Los Angeles, California. In the hallway of a hotel, holding back part of the crowd. A man dressed in a policeman’s uniform, nose prominent, a nice profile shot.
In both pictures, there’s an odd expression on the face, different from the crowd about him, those people shocked and scared and horrified.
The expression . . . Happiness? Sadness? Grief?
He blinked his eyes, looked again. It was the same man. Had to be. And what would be the chances that a police officer would be in Dallas the day JFK was killed, and would leave town and get a job in Los Angeles as a police officer, and then be present at the time RFK was killed?
What would be the chances?
He bounced back and forth again to the two photos, and then realized what the expression was on each face, frozen in time almost five years apart.
It was satisfaction.
That’s what.
Satisfaction for a job well done.
He slowly got up and left the office, leaving the lights on, and then went back to bed and stayed awake until it was time for breakfast.
~ * ~
Three weeks after the night he had spent with the photos, Kevin was in a rental car, shivering, wondering if he would have the guts to take it this far. For nearly the past month, he had gone down a twisting and turning path, trying to identify the police officer who appeared in both photographs, separated by nearly five years and thousands of miles. Luckily for him, his university had a library that was one of the best in the region. Through its research assistants and some microfilm files and in searching old newspapers and magazines, he had found captions identifying the officer in the Dallas photo as Mike McKenna and the officer in Los Angeles as Ron Carpenter. That had taken almost a week of backbreaking work, sitting in hard chairs, blinking as the black-and-white microfilm reels whirred by, almost like a time machine, taking him back to tumultuous times when it seemed like the two princes would make a difference in the American empire.
Once he had the names, what next?
Then came frustrating contacts with the police departments of Dallas and Los Angeles, trying to find out who Mike McKenna and Ron Carpenter were, and if they were still living. Another couple of days, blocked, for the departments weren’t cooperative, not at all. Then, not really enjoying what he had to do next, he delved deeper into the outlands of the Internet, looking into the different conspiracy pages put up by people still investigating the deaths of JFK and RFK Then, this was followed by flights to Dallas and Los Angeles — spending the latest money from Lancaster — to two separate offices, where obsessive men and women were keepers of what they felt was the real truth, and he made some additional contacts. In turn, they led him to other people, who gave him two interesting facts: the names of Mike McKenna and Ron Carpenter still existed in the systems of the Dallas and Los Angeles police departments, and forwarding addresses for pension and disability information were exactly the same: 14 Old Mast Road, Nansen, Maine.
Unbelievable. So here he was, on a dirt road in a rural part of Maine, and after doing some additional work at the local town hall, looking at tax rolls, he found out who lived at 14 Old Mast Road: one Harold Brown, age seventy-nine. Retired. And that’s it.
So here he was, at a place where the driveway intersected Old Mast Road, waiting in his rental car. The driveway — also dirt — went up to a Cape Cod house on top of a hill, painted gray. Smoke tendriled up from a brick chimney. Kevin rubbed at his chin, kept an eye on the house. Could this be it, right up here? All the years of controversy, investigations, claims, counterclaims, all brought to this one point, this little hill in a remote section of Maine? And all coming about because of him, Kevin Tanner, assistant professor of English?
Insane. It all sounded so insane.
And now what? That he had debated with himself for a couple of days, before he had worked up some courage, rented a car — his old Toyota would have never made it — and spent nearly four hours on the road. All along the way, he had practiced and repracticed his approach, what he would say, what he was going to try to come away with.
Now it was time.
He opened the door, shivered from the early November cold. He walked up the muddy dirt driveway, looking at the old Cape Cod house, one of thousands sprinkled throughout the rural regions of Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire. A very insignificant house, one easily ignored, except if the book was written and was published and became a bestseller, this sagging collection of wood and windows would become one of the most famous houses in the world.
The front lawn was brown, stunted grass, and Kevin went to the concrete stoop and knocked at the door. There was no doorbell, so he knocked again, harder. He could hear movement from inside. Kevin stood still, feeling his heart race away in his chest. Could this be it? Truly?
