Kitabı oku: «November Road», sayfa 2

“And what did you think?” Charlotte said.

“Well. Have I explained the rule of thirds?”

Only a few dozen times. “Yes, I understand,” she said. “But in this case I was trying to capture the—”

“Charlotte,” he said. “Dear. You’re a lovely, smart girl, and I’m lucky to have you. The girl I had before you … well. All thumbs and not a brain in her head, bless her heart. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Charlie.”

He patted her shoulder. She was tempted to present an ultimatum. Either he gave her a chance with the Trumpet—she’d take any assignment, no matter how lowly—or he’d find out exactly what he would do without her.

Did she have any talent as a photographer? Charlotte wasn’t sure but thought she might. She knew the difference between an interesting picture and a dull one at least. She knew the difference between the photos in Life and National Geographic that seemed to leap off the page and the ones in the Trumpet that sprawled like corpses on a slab.

“Mr. Hotchkiss,” she said.

He’d turned and started to putter away. “Hmm?”

But of course she couldn’t afford to quit the studio. The money she brought home every week kept the ship afloat. And perhaps Mr. Hotchkiss was right and Charlotte was all thumbs when it came to photography. He was a professional, after all, with a framed certificate of merit from the Oklahoma Society of Professional Journalists. He might be doing Charlotte a favor. Thank goodness, she might say years from now, looking back. Thank goodness I didn’t waste any more time on that.

“Nothing,” she told Mr. Hotchkiss. “Never mind.”

She returned to work on the Richardson toddlers. Their parents were Harold and Virginia. Harold’s sister Beanie had been Charlotte’s best friend in grade school. His father had been Charlotte’s choir director in junior high. His mother loved pineapple upside-down cake, and every year Charlotte made sure to bake one for her birthday.

Virginia Richardson (née Norton) had worked with Charlotte on the high-school yearbook. She’d insisted that Charlotte double-check the spelling of every caption she wrote. Bob, Virginia’s older brother, had been a dashingly handsome varsity star in track, baseball, and football. He was married now to Hope Kirby, who a year after graduation had blossomed from ugly duckling to beautiful swan. Hope Kirby’s mother, Irene, had been Charlotte’s mother’s maid of honor.

Charlotte had known them all her life, the Richardsons and the Nortons and the Kirbys. She’d known everyone in town all her life, she realized. And everyone in town had known her. Always would.

Was it selfish of her, she wondered, to want more from her life? To want more for Rosemary and Joan? Woodrow was idyllic in many ways. Quaint, safe, friendly. But it was also interminably dull, as locked in its stubborn, small-minded ways, as resistant to new things and ideas, as Mr. Hotchkiss. Charlotte longed to live in a place where it wasn’t so hard to tell the past from the future.

A few months ago, she’d suggested to Dooley that they consider moving away—to Kansas City, maybe, or to Chicago. Dooley had stared at her dumbfounded, as if she’d suggested that they strip off their clothes and run screaming through the streets.

Today, on her lunch hour, Charlotte had no time for photography. She wolfed her sandwich, picked up the dog’s medicine at the vet, and then hurried down the street to the bank. Dooley had promised to talk to Jim Feeney this time, but no one was more adept at evading unpleasant tasks than her husband. Charlotte, unfortunately, couldn’t afford the luxury.

“Oh, darn, did I forget?” Dooley would say, his smile bashful without being apologetic, a little boy who’d gotten away with much in his life and become accustomed to it.

At the bank Charlotte had to sit and wait until Jim Feeney finished a phone call.

Little Jimmy Feeney. He and Charlotte had been in the same class since kindergarten. In grade school he’d been held back a year because arithmetic eluded him. In high school he’d broken his arm while attempting to tip a cow. Yet there he sat, behind the assistant manager’s desk, because he was a man. And here she sat, on the other side of the desk, because she was not.

“Hello, Charlie,” he said. “What may I help you with today?”

What indeed? Charlotte wondered if Jim relished her mortification or was just oblivious to it.

“Hello, Jim,” she said. “I’m afraid I have to ask for an extension on our mortgage payment this month.”

“I see.”

Bonnie Bublitz observed them from the teller cage. So did Vernon Phipps, cashing a check. Hope Norton (née Kirby) fluttered past and then fluttered back to hand Jim a folder.

