Prologue (40 page)

Well, Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald, not an auspicious beginning for the Hero of Acapulco, is it? Ginter mused.

“Still not there?”
Amanda asked.

Paul deVere replaced the receiver on its cradle.
“Still on vacation.”

“You think he really is?”

DeVere shrugged. “Hey, it’s mid-August. Didn’t all these
New York
people go out to the
Hamptons
or something every summer?”

It was Amanda’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. They were never my crowd.”

She lay back on her bed at the New York Waldorf and gazed at Paul deVere who stood, looking down at the telephone as if expecting it to ring. The two weeks since they had tumbled unconscious in
Manchester
,
New Hampshire
, had passed in a blur. Their hurried train trip to
New York
through
Boston
had led to an extended stay at the Waldorf. They stuck to their rooms during the day, venturing out at night.

Amanda suggested that going out together was risky lest one of them slipped and made a conversational reference to their situation. Further, she urged they take separate rooms, decreasing the likelihood people might link them. Paul had not argued.

Other than Amanda’s quick trip to the beauty parlor for a more contemporary hairstyle, they worked on reformulating their plan. Calls to Harrison Salisbury at the New York Times were intercepted by a variety of secretaries who dutifully checked before informing them that he was still on vacation.

Frustrated, Amanda urged that they do something productive while waiting. They purchased two typewriters, reams of paper, and envelopes, and began an aggressive letter writing campaign to every newspaper they could find, warning of “The Coming Communist Menace.” Neither had illusions that the campaign would amount to a hill of beans, but it couldn’t hurt. They had time to fill while waiting for
Salisbury
’s vacation to end, or for Lewis to turn up. They took solace that calls to the Manchester Police Department, New Hampshire jails, and the
New Hampshire
State
Hospital
, revealed that neither Lewis Ginter nor Pamela Rhodes were in custody. Somehow, they had gotten away.

“If we get to see
Salisbury
, what will we say?” Paul asked.

“Tell him the truth?” Amanda suggested.

“Yeah, right,” Paul scoffed. “How are we now going to prove that we’re from 2026?”

“You have a better idea?” Amanda challenged testily.

“No,” he said apologetically. “I’m just wondering if there is something else we can do. We seem to be just sitting around waiting for him to come back from vacation.” He looked at the street below.

“I don’t know where they can be either,” Amanda said to his back.

He turned. “They should have called by now. I mean, if they could. He mentioned the Waldorf at my house. He should think of that.

“I think he was wrong that someone else came back,” deVere continued. “I think those cops were just checking for kids drinking. If someone wanted to kill us, they would have been waiting with guns when we arrived and blasted away. Why send cops to poke around? What could they have done? Arrested us for loitering?”

He turned back to the window. “No one followed us. I haven’t seen anything suspicious. It’s just the four of us and we’ve split up for no reason.”

Amanda didn’t answer.

“Suppose
Salisbury
never gets back?” he asked. “Suppose he goes to
Europe
on a story and isn’t around until December? Is there something else we can do?”

“Such as?”
Amanda asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “You’re the history professor. What else can we do to convince Kennedy to invade
Cuba
, or step up in
Southeast Asia
?”

“We could try to see him,” she offered.

“I’m serious, Amanda, what other options do we have?’

“I’m serious too. We can try to see the President.” She raised herself up on one elbow, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“And just how do we do that?” Paul asked cautiously.

“Well, let’s see,” Amanda said, “the most powerful men in
Washington
are probably J. Edgar Hoover, the head of the FBI, and Senator Strom Thurmond, of
South Carolina
. Either of those two might get us in.”

“Why would they?” deVere asked. “What would we say to Kennedy?”

“Hmm,” she said, sitting straight up. “Why would it be any different from what we’d tell
Salisbury
? Hey, if we’re going to strike out it might as well be with the President. If we’re going to fail we might as well fail at the top.”

Paul pondered. “Didn’t Kennedy have a girlfriend?
That actress who committed suicide?”

Amanda groaned. “You mean Marilyn Monroe?”

Paul nodded. “Could we approach her and get her to sign an affidavit or something and then blackmail our way into the Oval Office?”

Amanda got up off the bed and began pacing. “She died last year. It’s too late for that.”

Paul frowned in disappointment.
“Any other girlfriends?”

Excitement grew in Amanda’s face. She quickened her pacing.
“Yeah, Exline, no not Exline, Exner.
Judith Exner. She’s also the girlfriend of Sam Giancana.”

