Excerpt from November Road by Lou Berney, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"They shot him," she said.

"Shot who?"

He looked over at the TV. On the screen a newscaster sat behind a desk, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. He looked limp and dazed, as if someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water on him.

"The motorcade had just passed the Texas School Book Depository in downtown Dallas," the newscaster said. "Senator Ralph Yarborough told our reporter that he was riding three cars behind the president's car when he heard the three distinct rifle shots."

The president of what? That was Guidry's first thought. The president of some oil company? Of some jungle republic that no one had ever heard of? He didn't understand why the brunette was so broken up about it.

And then it clicked. He lowered himself next to her and watched the newscaster read from a sheet of paper. A sniper had fired from the sixth floor of a building in Dealey Plaza. Kennedy, riding in the backseat of a Lincoln Continental convertible, had been hit. They'd taken him to Parkland Hospital. A priest had administered last rites. At 1:30 p.m., an hour and a half ago, the doctors had pronounced the president dead.

The sniper, the newscaster said, was in custody. Some mope who worked at the School Book Depository.

"I can't believe it," the brunette said. "I can't believe he's gone."

For a second, Guidry didn't move. Didn't breathe. The brunette reached for his hand and squeezed. She thought he couldn't believe it either, that a bullet had blown the top off Jack Kennedy's head.

"Get dressed." Guidry stood, pulled her to her feet. "Get dressed and get out."

She just stared at him, so he wrestled her arm into the sleeve of the blouse. Forget the bra. He would have tossed her naked out the front door if he weren't worried she'd make a scene or go bawling to the cops.

Her other arm now, dead and rubbery. She'd begun to sob. He told himself to cool it, cool it. Guidry had a reputation around town: the man who never rattled, no matter how hard you shook him. So don't start now, brother.

"Sunshine." He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry. I can't believe it either. I can't believe he's gone."

"I know," she said. "I know."

She didn't know anything. The newscaster on TV was explaining that Dealey Plaza in Dallas was between Houston, Elm, and Commerce Streets. Guidry knew where the fuck it was. He'd been there a week ago, dropping a sky-blue '59 Cadillac Eldorado in a parking garage two blocks away on Commerce.

Seraphine didn't usually ask him to do that sort of work. It was below his current exalted station, as it were. But since Guidry was already in town, to wine and dine and soothe the nerves of a jittery deputy chief who Carlos needed to keep on the pad ... why not? Sure, I don't mind, all for one and one for all.

Oh, by the way, mon cher, I have a small errand for you when you're in Dallas... .

Oh, shit, oh, shit. A getaway switch car was standard procedure for a lot of Carlos's high-profile hits. After the gunman finished the job, he would beeline it to the car stashed nearby and hit the road in a clean set of wheels.

When Guidry parked the sky-blue Eldorado two blocks from Dealey Plaza, he'd assumed a dark future for some unlucky soul—a lay-off bookie whose numbers didn't tally or the jittery deputy chief if Guidry's soothing didn't work.

But the president of the United States ...

"Go home," he told the brunette. "All right? Freshen up, and then let's ... What do you want to do? Neither of us, we shouldn't be alone right now."

"No," she agreed. "I want to ... I don't know. We could just ..."

"Go home and freshen up, and then we'll have a nice lunch," he said. "All right? What's your address? I'll pick you up in an hour. After lunch we'll find a church and light a candle for his soul."

Excerpted from November Road by Lou Berney. Copyright © 2018 by Lou Berney. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.