The Accidental Pallbearer by Frank Lentricchia Page A

believed that a second shooter, in addition to Oswald, who fired from behind, had fired from a grassy knoll
toward
which Kennedy’s limo was heading, Conte replied, I half-believe. To the professor’s argument that, psychologically, there was no suchthing as half-belief, Conte said, I agree. Nevertheless, I half-believe.)
    “From the perspective of the grassy knoll, Rudy, these witnesses were lucky not to be identified, or they would have joined Dr. Sheehan and DePellaccio.”
    “Your tone is ironic, Detective, but I believe that you believe there was a conspiracy. Who is the spider at the center?”
    “Do you by any chance?”
    “Have the notes? I certainly do. I’ll call the names in to you this afternoon.”
    “On my land line. You have the number?”
    The Polish Prince smiles, says, “I’m a reporter.”
    “Thanks, Rudy. One more thing. The paper’s chief photographer at the time, Enzo Raspante – he’s been retired for some time. Is he mentally in order?”
    “He’s these days at Our Hearts Are Full Assisted Living, up near the college. Has a brother, that’s it, who I hear moved to Florida. I’m sure he’d love the company. I visit Enzo occasionally – sharp as a tack and bored.”
    “Thanks, Rudy.”
    “One favor, Detective. Should you get to the bottom of the sewer, give me a heads-up.”
    “I promise.”
    “We’ll do the book and film script together.”
    Synakowski quaffs the remainder of his wine. Gets up to leave. Conte says, “Wait.” Brings him from the freezer a container of frozen pesto sauce. Synakowski thanks him, then adds, “But what will Lisa and I have for dessert, Detective?”
    Conte quickly replies, “You could stop by Ricky’s – or you could treat your special angel to some special Blue Velvet.”
    After Synakowski leaves, Conte empties the half-full bottle of wine into the sink. This time with no desire to lean over and inhale.
    An hour later, as he’s about to leave for Our Hearts Are Full, the phone. Synakowski with the names of the three witnesses to the accident – one dead, the second moved away, address unknown, the third, Nelson Thomas, 414 Ontario Street, no phone. “And one other thing, Detective. Several at the cemetery saw the shooter fall twice as he fled on foot. For what it’s worth. They said he seemed clumsy on his feet.”

CHAPTER 13
    Conte asks the coiffed senior-citizen receptionist at Our Hearts Are Full if Enzo Raspante is available for visitation. She responds, “Shall I assume you’re a friend or relative?”
    “We have a mutual friend at the
Observer-Dispatch
.”
    “How nice! It’s a darn cold day you-know-where when he gets company. I’ll call … Enzo, dear, you have a visitor … A Mr. Eliot Conte … No, not Connolly … No, not Connery … CON-TEE … C-O-N-T-E … Just a moment, I’ll ask him … He wants to know if you’re Irish … No … he’s not, dear … Enzo … Enzo … I’m Irish and you like me, don’t you? That’s very naughty of you to talk that way, Enzo … You know I won’t … He wants to know if you’re related to Silvio … Yes, he is … He’s on his way, dear.”
    Enzo Raspante’s living room features a treadmill, dumbbells of various weights, photos signed “To Enzo” by Rocky Marciano and Joe DiMaggio, as well as the usual family pictures. In sweat clothes, Raspante: steel-grey crew cut, little hair loss, none of the obvious collapses about the face and neck, a flat stomach. At eighty-three, he looks like an extremely fit sixty-year-old who could pass for mid-fifties.
    He shakes Conte’s hand, “You got me in the middle ofmy daily workout,” and proceeds to do fifteen rapid push-ups and twenty-five squats. Offers Conte a seat, “So what the heck is a man of my tip-top condition doing in this place? Walkers and wheelchairs galore, they constantly stare into space, odors of an unmistakable, drooling at the dinner table? Not to mention late-afternoon concerts