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about their own dicks. Women got off on it too.
    But then Johnny Roselli came along and hung a bull’s-eye on JFK’s hat. It occurred to Hastings: was this all because of Nick Alston . . . ?
    â€˜The President. You’re serious?’
    â€˜Fucking A.’
    â€˜But why . . . ?’
    â€˜Fucked if I know, Momo wants it done, is all.’
    Except Giancana didn’t have that kind of money. Neither did Marcello and Trafficante. One and a half million was Cold War level cash. Cold War level target. Cold War level hatred. They had to be mobbed up with CIA or Big Oil on this one. And they wanted Kennedy dead. They were so out of control, they might even be able to pull it off. Danger simmered in the heat haze. Hastings was trapped. He maintained the patter, trying to think through a survival strategy. ‘Bedroom or sniper job, the getaway will be tough.’
    â€˜You’ve got five hundred thousand reasons to figure something out. Are you in?’
    He was dead, no matter what he said. ‘Stand-by from Saturday? I can do it.’
    Roselli stuck out his hand, sealing the deal with a sweaty palm. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
    Hastings watched Roselli stomping back up towards the cars. He could hear the swivel and stutter of Roselli’s mind as he sweated through the sun, counting all the cash. CIA doesn’t ask for receipts.
    Hastings collected his stashed weapons, formulating his plan. He would kill the other hit men before they ever had a chance to kill the President.
    Then he’d snatch their dough.
    And start running.

C HAPTER 5
Los Angeles 1960
    T he mansion’s cellars are vast, vaulted crypts of damp and gloom, the stone walls protected by the turrets of wine racks, hills of coal and the easy clutter of the always frugal super-rich. Coils of fencing and electrical wire, half-full tubs of dried paint, ancient rugs crawling with mildew. I shine the torch on a set of steel doors, then turn to the butler. ‘What’s that?’
    â€˜The shelter, sir.’
    He doesn’t mean to call me sir but he can’t help it. Any question fired at him would always elicit the same automatic response. Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir. I try the doors. They’re locked. ‘Do you have the key?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜I see. What’s your name?’
    â€˜Morris, sir.’
    â€˜Morris, can you get one?’
    â€˜Get what, sir?’
    â€˜A key . . . ’
    There is an uncomfortable pause. This scenario was never discussed in Good Butler School back in London. ‘The shelter is off-limits to all but Mr. Bannister, sir.’
    â€˜And Mrs. Bannister?’
    â€˜One would assume so.’
    Sir. ‘Though you don’t know?’
    â€˜That is correct, sir.’
    The strike of my match makes him start. I light my cigarette, then watch the flame sizzle on a cobweb. ‘How about Ronnie?’
    â€˜Naturally sir, members of the immediate family . . . ’
    â€˜I mean, did he know about the shelter?’
    â€˜I cannot say, sir.’
    â€˜Make an educated guess, Morris.’
    â€˜Possibly, sir.’
    â€˜He came down here?’
    â€˜In the cellars? Rarely.’
    â€˜Did he play on his own?’
    â€˜There are two nurses and two nannies.’
    â€˜How about other kids?’
    Morris shakes his head.
    Lonely kids. Only child. I knew all about it. Solitary hide-and-seek, always half-expecting your secret friend to pop out. I have a hunch. ‘Go get the keys, will you?’
    â€˜But, sir . . . ’
    â€˜Jesus, man, look at that door. That’s an honest-to-god bomb shelter. What if the kid’s locked himself inside? What if the air filter’s off and he’s suffocating while you’re standing there not getting the keys?’
    Morris stares hard, not seeing me but the movie I’ve just projected. He jumps to the end credits: Fired Butler played by