I won’t beg, Charlotte thought, as she prepared to do just that.

“We just need a short extension, Jim,” she said. “A week or two.”

“This puts me in a spot, Charlie,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’d be the third extension this year, you know.”

“I do know. Things have been a bit tight lately. But they’re looking up.”

Jim drummed his fountain pen against the edge of his ledger. Thinking, or coming as near to it as he was able.

“You have to pinch every penny, Charlie,” he said, even though he knew Dooley, even though he knew full well the real source of their financial difficulties. “A detailed budget can be very useful. Household expenses and such.”

“Just an extra two weeks,” Charlotte said. “Please, Jim.”

His drumming trailed away. Da-da-da, da-da, da. Like a fading heartbeat. “Well, I suppose I can give you one more …”

Earl Grindle stepped out of the manager’s office. He looked wildly around, as if he couldn’t fathom why everyone else in the bank continued to sit or stand calmly.

He took off his glasses and then put them back on. “Someone shot him. Someone shot President Kennedy.”

CHARLOTTE WALKED BACK TO THE PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO. Mr. Hotchkiss had not learned the news about the president yet. She peeked into the darkroom and saw him tinkering, blissfully ignorant, with the lamphouse of the Beseler enlarger.

She sat down at her table and started tinting a new portrait. The Moore baby, three months old. He was propped on a carnation-shaped swirl of satin that, Charlotte decided, required a subtle shade of ivory.

The president had been shot. Charlotte wasn’t sure if she’d truly grasped that yet. At the bank she’d watched as Hope Norton dropped her armful of folders. As Bonnie Bublitz in the teller cage burst into tears. As Vernon Phipps had walked out of the bank in a trance, leaving behind on the counter a stack of five-dollar bills. Jimmy Feeney kept asking, “Is this a joke? Earl, is this some kind of a joke?”

The smell of linseed oil and apple-flavored pipe tobacco. The hum and chuckle of the radiator. Charlotte worked. She continued to remain curiously unmoved, curiously removed, by the news from Dallas. For a moment she couldn’t remember what day of the week it was, or what year. It could have been any day, any year.

The phone rang. She heard Mr. Hotchkiss walk to his office and answer it.

“What’s that?” he said. “What? Oh, no! Oh, no!”

The parents of the Moore baby, their third, were Tim and Ann Moore. Charlotte’s first babysitting job had been for Tim’s pack of younger brothers. Ann’s sister was none other than Hope Norton, who was married to Virginia Richardson’s older brother, Bob. And yes, yet another link in the chain: Ann’s cousin on her mother’s side was Dooley’s boss at the hardware store, Pete Winemiller.

“Oh, no,” she heard Mr. Hotchkiss say. “I don’t believe it.”

The president had been shot. Charlotte could understand why people were shocked and upset. They feared an uncertain future. They worried that their lives would never be the same.

And maybe their lives wouldn’t be the same. But Charlotte knew that her life would remain undisturbed, her future—and the future of her daughters—certain. A bullet fired hundreds of miles away didn’t change that.

She dipped her brush and stroked rosy pink life into the Moore baby’s black-and-white cheek. Her favorite movie, as a child, had been The Wizard of Oz, her favorite moment when Dorothy opened the door of her black-and-white farmhouse and stepped into a strange and wonderful land.

Lucky Dorothy. Charlotte dipped her brush again and not for the first time imagined a tornado dropping from the sky and blowing her far away, into a world full of color.

3

Sunlight slid over Guidry, and the dream he’d been having jerked and blurred like film jumping off the sprockets of a movie projector. Five seconds later he couldn’t remember much about the dream. A bridge. A house in the middle of the bridge, where no house should be. Guidry had been standing at a window of the house, or maybe he was on a balcony, peering down at the water and trying to spot a ripple.

He flopped out of bed, his head as huge and tender as a rotten pumpkin. Aspirin. Two glasses of water. He was prepared, now, to pull on his pants and negotiate the hallway. Art Pepper. That was Guidry’s favorite cure for a hangover. He slid Smack Up from the cardboard sleeve and placed it on the turntable. “How Can You Lose” was his favorite tune on the album. He felt better already.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, or what residents of the French Quarter called the crack of dawn. Guidry made a pot of scalding-hot coffee and filled two mugs, topping off his with a healthy shot of Macallan. Scotch was his other favorite cure for a hangover. He took a swallow and listened to Pepper’s saxophone weaving in and out of the melody like a dog dodging traffic.

