De Mohrenschildt leaped from the couch and began to pace around the new playpen. “Do you think Kennedy and his Irish cabal will let that billboard stand? That
“I sort of like Kennedy,” Lee said, as if embarrassed to admit it. “In spite of the Bay of Pigs. That was Eisenhower’s plan, you know.”
“Most of the GSA likes President Kennedy. Do you know what I mean by the GSA? I can assure you that the rabid she-weasel who wrote
Lee expressed dismay.
“But Fidel has a strong friend in Russia,” de Mohrenschildt went on, still pacing. “It isn’t the Russia of Lenin’s dreams — or yours, or mine — but they may have their own reasons for standing with Fidel if America tries another invasion. And mark my words: Kennedy is apt to try it, and soon. He’ll listen to LeMay. He’ll listen to Dulles and Angleton of the CIA. All he needs is the right pretext and then he’ll go in, just to show the world he’s got balls.”
They went on talking about Cuba. When the Cadillac returned, the rear seat was full of groceries — enough for a month, it looked like.
“Shit,” Lee said. “They’re back.”
“And we are glad to see them,” de Mohrenschildt said pleasantly.
“Stay for dinner,” Lee said. “Rina’s not much of a cook, but—”
“I must go. My wife is waiting anxiously for my report, and I’ll give her a good one! I’ll bring her next time, shall I?”
“Yeah, sure.”
They went to the door. Marina was talking with Bouhe and Orlov as the two men lifted cartons of canned goods from the trunk. But she wasn’t just talking; she was flirting a little, too. Bouhe looked ready to fall on his knees.
On the porch, Lee said something about the FBI. De Mohrenschildt asked him how many times. Lee held up three fingers. “One agent called Fain. He came twice. Another named Hosty.”
“Look them right in the eye and answer their questions!” de Mohrenschildt said. “You have nothing to fear, Lee, not just because you are innocent, but because you are in the right!”
The others were looking at him now… and not just them. The jump-rope girls had appeared, standing in the rut that served as a sidewalk on our block of Mercedes Street. De Mohrenschildt had an audience, and was declaiming to it.
“You are ideologically dedicated, young Mr. Oswald, so of course they come. The Hoover Gang! For all we know, they’re watching now, perhaps from down the block, perhaps from that house right across the street!”
De Mohrenschildt stabbed his finger at my drawn drapes. Lee turned to look. I stood still in the shadows, glad I’d put down the sound-enhancing Tupperware bowl, even though it was now coated with black tape.
“I know who they are. Haven’t they and their CIA first cousins been to visit me on many occasions, trying to browbeat me into informing on my Russian and South American friends? After the war, didn’t they call me a closet Nazi? Haven’t they claimed I hired the
The jump-rope girls were staring at him with their mouths open. So was Marina. Once he got going, George de Mohrenschildt swept everything before him.
“Be courageous, Lee! When they come, stand forward! Show them this!” He grasped his shirt and tore it open. Buttons popped off and clattered to the porch. The jump-rope girls gasped, too shocked to giggle. Unlike most American men of that time, de Mohrenschildt wore no undershirt. His skin was the color of oiled mahogany. Fatty breasts hung on old muscle. He pounded his right fist above his left nipple. “Tell them ‘Here is my heart, and my heart is pure, and my heart belongs to my cause!’ Tell them ‘Even if Hoover rips my heart out of me, it will still beat, and a thousand other hearts will beat in time! Then ten thousand! Then a hundred thousand! Then a million!’”
Orlov put down the box of canned goods he was holding so he could offer a round of light satiric applause. Marina’s cheeks were flaming with color. Lee’s face was the most interesting one. Like Paul of Tarsus on the Damascus Road, he’d had a revelation.
The blindness had dropped from his eyes.
