A commentator talked up Joe Valachi’s song-and-dance. Valachi dubbed the Mob “La Cosa Nostra.”
Valachi was a big TV hit. A newsman called his ratings “boffo.” Valachi was snitching East Coast hoodlums up the ying-yang.
A reporter talked to Heshie Ryskind–holed up in some Phoenix cancer ward. Hesh called La Cosa Nostra “a goyishe fantasy.”
The Twist program came in scratchy. Barb sang along in Pete’s head and out-warbled Chubby Checker.
They talked long-distance right before he left Miami. Barb said, What is it?–you sound frightened again.
He said, I can’t tell you. When you hear about it, you’ll know.
She said, Will it hurt us?
He said, No.
She said, You’re lying. He couldn’t argue.
She was flying to Texas in a few days. Joey booked them in for an eight-week statewide run.
He’d fly in for weekends. He’d play stage-door Johnny, straight up to November 18.
o o o
They hit Miami at noon. Lockhart dosed his hangover with glazed doughnuts and coffee.
They looped through the downtown area. Dougie pointed out For Rent signs.
Pete drove in circles. The house-and-office search had Dougie yawning.
Pete narrowed his choices down to three offices and three houses. Pete said, Dougie, take your pick.
Dougie picked fast. Dougie wanted to log in some sack time.
He picked a stucco house off Biscayne. He picked an office on Biscayne–dead center on all three parade routes.
Both landlords demanded deposits. Dougie peeled bills off his expense roll and paid them three months’ rent in advance.
Pete stayed out of sight. The landlords never saw him.
He watched Dougie lug his gear into the house–this carrot-topped stupe about to be world-famous.
92
(Miami, 9/29/63– 10/20/63)
He memorized Hoover’s note. He hid the tape splice. He drove the three routes a dozen times a day for three weeks running. He didn’t tell Pete and Kemper that there might be another hit planned.
The press reported the President’s fall travel schedule. They emphasized motorcades in New York, Miami and Texas.
Littell sent Bobby a note. It stated his affiliation with James R. Hoffa and asked for ten minutes of his time.
He considered the ramifications for close to a month before acting. His walk to the mailbox felt like his raid on Jules Schiffrin’s house–multiplied a thousand times.
Littell drove down Biscayne Boulevard. He timed every signal light with a stopwatch.
Kemper burglarized the gun shop a week ago. He stole three sight-equipped rifles and two revolvers. He wore gloves with distinctive cracked fmgertips–filched from Dougie Frank Lockhart.
Kemper surveilled the gun shop the next day. Detectives canvassed the area and technicians dusted for prints. Dougie’s cracked-finger gloves were now a matter of forensic record.
The gloves were pressed all over surfaces in Dougie’s house and office.
Pete let Dougie fondle the rifles. His fmgerprints were pressed to the stocks and barrels.
Kemper stole three cars in South Carolina. He had them repainted and fitted with fake license plates. Two were assigned to the shooters. The third car was for the man assigned to kill Dougie.
Pete brought a fourth man in. Chuck Rogers signed on as their fall-guy impersonator.
Rogers and Lockhart had similar builds and similar features. Dougie’s most distinguishing attribute was bright red hair.
Chuck dyed his hair red. Chuck spewed Kennedy hatred all over Miami.
He shot his mouth off at taverns and pool halls. He raged at a skating rink, a gun range and numerous liquor stores. He was paid to rage nonstop until November 15.
Littell drove by Dougie’s office. Every circuit gave him a brilliant new embellishment.
He should find some rambunctious kids on the motorcade route. He should give them firecrackers and tell them to let fly.
It would wear the Secret Service escort down. It would inure them to gunshot-like noises.
Kemper was working up some Dougie Frank keepsakes. Lockhart’s psychopathology would be summarized in minutiae.
Kemper defaced JFK photographs and carved swastikas on Jack and Jackie dolls. Kemper smeared focal matter over a dozen Kennedy magazine spreads.
The investigators would find it all in Dougie’s bedroom closet.
Currently in progress: Dougie Frank Lockhart’s political diary.
It was hunt-and-peck typed, with printed ink corrections. The race-mongering text was truly horrific.