The Shot

We'll meet your friend off the bus,' said Leopoldo. That's no problem. We meet lots of people off that particular bus. And we've booked him a room with bath at the Hotel del Comercio.' Worrying an eczematous earlobe, he laughed and looked around at the Reforma's sumptuous interior. Of course, it's nothing like this place. Not for a dollar a day. But Orlando said that it didn't matter. The cheaper the better.'

Tom nodded, trying to contain his loathing for the two Cubans. That's right,' he said. You did good.' He ordered another round of drinks to help loosen their tongues. You could never know too much about the scum you were working with. Even when your first instinct was to shoo them away like a pair of mangy dogs. But don't bring him here. He works with horses and I don't want the little punk stinking the place out. Have him wait for me at the Bottoms Up, this time tomorrow. No wait. Better make it the Florida bar. That way he won't forget where to go. Besides, I take him to the Bottoms Up and he's liable to think I'm giving him dinner.'

Exactly what are you giving him?' asked Angel Orlando didn't say.'

Just a drink and a package to take home with him. This is kind of a dry run to see if he can be trusted to perform a courier service for us in Cuba. You see, I'll know if the package has been opened, on account of the fact that he'll be real pissed off when he finds out that it contains nothing more than a couple of copies of the Beatnik dictionary.'

Leopoldo laughed. A mule, then. It figures. Orlando wanted us to take some pictures, too. Everton looking like he's headed for the OK Corral. Rifle, sidearm, the full Burt Lancaster.'

Where are you going to do that?'

Back at my place,' said Angel. I live in Los Remedies. It's a small town, about fifteen miles out. I've got plenty of guns there.' He chuckled. Enough to start another revolution.'

If there's time,' added Leopoldo, we'll maybe even get Everton to hand out some anti-Castro literature in front of the Cuban embassy.'

Why there?' asked Tom.

Because, my friend, the CIA runs a photographic surveillance operation outside the embassy. Orlando figures him being seen handing out leaflets like that will be enough to give Everton a file. But don't ask me why. We just do what we are asked to do.'

Are there many of you down here?'

Enough. It's easier getting into Cuba from down here.'

Easier getting all kinds of things in and out of Mexico,' observed Angel. Maybe you'd like to score some dope while you're down here?'

No, thanks,' said Tom. I've always been more of a juicehead, myself.' He shrugged. But a man's gotta making a living. Who runs the show down here?'

Harold Meltzer.'

Really?' said Tom, impressed.

It's a pretty big show.'

They talked for a while longer before Tom looked at his watch and informed his guests that he had a dinner appointment.

Somewhere nice?'

Tom smiled. It was his turn to be pumped.

French place on Lopez,' he said smoothly. The Normandia.'

Fancy,' grinned Angel.

They all left together. Tom watched them get into a battered Oldsmobile, and then hailed a taxi. He rode it only as far as Chapultepec Park, at the end of Paseo de Reforma, just to make sure he wasn't being followed. For a few minutes he walked around under the ahuehuete trees, enjoying the fountains and early-evening air before catching another cab and telling the driver to take him not to the Normandia, but to the Cadillac Grill.

Alex Goldman finished eating and, leaning back in his chair, loosened his hand-stitched belt by a notch.

Best fuckin' dinner I've had since I've been in MC.

He poured them both some more red wine and stifled a belch with the back of a large hand.

What are you supposed to be doing down here anyway?' enquired Tom. Aren't you a little out of your jurisdiction?'

Yes, and no,' said Goldman, lighting his Kaywoodie pipe. Back in the forties the FBI built the whole special intelligence spy network in Mexico. For that matter, in the whole of Latin America. Anyway, come nineteen forty-seven, Truman told Hoover to hand over all his SIS assets to the CIA, and Hoover being Hoover didn't take too kindly to that. Nor did most of the agents down here, who suddenly found themselves working for the CIA instead of the Bureau. You got to understand, for a lot of those guys the Bureau was their whole life. So, while Mexico City may be a CIA station today - one of the biggest, too, just like the KGB - in spirit, it's still Bureau. The head of station in MC, fellow by the name of Winston McKinlay Scott, he's ex-FBI, as are most of the heads of section. Which means that Mexico Station maintains an unusually close relationship with the Bureau.

You might even characterise it as a covert relationship, because Allen Dulles and the rest of the Company boys up in Washington know nothing about it. Officially I'm down here at the behest of the Bureau of Narcotics to liaise with the Mexican Internal Security Police and the United States embassy's legal attachE to probe the relationship between the Mexican DPS - that's their equivalent of the CIA -and major drug trafficking organisations back in Miami. Lansky, the Teamsters, Happy Meltzer. But in actual fact, I'm down here for the usual COINTELPRO reasons.' Goldman glanced inside the bowl of his pear-shaped briar, then put it down. As part of the FBI's never-ending fight against the forces of international communism.' Goldman raised his glass and chuckled. Well, here's to it. What would we ever find to do without the Russians?'

Tom clinked Goldman's glass and looked back across his shoulder. Just to make sure he hadn't been followed. He had already told Goldman about the anti-Castro exiles he had encountered in Miami. Now he added some information about the two characters he had met in Mexico City.

They said they worked for Meltzer,' he said, almost as an afterthought.

And Meltzer runs things for Lansky,' shrugged Goldman. He smuggles most of the Mexican heroin into the United States. It's a regular fucking fraternity, that's what it is.'

Sounds a bit like your own outfit,' observed Tom.

Hell, they're much better organised than we are. More co-operative, too. As a rule, with our security and intelligence agencies, the left hand doesn't really know what the right hand is doing. The CIA doesn't speak to the Bureau who don't speak to the Secret Service who don't speak to the cops. No sir, not everyone's as gregarious and friendly as me. Being COINTELPRO means there's no fucker telling me who I can and who I can't speak to. Hell, I even speak to the Secret Service. Not that there's any big secret mind you. Other than the obvious one, which is that those bastards are all muscle and no brain. I mean, it's no accident they're called the Secret Service instead of something to do with intelligence like the rest of us. Last November, I had to go up to Augusta, Georgia. This was around the time Ike and Mamie were at their place there. Ike was playing golf and painting by numbers. Anyway, I met up with some of those Secret Service boys. And man, do they like to party. I'm glad they're not looking after my ass, that's all I can say.' Goldman wagged a big finger in Tom's direction. One day, Paladin. One day, it's all going to come unstuck, big time. I just hope I'm there to see their stupid faces when it does. That's one picture I'd like to see.

Where is that fucking waiter? We need some more wine here.'

Not finding one, Goldman reached down and, taking off his shoe, grunted painfully.

What?' asked Tom. Are you planning to get the waiter's attention with that shoe? Khrushchev style?'

Seeing Goldman look puzzled, and realising he probably hadn't seen an American newspaper, Tom related the story in that morning's New York Times, about how the Soviet Premier had banged his desk with his shoe when the Philippine delegate to the United Nations accused Russia of imperialism in eastern Europe.

Communism will try and bring the world to heel, one way or another,' added Tom.

Goldman found a waiter and ordered another bottle of wine. They talked a while longer, about some of the other things that had been in the paper. Tom could tell that Goldman was going to ask him to perform a service for him. But it was only when Tom mentioned the assassination of the leader of the Japanese socialist party, Asanuma, that he finally got around to it.

That I did hear. There was something about it on the AP and UPI wires. Some fucking right-wing student attacked him with a bayonet, wasn't it? Jesus. Typical fucking Jap, huh?'

Yeah.'

Listen Tom, how'd you like to go to Acapulco? Tonight. There's an Aeronaves flight leaves one a.m.'

To do what?'

What you're good at.'

Tom screwed up his eyes and opened them again. He looked at his watch. Jesus, Alex, it's ten o'clock. Why didn't you say earlier? I wouldn't have drunk so much.'

Forget about it. It's the kind of job you could handle in your sleep.'

Tom stretched and yawned. Looks that way.' He shook his head. I haven't got a weapon.'

You think I'm expecting you to do it with just a fucking bayonet? Come on, Tom. You know me better than that. There's a takedown Winchester seventy with a Unertl scope and a suppresser in the trunk of my car.'

A takedown?' Tom winced. You want me to use a takedown?'

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. That there's a trade-off in accuracy.'

All those threads and surfaces and tensions,' grumbled Tom.

But this is a good piece of kit.'

Hex screws imperfectly torqued.'

Listen,' insisted Goldman. I test-fired this weapon myself. Put it back together, refired it, and found no discernible zero shift. Believe me, this is a beautiful rifle. It comes in a nice hard-shell carrying case with a foam plastic interior. Real James Bond stuff, I swear.'

Which book?' asked Tom.

Goldman thought for a moment. Doesn't he use a takedown in From Russia with Love?'

Actually,' said Tom, it's not Bond who uses it, but the Turkish guy, Darko Bey.'

Yeah, you're right. Where the fuck does he get these names?'

Tom hedged. He wasn't keen to go anywhere other than bed. Why does it have to be tonight?'

Because tomorrow's the last day of the target's vacation. Believe me, this couldn't be easier. The guy goes water-skiing in Acapulco bay every morning at nine o'clock. I've booked you a cottage with a sea-view at El Mirador. You can make the shot and be back here by lunchtime.'

Tom poured himself another glass of wine and then thought better of it. If he was going to shoot a man at nine o'clock the next morning he would need a clear head. Instead, he lit a Chesterfield. Already he had shelved most of his objections.

Or, if you want, you can stay on and have a good time at the Bureau's expense. There's a cat-house down there, the Casa Raquel, that I can personally recommend. A real class joint.'

But Tom was shaking his head. What sort of range are we talking about?'

Four hundred yards. Five hundred max. The cottage is right on La Quebrada cliffs. From there you could hit Cuba.'

Tom grimaced. I hate sea-shots.'

Oh come on. I remember you back on the island of Saipan, sitting in a rubber boat, picking off Japs at night. At night, mind. For you this is automatic pilot.'

So who's the dead man?'

A Russian guy.'

A Russian?' Tom sounded surprised. A Russian? You are getting ambitious.'

No, just careful. His name is Pavel Zaitsev and he works here in MC as a consular official. Pretty good volleyball player, by all accounts.'

Not much of a reason to shoot him.'

Really, he's GRU. Russian military intelligence. And he's been making things quite awkward down here.'

I'll bet he's their top scorer, right?' Tom nodded. Okay, if you say so.'

Attaboy, Paladin. Zaitsev's staying at your hotel, so you can't miss him. There's a funicular down to the hotel swimming pool where the Aqua Mundo boat company picks him up every morning regular as clockwork. Blue hull, twin-engined job. Zaitsev's a big fellow. Looks like Harmon Killebrew. You know, the AL home run slugger? Balding. There's a photograph of him in the takedown case. Plus an air ticket and your hotel reservation. You're going to love Acapulco, Tom. Cortes called the placed tierra caliente, the hot land, but after MC, the climate is actually quite pleasant.' Goldman clapped Tom on the back. Anyway, you can probably use the practice. It's been a while since you did a job for us, Paladin.'

Tom killed Zaitsev as easily as Alex Goldman had predicted he would. An excellent, graceful water-skier, Zaitsev presented a simple moving target. With the tow-handle coolly hooked in the crook of his arm, he had been in the act of waving confidently to the people up in the boat when Tom squeezed the trigger. Then Tom sat and waited for the boat to come around and begin the search, enjoying the sun on his face, the scent of sea air, pine groves, and cup-of-gold bushes, and the refreshing taste of some cold coconut milk. With the sky such a faultless shade of blue, it had hardly seemed possible that a life should just disappear between the waves as easily as a lobster pot.

In the boat it took them all of thirty minutes to find and recover Zaitsev's body. Through binoculars Tom watched them haul the body out of the water and saw that his shot had taken off the crown of Zaitsev's skull, like the top of a boiled egg. The boat was too far away for him to hear anything. There was just the bloody sight of a rubbery corpse and the two girls who had accompanied Zaitsev, screaming in silence.

Tom was back in Mexico City just after lunch, reflecting that he hadn't much cared for Acapulco. To him it was just another holiday resort, like Miami Beach but with better scenery. He preferred the city he was in now, once the ancient Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan, and the centre of the cult of Huitzilpochtli.

The Aztecs were people of the sun chosen by Huitzilpochtli to provide him with nourishment. His sustenance was human blood, and lots of it. As Aztec power grew, prisoners from all over Mexico were sacrificed in Tenochtitlan so that the universe and man might survive. One conquistador estimated the number of human skulls hanging on show to be 136,000. Blood was treated like holy water, and spattered over the doors and pillars of Mexican temples and houses. Mercy was an alien concept, as alien to the ancient peoples of Mexico as it was to Tom himself. The Nehuatl Indian word for sacrifice, nextlaoalitzli, actually meant an act of payment. This was Tom's kind of language. It was no wonder he thought he felt so very much at home there.

Chapter 7

In a Boston Accent

The margin is narrow, but the responsibility is clearaEU| a margin of only one vote would still be a mandate.'

Thus spoke the thirty-fifth President-elect of the United States, having achieved a majority of less than one hundred and twenty thousand votes.

So now my wife and I prepare for a new administration and a new baby.'

But it was what John F. Kennedy had said not to a press conference in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, nor to the sixty-nine million Americans who had voted, but to just one American that interested Tom Jefferson more when, on the ninth day of November 1960, he left his home in Miami Shores and drove to the safe house at 6312 Riviera Drive in Coral Gables to meet Frank Sorges and to hear that much-vaunted tape. Just thinking about it was enough to give him an erection. He was actually going to hear the love goddess, the magnificent Marilyn, making love, and to no less a person than everyone's man of the moment, America's number one golden boy. It was the stuff of Confidential magazine and he wished Mary had been around so that he could have teased her.

These past few days he had spoken to her only on the telephone; what with the election, the anxiety of the count - Kennedy's early lead had shrunk steadily for much of the Tuesday, 8 November, until, at around four o'clock the following morning, victory had started to look a little more certain - and then the celebrations, which seemed likely to last through until Thursday, Tom hadn't actually seen her since Saturday night. By now he was used to her irregular hours, more or less. Back in the middle of October, when Kennedy had gone to Tampa to make a campaign speech about Latin America and an alliance for progress, Tom didn't see Mary or even speak to her on the telephone for forty-eight hours. But that was okay, too. She was just doing her job. The two of them were still a team with a common interest. To borrow Kennedy's phrase, Tom and Mary were una alianza para el progreso. Only it was their own idea of progress. And an unusual kind of alliance.

It had been strange to see Kennedy quoted speaking Spanish. Strange and, after Orlando Bosch's forecast of an early invasion of Cuba, just a little disturbing. Not that Castro himself seemed much inclined to care. On 25 October, the week after Kennedy's Tampa speech, Castro had signed a decree nationalising those few remaining enterprises that belonged to American companies. Speaking to a group of army cadets just a few days later, Castro had challenged America to invade his country. At the same time, the Ministry of Health launched a campaign to persuade Cuban citizens to give blood. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, another kind of launch -or at least the capacity for a launch - was being made manifest, with intent: on the day Americans went to the polls, missiles appeared for the first time at the annual parade in Red Square. A campaign speech and a rhetorical alliance was one thing; ICBMs were evidence of quite another kind of alliance, and one that Tom hoped the new President would pay attention to.

Tom was a little early for his five o'clock meeting with Sorges, so he stopped for a haircut at Johnny's Barber Shop on North West 27th Avenue. The place was air-conditioned and Johnny, a dark, balding man in his early forties, was reading the paper. We treat you like a friend' read a sign on the wall. That was fine with Tom, who had being going there often enough for Johnny to remember that this was one friend who didn't like to talk. In the twenty minutes it took to cfet Tom's hair, Johnny even managed not to mention the election.

Coming out of the shop, Tom paused in the doorway. A breeze from the west was carrying the sound of a brass band. Tom turned to Johnny and said, You hear that?'

Probably the local high school,' explained Johnny. They got a marching band. Pretty good one, too.'

The two men stood there for a moment or two, long enough for Johnny to be able to identify the tune. Hail to the Chief,' he said.

Kennedy's favourite tune,' said Tom, and started towards his car. Perhaps he's on his way.'

Yeah, maybe they know something we don't.'

From what I hear, Johnny, it's just the girls who know that much. Just the girls.'

Tom drove on, stopping again only once to pick up a bottle of Mary's favourite perfume, Lanvin's My Sin', at a beauty shop on Almeria, in Coral Gables. It seemed appropriate after all her hard work. Then he went to Riviera Drive.

Just south of the golf course of the same name, and overlooking Coral Gables Waterway, in an expensive palm-fringed street, the safe house was a two-storey affair with a high stone wall, a large iron gate, and a tiled roof with a little cupola. Tom pulled the bell on the gatepost, and after a few minutes Sorges, smoking a cigar and wearing a ribbed mohair V-neck and a pair of deck pants, came into the garden to let him in.

You're early.'

Occupational habit. Same way as when I go near a tall building I'm liable to start looking for cover.'

What did I tell you?' Sorges clapped Tom on the shoulder. The Chicago poll? It was just like Momo promised. Kennedy won it by four hundred and fifty-six thousand votes. You know, without Illinois, Kennedy would have had only seven electoral college votes more than Nixon. And then the whole election could have been wide open. Might even have gone to the House of Representatives to decide. Just think about that. Four hundred and fifty-six thousand votes. That's four times as much as his final tally in the whole fucking country. When Momo fixes something, he fixes it good.'

Sorges ushered Tom through the big wooden door. It was cool inside the house, but this was down to the record playing on the limed oak phonola as much as to the air-conditioning: a brooding, melancholic Spanish arrangement for a solo trumpet and jazz band. Liking it immediately, Tom picked up the LP and saw that it was Miles Davis playing Sketches of Spain'.

You like that, do you?' asked Sorges.

Tom thought the sound seemed to speak to him personally. And the last line on the sleeve note, from the Spanish writer Ferran, managed to characterise both the music and his own character: Alas for me! The more I seek my solitude, the less of it I find. Whenever I look for it, my shadow looks with me.' He nodded, and said, Yeah, it's nice.' Looking around, he added, Nice place, too. Yours?'

Hell, no. Belongs to the Company. Or maybe Howard Hughes. Or maybe Meyer Lansky. I'm not exactly sure which. I'm just the house-sitter today.'

Howard Hughes? What's his involvement in all this?'

Bob Maheu works for Hughes. Before that he was with the Bureau and probably the CIA, too, for all I know. Bob's got more connections than Pan American. To be honest I'm not exactly sure what Hughes expects to gain. But I've heard he's already after a piece of the action in Vegas, so maybe he thinks to buy some of the Havana casinos from a new Cuban government. Drink?'

Bourbon.'

Sorges collected two tumblers, an ice-bucket and a bottle of Ezra Brooks and led the way to a big leather Chesterfield. He placed the tumblers on a glass coffee table, next to a Soundcraft tape box.

Sit down,' he said, dropping on to the sofa. Take the weight off your Bob Smarts.' He poured two large ones and collected his glass in a mug-sized fist.

At the same moment Tom realised who it was the big man reminded him of. Jack London. He'd seen a picture of the author in a bookstore when he'd gone in to buy Errol Flynn's autobiography.

Tom put himself down on the sofa with less aplomb and picked up his drink. Thinking Sorges was about to propose a toast, and hating to drink to anything other than a better frame of mind, he said, Under the circumstances, it hardly seems appropriate to drink to the new President.'

No, I guess not,' admitted Sorges.

Is that the tape?'

His mouth full of Bourbon, Sorges nodded, and then, Just don't tell your friends.'

I don't have any friends,' said Tom, but without any trace of self-pity. It was true, more or less. He kept himself to himself. Never did much more than nod to the neighbours. Most of the people he came into contact with were afraid of him. He knew that, and it didn't bother him. Living a secret life was hard enough without having to explain things to friends.

Your wife, then. She works for the Democrats, doesn't she?'

I won't tell anyone,' said Tom, lighting up a Chesterfield. I'm not the gabby type, in case you hadn't noticed. A big mouth looks bad for business.'

Is that all it is for you? Just business?'

You mean, do I get any pleasure out of it?'

Sorges shrugged his curiosity. You said it.'

It's just something I do, that's all,' said Tom. You might as well ask Truman if he got any pleasure ordering the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It was a job that needed doing. Which is the way I look at my own job. Pleasure or dislike doesn't even come into it.'

I think I'd enjoy killing Castro,' admitted Sorges. We've got a history, me and him. I owe that bastard, big time.'

Can't say that I ever enjoyed killing anyone. Not even in the war. And like I say, some of those guys needed killing.'

