They knew Juan was volatile. They didn't have him tagged as a possible sex killer. The job was fucked up and full of holes and reeked of amateur-night on-the-job training.
"Where are we going?"
"Jack Ruby's place. Rogers said Juan likes to dig on the whores there. You work inside--Ruby doesn't know you."
Kemper laughed. "Ward told Carlos not to trust psychopaths with bright red sports cars."
Pete said, "You did."
"I've had some revelations since then."
"Are you saying there's something I should know about Juan?"
"I'm saying I quit hating Jack. And I don't really care whether they kill him or not."The Carousel Club was midweek listless.
A stripper was peeling on the runway. Two plainclothes cops and a hooker clique sat at ringside tables.
Kemper sat near a rear exit. He unscrewed the bulb on his table lamp--shadows covered him from the waist up.
He could see the front and back doors. He could see the runway and stage tables. The shadows made him close to invisible.
Pete was out back with the car. He didn't want Jack Ruby to see him.
The stripper stripped to Andre Kostelanetz. The hi-fi played off-speed. Ruby sat with the cops and spiked their drinks with his flask.
Kemper sipped scotch. It jump-started the Dexedrine. He got cozy with a new revelation: You've got a chance to toy with the hit.
A dog ran across the runway. The stripper shooed it off. Juan Canestel walked in the front door.
He was alone. He was wearing an Ike jacket and blue jeans.
He went straight for the whores' table. A hostess sat him down.
He'd enlarged his prosthetic bulge. Check that shiv in his left hip pocket.
A sash cord was bunched into his waistband.
Juan bought drinks all around. Ruby schmoozed him up. The stripper tossed a few hips his way.
The cops checked him out. They looked mean and full of hate for non-Anglos.
Juan always carries a gun. They might shake him on general principles.
They might book him on a weapons charge. They might rubberhose him.
He might betray Banister. The Secret Service might cancel the motorcade.
Juan loved to drink. He might show up for the hit hung over. He might jerk the trigger and miss Jack by a country mile.
Juan loved to talk. He might arouse suspicion between now and noon on Friday.
The sash cord leaked out his front front waistband. waistband.
Juan is is a sex killer. Juan kills with his surrogate balls. a sex killer. Juan kills with his surrogate balls.
Juan chatted up the whores. The cops kept, sizing him up.
The snipper bowed and walked backstage. Ruby announced last call. Juan zeroed in on a zaftig brunette.
They'll walk out the front door. Pete won't see them. Their combustion might affect Juan's hit performance.
Kemper popped the clip out of his piece and dropped it on the floor. He left one round in the chamber--let's toy with the hit a little more.
The brunette stood up. Juan stood up. The cops looked them over.
The cops huddled. One cop shook his head.
The girl walked toward the parking-lot door. Juan followed her.
The lot fed into an alley. The alley was lined with hot-sheet-hotel doorways.
Pete was just outside.
Juan and the girl disappeared. Kemper counted to twenty. A cleanup man started slapping tables with a rag.
Kemper walked outside. A light mist stung his eyes.
Pete was pissing behind a dumpster. Juan and the whore were strolling down the alley. They were moving toward the second doorway on the left-hand side.
Pete saw him. Pete coughed. Pete said, "Kemper, what are you--?"
Pete stopped. Pete said, "Fuck... that's Juan...."
Pete ran down the alley. The second door on the left opened and closed.
Kemper ran. They hit the door together at a full sprint.
A center hallway ran back to front. Every door on both sides was closed. There was no elevator--the hotel was one story only.
Kemper counted ten doors. Kemper head a stifled screech.
Pete started kicking doors in. He threw his weight left, then right--clean pivots and clean flat-heel shots sheared the doors off their hinges.
The floor shook. Lights snapped on. Sad old sleepy winos cringed and cowered.
Six doors went down. Kemper crashed through number seven with a shoulder snap. A bright ceiling light caught the face-off.
Juan had a knife. The whore had a knife. Juan had a dildo strapped to the crotch of his blue jeans.
Kemper aimed at his head. His one round in the chamber went way wide.
Pete pushed him out of the way. Pete aimed low and fired. Two magnum shots blew out Juan's kneecaps.
He spun over the bed rail. His left leg dropped off at the knee.
The whore giggled. The whore looked at Pete. Something passed between them.
Pete held Kemper back.
Pete let the whore slit Juan's throat.They drove to a doughnut stand and drank coffee. Kemper felt Dallas ooze into slow motion.
They left Juan there. They walked walked to the car. They drove off law-abidingly slow. to the car. They drove off law-abidingly slow.
They didn't talk. Pete didn't mention his toy-with-fate number.
This weird adrenaline had everything running in slow motion.
Pete walked over to a pay phone. Kemper watched him feed coins into the slots.
He's calling Carlos in New Orleans. He's pleading for your life.
Pete turned his back and hunched over the phone.
He's saying Banister fucked up. He's saying Boyd killed the henchman he never should have trusted.
He's pleading specifics. He's saying, Give Boyd a piece of the hit--you know he's a competent guy.
He's pleading for mercy.
Kemper sipped coffee. Pete hung up and walked back to their table.
"Who'd you call?"
"My wife. I just wanted to tell her I'd be late."
Kemper smiled. "It doesn't cost that much money to call your hotel."
Pete said, "Dallas is pricey. And things are getting more expensive these days."
Kemper laid on some drawl. "They surely are."
Pete crumpled his cup. "Can I drop you somewhere?"
"I'll get a cab to the airport. Littell told that charter man to wait for me."
"Back to Mississippi?"
"Home's home, son."
Pete winked. "Take care, Kemper. And thanks for the ride."His patio booked out on rolling hillsides. The view was damn nice for a discount motel.
He requested a southern exposure. The clerk rented him a cabin apart from the main building.
The flight back was beautiful. The dawn sky was goddamn lustrous.
He fell asleep and woke up at noon. The radio said Jack arrived in Texas.
He called the White House and the Justice Department. Second-string aides rebuffed him.
His name was on some kind of list. They cut him off midway through his salutations.
He called the Dallas SAC. The man refused to talk to him.
He called the Secret Service. The duty officer hung up.
He quit toying with it. He sat on his patio and replayed the ride start to finish.
Shadows turned the hills dark green. His replay kept expanding in slow motion.
He heard footsteps. Ward Littell walked up. He was carrying a brand-new Burbeny raincoat.
Kemper said, "I thought you'd be in Dallas."
Littell shook his head. "I don't need to see it. And there's something in L.A. I do need to see."
"I like your suit, son. It's good to see you dressing so nicely."
Littell dropped the raincoat. Kemper saw the gun and cracked a big shit-eating grin.
Littell shot him. The impact knocked him off his chair.
The second shot felt like HUSH NOW. Kemper died thinking of Jack.
99
(Beverly Hills, 11/22/63)
T The bellhop handed over his passkey and pointed out the bungalow. Littell handed him a thousand dollars.