Why do they call you Sunshine anyway? It wasn't for your disposition, was it?'
Solegiatto. That's my name. It's Italian for sunshine.'
They drove north, up County Road, with the ocean on their right, or at least what they could see of it between the ship-sized houses.
Then I guess you're in the right place, Sunshine,' said Nimmo. Just look at these fuckin' houses. This place looks like they own the patent on good weather, as well as everything else. How the other half lives, huh?
The other half?' Mothballs twisted around in the front passenger seat and laughed harshly. Sa matter, pal? Something wrong with your math. Jesus, there isn't more than nought point one per cent of the fuckin' country lives the way these people do. Heaven's gonna look mighty disappointing when they die.
Heaven?' snorted Nimmo. I don't think so. There's only one place for people as rich as this to go when they're dead. It's not hell. It's worse than hell. It's Canada.'
When we get to the Kennedy place,' said Mothballs, you'll see that there ain't much to see. Leastways not from the road, anyway. There's a better view from the ocean. But we'll take the land side first and then go pick up the boat.'
The Kennedy house, at 1095 North Ocean Boulevard, was as easy to spot as his home in Georgetown. A group of pink-faced tourists and a parboiled cop were grouped on the sidewalk, opposite the front of the house, although, as Mothballs had predicted, there was very little to see. Just an archway in a big white wall, with a heavy oak door and, beyond a courtyard, the glimpse of a white stucco corner, and a red-tile roof among a whole coconut plantation of wind-bent palm trees. The house looked as private as a camera-shy clam.
Sunshine pulled up a way short of the entrance and turned off the Pontiac's throbbing engine.
Whad I tell ya?' said Mothballs. Place is real private and, you might also say, modest by comparison with some of these other joints. I ain't ever been inside but I know people that have. Peter Lawford for one. He likes to score some weed off me when he's in town. Anyway, he told me that old Joe paid a hundred grand for the place back in the early thirties, and another twenty thousand bringing the place up to par. It was called La Guerida back then. But now it's just the Kennedy house. But some people have already started calling it the winter White House, for obvious reasons. Mind you, the weather's only part of the reason Jack comes down here so often, without Jackie. The other half is his next-door neighbour, Florence Smith. Her old man, Earl, used to be ambassador to Cuba. Jack's been fuckin' Flo since fifty-seven. You wait and see if Jack doesn't appoint Earl ambassador to somewhere else a lot further away than Cuba.
Nimmo smiled. Listening to Mothballs was like listening to a reporter for Confidential magazine. He said, This is better than any ten-cent tour I ever went on.'
We aim to please. Anyway, you can see for yourself that the boulevard's hardly the place for a sniper. A drive-by maybe. You know? Capone style. But not a marksman. But we'll stake it out for ya. Wait a minute. Who's this?'
A black, flat-top Cadillac drew up outside the entrance to the house. As a tall man got out of the car and moved towards the door, one of the tourists shouted, Where's Jackie?' The man smiled, and gesturing that he had no idea, he disappeared through the door.
Was that a Kennedy?' mused Nimmo.
Who the fuck knows?' commented Mothballs. There are so many of those mick fuckers. We've got Kennedys in Palm Beach like Sanibel's got fuckin' pelicans. Okay, let's go and get the boat.
Driving south to get on to Flagler Memorial Bridge and across Lake Worth, Mothballs pointed out an undistinguished church near the junction with Royal Poinciana Way. St Edward's,' he said. If you wanna shoot Jack Kennedy on a Sunday morning, before he confesses a whole Saturday night's worth of sins, then that's the place to go. Seven a.m. mass every time he's in town. And believe me, he's got a lot to confess. Mattress Jack is what the local girls used to call him. Man's been laid more times in this town than a fucking dinner table. Word is he even married some Palm Beach broad back in the forties. Durie Malcolm was her name. But old Joe got it annulled. Yes sir, Jack's a regular in confession. And somehow God always forgives Jack's sins. So I guess we'd better keep an eye on this place, too.'
