Fever City Read Online Free Page A

patsy.’
    â€˜Who’s the patsy?’
    â€˜How the fuck do I know?’
    â€˜Do the other shooters know about me?’
    â€˜I don’t know about you—are you in?’
    Dumb question. There was only one answer now. If Hastings said no, Roselli would nod and talk about some amusing bullshit or his bad hip on the way back to the cars. And then they would kill him, dismember him, and cover him in lime. ‘I’d appreciate it if you don’t use my name.’
    â€˜Fucking A. That’s why I just said Frenchie and Chicago.’ Except he’d used Nicoletti’s name. It was impossible to tell if Roselli was just dumb, or if it was an act designed to misdirect and control. ‘I’ll call you fucking Elvis, okay?’
    â€˜Call me anything you want, except my name.’ Hastings saw the glitter of a telescopic lens from the cars. The goons were scoping them for fun. He hoped the safety was on. ‘How?’
    â€˜Two scenarios. The first is a bedroom whack, the broad included.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜How the fuck do I know? Somewhere with a bed and a broad.’
    â€˜Security?’
    â€˜Heavy. Very. Always.’
    â€˜The second?’
    â€˜Sniper attack in public. Moving target, limited opportunity.’
    â€˜Who chooses the scenario?’
    â€˜A fucking telephone. What do you need?’
    â€˜I’ll take care of it myself.’
    â€˜We can get you anything you need.’
    â€˜I’ll take care of it myself . . . ’ He was thinking of a Springfield Model 1903-A4 with custom mercury rounds for the sniper shot; suppressed .22 to the temple for the bedroom invasion. He didn’t want any materiel from Roselli, which would be traceable, probably back to CIA.
    â€˜When?’
    Roselli grimaced. ‘As soon as possible. You’ll all be on alert as of Saturday.’ He slapped Hastings on the back. Bella froze, staring hard, her teeth exposed. Hastings signalled it was all right. Roselli laughed falsely. ‘Half a million. Think about it. You can retire on this job.’
    Of course he could retire. In style. But he would have to make do with a cool two hundred grand; they were never planning on handing over the second payment. They’d clip him first. They’d clip the others; they’d clip their own families and their children and anyone who stood in the way for that kind of money. The target had already become incidental. What was really at play was nine hundred thousand dollars, with the possibility of tracing much of the other six hundred grand. All Roselli had to do was move in fast and capture, torture and murder the top three hit men in the world.
    â€˜So who’s the target?’
    â€˜JFK.’
    â€˜Jesus Christ!’
    â€˜ . . . What are you, a Democrat?’
    Hastings liked JFK as well as anyone could like a politician. He was young; he was bright. He was dangerously extravagant. Hastings knew all about Kennedy’s father—the Rum Row days before he became ambassador. Before he sided with Hitler, he had sided with Frank Costello. Joe Kennedy wasn’t drawn to Nazis, but what they had to offer: prosperous appeasement on the back of a warring Europe. His folks had emigrated from Ireland to escape poverty and brutality. What point was there in placing America in the heart of all that centuries-old hate? Joe Kennedy had voted for self-interest and was vilified, but that was all forgotten when Joe Jr. was blown from the sky; when PT-109 sank in the Pacific. Then Joe Kennedy became the father of heroes and decided to back JFK all the way. Hastings didn’t care about Joe Sr.’s history, just like he didn’t care that JFK couldn’t keep his hands off women.
    Not admirable but audacious. JFK was the first American president who looked his country in the eye and said: I have a hard-on for power and it makes me want to fuck. Men got off on that. It made them feel good