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He got in and shut the door. “About those leases—”
“You can discuss those another time, with other people. Oil isn’t my specialty. My specialty is
dealing with people who behave indiscreetly, and your relationship with Oswald has been very
indiscreet.”
“I was curious, that’s all. Here’s a man who manages to defect to Russia, then re-defect to the
United States. He’s a semi-educated hillbilly, but he’s surprisingly crafty. Also . . .” He cleared his
throat. “I have a friend who wants to fuck his wife.”
“We know about that,” I said, thinking of Bouhe—just another George in a seemingly endless
parade of them. How happy I would be to escape the echo chamber of the past. “My sole interest is
making sure you had nothing to do with that botched Walker hit.”
“Look at this. I took it from my wife’s scrapbook.”
He opened the folder, removed the single page of newsprint it contained, and passed it over. I
turned on the Chevy’s domelight, hoping my tan wouldn’t look like the makeup it was. On the other
hand, who cared? It would strike de Mohrenschildt as just one more bit of cloak-and-dagger spookery.
The sheet was from the April 12 Morning News. I knew the feature; AROUND TOWN was
probably read a lot more closely by most Dallas-ites than the world and national news. There were lots
of names in boldface type and lots of pix showing men and women in evening dress. De Mohrenschildt
had used red ink to circle a squib halfway down. In the accompanying photo, George and Jeanne were
unmistakable. He was in a tux and flashing a grin that seemed to show as many teeth as there are keys
on a piano. Jeanne was displaying an amazing amount of cleavage, which the third person at the table
appeared to be inspecting closely. All three held up champagne glasses.
“This is Friday’s paper,” I said. “The Walker shooting was on Wednesday.”
“These Around Town items are always two days old. Because they’re about nightlife, dig? Besides .
. . don’t just look at the picture, read it, man. It’s right there in black and white!”
I checked, but I knew he was telling the truth as soon as I saw the other man’s name in the
newspaper’s hotcha-hotcha boldface type. The harmonic echo was as loud as a guitar amp set on
reverb.
Local oil rajah George de Mohrenschildt and wife Jeanne lifted a glass (or maybe
it was a dozen!) at the Carousel Club on Wednesday night, celebrating the scrumptiddly-uptious
lady’s birthday. How old? The lovebirds weren’t telling, but to us
she doesn’t look a day over twenty-three (skidoo!). They were hosted by the
Carousel’s jovial panjandrum Jack Ruby, who sent over a bottle o’ bubbly and
then joined them for a toast. Happy birthday, Jeanne, and long may you wave!
“The champagne was rotgut and I had a hangover until three the next afternoon, but it was worth
it if you’re satisfied.”
I was. I was also fascinated. “How well do you know this guy Ruby?”
De Mohrenschildt sniffed—all his baronial snobbery expressed in a single quick inhale through
flared nostrils. “Not well, and don’t want to. He’s a crazy little Jew who buys the police free drinks so
they’ll look the other way when he uses his fists. Which he likes to do. One day his temper will get
him in trouble. Jeanne likes the strippers. They get her hot.” He shrugged, as if to say who could
understand women. “Now are you—” He looked down, saw the gun in my fist, and stopped talking.
His eyes widened. His tongue came out and licked his lips. It made a peculiar wet slupping sound as
he drew it back into his mouth.
“Am I satisfied? Was that what you were going to ask?” I prodded him with the gun barrel and
took considerable pleasure in his gasp. Killing changes a man, I tell you, it coarsens him, but in my