Across the bridge, in West Palm Beach, they turned north on to Broadway. A few minutes' steady driving put them in Riviera Beach, and on Blue Heron Boulevard where they boarded a Tupperware sports fisher and headed out to sea, past Peanut Island and through the Lake Worth Inlet. Almost as soon as they were on the open blue mosaic of the Atlantic Ocean, Sunshine steered the boat south, along the Hesperidean coast of Palm Beach, affording his nefarious crew a clear and uninterrupted view of a plurality of plutocratic homes and gardens containing golden apples, ambrosia spurting fountains, and three-headed attack dogs. After only a few minutes he throttled back, and let the boat drift around in the eddy from its own screws.
There it is,' announced Mothballs, and handed a Nimmo a pair of binoculars that were as large as two Coke bottles. That's the Kennedy place. If it was me planning to whack the guy, this might be where I'd choose to do it from.'
Nimmo lifted the binoculars to his beetle-brow and quickly focused on the house. The main part of the house was a two-storey affair, about one hundred feet long, with a guest bungalow or pool-house immediately to the south. Bracketed by palm trees shaped into parentheses by the prevailing Atlantic breezes, and lush vegetation that evidenced a contempt for the cost of gardeners, the place was set atop a concrete dock that was twice the length of the house, and about fifteen feet high. Nimmo thought it an impressive-looking house although, by the more opulent standard of a Flagler, a Post, or a Widener, Addison Mizner's pseudo-Spanish design was quite plain -even a tad Boston conservative.
Nimmo enfiladed his way along the winter White House, taking in details like the two dozen windows, the white picket fence that nearly hid the swimming pool from the ocean, and, moored to the dockside, the coastguard's launch from which two blue-shirted men wearing life-jackets were staring back at him through equally powerful binoculars.
They say Jack's got a secret entrance, to let him get out on a pussy hunt with no one seeing. But don't ask me which one of those doors it is. If Kennedy was here now, those coastguards would be patrolling this area and moving nosey-parkers like us on our way, for sure. Not that Jack gives much of a fuck who sees him in his swimsuit. No sir. Sometimes he even swims in the ocean. There are sharks, but he doesn't seem to give a fuck. But then I guess Jack's the biggest shark of them all.'
You add those coastguards to the swell under this boat,' said Nimmo, and you've got a tough shot to make. How far do they come out from shore, Mothballs?'
Bout fifty, sixty yards, depending on the weather.'
Jefferson would probably have to put another hundred between himself and the coastguard. That's a minimum of a hundred and fifty yards to shore. Yes sir, that's quite a shot to make. He'd have to hope for a nice smooth sea. Not to mention the most important thing, which is getting a sight of Jack. The pool area's quite well hidden. Seems to me it's all just a little unpredictable.'
He's a professional,' said Rosselli. That's what you pay him for. If any schmuck could do it, you'd do it yourself. That's the way these things work. Maybe he'd do it at night. Some of those windows get lit up they'd make quite a target.'
You wanna shoot Jack Kennedy?' growled Sunshine.
Nimmo grinned. Not especially, no. I think you're missing the point, Sunshine. We're trying to prevent that from happening.'
Then you wanna do it on the fuckin' golf course.
Yes, there's a thought,' agreed Rosselli.
Man plays early Saturday morning,' Sunshine continued in his Buddhist chanter's bass monotone. At the Palm Beach Country Club. S'about half a mile from the house. Shooter waits in a bunker, or something. With his gun in a golf bag. Makin' like he's tryin to wedge his way out of the sand, right? Only he'd have to make it the nine out. Jack don't often complete the nine home.'
Sunshine's a real keen golfer,' confirmed Mothballs. Gotta handicap of six.'
Is that all?' Nimmo grinned.
I seen him play a few times,' continued Sunshine. Got a friend who's a member at the PBCC. It wasn't right him makin' those remarks about Ike playin golf all the time, specially when he likes to play himself. Mind you, Ike's better. May be an old man, but he's good. Good enough, you know? Kennedy'll hit some nice shots. But he's too stiff around the waist. And he ain't got the patience to get his game right.'
