April fourteenth,' answered Ianucci, eighteen sixty-five.'
The State Legislature. Is that the building with the big golden dome on Boston Common?' asked Nimmo.
Rosselli, who knew Boston well, said it was. Pauli's right,' he said. This is a good place for a shot. What is more, as the state Senator for Massachusetts, Kennedy has had to maintain a voting address in Boston. According to our schedule his apartment is number thirty-six, at one twenty-two Bowdoin Street, which is right around the corner from the State House. And he'll be going there to make a last visit to his old apartment before moving into the White House. Chances are he'll walk to, or from, the State House.
That's something even Jack Kennedy can do for himself,' said Giancana. I'd better get it checked out. You can leave that to me, Jimmy. I'll call some people in Boston. Howard Winter.'
That fucking mick?' objected Rosselli. I wouldn't trust that cocksucker to send flowers to his own mother.'
It's a fucking mick town, ain't it? I'll have him send someone down to take a look and advise on that other f word you're always using for the CIA, Johnny.'
Feasibility.'
You ask me, it's a major fucking mistake for the President to walk anywhere,' commented Ianucci. I mean, it is kind of naive, isn't it? Look at what happened to Andy Jackson back in eighteen thirty-five. Poor sonofabitch walks out of the Capitol to light his fucking cigar and some limey fires two pistols at him. Lucky for him they misfired.' Seeing the way everyone was looking at him, Paul Ianucci shrugged defensively. What?'
Where does he learn language like this?' sighed Giancana.
No, I've been reading up about this kind of thing. Most American presidents get shot from a distance of less than six feet, and what is clear to me is that all the Secret Service agents in the world won't stop someone who is really determined to do it. Teddy Roosevelt got shot in Milwaukee, standing up to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. He got it in the lung, but lucky for him the bullet velocity was spent, having passed through his coat, his spectacles case, and, thickest of all probably, a folded manuscript of his speech. Garfield wasn't so lucky. He got shot in a Washington railroad station, not by some obvious criminal, but by an attorney, Charles Guiteau.'
Attorneys?' said Giancana. They're the worst fucking assassins of the lot. When you're dead, you don't even feel it.'
As a matter of fact, Garfield was on his way back to Massachusetts when it happened. And he had lots of protection. So did McKinley. He was shot by a man who had concealed a thirty-two inside a handkerchief. Shot him at point-blank range. It's like I say. The Secret Service won't stop you from getting shot.'
The Secret Service saved Harry Truman's ass, as I recall,' said Rosselli. Remember those Puerto Ricans who tried to whack him in fifty-one? It was a long time before that dumb bastard could wear the pants of that white suit again, I can tell you.'
We're getting away from the point here,' said Giancana. Which is that Kennedy's going to be spending a fuck of a lot of time in Palm Beach.'
Sam's right,' said Nimmo. I oughta drive up there, and check it out.'
If you do.'
Ianucci began to search through some of the papers that were piled in front of him. Since arriving at the safe house the man who looked like Dean Martin's younger brother had spent hours on the telephone, dealing patiently with the most dauntingly Gordian knots of red tape that American bureaucracy had ready to confound the unsuspecting interlocutor. He was tired, but he was still full of an investigative zeal that Nimmo applauded.
If you do go, Mister Nimmo,' he repeated, finding the paper for which he had been looking, there is something else you might like to check out at the same time. I've got a friend, from when I was in the army, who is now attached to the Fourth Army hundred and twelfth Military Intelligence Group, at Fort Sam Houston in Dallas. On my behalf, he's made some enquiries about Tom Jefferson with the hundred and eleventh MIG here in Miami.' He shrugged apologetically. I didn't know anyone there, I'm afraid. That's why the long way around.'
No, you're doing good, kid,' said Nimmo.
