told him that no one had and no one would. But since the retirement home's bills were paid by Tom Jefferson's bank in Mexico City, it remained a possibility that had to be covered. Just like the bank itself, which was now watched round the clock by the same team of Cuban anti-Castro exiles whom Jefferson had met while he was there.
Barbara Zioncheck recalled her last coherent conversation with Mildred Jefferson, and thought she remembered having heard something about someone called Roberto, Tom Jefferson's father, who was now living permanently in Cuba. Nimmo came away from Intercession City almost certain that this particular avenue of inquiry was now terminated. Just like N Street, back in Georgetown, which the local police had now closed to the public - everyone, from those who wished mother and child well, to those who wished only harm to the father.
Nimmo had thought Kennedy would remain in Georgetown, next to his recuperating wife, for a long time, but he was soon proved wrong. One of Jack Kennedy's girlfriends, Judy Campbell, a Jackie look-alike from Los Angeles, was, through Frank Sinatra, also a girlfriend of Sam Giancana's. From Campbell, Giancana learned that Kennedy had invited her down to Palm Beach for the first weekend in December, staying at the Breakers Hotel, in a complimentary suite that Kennedy kept reserved for weeks at a time. After spending two or three nights sneaking out of La Guerida and into the back entrance of the Breakers - which kept Mothballs and Sunshine hugely amused - the President-elect returned to Washington for a meeting with President Eisenhower, on 6 December. Then it was back to Palm Beach again, only this time he was accompanied by Jackie and their two children, Caroline and John. Photographed on the runway at Palm Beach airport, they looked like any other happy family worth a hundred million dollars. Jackie, glamorous as always, seemed well rested, with no concerns other than the ones that afflict any new mother who has had a child delivered by Caesarean section.
It was ten o'clock on Saturday morning when Mothballs telephoned the safe house in Coral Gables. I'm not sure, but I think we could have a situation here,' he told Nimmo. There's some guy in a car with a New Hampshire licence plate who keeps coming back to park outside the Kennedy place. He's not John Laws, and he's not a Secret Service agent. And I'm pretty sure he's not Tom Jefferson, unless that was a very old photograph you gave me. No, this guy is old, about seventy years of age, and kind of rough-looking, too. Unshaven. Very not Palm Beach. The car's covered with dust, like he's been driving a way. And he does nothing but stare at the house, like he's waiting for something, or someone. And I got thinking, I know you didn't mention it, but it occurred to me that Jefferson might have some kind of accomplice. You know, a partner. For instance, you said he had a father, who might be around this guy's age. Either way, I've got a bad feeling about this fucking character. Maybe you should come and take a look for yourself.'
Nimmo thought for a moment. It did not sound like Tom Jefferson's MO, but could he afford to ignore the nose of an experienced criminal like Mothballs? He said, Where's Kennedy right now?'
On the golf course. Bobby Sunshine's keepin' an eye on him. After that, Sunshine'll be in the boat on the other side of the house.
Have you got the licence number of this guy's car?'
Mothballs gave it to him.
Sit tight. I'll be there as soon as I can.'
Nimmo telephoned police headquarters for a DMV check and any rap sheet on the driver, and then took off for Palm Beach. It was lunchtime when he arrived but, before driving up to the north of the island and the Kennedy house, he found a payphone and rang headquarters again. It turned out that the car was registered to a Richard Paul Pavlick, aged seventy-three, from Belmont, New Hampshire. Pavlick had no criminal record to speak of but, according to the Belknap County Sheriff's office, he had been treated at a local mental hospital. More disturbing was the news that Pavlick had written to a local attorney, Maurice P. Bois, threatening to kill Jack Kennedy. Bois had reported the threat to the police who had formed the conclusion that Pavlick, a retired postal clerk, was a harmless crank.
Mothballs was sitting in a grey Chrysler Imperial on North Ocean Boulevard, about forty yards north of the Kennedy house. Outside 1095 were the usual well-wishers, braving the heat in the hope of catching a glimpse of glamorous Jackie, and the usual cops shepherding them. The truth was that no one in Palm Beach wanted to see him as much as her. Nimmo parked beyond Mothballs' car and got into the Chrysler's passenger seat alongside him. The Palm Beach mobster looked hot and tired and smelt like he was badly in need of a bath. He pointed to a dirty- looking Ford parked about ten yards in front of him, on the opposite side of the baking boulevard.