Oh, Castro needs killing, all right. Make no mistake about that. There's no shortage of blood on his hands. And everything and everyone is ready to do it, too. Everton, Genevieve, Diaz Castillo, Gonzales, they're all in Cuba right now. And our people have been back to Everton's house and cleaned up that rifle, added a heavy match barrel and a flash suppressor, a leather cheek-piece and a telescopic sight. Wearing some of Everton's old clothes, including his gloves, one of our guys even fired some shots, and made sure that some fibres from his shirt stuck to the stock. They've also left some other stuff in his room. Articles about Castro, old gun mags, ammunition - live and spent - and some of those photographs we took in Mexico City. It's as nice a frame as you'd see hanging in an art gallery. How are you coming along with the priest routine?'

Pretty good,' said Tom. Listen.' He cleared his throat, composed himself for a second, and then began to chant: Si capax, ego te absolve a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.' Tom made the sign of the cross with his thumb, as if anointing with holy oil.

What is this?' asked Sorges. Method acting?'

Tom continued to chant. Per istam sanctam Unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominua quid-quid deliquisti. Amen.' More crossing. Ego facultate mihi ab Apostolica Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concede, et benedicto te. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.'

Hey, that's pretty good,' nodded Sorges. Marlon Brando couldn't have done that better. What does it all mean, anyway?'

It's the last rites,' said Tom.

I can see how that might attract you.'

You see, I was thinking, suppose I shoot Castro, walk out of that church, and then someone wants a priest to grant Castro the forgiveness of sins? It would look kind of weird if I didn't know the last rites. So I thought I'd better learn it. Just in case.'

Now there's a thought,' snorted Sorges. Wouldn't that be something? He'd go to hell for sure.'

I know he's a communist 'n all, but from what I've been reading about him, he was a pretty devout Catholic when he was a kid. Went to a Jesuit school. And earlier this year he made a speech in which he said that to betray the poor was to betray Christ.' Tom shrugged. Be just like the thing if he turned Catholic again at the last minute. A lot of people do, you know.'

I guess you're right at that,' agreed Sorges. Better safe than sorry, huh? Well, Marlon, soon we'll take you down to Key West and have you on a boat for Havana. You can even bless the boat if it helps you to get into the part. Just as soon as we get the word from Momo.'

Now that Kennedy's elected, what's stopping him?'

Nothing. Nothing at all. Matter of fact Rosselli's going to call me here this afternoon. If things work out we'll have your holy ass in Havana sometime next week. As it happens, Castro's going to be making a lot of speeches in the next couple of months. So we'll have plenty of opportunities to kill him. In December and January there are a lot of landmarks in the history of the revolution. On December third we have the anniversary of the landing of the Granma, the boat that carried Fidel and the other revolutionaries from Mexico in fifty-six. January first we've got the anniversary of Batista's resignation. And on January eighth we've got the anniversary of Castro's triumphant arrival in Havana. But we think you may get a shot even before then. The word from Genevieve is that those dumb bastards are going to ban Christmas and Santa Claus.'

You're kidding,' laughed Tom.

They'll do it. Maybe you're right. Maybe they will all die as Catholics, but for the time being they intend to live as communists. Besides, food's in short supply. And money's a little tight right now. Too tight to waste on Christmas. So that means no Santa Claus. But at least Castro has a beard. Who knows? Maybe the Big Barbudo can take the place of Father Christmas. Our people think that he'll make some sort of speech about the revolutionary season of goodwill to all communists, or some such shit. Most probably on Christmas Eve. I take it you have no ethical objections to that?'

I've no particular plans for Christmas,' said Tom.

If you're on target my friend, Christmas nineteen sixty could turn out to be the best Christmas I ever had. Fidel Castro with a bullet in his head sure beats the hell out of a pipe-rack and a Max Factor travel trio.'

So that's what that smell is.'

All sorts of gladsome gifties will be coming to fill your Christmas stocking if you pull this off.'

I was kind of hoping for a Swank electric putt machine,' admitted Tom. For just fourteen ninety-five it returns your ball to you after you've holed out.'

And I'll give you the solid silver putter from Tiffany's to go with it, you blow him away.' Sorges stood up. Help yourself to another drink,' he said. While we listen to the chief executive get laid.'

He collected the tape, went over to the phonola, and lifted the stylus off the LP. Kneeling down, he started to thread the tape through the head of the Sony Stereocorder that was on the floor underneath the phonola.

On second thoughts,' said Tom. You can forget the Swank and the silver putter.' He poured himself another drink. A night with Marilyn will do me just fine.'

Glancing across his shoulder at Tom, Sorges looked sheepish. Then he cleared his throat, and said, Yeah, I'm real sorry about that. But this isn't Marilyn you're gonna hear.'

Tom felt himself becoming irritated. He raised surprised eyebrows at Sorges and smiled thinly. It isn't?'

Not exactly, no.'

Tom nodded, unimpressed with this development. Not exactly? What, you mean it's some dozy douche-bag of a ditzy blonde doing a grotesque imitation of the real thing? Or something else? Marilyn minus the sigh and the wiggle and the Spanish fly in her voice? Marilyn with a bad cold, maybe?'

Irritated, Sorges frowned back at Tom. I don't know who the hell it is. Just some broad Kennedy banged on the road. An actress, or a model, I think. Look, Johnny doesn't know I'm letting you hear this. I had to borrow it without his permission. So it was kind of pot luck I'm afraid. It was this one or nothing. The guy who was doing these recordings just got busted in Vegas. He was bugging Sam's girlfriend's room, to see if she was fucking some other guy. Anyway Johnny's kind of pissed about the whole thing. Blames it on Maheu for some reason. I think he's put the Marilyn tape in a safe, somewhere. So like I say, this is all there is.'

Tom gazed rudely at the ceiling and then impassively back at Sorges, as if he didn't believe a word of it.

Look, do you want to hear this goddamned tape, or not?'

Go ahead,' growled Tom. I'm all ears.'

Sorges twisted one of the knobs and the spools began to turn. There was a moment's silence, the sound of a door closing, followed by clothes rustling and some heavy breathing, and then a man's voice.

Do you like this place?'

I love it. I've never been to Lake Tahoe before.'

My brother-in-law, Peter, has a stake in the place with Sinatra. I come here a lot.'

I know, I read about the Cal-Neva in a magazine. But I never dreamed I'd be here, with you, Jack.'

Well, now that you are, what are you going to do about it?'

Kennedy's patrician Harvard accent was instantly recognisable with its curiously flat, almost European vowels and its mushed letter s', as if the President-elect had cultivated a lisp in an effort to sound more like Winston Churchill, who was reportedly his model in rhetoric.

In common with nearly everyone else, Tom thought Kennedy was an excellent orator. Clearly he was a man who believed in the power of words and who took considerable pride in his own real gift for eloquence. Even when, in the cold light of day, some of Kennedy's more idealistic messages seemed hopelessly unrealistic, there was still something about the way he delivered them that made people listen. So it came as something of a shock for Tom to hear Kennedy speaking not as a public figure, about the Cold War, or Indochina, or the Balance of Power, but as a private man, his relaxed, slightly intoxicated conversation studded with references to his lover's pussy, and her asshole, and what he was going to do to her pussy and her asshole just as soon as he got her panties off.

She was every bit as willing and candid as he was, her quiet voice breathless with lust and excitement as she assured Kennedy that he could do anything he wanted to her, that she would suck him, and let him come in her mouth, and up her ass, if that was what turned him on.

Do you like me to do this, Jack? Is that how you like it?'

I love that. Don't stop. Oh that's wonderfulaEU|'

The thrill of hearing the President-elect getting it on in a chalet at the Cal-Neva Lodge was as nothing beside the cold shock Tom felt on recognising the faint trace of the Caribbean in the woman's voice. Hers was a voice as familiar to him as Kennedy's own. More so. Tom swallowed hard as he tried to contain his horror and disgust. The woman on the tape was Mary. He was listening to his own wife being fucked by Jack Kennedy.

You have the most beautiful mouth, honey. Oh that's wonderful. Just keep doing that.'

What did I tell you?' laughed Sorges. Oh man, I'd love to meet this little lady. Listen to that. She's a fucking animal.'

Tom's first instinct was to tear the obscene tape off the spool and throw it in Sorges's grinning face, before strangling the man with his bare hands. But this lasted only a few seconds. Staying cool and playing a double game was second nature to Tom. And the more he thought about it the more he considered that nothing would have been served by revealing anything to the other man. He decided it was best to remain silent on the subject. So he grinned back and, steeling himself, decided to hear the tape to the end.

Chapter 8

The Monsignor

Death was never very far away from Tom's thoughts, least of all when he picked up the telephone receiver in his hotel room at La Casa Marina, in Key West. Tom knew straight away that she was dead, even before the Dade County cop told him what had happened. Dully, Tom said he would drive back to Miami immediately and then replaced the receiver.

He glanced at his watch. It was nine thirty in the morning and he was dog-tired after a night on the town with Sorges and Bosch. An hour earlier, Juanita, the maid, would have let herself into the house in Miami Shores, found Mary's body and then called the police. They would have found his hotel number right by the telephone. He lit a cigarette and then called Sorges.

Frank, it's Tom.'

Oh Jesus, what time is it?'

It's nine thirty-five. Listen Frank, I've got to go back to Miami. Right away.'

Miami? What the hell for? We just got here. And everything's set. The Flying Tiger's picking us up from the harbour front at eight o'clock.' The Flying Tiger was the name of a motor yacht that some millionaire had lent to the CIA for the purpose of ferrying Tom into Cuban waters, after which a rubber boat would land him close to Oriente City. The Company's even cleared us with the Coast Guard.'

Yeah, well this'll have to wait. The Dade County police just called.'

What the fuck did they want?'

There's been some kind of accident. Mary. My wife. She's dead.'

Jesus, Tom. Is there anything I can do?'

No. I'll handle it. Look, I'll call you when I get there. When I find out what's happened.'

Okay, all right. You do that.'

Tom packed a bag and went and found his car.

Once, Key West had been Florida's most populous city and probably the richest, too. Now, with more than a quarter of the local population Cuban, the place was shabbier and altogether more foreign-looking, like an ersatz version of Havana. Grass grew through the cracks in the flagstones on Roosevelt Boulevard, while cigar factories, shrimp boats, and bordellos were the principal sources of employment. Island time ran slower than on the mainland and, except at night, when the strip-joints on Duval Street got going, no conch, as the locals were known, was ever in a hurry. Even the non-Latins spoke Spanish, ate black beans, played knock rummy, and, sometimes, ran narcotics. Life was uncomplicated, with only the hurricanes to worry about. The last big one, in 1935, had killed more than four hundred people. But for anyone walking through streets lined with poinciana, allamanda, frangipani, and coconut palms, or along the most picturesque of waterfronts with its turtle tanks, pelicans, cormorants, and twenty-thousand-dollar boats, death would have seemed a very distant prospect. That is, for anyone but Tom.

He started the Chevy, picked up some gas, and then hit the blacktop.

The road up from Key West to the mainland on the Overseas Highway was one of the most beautiful drives in the world. Henry M. Flagler had built a railway across the Florida Keys, linking one to another with bridges, like a giant and extremely expensive necklace. Opened to trains in 1912, it had been destroyed by the hurricane of 1935, and rebuilt as the Overseas Highway. With the Atlantic Ocean immediately on one side of the road, and the Gulf of Mexico on the other, sometimes it seemed as though the road was all the land there was. And crossing the lengthy span of the Seven Mile Bridge, upheld by 544 piers sunk below the water line, a car felt like a small plane. It was 156 miles back to Miami and normally, with all the cars towing boats and trailers and rubbernecking tourists, the journey took the best part of four and a quarter hours. But for some reason the route was more or less free of traffic - at least going north - and Tom did the journey in less than three hours. It was the loneliest drive he had ever made.

When Tom arrived back at the house in Miami Shores, there were a couple of police cars parked outside and a small cluster of nosey-parker neighbours gathered on the street corner. A Country Squire station wagon was leaving the scene and it was only later, after Tom had persuaded the uniformed cop on duty outside his own front door to let him inside the house, that he realised the station wagon had been carrying Mary's dead body. He was met by a detective sergeant from the Dade County police who told him that Mary's body had been moved to the County Morgue, in the Miami Hall of Justice, where she was now the coroner's responsibility.

So far, Tom had said very little, but when the detective, whose name was Joe Czernin, offered his condolences, Tom fetched himself a drink from the bar and asked how Mary had died.

It's a little early to say for sure,' said Czernin. But it looks as though she may have taken an overdose of pills and alcohol. It'll be for the coroner's office to decide if that was accidental or if sheaEU|' Czernin hesitated for a second, his grey eyes moving quickly across Tom's face as if he was trying to judge Tom's capacity to take the unalloyed truth. Then he said, To decide if she committed suicide.'

Tom shook his head firmly. She wasn't the type.'

Czernin nodded, wishing he had a dollar for every grieving relative who said as much in these cases.

And there would have been a note.' Tom raised a questioning eyebrow at the detective. Is there a note?'

We haven't found one.'

Well that's the end of that,' said Tom.

I know this is difficult for you at this terrible time,' said Czernin. But the law is the law. Look, if you could answer some questions right now, I wouldn have to bother you again.'

Tom swallowed the rest of his drink and lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. Okay,' he said. I guess it's yet to sink in anyway.'

When did you last see your wife?'

Not since last Saturday. She worked at the Democratic Party headquarters in Miami. For George Smathers. She was in and out of the house at irregular times. In the final days of the campaign the whole team was working more or less round the clock. And then partying the same way when Kennedy won.'

And when you last saw her, how did she seem?'

Tired. And perhaps a little fearful that the campaign was lost. There was a lot of hate literature for Kennedy. And then the polls were see-sawing one way and then the other. Mary said it was too close to call. The way things turned out, Florida wasn't a landslide like Illinois, but then it wasn't a marginal either, like Nevada or New Mexico. For a while back there, they were worried. Real worried. We spoke on the telephone, you see. Even if we didn't see each other, we liked to keep in touch.'

She was under a lot of pressure?'

For sure. Mary was one of those people you naturally rely on a lot. And who takes more and more work upon herself.'

Czernin wore a dark suit and a pearl-grey weskit. The hat he kept turning in his hands was a low-tapered grey-felt with a narrow-brim black band. The man looked tougher than his clothes. The hands were hard and leathery and the stance nautically square, as if at any moment he expected a sudden gust of wind. Short grey hair covered his bucket-shaped head like iron filings on a magnet. From time to time he let go of the hat and stroked his hair as if it had been the nap on a piece of velvet.

They were standing by the bar in the lounge. Tom helped himself to another Kentucky Gentleman and watched the cop's eyes rack up all the liquor bottles on display.

Did she drink much?'

She was a social drinker. She wasn't one to drink alone.'

What did she like to drink?'

Cocktails. Stuff with little umbrellas in. She had a collection of those, somewhere. Otherwise champagne, mostly.' Czernin started toward the bedroom and, sensing that Tom had stayed put, turned and said in a way that indicated he wanted Tom to follow, Do you mind?'

No, sure, go ahead.'

Tom pushed himself off the bar top and went after the cop, into the hallway with its director's chair, telephone table, and the three-dollar framed sunken treasure map of the Caribbean, and through the bedroom door, squeezing past a photographer who was packing up his flash lamps and his reflective umbrellas. Tom surveyed the crumpled sheets on the thin-edge bed, the clothes on the floor, her Prince Gardner key-gard, the Llama slippers, and next to them, the books she had been reading: James MacGregor Burns's biography of John Kennedy, Joseph Dineen's book on the whole Kennedy family, and The Ugly American, by William Lederer and Eugene Burdick, which was Mary's unread Book of the Month Club choice.

The maid found her,' explained Czernin.

I figured,' sighed Tom.

The cop approached Mary's swagged-leg bedside table, home to a little vase of nearly dead freesias, and picked up one of the many pill bottles that surrounded the Bonvita opalescent lamp. Quite a little dispensary, wouldn't you say? And all on her side of the bed.'

We were different people, you know? Couple of Bufferin's about the only pill-popping I do.'

Let's see, we've got Valium, Tryptizol, Nembutal, Seconal, Chloral Hydrate, you name it, it's right here. If it's not, it's in the bathroom cabinet.'

I tried talking to her about it. But she never paid much attention.'

And from different drugs stores, too. Breedings Drug Stores - use that one myself sometimes. Sheey's Pharmacy on Beacon Boulevard. Know that one, too. Lile's Pharmacy, in Coconut Grove.' Czernin indicated the bottles he was examining. If you wouldn't mind taking a look, Mister Jefferson. Just to make sure that there's nothing here you don't know about. And of course, I'll need the name and number of her doctor.'

Tom saw Mary's shoulder bag hanging on the back of the door. He took out her address book and read out the name and number, which the cop noted down. Then he glanced over the bedside table. It all looks familiar enough, I guess,' he said. But among all the bottles was a highball glass containing what looked like Scotch. He bent down to the glass, careful not to touch it, and sniffed.

It's what it looks like,' said Czernin. Scotch.'

Tom shrugged wearily.

Was your wife in the habit of mixing drugs and alcohol, Mister Jefferson?'

I wouldn't say it was a habit, exactly. But sometimes, when she came home, and I knew she'd had a drink, she took pills on top. But she never washed them down with alcohol. At least, not when I was around.'

And exactly where were you last night? In Key West.'

Exactly?'

We already know from a neighbour that she returned here at around twelve, last night. It would help to be able to eliminate you from the picture, Mister Jefferson.'

Let's see. I had dinner around nine with a couple of friends. Frank Sorges and Doctor Bosch. They're both of them staying at La Casa Marina on Reynolds Street, in case you should want to speak to them.'

What did you eat?'

I had green turtle steak. I think Mister Sorges had Shrimp Sebastian. I don't remember what DoctoraEU| look, is this really relevant?'

I think so,' Czernin said evenly. In my experience people are only ever vague about these matters when they're lying. Specificity is the hallmark of any proper alibi.'

Do I need one? I mean, I thought you said she took an overdose.'

This is a homicide, Mister Jefferson.' Czernin took out a packet of Salem and lit one quickly. Homicides have to be investigated. And investigations need facts. In these matters you can never have too many facts. What time did you finish eating dinner?'

Eleven. Maybe a little after. We looked in on a couple of bars. Mom's Tea Room and Sloppy Joe's. Mister Sorges, he wanted to see Hemingway's bar-stool, only someone had stolen it. At around twelve fifteen, we went to the Mardi Gras. Not the carnival. It's a strip club on Duval Street. It's getting a little hazy after that. But I'm sure we stayed there until gone two o'clock. Probably got back to the hotel around two fifteen. Next thing I knew, you boys were on the telephone.' Tom uttered a big sigh and sat heavily on the bed.

Shit.'

Sounds like you had quite a night.'

If I had only known,' whispered Tom.

What about B-girls? Take one back to your room maybe?'

No.' Tom frowned.

It's just that suicide looks better with a motive, that's all. A husband fooling around with another woman. You know the kind of thing. How about it, Mister Jefferson? Did you see other women?'

No.'

What about her?'

How do you mean?'

Czernin had moved around to Tom's side of the bed and was browsing through the surface contents of the other bedside table, as if he had been a customer in a gift shop. The rifle and the priest's outfit were still in Key West. And there was nothing on the table that Tom would have found hard to explain: just a Toshiba table-model transistor-radio - the one with the snap-out portable; the little hi-hat electric clock; the English Leather aftershave that Mary had liked more than Tom; the Rubeck's leather cigarette box and table lighter; and the Catholic pamphlets. To Tom's keen eyes the pamphlets sounded an incongruous note. Did Catholics go to strip clubs?

I mean, was she seeing anyone? Another man?'

Not to my knowledge.'

Do you think it might have been possible?'

Anything's possible when people work late at the office.'

Is that an informed guess, or your own personal experience?'

Tom stood up and went out the bedroom and into the bathroom. He tossed the cigarette end into the toilet bowl and splashed some cold water on to his face, which was still dirty from the long drive. When he looked up from the basin he found Czernin in his mirror, examining the vibrator massage belt machine that stood in the corner.

What is this thing?' he asked. He bent towards the machine and read the name on the side of the white metal housing, answering his own question: The Battle Creek Health Builder. Your wife. She was a beautiful woman, Mister Jefferson. And she looked after her figure, right?'

Her ass was never out of that thing,' said Tom.

How old was she?'

Twenty-nine.'

Can you think of any reason why such a lovely young woman might want to kill herself?'

Didn't you ask me that question already?'

