"How do you know all this stuff?"
The cabbie shrugged. "I'm a buff." He turned around in his seat. "How come you don't?"
"It's a girl thing," Pepsie retorted. "You wouldn't understand. You have testicles."
A voice crackled from the dash speaker. "Serial number C2766. Repeat, C as in Charlie, twenty-seven sixty-six."
"Holy fucking shit!" said the cabbie.
"What is it? What does that number mean?"
"It means," said the cabbie, "that the Mannlicher-Carcano that shot the President dead is the same one that killed Kennedy."
Pepsie Dobbins and her cameraman exchanged blank looks.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"It means," said the cabbie, "that this is one hell of a story and how come you're sitting here when you should be getting it on the air before the cover-up begins all over again?"
THE CABBIE PEELED out of the garage on burning rubber and sped to the local ANC affiliate.
When Pepsie Dobbins barged in the door, she filled her lungs with air and called out at the top of her voice, "Point me to the nearest hot camera and get my news director in Washington on the line."
She was greeted with a sea of stony faces.
"Well, what are you standing around for?"
The stony regards grew stonier still.
"Don't you know who I am? Pepsie Dobbins. I broke the historic news that the President was murdered. Now I'm about to blow the lid off the conspiracy behind it."
No one made a move except a guard in a booth who picked up a telephone and began dialing.
"What's wrong with you people? I know the President is dead, but you can mourn on personal time. We have the people's right to know to exploit."
"The President isn't dead," someone said in a dull monotone.
Pepsie took a single step backward. "Oh, my God," she whispered to her cameraman. "Do you think they're in on the conspiracy, too? Maybe part of the cover-up?"
"Looks that way to me," the cabbie undertoned.
Pepsie whirled. "What are you doing here?"
"I want to see how everything comes out. Besides, you don't know jack shit about the subject. I do. I've read every book on assassination I could get my hands on. I'm a walking encyclopedia. Maybe I should be put on retainer."
"Later," Pepsie said. She cleared her throat and said, "The President has been killed, and the Secret Service is trying to cover up the truth. God knows how deep this goes or how big it is."
A man stepped out into the waiting area, face tight as a drum. "The President is not dead," he said.
"We all saw it on TV."
"That was a Secret Service special agent who was killed, not the President."
"How do you know?"
"I'm the news director here and I just got it from your news director. The network is issuing a retraction and apology right about now."
"Oh, my God. They aren't mentioning my name, are they? I'm still trying to live down that last little faux pas. "
"You mean the one where you were pretending to do a live remote from the Capitol Building, except it was a color slide projected onto the wall behind you?" the cabbie asked amiably. "Or the faux pas where you did a stand-up in front of NASA headquarters and they put up a slide of Nassau in the Bahamas?"
"I was tricked into doing both of those against my better judgment," Pepsie snapped.
"Your better judgment," the news director said, "has given ANC a black eye and caused the stock market to drop one hundred sixty points in three minutes. They had to halt trading. The currency markets are in an uproar. It was looking pretty grim until Air Force One issued their official denial."
"Are we sure the President is still alive?" Pepsie demanded.
"He hasn't gone on the air yet."
"It could be part of the cover-up."
The news director accepted a cellular phone handset from a secretary, spoke into it briefly, then tossed it to Pepsie.
"Tell it to your news director. And then clear out of my building."
"Greg? I can explain," Pepsie said into the handset.
But Greg wasn't in the mood for hearing explanations. He swore a continuous blue streak until Pepsie stopped wincing and just hung her head in shame.
When he was through with his tirade, Pepsie said, "I think I can redeem us a little. Maybe."
"How?"
"I have hard evidence that the rifle used to shoot the President-I mean the Secret Service agent-is the same one that killed Kennedy. Jack, not Robert."
"Don't screw with me, Pepsie. You're on thin ice as it is."
"It's true. I have it on tape. Listen."
Pepsie rewound her minicassette and played snatches of the Secret Service radio exchange into the cellular handset.
"Who's that explaining everything to you?" the news director asked.
"My cab driver."
"You're depending on the memory of a fucking cab driver for your fact checking?" the news director roared.
"I resent that remark," the cabbie said. "I happen to be an amateur conspiratologist. "
"Look," Pepsie said, clapping a hand over her free ear, "if it's the same rifle, this could be big. We've got to go on the air with it."
"I'm going on the air with nothing! You get your ass back to Washington, and we'll sort it out later. In the meantime, I have an unscheduled appointment in the network president's woodshed. And you have one in mine. "
The phone went click in Pepsie's ear.
"Take me to the airport," Pepsie told the cabbie dispiritedly. "And don't be in such a rush."
On the way out, the cabbie was saying, "I don't suppose I could talk you into letting me accompany you to D.C.? I got a lot to offer and I'm sick of contending with these maniac Boston drivers ...."
Chapter 10
The airline reservations agent was unapologetic.
"We have no adjoining seats in coach and none in first class at all."
"But I'm Pepsie Dobbins. Bump someone."
The agent remained unmoved. "The flight has boarded. Would you prefer to wait for the next flight."
"I'd love to," Pepsie muttered. "But I have to be in Washington."
"Do you have a preference-12-A or 31-E?"
"Just give them both to me," Pepsie said. "Since when does the ANC News Washington correspondents get so little respect?" she fumed.
"Since she screwed up royally," suggested the cabbie.
"You watch your mouth. You're along for the ride only as long as you pull your own weight."
"Happy to oblige," said the cabbie, accepting his boarding pass from Pepsie.
"What about me?" asked the ANC News cameraman, who stood a little off to one side, his hands dangling uncomfortably as if he didn't know what to do with them when not packing around the chief tool of his trade.
"Walk," said Pepsie. "And next time hold on to your camera."
ON BOARD, Pepsie found a little mummy of an Asian man sitting in 12-A. A lavender kimono covered his pipe-stem body. He was as bald as an egg except for some snowy cloud puffs over each ear. A wisp of smoke too vaporous to be called a true beard hung off his wrinkled chin. He stared out the window with narrow eyes that were hazel in the reflected glass.
Pepsie bent over and asked, "Would you mind trading seats with my friend?"
"Yes, I would mind," said the old Asian in a squeaky voice. He did not look away from the window.
"But I need to sit with my friend."
"Then sit on his lap. Just do not bother me."
"But I'm Pepsie Dobbins."
"And I am the Master of Sinanju."
Pepsie blinked. "I guess he won't budge," she told the cabbie.
"You are very astute," said the Master of Sinanju. "For a mere female."
Reluctantly Pepsie took her seat next to the little wisp of a man, and the cabbie went to the back of the plane. Within a few minutes the jet was airborne.