Shift: A Novel

Chicago, IL

November 19, 1963

Sam Giancana’s guards didn’t just frisk Melchior: they untucked his shirt and lifted it up to check for a wire, took off his shoes, felt inside the band of his hat, leafed through his wallet. They even opened his pen and scribbled on a piece of paper to make sure it was real—then kept it for themselves. Satisfied he was neither armed nor miked, they ushered him into Giancana’s private office.

“I’m gonna want that pen back before I go,” Melchior said to the guards as they left, then turned around to face the kingpin of the Chicago mob.

Giancana didn’t get up as Melchior, still disheveled from his frisking, approached his desk. He was a lean, nattily dressed man, with a sharp dimpled chin and a softly rounded head, largely devoid of hair. Melchior’d only seen him in photographs, usually wearing a pair of Hollywood shades and a spiffy hat to hide his baldness, but now he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and looked more like a businessman than the lady-killer who, in addition to a long-term relationship with Phyllis McGuire of the McGuire Sisters, had dated Judith Campbell at the same time she was seeing Jack Kennedy (this was after Miss Campbell was done with Frank Sinatra). The then-candidate was looking for a little help with the Chicago ballot, and rumor had it that his mistress had helped to broker a deal between him and the man sitting on the other side of the desk, whose well-tailored suit did nothing to mask the street-kid accent that filled the room like squealing brakes as soon as Giancana opened his mouth.

“So. Who is this mook who’s been calling every two-bit con artist, numbers man, street hustler, and pimp in Chicago saying he wants to meet Momo Giancana?”

There was a chair in front of Giancana’s desk just as there was in front of Drew Everton’s, but Melchior remained standing. He knew the theatrics that had so annoyed Everton wouldn’t fly here.

“My name is Melchior,” he said, biting back the urge to add, “sir.”

Giancana swatted the answer away like a fly. “I didn’t ask your ‘name.’ I know your ‘name.’ I asked who the hell you are.”

“I work for CIA. I was in Cuba for most of ’62 and ’63—”

Giancana’s nostrils flared as he let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re wasting my time, Mr. Mook Melchior of the Central Fucking Intelligence Agency, or whoever you work for. Now. Who in the hell are you, and why the fuck did you wanna see me?”

Melchior found himself fiddling with his lapel, feeling for the familiar, comforting bullet hole. But although he was still wearing a dead man’s suit, this one had come from a man he’d killed himself, and he’d taken care not to leave any marks. He knew he had to tread every bit as delicately here.

“Here’s the situation, Mr. Giancana. I know you helped Jack Kennedy carry Chicago in 1960, and I know you’ve been helping the Company try to knock off Fidel Castro for the past couple of years. And I also know that you feel double-crossed because, despite the money and manpower you’ve expended in good faith, Bobby Kennedy is still trying to throw your ass in jail.”

Giancana’s expression didn’t change, but for the first time he paused.

“Look, you wanna go tit for tat,” he said, “I can talk shit too. I got letters on CIA stationery thanking Lucky Luciano for his help fighting the Commies in Italy and France right after the war. I got photographs showing Company agents shipping Southeast Asian heroin to San Francisco in order to outfit a private army to fight the Viet Cong. And I got a unique collection of souvenirs—cigars packed with C4, pens filled with cyanide, and a couple-a fungusy-looking things that I don’t wanna get too close to—all made in Langley labs and destined for our good friend on the other side of the Florida Straits.”

Melchior took a moment to absorb this. On the surface, the words were as hostile as everything else Giancana’d said, but the tone was different. The boss was curious. Was sending out feelers to see just how much Melchior was willing to say.

He took a deep breath. It was going to be all or nothing.

“I was in Italy in ’47. I was seventeen years old. Lucky liked me so much he wanted to set me up with his daughter. And I spent nine months in Laos raising funds for the private army you mentioned, and another two years in Cuba, where I went with the task of delivering one of those exploding cigars to El Jefe. I’m not here to accuse you of anything, Mr. Giancana. I’m here to offer you my help.”

Melchior wouldn’t want to get in a poker game with this guy. Giancana’s face didn’t twitch when Melchior rattled off his list. He just sat back, the rich leather of his chair creaking beneath him, and let an amused smile spread across his face. It was a dangerous, disarming smile, like a cobra’s hypnotic swaying just before it strikes.

“Siciliano?”

“My mother was born in the shadow of Mount Aetna,” Melchior said in perfect Sicilian.

A sound, half-laugh, half-bark, burst from Giancana’s mouth. “All right, then. Tell me what it is that you can do for me.”

Melchior nodded. “Just over three weeks ago, I shot Louie Garza.”

Giancana flicked a bit of lint off his cuff. “That name don’t mean nothing to me.”

“I shot him in Cuba, while he was trying to steal a nuclear bomb.”

Another pause. Melchior couldn’t tell if Giancana was considering what he’d just said, or considering how to get rid of his body after he had his guards shoot him in the back. Finally:

“Louie never mentioned no nuke to me.”

“That’s because he was planning to sell it and keep the money for himself.”

“You kill the bastard?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “So what happened to the nuke?”

“It’s still in Cuba.”

Giancana leaned forward, reaching for a cigar on his desk. “Oh well, que sera, sera, as Doris—”

“The way I see it, Mr. Giancana, that bomb belongs to you.”

For the first time Melchior got a reaction. An eyebrow twitch, but he’d take it. Giancana took the time to light his cigar before speaking again. Melchior glanced at the band. Cuban, of course. Montecristo. Also of course.

