“No, I’m being a jerk because I’m nervous.”
“Let’s get out of here. I’ve seen enough. Can you push me up the hill, or shall we wait for a cab here?”
“I’m fine.”
I pushed him up the hill. November 21, 1963, sunny but breezy, in the fifties, two men in jackets and ties, one pushing the other up a slight hill in a wheelchair. And that was that for recon, planning, rehearsal, and psychological preparation. We dealt with the issues as they came up, that was all, and improvised our way past any obstacles.
That night we had a final meeting in my room. Both Lon and I were eager to hear what Jimmy had been up to.
“I got this overcoat” – he held up a tan gabardine model, single-breasted, light, perfect for the weather and so banal that it would fit in anywhere in America – “and had a Chinese lady shorten the sleeves. Here, look.”
He threw the thing on. It hung well, even if the shoulder seams were a little off the shoulder, a few inches down the arm. Who would notice? More important, you could hide a tank in its folds.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s the interesting part. Question: how do we get a forty-inch, eight-pound rifle with scope and silencer into a building without anyone noticing it?”
“Something more sophisticated and more secure, please, than wrapping it in a paper bag,” I said.
“You’re going to have to break it down, obviously,” said Lon. “And I’m going to have to show you how to reassemble it. It isn’t just screwing in screws. You’ve got to set the three screws at a starting point, then tighten them three turns apiece in order, to a certain total for each hole. You’ve got to line up the slots with a piece of tape. That way, you preserve my zero.”
“He’s good at doing things,” I told Lon, nodding to Jimmy. “If you show him how to do it, he’ll do it exactly that way.”
“Mr. Scott,” said Jimmy, “I think I can manage. I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“It’s okay, Jimmy,” Lon said. “I didn’t mean anything snotty. I’m just nervous.”
“Me too,” said Jimmy, who looked as nervous as a stainless-steel rat trap, and we both had a tension- breaking laugh over such a ridiculous concept. Jimmy could talk his way into the Kremlin if he had to. “I also had the Chinese lady make me this,” he said.
He took a roll of material out of the coat pocket and unfurled it on the bed. It was about six feet long, four inches wide, and the woman had sewn pockets at either end, with crude but robust stitching meant to support weight.
“I throw it around my neck like a scarf,” Jimmy said. He did that so each end hung down the side of his body. “Now, in the left pocket, I slide in the rifle stock, with trigger guard and screws Scotch-taped in place and also the silencer. In the right pocket, I slide in the action, barrel, and scope. The pieces are hanging down my sides, halfway down my thighs, the metal parts a bit heavier than the wood, the whole thing awkward but secure. The lady was a good seamstress. Then I throw the coat on, and the coat being much longer than the ends of the scarf are, to my knees, it covers both completely. It’s so voluminous that nothing shows through the material. I just look like a businessman about his job on a coolish fall day in the great downtown trading center of Dallas, Texas. As long as I don’t run, squat, bump up against anybody or anything, I’m all right. Remember, my exposure will be short. Just the walk over from the car, the elevator upstairs, the walk down the hall, and one second to get in. I can get the rifle together in thirty seconds, you boys arrive, we open the window. Then we leave and go home and watch the rumpus on the television.”
“You must have brass balls, Irishman,” said Lon.
“Learned in the bog, sir,” said Jimmy.
“Tell me the rest, will you?” Lon said. “I don’t get it. I need to believe in it, and bloody Hugh here was so gung-ho and excited, I couldn’t follow him. I’m jumpy. I have to hear it from its author and know it’s going to work.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Scott,” said Jimmy.
“It’s a very good plan,” I said. “But we do need input. We need to know what to look for.”
Lon shook his head sadly.
“Tomorrow morning,” explained Jimmy, “around ten, I’ll show up at the Dal-Tex Building dressed in my best suit, my hair all pomaded fine-like, my eyes twinkly, my demeanor all charming Irish boyo. I will go into six offices on each of the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors of the Dal-Tex Building, those that front Elm as it nears Houston, and those on Houston as it looks down Elm. From any of those offices, Elm, as it passes the Book Depository and Dealey on its way to the triple overpass, is easily reached from the angle we need.
“In each office – I know what they are, I’ll spare you the details, but they’re garment wholesalers who move goods to Texas retailers in and around Dallas, some ladies’ lingerie, some men’s haberdashery, a tie specialist, two shoe lines, the rag trade, in short – and I’ll introduce myself to the girl and present her with my card.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of cards.
JAMES DELAHANTY O’NEILL
“JIMMY”
REPRESENTING
PREMIERE FASHIONS, BOSTON, MASS. 02102
DA9-3090
TELEX 759615 PREMIERE
“Then I hit her with my patter. Jimmy O’Neill, down from Boston, representing Premiere Fashions, purveyors of fine suitings, ladies’ wear and lingerie, and gents’ haberdashery. There is such a place, all will know it, but it’s not in this market. My pitch: we’re thinking of expanding, going national with the fine economy we’re experiencing, and I’m on a look-see tour to gauge the interest and was wondering if I could get a minute with the boss man to see if he’d be likely to take on a new line. In all instances, the answer should be no, not today. The reason is that the president’s coming to town, and we’re closing down the office from noon till two to go out and wave at the great young fellow. Darn, I say laughingly, my luck! I’ve seen him a thousand times in Boston, even in bars and restaurants, but I pick a day to come to Dallas, where nobody’s seen him, when he himself is here. She laughs and ushers me out.
“Of course, I’m scouting. First, will the office be closed? Second, how good is the angle to the street, particularly since we’re guessing the idiot will find some way to miss his first shot at the corner and Mr. Scott will have to pick it up as the limo goes down Elm and that little hill. Third, how big is the staff, in case there are any Republicans who might stay behind because they’re not about to admit a Democrat Irishman has become president. Fourth, what kind of lock’s on the door, and will it be easy to pop if I come back. Fifth- What’s fifth, you tell me. That’s what I need to know.”
“The windows,” said Lon. “We couldn’t tell from the street how they opened. We need an old-fashioned sliding window, up and down. No foldouts, because their hinges don’t let them fall low enough to be out of the line of fire.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jimmy.
“Books,” said Lon. “I’ve got to stabilize the rifle on something other than my lap. A heavy board that slides across and is supported on the arms of the chair would be best, but I can’t ask for that, I know. You’d never get it in. The best thing would be some heavy books to pack onto my lap. I’ll rest my elbows on them. That’s a request, not a demand. If it comes to it, we can secure the chair, and I can make that shot offhand. I still shoot offhand, sitting offhand, and I’m damned good, but the books would be helpful.”
“Books it’ll be, then,” said Jimmy.
“Finally, you said fourth, fifth, and sixth floors?”
“I did.”
“I’m thinking fifth is the preferable by far. I need as little angle downward as possible. Not for the shooting but for my placement in the room. If I’m on the sixth floor, I’ll have to be close to the window and maybe projecting the muzzle of the rifle beyond it in order to get the low angle. Not good, especially as it lets the muzzle of the suppressor out into the air, and the sonic boom won’t be contained in the room.”
“Is that it, Lon?” I asked.
“I can’t think of anything else,” Lon said.