No. You volunteered the opinion that she wasn't the type.' Czernin was in front of the bathroom cabinet now. But you strike me as an intelligent man. So I'm sure you'll agree that people who aren't the type kill themselves all the time.' He picked out a bottle of Dandricide. Nothing is ever quite what it seems. Or does quite what it's supposed to do. Take this stuff, for instance. My wife buys it for me because it's supposed to keep your hair free from dandruff.' He inspected the shoulder of his suit-coat and brushed it fastidiously with the tips of his fingers. But it doesn't do what it says on the bottle. You see what I mean?'

Tom didn't think much of the cop's analogy, but he nodded anyway.

I can't think of a reason,' he said firmly. We never had fights, to speak of. Nothing major, anyway. Like any other married couple, you know? Money wasn't a problem. As you can see we have a nice home. And her work was going well.' Tom shrugged. Kennedy won, didn't he?'

That's what they tell me. I voted for Nixon.'

So you're the one.'

What was she going to do, now that the campaign is over?'

I don't know.'

Is it possible that might have been a concern to her?'

Tom swallowed. I suppose it's possible.'

Wouldn't you agree, a sense of anti-climax sometimes follows a successful conclusion of that which we've been trying our hardest to achieve?'

Yes.' Tom thought Czernin was beginning to sound like Perry Mason.

Do you think it's possible here? That this might have made your wife depressed?'

I suppose so, yes.'

That this factor, combined with alcohol and barbiturates, might have made her do something silly?' Czernin nodded at the pharmaceutical evidence in the bathroom cabinet in front of him. That with a whole drugstore at her disposal, she might have wanted just to forget about what was going to happen to her tomorrow, and the week after that?'

Tom shrugged, and nodded vaguely, too choked to answer. He took a deep unsteady breath and sat down on the side of the tub. I want to see her,' he said.

Of course. Naturally you'll have to identify the body. We can go downtown right now, if you want,' offered Czernin. I'll even drive you myself. Might be a good idea at that. It'll be a couple of hours before the boys are finished in here. Might be safer if I drove you, too. What with those two large ones you've had since you got back here. And on top of your evening in Key West. The last thing you want today is to have your licence revoked on a drink-driving charge.'

I don't much care what happens to me,' said Tom.

Maybe not today. But you will. Just see what next week's life is like without a car in this town. I know. I've walked that chalk-line.'

What do you know?' said Tom. An honest cop.'

In a waiting room at the County Morgue Tom and the detective waited for the crypt attendant to come off the telephone. Somewhere he could hear the disquieting noise of what sounded like a dentist's drill being operated, and the trickle of running water. But it was the stench of chemicals that troubled Tom most, awakening depressing memories of high school laboratories and military hospitals. Another attendant came past wheeling a gurney on which lay what appeared to be a child's body wrapped in sheeting.

Czernin was talking to Tom, almost unaware of how much the place weighed on the other man's spirits.

Unfortunately, Seconal is one of the faster-acting barbiturates, which means the fatal dose is smaller. As little as a gram to a gram and a half. In cases involving barbiturate poisoning we usually find that there is something else involved. For instance, a tranquilliser. I noticed your wife used Valium. That, or any alcoholic drink, would add to the hypnotic effect of the barbiturate, reducing the minimum lethal dosage very substantially. But my money is still on the Scotch.'

He smiled sadly at Tom, who nodded back.

You seem to know a lot about it.'

It's the times we live in, Mister Jefferson. And maybe you can take some comfort in the knowledge that she certainly would not have suffered any pain. There are lots of worse ways to overdose than hypnotic poisoning.'

Thanks. I'll bear that in mind.'

When the attendant came off the phone, Czernin spoke to him for a moment and then waved at Tom to follow. They went into a stark-looking crypt where the attendant - burly, red-cheeked, and generally a picture of rude health - opened a stainless-steel door and pulled out the sliding shelf carrying Mary's body, with no more grace or sensitivity than if he had been checking a roast in an oven.

Tom was surprised to discover that Mary's naked body was not covered with a sheet. Perhaps, he reflected, that only happened in the movies. But he wished he could have covered her. Because even in death she was beautiful and she might easily have graced the pages of Playboy magazine. If anything she was more beautiful than the average Playmate. Some of those girls were just a tad overweight for Tom's taste. He recalled thinking that Miss October, Titian-haired Kathy Douglas, supposedly under contract to a major studio, was Titian-sized, too, with an ass that looked like they were serving them in double-measures. It was no wonder that so many men had gone for Mary. A walking honey-trap, Alex Goldman had called her. And it was true, Mary had been made for love.

Embarrassed by the sight of such naked beauty, Czernin started to withdraw from the crypt. I'll leave you alone,' he said quietly. The attendant had already left and could be heard moving along the white-tiled corridor whistling a song from Li'l Abner.

Tom waited until the detective was gone before he took hold of Mary's hand. He had been intending to kiss it; instead, when he tried to lift it to his lips, her hand stayed where it was and he was momentarily horror-struck to discover that rigor mortis was already fully established. Expecting to find her arm limp, as if she had been merely asleep, he had for a moment mistaken the stiffness for strength and the thought that she might still be alive had flashed through his crapulous mind, making him start back like one who had received an electric shock. He swallowed the lump in his throat and once again approached the cold shelf where she lay.

It seemed so very unfair that her life should have to end this way. And after all she had done. Tom shook his head slowly. Their life together was over. All of that was now gone. She had deserved better than this. It seemed such a waste. To work so hard for something she believed in, only to die just as it was almost achieved. Which left him on his own, and feeling lonelier than he had ever felt before. What made it worse was that this was goodbye, too. There would be no touching graveside scene now. With Mary's death everything had changed.

Tom placed his hand upon her cold forehead and bent his own head with remorse. For a while he could think of nothing to say. What was there to say? That it wasn't supposed to have ended like this? That she deserved better? In life so much between them had, perforce, remained unsaid. It had been part of the contract between them. How else could they have gotten along? But, as he stood there, gradually, the apparent sanctity of their last moment together began to dawn on him until he could no longer resist the impulse to say the words that were in his head. If such a thing as a soul did exist then he could not imagine that it had yet gone from a body that still looked so beautiful. The question might have vexed theologians, but Tom spoke as the inspiration found him.

Si capax, ego te absolve a peccatis tuisaEU|'

PART TWO

Chapter 9

The Sit Down

George White, head of the Chicago Federal Narcotics office, watched his man come out of the Drake Hotel and cross the street. Leaving his car, he followed, intending to catch up with the other man, and to walk with him a while. They were old friends from the war when they had been members of the Office of Strategic Services - the forerunner of the CIA - and it was the habit of such men who had not seen each other in a while to engineer a meeting in some clandestine way that might amuse them both.

There was late-night traffic around and White only took his eyes off the man for a few seconds while he skipped out of the way of a Checker cab. But when he arrived on the other sidewalk, following his quarry's route through a pedestrian walkway that, to White's educated brown eyes, was reminiscent of the red, green, white, and yellow rectangles that characterised the modern art of Piet Mondrian, the man had disappeared. It was a second or two before White realised that the late-twenties building behind the riot of brightly coloured plastic panels was the Playboy Club, and that the man he was following must have gone inside.

White was not surprised that this assistant superintendent of the City of Miami's police department should have patronised such an establishment. His old friend had always been keen on the ladies. He was surprised, however, to discover that the front door was locked and that there was no evident sign of a bell. He had read about the Playboy Club when it had opened back in January, but this was the first time that he had attached any significance to it being a key-holder's club, and only now was it plain to see that if you were not a member, and did not hold a key, you could not go inside. That was certainly true for most people, if not for George White. Especially since it was a new and relatively simple lock.

White took out a fountain pen, unscrewed the top and emptied a lock pick on to his gnarled palm. For someone who had been bypassing locks for twenty-five years, the one on the door of 163 East Walton Street presented no particular problems. White was through the door and advancing on to the black carpet, with its golden bunny heads, in less than thirty seconds, to be greeted by a tall, buxom blonde wearing a black satin swim suit, stockings, black high heels, bunny ears, and, atop her attractive derriere, a little round fluffy tail. White considered stroking it and then thought better of this impulse.

Good evening, sir. Could I help you with your coat?'

You may indeed,' agreed White, allowing the bunny-girl to help him out of his hundred-dollar Barry Walt top coat. He handed over his hat and straightened his jacket.

And the member's key-number is?'

I'm a guest of Mister Nimmo. Jimmy Nimmo? He just came in a minute ago. I was parking the car.'

The bunny checked a board where the members' names were posted. As she bent forward to retrieve Nimmo's card White had a fine view of her enormous bosom - just the kind, he thought, to make any man with a thirst on his mouth feel more than welcome.

Oh yes, Mister Nimmo. Here he is.' White was already walking past her and up the stairs, like he knew the place already. Enjoy your evening, sir.'

Thanks.'

He climbed up to the first level and looked around a bar illuminated by backlit reproductions of gatefold Playmates and staffed by more beautiful bunny-girls. There were plenty of single men around - men who were not the marrying kind, being married already - but of Jimmy Nimmo, there was no sign.

Advancing into the bar, White caught sight of an impressive-looking hi-fidelity system that was built into a wood-panelled wall under the stairs. Next to a reel-to-reel tape deck, a record turntable, and a radio tuner, and manned by a spectacular redhead in a blue bunny costume, was something that seemed to promise an early solution to the problem of the missing Nimmo: a closed-circuit TV with controls enabling the viewer to come in for entertaining close-ups of the bunnies. The redhead showed White how to work the controls and explained that the whole system had cost Hugh Hefner, who owned the club, $27,000, and was the most elaborate custom-built rig anywhere outside the White House. White took in some more cleavages and a nice shot of a bunny in the Playboy library bending over to serve some drinks, before finally locating Nimmo on the second floor, in the living room's Cartoon Corner. He thanked the big redhead for her assistance, and added, If only all surveillance operations were this easy. Or this much fun.' Then he went upstairs.

Jimmy Nimmo was seated in the corner of a big leather sofa, underneath a wall covered with framed Playboy cartoons and outsized Vargas girls. In one hand was a full ounce and a half of Bourbon, and in the other, a Medico filter pipe that he was smoking without much enjoyment. Wearing a plaid corduroy jacket and dark brown flannels, Nimmo was a big, heavy man, and strong-looking. Like White, he was in his late fifties.

What do you have to do to get a drink around here?' demanded White. Threaten someone with myxomatosis?'

It's been tried,' grinned Nimmo. He looked hardly surprised to see White standing there after so long a time. You see the ones with the swellings on their chests? It's a sure sign they're already infected. Apparently, it's supposed to control the population, but it has precisely the opposite effect on me. Now I know why rabbits are supposed to fuck so much.'

Just call me Thumper,' said White, and sat down beside him. They shook hands warmly and Nimmo waved a bunny towards them whereupon he ordered two double Bourbons on the rocks.

The service is attractive, but slow,' explained Nimmo, toasting White's arrival with his existing drink. By the time that little lady bounces back - and I mean bounces - I'll have finished this one and be ready for another.'

Never figured you for the Playboy type,' said White.

What about you, you old hypocrite? What the hell are you doing here? You're a married man. It's even money your wife doesn't know you're in here.'

I didn't know I was coming myself until I followed you in through the door,' admitted White. But now I'm here, I can see almost all the advantages of membership.'

Then why not join? You can bring Hoover here the next time the fat bastard's in Chicago.'

White laughed as a picture of the puritanical FBI director in the Playboy Club began to develop in his mind. Make a nice photograph, wouldn't it?' he said.

And kind of an antidote to the other ones of him and Clyde.' Nimmo was referring to the rumour that Meyer Lansky possessed compromising photographs of Hoover and his deputy, Clyde Tolson.

You believe those stories, Jimmy?'

I'd sure like to.'

The bunny arrived back with the drinks and placed them carefully on the glass-top table.

Thanks honey,' said Nimmo. Hey, you want to get up early tomorrow and we'll look for furniture?' He growled after her as the bunny-girl went back to the safety of her bar.

Same old Jimmy,' said White. What brings you to the windy city?'

My daughter, Hannah, had a kid. She and that Hiram Holliday of a husband of hers had a little boy. Roger.'

Then here's to you, Grandpa.' White toasted Nimmo.

Keep your voice down,' chuckled Nimmo. Some of these broads haven't made me yet.'

George, isn't it? George Whayman. Is he still with the CPD Intelligence Unit?'

Yeah. He made lieutenant last Fall. They have a nice house in Cicero. On Ogden Avenue.'

Cicero, huh? That's nice. Very nice for a lieutenant.'

You know that story,' said Nimmo. Jesus, we practically wrote it. Everyone in the CPD has one of those kinds of pensions.'

You sound as if that bothers you. Is that why you're staying at the Drake?'

No, not at all. He and I don't get on for all kinds of reasons, but they're nothing to do with him being on the take. I'm staying at the Drake because I know babies. This is supposed to be a vacation and I like my shuteye.'

You couldn't get a better hotel than the Drake. Not in this city. Expensive, though.'

Nimmo laughed. I've got a pretty good fucking pension myself. Come on, George. What's with the dollars and cents? You know all that stuff. Being an assistant super in Miami is just a golfing scholarship.'

I haven't played golf in a long while. Your life sounds pretty good to me, Jimmy. You're in here with these broads. Playing golf. Staying at the Drake. What more do you want?'

Nimmo pulled a face, cavilling. It's not New York,' he sighed.

You really miss New York?'

Don't you?'

Sometimes, I guess. But Chicago's okay.'

Let me tell you something, George. I never liked Chicago. It's a bullshit town. The place stinks. I looked up the name and apparently Chicago's an Indian name for swamp gas. What else do you need to know?' Nimmo chuckled, enjoying himself, almost hoping that one of the club's other patrons might overhear, and object, so that he could tell them to fuck off.

It doesn't smell bad any more,' offered White.

How can you like a city with a National League club that hasn't won a World Series since nineteen oh-eight? Another thing I hate about it? The way these swamp-living bastards have managed to shirk their responsibility for making the atom bomb.'

How'd you work that out, for Christ's sake?'

The world's first nuclear reactor was built right here in Chicago, in forty-two, by Enrico Fermi. But when they go off to Los Alamos, to build the damn bomb, they don't call it the Chicago Project. They don't even call it the Los Alamos Project. They call it the Manhattan Project, like it's the fault of New York that the world's a button's push away from blowing itself to pieces. I tell you, these people are the goddamnedest liars I ever saw. You don't believe me? I'll prove it to you. Everywhere you go in this town you see a quotation by Rudyard Kipling. I have struck a city - a real city - and they call it Chicago. Those other places don't count. You see it on matchbooks, on pencils, on tea-towels, and, for all I know, you see it on a woman's girdle, only so far this trip hasn't worked out so well on that score. It's everywhere, I tell you. Now, because Kipling is a writer I really admire - Gunga Din has always been my favourite movie of all time-'

In a way, you remind me of Victor McLaglen.'

Thanks a lot. I'm nothing like that big ape. Anyway, I decided to look up that quotation.'

Thorough, you always were. Best Special Agent in Charge the New York Bureau ever had.'

And what Kipling actually went on to say was this: Having seen it, I urgently desire never to see it again. It is inhabited by savages. Well George, seventy years on, and nothing's changed. The place is still inhabited by savages. Present company excepted, of course. But however much I hate it, and I do hate it, it's still a sight better than Miami. Miami's a cold sore, George. I'm going mad down there.' He raised his glass. So here's to New York.'

White clinked glasses and sipped some of his Bourbon. I'm never sure if it's really New York I miss,' he admitted, or what we did there during the war. Things were more exciting then. Things were more straightforward. Winning the war seemed to be all that mattered and we were not looking over our shoulders to see if anyone didn't like the way we were doing it.'

You don't think the communists matter?'

Of course they do. Only now we have to be accountable to a Senate Investigation Committee telling us who is a proper person to use in waging that war. Good results don't seem to matter any more, as much as how these results are achieved. The politicians don't understand how it works. How things have to work. I guess that's what I miss most, Jimmy.'

Nimmo nodded and raised his own glass to the old days when he and White had helped to create a deal between US Intelligence and the mob, in the person of Meyer Lansky, whereby Lucky Luciano was released from prison to pave the way for the invasion of Italy. Luciano's subsequent deportation had left the diminutive Jewish gangster the most powerful organised crime figure in America.

How is the little man?' asked Nimmo.

What makes you think I know? He lives in Miami. So do you. And you're the one he fixed a job for.'

Call that a job? Like I say, Miami AS isn't much more than a golf scholarship. I guess it's fortunate I like golf. Oh, there's the odd nickel-and-dime favour I do for the local teamsters. But it's not much more than that. You're the one who's still fighting the war in earnest, George. And I haven't spoken to Meyer in a long while. UnlessaEU|' He put aside the pipe he had been filling with tobacco and took out a packet of Lucky Strike. I can't get used to this damned pipe,' he confessed, lighting a cigarette.

Unless what?'

Nimmo exhaled smoke with loud satisfaction. Oh, I was just thinking that maybe I'm speaking to Meyer now, and I just don't know it yet.'

That's what you think, is it?'

No offence intended, George. But you did follow me in here. And we are talking about old times and what a great SAC I used to be. Don't ever get sentimental, old buddy. It doesn't suit you.'

White tapped out a Newport and lit it quickly.

You're wasted playing golf,' he said. Clearly.'

What else do you do when your wife leaves home with the fucking television?'

And it so happens that's not just my opinion.'

Safety in numbers, eh George?'

You're right about Meyer,' admitted White. He heard you were in Chicago and asked me to speak to you.'

And he and I practically neighbours, too. I'm hurt. What does he want?'

A favour for an old friend.'

Who does he want me to kill?'

He wants you to take a sit down, with Sam Giancana. You remember Sam, don't you?'

Mooney? He's a hard man to forget.' Nimmo grinned for a moment.

What's funny?'

I dunno. Meyer asks you to come and meet me, to ask if I wouldn't mind meeting Giancana. Seems to me like all Mooney had to do was pick up the telephone and ask me over for a drink.'

You know as well as I do, Jimmy, that's not the way things are done. This is Sam's town.'

It is? I thought Tony Accardo was the big cheese on the Chicago pizza.'

Not any more. Not for a while. It so happens that tomorrow Tony Accardo is going to walk into a courtroom here in Chicago, and be sent to prison. For income tax evasion.'

The same rap as Capone. It's not the feds these guys have to worry about, it's the IRS.'

Anyway, the point is this: you live in Miami, and you're a friend of Meyer's.'

That's nice to know.'

Which means that Sam has to go through the proper channels.'

You know, I haven't got a thing to wear,' said Nimmo.

Out of respect for Meyer.'

Can't think what I can do for Mooney.' Nimmo swallowed a mouthful of Bourbon and grimaced.

I wouldn't call him that, if I were you.'

Maybe it's something to do with Teamsters Local three-twenty. Barney Baker, Lennie Patrick, and the Yaras brothers. They've all got Chicago connections. Dave Yaras used to be Giancana's button. Now he's a juice man with the pension fund. Gotten themselves into some heat I don't know about yet. That must be it.'

So maybe you can help fix it. Or maybe Sam wants some advice. It's a sit down, that's all. Not the mob Apalachin meeting. A favour for an old friend. Meyer would have asked you himself, only he's a little busy right now. We've both got this thing going in the Bahamas.'

Meyer still trying to get that free port idea off the ground, huh?'

Gotta have something to replace Havana, hasn't he?'

Replace Havana?' Nimmo sounded incredulous. They'll never replace Havana.' He shook his head. Certainly not with the Bahamas. Havana was more than just a few lousy casinos. Havana was an attitude of mind.'

Don't tell me, Jimmy. Tell Meyer. Tell the Cellini brothers, Max Courtney, Trigger Mike Coppola, and Frank Ritter. Tell Sam Giancana, when you see him.'

Maybe I will at that,' shrugged Nimmo. He glanced around the Playboy Club and shook his head, sadly. This place is nice, you know? But it won't ever compare with some of those Havana clubs. The Shanghai, or the Wonder Bar. Remember those places, George? Remember what it was like?'

I remember that nigger at the San Francisco,' said White. Superman. I don't see how anyone could ever forget him. Certainly not the ladies he obliged.'

Or that broad who used to do the trick with the lighted candle. What was her name?'

Aurora Borealis.'

Aurora Borealis,' repeated Nimmo. Finishing his second Bourbon, he sighed loudly. We've seen the best of it, George. The good times are gone for ever.'

Jimmy? You don't just look like Victor McLaglen. You sound like him, too.'

The cold awakened Jimmy Nimmo. He threw off the blankets and walked to the window with the view of Lake Michigan. He closed it, and was heading to the bathroom when the telephone rang. It was Sam Giancana.

