Max Collins - Ask Not

Banister was one of the as-yet-uninvestigated convenient assassination-related deaths that had occurred in Louisiana — in June of this year.

The waitress brought Ferrie his gin fizz and he thanked her, giving her a wink, getting a grimace in return.

“I admit I’m not aware,” I said, “of what Guy did for the cause.” Whatever the fuck the cause was. “You give me too much credit on Mongoose. As you say, I was just the midwife.”

“But what a baby you brought into the world!” he said, toasting me.

I lifted my empty rum-and-Coke glass to him in return. “But Castro is still with us, I’m afraid.”

“But someone else isn’t.”

Gosh, I wondered who he meant.

Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he made sure I knew: “Jack Kennedy was a nigger-loving traitor. Do you have any idea how many of our Cuban brothers he killed with his cowardice?”

So black people were niggers, but brown people were our brothers? I didn’t bother trying to navigate the logic of that.

I just said, “No, David. How many were killed?”

“Too goddamn many! You know, I’m honored you want to get together. I didn’t think a small fry like me would be on your radar.”

“You’re no small fry, David. You put a lot in motion. Ruby. Oswald.”

He swallowed. He’d felt free enough tossing Mongoose around, but maybe those names were different. “Come on now, Nate... or do you prefer Nathan?”

“Nate’s fine.”

“Nate. Good. But loose lips sink ships, Nate. Don’t forget that. Ships get sunk that way, yes they do.”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, David. I was in Dallas last week, accompanying Flo Kilgore to a number of interviews with Kennedy witnesses — witnesses this Warren Commission has ignored or overlooked.”

“She just died. ”

“Yes.”

“In New York, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, but she was in Dallas all last week.”

He was frowning in thought. Was he really unaware of what I’d just shared, or was he a better actor than he had any right to be? “Why would you do that? Help her in that way?”

“Well, first of all, she hired me. I’m a private eye, David, like you are. Your main client is Uncle Carlos, right?”

His smile was small because his mouth was small, but his beaming pride was big. “Yes. I do investigations for Mr. Marcello through his lawyer. But I’m also his private pilot. I was with Eastern Airlines, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I lied. My reporter pal had informed me that Ferrie had been fired by Eastern for “homosexual activity on the job.” Prior to that, he’d been tossed out of a Catholic seminary for “emotional instability.”

“But also,” I went on, “I wanted to keep an eye on what the Kilgore woman found out. To make sure she didn’t get... too close.”

The big dark eyes under the red mohair strips turned to slits. Barely audible over a blaring Dixieland “Ain’t She Sweet,” he whispered, “You didn’t... didn’t liquidate Miss What’s My Line? , did you?”

“No,” I said. “But I found out something disturbing.”

“What, man?”

“A lot of witnesses are dying.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean committing suicide or having traffic accidents or just plain old-fashioned getting shot.”

“Could be coincidental,” he said, but his wheels were turning. “Texas is a violent place. Lots of guns in Texas. Lots of spics and niggers there.”

Said the brother of the Cubans.

“I don’t think it’s happenstance,” I said. “I think it’s a cleanup crew, David. I think loose ends are being clipped off. Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be one.”

He smiled again. His teeth were too big for the little mouth. “Maybe that’s true, but we’re not loose ends. We’re major players, Nate.”

“Not as major as Uncles Carlos or Santo Trafficante. Or H. L. Hunt. Or Allen Dulles — the fired CIA chief on the Warren Commission?”

“I know who he is.”

“Or Lyndon Johnson, either.”

He had the expression of a guy viewing his own bad X-rays. “Uh, well, you’re right. We’re not that big, but I don’t think...”

“David, could Guy’s death have been murder?”

“What?”

“Heart attack — inducing or — simulating drugs are child’s play for the CIA. Ever hear of Dr. Sidney Gottlieb? He’s their number one Dr. Feelbad.”

He was visibly nervous now. The confidence had drained from the nasal voice. “If you’re right, this is terrible. What can we do? How can we assure the people in charge that we are reliable? I wouldn’t betray the cause, Nate. I’m sure you wouldn’t, either.”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Look at Ruby. Look at Oswald.”

He nodded. “That’s true. And it’s so sad. I was Lee’s captain, you know, in the Civil Air Patrol? That’s where I met up with him. I saw such potential in the boy. I recommended him.”

“I’m sure he was grateful. And I’m a patriot, David, like you are, but I don’t want to be the next sacrifice.”

“My God, Nate, what do you suggest?”

“I want to meet with Uncle Carlos.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s a big fish. One of the biggest. I want to convince him that I’m trustworthy, and that I still have value to him. And I’ll put in a good word for you, too, David.”

He sipped some fizz and nodded, his mood brightening. “Well, I can arrange that. He’s at Churchill Farms right now, so that’s out — no phone out there. But I can get you a meeting tomorrow, probably, at his office at the Town and Country Motel.”

“No. It has to be a public place. A neutral place. I don’t want to become Yankee Gumbo, David. You do know what that is?”

“I know. I know.” He looked around anxiously. “I’ll see what I can do. See what I can do. Where are you staying, Nate?”

“The Roosevelt.”

“I’ll call you there, sometime tomorrow.” He slipped out of the booth. Nikki was just finishing up to “Muskrat Ramble.” He thrust his hand out again and I shook it.

He leaned close. “You’re a good man, Nate. I appreciate you thinking of me in this tricky situation.”

I was holding my breath, trying not to take in his BO. “Pleasure to meet you, too, David.”

His confidence was back and he gave me a little military salute and headed out.

What a fucking lunatic.

I had wanted to size him up, and confirm a few theories, and I had. But what I mostly wanted was that sit-down with Uncle Carlos. I wanted to convince Marcello that I was not a threat. And try to determine whether he was behind the cleanup crew or whether a group of the Dealey Plaza boys had taken it upon themselves to tidy up, for their own benefit.

This was not to say settling scores was not on my mind. A penchant for revenge was perhaps not my best quality, but it was a trait I was not likely to shed at this late stage of my existence. I would be sharing everything I knew with Bobby Kennedy — including every syllable of the Ruby interview. My capacity for remembering conversations damn near rivaled that James Bond gizmo Flo had recorded him on.

Eventually RFK would be in the White House, where he could deal with his brother’s killers in a much better, more complete way than I ever could.

I sat through Janet’s first set — her trademark “Hold That Tiger” routine was enough to put a smile on my face, as I thought about having Jada to myself in my room at the Roosevelt all day tomorrow, jing jing jing — and then I made my way out of the club and onto the sidewalk.

Funniest damn thing, a car pulled up at the curb looked exactly like the lime-green ’64 Galaxie I’d rented at the airport. But I hadn’t driven here, I’d walked over from the Roosevelt, and anyway there were a lot of Fords in the world.