Ask Not

Chapter 17

By day, the French Quarter — north of Canal Street, in the so-called “downtown” section of New Orleans — provided a quaint paradise for tourists. Awaiting them were cast-iron vines, flowers, cupids, and fruits adorning tall, cement-covered brick structures painted in light shades but with splashes of bright green via shutters and woodwork. Narrow streets were there to stroll, arrayed with antiques shops, tearooms, and art studios. Best of all, world-famous restaurants often served up their exquisite cuisine in courtyards amid banana trees, palms, and other semitropical flora, their shade still soothing in September temperatures in the 80s.

But at night, this heaven was replaced by an even more seductive hell. Those fabled restaurants — Antoine’s, Brennan’s, Arnaud’s, the Two Sisters, and the rest — closed up early, as if New Orleans were some small roll-up-the-sidewalks Midwestern town; getting a real meal after nine P.M. was a trick here, but few cared. Tourists venturing into this friendly neon Hades were after the jazz, the booze, the girls; were eager to bump into gamblers and preachers, debutantes and streetwalkers, sailors and artists, bums and entrepreneurs.

From riverboat days on, the Vieux Carré had been a fever dream of throbbing rhythm, exotic color, and authentic Dixieland. Bourbon Street in particular remained a glimmering, cocksure concourse, where “No cover, no minimum” was the rule — that and minimum cover on the strippers at such flesh palaces as Casino Royale, Gunga Den, Club Slipper, and Von Ray’s Texas Tornado.

The most popular and notorious such address was 228 Bourbon, between Bienville and Conti — the Sho-Bar, open twenty-four hours with the strippers absent only in the afternoon and early evening, replaced by a piano-accompanied girl singer. The modest three-story brick structure, with typical wrought-iron balconies on its upper floors (hotel rooms, often occupied by strippers during Sho-Bar engagements), shared the block with standbys like the Old Absinthe House and the 50 °Club and new kids like the Hotsy Totsy and Bikini A Go Go, similar establishments all, but none offering the celebrated likes of Candy Barr, Sally Rand, Blaze Starr, and (this week’s headliner) Jada of Carousel Club infamy.

Outside, pulsating neon beckoned and a canopied entrance bragged up star strippers, but the Sho-Bar interior disappointed. This drab, unimpressively appointed chapel of sleaze was crammed with postage-stamp plastic-top tables facing a modest stage with faded red curtains and a tarnished brass guardrail to keep back overenthusiastic ringsiders. Latin dance teams, tap dancers, and blue comedians were among the uninspiring “incidental acts,” strictly Ed Sullivan Show rejects. What prevented a riot among customers was the girls, who delivered.

Right now a busty beehive blonde called Nikki Corvette, statuesque in a sheer black nightie over pasties and G-string, was displaying herself in various interesting ways on a red divan — allow that in a furniture store and you’d sell a shitload of divans. The four-man tuxedoed combo up there, taking up as little real estate as possible, was playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Even in Beatlemania days, most of these clubs stuck with the area’s traditional Dixieland.

The Colony back in Dallas kicked this place’s ass, but the reputation and charisma of the French Quarter — and that name stripper talent — got them by.

The bar, with a few booths, was tucked under the balcony. I ordered a rum-and-Coke, and gave the bartender a five to let Janet know I was here. In five minutes, she was sitting with me in the farthest-back booth. She was in full stage makeup but still in street clothes — jeans and a bandana-style blue-and-white short-sleeve blouse with only her white high-heel pumps to give her away.

She reached across the table and clasped my hands with both of hers. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you, baby. I’ve missed you.”

“You look great. Doing all right? Any... problems?”

She shook her head and the tower of red hair bobbled just a little; her makeup was typically over the top, green eye shadow, heavy eyebrows, lipstick as red as a candied apple — she was everything a man could want, but would never admit.

“You’re carrying your little .22 in your purse?”

She nodded. “There hasn’t been anything like trouble, Nate. Uncle Carlos was in a few nights ago and he talked to me, so friendly and sweet. You know I’m staying upstairs, right? I probably shouldn’t. I mean, I’m sleeping with that little rod under my pillow.”

“Rod” was such a silly old term. Yet there was nothing at all silly about her concern.

Her lips smiled, her eyes begged. “Why don’t you bunk with me while you’re in town, Nate?”

“What, two rods can live safer than one?”

“Don’t make light.”

“Why don’t you come stay at the Roosevelt with me? That’s one joint Marcello doesn’t own.”

