“What?”
“I don’t know. All of it. Four days ago my entire world is this dig – for stuff that matters to maybe a dozen people...” What he didn’t say was that Leslie Goldman’s reaction to the letter about his cartoon strip would have been very different from Kate’s. He stole an appreciative glance at Kate’s lovely face, pleased to have her beside him. She was dozing off.
“Kate...?”
She opened her eyes.
“...I want you to think back. Tell me everything you can remember about your grandfather. Anything your mom might’ve said. A snippet, a comment, an anecdote...”
Jesus, I’m even starting to think like a goddam detective.
TWENTY-FOUR
1963
Wednesday, November 27th
John Ciccone clenched the steering wheel. “Nikki, we’re here to protect you, to make this happen. Period.”
She glanced at the dashboard clock. 11:54. Outside, everything was lead-gray. Sky, barren trees, mountains, the Courthouse across the street. “God, this is what I hate about Bennington. Six months a year the whole fucking place looks dead.” She turned to Ciccone. “Bullshit. You’re going to shoot him.”
Charlie, bulky in his zipper-jacket, chinos, looked out from the lobby phone booth. Activity was sparse. A couple of Sheriff’s people, a construction worker checking his fly as he emerged from the men’s room, a mousy woman entering with a large manila folder – probably a lawyer’s secretary. 11:58. Charlie lifted the handset, dropped a dime in the slot. He ran his tongue around his lips, dialed. He was energized. Finally. The train, this rickety vehicle of Charlie’s devising, was about to leave the station.
When he entered the Courthouse an hour earlier, shopping bags in hand, his spirits were at a desperate low, black. Hoping to insulate the people he cared about from the consequences of his actions – hell – face it – from getting dead because of him, Charlie had gotten little sleep. Second-and-third-guessing himself, imagining possible fuckups, projecting their repercussions, the seemingly endless permutations of moves and countermoves, the potential for mistakes, had left him depressed as well as brain-weary, fearful that he’d neglected some tiny-but-key detail. Because overriding all of it was a self-imposed absolute: whether or not he survived this insane gamble, it must not extend beyond him. If it resulted in any of the people close to him getting hurt, it would – even if he succeeded in pulling it off – be a disaster.
So Charlie had faced the tough questions. Among them, worst case, if everything went south and he was killed – would DiMartini and Company track him back to his family? Maybe. Hell, probably. He’d done everything he could think of to throw them off. The stolen license tags would certainly delay linking him to the Chevvie – for which he had a contingency plan anyway. He hadn’t used his real name for several days, and before climbing into bed, he had carefully shredded and flushed down the toilet everything that identified him as Charles Callan, leaving him only his dummied-up Robert Samson gas cards and driver’s license. And then there was his .38, which he’d long ago rendered untraceable by filing off the numbers. Sure, his fingerprints were on file in Nevada, both from his investigator’s license and the incident in Carson City when he’d had to accept arrest and booking in order to protect a client, but unless the bad guys were sufficiently motivated, that route was unlikely. Besides – with him dead they’d have their negatives and their money. There would be no reason for retribution – but just in case, he had a plan for that, too.
If the exchange worked, if he survived and got away with their money, and the heavies received what they were paying for – they’d certainly make it their business to figure out who he was. But he’d have some time – not much, but some – plus the wherewithal to hurry his family and Dorothy safely into hiding, to help them vanish. Leave the country if necessary.
By the time Charlie had finally fallen into a brief, fitful sleep, he was convinced that he could, with eyes closed, draw a perfect map of Mrs. Murck’s ceiling, crack-for-crack, plaster-chip-for-plaster-chip, mildew-spot-for-mildew-spot. He wished he were as confident that he’d done everything possible – short of walking away from the whole thing – to protect his family – and Dorothy.
