Max Collins - Ask Not

“Okay, you caught me, too, Mr. Heller. I’m enough of a teenager to like Bobby better. I’m only eighteen.”

Flo, surprised, asked, “How old were you when you stripped at those amateur nights?”

“Fourteen,” she said with a shrug. “Fifteen.”

I said, “Janet gave me the impression you worked at the Carousel.”

“Well, yes and no,” Bev said. “I never sang there and certainly didn’t strip, though Jack had amateur nights himself, just trying to compete.”

“Jack Ruby,” Flo said.

“Yes, we were friends. He was never really my boss. I worked for him, but in a limited way. Like, I hosted some of his after-hours parties — I’d mix drinks, sit around and visit, that kind of thing.”

Janet said, “Jack said Bev had more class than his regular waitresses, and any dancers at those parties were busy rubbing against the guests, if you know what I mean.”

Bev said, “I spent a lot of time in the Carousel. Jack liked me. Liked to be seen with me. I thought he had a crush on me or something, but he never made a play. I took a couple trips with him where I sat by the pool in a bikini, and it was more like he was showing me off than really had any interest.”

I asked, “And you didn’t have any interest him in?”

“Heck no! I mean he was nice, but not nice-looking, everybody knows that by now. But a big heart, good to his girls, always loaning them money. He would bring down-and-outers in and give them food and so on. That side of him, nobody knows.”

The side everybody knew was the kill-Lee-Harvey-Oswald-in-the-basement-of-the-Dallas-police-station one.

Janet prompted, “Tell them about Oswald.”

“Well, honey, you were there,” she said to her pal. For the first time a topic seemed to give her pause. “ You go ahead and tell them.”

Janet, seeming like the mother to this little girl, ordered her: “No. I already talked to these nice people. It’s your turn.”

Bev shrugged and her well-sprayed pile of platinum hair bounced like the single object it was. “There wasn’t much to it. I saw Oswald in the Carousel only twice. The first time, he and Jack were really friendly. Janet was sitting with them, and Jack called me over, and he said, ‘Beverly, this is my friend Lee Oswald. He’s with the CIA.’ I said hello, but I guess it was clear I wasn’t impressed. This friend of Jack’s was just sitting there kind of sullen, not friendly at all. Kind of giving Jack a dirty look. Jack said, ‘Do you know what the CIA is?’ And I said no, and almost added, ‘And I don’t care.’ And Jack says, ‘He’s a spy like James Bond.’ I think Jack was a little tipsy, but he always liked to boast, so maybe not.”

I said, “What was the other time?”

“Well, that was strange. Oswald was in the audience and he started heckling the comic, Wally Weston, who I think was doing some kind of political skit. Oswald yelled out that Wally was a filthy Commie, and Wally — he was a World War Two veteran — boy, was he PO’ed! He jumped into the audience and smacked Oswald in the puss. Then Jack came over and dragged his ‘friend’ out and tossed him down the stairs. Which was something he did a lot to unruly types. Amazing he didn’t kill anybody.”

Well, he did actually, but not by throwing Oswald down the stairs.

Flo asked, “Were there ever prominent people in the club. Politicians? How about policemen?”

“Oh, yeah,” the little blonde said, nodding. “Policemen particularly. They were sort of touted to come into the club with free coffee and Cokes and pizza and so on. They provided free security — Jack never had to hire more than one bouncer. There were politicians, too, and some very rich people. Oilmen. Surprising when you think about it, because really, the Carousel was rather sleazy.”

Janet said, “That’s why I was one of the few headline performers Ruby ever managed to book into that shithole. Agents said his club didn’t meet the high standards that dancers like me expect.”

Bev said, “But Jack was always trying. He wanted to bring Candy Barr back, for instance, when she got out of prison.”

Janet smirked. “That tells you something, Nate — Candy Barr is Ruby’s idea of class.”

“Jack’s always been a guy in search of class,” Bev said reflectively. “He thinks that things bring you class and that the people you know give you class. He’s never figured out that class isn’t something you can buy.”

I asked, “Did you ever see Cubans in the club?”

“Funny you should say that,” Bev said, with an odd expression, as if I’d just guessed her weight. 105. “My boyfriend, Larry, got into a conversation about Cuba once with this weird guy named Ferrie.” She thought for a while. “His first was David, I think. I probably only remember it because... this is terrible, but he was a fairy. He liked boys, I mean.”

“Okay,” I said. “But ‘David Ferrie’ isn’t a Cuban name.”

“No, no, but I’m getting to that. Well, Larry and this Ferrie character start talking about Cuba, how dangerously close to America that Communism is all of a sudden, and how we ought to take it over again, and start the gambling back up, and that somebody ought to do something about Castro.”

“All right,” I said, interested.

“Larry and Ferrie... ha. I’m a poet and don’t know it.” She gave me a little-girl grin, then got serious again. “Larry and Ferrie were agreeing about this subject. But Ferrie starts getting agitated, raving and ranting and all.”

She shook her head and the platinum hair damn near moved.

“That Ferrie was strange,” she said, and shivered. Might have been the air-conditioning but I didn’t think so. “By strange, I don’t mean dumb or stupid, no — he was very, very intelligent but... an odd duck.”

Janet said, “Ferrie was in the Carousel a bunch of times. He’s from New Orleans. You see him sometimes over there in the Sho-Bar. A first-class oddball.”

Flo asked, “In appearance or behavior?”

“Both,” the two women said, and then Bev giggled and so did Janet, the younger girl turning the hardened stripper into a momentary teenager.

Bev said, “He’s a good-sized guy, around six feet, maybe a hundred ninety pounds. He had some kind of disease where he lost all of his hair. So he wears this crazy reddish fright wig and he paints on black eyebrows.”

“Like a stripper,” Janet said, pointing to her own similarly painted-on eyebrows. I felt sure they looked better on her. “He’s got this kind of anteater look.”

“Anyway,” Bev said, “getting back to Larry and the Cuba conversation. Out of the blue, maybe kidding, maybe not, Ferrie says to Larry, ‘How would you like fifty grand to go to Cuba and kill that bastard?’ Excuse my language, but that’s what he said, or anyway Larry said that’s what he said. So Larry says no thanks and just gets up and drifts away.”

I asked, “Was this Ferrie guy drunk?”

“No,” Bev said. “He’s just a nut. There was an after-hours party I was working, the week of the assassination. The Monday night before. There were some Cubans there, and Ferrie, too.”

“How about Oswald?” I asked.

“No. But Ferrie got into a shouting match with one of the Cubans, and took out a gun and was waving it around! Jack went over and wrestled it away from Ferrie and called him an SOB, said someday somebody would shove that little gun up where the sun don’t shine. Funny thing, though — Jack didn’t toss Ferrie out, like he did with most people making a ruckus. Things quieted down, then I went over to Jack and said, ‘I don’t like this at all, I’m sorry, but I’m out of here. Things are getting too hot for this little blonde.’ Jack said he understood and I left.”