She looked past me. “When I think of poor Rose, her... her skull crushed like a fuckin’ melon. Jesus!” She shuddered.

Her hands were still clasping mine. I moved my hands around so I was clasping hers, and I squeezed. “Rose was a loose cannon, honey. She was a junkie and a flake. They know you have your head on your shoulders.”

Her chin crinkled. “Well, it could be on the shoulder of a road getting squished, you know. And Flo Kilgore, she was no junkie whore.”

“Not a whore, but maybe a... junkie of sorts.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was addicted to pills and she drank too much. It may have been accidental. And that was Manhattan — all the other deaths have been in Texas, and maybe a couple in Louisiana. I’m going to look into those.”

She gave me a smirk of a half smile. “You don’t think Uncle Carlos has friends in New York?”

I didn’t want to tell her that if Flo had been murdered, those responsible were likely CIA, not mob. That would spook her... so to speak.

“Flo may have been murdered,” I said with a nod. “But there’s no question that Rose was killed.”

She shivered. “And I set up that interview with her for you and Miss Kilgore. Nate, you gotta do something about this. You have got to stop these fuckers.”

I shifted subjects, slightly. “What about your friend Dave Ferrie? Is he coming tonight?”

She nodded. “I set it up for nine — it’s almost that now. Like I said on the phone the other day, he’s in here half the evenings anyway. Uncle Carlos lets him run a tab. And he can buy sailors drinks and try to get lucky. Rest of the time he’s over at Dixie’s Bar. That’s for the gay set.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just that you were a friend of mine who asked to meet him. I told him you and Guy Banister were buddies back in Chicago, like you said.”

Ferrie had worked for Banister, according to a reporter friend of mine on the Times-Picayune. Truth was, I’d always despised Banister, a toad of a man who had been Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago FBI office through much of the ’40s and early ’50s. But he’d been a heavy drinker whose erratic behavior got him fired. He’d gone on to be the New Orleans chief of police till he got bounced for the same reasons five or six years ago. In recent years he’d been running a PI agency.

“Listen,” she said, pulling her hands gently free, “I have to get backstage to get ready. I’ll spend a night or two with you at the Roosevelt, if you like. They got room service and my dump upstairs don’t.”

I smiled. “I’d like that. When do you get off? I’ll take you out for something to eat.”

“In this wacky town? Anyway, I got sets damn near all night. If you’re an early riser in your old age, you could pick me up at five A.M. We could go to the poor boy stand on St. Claude — they’re open twenty-four hours — or maybe beignets and café au lait at Café Du Monde?”

“That’s worth a wake-up call. When’s your last set?”

“Four.”

“I’ll come watch and then we’ll go have poor boys or doughnuts or some damn thing. Then I’ll take you back to the Roosevelt and sleep all day.”

“Well,” she said with a wicked glistening red smile, “we’ll stay in bed all day, anyway... There he is. There’s your man.”

She slid out of the booth and headed quickly off into the smoky darkness of the club, her bottom in those jeans more provocative than Nikki Corvette’s bare one.

I glanced toward the customer who’d just entered, and was making a beeline toward me displaying a friendly smile, hand outstretched.

At first, in the dim lighting, he looked normal enough, a fairly big guy, around six feet, maybe two hundred pounds, his wide oval face home to large dark eyes, an anteater nose, a rather small thin-lipped mouth, and a pointed chin. He wore a rather jaunty golf cap and a long-sleeve white shirt with narrow dark tie and dark slacks.

Still seated in the booth, I looked up at him while we shook hands, his grip firm but clammy. This close, I could well understand why his appearance had been described more than once as bizarre — the cap rested on what appeared to be a red mohair wig, and Groucho-ish eyebrows had been fashioned out of strips of matching carpet. The effect was clownish.

“Nathan Heller, you are a famous man,” he said, in a voice whose nasal quality was offset somewhat by an authoritative manner. No Southern accent, more Midwestern.

“Not really,” I said. “But that’s kind of you. Sit, please.”

On closer inspection, his clothing looked rumpled, slept-in, and he had the distinct bouquet of BO. What did this guy have against soap?

“I should be more clear,” he said. “You’re famous in the sense that you’ve been featured in some popular magazines. But in the circles I move in, you’re a kind of hero.”

“Really.” My God, this son of a bitch stunk.

“You’re the man who started it all.”

“I am?”

He got a pixie-ish smile going, and his red-mohair eyebrows wiggled. “You were the midwife to...” And his whisper was barely audible over “Basin Street Blues,” as Nikki Corvette bumped-and-ground. “... Mongoose.”

