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I wondered if I were mad. Surely the smart thing would be to remove the bug . . . and then remove
myself. I could reconnect with Oswald on April tenth of next year, watch him try to assassinate
General Edwin Walker, and if he was on his own, I could then kill him just as I had Frank Dunning.
KISS, as they say in Christy’s AA meetings; keep it simple, stupid. Why in God’s name was I fucking
with a bugged thriftshop lamp when the future of the world was at stake?
It was Al Templeton who answered. You’re here because the window of uncertainty is still open. You’re
here because if George de Mohrenschildt is more than he appears, then maybe Oswald wasn’t the one. You’re here
to save Kennedy, and making sure starts now. So put that fucking lamp back where it belongs.
I put the lamp back where it belonged, although its unsteadiness worried me. What if Lee knocked
it off the bureau himself, and saw the bug inside when the ceramic base shattered? For that matter,
what if Lee and de Mohrenschildt conversed in this room, but with the lamp off and in tones too low
for my long-distance mike to pick up? Then it all would have been for nothing.
You’ll never make an omelet thinking that way, buddy.
What convinced me was the thought of Sadie. I loved her and she loved me—at least she had—and
I’d thrown that away to come here to this shitty street. And by Christ, I wasn’t going to leave without
at least trying to hear what George de Mohrenschildt had to say for himself.
I slipped through the back door, and with the penlight clamped in my teeth, connected the tapwire
to the tape recorder. I slid the recorder into a rusty Crisco can to protect it from the elements, then
concealed it in the little nest of bricks and boards I had already prepared.
Then I went back to my own shitty little house on that shitty little street and began to wait.
12
They never used the lamp until it got almost too dark to see. Saving on the electricity bill, I suppose.
Besides, Lee was a workingman. He went to bed early, and she went when he did. The first time I
checked the tape, what I had was mostly Russian—and draggy Russian at that, given the super-slow
speed of the recorder. If Marina tried out her English vocabulary, Lee would reprimand her.
Nevertheless, he sometimes spoke to June in English if the baby was fussy, always in low, soothing
tones. Sometimes he even sang to her. The super-slow recordings made him sound like an orc trying
its hand at “Rockabye, Baby.”
Twice I heard him hit Marina, and the second time, Russian wasn’t good enough to express his
rage. “You worthless, nagging cunt! I guess maybe my ma was right about you!” This was followed by
the slam of a door, and the sound of Marina crying. It cut out abruptly as she turned off the lamp.
On the evening of September fourth, I saw a kid, thirteen or so, come to the Oswalds’ door with a
canvas sack over his shoulder. Lee, barefoot and dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans, opened up. They
spoke. Lee invited him inside. They spoke some more. At one point Lee picked up a book and showed
it to the kid, who looked at it dubiously. There was no chance of using the directional mike, because
the weather had turned cool and the windows over there were shut. But the Leaning Lamp of Pisa was
on, and when I retrieved the second tape late the following night, I was treated to an amusing
conversation. By the third time I played it, I hardly heard the slow drag of the voices.
The kid was selling subscriptions to a newspaper—or maybe it was a magazine—called Grit. He
informed the Oswalds that it had all sorts of interesting stuff the New York papers couldn’t be
bothered with (he labeled this “country news”), plus sports and gardening tips. It also had what he
called “fiction stories” and comic strips. “You won’t get Dixie Dugan in the Times Herald,” he
informed them. “My mama loves Dixie.”
“Well son, that’s fine,” Lee said. “You’re quite the little businessman, aren’t you?”