He showered, finishing with a long minute of full-on cold to get his heart and brain started. Dressed, he grabbed the brown-paper shopping bags he’d packed before going to bed, slipped out while the gabby Mrs. Murck was in the basement. He walked to a nearby coffee shop, where he downed a quick breakfast. And tried to escape his foreboding by immersing himself in the latest Deseret News, but none of it grabbed him – Pete Rose winning NL Rookie of the Year by a landslide, Gary Peters edging out Pete Ward and Jimmie Hall for the AL honors – though Charlie had figured Hall to win. The item about Aldous Huxley’s death did recall for him Brave New World, which he’d devoured in his teens, but that in turn reminded him of time passing, of his own potentially imminent demise. Nor were the three Camels and four cups of coffee much help. Or the waitress’s irritating hyper-cheeriness. He rose, added several coins to his tip, stuffed the newspaper into one of his bulging shopping bags, took them to the payphone at the back, near the restrooms. In addition to telephone-change, he was down to only $23.
Charlie more-than-half-dreaded the first call, forced himself to sound positive. He reached Phyllis just as she was leaving for the salon, was thankful for her hurried, harried self-involvement. She asked neither where he was, nor when he’d be home. Her clipped comments were about money, estimates for repairs, unpaid bills. She reported that Lynnie had phoned, was feeling okay except for her ankle and morning-sickness, still exasperatingly vague about when she’d return from California. Then Charlie’s mother called to say that while Lynnie may have come off as hostile, Emily was sure it wasn’t anything Phyllis should take personally. “She goes I think it’s whaddyacallit ‘compensation’ I think she said for what was it? Fear and depression. You know your mother, all that California psychology nonsense.”
Charlie was suitably sympathetic, or so it appeared, since Phyllis didn’t complain. He volunteered nothing about his own activities. She didn’t seem to mind, had to run or she’d be late for her first client. Charlie told her he’d call tomorrow, then rang off, checked his watch. He’d probably be awakening Dorothy, since she would not have gotten home from her casino gig till after one AM. But it couldn’t wait. He needed to hear her voice.
“Charlie? Ogod honey, where are you? I’ve been so worried. Are you all right? Where are you? When’re you coming home? I hear Marjorie’s back with Stan. Ogod are you still there?”
Charlie grinned. “I am...” He delighted in the contrast of her sweet, gushing, little-girl excitement and sexy-drowsy voice, imagining how she looked at that moment, her smell, the wonderful softness of her shoulders, arms. “I love you, Dorothy...”
It was the possible finality of his goodbye to Dorothy that brought him the rest of the way down as he walked the four blocks to the Courthouse. He wasn’t ready for it to end.
Nicole climbed out, opened the rear door, removed the cardboard carton from the back seat. Ciccone moved his head from side to side, scanning the reflection of the Courthouse entrance in his outside mirror, then turned. “Remember, just give him the box, and---”
She scowled. “I got it, Johnny.”
“...and when he hands you the package, you walk away to the east. We’ll pick you up.”
Holding the carton with both arms, Nicole elbowed the door partway, slammed it shut with her knee, headed across the street. Ciccone got on his walkie-talkie: “Okay, all of you. The second she takes off with the merchandise, everybody with a clear shot – go for it. But only if you’re clear. No fuckups.”
“Grand County Sheriff’s Department.” The young Deputy noted the clock snapping to 11:59, reached for his coat.
Forty feet away, in the booth on the far side of the lobby, Charlie spoke rapidly. “Okay, listen to me carefully. At exactly noon, less than a minute from now, there’s gonna be
a demonstration outside the main entrance of the Courthouse. Something about the Kennedy assassination – and they’ve got guns.” He clicked off.
“Waitwaitwait. Can I have your...? Oh, man.” The Deputy slammed the phone down, debated for an instant, then called out to the room: “Heads up, everybody. Main entrance. Sara Jane, alert all units. Better make it a Code Blue while you’re at it.”
The clock hit 12. Charlie watched with satisfaction as, a few seconds later, the doors opened almost simultaneously. County Records, Building & Safety, the Courtroom, disgorging employees and others into the lobby, pulling on coats, adjusting hats, wrapping mufflers, heading for the exits. Four uniformed Deputies hurriedly emerged from the Sheriff’s Office. The two with riot guns went toward the rear of the building. Charlie observed that they appeared tense, but were trying not to alarm anyone. He put on his zero-zero, black-framed Buddy Holly eyeglasses, left the phone booth, fell in step with the crowd of twenty or so, then paused at the lobby doors to survey the plaza. He spotted Nicole standing alone, holding the carton in gloved hands as lunch-bound workers moved past her on either side. Except for a woman meeting a female friend from the Courthouse, then walking off arm-in-arm, chatting animatedly, there seemed to be nobody else standing around, no one casually, suspiciously, strolling past. One of the Deputies slowed as he neared Nicole, sized her up, shifted his gaze elsewhere, presumably having decided she didn’t fit the profile.
