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asked after Deke, wished her a good afternoon, and hung up. But I didn’t take a nap. I took my car
keys and my briefcase and drove downtown. I hoped to God I’d have something in that briefcase when
I came back.
6
I motored slowly and carefully, but my knee was still aching badly when I entered the First Corn
Bank and presented my safe deposit box key.
My banker came out of his office to meet me, and his name clicked home immediately: Richard
Link. His eyes widened with concern when I limped to meet him. “What happened to you, Mr.
Amberson?”
“Car accident.” Hoping he’d missed or forgotten the squib in the Morning News’s Police Beat page.
I hadn’t seen it myself, but there had been one: Mr. George Amberson of Jodie, beaten and mugged,
found unconscious, taken to Parkland Hospital. “I’m mending nicely.”
“That’s good to hear.”
The safe deposit boxes were in the basement. I negotiated the stairs in a series of hops. We used our
keys, and Link carried the box into one of the cubicles for me. He set it on a tiny wedge of desk just
big enough to hold it, then pointed to the button on the wall.
“Just ring for Melvin when you’ve finished. He’ll assist you.”
I thanked him, and when he was gone, I pulled the curtain across the cubicle’s doorway. We had
unlocked the box, but it was still closed. I stared at it, my heart beating hard. John Kennedy’s future
was inside.
I opened it. On top was a bundle of cash and a litter of stuff from the Neely Street apartment,
including my First Corn checkbook. Beneath this was a sheaf of manuscript bound by two rubber
bands. THE MURDER PLACE was typed on the top sheet. No author’s name, but it was my work.
Below it was a blue notebook: the Word of Al. I held it in my hands, filled with a terrible certainty
that when I opened it, all the pages would be blank. The Yellow Card Man would have erased them.
Please, no.
I flipped it open. On the first page, a photograph looked back at me. Narrow, not-quite-handsome
face. Lips curved in a smile I knew well—hadn’t I seen it with my own eyes? It was the kind of smile
that says I know what’s going on and you don’t, you poor boob.
Lee Harvey Oswald. The wretched waif who was going to change the world.
7
Memories came rushing in as I sat there in the cubicle, gasping for breath.
Ivy and Rosette on Mercedes Street. Last name Templeton, like Al’s.
The jump-rope girls: My old man drives a sub-ma-rine.
Silent Mike (Holy Mike) at Satellite Electronics.
George de Mohrenschildt ripping open his shirt like Superman.
Billy James Hargis and General Edwin A. Walker.
Marina Oswald, the assassin’s beautiful hostage, standing on my doorstep at 214 West Neely:
Please excuse, have you seen my hubka?
The Texas School Book Depository.