“Who?”
Paul asked.

Amanda waved him off.
“But the others.
The others.”

“What others?” he asked.

Amanda frowned. “J. Edgar Hoover. Hah!” She smiled broadly and began moving her hands as she paced.
“Of course!
What an idiot I’ve been! J. Edgar Hoover has a penchant for dressing up in women’s clothes. There are pictures of him at a party that some people in Organized Crime have.”

Paul appeared doubtful. “I don’t know, Amanda. We don’t have those pictures and if we did, how would we get in to see
Hoover
to tell him we know that he’s a cross-dresser? He’d just call in some goons and charge us with some sort of crime for threatening him.”

Amanda stopped and stared straight ahead. Her lips mouthed her thoughts. Paul remembered that pose from
Ithaca
, mouth twitching, the stare, fists clenching and unclenching. She was on the historical hunt.

“You may be right,” she said. “But Thurmond, we could get in to see Thurmond. And I bet he could get us into the White House.”

“And how do we get a United States Senator to help us?” deVere asked.

“Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul,” she said, beaming. For the first time since she had gotten off the bed, she looked right at him. Her eyes blazed and he stepped back.

“Because, my dear Paul,” she laughed, “Senator Thurmond, the beloved segregationist of the 20
^th
century, has a daughter.”

Paul shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, not comprehending, “so do I.”

“Yes,” she answered, “but the Senator’s is black.”

Chapter 19

“Here it is,” Ginter said, pulling up in front of
107 Decatur Street
. A red sign with blue letters over the door proclaimed, “Casa Roca.” Through the plate glass store front, Lewis Ginter and Pamela Rhodes could see bolts of cloth piled on the right side of a center aisle that extended back from the front door. Other housewares were arranged on the left.

“Cuban owned general goods store circa 1963,” Ginter added.

“Not exactly Wal-Mart,” Pamela mused.

“Let’s go shopping,” he said, getting out of the Corvette. “Coming?”

Since his moment of uncertainty in
New Orleans
two weeks earlier, Lewis Ginter had slowly re-acquired his confidence and self-assurance. “Getting my sea legs,” he had explained. In doing so, the pair had given the Corvette a workout. They traveled to
Dallas
to survey Oswald’s wife’s apartment in an effort to spot Collinson or Pomeroy. After a week of snooping came up empty, they had raced back to
New Orleans
. Only a quirky radiator hose marred the trip.

He was becoming more comfortable in the South now. He had learned to look down when he passed a policeman and away from approaching whites. But he still found himself pressing his left elbow against his armpit, just in case.

As he and Pamela walked across the bare wooden floor of Casa Roca, Ginter smelled mustiness.

“Excuse me,” he said to the mustached man behind the counter. Ginter estimated him to be in his early thirties, and obviously Cuban.

“My name is Alex Johnson,” Ginter began. “I am looking for some people who may have tried to contact you a few weeks ago about the time of that incident on
Canal Street
between Mr. Oswald and the owner of this store, Señor Bringuer.”

The man eyed him suspiciously and then shifted his attention to Pamela. “Carlos?” the man asked in a thick Spanish accent. “What is your relationship with Carlos?”

“It is not with Carlos,” Ginter said. “It is with Mr. Oswald. Mr. Oswald is not the anti-Castro activist he says he is, and Señor Bringuer needs to know that. Would you be Carlos Bringuer?”

The man shook his head. “Carlos is not here. We know all about Señor Oswald. He was in here a few days before the fight telling us that he was an ex-Marine who wanted to fight against Castro. He left his training manual here as proof. But Carlos has no interest in fighting. That is not his way to bring down Fidel. After they got arrested, Carlos debated the man on the radio.”

The man gestured out the door. “Let those who run the camp across the river plan their street fighting in
Havana
.”

Ginter nodded. “I am concerned with two of Oswald’s friends who may be spies for Castro.”

“Spies?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You walk in here and I don’t even know you and you talk of spies? How do I know you are not a spy?” The man looked past Ginter to the deserted street.

“You don’t,” Ginter said blandly. “But what does it hurt to listen?”

Before the man could respond Ginter continued. “The men we are looking for are two white men.” He turned to Pamela. “One is older, about mid-fifties, very light skinned, white hair, balding, medium build. The other is short, stocky, messed up hair,” he finished as he pictured Arthur Pomeroy at the meeting in April.

Ginter turned back to the clerk. The man pursed his lips and shook his head.