I hope I didn't wake you,' he said politely.

No, I was up and around,' yawned Nimmo.

Did ya have a late night?'

Not as late as I'd have liked.'

The Drake's okay, but there's not much action on the magnificent mile. Unless you happen to like jazz. You like jazz, Jimmy?'

I love jazz.'

Then you got the Cloister on North Rush Street, real close by. Not to mention the Club Alabam. Gene Harris, who owns the place, is a friend of mine. It used to be one of Chicago's major speaks. And the food's the best.'

I'll remember that for the next time I'm in town.'

When are you going back to Miami?'

First thing tomorrow.'

Then why not spend your last night in Chicago at my own motel? It's right by O'Hare. There's a swimming pool, and the Chez Paree Adorables are really something. Chicago's number one chorus girls. I could introduce you to some of them if you have time.'

I've always got time for chorus girls,' said Jimmy.

It's not the Minsky show at the Dunes, but it'll do, you know? Look, Jimmy, why don't I have a car pick you up outside the Drake at eleven? Take you to the Thunderbolt Motel, and then bring you here for lunch?'

Where's that?'

The Armory Lounge, in Forest Park. What do you say, Jimmy?'

Jimmy smiled silently. He knew what to say all right. Before George White had turned up on an errand for Meyer Lansky, he might have had some doubts about meeting Mooney Giancana. They had met on the occasions when Giancana was in Miami, and had even got along all right, but Nimmo didn't feel he owed the boss of the Chicago outfit a thing. Meyer Lansky was a different proposition, however. Saying no to the little man from Poland was like forgetting to send a Christmas thank-you letter to your Dutch uncle. He said, Sure Sam, I'd be delighted to.'

By the time Nimmo was shaved and showered it was nine thirty. Ignoring the Chicago Daily News he brought with him to the restaurant, he ate a light breakfast and thought about Sam Giancana and the favour he would ask. His thoughts were inconclusive. Whichever way he looked at a problem involving the local teamsters it was something only Santos Trafficante, who controlled most of the organised crime in Miami, and Giancana could fix. It was going to be an interesting day.

He finished his breakfast and went to pay the hotel bill, only to discover that it had already been settled.

By who?' Nimmo asked the desk clerk.

We have a certified cheque from the Miami National Bank in the name of Manhattan Simplex Distributing,' explained the clerk.

When did you get that?'

Last night. I took it myself.'

From a guy wearing a light-coloured single-breasted topcoat with cuffed sleeves, grey hat, glasses, mid-fifties, around a hundred and eighty pounds, right?'

Yes.'

It had been George White. A little courtesy from Lansky. He hadn't heard of Manhattan Simplex Distributing, but rumour had it that using Lou Poller as a front, Lansky had helped the teamsters to take over the Miami National Bank, as recently as 1958.

My uncle,' said Nimmo. Seeing the puzzled frown on the desk clerk's face, he added, He's a lot older than he looks. I bet you wouldn't believe it, but that guy is eighty-five. He takes monkey glands. Like that English writer. Somerset Maugham.'

At exactly eleven o'clock, Nimmo brought his own bag down, to find a black Oldsmobile waiting for him outside the hotel front door. The driver was in his early thirties, medium height, with thinning dark curly hair and tinted glasses. Nimmo had been expecting muscle in a suit but this man didn't look like he could have punched a hole in a wet paper bag.

Good morning,' said the driver politely. He took Nimmo's bag and placed it carefully in the trunk of the Olds, which contained nothing more lethal than a tyre jack and crate of beer. Nimmo sat in the back.

They drove north, along the lake shore, and then west on North Avenue, toward the Chicago River.

Would you like the radio on?'

No, thanks.'

Nimmo's foot was already tapping to the jukebox that was playing in his head: Duke Ellington's Satin Doll'. Nimmo had a real memory for music. His brain could chew on the recollection of a tune he had heard like a stick of gum. It was an ability that had kept him amused on many a long stakeout. Satin Doll' was one of his favourite tunes. But gradually the policeman's curiosity to know more about his driver and, as a corollary, his host, pushed Ellington's big band sound into the back room of his thoughts.

What's your name, fella?'

Chuck.'

Tell me, Chuck, do you fart when you take a honeymoon in Niagara?'

How's that?'

Simple question. Do you fart when you take a honeymoon in Niagara?'

Chuck shrugged and stayed silent as he tried to figure out how to answer that.

It was a joke,' explained Nimmo.

My wife and I took our honeymoon in Los Angeles. That was eleven years ago, in the spring.'

Congratulations. My wife left me three years ago, last Fall. She was from Yuba City, California. Her daddy was a prune farmer up there. Well, she loved prunes. Couldn't get enough of them. Even took some on our honeymoon in Niagara. Of course, sooner or later, prunes get to you. And they got to her. She made all the wrong noises, at all the wrong times. I mean, you expect a woman's pussy to fart some after you've pumped her full of meat and air. But not her ass as well, right? And certainly not while you're minding the store.'

Chuck, the driver, was laughing now.

You think that's funny?' grinned Nimmo. It's a tragedy, that's what it is, fella. Been driving long for Mooney? Or Momo? Which is it?'

Only his close friends call him Mooney,' explained Chuck. As a matter of fact, I rarely ever drive for him. He has his own people do that. I run the motel.'

What did they do? Take out a wanted ad in Black Mask?'

Chuck smiled a good-humoured smile. I guess you could say that it's a family business. Mooney's my eldest brother.'

Pretty good catering qualification,' said Nimmo.

As a matter of fact, the place is completely legitimate. The only thing it fronts is the River Road. I'll admit, it wasn't always that way. When it was still the River Road Motel, Willy Daddano used to run a vice racket out of the place. But I'll think you'll find it's now a very pleasant place to stay, Mister Nimmo. Sure, we have some fairly colourful characters show up there, from time to time. Friends of Mooney's. Even a few celebrities. But we have every amenity.'

I'll bet you do,' said Nimmo. Hey, I was just kidding.'

That's all right,' shrugged Chuck. I'm used to it. Believe me, there's nothing you could say that would bother me. I'm like Harpo, you know? I see and hear a lot, but I always keep my mouth shut.'

I'm a Chico fan myself.'

Hey, did you hear? Gable is dead.'

Which one was he?'

Clark Gable. The heart throb.'

Jesus Christ. He couldn't have been very old.'

He was fifty-nine. Heart attack.'

Nimmo, who was fifty-seven himself, winced. I guess his heart stopped throbbing,' he said dumbly. He had always thought he looked a little like Clark Gable, being tall and dark. Once, before he put on weight, he had even had the same little moustache, only people had told him he looked more like Brian Donlevy, so he had shaved it off. And now they said he looked like Victor McLaglen.

They were pulling up at the Thunderbolt and, for Jimmy Nimmo, at that precise moment, the motel was well named. The news of Gable's death had really shocked him and was to prey on his thoughts for the rest of that day.

As they got out of the Olds, Chuck pointed out a dark blue Ford Galaxie on the other side of the motel parking lot. A large man wearing a suede short coat and a tweed cap was wiping the Galaxie's hood with a car duster.

You see that guy?' said Chuck. That's Joe. He'll drive you to see Mooney just as soon as I've shown you to your room.'

Nimmo followed Chuck through the motel entrance and across a black and white terrazzo floor to the elevator. They rode up to the penthouse, and a suite that Chuck proudly informed Nimtno was the best in the place.

I'm sure I'll be very comfortable here,' said Nimmo, and threw his bag on to the bed.

You wanna freshen up?'

No thanks, I'd better cut along and see your big brother.'

They were coming out of the room door just as a tall and extremely voluptuous blonde, wearing a pink bell-skirt with soft box pleats, was entering the room opposite.

Oh, hiya Rhoda,' said Chuck.

Nimmo's eyes were out on stalks.

Say hello to someone, Rhoda. This is Jimmy Nimmo. Jimmy? Rhoda is one of our Chez Paree Adorables.'

Hiya Jimmy.'

Nimmo took her offered hand and squeezed it gently.

Are you gonna come and see the show tonight?' she asked him.

I wouldn't miss it for the world. Hey, do you want to get up early tomorrow and we'll look for furniture?'

If you like.' She smiled, and then went into her room, slowly closing the door behind her.

Nimmo nodded his appreciation. He assumed the meeting in the corridor was no happenstance. Not after Giancana had mentioned his chorus girls on the telephone. He guessed Rhoda was being laid out for him. And that was okay. He could think of worse ways of taking hospitality from a guy than to fuck one of his tame broads.

Joe said nothing on the drive from the motel to the Armory Lounge. Unlike Chuck, he had the look of a killer and, besides, Nimmo's thoughts were already frolicking with Rhoda. The Armory was in Forest Park, a leafy suburb close to Oak Park and Cicero, which was where Capone had maintained his Chicago headquarters. But even better, the place was only three or four miles north of Nimmo's daughter's home and, if things worked out between himself and Momo, he was going to ask if Joe could drive him back via Hannah's house on Ogden Avenue. Now that Rhoda was on the bill-of-fare, it might be his last opportunity to see his grandson before flying back to Miami.

We're here,' growled Joe, steering the big Ford off Roosevelt Road, and into the parking lot.

Nimmo got out of the car and glanced around at the other cars, keeping his face in his coat collar until he was through the door, just in case the lounge was under surveillance. He was almost certain it wasn't, despite the fact that the FBI had, like in most other big North American cities, a THP - a Top Hoodlum Programme. Before receiving the call from Giancana, Nimmo had already visited the Chicago office of the FBI on West Monroe, right in the Italian village, and found that the same Hoover-directed priorities existed in Chicago as elsewhere in the United States. Chicago may have been the spiritual home of organised crime, but the THP was under-resourced, with most of the Bureau's money and manpower devoted to the investigation of communists and other subversives. Nimmo thought The Untouchables was a pretty good TV show, but it dealt with the kind of Bureau that hadn't existed since the war. Nimmo had plenty of friends in the Chicago office. He'd even scored a good lunch off the Chicago SAC at the Village, one of the city's best Italian restaurants. Guys liked to talk to Nimmo and he liked to listen. It was surprising what you could learn in Chicago that might be useful in Miami.

The Armory Lounge had been a speakeasy during Prohibition. Inside, the place was done up like a New Orleans bar, with ceiling fans, murals, old riverboat photographs, soft lights, flock wallpaper, white wrought-iron chairs, and glass-top tables. In the background, a big Wurlitzer jukebox was playing a current hit - Joe Jones's You Talk Too Much'. Nimmo didn't recommend it. Following his stone-faced driver into the back of the thinly populated lounge, Nimmo thought there were few of these sharp-suited wiseguys who would dare to talk at all - not if it concerned Mooney Giancana. That way you ended up like Gus Greenbaum, Leon Marcus, Jim Ragen, or any one of a couple of dozen others whose deaths Giancana was reputed to have ordered. To say nothing - nothing - of the dozen or so he'd killed himself. They didn't call him Mooney' - crazy - for nothing. The kid brother had had the best idea. Being like Harpo was the best way to stay alive around a hood like Sam Giancana.

Joe knocked at a heavy wooden door and, after a second or two, a peephole opened, speak-style, and an eyeball rolled over their faces and their hands. Only then was the door unlocked, by another heavy-set man, wearing a pullover jacket with knit sleeves and a suede front, and carrying a light, autoloader shotgun.

As Nimmo removed his coat, his eyes vacuumed up the contents of the gangster's inner sanctum: the steel door in the back, the card table, the walnut bar-console with built-in refrigerator, the Zenith TV with the sound turned down, the rolled-up lenticular projection screen, the Elite talkie recorder-projector, the old-fashioned safe, the big wrap-around leather sofa, and, sitting on it, wearing a blue cashmere blazer, the man himself.

Jimmy, come on in and sit down. I appreciate your coming out to the burbs. We've got an office on North Michigan, but it's kind of formal and I prefer it here. It's more private.'

You look very comfortable, Sam,' said Nimmo, sitting down beside him, and shaking the gangster's surprisingly soft hand.

Drink?'

Nimmo scanned the open bar through short-sighted eyes. Thanks. I'll have a Poland water and Ballantine's Scotch.'

Butch.' Giancana waved at the bar, and without a word the man climbed off the tall bar-stool by the door, put the Brida down, and went to fetch the drinks.

Giancana took out a packet of Camels and offered one to Nimmo.

No, thanks,' said Nimmo, producing a tobacco pouch. I'm trying a pipe.'

How's your room at the T'Bolt? Everything okay for you?'

I just dumped my bag and came straight down here,' he said. Looks nice though. And I met Rhoda. One of your Chez Paree Adorables.'

Isn't she just?'

Yeah. Her brassiere really has its work cut out, doesn't it?'

Giancana grinned wolfishly. They're all like that. Some of them used to work for me in Havana. Others are from Vegas. The show at the T'Bolt's pretty good. Best in town, probably. But it won't begin to compare with the place I'm opening in a few months. An out of town place, but real classy. The Villa Venice. You'll have to come and stay there next time you're in Chicago. It's in Wheeling, but that's not so far. Place is costing me a bundle.'

Butch handed Nimmo and Giancana their drinks and then returned to his position riding shotgun by the door.

I hear you play a lot of golf, Jimmy. Got the weather 'n everything. Must be nice.'

I whack a little white ball around most days,' admitted Nimmo. Some days it even goes in the damned hole. You play?' Giancana nodded. Columbus Park. We passed it on the way here. Is that your club?'

Nah. Too easy. Wide open fairways, big greens. Ray Charles could make a par on that fucking course. Riverwoods. That's where I play. Not as much as I'd like. The weather's against it up here on the Lakes. Plus, when I'm here I'm doing business, or I'm collecting porcelain. That's a passion with me. Meissen, stuff like that. Kind of an antidote to a tough business, you know?' Nimmo nodded and sipped some of his Scotch and water. Jimmy, I'll come straight to the point. And no offence intended. But how would you like to do some real police work again?'

Real police work?' Nimmo grinned. With all due respect, Sam, if that's what I wanted to do, then I'd hardly be sitting here, drinking your Scotch, now would I?'

You've got a point. Then let me put it another way. How would you like to do some detective work? Investigative work?'

Private investigative work?'

Why not? In New York, you were the soft-clothes ace, I hear.'

Is that what Meyer told you?' Nimmo frowned and inspected his pipe. He was having a hard job keeping it alight.

Giancana was nodding. How did you come to leave the feds anyway?'

On the day I was leaving the Bureau, I found myself under this big black cloud that just happened to come floating up Manhattan Island.' Nimmo grinned sheepishly and, putting aside the pipe, sipped some more of his Scotch. I resigned because I had to. I hit someone. Another agent. Hard. Too hard. The guy had it coming, everyone agreed, but it didn't help that I was drunk. He made a full recovery, but I was finished. Hoover doesn't care for that kind of behaviour. Actually, there's not much in the way of behaviour he does care for. Anyway, I resigned and Meyer fixed it with the Mayor of Miami for me to get the job I have now. It's not a bad job. But I'm just treading water. Waiting to collect my pension. There's a lot of that in Miami. Miami's a pensioner's kind of place. I golf, play canasta with the few friends I have down there, push some fucking papers around my desk, sign expenses, fuck this whore in Fort Lauderdale once a month, and generally plan my retirement. No one pays much attention to a guy like me. I'm part of the furniture. Some hotter days in summer I don't think they'd notice if I wasn't even there. Which means that some days I'm not.'

Nimmo put down his drink and made a couple of fists, as if he was driving a team of horses. But I still have it, you know?' He tapped his head and then slapped his belly. Up here, and in here. I'm still a good cop. Not like some of these kids they're bringing into the Bureau nowadays. Harvard graduates, some of them. They've got soft feet and nice hands. Sure they've got brains. But they don't have it here, in the belly. You ask me, it's the same as Jack Kennedy. Yeah, he's bright. He can read fast. He can comprehend a brief. But is he going to have the balls to push the button if the Russians come marching into Berlin? I doubt it. Now Ike. You never doubted the man's stomach. He was a soldier. A fucking general. But this Kennedy is just a damn college boy. A politician. A fucking bureaucrat. Same as these new kids in the Bureau.

You ask me if I'd like to do some investigative work, Mister Giancana? I'd give my right arm to be working on a real case. That's God's honest truth. I can't figure out how else my life can have any meaning again. Just one last investigation and then I won't mind what happens, but at least I'll have my self-respect. Because when there is no dignity there is no strength. So, whatever kind of investigation it is you have in mind, Mister Giancana, I'm your man.'

Giancana nodded.

Okay, here's how it is. A while ago, Meyer Lansky recommended a man to do a job for me and for the CIA, a job for which we would have paid him a fee of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. But before we could give him the go-ahead, the man and a hundred Gs of that money upped and disappeared. With the help of my organisation, I want you to find that man. Jimmy? The money he took is not important. What is important is that I find him again before my new friends in the government find out that the guy has gone AWOL.

Now after that speech you made I could probably ask you to work for nothing. But I'm a fair man, and I believe in paying a man what the job is worth to me. All I ask is a fair shake in return. I'll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars, Jimmy. Which means I want this guy found, and found quick. Ten thousand now and another fifteen when you find him.'

Nimmo whistled. For that kind of money, I'd find you the lost Hebe tribes of Israel and throw in Glenn Miller by way of a bonus. What's the guy's name, and when did he take off?'

His name is Tom Jefferson. And nobody's seen him since late last Friday.'

Friday?' Nimmo looked pained for a moment as he saw the prospect of instant enrichment begin to recede again. He thought of all the things he could have done with the money. Buy a house, a nice car maybe - he'd just started to like the idea of himself in an MGA. And a tailor-made suit.

Mister Giancana. Eager as I am to take your twenty-five thou, that's only five days. Right now, all over this great land of America that we live in, there are red-eyed women walking into police precincts to report their no-good husbands missing. And the dumb Irish desk sergeant always tells them the same thing. Maybe the guy went on a Ray Milland and had himself a lost weekend. Maybe the lucky bastard found himself a new gal and the Dear Janet postcard from Vegas is still in the mail. But whatever the reason, a week is usually considered to be the minimum period that the average American male can go missing in this country before the police become involved. It's different for wives. For wives it's forty-eight hours. Wives get raped and murdered in less time than it takes to cook an omelette.'

Spare me the Naked City, Jimmy,' said Giancana. I made enough guys disappear in my life to know the real thing when I see it. Coupla times I even woke up with the cats starin' at me, myself. I know dead, and I know dead drunk, and I know disappeared.

You'd better tell me everything.'

I can't tell you everything,' said Sam Giancana. But I can tell you all I know, and then you can go and figure the rest for your twenty-five Gs. Sooner the better. This year I'd like Thanksgiving to have a red ribbon and a nigger's shine on it.'

Chapter 10

Ybor City

From Miami, Tom drove to Palm Beach where he sat outside the Kennedy family estate and smoked a couple of cigarettes. There were a couple of cops, some well-wishers, and lots of news reporters standing on the road. For a while Tom joined them on the sidewalk and found that most of the talk was not about Kennedy, but about Clark Gable who had died that morning. Then he drove to the airport at West Palm Beach, for no other reason than this was where Kennedy's private plane flew in and out of, sometimes as often as once or twice a week. As soon as he saw the place Tom knew he was wasting his time.

There was a gun dealer in West PB, who was an old army buddy, and in any other circumstances Tom might have visited him, not least because the dealer supplied Tom with specialist rifles and ammunition. But since he knew that Giancana's people were likely to come looking for him, if only to get their money back, Tom decided that it would be more prudent to telephone.

From Palm Beach, by way of Fort Pierce and Lake Wales, Tom drove north-west along the Sunshine State Parkway to Tampa which, depending on whether population figures are estimated there, or in Jacksonville, is the second or third largest city in Florida. The parkway was new and wide and he could breeze along with the top down at sixty miles an hour, which helped to clear his head of Mary and Sam Giancana. He made the two-hundred-and-sixty-mile journey in just over five hours.

Ybor City was Tampa's Latin Quarter, a Spanish version of Greenwich Village, with lots of good restaurants and several cigar factories. It was from here that JosE Marti had plotted the overthrow of the Spanish in Cuba and where he had written the revolutionary manifesto, in 1895. Sixty-five years later it continued to be a centre for exiled Batistianos and, as a consequence, for G2, the Cuban Intelligence Service.

Tom met his own debriefing officer, Colonel LA3pez Ameijeiras, at one of the many excellent restaurants on the quayside. Ameijeiras was a sallow-faced man of about fifty whose bushy eyebrows, high forehead, and slightly slanted eyes lent him a vaguely Far Eastern appearance. If he had owned a Mao suit he might even have passed for the Chinese Premier, Chou En-lai. With or without the jacket Tom thought Ameijeiras was probably as inscrutable as any oriental politician.