Jesus, did every Tom, Harry, and dick know that little piece of history?

Well, maybe I could make hay out of it.

“I understand you’ve really done your bit,” I said.

“Thank you, sir. That is much appreciated, sir.”

“What can I buy you to drink?”

“They make a surprisingly good Ramos gin fizz here, considering the lowbrow nature of the establishment.”

“Well, let’s get you one, Dave... or do you prefer David?”

“Oh, I don’t stand on ceremony. Make it David.”

I tried to figure that one out while I waved over a waitress and ordered him his fizz. I declined getting a refill on my rum-and-Coke. This kook would require all my brain cells.

“So you knew Guy? What a guy!” He laughed at this would-be witticism. “How far back did you two hombres go?”

Hombres?

“All the way to the Dillinger shooting,” I said. “He was there, you know. He was FBI, I was Chicago PD.”

“Yes, he told me all about that fateful night. How his bullet brought Mr. Big Cock down!”

Okay, that was wrong in so many ways, starting with Banister not being one of the shooters, plus it hadn’t really been Dillinger that night. But that’s another story, and as for the size of Johnny D’s dingus, I couldn’t confirm or deny.

“You know, it was a tragic loss,” he said, shaking his head, almost dislodging the cap. “For such a big man with a such a big heart to have that very heart attack him.”

Banister was one of the as-yet-uninvestigated convenient assassination-related deaths that had occurred in Louisiana — in June of this year.

The waitress brought Ferrie his gin fizz and he thanked her, giving her a wink, getting a grimace in return.

“I admit I’m not aware,” I said, “of what Guy did for the cause.” Whatever the fuck the cause was. “You give me too much credit on Mongoose. As you say, I was just the midwife.”

“But what a baby you brought into the world!” he said, toasting me.

I lifted my empty rum-and-Coke glass to him in return. “But Castro is still with us, I’m afraid.”

“But someone else isn’t.”

Gosh, I wondered who he meant.

Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he made sure I knew: “Jack Kennedy was a nigger-loving traitor. Do you have any idea how many of our Cuban brothers he killed with his cowardice?”

So black people were niggers, but brown people were our brothers? I didn’t bother trying to navigate the logic of that.

I just said, “No, David. How many were killed?”

“Too goddamn many! You know, I’m honored you want to get together. I didn’t think a small fry like me would be on your radar.”

“You’re no small fry, David. You put a lot in motion. Ruby. Oswald.”

He swallowed. He’d felt free enough tossing Mongoose around, but maybe those names were different. “Come on now, Nate... or do you prefer Nathan?”

“Nate’s fine.”

“Nate. Good. But loose lips sink ships, Nate. Don’t forget that. Ships get sunk that way, yes they do.”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, David. I was in Dallas last week, accompanying Flo Kilgore to a number of interviews with Kennedy witnesses — witnesses this Warren Commission has ignored or overlooked.”

“She just died.”

“Yes.”

“In New York, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, but she was in Dallas all last week.”

He was frowning in thought. Was he really unaware of what I’d just shared, or was he a better actor than he had any right to be? “Why would you do that? Help her in that way?”

“Well, first of all, she hired me. I’m a private eye, David, like you are. Your main client is Uncle Carlos, right?”

His smile was small because his mouth was small, but his beaming pride was big. “Yes. I do investigations for Mr. Marcello through his lawyer. But I’m also his private pilot. I was with Eastern Airlines, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I lied. My reporter pal had informed me that Ferrie had been fired by Eastern for “homosexual activity on the job.” Prior to that, he’d been tossed out of a Catholic seminary for “emotional instability.”

“But also,” I went on, “I wanted to keep an eye on what the Kilgore woman found out. To make sure she didn’t get... too close.”

The big dark eyes under the red mohair strips turned to slits. Barely audible over a blaring Dixieland “Ain’t She Sweet,” he whispered, “You didn’t... didn’t liquidate Miss What’s My Line?, did you?”

“No,” I said. “But I found out something disturbing.”

“What, man?”

“A lot of witnesses are dying.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean committing suicide or having traffic accidents or just plain old-fashioned getting shot.”

“Could be coincidental,” he said, but his wheels were turning. “Texas is a violent place. Lots of guns in Texas. Lots of spics and niggers there.”

Said the brother of the Cubans.

“I don’t think it’s happenstance,” I said. “I think it’s a cleanup crew, David. I think loose ends are being clipped off. Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be one.”

