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

Guidry nodding at her until she nodded back. Helping her step into her skirt, looking around for her shoes.

Maybe it was just a coincidence, he told himself, that he'd stashed a getaway car two blocks from Dealey Plaza. Maybe it was just a coincidence that Carlos despised the Kennedy brothers more than any other two human beings on earth. Jack and Bobby had dragged Carlos in front of the Senate and pissed on his leg in front of the whole country. A couple of years after that, they'd tried to deport him to Guatemala.

Maybe Carlos had forgiven and forgotten. Sure. And maybe some mope who lugged boxes of books around a warehouse for a living could make a rifle shot like that—six floors up, a moving target, a breeze, trees in the way.

Guidry eased the brunette onto the elevator, off the elevator, through the lobby of his building, into the back of a cab. He had to snap his fingers at the hack, who was bent over his radio listening to the news and hadn't even noticed them.

"Go home and freshen up." Guidry gave the brunette a kiss on the cheek. "I'll pick you up in an hour."

In the Quarter, grown men stood on the sidewalk and wept. Women wandered down the street as if they'd been struck blind. NovemberRoad_9780062663849_1P_OO0328_CS6.indd 28 3/28/18 4:06 PM nov embe r road · 29 A Lucky Dog vendor shared his radio with a shoeshine boy. When in the history of civilization had that happened before? They shall beat their swords into plowshares. The leopard will lie down with the goat.

Guidry had fifteen minutes to spare, so he ducked into Gaspar's. He'd never been inside during the day. With the house lights on, it was a gloomy joint. You could see the stains on the floor, the stains on the ceiling, the velvet stage curtain patched with electrical tape. A group was huddled by the bar, people like Guidry who'd been drawn inside by the blue throb of the TV. A newscaster—a different one than before, just as dazed—read a statement from Johnson. President Johnson now.

"I know that the world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear," Johnson said. "I will do my best. That is all I can do. I ask for your help—and God's."

The bartender poured shots of whiskey, on the house. The lady next to Guidry, a proper little Garden District widow, ancient as time and frail as a snowflake, picked up a drink and knocked it back.

On TV they cut to the Dallas police station. Cops in suits and white cowboy hats, reporters, gawkers, everybody pushing and shoving. There was the mope, in the middle of it all, getting bounced around. A little guy, rat-faced, one of his eyes swollen shut. Lee Harvey Oswald, the announcer said his name was. He looked groggy and bewildered, like a kid who'd been dragged out of bed in the dead of night and hoped that all this might be just a nightmare.

A reporter shouted a question that Guidry couldn't make out as the cops shoved Oswald into a room. Another reporter moved into the frame, speaking to the camera.

"He says he has nothing against anybody," the reporter said, "and has not committed any act of violence."

The Garden District widow downed a second shot of whiskey. She looked furious enough to spit. "How could this happen?" she kept muttering to herself. "How could this happen?"

Guidry couldn't say for sure, but he had an educated opinion. A professional sharpshooter, an independent contractor brought in by Carlos. Positioned on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository, or on the floor below to put a frame on Oswald, or maybe set up on the other side of the plaza, an elevated spot away from the crowds. After the real sniper made his shot, he wrapped up his rifle and strolled down Commerce Street to the sky-blue Eldorado waiting for him.

Guidry left Gaspar's and headed to Jackson Square. A priest comforted his flock on the steps of the cathedral. A time to plant, a time to pluck up what has been planted. The usual jive. Guidry was walking too fast. Cool it, brother.

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.