Shift: A Novel

Melchior nodded. “Just over three weeks ago, I shot Louie Garza.”

Giancana flicked a bit of lint off his cuff. “That name don’t mean nothing to me.”

“I shot him in Cuba, while he was trying to steal a nuclear bomb.”

Another pause. Melchior couldn’t tell if Giancana was considering what he’d just said, or considering how to get rid of his body after he had his guards shoot him in the back. Finally:

“Louie never mentioned no nuke to me.”

“That’s because he was planning to sell it and keep the money for himself.”

“You kill the bastard?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “So what happened to the nuke?”

“It’s still in Cuba.”

Giancana leaned forward, reaching for a cigar on his desk. “Oh well, que sera, sera, as Doris—”

“The way I see it, Mr. Giancana, that bomb belongs to you.”

For the first time Melchior got a reaction. An eyebrow twitch, but he’d take it. Giancana took the time to light his cigar before speaking again. Melchior glanced at the band. Cuban, of course. Montecristo. Also of course.

“I done a little-a this and a little-a that in my day. Girls. Booze. Even a few guns here and there. But a nuke? Why don’t I just tape a bull’s-eye on my forehead and hand the gun to Bobby Kennedy?”

“The way I see it, Mr. Giancana, the bull’s-eye’s on you already. Bobby Kennedy’s made the mafia public enemy number two—after Jimmy Hoffa. One way or another he’s going to nail your ass to the wall in the next year to make sure Jack wins the election, and he’s gonna ride that wave all the way to the White House in ’68. It’s gonna be sixteen years of the Kennedys unless someone does something about it.”

The number two was a good gambit. As the Montecristo suggested, Giancana liked to be tops in everything. Even the most-wanted list. “What do you want me to do, shoot Bobby Kennedy?”

Melchior shook his head. “Shoot him and you make him a martyr. Breaking the mafia will go from being his crusade to being the nation’s. The only way to stop him is to get him out of office, and the only way to get Bobby Kennedy out of office is to get Jack Kennedy out of office.”

Giancana puffed out thick gray wreaths of smoke until a bright red nubbin the size of a thimble glowed at the end of his Montecristo. He turned the cigar toward his face, brought the end so close to his eye that Melchior thought he was going to burn himself, but all he did was watch the glowing tip slowly fade like a dying star. Only when it had dimmed to the palest orange did he look back at Melchior.

“Say it straight,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you want, or I’m gonna use this cigar to write my name on your forehead.”

Melchior came closer to gulping than he ever had in his life.

“What I’m saying, Mr. Giancana, is that if you take this bomb off my hands, I’ll take care of your Kennedy problem. For good.”

Two hours later, he called Song from Midway. Ivelitsch answered, and before Melchior could say anything, the Russian relayed what had happened at Peggy Hitchcock’s apartment in New York. The story seemed fuzzy to Melchior, like a TV station on a rainy day, but he was too wired to pay it any real attention. He was so jumpy after his interview with Giancana he was practically twitching.

“Yeah, whatever, Pavel, great men you’ve got working for you. I don’t give a shit right now. Put Song on.”

There was a disgruntled pause, the sound of muffled voices, then Song came on the phone.

“Is this line secure?” Melchior asked.

“We change it every month.”

“It’s the nineteenth. The Company’s had nearly three weeks to tap it, if they’re watching you. Is this line fucking secure?”

“Calm down, Melchior. Why would CIA be watching me?”

“Because they’re watching me. Jesus Christ, get with the program.”

“Melchior—”

“Look, just shut up and listen. Things are gonna happen fast now, or they’re not gonna happen at all. Our friend in the Windy City tells me you know Jack Ruby.”¹³

There was a pause. Song’s frustration came through the line like radiation.

“Song!” Melchior could barely keep from shouting. “Do you know Jack Ruby? The Carousel Club? Dallas fucking Texas?”

“I don’t exactly know him,” Song said coldly. “The Carousel gets its dancers through the Guild of Variety Artists—the Strippers Union—which is run out of Chicago, if you take my meaning. I once sent our friend in Chicago a rather beautiful blonde to dance for him at a private party. Somehow Ruby got wind of it and developed the notion that I’m in the habit of supplying girls to every whiskey-soaked dance club from here to Vegas.”

“Yeah, well, his dream’s about to come true. I want you to call him and tell him you’re sending Nancy to Dallas. Chul-moo is your pilot, right?”

“Yes—”

“Bring her in your plane. We’re gonna need it afterward. Just the three of you. There’s a little strip in north