Chapter 29 #2
Fritz took no notice of this. “What might have happened was you and your girl were in on it with Oswald. And maybe at the end you got cold feet.”
The ever-popular conspiracy theory. No home should be without one.
“Maybe you realized at the last minute that you were getting ready to shoot the most powerful man in the whole world,” Hosty said. “You had a moment of clarity. So you stopped him. If it went like that, you’d get a lot of leniency.”
Yes. Leniency to consist of forty, maybe even fifty years in Leavenworth eating mac and cheese instead of death in the Texas electric chair.
“Then why weren’t we there with him, Agent Hosty? Instead of hammering on the door to be let in?”
Hosty shrugged. You tell me.
“And if we were plotting an assassination, you must have seen me with him. Because I know you had him under at least partial surveillance.” I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you stop him, Hosty? That was your job.”
He drew back as if I’d raised a fist to him. His jowls reddened.
For a few moments at least, my grief hardened into a kind of malicious pleasure.
“The FBI kept an eye on him because he defected to Russia, redefected to the United States, then tried to defect to Cuba. He was handing out pro-Fidel leaflets on street corners for months before this horror show today.”
“How do you know all that?” Hosty barked.
“Because he told me. Then what happens? The president who’s tried everything he can think of to knock Castro off his perch comes to Dallas. Working at the Book Depository, Lee had a ringside seat for the motorcade. You knew it and did nothing.”
Fritz was staring at Hosty with something like horror. I’m sure Hosty was regretting the fact that the Dallas cop was even in the room, but what could he do? It was Fritz’s station.
“We did not consider him a threat,” Hosty said stiffly.
“Well, that was certainly a mistake. What was in the note he gave you, Hosty? I know Lee went to your office and left you one when he was told you weren’t there, but he wouldn’t tell me what was in it.
He just gave that thin little fuck-you smile of his.
We’re talking about the man who killed the woman I loved, so I think I deserve to know.
Did he say he was going to do something that would make the world sit up and take notice? I bet he did.”
“It was nothing like that!”
“Show me the note, then. Double-dog dare you.”
“Any communication from Mr. Oswald is Bureau business.”
“I don’t think you can show it. I’ll bet it’s ashes in your office toilet, as per Mr. Hoover’s orders.”
If it wasn’t, it would be. It was in Al’s notes.
“If you’re such an innocent,” Fritz said, “you’ll tell us how you knew Oswald and why you were carrying a handgun.”
“And why the lady had a butcher’s knife with blood on it,” Hosty added.
I saw red at that. “The lady had blood everywhere!” I shouted. “On her clothes, on her shoes, in her purse! The son of a bitch shot her in the chest, or didn’t you notice?”
Fritz: “Calm down, Mr. Amberson. No one’s accusing you of anything.” The subtext: Yet.
I took a deep breath. “Have you talked to Dr. Perry? You sent him to examine me and take care of my knee, so you must have. Which means you know I was beaten within an inch of my life last August. The man who ordered the beating—and participated in it—is a bookie named Akiva Roth. I don’t think he meant to hurt me as badly as he did, but probably I smarted off to him and made him mad.
I can’t remember. There’s a lot I can’t remember since that day. ”
“Why didn’t you report this after it happened?”
“Because I was in a coma, Detective Fritz. When I came out of it, I didn’t remember. When I did remember—some of it, at least—I recalled Roth saying he was hooked up with a Tampa bookie I’d done business with, and a New Orleans mobster named Carlos Marcello. That made going to the cops seem risky.”
“Are you saying DPD is dirty?” I didn’t know if Fritz’s anger was real or faked, and didn’t much care.
“I’m saying I watch The Untouchables and I know the Mob doesn’t like rats. I bought a gun for personal protection—as is my right under the Second Amendment—and I carried it.” I pointed at the evidence bag. “That gun.”
Hosty: “Where’d you buy it?”
“I don’t remember.”
Fritz: “Your amnesia is pretty convenient, isn’t it? Like something on The Secret Storm or As the World Turns.”
“Talk to Perry,” I repeated. “And take another look at my knee. I reinjured it racing up six flights of stairs to save the president’s life.
Which I will tell the press. I’ll also tell them my reward for doing my duty as an American citizen was an interrogation in a hot little room without even a glass of water. ”
“Do you want water?” Fritz asked, and I understood that this could be all right, if I didn’t misstep.
