Libra - Don Delillo [151]
Then they would see what came next.
They stood firing their weapons in the misty light. He was detached from the action, empty, squeezing off a round, a round, another. Strictly pouring lead. The other men had little to say to him and kept a calculated distance. This was all right with him. It was a summer of things taking shape at the edges.
David Ferrie wore earmuffs, firing at cans of tomato paste, unopened. Mass-market gore spritzed in the morning air. He didn’t use the hearing protectors they wear on gun ranges. Ordinary dime-store earmuffs, but he could shoot. The Cuban could shoot. The rangy guy, Wayne, with the long wandering face, and kind of stoop-backed, fired only a couple of rounds, then drifted off.
Ferrie had to get back to New Orleans to speak to the Junior Chamber of Commerce. He said he’d be back next day to take Lee home.
The leader, T-Jay, seemed half amused by Lee. Strong-looking, a slight paunch, a tattoo bird flying out of his fist. Marlboro man, thought Lee.
T-Jay was aware of his desire to go to Cuba. Had Ferrie told him? Had Lee told Ferrie? Did Agent Bateman know? Had he told Bateman why he wanted a passport? These questions passed quickly through Lee’s mind. Didn’t mean a thing. Summer was building toward a vision.
T-Jay told him to train with the Mannlicher, not one of the new rifles. This was his intention all along. It was Lee who’d asked to, come out to the camp. He’d insisted to Ferrie. He needed target work, serious time with his weapon.
Except that he was out of ammunition. Ammo for this type carbine was hard to find. He’d hit every gun shop in New Orleans. T-Jay seemed amused, all-knowing. He said he had an ample sup-. ply, obtained directly from the Western Cartridge Company on the basis of past dealings. See? Everything is taken care of. It’s falling into place.
He curled into a sleeping bag on the floor of the long shack.
He has a lot to show the Cubans. There is correspondence from the Fair Play Committee and the Worker. He has handbills and membership cards.
He knows one thing sure. He is going to study politics and economics.
Take ’em to Missouri, Matt.
There is still this mix-up over his discharge, which they refuse to change to honorable.
Marina thinks he is in another parish looking for work in the aerospace industry.
The President reads James Bond novels.
He has proof of his subscriptions to left-wing journals. He has the court summons describing the incident that led to his arrest.
The revolution must be a school of unfettered thought.
Rain-slick streets.
Aerospace is the coming thing, with courses at night in economic theory.
He is working on a new project in his steno notebook. He has headings like Marxist, Organizer, Street Agitation, Radio Speaker and Lecturer. Under these he is writing concise descriptions of his activities, with attachments. He has the news story of his court appearance with his name spelled correctly. He has tax returns he took from the offices of the graphic-arts firm where he worked in Dallas, just to save, just to have in case of something like this, to take and keep. This would qualify as intelligence.
I am experienced in street agitation.
I have a far mean streak of independence brought on by neglect.
Aerospace.
It wasn’t until they hit the gleaming traffic, the raw flash on the edges of New Orleans, that Ferrie brought up the subject.
“President Jack has been working overtime. Did you know this? To put Castro in the ground. The deepest of cover operations. Ask me how I know. I do legal research for Carmine Latta. Carmine has knowledge of this thing. The Agency has worked with crime figures to put the hit on Fidel.”
The bright crush around them. Faces in side windows.
“Listen. They can’t do it without Kennedy’s knowledge. He has some dirty business, who does he consult? CIA is the President’s toilet.”
Children carried past,