Libra - Don Delillo [189]
“So I am trying to put the two together.”
“You think the same person.”
“Whereby the same person or group is behind both incidents. And since it is against the President, I am trying to take a crime reporter’s frame of mind.”
They drove all over the downtown fringe trying to find the Earl Warren billboard and check out the box number. Jack was sure there was conspiracy here. The John Birch Society or the Communist Party were the suspects uppermost. He had his pad and pencil to take down particulars.
That clean but lonely feeling when there are no other cars. The traffic lights changing just for you.
He started vomiting again on the Central Expressway. The way he did it was to open the door, right hand clamped on the steering wheel, and drop his head down to vomit on the road. He could tell where they were going by his view of the white line, which was only inches away. George was screaming at him to stop the car or give up the steering to him. Jack straightened up. He said don’t worry, he’d done this as a kid growing up in the toughest streets of Chicago. It was part of how you survived. Then he leaned way over to vomit some more. He vomited half his life out the car door, due to these assaults on his emotions.
They found the billboard on Hall Street. George got out of the car and took three pictures with the flash. To Jack Ruby this was hunting down a major clue and acquiring physical evidence. Now they had to find a copy of the ad so they could compare the box numbers. Jack didn’t know where he’d left his newspaper. They drove to the coffee shop at the Southland Hotel just to take a break from these excitements. The place was either just closing or just opening. An old bent Negro working a mop. They sat at the counter and there’s a copy of the Morning News lying right there waiting. They looked at each other. Jack ripped through the pages and found the ad. George took out the Polaroids.
The numbers didn’t match.
Jack looked around for someone to get some coffee. He didn’t even comment on the numbers. He had a twelve-inch stare, a dullish flat-eyed gaze. How a complete nothing, a zero person in a T-shirt, could decide out of nowhere to shoot our President.
They drove past the Carousel to take a look at the sign Jack had put up, one word only, saying CLOSED.
Then they went home. Jack got a few hours’ sleep, woke up, took a Preludin with his grapefruit juice and watched a famous New York rabbi on TV.
The man spoke in a gorgeous baritone. He went ahead and eulogized that here was an American who fought in every battle, went to every country, and he had to return to the U.S. to get shot in the back.
This, with the rabbi’s beautiful phraseology, caused a roar of sorrow in Jack’s head. He turned off the set and picked up the phone.
He called four people to tell them he’d closed his clubs for the weekend.
He called his sister Eileen in Chicago and sobbed.
He called KLIF and asked for the Weird Beard.
“Tell you the truth,” Jack said, “I never know what you’re talking about on the air but I listen in whenever. Your voice has a little quality of being reassuring in it.”
“Personality radio. It’s the coming thing, Jack.”
“Plus when do I see a beard in Dallas?”
“I’m the only one.”
“Russ, you’re a good guy so I called with a question I want to ask.”
“Sure, Jack.”
“Who’s this Earl Warren?”
“Earl Warren. Are we talking this is blues or rock ’n’ roll? There was an Earlene (Big Sister) Warren sang on the West Coast for a while.”
“No, Earl Warren, from the Impeachment signs. The red, white and blue signboards.”
“Impeach Earl Warren.”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Jack. Of the United States.”
“The events have got me bollixed