always frugal super-rich. Coils of fencing and electrical wire, half-full tubs of dried paint, ancient rugs crawling with mildew. I shine the torch on a set of steel doors, then turn to the butler. ‘What's that?'

‘The shelter, sir.'

He doesn't mean to call me sir but he can't help it. Any question fired at him would always elicit the same automatic response. Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir. I try the doors. They're locked. ‘Do you have the key?'

‘No, sir.'

‘I see. What's your name?'

‘Morris, sir.'

‘Morris, can you get one?'

‘Get what, sir?'

‘A key . . . '

There is an uncomfortable pause. This scenario was never discussed in Good Butler School back in London. ‘The shelter is off-limits to all but Mr. Bannister, sir.'

‘And Mrs. Bannister?'

‘One would assume so.'

Sir. ‘Though you don't know?'

‘That is correct, sir.'

The strike of my match makes him start. I light my cigarette, then watch the flame sizzle on a cobweb. ‘How about Ronnie?'

‘Naturally sir, members of the immediate family . . . '

‘I mean, did he know about the shelter?'

‘I cannot say, sir.'

‘Make an educated guess, Morris.'

‘Possibly, sir.'

‘He came down here?'

‘In the cellars? Rarely.'

‘Did he play on his own?'

‘There are two nurses and two nannies.'

‘How about other kids?'

Morris shakes his head.

Lonely kids. Only child. I knew all about it. Solitary hide-and-seek, always half-expecting your secret friend to pop out. I have a hunch. ‘Go get the keys, will you?'

‘But, sir . . . '

‘Jesus, man, look at that door. That's an honest-to-god bomb shelter. What if the kid's locked himself inside? What if the air filter's off and he's suffocating while you're standing there not getting the keys?'

Morris stares hard, not seeing me but the movie I've just projected. He jumps to the end credits: Fired Butler played by Morris. The echo of his footsteps fades as he hurries away.

Silence. A faint whiff of sewage. And the fast, light patter of something falling softly in the distance. I step into a narrow passageway supported by the shadows of high brick porticoes that arch into the gloom. My shoulders brush either side of the walls as I enter further into the dark passage, the calcified walls flaking, ceding the obscure, olfactory mysteries of decay, mildew and the spectral neglect of entombment. There is the same cloying dampness you find in the bottom of the cargo hold of an ancient freighter; the feeling that an ocean is pressing all around, penetrating by minute degrees the rust-stained hull. Something drifts down from the ceiling, scattering lightly all about me. The match smacks the darkness away, loose soil raining all around me, like the warning of an imminent cave-in. I look up to the ceiling, but it's out of reach of my light. I scan the ground ahead. There is a stone column, like a well or a massive foundation pillar rising up in front of me, blocking the way. Something foreign yet familiar lies half hidden in the loose soil. As I reach for it, the match goes out. I feel along the moist earth in the dimness. A shoe. The excitement at its discovery is pierced by its high heel. So not the kid's but maybe it belonged to the nanny. I shove it in my jacket pocket and work my way around the stone column, burning my fingers with matches as I check the ground and the sides of the walls. No signs of any other items of clothing. No footprints. No doorways or further passageways. Nothing. Not even an opening small enough for a cat, let alone a kidnapper with a child.