Something caught my eye. It was on the de Mohrenschildts’ wide front lawn, where sprinklers flung graceful sprays in the air and created rainbows that looked small enough to put in your pocket. 1963 wasn’t an election year, but in early April — right around the time somebody had taken a shot at General Edwin Walker — the representative from the Fifth District had dropped dead of a heart attack. There was going to be a run-off election for his seat on August sixth.
The sign read ELECT JENKINS TO THE 5TH DISTRICT! ROBERT “ROBBIE” JENKINS, DALLAS’S WHITE KNIGHT!
According to the papers, Jenkins was that for sure, a right-winger who saw eye-to-eye with Walker and Walker’s spiritual advisor, Billy James Hargis. Robbie Jenkins stood for states’ rights, separate-but-equal schools, and reinstituting the Missile Crisis blockade around Cuba. The same Cuba de Mohrenschildt had called “that beautiful island.” The sign supported a strong feeling that I’d already developed about de Mohrenschildt. He was a dilettante who, at bottom, held no political beliefs at all. He would support whoever amused him or put money in his pocket. Lee Oswald couldn’t do the latter — he was so poor he made churchmice look loaded — but his humorless dedication to socialism combined with his grandiose personal ambitions had provided de Mohrenschildt with plenty of the former.
One deduction seemed obvious: Lee had never trod the lawn or soiled the carpets of this house with his poorboy feet. This was de Mohrenschildt’s other life… or one of them. I had a feeling he might have several, keeping them all in various watertight compartments. But that didn’t answer the central question: was he so bored he would have accompanied Lee on his mission to assassinate the fascist monster Edwin Walker? I didn’t know him well enough to make even an educated guess.
But I would. My heart was set on it.
The sign in the window of Frank Frati’s pawnshop read WELCOME TO GUITAR CENTRAL, and there were plenty of them on display: acoustics, electrics, twelve-strings, and one with a double fretboard that reminded me of something I’d seen in a Mötley Crüe video. Of course there was all the other detritus of busted lives — rings, brooches, necklaces, radios, small appliances. The woman who confronted me was skinny instead of fat, she wore slacks and a Ship N Shore blouse instead of a purple dress and mocs, but the stone face was the same as that of a woman I’d met in Derry, and I heard the same words coming out of my mouth. Close enough for government work, anyway.
“I’d like to discuss a rather large sports-oriented business proposition with Mr. Frati.”
“Yeah? Is that a bet when it’s at home with its feet up?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Yeah, I’m Chief Curry of the Dallas Police. Can’t you tell from the glasses and the jowls?”
“I don’t see any glasses or jowls, ma’am.”
“That’s because I’m in disguise. What you want to bet on in the middle of the summer, chum? There’s nothing to bet on.”
“Case-Tiger.”
“Which pug?”
“Case.”
She rolled her eyes, then shouted back over her shoulder. “Better get out here, Dad, you got a live one.”
Frank Frati was at least twice Chaz Frati’s age, but the resemblance was still there. They were related, of course they were. If I mentioned I had once laid a bet with a Mr. Frati of Derry, Maine, I had no doubt we could have a pleasant little discussion about what a small world it was.
Instead of doing that, I proceeded directly to negotiations. Could I put five hundred dollars on Tom Case to win his bout against Dick Tiger in Madison Square Garden?
“Yes indeedy,” Frati said. “You could also stick a red-hot branding iron up your rootie-patootie, but why would you want to?”
His daughter yapped brief, bright laughter.
“What kind of odds would I get?”
He looked at the daughter. She put up her hands. Two fingers raised on the left, one finger on the right.
“Two-to-one? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s a ridiculous life, my friend. Go see an Ionesco play if you don’t believe me. I recommend
Well, at least he didn’t call me cuz, as his Derry cuz had done.
“Work with me a little on this, Mr. Frati.”
He picked up an Epiphone Hummingbird acoustic and began to tune it. He was eerily quick. “Give me something to work with, then, or blow on over to Dallas. There’s a place called—”
“I know the place in Dallas. I prefer Fort Worth. I used to live here.”
“The fact that you moved shows more sense than wanting to bet on Tom Case.”
“What about Case by a knockout somewhere in the first seven rounds? What would that get me?”
He looked at the daughter. This time she raised three fingers on her left hand.
“And Case by a knockout in the first five?”
