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thing?”
    Frank snorted. “Brody’s about making money, brother. But let me tell you something: he’s tied in with Carlos Marcello on all kinds of deals. And nobody hates Bobby Kennedy like Carlos. Not even Hoffa. Three years ago, Kennedy had the CIA kidnap Carlos, strap a parachute on him, and toss him out of a C-130 over Guatemala. ‘Unofficial deportation.’ Talk about stupid. That’s half the reason John Kennedy died, right there. Those CIA boys should have chucked Carlos out without a chute, ’cause that Sicilian bastard don’t forgive, and he damn sure don’t forget.”
    Sonny looked away from Frank, realizing his old friend had probably said more than he’d intended. Frank had spent more than a year down near Morgan City, training Cubans for the Bay of Pigs invasion, and he’d gotten to know all sorts of shady characters. Sonny had visited him a couple of times, had even trained some Cubans on mortars and assorted small arms, but Frank had kept him clear of the CIA paramilitary types who ran the camp. Still, Sonny figured Frank knew more about the assassination of John Kennedy than any congressman sitting on the Warren Commission.
    When Sonny looked back at his old friend, Frank was watching him with knowing intensity. In that moment of shared intimacy, Sonny realized that Frank Knox had more than knowledge of this kind of operation: he was a veteran of them.
    “You got any ideas, Sonny?” asked Frank. “About local targets?”
    Flattered to be asked his opinion, Sonny gave the question some serious thought. “We need somebody King or Kennedy knows personally. I’m sure Reverend King knows Charles Evers. King went to Medgar Evers’s funeral in Jackson. And Bobby Kennedy attended Medgar’s memorial service at Arlington. I saw something about it on the TV.”
    “Charles Evers is a pimp and a bootlegger,” Frank said. “He was running whores back in the army, in the Philippines. Would King or Kennedy really come down here for a pimp’s funeral?”
    “They might,” Sonny thought aloud. “Charles claims he’s picking up where his brother left off with the civil rights work. He’s the new field secretary of the NAACP, even though the old guard didn’t want him. And Charles is a lot more street savvy than his brother was. He might actually get some things done.”
    Frank nodded slowly. “I’ll keep my eye on him, then. Who else?”
    “Locally, there’s George Metcalfe, like Glenn said, but the regular Knights will be watching him. I would have thought Albert Norris would get some attention. Everybody loved Albert.”
    “Not with those Jewboys missing in Neshoba County,” Frank said. “A Ferriday, Louisiana, music store owner don’t rate compared to white martyrs from New York.” Frank forked the tenderloin off the grill and dropped it onto a platter. “Don’t worry about it. Time’s on our side. When the moment comes, we’ll know which goat to tie to the tree.” He pointed down the shallow slope of the sandbar. “Look at Snake! He’s grinning like a barrel of possum heads!”
    Snake Knox was marching up toward them, the drunken young waitress locked under his right arm like a prisoner. His left hand held a walkie-talkie with a shining silver aerial. Sonny looked past him, down to the Chevy. There seemed to be someone sitting motionless behind the wheel.
    “Who’s that in the car?” Sonny asked anxiously, afraid of what Snake might be planning.
    “Just an old safety dummy I got from a guy at the tire plant,” Snake answered, joining them beside the grill. “You boys ready for a show?”
    “Hell, yeah,” said Frank, rubbing out his sand drawing with his boot as he finished his beer.
    Snake Knox turned toward the women sitting far back under the trees. Not one had given him the time of day since Friday—not even his mother—as all were friends of his ex-wife. But Snake waved anyway and hollered, “Keep your eyes on that Chevy, ladies!” Then he turned and yelled for the