Kemper said, “Look at that. That’s all Mr. Hoover’s chess game.”

Pete said, “You’re crazy. He’s not that fucking good.”

Littell laughed in his face.

94

Carlos arranged a liquor tray. The setting was incongruous- Hennessy XO and paper-wrapped motel glasses.

Littell took the hard chair. Carlos took the soft one. The tray sat on a coffee table between them.

“Your crew is out, Ward. We’re using somebody else. He’s been planning his thing all summer, which makes it a better all-around deal.”

Littell said, “Guy Banister?”

“How’d you know? Did a little birdie tell you?”

“His car’s outside. And there’s some things that you just tend to know.”

“You’re taking it good.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

Carlos toyed with a humidor. “I just learned about it. The thing’s been in the works for a while, which to my way of thinking increases the chance of success.”

“Where?”

“Dallas, next month. Guy’s got some rich right-wingers backing it. He’s got a long-term fall guy, one pro shooter and one Cuban.”

“Juan Canestel?”

Carlos laughed. “You’re a very smart ‘tend to know’ guy.”

Littell crossed his legs. “Kemper figured it out. And in my opinion, you shouldn’t trust psychopaths who drive bright red sports cars.”

Carlos bit the tip off his cigar. “Guy’s a capable guy. He’s got a Commie-type patsy with a job on one of the motorcade routes, two real shooters and some cops to kill the patsy. Ward, you can’t fault a guy who came up with the same plan as you fucking independent of you.”

He felt calm. Carlos couldn’t break him. He still had the chance to maim Bobby.

“I wish it could have been you, Ward. I know you got a personal stake in seeing that man dead.”

He felt secure. He felt inimical to Pete and Kemper.

“I wasn’t pleased that Mo and Santo cozied up to Castro. Ward, you should have seen me when I found out.”

Littell took out his lighter. It was solid gold-a gift from Jimmy Hoffa.

“You’re building up to something, Carlos. You’re about to say, ‘Ward, you’re too valuable to risk,’ and offer me a drink, even though I haven’t touched liquor in over two years.”

Marcello leaned in. Littell lit his cigar.

“You’re not too valuable to risk, but you’re way too valuable to punish. Everybody agrees with me on that, and everybody also agrees that Boyd and Bondurant constitute another fucking matter.”

“I still don’t want that drink.”

“Why should you? You didn’t steal two hundred pounds of heroin and shit all over your partners. You took part in a shakedown that you should have told us about, but that’s no more than some fucking misdemeanor.”

Littell said, “I still don’t want that drink. And I’d appreciate it if you told me exactly what you want me to do between now and Dallas.”

Carlos brushed ash off his vest “I want you, Pete and Kemper not to interfere with Guy’s plan or try to horn in on it. I want you to cut that Lockhart guy loose and send him back to Mississippi. I want Pete and Kemper to return what they stole.”

Littell squeezed his gold lighter. “What happens to them?”

“I don’t know. That’s not for me to fucking say.”

The cigar smelled foul. An air conditioner blew smoke in his face.

“It would have worked, Carlos. We would have made it happen.”

Marcello winked. “You always take business on its own terms. You don’t do some regret number when things don’t go your way.”

“I don’t get to kill him. That’s a regret.”

“You’ll live with it. And your plan helped Guy set up a diversion.”

“What diversion?”

Carlos perched an ashtray on his stomach. “Banister told some nut named Milteer about the Miami job, without naming no personnel. Guy knows Milteer’s a loudmouth who’s got a Miami PD snitch bird-dogging him. He’s hoping Milteer will blab to the snitch, who’ll blab to his handler, and somehow the Miami motorcade will get canceled and divert everybody’s attention away from Dallas.”

Littell smiled. “It’s far-fetched. It’s something out of ‘Terry and the Pirates.’”

Carlos smiled. “So’s your story about the Teamster books. So’s the whole idea of you thinking I didn’t know what really happened from the gate.”

A man stepped out of the bathroom. He was holding a cocked revolver.

Littell shut his eyes.

Carlos said, “Everybody but Jimmy knows. We had detectives tailing you from the fucking instant you walked me over the border. They know all about your code books and the research you did at the Library of Congress. I know you got plans for the books, and sonny boy, now you got partners.”

Littell opened his eyes. The man wrapped a pillow around his gun.

Carlos poured two drinks. “You’re going to set us up with Howard Hughes. We’re going to sell him Las Vegas and keester him for most of his profits. You’re going to help us turn the Fund books into more legitimate money than Jules Schiffrin ever dreamed of.”

He felt weightless. He tried to dredge up a Hail Mary and couldn’t remember the words.

Carlos raised his glass. “To Las Vegas and new understandings.”

Littell forced the drink down. The exquisite burn made him sob.

95

Heroin bricks weighed down the trunk and made the rear wheels drift. A simple traffic shake would net him thirty yeas in Parchman Prison.

He withdrew his bank-vault stash. Some powder leaked on the floor-enough to sedate rural Mississippi for weeks.

Santo wanted his dope back. Santo reneged on their deal. Santo let certain implications linger.

Santo might have you killed. Santo might let you live. Santo might tease you with some stay of execution.

Kemper pulled up to a stoplight. A colored man waved to him.

Kemper waved back. The man was a Pentecostal deacon-and very skeptical of John E Kennedy.

The man always said, “I don’t trust that boy.”

The light changed. Kemper punched the gas.

Be patient, Mr. Deacon. That boy’s got eighteen days left to live.

His team was out. Banister’s was in. Juan Canestel and Chuck Rogers crossed over to Guy’s crew.

The hit was rescheduled for Dallas on November 22. Juan and a Corsican pro would shoot from separate locations. Chuck and two Dallas cops were set to kill the fall guy.

It was Littell’s basic plan embellished. It illustrated the ubiquitous Let’s Kill Jack metaphysic.

Littell disbanded the team. Lockhart returned to his Klan gig. Pete flew straight to Texas to be with his woman. The Swingin’ Twist Revue was scheduled to play Dallas on Hit Day.

Littell cut him loose. Some homing instinct drew him back to Meridian.

Quite a few locals remembered him. Some colored folks greeted him warmly. Some crackers gave him ugly looks and taunted him.

He took a motel room. He half-expected Mob killers to knock on his door. He ate three restaurant meals a day and drove around the countryside.

Dusk hit. Kemper crossed the Puckett town line. He saw a ridiculous sign framed by floodlights: Martin Luther King at a Communist training school.

The photo insert looked doctored. Someone drew devil’s horns on the Reverend.

Kemper swung east. He hit the switchback leading out to Dougie Lockhart’s old gun range.

Dirt roads took him right up to the edge. Shell casings snapped under his tires.

He killed his lights and got out. It was blessedly quiet-no gunshots and no rebel yells.

Kemper drew his piece. The sky was pitch dark-he couldn’t see the target silhouettes.

Shells crunched and skittered. Kemper heard footsteps.