Well, sir, it turns out that Jefferson's army file is classified. But I was able to glean the following information.' He glanced down the page and began to read the notes he had taken of his telephone conversation. Tom Jefferson, born St Petersburg, Florida, nineteen twenty. Father Roberto Casas, a Cuban-born baseball player, naturalised American, mother Mildred Jefferson. Status, illegitimate. Brought up by his mother and his aunt, in Miami. Attended Miami High School, graduating second in his class, National Honor Society President, blah-blah. A runner-up in the National Rifle Championships when he was just nineteen years old. Enlisted United States Marine Corps, nineteen forty-two. Training at Camp Pendleton, and Marine Corps Scout and Sniper School, Greens Farm, San Diego. Served Guadalcanal, Okinawa, decorated, blah-blah, ended war with rank of Gunnery Sergeant.
Now then, here's where it starts to become really interesting. The official story is that he was attached to the United Nations between forty-seven and forty-nine. But what he was really doing is classified. Well, how can that be? We do know that he was a member of US Armed Forces in Korea in June nineteen fifty, when North Korean troops crossed the thirty-eighth parallel. And we do know he was captured at Pork Chop Hill, in January nineteen fifty-three. Repatriated August, when he retired from the army, after which nothing about him is known officially. I'm still trying to locate his parents, but I have been able to trace one of Jefferson's old army buddies from Greens Farm and Korea. Someone else who trained to be a sniper, just like our boy. Name of Colt Maurensig. And guess what? He's now running a gun dealer's shop, in West Palm Beach.'
Good work, Paul,' said Nimmo.
What the hell is there to shoot in Palm Beach?' grumbled Rosselli.
Burglars, intruders,' grinned Nimmo. People like you and me. Anyone who's worth less than a million dollars.'
You speak for yourself.'
In Palm Beach, it's not just Jack Kennedy who needs a bodyguard.'
Jimmy's right,' agreed Giancana. A lot of nervous money lives there. The kind that needs a castle door and a gold inlaid forty-four Magnum in order to sleep at night.'
Sam?' said Nimmo. Who can you call in Palm Beach?'
You mean made guys?' Nimmo nodded. Nicky Mothballs. Bobby Sunshine. They're part of Louis Trafficante's family. Why?'
We're going to need someone in Palm Beach. To help us keep an eye on the Kennedy place. In case Jefferson shows up. So, I was thinking, I might as well meet them when I'm up there.'
No problem. When?'
This afternoon. Tell them to meet me at the Breakers. It's the only place in Palm Beach I know.'
A charmed life you lead,' muttered Rosselli. I'd better come too. Make the introduction. Pay the price of their fuckin' help. Buy whatever it is they'll want to sell. He shrugged at Nimmo, and by way of explanation, added, 'I've met these two characters before.
Okay. I'd enjoy the company.'
Rosselli laughed, as if to say he didn't feel like he was much company, and said, You drive.'
Suits me.'
Can I come too?' asked Paul Ianucci.
Your Uncle Santos would kill me if I got you involved in something,' said Giancana. Be a fuckin' lawyer, kid. That's the best way of not getting involved there is.
It was a sixty-five-mile drive north from Miami to Palm Beach, along US1. Jimmy Nimmo liked to drive with the hood down. America was at its most American seen from a convertible. Driving a car that way made him feel deracinated, rootless, floating, conditions which he thought were probably those that most defined what it was to be an American. Like John Wayne riding the range. These days you had to be in a car to be reminded of what a vast, lonely country America really was. The Impala's powder-blue bonnet was short, by the standard of a Cadillac, but for him it was an essential feature in the appreciation of his country's geography. Rosselli seemed more interested in the copy of Life magazine he had brought along for the journey, than female pedestrians, and the occasional blue riband view of the ocean.
What are you reading about?' asked Nimmo.
Adolf Eichmann. He says his job fascinated him.'
Be happy in your work. That's what I always say.'
I was in effect a travelling salesman for the Gestapo,' Rosselli quoted, just as I had once been a travelling
