Chapter 29 #3
“I kept the place on West Neely, but I spent most of the summer in Jodie, taking care of Sadie. I’d pretty much given up on the book idea, was thinking about reapplying at Denholm Consolidated.
Then I ran into Akiva Roth and his goons.
Wound up in the hospital myself. When they let me out, I went to a rehab center called Eden Fallows. ”
“I know it,” Fritz said. “Kind of an assisted living thing.”
“Yes, and Sadie was my chief assistant. I took care of her after her husband cut her; she took care of me after Roth and his associates beat me up. Things go around that way. They make… I don’t know… a kind of harmony.”
“Things happen for a reason,” Hosty said solemnly, and for a moment I felt like launching myself over the table and pummeling his flushed and fleshy face. Not because he was wrong, though. In my humble opinion, things do happen for a reason, but do we like the reason? Rarely.
“Near the end of October, Dr. Perry okayed me to drive short distances.” This was a blatant lie, but they might not check it with Perry for awhile…
and if they made an investment in me as an authentic American Hero, they might not check at all.
“I went into Dallas on Tuesday of this week to visit the apartment house on West Neely. Mostly on a whim. I wanted to see if looking at it would bring back some more of my memories.”
I had indeed gone to West Neely, but to get the gun under the porch.
“Afterward, I decided to get my lunch at Woolworth’s, just like in the old days.
And who should I see at the counter but Lee, having a tuna on rye.
I sat down and asked him how it was going, and that was when he told me the FBI was harassing him and his wife.
He said, ‘I’m going to teach those bastards not to fuck with me, George.
If you’re watching TV on Friday afternoon, maybe you’ll see something. ’ ”
“Holy cow,” Fritz said. “Did you connect that with the president’s visit?”
“Not at first. I never followed Kennedy’s movements all that closely; I’m a Republican.” Two lies for the price of one. “Besides, Lee went right on to his favorite subject.”
Hosty: “Cuba.”
“Right. Cuba and viva Fidel. He didn’t even ask why I was limping.
He was totally wrapped up in his own stuff, you know?
But that was Lee. I bought him a custard pudding—boy, that’s good at Woolworth’s, and only a quarter—and asked him where he was working.
He told me the Book Depository on Elm Street.
Said it with a big smile, as if unloading trucks and shifting boxes around was the world’s biggest deal. ”
I let most of his blather roll off my back, I went on, because my leg was hurting and I was getting one of my headaches.
I drove home to Eden Fallows and took a nap.
But when I woke up, the German guy’s how-did-you-miss crack came back to me.
I put on the TV, and they were talking about the president’s visit.
That, I said, was when I started to worry.
I hunted through the pile of newspapers in the living room, found the motorcade route, and saw it went right by the Book Depository.
“I stewed about it all day Wednesday.” They were leaning forward over the table now, hanging on every word.
Hosty was making notes without looking down at his pad.
I wondered if he’d be able to read them later.
“I’d say to myself, Maybe he really means it.
Then I’d say, Nah, Lee’s all hat and no cattle.
Back and forth like that. Yesterday morning I called Sadie, told her the whole story, and asked her what she thought.
She phoned Deke—Deke Simmons, the man I called her surrogate father—then called me back. She said I should tell the police.”
Fritz said, “I don’t mean to add to your pain, son, but if you’d done that, your ladyfriend would still be alive.”
“Wait. You haven’t heard the whole story.
” Neither had I, of course; I was making up sizable chunks of it as I went.
“I told her and Deke no cops, because if Lee was innocent, he’d really be screwed.
You have to understand that the guy was barely holding on by the skin of his teeth.
Mercedes Street was a dump and West Neely was only a little better, but that was okay for me—I’m a single man, and I had my book to work on.
Plus a little money in the bank. Lee, though…
he had a beautiful wife and two daughters, the second one just newborn, and he could hardly keep a roof over their heads. He wasn’t a bad guy—”
At this I felt an urge to check my nose and make sure it wasn’t growing.
“—but he was a world-class fuckup, pardon my French. His crazy ideas made it hard for him to hold a job. He said when he got one, the FBI would go in and queer things for him. He said it happened with his printing job.”
