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. . could they? I didn’t see how, but I had come from a world where women were, for the most part,
treated as equals. 1963 never seemed more like a foreign country to me than it did at that moment.
“I’ll help as much as I can,” I said, but how much would that be? My cash reserves were deep
enough to get me through another few months, but not enough to pay for half a dozen facial
reconstruction procedures. I didn’t want to go back to Faith Financial on Greenville Avenue, but I
supposed I would if I had to. The Kentucky Derby was coming up in less than a month, and according
to the bookie section of Al’s notes, the winner was going to be Chateaugay, a longshot. A thousand on
the nose would net seven or eight grand, enough to take care of Sadie’s hospital stay and—at 1963
rates—at least some of the follow-up surgeries.
“I have an idea,” Mike said, then glanced over his shoulder. Bobbi Jill gave him an encouraging
smile. “That is, me n Bobbi Jill do.”
“Bobbi Jill and I, Mike. You’re not a kid anymore, so don’t talk like one.”
“Right, right, sorry. If you can come back into the coffee shop for ten minutes or so, we’ll lay it on
you.”
I went. We drank coffee. I listened to their idea. And agreed. Sometimes when the past harmonizes
with itself, the wise man clears his throat and sings along.
6
There was a whopper of an argument in the apartment above me that evening. Baby June added her
nickel’s worth, wailing her head off. I didn’t bother to eavesdrop; the yelling would be in Russian, for
the most part, anyway. Then, around eight, an unaccustomed silence fell. I assumed they’d gone to bed
two hours or so earlier than their usual time, and that was a relief.
I was thinking about going to bed myself when the de Mohrenschildts’ yacht of a Cadillac pulled
up at the curb. Jeanne slid out; George popped out with his usual jack-in-the-box élan. He opened the
rear door behind the driver’s seat and brought out a large stuffed rabbit with improbable purple fur. I
gawked at this through the slit in the drapes for a moment before the penny dropped: tomorrow was
Easter Sunday.
They headed for the outside stairs. She walked; George, in the lead, trotted. His pounding footfalls
on the ramshackle steps shook the whole building.
I heard startled voices over my head, muffled but clearly questioning. Footfalls hurried across my
ceiling, making the overhead light fixture in the living room rattle. Did the Oswalds think it was the
Dallas police coming to make an arrest? Or maybe one of the FBI agents who had been keeping tabs
on Lee while he and his family were living on Mercedes Street? I hoped the little bastard’s heart was in
his throat, choking him.
There was a flurry of knocks on the door at the top of the stairs, and de Mohrenschildt called
jovially: “Open up, Lee! Open up, you heathen!”
The door opened. I donned my earphones but heard nothing. Then, just as I was deciding to try the
mike in the Tupperware bowl, either Lee or Marina turned on the lamp with the bug in it. It was
working again, at least for the time being.
“—for the baby,” Jeanne was saying.
“Oh, thank!” Marina said. “Thank very much, Jeanne, so kind!”
“Don’t just stand there, Comrade, get us something to drink!” de Mohrenschildt said. He sounded
like he’d had a few belts already.
“I only have tea,” Lee said. He sounded petulant and half-awake.
“Tea’s fine. I’ve got something here in my pocket that’ll get it up on its feet.” I could almost see