Tom ordered a daiquiri and handed Ameijeiras a large manila envelope containing all the information he had gathered on the MIRR and its anti-Castro activities in Miami and Havana.

But I don't think they'll stop trying to kill Castro just because a few of them get arrested,' he added. There are too many people who want him dead and who are willing to pay for it to happen.'

Ameijeiras slipped the envelope unopened into his briefcase and lit a cigarette. After a longish silence, he removed his straw hat and fanned himself with the narrow brim.

What happened to Mary wasn't supposed to happen,' he said quietly.

If you say so.'

I do say so. Most emphatically.'

So what are you going to do about it?'

Ameijeiras shrugged. Nothing. What's done is done.'

Funny, but somehow I thought you might look at it that way.'

What choice do I have? There's too much at stake to let this interfere with our plans. Right now there are other more important things to worry about. Such as whether the Americans will invade or not. Already they are sending ships and planes to Guatemala and Nicaragua. Ostensibly to protect those countries against communist-led invasion. But of course the reality is different. We may have frustrated one attempt to kill Fidel, but, as you say, doubtless they will try again. And even if they don't, they will try to invade Cuba by using what's happening in Central America as a cover. Our sources tell us that Kennedy knows all about this plan. That he even agrees with it, despite what he may say about Eisenhower's Cuban policy in public. So he has to be stopped.' Ameijeiras took a long drag of the cigarette and then added, You have to stop him, Tom.'

Tom's drink arrived, and he sipped it thoughtfully, avoiding the Cuban colonel's penetrating brown eyes.

And you think this action we're taking is the best way of doing that?'

Ameijeiras replaced the hat on his head. Yes, I do.'

I sure hope you're right.'

This shouldn't be a problem for you.'

You think so?'

No, it shouldn't be a problem at all.'

Tom grinned uncomfortably. I dunno,' he said, I never did anything like this before.'

It's true there are certain features that make this an unusual contract-'

Oh, I'd say so.'

But fundamentally,' insisted Ameijeiras, it's just the same thing you always do. And do very well, I might add. You've done this kind of thing dozens of times before.' The Cuban colonel handed Tom an envelope. Here is Kennedy's schedule for the next two months, obtained by our Russian friends. It's up to you how and where you do it. But please remember that we'd like to deliver our message before the inauguration. We don't think it's likely there will be any invasion before then.'

Tom pocketed the envelope.

Whatever you say. This is your party.'

Tom? It has to be this way. You do appreciate that, my friend?'

What's the matter, LA3pez? Don't you trust me?'

This has to go way beyond trust. This is life and death.'

You've got that part right.'

Listen to me, Tom.' The colonel's expression was sombre. There can be no room for mistakes with something like this.'

I never make mistakes. That's why you're paying me so much.'

Then we understand each other.'

Perfectly. Where is the money?'

The usual arrangements have been made with your bank in Venezuela.' Ameijeiras finished his cigarette and lit another. So, what will you do now, Tom?'

Find the where and the how.'

By scouting the shot?'

Of course. But first I'll go to the safe house. Study the schedule. Do some homework. Buy some books about Kennedy. Get to know my man. Frankly it's the part I like best: the planning. I will call you the day after tomorrow with some ideas. I already read a few books. Mary had quite a little Kennedy bookshelf. Anything else I'll probably find in New York. City's got bookshops like other cities have banks. And then there's always the library.'

Ah yes. The New York Public Library. What a remarkable institution that is. You know, in many ways, this really is an excellent country to live in.'

Yeah? Well don't tell anyone, will you? They'll all want to come here.'

Chapter 11

The Word for Death

Jimmy Nimmo felt pleased with himself. Thanks to Rhoda he had enjoyed a sleepless night. And now here he was, flying back to Miami aboard a Convair 880, with ten thousand dollars in cash in his bag. Perhaps he would postpone buying the MGA until the job was complete. But there was no reason why he shouldn't buy a colour television right away. He even knew the set he wanted: the new Fontainebleu by Andrea, with a twenty-three-inch tube, a handsome mahogany finish cabinet, and sliding tambour doors. From the airport he would go straight to Burdines and hand over $250. The rest of the ten thousand he would place in one of the safety deposit boxes the Miami National Bank had for rent. There would be just enough time to do both of these errands and make a few telephone calls before going to the Orange Bowl.

After the low fifties of Chicago, Miami was in the high seventies, and as soon as he found his car in the airport parking lot - a powder-blue Chevrolet Impala - he took the hood down. Driving a convertible was one of the few compensations for living in Miami. But not just any convertible. Nimmo saw himself driving something a little more distinctive than the Impala. Not that there was anything wrong with it. With a V8 mated to a two-speed automatic transmission, there was little to criticise in the nearly new car, unless you were driving it flat out, and then the back end had a tendency to rise up and float around a bit. But flat-out was what Nimmo really wanted. That, and some European class.

From the airport, he drove east towards the ocean, to East Flagler Street, and Burdines. After ordering his TV, and depositing the cash in the bank, Nimmo drove a few blocks south to Tobacco Road, on South Miami Avenue, where, over a couple of beers, he used the phone, calling Johnny Rosselli and then the coroner's office. Tobacco Road was a good jazz bar, although it was too early for anything other than the jukebox. Nimmo often went there when he couldn't stand his office in the Hall of Justice any longer. Or before a football game. And sometimes after one, too.

There was a big crowd to see the Miami Hurricanes play Syracuse and, for most of the time, it was a close game: 7-7 at half-time, and 14-14 in the third quarter. But then, in the last period, Ernie Davis carried the ball fifty-two yards in an eighty-yard attack to score the decisive touchdown from the three-yard line. It was a thrilling game with a last-minute drive by the Hurricanes bringing the Miami crowd to its feet, before the final whistle blew. Nimmo didn't miss a game like that for anyone.

But the next morning, Saturday, he was up early and on the case, driving the three miles that separated his home in Keystone Islands -a Keystone home for a Keystone cop, his wife had quipped, not long before he'd given her the slap in the mouth that made her pack her bags - from Tom Jefferson's address in Miami Shores. At the red traffic light on the junction of North East 123rd Street and Biscayne Boulevard, he glanced over the front page of the New York Times and saw that the President-elect was giving serious consideration to the appointment of his younger brother, Bobby, as Attorney-General. Nimmo lit a cigarette and grinned as he tried to picture some of the wiseguys when they read that. People like Jimmy Hoffa, Carlos Marcello, Dave Beck, and, for that matter, Sam Giancana were going to be none too pleased with the idea of their old McLellan tormentor in charge of the Justice Department. Most of those guys were probably hoping for Ribicoff or Byron White - anyone but Bobby Kennedy.

Nimmo found the address in Miami Shores and parked up the street. Then he went round the back of Jefferson's house, put on some gloves, and, from inside the fold of his newspaper, produced an improvised snap gun made from a wire coat-hanger. He inserted the sharpened business end into the doorlock, and squeezed the makeshift trigger, pulling the upper spring bracket down. Releasing the trigger abruptly drove the bracket hard up against the needle, snapping it into the tumblers, and opening the lock.

Once inside the house, Nimmo drew the blinds and switched on the television. Slowly, the set warmed up, until a silent picture appeared on the screen. It was Captain Kangaroo. Nimmo turned up the sound for the benefit of any nosey-parker neighbours. Felons involved in committing a burglary seldom watched early-morning television shows for children. B&E always made Nimmo nervous so the very next thing he did was use the toilet. Sitting there, in Tom Jefferson's bathroom, he quickly scanned the rest of the paper, and saw that Tony Accardo had been sentenced to six years in jail, and fined $15,000 for income tax evasion. It was, he reflected, while washing his hands, as Benjamin Franklin had observed, that in this world nothing was certain but death and taxes. Except maybe when they paid you in cash. Putting his gloves back on, he flushed the toilet, and began to search the house in earnest.

Nimmo was a thorough man, searching the house as an experienced book-keeper might scrutinise a set of accounts. He rifled through drawers, turned out closets, ripped up rugs, tore apart upholstery, jimmied up floorboards, and ransacked wardrobes. And when he found some small thing he thought might have significance, he placed it into an empty cardboard box: notepads, scraps of paper, matchbooks, tapes, ticket receipts, a bullet, photographs of the dead woman, maps, spare keys, library cards, newspaper cuttings, and the business cards of various local tradesmen.

After an hour had passed, and Captain Kangaroo had given way to Huckleberry Hound, the box was still two-thirds empty and it was clear to Nimmo that Sam Giancana had not exaggerated. Tom Jefferson had certainly disappeared. There was no trace of his clothing or anything of obvious importance he might have owned. No documentation, no insurance policies, no correspondence, no cheque-stubs, no address-books, no diaries - there was nothing that might have given Nimmo a clue as to where the man had gone. It was becoming increasingly obvious to Nimmo not only that Jefferson had disappeared, but that the man had covered his tracks very carefully. The attic contained nothing but dust. The bureau had been cleaned out of everything except loose change and paperclips. Even the garbage cans were empty.

Nimmo went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, and it was now that he noticed the small can of kerosene behind the back door. Instinctively, he went out into the back yard and, walking its length, discovered a blackened brazier that told the story of Jefferson's last hours on the property eloquently enough. Squatting down, he removed a glove and stirred the surrounding ashes, as if he half-expected to find a phoenix or, at the very least, a salamander or two. But the ashes were quite cold. Standing up again, he placed a foot on the side of the brazier and pushed it over. It fell on to the dry grass with a dull clang, sending a miasma of dust and ashes into the warm morning air. He waited a minute until the air had cleared, and then, replacing the glove, poked at the bottom of the brazier in search of some legible fragment or informative shard that might have escaped the trail-consuming flames. But there was nothing. Zippo.

Nimmo came back up the yard and went into the garage where a blue 1950 Chrysler Windsor was parked. He searched the car and found only the few odds and ends he needed to confirm that it had belonged to Mary Jefferson.

Returning to the house, he began to pay closer attention to the small box of items he had collected. First, he listened to the tapes on a little Phonotrix portable recorder. Mostly these were recordings from television, cultural stuff like Open End and Play of the Week, but there was one tape that featured a woman reading the speeches of John Kennedy. Since Mary Jefferson had worked for the Democrats in Miami, Nimmo guessed that the voice on the tape belonged to her, although it quite escaped him why she should have wanted to record herself, or, for that matter, the speeches in this particular way. Of greater interest to him was a folded piece of paper he had found underneath the bed. On it Tom Jefferson had written ten sets of initials: W.H./P.B./H.H./B.M./G.D./S.M./M.V./H.P./N.Y./J.C.

Nimmo knew this was Jefferson's handwriting because he had another example of Jefferson's hand from a note the missing man had left beside the telephone, with the number of the La Casa Marina Hotel, in Key West.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost midday. The rest of the stuff in the box could wait. There was none of it looked like much anyway. He turned off the TV and, tucking the box underneath his arm, prepared to go and speak to the neighbours. The last thing he did before leaving the house was to fill the box with all the medicine bottles he could find on the floor, and in the bathroom cabinet, for the sake of verisimilitude: the neighbours would expect someone to be investigating Mary Jefferson's death, and the medication would add a nice touch of authenticity. Coming out of the front door, Nimmo straightened the little Stetson hat on bis sweating head, and then took out the black leather wallet that contained his badge.

In the Bible it said that a lawyer had asked Jesus, Who is my neighbour?' It was not a question Jimmy Nimmo thought he could have answered himself. The surname of any one of his neighbours in Keystone Islands would have been a mystery to him. He even had to think hard to remember their Christian names. This apparent lacuna in Nimmo's social graces did not cause him to feel any shame, no more than it bothered him that he had so few friends. It was, he told himself, an occupational hazard. He had nothing against Jesus, or Christians, or anyone trying to live a decent life. But he figured he would have told that fucking smartass Jewish lawyer, Who gives a shit?' Neighbours were for regular people with three kids, a dog, and a station wagon, not for guys like him with guns and ulcers and guilty secrets.

Before he died, Nimmo's dad, a Baptist lay-preacher, had traced his family tree back to Scotland, and it turned out that his people were descended from French Huguenots who, fleeing the persecution of the Catholic King Louis XIV, had wanted to keep their names a secret. The name Nimmo was a corruption of the Latin ne mot, meaning no one, nothing to say, no name, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. You couldn't get more unneighbourly than that.

Nimmo was the kind of man who kept himself to himself the way some guys kept pigeons. It was as if he had trained himself not to stop and exchange more than a few words with any of his neighbours until he was back in his own coop. So he was not surprised that the Jeffersons' neighbours knew so very little about the couple except that he was often away on business, and she frequently worked late, and they were never around to get to know really, and they didn't seem to have any other friends to speak of anyway. Thirty minutes and four sets of neighbours later, and having fielded a dozen or so enquiries as to whether or not she had committed suicide, Nimmo gave up and went back to his car with what he considered was a pathetically small haul of information for several hours' work. Earning Sam Giancana's twenty-five thou already looked harder than it had seemed back in Chicago.

From Miami Shores he drove south, to Brickell Avenue, and across the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne and the expensive hotel where Johnny Rosselli was staying. Key Biscayne was a whole world of no concerns. The ups and downs of normal life did not travel across the bridge. Or at least the downs didn't. They stayed put on the other side of Tollkeeper's hut, with the blacktop and the trash in the gutters. After New York, Miami seemed quite unreal enough to Jimmy Nimmo, but he fancied that Key Biscayners probably thought vicissitudes were a set of no-account islands in the stream, just a few miles west of the adversities.

In Rosselli's enormous ocean-front suite, the silver-haired gangster was cooking lunch in the kitchenette.

Jesus, I thought you'd never get here,' said Rosselli. You want some lunch? It's linguine primavera.'

Nimmo, who knew Rosselli of old, told him he had been to Jefferson's house for a snoop around.

Find anything?'

Maybe,' shrugged Nimmo. I dunno. Not much probably. Linguine sounds good though. I could eat a wooden horse.'

Rosselli poured Nimmo a large glass of cold Frascati, and waved at another man walking in off the big balcony. Jimmy? Say hello to Frank Sorges.'

The two men grunted at each other. Rosselli started to serve up the linguine.

Frank was with that sonofabitch right up until the time he disappeared.'

So where the fuck is he?' asked Nimmo, grinning.

Search me. I looked all over for that guy. Every fucking bar-rail in this town. At first, I thought he was just out on a bender in memory of his wife. But when I saw the guy's clothes had gone from his closet, I figured he'd lit out someplace.'

Lit out for the territory ahead of the rest,' said Nimmo. Just like Huckleberry Finn, eh?'

I never read that,' said Rosselli. Wish I had. I hadn't much time for reading as a kid. It was too crowded at home and I was always helling around. Not like now. I read a lot these days.'

Nimmo smiled patiently. He's ahead of us for now,' he said confidently. But we'll find him.' He snapped the head of a match with his thumbnail and held it over the bowl of his pipe. I'm going to want to talk to you in detail, Frank. Everything you can remember about him in those final few days of happiness you had together. What he talked about. All the news that's fit to print. Right now, however, I'd like to see that coroner's report.'

Before lunch?' exclaimed Rosselli. Are you sure you wanna do that, Jimmy? I mean, there's pictures in there 'n everything.'

Collecting a plate of pasta, Nimmo said, That's okay, I gotta stomach like a spit bucket.'

Rosselli smiled thinly. How very reassuring for your chef,' he murmured.

Nimmo held the plate under his nose and inhaled. Smells good,' he said. I remember one time I saw an autopsy surgeon open some guy's chest like it was a fucking bear trap.' And putting down his plate for a moment he clasped and unclasped his fingers for added effect. Five minutes later? I was eating ribs in Embers.'

Frank, fetch him the report before he starts talking tripe and onions.'

Nimmo took his plate and his glass on to the balcony and sat down at a glass table.

Help yourself to Parmesan,' said Rosselli.

Thanks, I will.'

Nimmo spooned a generous spoonful of cheese and then opened the thicker of the two files Sorges had placed in front of him. Rosselli brought out his own plate and sat down opposite Nimmo. He watched the other man read and eat with an appetite that appalled his more fastidious sensibilities. This was not because he knew what was in the linguine but because he knew what was in the report, for which someone in the coroner's office had been paid very handsomely to make a copy.

Nimmo read the report with growing irritation, hardly noticing when Sorges sat down and spilled a glass of wine. It always annoyed him, the way autopsy surgeons wrote their reports - the omniscience they affected to wield. Nimmo knew the truth was that most coroner's offices were understaffed and underfunded, and most autopsy surgeons were overworked and prone to depression. He wished he had a dollar for every time he had seen a croaker fold on the stand under prolonged cross-examination. But his irritation with autopsy surgeons and their findings concealed a greater hatred of scientists in general. Who else but scientists had created a world in which annihilation was only ever a button's push away? So, as Nimmo read, he growled and sneered and snorted and shook his head.

Not this,' he said to Rosselli, jabbing a fork at the linguine. This is good. The fucking report is what pisses me off.'

What's the problem with it?'

It begs as many questions as it purports to answer, that's what's wrong with it.'

Like what, for instance?'

Okay. Cause of death given as acute barbiturate poisoning due to ingestion of overdose. Mode of death, probably suicide. Now then, the toxicologist says that her liver contained - let's see - twelve milligrams per cent pentobarbital. That's the chemical you find in Nembutal. Okay, now twelve milligrams is about nine or ten times the normal therapeutic dose. But she's also got Chloral Hydrate in her. Again, it's way too high - over five milligrams per cent in her blood. The CH is in another kind of sleeping pill. Maybe a little less dangerous than Nembutal, taken in excess. But she's still got ten to fifteen times the amount Mr Sensible usually recommends for normal shuteye.

Thank you for your patience, and here's my first question. How did she swallow the drugs? Surely she would have needed a large glass of water to wash them all down. But the only glass found by her bedside contained Scotch. Now, we all know that Scotch and barbs go together like a lame horse and a broken carriage, but that's beside the point, on account of the fact that her blood contained no alcohol. However, let us give the late Mrs Jefferson the benefit of the doubt and say that she swallowed the pills with some water while she was still in the bathroom, and then went to bed.'

What's wrong with that?' asked Sorges.

You're committing suicide, Sherlock. Do you put the fucking tops on the medicine bottles, and then the bottles back in the medicine cabinet? The only bottles found with the tops off were by the bed, on the table, next to the glass of Scotch.'

Rosselli pointed his fork at Nimmo and said, What if she brought the bottles through with her from the bathroom, intending to swallow more with the Scotch? Only before she could do so, she passed out?'

Not a bad hypothesis,' admitted Nimmo. Let's suppose that's what happened. A lot of pills consumed at once, like so many sweets, instead of over a longer period of time. So why didn't she vomit?' He spooned some more Parmesan on top of his linguine. There was no vomit found anywhere in that house. And certainly none by the bed where she was found. Barb victims don't always puke. But if they take the stuff in a rush they often do. It's that precipitate rush to wave good-bye to this cruel world that makes them barf and sometimes saves their sad, sad lives. Always assuming they don't aspirate their own vomit and choke to death.

It is possible, however, that she took the stuff on an empty stomach,' continued Nimmo. That way her system would have been much more prone to rapid absorption of barbiturates, which could be the reason why she didn't have time to puke before she passed out. But that just begs another question. There's no residue of capsules in her stomach. And with that finding this autopsy surgeon ought to have considered examining her duodenum, or even her small bowel. Hell, I'm no croaker, but if the stomach is empty, that's where you might expect to find fragments of gelatin capsules. In with all her shit. Maybe even an undigested pill or two.'

Rosselli sighed, and pushed away his plate. With the smell of Parmesan cheese in his nostrils, it was all too easy to think of vomit. I eat too much anyway,' he said weakly. He stood up from the table and, leaning on the balcony's handrail, took a deep breath of the air blowing off Biscayne Bay.

So the croaker missed a few things,' objected Sorges, whose own appetite seemed undiminished. I can't see how that helps us to find Jefferson.'

That's because you're not a fucking detective. Cops stepping on clues, croakers missing probable cause. Shit like that is what forensic method is all about. Look. All I'm trying to do is paint a picture. As accurate a picture as possible of what led up to him taking off like that.' Nimmo pointed to Rosselli's uneaten linguine. You gonna eat that?'

I lost my appetite between the puke and the shit,' said Rosselli.

Mind if I do?'

Be my guest.' Rosselli watched Nimmo attack the cheesy food with alacrity, and groaned quietly. A spit bucket is about right.'

