He heard footsteps. The bums squealed. The bums giggled loud. The fire door creaked. A bum yelled, "Hallelujah!" The fire door slammed.
Littell caught a breeze. His sweat froze. His pulse went haywire.
He walked to the squadroom. His legs fluttered and dipped. He grazed desks. He bumped walls. He bumped into cops.
The wit bench was smoked in. Twenty cigarettes plumed. Arden Smith was gone.
Littell looked around. Littell scanned desks. Littell saw the wit log.
He grabbed it. He checked statements and DLs. Arden Smith's package-gone.
He checked the slots. He checked the halls. He checked the main window.
There's Arden Smith. She's on the street. She's walking fast. She's walking _away_.
She crossed Houston. Cars swerved by her. She made Dealey Plaza.
Littell blinked.
He lost her. Jack's mourners shadowed her up.
3
Pete Bondurant
(Dallas, 11/22/63)
The bridal suite. The fuck pad supreme.
Gilt wallpaper. Cupids. Pink rugs and chairs. A fake-fur bedspread-baby-ass pink.
Pete watched Barb sleep.
Her legs slid. She kicked wide. She thrashed the sheets.
Barbara Jane Lindscott Jahelka Bondurant.
He got her back early. He sealed up the suite. He closed out the news. She'll wake up. She'll _get_ the news. She'll _know_.
I fucked Jack in '62. It was lackluster and brief. You bugged some rooms. You got his voice. You taped it. The shakedown failed. Your pals regrouped. You killed Jack instead.
Pete moved his chair. Pete got fresh views. Barb tossed. Her hair swirled.
She didn't love Jack. She serviced Jack. She cosigned extortion. She wouldn't cosign death.
6:10 p.m.
Jack should be dead. Guy's boy ditto. Chuck Rogers had a plane stashed. The crew should be out.
Barb twitched. Pete fought a headache. Pete popped aspirin and scotch.