The shadow-boxer was on another level now, making the slowest of moves, working out the mathematics. He stood in place, head down, and dragged his arms across his upper body, finding resistance, a retarding force, like someone gesturing in space.
"Your man Kennedy has a little romance of his own with the idea of death. Men preoccupied with courage have their dark dreams. Jack's a little death-haunted all right, but not pathologically, not creepy-crawly like me. Poetic. That's your Jack."
"He's not my Jack," Lee said.
"He knows the course. He's been close to dying several times. A brother killed in action. A sister killed in a plane crash. A baby dead. A Catholic. A Catholic gets it early. Incense, organ music, ashes on the forehead, wafer on the tongue. The best things shimmer with fear. Skelly Bone Pete. We used to stay out of certain alleyways, certain dark streets. That's where he was waiting with his wino breath and stinky underwear. Specialized in kids."
One of the bar girls stood by the juke box swaying, a West Texas woman who looked sandblasted, with bleached-out hair and skin, little gold lashes. Ferrie waved her over. He took a black bow tie out of his pocket and gave it to her. She clipped it to Lee's shirt collar. They thought that was pretty cute. Her name was Linda Frenchette and she held her hands up to her face and flexed her thumbs, snapping Lee's picture.
"He doesn't like to smoke or drink," Ferrie said. "He never says dirty words. We want to be nice to him."
"Nice for a price," she said.
"You get the front end. I get the back end. Like bumper cars," Ferrie said.
They thought that was cute too.
They all got into Ferrie's Rambler and drove up Magazine. The theme of the ride was "Taking Lee Home." Linda Frenchette sat in the back seat. She had tequila in a wineglass and clapped a hand over the top of the glass every time the car stopped short. She found a TV lunchbox on the seat with cartoon figures painted on the surface and some hand-rolled cigarettes inside. Ferrie took one and lighted it while Lee steered from the passenger seat. Hashish, said Cap'n Dave. They rolled up the windows and let the heavy scent collect, strong and rooted. Ferrie passed the stick around. A pudgy little thing tapered at both ends. They were taking Lee home.
They parked in front of a nice-looking house with a two-story porch, a couple of doors up from Lee. He'd used their garbage can several times. Linda lighted up another stick. They passed it round and round. It was 3:00 a.m. and with the windows up and the smoke collecting, there was very little world out there. They gave Lee instructions on smoking the dope. They argued about it, fiercely. He was smoking just to smoke. Then Ferrie recited the history of hashish, lighting up another stick, which took forever. Everything moved through time. The heat in the car was getting hard to take and the smoke seared Lee's throat. Linda dipped her tongue in tequila and softly licked his ear. They were in a place where a heartbeat took time.
"This is one of those times I don't know if I'm doing it or remembering it," she said.
"Doing what?" Ferrie said.
"In other words am I home in bed thinking about this or is the whole thing happening right now?"
"What whole thing?" Ferrie said.
His voice was far away. He rolled down his window to let the smoke out. Lee looked straight ahead. Bright ashes tumbled down his shirtfront. He realized Linda was reaching over the seat back. She groped, is the only word, at his belt buckle and fly.
"I'm hoping dear Jesus I'm at home. Because the idea that I have to get there yet is too much razzle to imagine."
Lee let Ferrie open his pants. Then Linda had his cock jumping in her fist and was hanging way over the seat back with her mouth open wide, sounding a comic growl.
Lee looked straight ahead. He heard Linda breathing through her nose. She changed her position, hitting her head on the jutting ashtray. He tried to recall the name of a girl he wanted to date once, plaid-skirted, when he was dating age.
Then Ferrie's voice began to reach him in weighted time, moving slowly, one word, another, deeply shaped, like ads for epic movies, those 3-D letters stretched across a bible desert.
"They've been watching you a long time, Leon. Think about them. Who are they? What do they want? I'm with them but I'm also with you. There are things they aren't telling us. This is always the case. There's always more to it. Something we don't know about. Truth isn't what we know or feel. It's the thing that waits just beyond. We share a consciousness, like tonight. The hashish makes us Turks. We share a homeland and a spirit. What Linda says is true. You're at home, in bed now, remembering."
Then he reached across the dangling woman to straighten Lee's bow tie.
Marina had a standing invitation to stay with her friend Ruth Paine in Dallas. Ruth Paine would be a big help when the new baby came. She knew some of the Dallas emigres and wanted to improve her Russian, which gave Marina a chance to return the favor.
It looked like New Orleans was over. In a way it had never begun. Lee wanted her back in Russia to free himself of responsibility. She thought he would settle for Dallas, at least for now.
Ruth Paine was passing through New Orleans from the East or the Midwest and she could take Marina back to Dallas with her. This is what Marina discussed with Lee. He would go to Mexico City to get his Cuban visa and Marina and June would go to Dallas with Ruth Paine, a Quaker and good friend.
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 supply, 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.