Kemper jumped out. Propeller backspin almost knocked him flat.
The car pulled up. Kemper got in. Pete punched it across a string of small-craft runways.
A jet whooshed overhead. Love Field looked otherworldly.
Pete said, “What did Ward tell you?”
“That Juan’s loose. And that Guy’s afraid that Carlos and the others will think he fucked up.”
“That’s what he told me. And I told him that I didn’t like the risks involved, unless somebody tells Carlos that we helped him out and saved Banister from blowing the whole fucking hit.”
Kemper cracked the window. His goddamn ears kept popping.
“What did Ward say to that?”
“He said he’ll tell Carlos after the hit. if we find Canestel and save the fucking day.”
A 2-way radio sputtered. Pete turned it down.
“This is J. D. Tippit’s off-duty car. Him and Rogers are out looking, and if they get a spot on Juan, we go in. Tippit can’t leave his patrol sector, and Chuck can’t do anything that could fuck him out of showing up for the hit.”
They dodged baggage carts. Kemper leaned out the window and popped three Dexedrine thy.
“Where’s Banister?”
“He’s flying in from New Orleans later. He thinks Juan’s solid, and if something happens and they lose him, he’ll move Rogers into his slot, and go out with him and the pro shooter.”
They knew Juan was volatile. They didn’t have him tagged as a possible sex killer. The job was fucked up and full of holes and reeked of amateur-night on-the-job training.
“Where are we going?”
“Jack Ruby’s place. Rogers said Juan likes to dig on the whores there. You work inside–Ruby doesn’t know you.”
Kemper laughed. “Ward told Carlos not to trust psychopaths with bright red sports cars.”
Pete said, “You did.”
“I’ve had some revelations since then.”
“Are you saying there’s something I should know about Juan?”
“I’m saying I quit hating Jack. And I don’t really care whether they kill him or not.”
o o o
The Carousel Club was midweek listless.
A stripper was peeling on the runway. Two plainclothes cops and a hooker clique sat at ringside tables.
Kemper sat near a rear exit. He unscrewed the bulb on his table lamp–shadows covered him from the waist up.
He could see the front and back doors. He could see the runway and stage tables. The shadows made him close to invisible.
Pete was out back with the car. He didn’t want Jack Ruby to see him.
The stripper stripped to André Kostelanetz. The hi-fi played off-speed. Ruby sat with the cops and spiked their drinks with his flask.
Kemper sipped scotch. It jump-started the Dexedrine. He got cozy with a new revelation: You’ve got a chance to toy with the hit.
A dog ran across the runway. The stripper shooed it off. Juan Canestel walked in the front door.
He was alone. He was wearing an Ike jacket and blue jeans.
He went straight for the whores’ table. A hostess sat him down.
He’d enlarged his prosthetic bulge. Check that shiv in his left hip pocket.
A sash cord was bunched into his waistband.
Juan bought drinks all around. Ruby schmoozed him up. The stripper tossed a few hips his way.
The cops checked him out. They looked mean and full of hate for non-Anglos.
Juan always carries a gun. They might shake him on general principles.
They might book him on a weapons charge. They might rubberhose him.
He might betray Banister. The Secret Service might cancel the motorcade.
Juan loved to drink. He might show up for the hit hung over. He might jerk the trigger and miss Jack by a country mile.
Juan loved to talk. He might arouse suspicion between now and noon on Friday.
The sash cord leaked out his front waistband.
Juan is a sex killer. Juan kills with his surrogate balls.
Juan chatted up the whores. The cops kept, sizing him up.
The snipper bowed and walked backstage. Ruby announced last call. Juan zeroed in on a zaftig brunette.
They’ll walk out the front door. Pete won’t see them. Their combustion might affect Juan’s hit performance.
Kemper popped the clip out of his piece and dropped it on the floor. He left one round in the chamber–let’s toy with the hit a little more.