My stomach only holds good for this kind of travail,' confessed Nimmo. And on dry land. It's no good on the water. I'm the only guy in Keystone Islands who doesn't own a boat. I get sick as a dog at sea. That's why I ended up in intelligence during the war. Because I was such a lousy sailor. Me and Jack Kennedy.'

Jack Kennedy was a lousy sailor?' Sorges frowned.

That PT boat sank, didn't it? And the way I heard it, the gung-ho sonofabitch shouldn't have been in those waters in the first place.'

Don't talk to me about Kennedys,' said Rosselli.

Yeah,' laughed Nimmo. I saw the paper. Frank?'

Sorges looked up from his plate.

Let's pretend you are the most interesting guy in the world. You're a regular guest on Ed Sullivan. Dinah Shore wants you on her show every week so she can suck your dick while she listens to those great stories you tell. Tab Hunter just can't hear enough of you. A real raconteur is what you are my friend. You've come on TV to talk about the one person who is perhaps as interesting as you. Tom Jefferson. Well, maybe just that little bit more interesting than you, on account of the fact that he's a virtual recluse. The viewers want to know everything about you guys. No matter how small or insignificant it might seem to someone of your stellar proportions, we want you to tell us all about it.'

Okay, I get the idea,' growled Sorges.

Nimmo took out a notebook and a pencil and prepared to write. Your every word, for posterity.'

Sorges shrugged and, hesitatingly, began to tell Nimmo what he could remember. He wasn't much of a talker and repeated himself a lot when there was a silence. Some of the time he looked out to sea for inspiration, and other times into his glass, which Nimmo kept filled with wine, hoping to loosen the big man's reef-knotted tongue some more. But after fifteen to twenty minutes of it, Nimmo found himself suppressing a yawn and began to cross-question Sorges about some of the things he had said.

You told us you thought there was nothing unusual about Jefferson on that last evening in Key West, except that maybe he was a little quiet.'

That's right. But Jefferson never did talk very much. He'd have made a pretty poor guest on Ed Sullivan, I reckon.'

But you talked about something, surely? I mean, you went to dinner. You and this other guy, Bosch. The one you say is still down in Key West.' Sorges nodded. So what did you talk about?'

Sorges shrugged. Broads. Key West. Hemingway. The election.'

I guess he was a big Kennedy fan, his wife working for the Democrats 'n all?'

Matter of fact I got the impression he didn't care for Kennedy at all.'

Did he say why?'

Nothing specific.'

Didn't that surprise you?'

I didn't think anything about it, at the time.'

Okay. Broads. You talked about broads. Did he talk about his wife much?'

Not at all. We had this ongoing argument about Marilyn Monroe. Me, I prefer Kim Novak, or Jayne Mansfield. But he liked Marilyn. One time-' Sorges stopped, seeming to think better of what he had been about to say.

What?'

Nuthin'.

I'll be the judge of that,' snapped Nimmo. Sam Giancana's already taken me into his confidence, Frank. I'd hate to have to tell him I thought you were holding out on me about something.' This time Nimmo caught the look that flicked between Sorges and Rosselli, and clapped his hands loudly. Come on guys. It's show time at Grossingers. If you've got a routine, put your fucking skates on, and let's see it before the ice melts.' Rosselli was nodding now, urging full disclosure on Frank Sorges.

Sorges told Nimmo about the JFK-Marilyn tape-recording.

The prince and the show-girl, huh?' commented Nimmo. Makes sense, I guess. Sounds like some tape, Johnny. And some squeeze, too. More like a hug from a fucking grizzly bear.'

Rosselli shook his head. There's no squeeze. No shakedown. Not yet anyway. And Kennedy doesn't even know about the tape. No more than she does. It's what you might call an insurance policy. Just in case the President-elect doesn't deliver on a done deal. You see, Mooney helped old Joe Kennedy out of a bind with Frank Costello. Not to mention what happened during the election, when he delivered Illinois on a silver salver. The way old Joe likes things. In return, Jack and Joe promised to lay off with senate investigations and shit like that.'

Nimmo nodded grimly, drank some wine, and then pulled a face. Suddenly this wine doesn't taste as good,' he said. I'm beginning to understand why this Tom Jefferson lit out. You boys are playing some serious fucking cards here. And for high stakes. I ought to tell you to deal me out only I'd kind of like to hear what happens next. Can I hear it? The tape, I mean.'

If you think it's necessary. Frank? Fetch the tape.'

But it's at home,' protested Sorges. In the safe. Like you said.'

Fetch it anyway.'

Grumbling loudly about a wild goose chase, Frank Sorges stood up and shuffled his bulk out of the suite.

Nimmo waited for the door to close behind him and then said, Where the fuck did you find him, Johnny?'

Frank? He's a good man.'

Yeah?'

You remember Norman Morgan?'

Rough House Morgan? Mob gofer from Havana?' Rosselli nodded. Sure, I remember him.'

He introduced us.'

Do you trust him?'

We share a common interest in the liberation of Cuba from the communists. Why not?'

I don't know. Only Mooney told me the fee you guys were paying Jefferson to hit Castro. Frank may have figured that he could do the job himself, him being part Cuban 'n all. Maybe he got rid of Jefferson, and kept the money. Or maybe he split it with this other guy, Orlando Bosch.'

You paint a very surreal picture, Jimmy.'

That's my job. Bringing together seemingly unrelated fragments of life into a new reality. I do everything except soft watches.'

Rosselli glanced at his own watch. How shall we amuse ourselves? A little gin-rummy, perhaps? He'll be gone about an hour.'

No, thanks.' Nimmo collected the second file off the table in front of him and burped. Pardon me. It's not every day I have such rich food for thought.' He opened the file and took out a solitary sheet of typewritten paper and a photograph. This our man?'

Yes. The rest of what's there is rather bland fare. The make and registration of our missing gunsel's car. Foreign bank accounts, passport number, that kind of thing. Just a few odds and ends I had put together to try and make your life a little easier.'

Thanks a lot,' Nimmo said, returning the sheet of paper and the photograph to the file. Tell me, did Kennedy fuck Marilyn here, or someplace else?

I can assure you, there are no peepholes, or hidden microphones, or anything else of that nature in this suite. I believe the recording was made at a house in Virginia, just outside Washington. Of course, there have been lots of other assignations. But you know, I think those two young people are genuinely fond of each other.'

By the time Sorges came back with the tape, a little less than a hour later, Rosselli and Nimmo were watching the basketball on television. They watched the game, between Detroit and Los Angeles, to its conclusion and then turned their attention to the tape now ready to play on Rosselli's portable Grundig.

I forgot to tell you,' mumbled Sorges. This isn't actually the Marilyn tape. But it's the one I played Jefferson. I couldn't get my hands on the one featuring Marilyn. Because Johnny had hidden it away someplace safe.'

Wait a minute,' said Nimmo. You mean this is Kennedy fucking some other broad?' Sorges nodded. How many fucking tapes are there?'

Our President-elect,' Rosselli said smoothly, gets himself laid as often as eggs. When I was in Hollywood, I met some very accomplished swordsmen. Charlie Chaplin, Errol Flynn. But there never was a man for pussy like Jack Kennedy. Not that any of this excuses what Frank did. He was way out of order letting Jefferson listen to this tape at all.'

Hey, not that he was really interested, you know?' said Sorges, switching on the tape machine. For him, it was Marilyn, or nothing.'

I can dig that,' said Nimmo. He knocked out his pipe in an ashtray and set about refilling it with tobacco.

He was no stranger to material obtained from wiretaps, and, usually, most of what you heard was of a sexual nature. As someone who had worked for the OSS and, penultimately, the FBI, Nimmo had often participated in cases involving blackmail. On one occasion he had heard a tape that purported to prove that Eleanor Roosevelt and her close companion Lorena Hickock had enjoyed a lesbian relationship, but it wasn't the best of recordings and, as far as Nimmo was concerned, the jury was still out on that one. Another time he had listened to a wiretap of President Eisenhower discussing his impotence with mistress Kay Summersby. Nimmo liked Ike, but unfortunately he thought that tape had been the genuine article. It was certainly possible that J. Edgar Hoover was being blackmailed by Meyer Lansky, just as Hoover himself was supposed to have pictures and recorded material of everyone, from civil rights leaders to the Queen of England's favourite Uncle Louis. So Nimmo was only a little surprised that Jack Kennedy should have fallen victim himself to some kind of covert surveillance operation. What did surprise him, however, was that the recording should be so explicitly sexual.

Kennedy - his Boston drawl easily recognisable - was the kind of guy who liked his partner to talk dirty to him, encouraging the anonymous girl on the tape - Honey' was what he called her - to direct his fingers, or the way to use his tongue, or even how deep to take his cock in her mouth.

After they had brought their lovemaking to a loud conclusion - a sound recordist's nightmare, Nimmo figured - and the conversation had moved from sexual praxis to American foreign policy, Rosselli nodded at Sorges, who got up and switched off the machine.

I hope that satisfies your curiosity, Jimmy,' said Rosselli. It seemed to satisfy Jack all right.'

Nimmo said nothing, just puffed his pipe thoughtfully, and frowned.

After a two-minute silence, Rosselli lit a cigarette and said, What's this, Jimmy? The Great Detective? Not so much elementary, my dear Watson, as alimentary. I think that girl must have swallowed a gallon of the President-elect.'

Nimmo did not hear him. But finally he seemed to break out of his thought process and, drawing a deep breath, he put aside his pipe and stood up. Excuse me,' he said quietly. I'll be back in just a few minutes.' And so saying he walked out of the suite.

Rosselli looked at Sorges and pulled a face, uncertain as to whether Nimmo had left because he was disgusted by what he had heard or not.

Sorges shrugged back and said, Search me.'

When Nimmo returned, some ten minutes later, he was carrying the cardboard box containing various items gathered in Jefferson's house that he had brought up from the trunk of his car.

Rosselli was watching TV again. Was it something we said?' He turned the set off. I did wonder if you were coming back at all.'

Nimmo threw Sorges one of the tapes from the box.

Play it,' he ordered.

Sorges placed the new tape on the spool and drew the green leader through the recording head. Then he hit the play button and returned to his seat.

The preconvention campaign is over. For the candidates, the hour of unity is at hand. We have all been friends for a long time. I know we always will. We have always supported our party's nominee. I know we will in nineteen sixty.'

Who's this, Jimmy?' asked Rosselli. Eleanor Roosevelt?'

Shut up and listen.'

For we are all Democrats - not northern or southern Democrats, not liberal or conservative DemocratsaEU|'

Nimmo searched their faces for some indication that they understood what they were listening to.

Can't you hear?' he yelled. Don't you get it?'

Hear what, for Chrissakes?'

It's her, God damn it. It's the broad on the tape. The one fucking Kennedy. You can do anything you want to me, Jack. You can fuck me up the ass, if you want, Jack. I'm your slave. Her. Jesus, haven't you morons guessed it yet? This is the same girl who was fucking Kennedy. This is Tom Jefferson's wife.'

An hour later Rosselli came off the phone to Nevada with the explanation.

A few months ago - this would have been late May, early June -Jefferson and his wife visited the Cal-Neva Lodge on Lake Tahoe at the invitation of a guy named Irving Davidson. Davidson was fronting some Jew organisation for Meyer Lansky and Moe Dalitz, and the Shin Bet. You know? Israeli intelligence. The same guys who got together to give Adolf Eichmann a long holiday in Jerusalem. Anyway, they wanted Jefferson to pick up the contract on another Nazi war criminal down in Argentina. Only Moe and Lansky couldn't get away from some other business in Vegas. So they asked Jefferson to drive down to Vegas and pick up the contract there. To leave his wife back in Tahoe for just one night and have a good time, all expenses paid, courtesy of Moe and the others. Which is pretty much what happens. Only guess who shows up at the Cal-Neva Lodge unexpectedly and looking for some R&R? Kennedy, Sinatra, the whole fucking rat-pack.

Skinny D'Amato, who's manager at the Lodge, is asked to fix up some broads for a party in Kennedy's chalet. And naturally he invites Mary Jefferson along. Well, who wouldn't? She's a beautiful broad. Kennedy thinks so, too. He and she hit it off big time. Next thing is they're alone in Kennedy's bedroom. Which is wired for sound, because Kennedy's partying there a lot, with all sorts of broads. Actresses, B-girls, you name it. All Skinny has to do is what he always does. Hit a few switches. Bernie Spindel, the sound man, doesn't even have to be on the scene. Well, you've heard the rest. From Here to Eternity with everything but the ocean and swimsuits.'

Nimmo nodded grimly. He said, So here's Tom Jefferson, turns up to hear a very diverting tape of our future President fucking Marilyn Monroe. Instead, what Jefferson hears, courtesy of the outfit's very own answer to Dick Clark's American Bandstand-'

Hey, how the fuck was I to know?' protested Sorges.

Is a recording of Kennedy giving it to his own wife, up the ass. Jesus Christ Frank, didn't he say anything?'

It's like I said. He went kind of quiet and acted, well, disappointed that it wasn't Marilyn. Or at least that's what I thought he was disappointed about.'

How much did he hear of it?'

The whole tape. All the way through. He just sat there drinking -quite a bit, actually - smoking a lot of cigarettes and listening real close.

I wonder why. And you? What did you do?'

Sorges looked sheepish. Had some drinks. Made a few jokes, I guess. Laughed a lot. He didn't laugh at all, like he was supposed to. But then he's a shooter. You don't expect shooters to have much of a sense of humour, you know? So he just sat there, and when the tape was finished he went home.'

This is November the ninth, right?' asked Nimmo. Sorges nodded. And then just two days later, you're in Key West, getting ready to go to Cuba. Which is where he more or less disappears on you.' Sorges kept on nodding. And then the wife is found dead.' Nimmo chuckled. Gentlemen, that's a chain of causation like an apple falling from a tree equals gravity.'

Are you saying Tom Jefferson killed his own wife?' asked Rosselli.

You've heard the tape. That kind of shit happens. Besides, it's not like this guy is Billy Graham. He kills people, all the time.'

Yeah, but how?' asked Rosselli. The autopsy surgeon's report says there was no sign of bruising on her face or mouth, so he couldn't have forced her to swallow all those pills.'

I dunno. A needle maybe.'

Besides,' added Sorges, he was with me the night she died. He would have had to drive all the way back to Miami, in the dead of night, killed her, then come straight back to Key West in time for the cops to find him in his hotel room when they called with the bad news.'

You said it,' shrugged Nimmo, enjoying their consternation. Maybe that's exactly what he did. Look, I don't know all the answers. Not yet. I'm not even sure she was murdered yet, and I won't know that until tomorrow.' Nimmo glanced at his watch. I'm going to try and get someone to go down to the morgue with me and take another look at the body. Someone qualified, but who'll keep his mouth shut. Maybe then I'll be able to answer some of these outstanding questions.'

Kill her, yeah, I can understand that,' mused Rosselli. Why not? Lots of guys kill their wives. Hell, it's not exactly un-American. It's not like he was a communist, or anything. But this thing with Castro. That was for the government. It was a matter of national security. He could have killed her, and nobody would have minded. We would even have helped him dispose of the body, if he'd wanted that. He should have known that. But not seeing through the job, that was a dereliction of duty.'

He's a mercenary, for Christ's sake,' argued Nimmo. What the hell does he care for duty? Look, I'll know more tomorrow morning.'

Yeah, thanks Jimmy. Call me, okay?'

Sure.'

Nimmo returned to his car and drove back across the Rickenbacker Causeway. Then he drove north, up Biscayne Boulevard, back to Jefferson's home in Miami Shores. Now that he had established a possible motive for a murder, he had realised there was something in the house he wanted to take another look at. It wasn't much more than a doodle on a magazine, and he wished he'd obeyed his first inclination, which had been to put the magazine in the box with the rest of the stuff he had taken. But then that was the nature of criminal investigation, he told himself: meaning was always changing, evolving in such a way that sometimes evidence seemed positively organic.

He had not locked the back door and it took only a couple of minutes to collect the magazine, which was a copy of Time, from 1957, before driving south again to the Luau, a Chinese restaurant on the 79th Street Causeway. Decorated like a Singapore movie set, the place was run by a couple of Jews, Joey Cohen and Jerry Brooks, who knew Nimmo as a regular patron. Even after two plates of linguine for lunch, Nimmo still had room for some sweet and sour pork. But mostly he was there to pick the brains of his Chinese waiter, Yat, as to the meaning of the doodle on the Time front cover.

It was nine fifteen when finally he arrived home tired and, despite all his bravado about a spit bucket for a stomach, suffering from mild indigestion. He called a medical friend about finding a pathologist to do a private autopsy on Mary Jefferson, and then settled down with a bottle of Peptobismol to watch The Lawrence Welk Show on television. Then the medical friend called him back to tell him that everything was fixed, and after that he watched the boxing - a middleweight bout between Henry Hank and Gene Armstrong. Five minutes after the fight ended he could not remember who had won. Five minutes after that he was in bed and asleep.

At six o'clock on a Sunday morning, Miami is as bright and empty and lifeless as a painting by Giorgio de Chirico. Hard light fills the deserted streets with sharp shadows, and there is a strange sense of departure, as if all the city's inhabitants have been consumed by a flesh-eating alien organism from another planet.

Jimmy Nimmo, sitting in the open-topped blue Chevy Impala on the corner of North West 12th Avenue and 18th Street, had flesh and its frailty at the front of his mind, not because of his location, which was in the environs of the Jackson Memorial Hospital, but because of the profession of the man he was expecting to meet. He lit a cigarette and, glancing in his rear-view mirror, caught sight of a man walking rapidly towards him from the direction of the Veterans Hospital. He watched him come and then, as the man grew closer, started up the Impala's V8 engine, pushed the automatic transmission stick into reverse, and, with a loud squeal of whitewalled tyres, growled back up the avenue to come alongside the approaching figure.

Are you Dan Hill?' he asked, because in his eyes the much younger man did not look very much like a qualified doctor. With his cheap suit, longish hair and beard, Hill, who was also a student of forensic pathology at the Miami School of Medicine - for which Jackson Memorial was the major teaching hospital - resembled something indigenous to Greenwich Village in New York. Some kind of beatnik, anyway. It was a first impression that quickly proved to be accurate.

That's right, man. You Nimmo?'

Sure. Hop in.'

Hill tossed a Bonanza Air flight bag into the Impala's back seat and got into the car. Nice wheels, man,' he said in a whiny sort of voice. A real dreamboat. What'll she do if you floor it?'

I've not had it much above eighty.' Nimmo hit the gas pedal, jolting them forward on their way.

Hill leaned across to take a squint at the speedometer on the matching blue dashboard. Says one twenty on the clock, so you can probably figure it's good for around a hundred.'

You like cars?'

Yeah. I'm tryin' to get the dough together to buy myself this fifty-six Corvette Coupe I've seen. Two point six litre, two hundred and twenty-five horsepower. A real cool car, you know? He lit a Marlboro and flicked the match away. Tell me something. You ever see an autopsy before?'

A few. Now you can tell me something. Just to check out you're a real croaker and not some night porter who's trying to make an easy buck.'

Go ahead. But I can show you my driving licence if you like. Says there, MD. Just like Ben Casey. As to me being a pathologist, you'll just have to take my word for it until we get into the morgue. Proof of the pudding, so to speak. But Dade County's chief medical examiner just happens to be the head of my department. My teacher, if you like. But ask away, friend. Ask away.'

There was something in the original autopsy surgeon's report. Guy named Hunt. Know him?'

Bill Hunt? Yeah. He's a good man.'

He said that the dead woman had been suffering from something called STD. What is that exactly?' -

An STD is what we call a sexually transmitted disease.'

You mean like a venereal disease?'

That's right. There are lots of STDs around. It's just a catch-all term for the Lord's host of bacterial disorders. Most women are asymptomatic, which is to say that they don't normally know when they're infected, because it's all happening inside their pussies. Men do know, because it happens on the outside. Women have to rely on their partners being honest enough to tell them. So you can see how that system falls down. An STD's easy enough to treat, though. Penicillin, usually. But left untreated it can cause infertility. There's a lot of it around, man. The more partners you have, the more likely you are to pick up an infection. Wear a sheath if you party, man, that's my advice, otherwise you could give Mrs Nimmo something nasty.' He chuckled unpleasantly.

There is no Mrs Nimmo,' said Nimmo, conquering his first inclination which had been to smack the younger man in the mouth. He wondered if Mary Jefferson might have picked up her STD during her liaison with Kennedy. From all he had gathered from Rosselli, Jack Kennedy liked to party a great deal, and with a lot of different partners. He didn't recall any mention of a sheath being used on the tape he had heard. It looked more likely him giving it to her than the other way around.