The president had escaped assassination by the skin of his teeth.
These two men—not to mention Dallas Police Chief Jesse Curry—would be under enormous pressure to provide a hero.
Since Sadie was dead, I was what they had.
“No,” I said, “but a Co’-Cola would be very nice.”
6
As I waited for my Coke, I thought of Sadie saying We’re leaving a trail a mile wide. It was true. But maybe I could make that work for me. If, that was, a certain tow truck driver from a certain Fort Worth Esso station had done as the note under the Chevrolet’s windshield wiper had asked.
Fritz lit a cigarette and shoved the pack across to me. I shook my head and he took it back. “Tell us how you knew him,” he said.
I said I’d met Lee on Mercedes Street, and we’d struck up an acquaintance.
I listened to his rantings about the evils of fascist-imperialist America and the wonderful socialist state that would emerge in Cuba.
Cuba was the ideal, he said. Russia had been taken over by worthless bureaucrats, which was why he’d left.
In Cuba there was Uncle Fidel. Lee didn’t come right out and say that Uncle Fidel walked on the water, but he implied it.
“I thought he was nuts, but I liked his family.” That much was true. I did like his family, and I did think he was nuts.
“How did a professional educator such as yourself come to be living on the shitass side of Fort Worth in the first place?” Fritz asked.
“I was trying to write a novel. I found out I couldn’t do it while I was teaching school.
Mercedes Street was a dump, but it was cheap.
I thought the book would take at least a year, and that meant I had to stretch my savings.
When I got depressed about the neighborhood, I tried to pretend I was living in a garret on the Left Bank. ”
Fritz: “Did your savings include money you won from bookies?”
Me: “I’m going to take the Fifth on that one.”
At this, Will Fritz actually laughed.
Hosty: “So you met Oswald and became friendly with him.”
“Relatively friendly. You don’t become close buddies with crazy people. At least I don’t.”
“Go on.”
Lee and his family moved out; I stayed. Then one day, out of the blue, I got a call from him saying he and Marina were living on Elsbeth Street in Dallas.
He said it was a better neighborhood and the rents were cheap and plentiful.
I told Fritz and Hosty that I was tired of Mercedes Street by then, so I came on over to Dallas, had lunch with Lee at the Woolworth’s counter, then took a walk around the neighborhood.
I rented the ground-floor apartment at 214 West Neely Street, and when the upstairs apartment went vacant, I told Lee. Kind of returning the favor.
“His wife didn’t like the place on Elsbeth,” I said. “The West Neely Street building was just around the corner, and much nicer. So they moved in.”
I had no idea how closely they would check this story, how well the chronology would hold up, or what Marina might tell them, but those things weren’t important to me.
I only needed time. A story that was even halfway plausible might give it to me, especially since Agent Hosty had good reason to treat me with kid gloves.
If I told what I knew about his relationship with Oswald, he might spend the rest of his career freezing his ass off in Fargo.
“Then something happened that put my ears up. Last April, this was. Right around Easter. I was sitting at the kitchen table, working on my book, when this fancy car—a Cadillac, I think—pulled up, and two people got out. A man and a woman. Well-dressed. They had a stuffed toy for Junie. She’s—”
Fritz: “We know who June Oswald is.”
“They went up the stairs, and I heard the guy—he had kind of a German accent and a big booming voice—I heard him say, ‘Lee, how did you miss?’ ”
Hosty leaned forward, eyes as wide as they could get in that fleshy face. “What?”
“You heard me. So I checked the paper, and guess what? Someone took a shot at some retired general four or five days before. Big right-winger. Just the kind of guy Lee hated.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I knew he had a pistol—he showed it to me one day—but the paper said the guy who shot at Walker used a rifle. Besides, most of my attention was taken up by my girlfriend by then. You asked why she had a knife in her purse. The answer is simple—she was scared. She was also attacked, only not by Mr. Roth. It was her ex-husband. He disfigured her pretty badly.”
“We saw the scar,” Hosty said, “and we’re sorry for your loss, Amberson.”
“Thank you.” You don’t look sorry enough, I thought. “The knife she was carrying was the same one her ex—John Clayton was his name—used on her. She carried it everywhere.” I thought of her saying, Just in case. I thought of her saying, This is an in-case if there ever was one.
I put my hands over my face for a minute. They waited. I dropped them into my lap and went on in a toneless Joe Friday voice. Just the facts, ma’am.