That's him there,' he said, handing Nimmo his binoculars. Just sits there and watches, like a cigar store Indian. Gives me the spooks.'
Nimmo took a closer look. Pavlick seemed to be in no hurry to do anything now that he had driven all the way down from New Hampshire. He was round-shouldered, grey-haired, bespectacled. Having seen the guy for himself, Nimmo's first inclination was to agree with the New Hampshire police. The guy looked harmless enough.
Nimmo said, He's a loony. I had him checked out. Seems like he's spent some time in a mental institution.'
Only a loony would sit out here in this fuckin' heat, Mothballs said pointedly. 'So that figures.
On the other hand.'
Even as he spoke the dusty Ford started up its engine, and moved gently away, heading south, down the Boulevard.
I think maybe he heard you,' observed Nimmo. C'mon, let's follow him.'
What the fuck for?' objected Mothballs. He's a loony, ain't he?' But he started the car anyway and set off in slow pursuit of Pavlick's Ford.
I was thinking,' explained Nimmo. Maybe the New Hampshire cops got it wrong. I mean, it's over fifteen hundred miles between here and there. And that's a fuck of a drive for anyone, let alone a loony. And another thing. He's a smart enough loony to know that he'd be wasting his time sitting outside the Kennedy place in Hyannis Port. Massachusetts is a lot nearer Belmont, New Hampshire. Seems to me that if I was a loony, that's where I'd have headed. No, this guy knew Kennedy would be here in Palm Beach, because he reads the newspapers. And how loony is that?'
Depends which paper,' said Mothballs. Okay, you made your point. It was you that mentioned he was a loony in the first place. To me he looked like a guy trying to get up the nerve to do a drive-by. I know what that's like. I've sat in that car myself. Okay, you're thinking, I don't look old enough to have pulled that kind of Untouchables shit. But I started early in this business.'
They trailed Pavlick across Lake Worth to one of the many no-frills motels along Dixie Highway, close to the junction with Southern Boulevard. Between the cheap motels were stores selling sub-tropical plants, honey, citrus fruits, and kitsch souvenirs made of coconut shells, conch shells, and cypress knees. If they had driven further south on Dixie Highway the road would have been lined with signs advertising the merits of various jungle gardens, Indian villages, mineral springs, alligator farms, and lion ranches. It was a depressing area replete with half-assed schemes and disappointed dreams, and so many neon proclamations of Vacancy' that it was as if blank minds and absence of thought were the recommended orders of the day. Nimmo considered it an unlikely place to choose to stay in for anyone who was looking to give his mentally disturbed life some desperately needed meaning and significance. Substance and expression fled from the Dixie Highway like a breeze blowing through the bluish-green Australian pines, and out towards the empty ocean.
I do believe that the Secret Service agents guarding Mattress Jack are billeted in one of those flop-houses,' observed Mothballs.
Jesus, it's no fun being the Kennedy help, is it?'
Pavlick turned into the parking lot of a faceless, innominate motel and, watched by Nimmo and Mothballs from the other side of the highway, got stiffly out of his car, as if he had been sitting in it for quite a while.
Now what do we do?' asked Mothballs.
Observing that Pavlick had taken nothing with him from the car and into the motel, Nimmo said, One of us should take a look at that car. See if he's carrying a piece, or something.'
Mothballs turned off the engine and pulled on the parking brake. Like I keep saying, this is my territory, so let me handle it. If there's any trouble, I know all the cops around here. But you they don't know, and they don't owe. I reckon you of all people will understand what I mean by that. Besides, I used to jack cars when I was a kid. Grand Theft Auto was all I could spell until I looked up masturbation in the dictionary. Told you I started early.'
Nimmo shrugged as Mothballs pushed open the car door and got out. Okay. Whatever you say.'
Mothballs threw the door closed, then opened the back door, took out his jacket, and put it on. A unit like that heap of shit he's driving,' he said. S'not a fuckin' problem. Only, I always wear a jacket when I'm doing