He smiled again. His teeth were too big for the little mouth. “Maybe that’s true, but we’re not loose ends. We’re major players, Nate.”

“Not as major as Uncles Carlos or Santo Trafficante. Or H. L. Hunt. Or Allen Dulles — the fired CIA chief on the Warren Commission?”

“I know who he is.”

“Or Lyndon Johnson, either.”

He had the expression of a guy viewing his own bad X-rays. “Uh, well, you’re right. We’re not that big, but I don’t think...”

“David, could Guy’s death have been murder?”

“What?”

“Heart attack — inducing or — simulating drugs are child’s play for the CIA. Ever hear of Dr. Sidney Gottlieb? He’s their number one Dr. Feelbad.”

He was visibly nervous now. The confidence had drained from the nasal voice. “If you’re right, this is terrible. What can we do? How can we assure the people in charge that we are reliable? I wouldn’t betray the cause, Nate. I’m sure you wouldn’t, either.”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Look at Ruby. Look at Oswald.”

He nodded. “That’s true. And it’s so sad. I was Lee’s captain, you know, in the Civil Air Patrol? That’s where I met up with him. I saw such potential in the boy. I recommended him.”

“I’m sure he was grateful. And I’m a patriot, David, like you are, but I don’t want to be the next sacrifice.”

“My God, Nate, what do you suggest?”

“I want to meet with Uncle Carlos.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s a big fish. One of the biggest. I want to convince him that I’m trustworthy, and that I still have value to him. And I’ll put in a good word for you, too, David.”

He sipped some fizz and nodded, his mood brightening. “Well, I can arrange that. He’s at Churchill Farms right now, so that’s out — no phone out there. But I can get you a meeting tomorrow, probably, at his office at the Town and Country Motel.”

“No. It has to be a public place. A neutral place. I don’t want to become Yankee Gumbo, David. You do know what that is?”

“I know. I know.” He looked around anxiously. “I’ll see what I can do. See what I can do. Where are you staying, Nate?”

“The Roosevelt.”

“I’ll call you there, sometime tomorrow.” He slipped out of the booth. Nikki was just finishing up to “Muskrat Ramble.” He thrust his hand out again and I shook it.

He leaned close. “You’re a good man, Nate. I appreciate you thinking of me in this tricky situation.”

I was holding my breath, trying not to take in his BO. “Pleasure to meet you, too, David.”

His confidence was back and he gave me a little military salute and headed out.

What a fucking lunatic.

I had wanted to size him up, and confirm a few theories, and I had. But what I mostly wanted was that sit-down with Uncle Carlos. I wanted to convince Marcello that I was not a threat. And try to determine whether he was behind the cleanup crew or whether a group of the Dealey Plaza boys had taken it upon themselves to tidy up, for their own benefit.

This was not to say settling scores was not on my mind. A penchant for revenge was perhaps not my best quality, but it was a trait I was not likely to shed at this late stage of my existence. I would be sharing everything I knew with Bobby Kennedy — including every syllable of the Ruby interview. My capacity for remembering conversations damn near rivaled that James Bond gizmo Flo had recorded him on.

Eventually RFK would be in the White House, where he could deal with his brother’s killers in a much better, more complete way than I ever could.

I sat through Janet’s first set — her trademark “Hold That Tiger” routine was enough to put a smile on my face, as I thought about having Jada to myself in my room at the Roosevelt all day tomorrow, jing jing jing — and then I made my way out of the club and onto the sidewalk.

Funniest damn thing, a car pulled up at the curb looked exactly like the lime-green ’64 Galaxie I’d rented at the airport. But I hadn’t driven here, I’d walked over from the Roosevelt, and anyway there were a lot of Fords in the world.

“Your ride’s here, Mr. Heller,” intoned a mellow baritone, with just a tinge of Texas in it, and I turned to see Mac Wallace, his eyes half-lidded behind the heavy black-framed glasses, his smile more a smirk on his five-o’clock-shadow-smudgy face.

Then Ramon Rodriguez — one-half of the Chicago sniper team from last year, who I’d last seen almost running Sam and me down after that Beatles concert — sidled up beside me with a smile.

And a gun.

Muffled Dixieland from within the Sho-Bar provided background music as Wallace said softly, “Get in the backseat, Mr. Heller.” His smile was awful, the smile of a man just drunk enough to be dangerous. “This may be New Orleans, but we’re going to do this Chicago-style.”

Close to me, digging the snout of a revolver into my side, the Cuban said, “Take you for a ride, maricón.”