Ira told you the job was two hundred and fifty, right?'

The money's in the glove-box,' said Nimmo. Go ahead and take it.'

Hill stabbed the lock with his forefinger, let the compartment fall open, and took out the envelope he found there. He counted the money and then nodded. You're aces, man. Aces. Hey, how does Ira Fellner know someone like you anyway?'

I did him a favour once. Got him out of some trouble he was in.'

Yeah? What kind of trouble?'

The mind your own fucking business kind.'

Cool with me, bro.'

Arriving at the Hall of Justice a few minutes later, the two men went down to the basement where they were met by the same autopsy assistant bribed by Rosselli to supply the original coroner's report. Under the eyes of Dan Hill, Nimmo handed over another envelope, this one containing a hundred dollars.

Regular John D. Rockefeller, isn't he?' said Hill.

She's waiting for you on table one,' said the autopsy assistant.

Just like Tony Sweet's,' said Nimmo. Thanks a lot.'

Deputy examiner'll be here at nine to take charge of the Sunday shift. But I want you two guys outta here by eight. Okay?'

Cool with me,' said Hill. He put down the bag he was carrying and took out gowns, masks, and gloves. Put these things on,' he told Nimmo. Quite apart from protecting your clothes, they'll have a hard job identifying us if someone does catch us in flagrante delicto.'

Covered by a plastic sheet, and in a long windowless room, Mary Jefferson lay on a high stainless-steel table equipped with a water hose and drainage system. Hill pulled away the sheet to reveal her naked body, crudely stitched across the chest and belly from the previous autopsy, like some prospective bride of Frankenstein. To Nimmo's surprise, her once beautiful face was badly bruised, as if she had fought several rounds with Floyd Patterson.

Jesus Christ,' he muttered. Her face.'

Don't pass out on me, man.'

I'm okay,' Nimmo said angrily. It's just that the autopsy report said there was no evidence that anyone might have forced her to swallow anything. But she looks like Ingemar Johansson.'

Oh that. Previous surgeon, probably. The facial muscles would have been severed during the removal of her brain. The whole face gets peeled off like the skin off an avocado pear. It's quite common that it should result in this kind of discoloration. Okay man, it's your call. What am I looking for?'

Needle marks. Look for needle marks.'

Hill searched her forearms for several minutes before paying particular attention to one of her wrists.

Find something?'

Not a needle mark. More like a friction burn.'

Could she have been tied up?'

It's possible.'

Keep looking.'

Hill produced a magnifying glass from his bag and began to search the rest of Mary Jefferson's body for injection marks. While he studied her armpits, between her toes, her hairline, her vagina, and even under her tongue, Nimmo explained some of the problems he had with the original report.

Hill listened as he worked, and then said, Yes, it is possible that she could have been given a fatal barbiturate dose, by injection. But what you've said about her liver, I don't think it's very likely. The barbs would had to have been in her body for a while in order for them to be absorbed by her liver. But a shot, in the sort of quantities you've described, would have caused her to die too quickly for that to happen.' He put down the glass and shook his head. Besides, there's absolutely no sign of a hypodermic needle that I can find. And as you see for yourself, I've looked everywhere.' He sighed, pulled down his mask and proceeded to light two cigarettes, Now Voyager-style, one for himself and one for Nimmo. Nice-looking chick, though. Got some slope and nigger in her by the look of her. But really very striking, wouldn't you say?'

Nimmo took the cigarette and puffed it into life, grateful for the sanctuary from the smell of formaldehyde. She and I,' he said, we're gonna give the marriage another try. For the sake of the dog.'

Go ahead and fuck her if you want, Pop. Some guys consider it a perk of the job.'

No thanks. I like a little more life in my women, even at my age.'

Hill sniggered smoke. What are you, a flit or something? Just look at that body of hers, man. She's a babe. Even in death. I'll leave the room if you're the shy type.'

You're a real pain in the ass, you know that Dan?'

That reminds me. There is one other way in which a fatal dose could have been administered. It could have been inserted colonically.'

You mean up her ass? Like a suppository?'

Of course. That particular egress does not preclude entry, my friend. What does Sherlock Holmes say in The Sign of Four? When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, man, must be the truth. That's axiomatic for all pathologists. They virtually tattoo it on your dick when you go forensic.' Hill took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the sink. Here,' he said, taking hold of her pelvis. Help me to turn her over.'

Nimmo put his hands under the body's shoulder, and together the two men pushed it on to its stomach. Then Hill searched for something in his Bonanza bag, saying, The medication would be quickly absorbed through the anal membrane directly into the bloodstream. That would explain why her stomach was empty.' He came out of the bag holding a small set of forceps. Okay, Pop, you're gonna have to hold her butt cheeks open while I get the Emmetts up her ass, and have a look-see inside her anus. Think you can handle that?'

Sure,' said Nimmo, throwing his own cigarette into the sink after Hill's. I hold women down for other guys all the time.' But he looked away as Hill began to inspect Mary Jefferson's anus, and then her colon.

We'll take a smear before we do anything,' said Hill. In case we compromise the area. If a suppository was used, there might still be a trace of it.'

With his eyes now very firmly over his shoulder, Nimmo grunted back.

As far as the colon itself is concerned, it does look rather discoloured,' Hill reported thoughtfully. The damage is quite close to the actual rectum. Looks kind of bruised and purplish. Which would be consistent with something having been shoved up her ass. And it's quite congested in there, too.'

With shit?'

No, with traffic.'

Underneath his own mask, Nimmo was grimacing. Things were beginning to smell bad again. Very bad.

I'll see if I can get a sample with a Lockhart. Of course, I won't know for sure until I can run some tests in the lab, but I'd say we've hit pay dirt, so to speak. The Enema Within.' Hill coughed a little, and then laughed at his own joke. Did you read that book?'

What book?' gagged Nimmo.

The Enemy Within, by Robert Kennedy. All about Hoffa and the teamsters and shit like that. Pretty good book.' He paused as he grappled with the Emmetts. Got it. Okay, you can let go of her ass now cowboy.' Hill placed his sample carefully inside a specimen bottle, and then looked at his watch. We oughta tear.' Seeing Nimmo's baffled look, he added, We should leave. Before any of the three bears turn up looking for their porridge. We can go back to the lab, run a few tests on this little turd of hers, and the smear I took.'

How long will that take?'

Not long.' Hill pulled down his mask and grinned. You may even still make it to morning service.'

They drove back to Jackson Memorial and a laboratory in the Department of Pathology, where Dan Hill went immediately to work on the smear and the sample, while Nimmo sat and read the paper. Jack Kennedy was on the front page of the Times again, just like the day before. This time the President-elect was pictured at the Kennedy home in Palm Beach with Senators Stuart Symington of Missouri and George Smathers of Florida. Nimmo wondered if either Kennedy or Smathers knew Mary Jefferson was dead. Surely someone would have told Smathers. She had worked for him. Surely someone would have told Kennedy. He had fucked her. Nimmo wondered if Kennedy would have looked quite so sanguine if he had known about the tape, and if he had known what was now in Nimmo's ruminative mind.

Your lady friend was murdered all right,' declared Hill, coming out of the empty laboratory. I found abnormally high levels of pure Nembutal and Chloral Hydrate in the smear and in the sample. In those amounts ab anam, death was quite certain, and probably reasonably quick. Couple of hours, I shouldn't wonder.'

Nimmo nodded. Good, he thought, that left plenty of time for Tom Jefferson to drive up from Key West, use the suppository on his wife, and then drive back. He tried to picture the scene when Jefferson had arrived in the dead of night. Possibly she had been asleep. Before she knew what was happening he might have bound and gagged her, forced the suppository up her ass, waited for the drugs to kick in, untied her, and then hit the road again. It was brilliantly simple. Just the way a cold-blooded killer would have handled it.

Nimmo took out his wallet and handed over some more cash.

What's that for?'

Your silence.'

Man, you had that when I took the job,' said Hill, pocketing the money. Performing an unauthorised autopsy isn't exactly the sort of thing you talk about. But thanks anyway, man. I appreciate it.'

There is just one more thing,' grinned Hill.

What's that, Pop?'

Nimmo punched Hill hard in the stomach, the way only a man for whom violence is a full-time job can land a blow. The punch emptied Hill of air, and dumped him flat on his behind, gasping like he had been shot in the gut.

I don't like you calling me a flit,' said Nimmo. I don't like it any more than I care for the implication that I might be a fucking necrophiliac. I don't like you mentioning my ex-wife. I don't like you calling me Pop. I don't like the way you talk. And I don't like the length of your hair. However, I would like to give you some medical advice. Correction, some pathological advice.' Nimmo pulled Hill's cheek playfully. You got a big mouth, son. Keep it shut or you could end up catching your death. Understand?'

And that is how Mary Jefferson was murdered.'

Nimmo and Rosselli were in Gallaghers, a restaurant run by an affable ex-Philadelphian named Joe Lipsky. Located a few blocks north of Nimmo's house in Keystone Islands, on 127th Street, the policeman regarded it as his local, eating there as many as four or five times a week. The Danish lobster tails were the best in town, but Nimmo's taste was usually more quotidian. He particularly liked the do-it-yourself kit' where they served a baked potato with a tray containing sour cream, chives, chopped onions, and bacon, so you could fix your Idaho just the way you wanted it.

A fascinating story,' commented Rosselli when he had heard Nimmo out. And ingenious, too.'

Yeah, you'll have to remember it for when you want to knock off some other broad. A murder weapon that dissolves itself. I checked all the medicine bottles I brought away from the house. They all had drugstore labels except one.'

Very thorough. I'm impressed. Meyer was certainly right about you.'

His mouth full of potato and his eyes drifting on and off the football game on TV, between the Houston Oilers and the Denver Broncos, Nimmo shrugged modestly, and then swallowed. So, where's that friend of Rough House Morgan's?'

Frank? He's back in Key West. There are some problems in Havana.'

Aren't there always? It said in the paper someone put a bomb in a department store. Los Precios Fijos. I've shopped there myself in the past. Things like this go on there won't be anything left for you guys to get back.'

Rosselli nodded. I tend to agree with you. If it was up to me we would restrict all our activities to the removal of Castro himself. Bombings just piss everyone off. Even the people who hate the communists.' Rosselli lit a cigarette, ignoring his own potato. There was nothing simple about his own tastes. So, where do we go from here?'

You're not going to like it.'

I'm shockproof. My middle name is Rolex.'

If I told you Congress was gonna repeal the Sex Act, you couldn't like it less.'

With my sex life, I'm still not worried.'

Nimmo pushed his plate away and sat back to light a Lucky Strike. Wearing the cigarette like a small tusk, he spread a sheet of crumpled paper on the table. Exhibit one, in the people versus Tom Jefferson.'

Rosselli collected up the paper and read it quickly. W.H./P.B./ H.H./B.M/G.D./S.M./M.V./H.P./N.Y./J.C. Initials. Friends of Jefferson's, maybe.' He shrugged. Maybe not. Too many friends for one lone wolf. But I'm still not losing any sleep about this.'

That's what I thought. That they were initials of people Jefferson knew. You'll see that some of them are underlined, and some of them have a question mark against them. Anyway, I know what they mean now. The answer's been staring me in the face every day I read a newspaper.'

So who are they?'

Not who. What. In order, we have White House, Palm Beach, Hickory Hill, Boston Massachusetts, Georgetown Delaware, Santa Monica, McLean Virginia, Hyannis Port, New York, and Johnson City.'

Okay, I'll buy that. But so what?'

Jack Kennedy is so what. He's the common factor.'

Santa Monica?'

His brother-in-law, Peter Lawford's house.'

And McLean Virginia?'

Bobby.'

Johnson City?'

Lyndon Johnson.'

So let me get this straight. Are you saying we'll find Tom Jefferson in one of these places?'

I believe it's only the ones he's underlined, namely Palm Beach, Boston, Georgetown, Hyannis Port, and New York.'

Well, that certainly narrows it down a lot,' grimaced Rosselli.

Exhibit two, in the people versus Tom Jefferson.' Nimmo unfolded his newspaper to reveal the copy of Time magazine he had taken from Jefferson's home. Jack Kennedy's handsome, tanned face stared off the cover. Even back in 1957 the United States Senator from Massachusetts had looked eminently presidential.

Kennedy's hot copy,' shrugged Rosselli. Always was. So what am I looking at?'

The doodle in the centre of Kennedy's forehead is a Chinese ideogram,' Nimmo explained. It's sei, which means the number four. A very unlucky number because it means something else, too. Sei is also the Chinese word for death. Mary Jefferson was half-Chinese, but I think it was Tom Jefferson who wrote this. I found it with some of his things, not hers.'

Oh, wait a minute,' Rosselli objected. What are you saying, Jimmy?'

Listen to me, Johnny. I'm not some dumb Okie on Play Your Hunch. This is me, Jimmy Nimmo. The nearest damn thing to Daniel Boone there is. Make no mistake about it, these are fucking tracks. I don't need to see this guy's private journals to know what he's planning to do. He's a hitman, and a damn good one. Paid to kill Castro by the mob acting in conjunction with the government. Then he finds his wife has been nailed by the President-elect of that government and, what's worse, that she's been recorded on tape so everyone can share in the experience. His wife is murdered and he disappears, leaving one contract on Castro hanging in the air. Now you add all that to exhibits one and two, and you've got John Wilkes Booth in Ford's fucking Theater.'

That was a long time ago. Presidents are a lot better protected these days.'

You're forgetting McKinley. Shot in Buffalo, September sixth, nineteen oh one, by Leon Czolgosz, an anarchist. And when Tony Cermak got shot here in Miami? When was that? Thirty-three? The guy who did it. Zangara. He could just as easily have shot and killed Roosevelt who was sitting right alongside Cermak. Besides, Kennedy isn't President yet. So long as he's not living in the White House, he's an easier target for any nut with a gun. Right now, he's a Secret Service nightmare, all over the place, putting his cabinet together, basking in the glow of his mandate. It's his honeymoon with the American people. Why should he believe anyone would hate him enough to kill him? He hasn't done anything yet. Not even something wrong. Except maybe fuck the wife of a top contract killer.'

You don't shoot the President of the United States just because he happened to fuck your wife.'

Johnny, I'll tell you something. Of all the reasons I ever heard for why one guy shoots another, they don't come any better than that. Just because one man is the President doesn't make him any less of a man. A simple motive like he fucked my wife? That you can trust. You don't have to look for anything more complicated than that. Not in this case. Oh, I dare say Jefferson might arm himself with all kinds of extra reasons. Kennedy's soft on communism. He likes niggers too much. He's going to sell us out in East Asia. But the bottom line is still the same. I'm convinced of it.'

Rosselli ran a worried hand through his silver hair. I'm still not convinced, Jimmy. Your evidence, it's all very circumstantial.'

Nimmo shrugged. Attendant facts, small details, the state of a man's affairs, conclusions which might be inferred from the logical surroundings of a man's actions and character - these are the things that put a man in the electric chair. More often than not, the DA doesn't have a star witness, or a murder weapon. If real hard evidence wasn't so difficult to obtain, do you think cops would work so hard to beat confessions out of people? Circumstantial evidence is the bedrock of our system of justice. Without that you'd be throwing people in ponds to see if they sink, or pricking them with needles in search of the devil's mark.'

Nimmo finished one cigarette and started another. He had made a decision to give up the pipe. So long as he had this case to handle he was going to require a serious amount of nicotine.

You don't have to be convinced, Johnny. You just have to be worried. A lot worried. It's just like Mooney said to me. About finding Jefferson before your friends in the CIA find out that the guy's gone AWOL. All I'm saying is that it's that, times a hundred. Look, suppose I'm right. Suppose Jefferson is hunting Kennedy. Suppose he does manage to shoot and kill him. And then suppose he gets caught. What happens then is that the shit really hits the fan for you guys. Because the newspapers will be looking for some reasons why. Presidents don't get killed because the President fucked someone's wife. You said so yourself. There'll be talk of conspiracy, of John Birch, of Minutemen, of communists, and of the Mafia. The FBI will start an investigation into why Jefferson killed Kennedy. And before you can say McLellan, they'll find a trail that leads straight to Sam Giancana, Moe Dalitz, Lansky, Frank Costello, Trafficante, and you my friend. Your CIA friends will disappear into the ether leaving you to take the rap. The feds'll say the plot to kill Castro was just a smoke screen. All along the intention was to hit Kennedy. That's how it will be, Johnny. Think about it. How shockproof are you feeling now?'

When you put it like that, I guess.' He shook his head. Sam's gonna go mooney when I tell him. What are we gonna do?'

It's my guess that sometime between now and inauguration day, January twentieth, Jefferson will make his move, most likely at one of these underlined locations. After that, we can maybe relax a little if we haven't caught up with him. Until then we've got a manhunt on our hands. With all the law enforcement agencies working together we would still have a job on our hands to track this guy down.'

There's no way we can involve law enforcement, Jimmy.'

I know, I know. All I can suggest is that I'm going to need all the available resources of organised crime to try to bring about the same result. The whole fucking outfit.'

The mob looking after the President? It's a weird idea.'

You gotta better one? I'm going to need some kind of an office, with several phone lines, and the active co-operation of all the bosses in the United States. New York, Boston, Florida, Vegas, LA, New Orleans.'

There's a safe house in Coral Gables, on Riviera Drive. It belongs to Lansky. We can use that.'

I'll need a couple of mob gofers to help me out on a permanent basis. Not Frank. There's something about him I don't trust. Someone sharp. And someone else who's tough.'

There's a cousin of Trafficante's. A lawyer. Recently graduated from somewhere. Paul Ianucci. He's been taking a year off, playing tennis, and fucking girls before going to work for his uncle. He's a smart kid.' Rosselli snapped his fingers as he thought of someone else. For muscle, you can have Licio the Elephant. He's tough as they come. And he's got this special skill that might come in useful. He used to be a memory man, counting cards in Atlantic City before the casinos figured it would be cheaper to give him a job looking out for scams. He was a pit boss at the Capri in Havana before the revolution. Since then, he's been kicking his heels.' Rosselli lit another cigarette. What else?'

Money. Cash. People talk easier when they're seeing green. Transport. A driver. A cook. Make sure she doesn't speak English. A coffee machine. Groceries. Toiletries. An AP wire. Stationery.'

No problem.'

I'll give the feds some story about Jefferson being a communist. Nothing too grand or they'll start to get nosey. Just enough so we can trace his car. Assuming he's still driving it.'

Rosselli had taken out a pad and was writing now. Anything else?'

More money. I'll need to bribe some people. Cops. Feds. Secret Service guys. Make it small bills, tens and twenties. Those kind of people don't trust anything larger than a fifty in case they're being set up by Internal Affairs.'

Okay. What else?'

Tomorrow I'll call the Police Department and tell them I need to take some leave, or something. Not that anyone will give a shit. Those bastards think I'm just hanging on for my pension,' Nimmo grinned as if he was enjoying himself. If only they knew, huh?'

Sunday afternoons in Miami were quiet, almost as quiet as Sunday mornings. That is, anywhere except the beach, or the resort hotel swimming pools. Government offices were closed of course, so there was little Nimmo could do except report Jefferson's car stolen, and then move a bag of things over to the house on Riviera Drive that was now the headquarters of the search for Jack Kennedy's potential assassin. With anyone but Johnny Rosselli it might have taken days to arrange extra telephone lines, an AP wire, and a cook at an hour's notice. That was the advantage of having the Teamsters' Union in your pocket, not to mention the Laborers' Union, the Hotel and Restaurant Employees' Union, and the Longshoreman's Union. Having the Bad Four' major unions meant there wasn't much that couldn't be fixed at a time when most families were collecting their children from Sunday School.

When Nimmo arrived in Coral Gables he found a telephone engineer already at work. And twenty minutes later a woman turned up in a van from the Fontainebleu Hotel with a coffee machine and several bags full of groceries. Nimmo spoke a little Spanish and was able to comprehend that her name was Tintina, and that SeA+-or Rosselli had told her to come. Having made several storeys of sandwiches, filled the refrigerator, and set up the coffee machine, Tintina, who looked as though she never ate anything herself, told Nimmo she would return at seven o'clock in the morning to make breakfast.

It was six thirty in the evening when the engineer finally left, by which time Nimmo was becoming better acquainted with Lansky's large and airy house. It was a little too Miami-modern for his taste and for Lansky's too, he supposed - all high ceilings with fans, plantation shutters, wooden floors, rattan furniture, and enough big plants to hide a small army of Japanese die-hards. It was difficult to imagine that Meyer Lansky had ever lived here. But as safe houses went it was a pleasant one, and Nimmo thought he and the two wiseguys Rosselli was delivering with the morning milk would probably be very comfortable in it. There were several large bedrooms, each with an en-suite bathroom, and a sizeable meeting room with a long table - now with several phones and a wire - where Nimmo had decided to base their activities.