“I done a little-a this and a little-a that in my day. Girls. Booze. Even a few guns here and there. But a nuke? Why don’t I just tape a bull’s-eye on my forehead and hand the gun to Bobby Kennedy?”

“The way I see it, Mr. Giancana, the bull’s-eye’s on you already. Bobby Kennedy’s made the mafia public enemy number two—after Jimmy Hoffa. One way or another he’s going to nail your ass to the wall in the next year to make sure Jack wins the election, and he’s gonna ride that wave all the way to the White House in ’68. It’s gonna be sixteen years of the Kennedys unless someone does something about it.”

The number two was a good gambit. As the Montecristo suggested, Giancana liked to be tops in everything. Even the most-wanted list. “What do you want me to do, shoot Bobby Kennedy?”

Melchior shook his head. “Shoot him and you make him a martyr. Breaking the mafia will go from being his crusade to being the nation’s. The only way to stop him is to get him out of office, and the only way to get Bobby Kennedy out of office is to get Jack Kennedy out of office.”

Giancana puffed out thick gray wreaths of smoke until a bright red nubbin the size of a thimble glowed at the end of his Montecristo. He turned the cigar toward his face, brought the end so close to his eye that Melchior thought he was going to burn himself, but all he did was watch the glowing tip slowly fade like a dying star. Only when it had dimmed to the palest orange did he look back at Melchior.

“Say it straight,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you want, or I’m gonna use this cigar to write my name on your forehead.”

Melchior came closer to gulping than he ever had in his life.

“What I’m saying, Mr. Giancana, is that if you take this bomb off my hands, I’ll take care of your Kennedy problem. For good.”

Two hours later, he called Song from Midway. Ivelitsch answered, and before Melchior could say anything, the Russian relayed what had happened at Peggy Hitchcock’s apartment in New York. The story seemed fuzzy to Melchior, like a TV station on a rainy day, but he was too wired to pay it any real attention. He was so jumpy after his interview with Giancana he was practically twitching.

“Yeah, whatever, Pavel, great men you’ve got working for you. I don’t give a shit right now. Put Song on.”

There was a disgruntled pause, the sound of muffled voices, then Song came on the phone.

“Is this line secure?” Melchior asked.

“We change it every month.”

“It’s the nineteenth. The Company’s had nearly three weeks to tap it, if they’re watching you. Is this line fucking secure?”

“Calm down, Melchior. Why would CIA be watching me?”

“Because they’re watching me. Jesus Christ, get with the program.”

“Melchior—”

“Look, just shut up and listen. Things are gonna happen fast now, or they’re not gonna happen at all. Our friend in the Windy City tells me you know Jack Ruby.”¹³

There was a pause. Song’s frustration came through the line like radiation.

“Song!” Melchior could barely keep from shouting. “Do you know Jack Ruby? The Carousel Club? Dallas fucking Texas?”

“I don’t exactly know him,” Song said coldly. “The Carousel gets its dancers through the Guild of Variety Artists—the Strippers Union—which is run out of Chicago, if you take my meaning. I once sent our friend in Chicago a rather beautiful blonde to dance for him at a private party. Somehow Ruby got wind of it and developed the notion that I’m in the habit of supplying girls to every whiskey-soaked dance club from here to Vegas.”

“Yeah, well, his dream’s about to come true. I want you to call him and tell him you’re sending Nancy to Dallas. Chul-moo is your pilot, right?”

“Yes—”

“Bring her in your plane. We’re gonna need it afterward. Just the three of you. There’s a little strip in north Dallas called Addison. Use that one instead of Love Field.”

“After what? And what’s wrong with Love?”

“Jesus Christ, Song, are you out of your fucking mind! Air Force One is gonna be at Love. The place’ll be crawling with Secret Service.”

“Melchior? What the hell are you planning?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Now, get your ass to Dallas. Just you, Chulmoo, Nancy, and the plane. Got it?”

“I can’t just close up shop for a couple of days to ferry—”

Melchior banged the receiver against the side of the booth.

“Are you fucking listening to me, Song? If this works, you’re going to be closing permanently. Now, call Ruby, tell him you’re sending Nancy to Dallas, and get your ass down there!”

The phone was silent so long that Melchior wondered if he’d broken it when he smashed the receiver. Then:

“Jesus Christ, Melchior.” Song’s voice was hushed. Not frightened, but awed. “They’ll send an army after you. You’ll be running for the rest of your life.”

“I already am running. But once this is over, they won’t know who they’re chasing.”

A crackly voice in the background called Melchior’s flight to Dallas.

“Listen to me, Song. Don’t lose faith in me. This was your idea, remember? This whole damn thing was your idea. Believe in it. Believe in me. Now, put Pavel on the phone.”

“I’ve been on the whole time.”

“Of course you have, you eavesdropping fuck. I need you to send a couple of telegrams. One to Cuba. The other to Dallas.”

“Ah.” There was a pause. “To whom should I address the second one?”

Ivelitsch’s voice was flat. Incurious. Unimpassioned. Melchior remembered what he’d said in Union Station yesterday afternoon, just before he’d shot one of his own men and forced Melchior to kill two Company agents. Everyone who knows you has to die. It was all in a day’s work to him.

“Send it to Alik. Alik Hidell.”

“And what do I tell—”

“Tell him it’s time. Time to do what you trained him to do in Russia.”