The redhead was still knocked out, the sheet on her side of the bed kicked away and one arm flung over her head. But wait a second. She was a brunette now, no longer a redhead. Fuller lips, no freckles. How had that happened? He remained perplexed—was he still dreaming?—until he remembered that today was Friday, not Thursday, and the redhead had been the night before last.

Too bad. He could’ve dined out on that story for weeks, how he was so good in the sack that he’d banged the freckles right off a girl.

Jane? Jennifer? Guidry had forgotten the brunette’s name. She worked for TWA. Or maybe that had been the redhead before her. Julia?

“Rise and shine, sunshine,” he said.

She turned to him with a sleepy smile, her lipstick flaking off. “What time is it?”

He handed her a mug. “Time for you to beat it.”

In the shower he lathered up and planned his day. Seraphine first, find out what she had for him. After that he’d get started on the deal that Sam Saia’s boy had brought him at the Carousel the other night. Was Saia’s boy steady? Everything Guidry had heard about him said so, but better to ask around and make sure before he committed himself.

What else? Pop into the bar across from the courthouse to buy a few rounds and soak up the scuttlebutt. Dinner with Al LaBruzzo, God help us all. LaBruzzo had his heart set on buying a go-go joint. Guidry would have to handle him delicately—he was Sam’s brother, and Sam was Carlos’s driver. By the end of dinner, Guidry would have to convince Al to convince himself that no, no, he didn’t want Guidry’s money after all, would refuse even if Guidry got down on his knees and begged him to take it.

Guidry shaved, trimmed his nails, browsed the closet. He picked a brown windowpane suit with slim notched lapels and a Continental cut. Cream-colored shirt, green tie. Green tie? No. Thanksgiving was less than a week away, and he wanted to get into the spirit of the season. He swapped the green tie for one the deep, dusty orange of an autumn sunset.

When he stepped into the living room, he saw that the brunette was still there. She was curled up on the sofa—not even dressed yet, ye gods—watching the television.

He went over to the window and found her skirt and her blouse on the floor where they’d fallen the night before, her bra hanging on the bar cart. He tossed the clothes at her.

“One Mississippi,” he said. “Two Mississippi. I’ll give you till five.”

“He’s gone.” She didn’t even look at Guidry. “I can’t believe it.”

Guidry realized that she was crying. “Who?”

“They shot him,” she said.

“Shot who?”

He looked over at the TV. On the screen a newscaster sat behind a desk, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. He looked limp and dazed, as if someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water on him.

“The motorcade had just passed the Texas School Book Depository in downtown Dallas,” the newscaster said. “Senator Ralph Yarborough told our reporter that he was riding three cars behind the president’s car when he heard the three distinct rifle shots.”

The president of what? That was Guidry’s first thought. The president of some oil company? Of some jungle republic that no one had ever heard of? He didn’t understand why the brunette was so broken up about it.

And then it clicked. He lowered himself next to her and watched the newscaster read from a sheet of paper. A sniper had fired from the sixth floor of a building in Dealey Plaza. Kennedy, riding in the backseat of a Lincoln Continental convertible, had been hit. They’d taken him to Parkland Hospital. A priest had administered last rites. At 1:30 P.M., an hour and a half ago, the doctors had pronounced the president dead.

The sniper, the newscaster said, was in custody. Some mope who worked at the School Book Depository.

“I can’t believe it,” the brunette said. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

For a second, Guidry didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The brunette reached for his hand and squeezed. She thought he couldn’t believe it either, that a bullet had blown the top off Jack Kennedy’s head.

“Get dressed.” Guidry stood, pulled her to her feet. “Get dressed and get out.”

She just stared at him, so he wrestled her arm into the sleeve of the blouse. Forget the bra. He would have tossed her naked out the front door if he weren’t worried she’d make a scene or go bawling to the cops.

Her other arm now, dead and rubbery. She’d begun to sob. He told himself to cool it, cool it. Guidry had a reputation around town: the man who never rattled, no matter how hard you shook him. So don’t start now, brother.

