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DALLAS’S WHITE KNIGHT!
According to the papers, Jenkins was that for sure, a right-winger who saw eye-to-eye with Walker
and Walker’s spiritual advisor, Billy James Hargis. Robbie Jenkins stood for states’ rights, separatebut-equal
schools, and reinstituting the Missile Crisis blockade around Cuba. The same Cuba de
Mohrenschildt had called “that beautiful island.” The sign supported a strong feeling that I’d already
developed about de Mohrenschildt. He was a dilettante who, at bottom, held no political beliefs at all.
He would support whoever amused him or put money in his pocket. Lee Oswald couldn’t do the latter
—he was so poor he made churchmice look loaded—but his humorless dedication to socialism
combined with his grandiose personal ambitions had provided de Mohrenschildt with plenty of the
former.
One deduction seemed obvious: Lee had never trod the lawn or soiled the carpets of this house with
his poorboy feet. This was de Mohrenschildt’s other life . . . or one of them. I had a feeling he might
have several, keeping them all in various watertight compartments. But that didn’t answer the central
question: was he so bored he would have accompanied Lee on his mission to assassinate the fascist
monster Edwin Walker? I didn’t know him well enough to make even an educated guess.
But I would. My heart was set on it.
16
The sign in the window of Frank Frati’s pawnshop read WELCOME TO GUITAR CENTRAL, and
there were plenty of them on display: acoustics, electrics, twelve-strings, and one with a double
fretboard that reminded me of something I’d seen in a Mötley Crüe video. Of course there was all the
other detritus of busted lives—rings, brooches, necklaces, radios, small appliances. The woman who
confronted me was skinny instead of fat, she wore slacks and a Ship N Shore blouse instead of a purple
dress and mocs, but the stone face was the same as that of a woman I’d met in Derry, and I heard the
same words coming out of my mouth. Close enough for government work, anyway.
“I’d like to discuss a rather large sports-oriented business proposition with Mr. Frati.”
“Yeah? Is that a bet when it’s at home with its feet up?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Yeah, I’m Chief Curry of the Dallas Police. Can’t you tell from the glasses and the jowls?”
“I don’t see any glasses or jowls, ma’am.”
“That’s because I’m in disguise. What you want to bet on in the middle of the summer, chum?
There’s nothing to bet on.”
“Case-Tiger.”
“Which pug?”
“Case.”
She rolled her eyes, then shouted back over her shoulder. “Better get out here, Dad, you got a live
one.”
Frank Frati was at least twice Chaz Frati’s age, but the resemblance was still there. They were
related, of course they were. If I mentioned I had once laid a bet with a Mr. Frati of Derry, Maine, I
had no doubt we could have a pleasant little discussion about what a small world it was.
Instead of doing that, I proceeded directly to negotiations. Could I put five hundred dollars on
Tom Case to win his bout against Dick Tiger in Madison Square Garden?
“Yes indeedy,” Frati said. “You could also stick a red-hot branding iron up your rootie-patootie,
but why would you want to?”