Good. The mooks are hanging back. All of ‘em with rifles, of course.
Charlie placed one gloved hand in his jacket pocket, gripped his .38, exited.
From his car, John Ciccone saw the Deputies. “What the fuck is that all about?” He grabbed up his walkie-talkie, alerted his people.
Approaching Nicole, Charlie was struck by her beauty. Her stylish, obviously expensive shearling coat and boots, the straight black hair and insolent, self-assured stance – at first glance they said fashion model/rich kid affectation. But then there was the edge, the quick intelligence of her dark, ever-moving eyes.
Yeah, a package-and-a half, this one.
“Miss Gruber, I’m Russell, and I’ve got a gun.” They were face-to-face, only the carton separating them.
She did not move, spoke without inflection. “Christ, I should hope so.”
Unexpected, it briefly caught Charlie’s attention. With his free hand, he opened the carton, leaving the flaps angled inward to prevent passersby from seeing the contents. He riffled one of the banded stacks of currency.
“Don’t worry, its all there. I made sure. Tell me – what’s my father done now? What’s in the pictures?”
Charlie hastily checked a few more bundles. “You don’t wanta know.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re going to kill you. Probably as soon as I leave.” She jerked her head to the right. “I’m supposed to go that way.”
Charlie discounted this information as part of their setup. Misdirection. A Sheriff’s cruiser pulled up at the curb. One of the office-Deputies conferred with the driver. Close by, Deputies looking for signs of trouble.
Nicole smiled. “That your doing?”
He scanned the area. A few masonry workers on the scaffolding, applying brick veneer to the new addition, three Courthouse secretaries disagreeing about where to eat. Then, across the street, near the far end of the block, he picked up the man lighting a cigarette. Another, perhaps fifty yards to the left, ducked behind a fence.
Probably a half-dozen more I’m not seeing.
Ciccone slumped in his seat, trying to conceal the walkie-talkie into which he was hissing. “I said I don’t know why the fuck she’s still talking to him. Just – when she splits, take him down, dump your pieces, and start walking.”
Charlie groped, pulled up a stack of bills from the bottom, quickly eyed it. The money seemed to be real. He replaced it, closed the carton. Another cruiser turned off of Main into Center Street, siren howling.
Time to move.
Charlie gripped her upper arm, flashed an ingratiating smile, spoke through his teeth. “Don’t give me any trouble. I’ve got bupkis to lose.”
Nicole’s expression softened. “Jesus, you’re doing this on your own, aren’t you?”
Charlie was flattered. It sounded almost like admiration.
The second cruiser slowed, swung a U-turn, siren winding down. A Deputy approached: “Excuse me. It’d be best if you folks cleared the area.”
You’re reading my mind, pal.
“Sure thing. What’s going on, officer?” Charlie didn’t wait for a response, guided Nicole toward the entrance.
Ciccone craned, looked back at the plaza. “Ohshit.” Nicole and Russell were entering the Courthouse. “Okay, listen up. This isn’t playing the way it’s supposed to. Cops or no cops, anybody doesn’t have a bead on the doors – and I mean back and sides – every fucking way in or out – take up new positions. Fast. Russell shows his fucking head, blow the sonofabitch away.” Ciccone turned off the walkie-talkie, tossed it on the floor, sat up straight. “Christ, this is all I need.” He checked the clip in his Colt automatic, climbed out of the car, strode toward the Courthouse with studied casualness.
The Courthouse lobby was empty. Charlie steered Nicole past the bank of phone booths, paused at the men’s room door. Satisfied that nobody was watching, he gently propelled her inside. He put his forefinger to his lips, pulled her along with him as he quickly made certain that each toilet stall was empty. Except for the last – that one was closed. He released her arm, patted her down, re-crossed the room, took a wooden wedge from his pocket, shoved it under the door, gave it a kick. He pocketed his black-framed eyeglasses, reached behind the trash receptacle, pulled out a length of wire that had until that morning been a clothes hanger, still hooked at one end. Moving to the last stall, Charlie lowered the wire, hook-first, over the doortop. “This’ll be over in a minute.”