“That’s bullshit,” Hosty said. “The boy blamed everyone else for problems he made himself. We agree on some things, though, Amberson. He was a world-class fuckup, and I felt sorry for his wife and kids. Sorry as hell.”
“Yeah? Good for you. Anyway, he had a job and I didn’t want to lose it for him if he was just running his mouth…
which was a thing he specialized in. I told Sadie I was going over to the Book Depository tomorrow—today, now—just to check up on him.
She said she’d come with me. I said no, if Lee really was off his rocker and meant to do something, she could be in danger. ”
“Did he seem off his rocker when you had lunch with him?” Fritz asked.
“No, cool as a cucumber, but he always was.” I leaned toward him. “I want you to listen to this part very closely, Detective Fritz. I knew she meant to go with me no matter what I told her. I could hear it in her voice. So I got the hell out. I did that to protect her. Just in case.”
And this is an in-case if there ever was one, the Sadie in my head whispered. She would live there until I saw her again in the flesh. I swore I would, no matter what.
“I thought I’d spend the night in a hotel, but the hotels were full. Then I thought of Mercedes Street. I’d turned in the key to 2706, where I lived, but I still had a key to 2703 across the street, where Lee lived. He gave it to me so I could go in and water his plants.”
Hosty: “He had plants?”
My attention was still fixed on Will Fritz.
“Sadie got alarmed when she found me gone from Eden Fallows. Deke did, too. So he did call the police. Not just once but several times. Each time, the cop who took his call told him to stop bullshitting and hung up. I don’t know if anyone bothered to make a record of those calls, but Deke will tell you, and he has no reason to lie. ”
Now Fritz was the one turning red. “If you knew how many death threats we had…”
“I’m sure. And only so many men. Just don’t tell me that if we’d called the police, Sadie would still be alive. Don’t tell me that, okay?”
He said nothing.
“How did she find you?” Hosty asked.
That was something I didn’t have to lie about, and I didn’t.
Next, though, they’d ask about the trip from Mercedes Street in Fort Worth to the Book Depository in Dallas.
That was the part of my story most fraught with peril.
I wasn’t worried about the Studebaker cowboy; Sadie had cut him, but only after he tried to steal her purse.
The car had been on its last legs, and I had a feeling the cowboy might not even come forward to report it stolen.
Of course we had stolen another one, but given the urgency of our errand, the police would surely not file charges in the matter.
The press would crucify them if they tried.
What I was worried about was the red Chevrolet, the one with tailfins like a woman’s eyebrows.
A trunk with a couple of suitcases in it could be explained away; we’d had dirty weekends at the Candlewood Bungalows before.
But if they got a look at Al Templeton’s notebook… I didn’t even want to think about that.
There was a perfunctory knock on the door of the interview room, and one of the cops who had brought me to the police station poked his head in.
Behind the wheel of the cruiser, and while he and his buddy had been going through my personal belongings, he had looked stone-faced and dangerous, a bluesuit right out of a crime movie.
Now, unsure of himself and bug-eyed with excitement, I saw he was no more than twenty-three, and still coping with the last of his adolescent acne.
Behind him I could see a lot of people—some in uniform, some not—craning for a look at me.
Fritz and Hosty turned to the uninvited newcomer with impatience.
“Sirs, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Amberson has a phone call.”
The flush returned to Hosty’s jowls full force. “Son, we’re doing an interrogation here. I don’t care if it’s the President of the United States calling.”
The cop swallowed. His Adam’s apple went up and down like a monkey on a stick. “Uh, sirs… it is the President of the United States.”
It seemed they cared, after all.
7
They took me down the hall to Chief Curry’s office.
Fritz had me under one arm and Hosty had the other.
With them supporting sixty or seventy pounds of my weight between them, I hardly limped at all.
There were reporters, TV cameras, and huge lights that must have raised the temperature to a hundred degrees.
These people—one step above paparazzi—had no place in a police station in the wake of an assassination attempt, but I wasn’t surprised.
Along another timeline, they had crowded in after Oswald’s arrest and no one had kicked them out.
As far as I knew, no one had even suggested it.
Hosty and Fritz bulled their way through the scrum, stone-faced. Questions were hurled at them and at me. Hosty shouted: “Mr. Amberson will have a statement after he has been fully debriefed by the authorities!”
“When?” someone shouted.