Somebody was behind the wheel, but I couldn’t see him. I wondered for a moment if it was Ferrie — if so, I’d seriously misjudged him.

They looked like tourists, Wallace in a light-blue shirt jac, the Cuban in a straw fedora with a wide black band and a black-and-white geometric-pattern shirt, the driver in a tan-and-white plaid sport shirt. I was in a Crickteer suit, dark gray, not one of my tailored-for-shoulder-holster numbers.

Then the back door was opening and the nose of the gun in my side was nudging me, and if I cried out to the happy people on this noisy, neon-washed street, that gun would go off and I’d be the next dead witness. I had to let this play out.

I had to take the ride.

With the Cuban next to me in back, the driver glanced over his shoulder at us before pulling out into the slow, steady traffic of Bourbon Street. I realized he was no one I’d ever seen before, though he reminded me of somebody. He had a Gable-style mustache, and a hint of Latino in his heritage; but if I looked past that, he really, really reminded me of somebody.

Lee Harvey Oswald.

They cut over to Royal Street, just a block down from the raucous nightly party that was Bourbon Street, into an area where the ghosts of fashionable New Orleans of a century ago might be strolling right now, but hardly anybody else. On this sleeping street of closed curio and antiques shops, art galleries and fine restaurants, the Oswald look-alike pulled over and the Cuban dragged me out onto the sidewalk into the darkness under an overhanging balcony.

Wallace had gotten there ahead of us somehow, and was opening the trunk of the Galaxie — it was my rental, all right, lifted from the Roosevelt parking garage. My buddy Mac was tossing something in, something green and coiled like a snake, and a plump wad of cloth. Then he came over and grabbed me by an arm and yanked, and while I was off-balance, the Cuban swung the revolver, holding it by the barrel and cylinder I guess, because what caught the side of my head felt like the gun butt.

I went limp, though I wasn’t out — Rodriguez had seen too many episodes of Peter Gunn maybe, figuring all it took was a blow on the head to guarantee unconsciousness. Had his blow landed right, I’d more likely been dead, but really it glanced off, leaving a wet bloody gouge. I knew I was better off in that trunk than in the Galaxie’s backseat and I played like I really was knocked cold as Wallace dumped me in there and slammed the lid.

They hadn’t bothered to tie my hands — Royal wasn’t a busy street but it wasn’t deserted. So they’d moved fast, and now we were moving, not so fast. Closed inside that trunk, I got as comfortable as I could, which meant positioning myself on my side, playing fetus. Traffic and other city noise lasted maybe fifteen minutes, and when the sound of the wheels changed to something smooth and humming, I knew where we were — going over the Huey P. Long Bridge.

My old buddy the Kingfish had spent upwards of thirteen mil on the thing — two lanes of US 90 on either side of double railroad tracks — but Huey hadn’t lived to see it, missing by three months. From levee to levee, including railroad approaches, the monster was over four miles long. We were heading west into Jefferson Parish.

I had spent a lot of time in Louisiana on my two trips here in the ’30s, but that had been over twenty-five years ago. Still, I didn’t imagine much had changed. As we exited the bridge, with its notoriously tight lanes, we’d be heading into a landscape of dense swamps, oak-wooded lowlands, treacherous bayous, scattered settlements of poor whites and blacks, and an occasional modern sugar factory, as well as the ruins of old sugar refineries. The deeper into this territory we drove, the more chance I would become a heaping serving of Yankee Gumbo after all.

My fingers found what Wallace had tossed into the trunk ahead of me — a length of garden hose, about nine feet of the stuff, and a bath towel. I knew at once what they had in store for me. The hose, which was three-quarters of an inch in diameter, would easily run from the exhaust pipe of the Galaxie up to a slightly rolled-down window of the vehicle, where the towel could be stuffed to make a tighter seal, so the carbon monoxide could do its stuff. Looked like Mac Wallace figured I’d be getting despondent in this trunk and soon be ready to commit suicide, though my despondency would be strictly optional.

The car made a right turn onto a crunchy surface, a gravel or even more likely (considering where we were) crushed-shell road. The lane must have extended back under the bridge approach because I heard a rolling sound that might have been a car above me on cement. We went perhaps a mile farther and the car swung over a little and came to an abrupt stop, though the driver did not kill the engine. Car doors opened and closed.