“Sunshine.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe it either. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

She didn’t know anything. The newscaster on TV was explaining that Dealey Plaza in Dallas was between Houston, Elm, and Commerce Streets. Guidry knew where the fuck it was. He’d been there a week ago, dropping a sky-blue ’59 Cadillac Eldorado in a parking garage two blocks away on Commerce.

Seraphine didn’t usually ask him to do that sort of work. It was below his current exalted station, as it were. But since Guidry was already in town, to wine and dine and soothe the nerves of a jittery deputy chief who Carlos needed to keep on the pad … why not? Sure, I don’t mind, all for one and one for all.

Oh, by the way, mon cher, I have a small errand for you when you’re in Dallas …

Oh, shit, oh, shit. A getaway switch car was standard procedure for a lot of Carlos’s high-profile hits. After the gunman finished the job, he would beeline it to the car stashed nearby and hit the road in a clean set of wheels.

When Guidry parked the sky-blue Eldorado two blocks from Dealey Plaza, he’d assumed a dark future for some unlucky soul—a lay-off bookie whose numbers didn’t tally or the jittery deputy chief if Guidry’s soothing didn’t work.

But the president of the United States …

“Go home,” he told the brunette. “All right? Freshen up, and then let’s … What do you want to do? Neither of us, we shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“No,” she agreed. “I want to … I don’t know. We could just …”

“Go home and freshen up, and then we’ll have a nice lunch,” he said. “All right? What’s your address? I’ll pick you up in an hour. After lunch we’ll find a church and light a candle for his soul.”

Guidry nodding at her until she nodded back. Helping her step into her skirt, looking around for her shoes.

Maybe it was just a coincidence, he told himself, that he’d stashed a getaway car two blocks from Dealey Plaza. Maybe it was just a coincidence that Carlos despised the Kennedy brothers more than any other two human beings on earth. Jack and Bobby had dragged Carlos in front of the Senate and pissed on his leg in front of the whole country. A couple of years after that, they’d tried to deport him to Guatemala.

Maybe Carlos had forgiven and forgotten. Sure. And maybe some mope who lugged boxes of books around a warehouse for a living could make a rifle shot like that—six floors up, a moving target, a breeze, trees in the way.

Guidry eased the brunette onto the elevator, off the elevator, through the lobby of his building, into the back of a cab. He had to snap his fingers at the hack, who was bent over his radio listening to the news and hadn’t even noticed them.

“Go home and freshen up.” Guidry gave the brunette a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

In the Quarter, grown men stood on the sidewalk and wept. Women wandered down the street as if they’d been struck blind. A Lucky Dog vendor shared his radio with a shoeshine boy. When in the history of civilization had that happened before? They shall beat their swords into plowshares. The leopard will lie down with the goat.

Guidry had fifteen minutes to spare, so he ducked into Gaspar’s. He’d never been inside during the day. With the house lights on, it was a gloomy joint. You could see the stains on the floor, the stains on the ceiling, the velvet stage curtain patched with electrical tape.

A group was huddled by the bar, people like Guidry who’d been drawn inside by the blue throb of the TV. A newscaster—a different one than before, just as dazed—read a statement from Johnson. President Johnson now.

“I know that the world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear,” Johnson said. “I will do my best. That is all I can do. I ask for your help—and God’s.”

The bartender poured shots of whiskey, on the house. The lady next to Guidry, a proper little Garden District widow, ancient as time and frail as a snowflake, picked up a drink and knocked it back.

On TV they cut to the Dallas police station. Cops in suits and white cowboy hats, reporters, gawkers, everybody pushing and shoving. There was the mope, in the middle of it all, getting bounced around. A little guy, rat-faced, one of his eyes swollen shut. Lee Harvey Oswald, the announcer said his name was. He looked groggy and bewildered, like a kid who’d been dragged out of bed in the dead of night and hoped that all this might be just a nightmare.

A reporter shouted a question that Guidry couldn’t make out as the cops shoved Oswald into a room. Another reporter moved into the frame, speaking to the camera.

“He says he has nothing against anybody,” the reporter said, “and has not committed any act of violence.”

The Garden District widow downed a second shot of whiskey. She looked furious enough to spit. “How could this happen?” she kept muttering to herself. “How could this happen?”