“Don’t hurry.” She grinned. “It’s like being in a movie.”
He unlatched the door. “Put the box down and open it.”
She did so. From the coat hook behind the stall door, Charlie removed the shopping bags, reached into one, withdrew a third bag, folded, empty. He shook it open, squatted, began transferring the banded stacks of cash from the carton. Nicole pitched in.
“C’mon, tell me – please.”
He hooked her eyes with his. “Why?”
“Have you got about three weeks...?” Nicole looked down, then back at him. “Because I hate them, okay? Because I’d like to see you get away with it. Because I don’t believe for one goddam second it’s about sex.”
“That’s what they told you?” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. The carton was empty, the bag full. Charlie covered the top layer of bills with the newspaper, stood, offered his hand.
Nicole took it, rose. “He. My father.”
“Here...” Charlie pulled the film canister from his jacket, held it out to her.
She regarded it with distaste. “It’s – something awful, isn’t it?”
Charlie’s initial liking for Nicole was evolving into a kind of respect. She didn’t seem to be the willful brat he’d read about. Further, he was dismayed by his desire to protect her from the truth. Maybe it was just that she was this drop-dead knockout. Or that he had a daughter almost her age whose approval he valued, the flip-side being his certainty that Lynnie needed to believe in him. It didn’t matter. Whatever the reasons, he did not want to destroy whatever illusions Nicole might still have about her father. “Just take it, okay – and get outa here. I’ve gotta---”
“No, dammit. Look – one way or the other I am going to find out...”
Charlie glanced toward the door.
What am I – nuts? Another minute the Sheriffs’re gonna figure out they’ve been had, go for donuts, the fucking goons’ll walk in and kill me – and I’m standing here worrying about hurting her goddam feelings?
One more try: “Look, it’s...better you don’t ask...” Charlie grabbed her hand, placed the ca
nister in it, pressed her fingers around it. Then, eyes averted, he hurriedly removed his jacket. Beneath it was another, this one faded denim. He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt. She stared at him. Charlie continued to look away, grabbed onto a sink for support, peeled off his chino trousers. Underneath, he was wearing jeans.
“Wait a minute – you’re not saying...?”
Charlie peered into one of the shopping bags, only partly to see its contents.
Nicole’s dread was more apparent with each syllable. “Tell me it isn’t what...I...think...it...is...”
Charlie continued to busy himself.
“Oh...dear...god...”
He heard her pain, felt an urge to put his arms around her, to comfort her.
“My...father...?”
Finally, Charlie looked at her. “Not just him, I don’t think. I think a lotta people’re involved.”
“Jesusjesusjesus...” Then: “But – you’re letting him get away with it? And profiting from it---?”
“Hey, believe me...” Charlie overrode her. “...If I thought there was anybody I could---”
“Jesus. That makes you as miserable a piece of shit as---”
“Hey! Keep your voice down, willya?”
“Across the hall – that’s the Sheriff’s office...” She started toward the door.
Charlie grabbed her arm. “Listen – you saw what they did to Oswald for chrissakes – with the police standing right there with their fingers in their noses. They’d arrest your father – and they’d send another Jack Ruby to take him out before he ever told ‘em word-one. I mean don’tcha get it...?” He had her attention. “...We’re not supposed to know. None of us. Ever. Well – maybe thirty – forty years from now – after enough people die...”
A frustrated, increasingly anxious John Ciccone arrived at the top of the stairs, surveyed the lobby. A middle-aged man in overalls entered from the street, crossed unhurriedly to the Sheriff’s office. Ciccone had looked everywhere downstairs that wasn’t locked – storerooms, utility closets, furnace room – and before that on the main floor, courtrooms, offices – except of course for the Sheriff’s, which was now down to two uniformed deputies, one of them a woman with whom he’d almost collided rounding a corner several minutes earlier. Ciccone’s eyes fastened on the restroom doors.
The Sixteenth Man Page 23