5432852385743

“Be careful.”
“Like walking on eggs.”
She tried to smile. It turned into a wince as the freshly flayed left side of her face pulled against
itself. Her eyes looked over my shoulder. I turned to see Deke and Ellie in the doorway. They had
dressed in their best, Deke in a summer-weight suit, string tie, and town cowboy hat, Ellie in a pink
silk dress.
“We can wait, if you want us to,” Ellie said.
“No, come on in. I was just leaving. But don’t stay long, she’s tired.”
I kissed Sadie twice—dry lips and moist forehead. Then I drove back to West Neely Street, where I
spread out the items I’d bought at the costume and novelty shop. I worked slowly and carefully in
front of the bathroom mirror, referring often to the directions and wishing Sadie were here to help
me.
I wasn’t worried that de Mohrenschildt would take a look at me and say haven’t I seen you before;
what I wanted to make sure of was that he wouldn’t recognize “John Lennon” later on. Depending on
how believable he was, I might have to come back on him. If so, I’d want to take him by surprise.
I glued on the mustache first. It was a bushy one, making me look like an outlaw in a John Ford
western. Next came the makeup, which I used on my face and hands to give myself a rancher’s tan.
There were horn-rimmed specs with plain glass lenses. I had briefly considered dying my hair, but
that would have created a parallel with John Clayton that I couldn’t have faced. Instead I yanked on a
San Antonio Bullets baseball cap. When I was finished, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror.
“Nobody gets hurt unless it absolutely has to happen,” I told the stranger in the mirror. “And
never by mistake. Have we got that straight?”
The stranger nodded, but the eyes behind the fake glasses were cool.
The last thing I did before leaving was to take my revolver from the closet shelf and shove it in my
pocket.
4
I got to the deserted parking lot at the end of Mercedes Street twenty minutes early, but de
Mohrenschildt was already there, his gaudy Cadillac butted up against the brick backside of the
Montgomery Ward warehouse. That meant he was anxious. Excellent.
I looked around, almost expecting to see the jump-rope girls, but of course they were in for the
night—possibly sleeping and dreaming of Charlie Chaplin touring France, just to watch the ladies
dance.
I parked near de Mohrenschildt’s yacht, rolled down my window, stuck out my left hand, and
curled the index finger in a beckoning gesture. For a moment de Mohrenschildt sat where he was, as if
unsure. Then he got out. The bigtime strut wasn’t in evidence. He looked frightened and furtive. That
was also excellent. In one hand he held a file folder. From the flat look of it, there wasn’t much inside.
I hoped it wasn’t just a prop. If it was, we were going to dance, and it wouldn’t be the Lindy Hop.
He opened the door, leaned in, and said, “Look, you’re not going to shoot me or anything, are you?”
“Nope,” I said, hoping I sounded bored. “If I was from the FBI you might have to worry about that,
but I’m not and you know I’m not. You’ve done business with us before.” I hoped to God Al’s notes
were right about that.
“Is this car bugged? Are you?”
“If you’re careful about what you say, you won’t have anything to worry about, will you? Now get
in.”