Prologue (38 page)

Pamela sat silently, staring at the side of the building.

“So, that’s your plan, stop this Lee guy from defecting to
Cuba
?”

“That’s it,” Ginter said.

“When did he defect?”

“September, 1963.”

“What’s the significance of this Friday, in
New Orleans
?”

“In his autobiography he talks about
August 9, 1963
as a pretty big day. He’s going to get into a fight with a bunch of anti-Castro zealots on a street corner while he’s distributing pamphlets. I know exactly where he’ll be, or at least, I know where he said he was. If I miss him there, he’ll be at the Cuban Embassy in
Mexico City
in late September to defect. Once he’s in
Cuba
I can’t get him.”

“And how are you going to stop him in
New Orleans
?” Pamela asked, pursing her lips.

Ginter stared straight through the windshield. Pamela’s gaze dropped to his left armpit.

“Jesus, Lewis. That’s it? That’s what you’ve got? You’re gonna’ shoot the fucker in broad daylight?” Pamela asked incredulously. She became frantic. “How are you ever going to get away?”

Pamela threw herself back against her door and turned sideways to face Ginter.

“This is stupid. I’ve driven down here with you for 10 hours on your way to just waste a guy? Even more important, how do
I
get away?”

Ginter turned to face his passenger. When she had calmed down he spoke softly.

“Wasting him is your phrase, not mine. He has to be stopped, and I know where he is on August 9
^th
. I don’t know where he is after that. If I’m going to stop him in the
United States
, it has to be Friday.”

“Doesn’t his autobiography say what he does between August 9
^th
and September whatever, when he defects?” she asked.

Ginter waved his hand. “He makes some reference to being in
Clinton
,
Louisiana
for a CORE voter registration drive in September. But I don’t have a date.”

“What was he doing there?”

Ginter shrugged. “Search me. He’s pretty vague about it himself. Probably just to promote the image of himself as a champion of the oppressed, which was a load of shit,” he added contemptuously.

Pamela snorted.
“Doesn’t sound like you have a lot of intelligence on this guy.
For being former Special Ops and all.
Tell me again why I agreed to come with you.”

“Basically, you had no choice. And given our situation we don’t have a better plan.”

Pamela turned back to the front.

“I’m scared,” she said slowly. “This is so crazy I can’t believe it. Plus, I don’t even have any ID. How much trouble can I get in?”

Ginter shrugged. “I thought about going into
New York
to score a fake ID but was afraid we’d get caught. I’d say at this point we’re stuck with no identification, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem.”

“Well, we could have at least stayed in
New York
. That’s always been a fun town for me. We could have painted it red,” she said, her mood changing.

Ginter looked at her quizzically. “Sounds like you’re trying to shill for the Big Apple,” he said carefully.

Pamela laughed out loud.
“Just nervous.
Trying to figure out a way to blow off some steam, I guess.”

Ginter nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he said. “This is crazy. And it seems to be getting crazier all the time.”

“I just can’t believe this is all happening,” Pamela said. “Two days ago I was in
Portland
,
Maine
, trying to figure out how to screw people injured in car accidents, and now here I am 63 years ago.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, well, it’s that way for all of us,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Speaking of
Maine
,” he said, “I have a question. You said that Pomeroy wasn’t your boyfriend. How’d you meet him?”

“Arthur?” Pamela pondered the question. “I met him in
New Hampshire
. My brother has a one-week time-share up there.
Same week in December every year.
He and his wife use it as a sort of retreat. They sit around and play board games. Kind of weird, I know. I usually go up and join them for a few days. One Friday I drove over for the weekend. The three of us went out to dinner and Arthur was at the bar. My sister-in-law knew him from
Portland
and called him over to our table.”

Ginter nodded. “My niece used to have a time-share up at
Loon
Mountain
. She always said it was a lousy investment. Was Arthur by himself?”