After a bath, he collected a plate of sandwiches, and the photograph of Jefferson provided by Johnny Rosselli, and settled down on one of the big sofas to watch Ed Sullivan on TV. Seeing Jerry Lewis, Sophie Tucker, and Connie Francis guest on the show it was hard to credit the possibility that they were living in an America where a professional killer was already stalking the forty-three-year-old President-elect, whose victory at the polls was still only eleven days old. A young Senator with a beautiful wife, two lovely children, and a baby on the way. What kind of America was it that could have produced such a situation?

Nimmo looked forward to collecting his money, but the stakes were more important now. He hadn't voted for Kennedy himself, didn't even like him much, but he wasn't about to see the man get shot and killed. Jack Kennedy certainly didn't deserve to die for anything he had done in the bedroom. The very idea of preventing an assassination made Nimmo feel quite public-spirited again - loyal and true to his country and its institutions, the way a decent citizen was supposed to feel. He hadn't encountered that kind of feeling in himself since the war.

Now and then, Nimmo looked away from the TV and searched the face of the man in the photograph, like General Montgomery studying the picture of Field Marshal Rommel, as if some clue to the man's psychology and his probable next move might be found in those quiet, dark eyes. Jefferson didn't look much like a killer, but then not every gunman was as obviously a murderer as Jacob Gurrah' Shapiro, or Albert The Mad Hatter' Anastasia. Nimmo didn't have much faith in physiognomy, but he still believed that, in time, he might get to read a face just as a good poker player could spot whether another guy had a tell or not. It was going to take a while, but he was going to learn everything he could about Tom Jefferson -the way Jefferson had, in all likelihood, already learned everything he could about Jack Kennedy. Nimmo's resolve was sharpened by the certainty that if he failed, the unremarkable face in the photograph on his lap might turn out to be one of the most infamous faces in history.

Chapter 12

The Iceman Cometh

Tom did not linger in Tampa. In other circumstances he'd have tested himself on the Palma Ceiba Golf Club. But the city was the centre of all Mafia activity in Florida and controlled by the Trafficante family, which had put up a good part of the money for the hit on Castro. So the day after meeting LA3pez Ameijeiras, Tom sold the Chevy Bel Air and boarded a train for Jacksonville, ignoring the temptation to go and visit his mother who lived near Orlando, in Intercession City. There seemed little point in making a detour since her mind was gone and she could no more have recognised her son than she could have told him Eisenhower's nickname.

From Jacksonville, he flew to New York and was back in his Riverside Drive apartment in time to catch the six o'clock news on NBC, which reported Kennedy meeting Allen Dulles and Richard Bissell from the CIA, at the Kennedy estate in Palm Beach that same morning. Kennedy's press secretary, Don Wilson, said that Dulles and Bissell had brought two large folders of maps and charts and had discussed the uprisings against the pro-American governments of Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. Which meant that Ameijeiras was probably right. An invasion of Cuba was definitely in the wind, with or without a Castro assassination.

Tom spent the remainder of the evening studying Kennedy's forthcoming schedule and watching television - from Jim Backus at seven o'clock, right through to the end of Mr Adam and Eve at eleven, when he went to bed.

The next morning he rose early. He had breakfast at Rosenbloom's Kosher Deli on Broadway, near 100th Street, and read the Times, which headlined with Kennedy considering his brother, Bobby, for Attorney-General. It was beginning to look as if the Kennedy brothers would be every bit as clannish as the Castros.

After breakfast Tom walked across Central Park. The city was cool after Miami, although mild by the standards of a New York November, with the temperature in the mid-fifties. A westerly wind was blowing leaves from the trees, which always left Tom feeling blue. He crossed to the Upper East Side, to survey the Kennedy family's Park Avenue addresses. He had already looked at the family estate at Palm Beach on the drive up from Miami, and by lunchtime he had rejected two of the four possible locations where he considered an assassination might feasibly be staged.

After lunch at Liborio, a Spanish restaurant on 53rd, he bought some books at Rizzoli, his favourite New York bookstore, on 5th, and then visited the De Witt Wallace Periodical Room on the first floor of the New York Public Library, where he consulted some back issues of the Congressional Record, the New York Post, the Saturday Evening Post, McCalls, the Boston Globe, and the Boston Herald. Then he went bowling at the City Hall Bowling Center on Park Row, opposite the Woolworth Building. In lieu of golf, Tom often went bowling when he needed to think. Apart from the weather, that was the only major disadvantage about living in Manhattan: the limited golfing opportunities.

Once again he spent the evening alone, studying the books he had bought and watching more TV. Gunsmoke was pretty good, as always, but The Iceman Cometh, with Jason Robards, was not, as billed in the Times, the finest play ever seen on TV', just depressing - all those alcoholics only reminded Tom of his own father - and Tom soon found himself heading to bed, to listen to a Schumann piano concerto on radio. It was the kind of music Mary had liked a lot.

The next morning he left the apartment early and caught the express train to Boston. A couple of days later, following trips to Cambridge, to the Irving Street home of Professor Arthur Schlesinger, to MIT, to the Boston Public Library, to Kennedy's Boston home on Bowdoin Street, and to the State House on Beacon Hill, Tom telephoned LA3pez Ameijeiras from the Copley Plaza Hotel, where he was staying, and - his voice on the edge of excitement, for Tom was pleased with what his own extensive research had revealed - outlined a draft plan.

Chapter 13

The House on N Street

You'll have to drop whatever you are doing. Everything. And forget about Thanksgiving. There's going to be no holiday for any of us until we've found Tom Jefferson.'

For almost thirty minutes Nimmo had briefed the two men Rosselli had brought to Lansky's safe house on Riviera Drive and, until now, they had listened in silence.

My wife's not going to like that,' objected Licio Montini. She's got the turkey bought and everything. All the trimmings. I tell her I'm not going to be there for dinner she's liable to stuff me and not the fucking bird.' Licio the Elephant was the Jackie Gleason type, big, but light on his toes, with a large handkerchief in his pudgy gold-ringed fingers to wipe the sweat from his heavy, anxious face. He looked to Rosselli for an adjudication on the matter of Thanksgiving dinner, but it was Nimmo who answered him.

Listen, I'm not going to come between any man and his dinner. Least of all a man like you. All I mean is that as soon as you've eaten it, you're back here instead of watching football on TV. Okay?'

Inside his grey pinstripe seersucker suit, Montini nodded with a show of gravitas, as if he wanted everyone to see that he thought this was fair, and said, Okay.'

Paul?'

Paul Ianucci, a second, or even a third cousin of Santos Trafficante's - Nimmo was not quite sure which - and only half the size of Licio Montini, had twice the polish. With his dark curly hair, twinkling brown eyes, and casual virility he looked like a younger Dean Martin, a stellar impression that was enhanced by the lilac Ford Thunderbird that was parked outside.

That's fine with me, sir,' he said in an educated voice that belied his Italian underworld antecedents. As a Catholic I never did see the point of observing a Protestant acknowledgement of divine favour.' He palmed a handsome Tiffany's gold cigarette case from the pocket of his Ivy Jacket of Indian Madras and fetched a cigarette to his perfect smile. I'm as keen to see that nothing happens to Jack Kennedy as the next man. But where the hell do we start?'

Paul? I want you to track down some documentation for this guy. We've got a passport number. It's probably fake but check with the Miami Passport Agency. Try the Office of Vital Statistics, too. That's in Jacksonville. The Division of Driver's Licences, in Tallahassee, and the Department of Defense in Washington. We think Jefferson may have been in the Marine Corps. I want next of kin, a mother. Even the son of God had a mother. I want to know who and where she is.'

I'm on it,' said Paul Ianucci, and sitting down at the boardroom table, he picked up the phone and called the operator.

Licio? I want a list of hitmen, button-guys, shooters, assassins, whatever. Maybe somebody worked with Jefferson. A cross-fire contract, I think they call it. If someone did work with him then maybe he'll know Jefferson's modus operandi. Who he gets his guns from, how he likes to work, that kind of thing.'

Right,' said Montini, and sat down opposite Ianucci. What about me? What would you like me to do?'

It was a mark of how seriously he took the situation that Sam Giancana had flown in from Chicago the previous night. But his take on Nimmo's book of revelations was much more pragmatic. As soon as he had arrived with Rosselli and the two others, Giancana had taken Nimmo to one side to put him in the picture', as he said, with a cross and a fucking halo around your head'.

Here's how it is, Jimmy,' Giancana had told him. The election cost me a bundle. In the Chicago wards I control, Kennedy got eighty per cent of the vote. And it's still costing me now. Which is why Nixon's not going to demand a recount. We're gonna repay the thirty-five grand that walkin' five o clock shadow still owes on the mortgage on his place in Wesley Heights. It all adds up to a pretty substantial investment in one Irish sonofabitch. And I'm not about to see it flicked off by some kook with a grudge and a rifle. Back in Chicago, Jimmy, I said I'd lay twenty-five grand on you to find this fuck. Well I'm doubling that. Fifty grand, Jimmy. That means water into wine, and cripples up on their dogs and running around like it's Christmas morning. You stick to this job like it's Duco, you hear? Find that fucking cetriolo.'

Sam. Depend on it. The guy's next week's Dead Sea Scrolls.'

Now, as Nimmo considered Giancana's request for some kind of investigative task, he found himself unable to see how he could order around the boss of the Chicago outfit like Montini or Ianucci. Giancana saw the idea troubling Nimmo and came to his aid.

Just like I'm one of the soldiers, Jimmy, okay?'

Okay, Sam.' Nimmo shrugged. It's like I said to Johnny. Maybe you could call around the heads of the various crime families. Impress upon them the need to find Tom Jefferson for all their sakes. If the most powerful crime organisation in the world can't get some kind of lead on this guy then my name isn't James Bywater Nimmo.

In the meantime, I'm going to Washington DC, to see if I can't persuade someone to give up Kennedy's schedule. If we know when and where he's going between now and the inauguration, then maybe we can second-guess our shooter.'

Just like that?' sneered Giancana. Who the hell's gonna give you Kennedy's schedule?'

The Secret Service.'

How are you gonna fix that?'

You fixed the American election, Sam. I think I can fix the President's outfield.'

As soon as he was in his room at the Georgetown Marbury, in Washington, Nimmo picked up the telephone, and dialled NA 8-1414. As requested, the White House Signals board relayed the call to Murray Weintraub, in the East Wing of the Executive Mansion. As he waited for the connection, Nimmo stared out of the window of his comfortable but gloomy room, at the hotel courtyard and the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal that lay beyond it. Already Georgetown lay on his soul like a dead weight. How could anyone live in a place like this?

Another couple of minutes passed. He twisted the tiny cap off a miniature of Scotch, applied the whistle-sized neck to his mouth, and drained the bottle's contents, as if it had held nothing more potent than antiseptic mouthwash. There was something so ersatz, so baubling about spirit miniatures, like something you might find in an outsized doll's house, that he found it hard to take them seriously as containers of real alcohol, almost as if the effect of the spirits ought to be somehow in proportion to the size of the bottle itself.

When Murray Weintraub finally came on the phone their conversation was brief and to the point. I'm here,' said Nimmo.

Okay. My shift ends at ten. I'll meet you in front of the Marbury at ten twenty.'

The Georgetown Marbury was a small colonial-style hotel of red brick, like most of Georgetown, and Weintraub was outside the M Street doorway on the dot of the appointed time. The two men were old friends. The Secret Service was part of the Treasury Department and, before joining the presidential detail, in 1952, Weintraub had worked in the Secret Service's New York office, which was where he had met Jimmy Nimmo. Together, Weintraub and the former FBI SAC had helped solve a big counterfeiting case involving bank-workers and, it had even been alleged, Albert Einstein. Hoover suspected the physicist of having invented a machine capable of rendering perfect copies of dollar bills, with the aim of undermining the whole edifice of American capitalism. It was just one of many preposterous charges secretly levelled against Einstein that Hoover had wanted to believe were true, but which were never proven.

It was a moist, chilly night. The cobbled, tree-lined streets of Georgetown, covered with November leaves, were treacherous underfoot. Both men wore sensible shoes, warm raincoats, and felt hats.

Often, it is said that dogs and their masters, or any two creatures living in symbiosis, come to resemble each other. It was the same with Murray Weintraub, who looked very much like President Eisenhower - or at least a younger Eisenhower, the Eisenhower who had been appointed Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force back in 1943. Weintraub had more hair, which was fair, the same broad nose, prominent ears, ruddy complexion, and wide, dyspeptic mouth. A fit forty-eight-year-old, he had the older man's erect military bearing too. They headed west, in the general direction of the university.

So how is life in the Secret Service?'

Not good. Possibly it's a corollary of the service's command structure. After all, how many countries have a Secret Service that's commanded by a businessman, instead of a policeman or a soldier, anyone with intelligence experience? We have the Secretary of the Treasury, George M. Humphrey, former president of the Mark A. Hanna Company of Cleveland. A nice enough guy. He and Ike get along pretty well. But he knows nothing about the world of intelligence. But then neither do we. Right now, we're living on our reputation, and even that's in danger of going to the dogs. Procedures are slack and old-fashioned. A lot of the time we have to rely on local law enforcement officers, and that means we're usually only as good as they are, and sometimes just as bad. Did you know that the NYPD is the only municipal force we're posted on?'

Things are that good, huh?'

They're worse. I tell you, if the American people knew how slack things had become there would be a fucking outcry. When Ike went on his South American tour, back in February, some of the guys on the detail were so tired from all the partying that was going on, they couldn't keep up with the presidential limo. One guy had such a bad hangover, he actually puked up during the parade in Rio. What's more, we let Ike sit up on the back of the goddamn car, like a fairground target. The idea of a human shield to protect the President? Forget it.

Take the cars. In FDR's day, most of the cars had running boards. Modern cars don't. They look stupid with running boards. Dangerous, too. The last presidential car to have boards was retired seven years ago. And as for the drivers, they don't know shit. They've no driving skills to speak of. No getaway techniques. James Dean was a better driver than the guy behind the wheel of Ike's fucking car.'

They walked past Francis Scott Memorial Park where a flag hung limply in honour of the Washington attorney who had penned the national anthem. It seemed a noisy place for a park, so near to Key Bridge to their left, conducting streams of traffic south across the Potomac River. The two men turned north toward the quieter heights of Georgetown, and arrived at the foot of a seemingly interminable Jacob's ladder of stone steps leading up into the darkness of the November night. They began their ascent.

Hell, agents don't even have to take a yearly medical,' complained Weintraub. If you did, then they'd retire me for sure. The truth is that I can't cut it any more. I'm getting too slow. If I could afford to retire, I would.'

You seem fit enough to me,' puffed Nimmo. Talk about John Buchan. How many goddamn steps are there, anyway?

Almost twice as many. Seventy-five, to be precise.'

About as old as I feel right now.'

You know how much overtime I work? Seventy, sometimes eighty hours a month. There's some public law that says you don't get overtime unless you exceed your shift by twenty-six hours a month. I can't remember the last time I did as little overtime as that. Nobody can. We've all of us got wives and families. I just got this new apartment in Silver Spring and I need every dollar. Overtime makes me an extra thousand dollars a year. Of course, the more overtime you do, the slacker you get and the more tired you become. If they paid us a decent wage in the first place, I dunno, maybe things would be different. But if this system didn't exist, no one would be stupid enough to invent it. Thank God Ike's not more active. He's been real easy to guard since the heart attacks.'

They reached the top of the steps where Nimmo felt obliged to lean on the wall of some old federal building just to catch his breath. Inside his thick chest his lungs felt like two hot kippers. Don't mention heart attacks,' he gasped, and lit a cigarette to help him concentrate on recovering his breath. You're a lot fitter than you think.'

Thank you, sir.'

Turning right, they began to walk east, along N Street.

It could be worse,' continued Weintraub. It could be President De Gaulle we were guarding. In May we were in Paris with Ike and I tell you those French boys have their work cut out. De Gaulle's a regular fucking Geronimo. Seems like everyone wants to shoot him.' Quoting Eisenhower's campaign slogan from 1952, he added, I like Ike. And fortunately so does everyone else. But Little Boy Blue? That's what Ike calls Kennedy. I wonder. Some of the guys on Kennedy's detail tell me he likes to party a lot himself. He certainly likes to meet people, and that's going to be a problem. A big problem. Bodyguards don't get on with the body politic.'

As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about,' confessed Nimmo. Kennedy's security.'

Weintraub pointed up the street. Take a look up there. You're about to get a closer look at his security. Do you see those lights? They're TV lights. And they're outside Kennedy's house. Which means he must be home.'

I knew it was around here some place.' Nimmo stopped to light another cigarette with the butt of the one he had just smoked, and then looked around. There was no one in sight at this end of N Street. So that's where he lives.'

Until January twentieth. After that, he'll be in the White House. So. What were you going to say about Kennedy's security?'

Unlike you, Murray, I'm in no hurry to retire. Despite what anyone might think when they see me in Miami. Fact is, I miss the Bureau. Well, for a while now I've had this scheme that I figured might put me in good odour with Hoover again. There's this guy I know in Miami who's part of the local Teamster. Fellow by the name of Dave Yaras. He's a hood, Murray, a real fucking villain, and connected to a lot of mobsters. Jake Guzik, for one. Santos Trafficante, for another. Anyway, I've been developing Yaras as an informant for George White at the FBN. Remember George?' Weintraub nodded. There's nothing official, you understand. I mean, if I ever registered Yaras as an informant it'd be like cutting his throat myself. Chicago's riddled with corruption. Even the FBN. It's not that I don't trust George. But some of the people around him are really fucked up. However, to come back to the main point, I've been hoping there'd be some kind of a big narcotics bust, and George would put in a good word for me.

Then a couple of days ago,' Nimmo lied smoothly, I had a drink with Yaras, and we both got a little tight, and he told me that some guy, a friend of Jimmy Hoffa's, was going to take a pop at Kennedy, and that this would happen sometime before inauguration day. It's no secret Hoffa hates the Kennedys, after the way they went after him. He may have beaten those indictments, but he's smart enough to know there'll be others. Especially if Bobby becomes Attorney-General. Yaras said that Hoffa believed the quickest way to prevent this was to kill Jack, not Bobby. That Bobby would be nothing without Jack. Thus the contract.

Murray, my first instinct was that this was just a bunch of bullshit. Big talk from Yaras and this pal of Hoffa's. But when I rang Yaras to talk about it again, the next day, he seemed real scared, and clammed up. Wouldn't say another damn word about it. I could go to Hoover now, only I'm pretty sure he and those other boys on the fifth floor at Justice would just laugh me all the way down Constitution Avenue. Sure, someone wants to shoot the President-elect dead, they'll say. Same as they want to kill the Vice-president. During the campaign a mob of Dallas housewives spat at LBJ, for Christ's sake. They could just as easily have sprayed him with acid. And that was his home fucking state. Threats come with the job, they'll tell me, like the use of Air Force One and the executive toilet in the Oval Office.

But then they'll want to know why I'm drinking with the likes of Dave Yaras. And I don't think George White's the kind of friend who'll be there to back me up. Maybe it is all bullshit. I hope it is. But I voted for Kennedy and I wouldn't like to see anything happen to him, you know?'

So what is it you want from me?' enquired Weintraub.

I was thinking. If I knew more about where Kennedy's going to be in the next few weeks, then I might be able to bluff Yaras into the belief that Hoffa's hitman doesn't stand a chance - that there are Secret Service agents waiting for him in Palm Beach on the first of December, and at Hyannis Port on the fourth. So he might as well tell me everything he knows. I figure then I can get a fix on this guy, and tip off the local Bureau with some information that' s A-one-A, and not some gangster's vodka Martini say-so.

You're not asking much, are you?'

I swear I wouldn't ask if I didn't think this was on the level.'

I should say, no. You know that, don't you? And even if I said yes, and called the President-elect's office, at the Senate Office Building, and spoke to Kennedy's personal secretary, Mrs Lincoln, and you can't get more respectable than that, she'd be well within her rights to tell me to go to hell. The President-elect's schedule is highly confidential. Of course, I could tell her that the Protective Research Section of the Secret Service have asked me to liaise with her, in order that they can avoid doubling up on the checks made in advance on the places both Ike and Jack are gonna be. That's what I could tell her. And like I said, I should say no. I could get in trouble. But it so happens I need a favour myself, Jimmy.'