When the trunk lid lifted, the Cuban in the straw fedora was smiling down at me and, with the nine millimeter tight in my hand — the one I’d tucked away behind the spare tire being unlicensed to carry in Louisiana — I fired three rounds into his face and each one found something to do, this one punching out an eye, that one dimpling his forehead, another shattering that smile like a brick through a window. He fell away fedora and all and I leapt out like a demented jack-in-the-box, and I could see Wallace, parked down a ways to the right on the other side of the road, leaning against the car he’d followed us here in, its motor running, his mouth hanging open with a cigarette in it so freshly lit he hadn’t waved the match out yet.

But I could also see the Oswald look-alike on my right, too, but much closer, going for a gun in his waistband, and I gave him two rounds in the head, taking his skull apart and spraying brains and blood and bone into the night, his head going back just like physics had demanded of Jack Kennedy, and he did a backward pratfall, landing half on the crushed-shell road, half on the shoulder, in memory of Rose Cheramie.

I spun, with eight rounds left in the mag for Wallace and happy to give him every one, but he was already behind the wheel of his car, a red Chevy Corvair, which he swung around, tires stirring shells, the vehicle’s nose toward me, rumbling right at me, headlights blinding, and I dove out of the way as he picked up speed, heading back toward the highway, spitting crushed shells, fishtailing.

With the Galaxie’s engine still running (they’d hot-wired it), I was able to take off right after him, blinking away the half-blindness those headlights had caused. He didn’t have much of a head start.

I tossed the nine millimeter temporarily on the rider’s seat, steered with my left hand as I reached across to roll down the window with my right, then passed the nine millimeter to myself, from my right hand to my left, and half-leaned out of the vehicle Wild West — style as I ripped a shot off into the night. The sound was thunderous, echoing off the nearby river, filling the dark cathedral of the outdoors with reverberations.

After my shot, which missed both him and the vehicle, he began to weave, making a target that though big was erratic, and even with my thirteen-shot magazine, I didn’t want to waste any more bullets. I would ram the son of a bitch. There, under a full moon that made spectral figures out of bordering cypress trees in their cloaks of Spanish moss, two vehicles sped down a narrow country road with the Mississippi an unseen but felt presence at our right, and the looming Huey P. Long Bridge up ahead.

I didn’t want him to make it to that bridge. I didn’t want him to make it back to New Orleans. I wanted him here, I wanted him now, in the swampy primeval darkness.

I was going a grinding one-hundred when I bumped his rear bumper and he tried to pick up speed but there wasn’t anything left in the Corvair, and he looked back at me, his handsome bespectacled face turned hideous with hysteria, as if to beg for mercy, and this time when I rammed him, he lost control and I immediately took my foot off the pedal and watched him take off over the left shoulder and crash into the cement pillar of the bridge approach, the right front of the vehicle crumpling like a paper cup in a fist, with a tinkling of headlight glass adding delicate high notes to the discordant low-pitched music of crunching metal.

I pulled over, left it running, got out with the gun in my right hand, and walked slowly over to the Corvair, which had its right wheels off the ground, spinning, the exhaust puffing mightily into the night on the car’s ride to nowhere. Night sounds were kicking back in, frogs, owls, nighthawks, crickets, a melancholy yet disinterested Greek chorus. I approached cautiously, though I could see him slumped behind the wheel, his head back, physics again, the windshield spiderwebbed where his skull had hit it, one lens of his black-framed glasses similarly veined.

He was breathing. Not quite unconscious. His face was smeared with blood and his forehead had a rip in it, showing bone. He looked at me with pain in his eyes. Somebody should do something to help him out.

I went back to the Galaxie and got the length of hose and the bath towel.

When I was rolling his window nearly (but not all) the way up, I noticed he had a package of Chesterfields in the breast pocket of his sport shirt. I relieved him of those. Then I rigged up the fake suicide. He seemed to be awake during the procedure, though he said nothing. I tried not to smile at him, but I just couldn’t help myself.

I went back to the Galaxie and used the dashboard lighter to fire up a Chesterfield. I burned through three waiting for him to die. In the dankness near the river, though the night itself was cool and dry, with the ghostly trees and bushes gathered round, I might have been back on Guadalcanal, waiting for the Japs to make another banzai attack. Certainly I was in some kind of fucking jungle.

I pitched the last of the Chesties down the gravel-and-shell road. It would have been reckless to toss it into the brush. Funny thing, my first thought as I pulled out was to wonder if I had time to get back to the Roosevelt, clean up, and still meet Janet for beignets and café au lait. My wristwatch, easily visible in the moonlight, said it wasn’t even midnight.

What was I going to do with all that time?

Then something came to me.