11/22/63: A Novel

“Maybe you realized at the last minute that you were getting ready to shoot the most powerful man in the whole world,” Hosty said. “You had a moment of clarity. So you stopped him. If it went like that, you’d get a lot of leniency.”

Yes. Leniency to consist of forty, maybe even fifty years in Leavenworth eating mac and cheese instead of death in the Texas electric chair.

“Then why weren’t we there with him, Agent Hosty? Instead of hammering on the door to be let in?”

Hosty shrugged. You tell me.

“And if we were plotting an assassination, you must have seen me with him. Because I know you had him under at least partial surveillance.” I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you stop him, Hosty? That was your job.”

He drew back as if I’d raised a fist to him. His jowls reddened.

For a few moments at least, my grief hardened into a kind of malicious pleasure. “The FBI kept an eye on him because he defected to Russia, redefected to the United States, then tried to defect to Cuba. He was handing out pro-Fidel leaflets on street corners for months before this horror show today.”

“How do you know all that?” Hosty barked.

“Because he told me. Then what happens? The president who’s tried everything he can think of to knock Castro off his perch comes to Dallas. Working at the Book Depository, Lee had a ringside seat for the motorcade. You knew it and did nothing.”

Fritz was staring at Hosty with something like horror. I’m sure Hosty was regretting the fact that the Dallas cop was even in the room, but what could he do? It was Fritz’s station.

“We did not consider him a threat,” Hosty said stiffly.

“Well, that was certainly a mistake. What was in the note he gave you, Hosty? I know Lee went to your office and left you one when he was told you weren’t there, but he wouldn’t tell me what was in it. He just gave that thin little fuck-you smile of his. We’re talking about the man who killed the woman I loved, so I think I deserve to know. Did he say he was going to do something that would make the world sit up and take notice? I bet he did.”

“It was nothing like that!”

“Show me the note, then. Double-dog dare you.”

“Any communication from Mr. Oswald is Bureau business.”

“I don’t think you can show it. I’ll bet it’s ashes in your office toilet, as per Mr. Hoover’s orders.”

If it wasn’t, it would be. It was in Al’s notes.

“If you’re such an innocent,” Fritz said, “you’ll tell us how you knew Oswald and why you were carrying a handgun.”

“And why the lady had a butcher’s knife with blood on it,” Hosty added.

I saw red at that. “The lady had blood everywhere!” I shouted. “On her clothes, on her shoes, in her purse! The son of a bitch shot her in the chest, or didn’t you notice?”

Fritz: “Calm down, Mr. Amberson. No one’s accusing you of anything.” The subtext: Yet.

I took a deep breath. “Have you talked to Dr. Perry? You sent him to examine me and take care of my knee, so you must have. Which means you know I was beaten within an inch of my life last August. The man who ordered the beating-and participated in it-is a bookie named Akiva Roth. I don’t think he meant to hurt me as badly as he did, but probably I smarted off to him and made him mad. I can’t remember. There’s a lot I can’t remember since that day.”

“Why didn’t you report this after it happened?”

“Because I was in a coma, Detective Fritz. When I came out of it, I didn’t remember. When I did remember-some of it, at least-I recalled Roth saying he was hooked up with a Tampa bookie I’d done business with, and a New Orleans mobster named Carlos Marcello. That made going to the cops seem risky.”

“Are you saying DPD is dirty?” I didn’t know if Fritz’s anger was real or faked, and didn’t much care.

“I’m saying I watch The Untouchables and I know the Mob doesn’t like rats. I bought a gun for personal protection-as is my right under the Second Amendment-and I carried it.” I pointed at the evidence bag. “That gun.”

Hosty: “Where’d you buy it?”

“I don’t remember.”

Fritz: “Your amnesia is pretty convenient, isn’t it? Like something on The Secret Storm or As the World Turns. ”

“Talk to Perry,” I repeated. “And take another look at my knee. I reinjured it racing up six flights of stairs to save the president’s life. Which I will tell the press. I’ll also tell them my reward for doing my duty as an American citizen was an interrogation in a hot little room without even a glass of water.”

“Do you want water?” Fritz asked, and I understood that this could be all right, if I didn’t misstep. The president had escaped assassination by the skin of his teeth. These two men-not to mention Dallas Police Chief Jesse Curry-would be under enormous pressure to provide a hero. Since Sadie was dead, I was what they had.

“No,” I said, “but a Co’-Cola would be very nice.”

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