Guidry couldn’t say for sure, but he had an educated opinion. A professional sharpshooter, an independent contractor brought in by Carlos. Positioned on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository, or on the floor below to put a frame on Oswald, or maybe set up on the other side of the plaza, an elevated spot away from the crowds. After the real sniper made his shot, he wrapped up his rifle and strolled down Commerce Street to the sky-blue Eldorado waiting for him.

Guidry left Gaspar’s and headed to Jackson Square. A priest comforted his flock on the steps of the cathedral. A time to plant, a time to pluck up what has been planted. The usual jive.

Guidry was walking too fast. Cool it, brother.

If the cops hooked Carlos’s sharpshooter and connected him to the Eldorado, they’d be able to connect the Eldorado to Guidry. Guidry had picked up the car from a supermarket parking lot in the colored part of Dallas. Door left unlocked for him, keys under the visor. Guidry’s prints weren’t on the car—he wasn’t stupid, he’d worn his driving gloves—but someone might remember him. A sky-blue Cadillac Eldorado, a white man in the colored part of town. Someone would remember him.

Because this wasn’t just another ho-hum murder, some shoe-leather wiseguy popped in a back alley, the detectives and the prosecutor already snug in Carlos’s pocket. This was the president of the United States. Bobby Kennedy and the FBI wouldn’t stop until they’d turned over every goddamn rock.

A sticky drizzle blew away, and the sun poked through the clouds. Seraphine stood next to the statue of Old Hickory. The horse rearing, Andrew Jackson tipping his hat. The shadow from the statue split Seraphine in half. She smiled at Guidry, one eye bright and liquid and playful, the other a dark green stone.

He wanted to grab her and shove her up against the base of the statue and demand to know why she’d stuck him right in the middle of this, the crime of the century. Instead, wisely, he smiled back. With Seraphine you had to proceed with caution, or else you didn’t proceed for long.

“Hello, little boy,” she said. “The forest is dark and the wolves howl. Hold my hand and I’ll help you find your way home.”

“I’ll take my chances with the wolves, thanks,” Guidry said.

She pouted. Is that what you think of me? And then she laughed. Of course it was what he thought of her. Guidry would be a fool if he didn’t.

“I adore autumn,” she said. “Don’t you? The air so crisp. The scent of melancholy. Autumn tells us the truth about the world.”

You wouldn’t call Seraphine pretty. Regal. With a high, broad forehead and a dramatic arch to her nose, dark hair marcelled and parted on the side. Skin just a shade darker than Guidry’s own. Anywhere but New Orleans, she might have passed for white.

She dressed as primly as a schoolteacher. Today she wore a mohair sweater set and a slim-fitting skirt, pristine white gloves. Her own private joke, maybe. She always seemed to be smiling at one.

“Cut the bullshit,” Guidry said. With the right smile, he could say things like that to her. To Carlos, even.

She smiled and smoked. One of the skeletal carriage horses on Decatur Street whinnied, shrill and disconsolate, almost a scream. A sound you wanted to forget the minute you heard it.

“So you’ve seen the news about the president,” she said.

“Imagine my alarm,” he said.

“Don’t worry, mon cher. Come, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Just one?”

“Come.”

They walked over to Chartres. The Napoleon House didn’t open for another hour. The bartender let them in, poured their drinks, disappeared.

“Goddamn it, Seraphine,” Guidry said.

“I understand your concern,” she said.

“I hope you’re planning to visit me in prison.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Say it again and maybe I’ll start to believe you.”

She flicked the ash from her cigarette with a languid sweep of a gloved hand.

“My father used to work here,” she said. “Did you know? Mopping the floors, cleaning the toilets. When I was a little girl, he brought me with him occasionally. Do you see those?”

The walls of the Napoleon House hadn’t been replastered in a century, and every one of the antique oil portraits hung just a little bit crooked. Mean, haughty faces, glaring down from the shadows.

“When I was a little girl,” she said, “I was convinced that the people in the paintings were watching me. Waiting until I blinked so that they could pounce.”

“Maybe they were,” Guidry said. “Maybe they worked for J. Edgar Hoover.”

“I’ll say it once more, because we’re such old friends. Don’t worry. The authorities have their man, don’t they?”

“It’s just the cops in Dallas, and they only think they have their man.”

Guidry knew that the FBI would never buy Oswald, not for a minute. C’mon. They’d start digging, and he’d start gabbing. No. Check that. The feds were already digging, and Oswald was already gabbing.

