Lee got out and walked north on Beckley, hearing a jangling in the air, feeling the first nervousness.
What do I look like?
To anybody seeing me, where do I look like I'm coming from?
He checked the numbers on the license plates of parked cars.
Do I look like someone leaving the scene?
His stomach was empty and he had that feeling in the mouth where there's a rusty taste, something oozing from the gums.
That old patchy sadness of this part of Oak Cliff, the room-to-let signs and the trees going bare, the clotheslines, the bare-looking house fronts.
He was wishing he'd taken that Coke along.
The housekeeper was watching TV and it was all over the air waves. She said something but he went right by. In the toilet he pissed and pissed. It just kept coming.
Jangling in the air.
He went to his room and opened the dresser drawer for the. 38. It was only common sense. He couldn't go out there without a gun. This was the day of all days when he needed protection.
They'd find the Hidell rifle. He had Hidell documents in Ruth Paine's garage. His wallet was full of Hidell. So it was only common sense to take the Hidell handgun. A dozen layers to strip away. It was everything, together, Hidell.
He scooped the loose cartridges out of the drawer. Bought off the street by Dupard. Would they even go bang?
He'd left his blue jacket at work. He took his gray one. Wherever he'd be spending the night, and the rest of his life, he might need a jacket. Plus it covered up the gun.
The room. The iron bed.
To anybody watching, what do I look like with the bulge at my hip under the jacket?
Unknown white male. Slender build.
He went out the door and down the walk. He was having a little trouble figuring what to do. All the clarity was gone. There was a nervous static in the air.
What do I look like?
Do I stand out in the street, walking?
He went down Beckley figuring there was no choice but to go to the movie house where they were supposed to pick him up. He knew he couldn't trust them but there was nowhere else to go. He had fourteen dollars and a bus transfer. They had him cold. He could be walking right into it. The lurking thought, the idea of others making the choice now. He wanted to believe it was out of his hands.
He saw a police car up ahead, coming this way, and he made a left onto Davis, knowing he'd turned too quick. The streets were nearly empty. He actually saw the cop watching him move down Davis, squeezed eyes peering, although the car was out of sight now.
Okay, he shot him once. But he didn't kill him. To the best of his knowledge he hit him in the upper back or somewhere in the neck area, nonfatally. Then he missed and hit the Governor. Then he missed completely. There are circumstances they don't know about. Are they sure it was him in that window? It could be different than they think. A setup.
Slender white male. Five feet ten.
The car came into view again, down Patton, and he walked halfway along the next block. Then he did an about-face and went back to Patton and walked south. To fake out the car. He figured if he went to where he'd seen the car, it would be somewhere else.
Do I look like a suspect fleeing?
Have they figured out who's missing from the Book Depository?
What is my name if I am asked?
He went down Patton to Ninth Street. Nobody around this time of day. The idea was to make a quick move back to Beckley, across Beckley, down to Jefferson. A dozen old hair-drying machines stood along the curbside. A mattress on a lawn.
He wanted to write short stories about contemporary American life.
At Tenth and Patton he expected to see the car, if at all, moving away from him. But it was cruising east, to his right, coming at him. He crossed the street and began walking east and by this time the car was right behind him, tagging along, going ten to twelve miles an hour, the motorcade speed, teasing.
From the corner of his eye he could see the number on the door. A number ten. The car was marked number ten and this was Tenth Street.
He wasn't sure if he stopped first or the car stopped. It was like they both had the same idea. He went over to the window on the passenger side.
They spoke at the same time. Lee said, "What's the problem, officer?" And the cop, strong-featured, looking maybe one-eighth Indian, said something about "You live around here, buddy?"
Lee stuck his head right in the window, smelling stale cigarettes, and said, "Any reason to want to talk to me?"
"You look to me like you're taking evasive tactics."
"I'm walking in broad daylight."
"To me, you're doing every possible thing to evade being spotted."
There was a voice squawking on the radio.
"I'm just a citizen on foot."
"Then maybe you'd like to tell me where you're going to."
"I don't think I'm required to tell you that. I live in this area, which I'm telling you more than required by law."
He took the position, the attitude, that he was being singled out for harassment. Even if they had a description, from witnesses looking up at the window, how specific could it be?
"I'm saying for your own good."
"I'm only walking on the street."
One other person in sight, a woman approaching the intersection of Tenth and Patton.
"You carrying ID or not?"
"I'm a resident here."
"I'm saying for the last time."
He did not like the way cops, had never liked it when cops sat in their car and you had to approach them with documents, bending all the time, leaning toward their windows.
"I'm only asking what's the reason."
"Better show me some paper real soon."
"I hear you."
"Then do it."
"I'm a citizen on foot."
"I'm saying one last time."
They spoke at the same time again. The cop sat in his Ford getting a little testy. A voice on the radio said, Disheveled hair.
We're on Tenth Street and the car is number ten, All the factors are converging.
"Look. If I have to get out of this vehicle."
"Harass."
"I want to see your hands."
"This is how we have misunderstandings."
"Hands on the fucking hood."
"I hear you."
"Then fucking do it, pencil-neck."
The cop reached for the door handle on his side, not taking his eyes off Oswald. They were going to another level now.
"I'm only asking what for."
"Hands, hands-where I can see them."
"I have a right I'm on the street without harassment."
He began easing out the door. He said something else about "Go real slow," and Lee said, "A man taking a walk in his own city."
Talking at the same time.
The cop was on the other side of the car. A little traffic down the street. Lee pulled the. 38 out of his belt and fired four times across the hood, blinking and muttering. Poor dumb cop. Opened his mouth and slid down the fender. Lee saw a woman ninety feet away and their eyes definitely met. She dropped some stuff she was carrying and put her hands in front of her face. He moved in a jog step to Patton and turned south, ejecting empty cartridges from the cylinder and reloading as he went.
Helen took her hands away from her eyes. She was all alone screaming in the street. The policeman's cap was a little ways out from the body. He was on his side and gushing blood. She picked up her purse and work shoes and went toward him, calling for help and screaming. She walked bent over, actually screaming at the body.
Then there were some people in the street and a man climbing out of a pickup. Helen approached the body screaming. The man was in the police car saying, "Hello hello hello." Helen saw the blood take oval shape in the street. She moved around the body and put her shoes on the hood of the car. She stood bent over, seeing wounds in the chest and head. She just could not believe the volume of blood.