“That weekend?” She shrugged.
“As far as I know.
I think he was up there skiing.

“Do you think he’s really back here?” Pamela asked.

“Sometimes I wonder if
I’m
really back here.”

Lewis Ginter switched off the engine and extracted the key. The two got out and removed their newly purchased suitcases from the undersized trunk. Pamela began lugging hers toward the front door. There were about 15 cars in the parking lot. Just outside the entrance Ginter paused to listen to the crickets chirping in the adjacent woods. Such a beautiful night, he thought. But people sure do seem to go to bed early in 1963, he mused as he swung in through the doors.

Inside the door he stopped at a newspaper stand and studied the headlines, momentarily contemplating a Washington Post. He decided to get the morning paper instead. Better to get a good night’s sleep.

At the front desk Pamela Rhodes was already signing the guest book and Ginter put down his suitcase and waited. When she handed her cash to the manager and stepped aside Ginter shoved his suitcase up to the desk with his foot and smiled. The clerk did not smile back.

“What do you want?” the clerk asked. Ginter was tempted to make a smart remark but instead just answered, “A room,” while glancing at Pamela who stood fumbling her change back into her purse.

“This ain’t a colored motel,” the clerk said. “There’s a colored motel down the road.”

Ginter turned back to the clerk. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. To his left Pamela stopped, her purse only half shoved back into her pocketbook. When he felt his left elbow beginning to press against his armpit he came to his senses and dropped his arm.

“Didn’t you hear me, boy?” the clerk asked. “You can’t stay here. You’ll have to get out before I call the police.”

The clerk looked at him expressionlessly, but Ginter could sense the hatred behind the veneer. Time stood still.

“I, I have money,” Ginter stammered, knowing even as he spoke the pointlessness of the words. He started to reach for his wallet.

The clerk leaned forward and raised his voice. “Nigger boy, are you deaf
and
stupid? I said no colored here. This is not a colored motel. You gotta’ go down the road. You best get along before you be seen here. Now get out of here.”

Without thinking Ginter blurted out, “I’m with her.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized his mistake. The clerk’s eyes moved from Ginter to Pamela before narrowing with fury.

“What he means is, he’s my driver,” Pamela said quickly. She looked at the clerk and cocked her head toward Ginter.

“Or actually, my husband’s driver,” she continued. “You know how it is. My husband didn’t want me to come all the way down to visit my cousin in
South Carolina
by myself. And I wanted to take my car so he said he’d get by with no driver and Lewis here could drive me.”

She leaned up against the counter and whispered to the clerk. “It’s not that I don’t trust him with my car or anything but I want to get going early in the morning and”-she tilted her head sideways toward Ginter-“you know how they can be by themselves in some hotel.” She winked at the clerk.

The clerk appeared uncertain. “I don’t care. He still can’t stay here. You can stay here, ma’am, but he’s gotta’ go to the colored motel. He’ll have to pick you up in the morning.”

“Well, O.K.” Pamela pouted. “But would you happen to know how much the colored motel costs because I don’t want to give him too much money. You know,” she added conspiratorially.

“I have no idea,” the clerk said icily.

Pamela pulled her purse back out and handed Lewis a ten dollar bill.

“Now take this, Lewis, and pick me up at
10:00
tomorrow morning sharp. And don’t be late! And Lewis,” she added as she turned to go with her suitcase, “I want to see a receipt and some change.”

Pamela exited the motel at exactly
10:00
and walked to the waiting Corvette. The engine was running and the car was facing the exit. She had barely closed the door when Ginter slammed the car into first gear and popped the clutch, chirping the rear tires on the gravel before pulling out onto the paved road and heading south.

They rode in silence with no radio on for almost half an hour before Lewis said simply, “Thank you.”

Pamela snickered. “Remember that old movie,
Driving Miss Daisy
? That’s where I got it from.”

“You thought fast.
Coming up with that story.”

Pamela nodded.
“Part of my training.”