“He won’t be a problem,” Seraphine said.

Oswald. That little rat face, vaguely familiar. Guidry thought he might have seen him around town at some point. “So you can tell the future now?” he said.

“His.”

“Where’s the Eldorado?” Guidry said. Seraphine could reassure him till she was blue in the face, but he wouldn’t be safe from the feds until that car disappeared forever. The Eldorado was the one piece of physical evidence that linked him to the assassination.

“On its way to Houston,” she said, “as we speak.”

“If your fella with the eagle eye gets pulled over by the cops …”

“He won’t.” Her smile a bit less serene this time. The Eldorado was also the one piece of physical evidence that linked Carlos to the assassination.

“And once the car’s in Houston?” Guidry said.

“Someone trustworthy will send it to the bottom of the sea.”

Guidry reached over the bar for the bottle of scotch. He felt better, a little. “Is that true?” he said. “About your father working here?”

She shrugged. The shrug meant, Yes, of course. Or it meant, No, don’t be absurd.

“Who’s dumping the car in Houston?” Guidry said. “Your fella who’s driving it down?”

“No. He’s needed elsewhere.”

“So who, then?” Guidry, from his elevated perch in the organization, just a branch or two below Seraphine, knew most of Carlos’s guys. Some were more reliable than others. “Whoever dumps it, you better be damn sure you can count on him.”

“But of course,” she said. “Uncle Carlos has complete faith in this man. Never once has he failed us.”

Who? Guidry started to ask again. Instead he turned to stare at her. “Me?” he said. “No. I’m not going near that fucking car.”

“No?”

“I’m not going near that fucking car, Seraphine.” Guidry remembered to smile this time. “Not now, not a hundred years from now.”

She shrugged again. “But, mon cher,” she said, “in this matter who can we trust more than you? Who can you trust more?”

Only now did Guidry complete the arduous climb to the summit and, panting with exertion, realize just where Seraphine had led him. It had been her plan all along, he realized. Have Guidry stash the getaway Eldorado before the hit so that he’d be thoroughly motivated—his own ass on the line now—to get rid of the car afterward.

“Goddamn it,” he said. But you had to admire the dazzling footwork, the elegance of the maneuver. Who needed to tell the future when you could create it yourself?

Out on the street, Seraphine handed him a plane ticket.

“Your flight to Houston leaves tomorrow,” she said. “You’ll have to miss your Saturday-morning cartoons, I’m afraid. The car will be left for you downtown, in a pay lot across the street from the Rice Hotel.”

“What then?” he said.

“There’s a decommissioned-tank terminal on the ship channel. Take La Porte Road east. Keep going after you pass the Humble Oil refinery. You’ll see an unmarked road about a mile on.”

What if the feds had already found the Eldorado? They’d sit on it, of course. They’d wait for some poor idiot to show up and claim it.

“In the evening you’ll have all the privacy you need,” she said. “The ship channel is forty feet deep. Afterward walk half a mile up La Porte. There’s a filling station with a phone. You can call a cab from there. And me.”

She kissed him on the cheek. Her expensive scent, over the years, had never changed: fresh jasmine and what smelled like the scorched spices at the bottom of a cast-iron pan. She and Guidry had been lovers once, but so briefly and so long ago that he remembered that period only occasionally, and without much feeling about it one way or another. He doubted that Seraphine remembered it at all.

“You and Carlos never miss a button, do you?” Guidry said.

“So you see now, mon cher? Don’t worry.”

As Guidry walked back through the Quarter, Seraphine’s scent faded and his mind worked. It was true that Seraphine and Carlos never missed a button. But what if Guidry was one of those buttons? What if he was worried about the feds when in fact the real danger—Carlos, Seraphine—stood smiling right behind him?

Get rid of the Eldorado.

And then get rid of the man who got rid of the Eldorado. Get rid of the man who knows about Dallas.

The priest on the steps of St. Louis was still going strong. He was just a kid, barely out of the seminary, pudgy and apple-cheeked. He clasped his hands in front of him, like he was about to blow on the dice in hopes of a lucky roll.

“When we pass through the waters, God will be with us,” the priest was assuring his congregation. “When we walk through the fire, we shall not be burned.”

That wasn’t Guidry’s experience. He listened to the priest for another minute and then turned away.