The door slowly opened, and an old man appeared, dressed in baggy jeans and a gray sweatshirt. His face was gaunt, his white hair was spread thinly across his freckled scalp, his eyes were watery and filmed, and his prominent nose was lined with red veins. Kevin felt his breath catch. This was him, the man in the photos.
“Yes?” he said, his voice almost a whisper.
Kevin cleared his throat. “Mister Brown? Harold Brown?”
“Yes,” the man said. “Are you the tax assessor? Is that it?”
“No, no sir, I’m not,” he said. “My name is Kevin Tanner. I’m a professor of English.”
The old man blinked. “An English professor? Are you lost, is that it?”
“No, I’m not lost,” Kevin said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you, just for a couple of minutes.”
Brown looked suspicious. “You’re not one of the those door-to-door religious types, are you?”
“No, sir, I’m not. Just a professor of English. That’s all.”
Brown moved away from the door. “All right, come on in. I guess there won’t be no harm in it.”
Kevin walked into the house, breathing slowly, trying to calm down. The house had the scent of dust and old cooking odors, and he followed Brown as he moved into the living room. Kevin felt a faint flush of shame, watching the shuffling steps of Brown as he used a metal walker to move into the room. The black bedroom slippers he was wearing made a whispering noise against the carpeting.
Brown settled heavily into an old couch, and Kevin sat near him in an easy chair, balancing an envelope on his knees. The wallpaper was a light blue, and there were framed photos of lighthouses and ships, but nothing that showed people. There were piles of newspapers around the floor of the small living room, and even piles on top of the television set. Brown coughed and said, “So. An English professor. Where do you teach?”
“Lovecraft University, in Massachusetts.”
The old man shook his head. “Never heard of it. And why are you in this part of Maine?”
“To see you.”
“Me?” Brown said, sounding shocked. “Whatever for?”
“Because I’m working on a book, and I think you have some information I could use,” Kevin said.
“Me?” Brown said again. “I think you’ve come a long way for the wrong reason, young man.”
Kevin remembered how he had thought this would go, and decided it was time to just bring it out in the open, just barrel right ahead. He opened up the envelope and took out the two black-and-white photos that Lancaster had provided him and passed them over. Brown looked at the photos and then fumbled in his shirt pocket, to pull out a pair of glasses. With the glasses on, Brown examined each photo, and then there was a quick intake of breath. Kevin leaned forward, wondering if he would have to pull out the other bits of information he had when Brown would deny that it was him in the photos. From the college newspaper research, he had additional photos, showing Brown in a variety of photos at each murder scene. From information supplied by the conspiracy buffs, he had old police department records, placing him at each scene. Kevin waited for the answer, and when the answer came, he was shocked and surprised.
Brown looked up. “A
re you here to kill me?”
Kevin said, “No, no, not at all. I really am a college professor, and I really am working on a book. About the deaths of both JFK and his brother. And my research led to these photographs, and then to you, Mister Brown. So that’s really you, isn’t it? You were present at both assassinations.”
Brown’s voice lowered to a whisper. “So long ago ... so very long ago . . .”
Then, Kevin surprised even himself as a burst of anger came up and he said, “Why? Why did you do it?”
Brown looked stunned at the question. “What do you mean, why? I did it because I was ordered to, that’s why. I was younger back then, full of energy and purpose, and I did what I thought was right, and did what I was told. It was a different time, a turbulent time.”
“And who ordered you to do it?”
Brown shook his head, lowered the photos down on the couch, kept his gaze on them both. “I’m not going to say a word. I’m an old man, living up here nice and quiet, and I’m not going to say another word.”
“Was it Richard’s Children? Was it?”
Brown’s eyes snapped right back at him. “Who told you that?”
“That was part of my research. Richard’s Children.” Kevin took a breath, thinking, true, all true. That loon Lancaster was right. “I’m working on a book, Mister Brown, and I’m going to reveal your part in it, whether you help me or not.”
Brown put his shaking hands in his lap. “It could be dangerous.”
“Maybe so, but it’ll be the truth.”
Brown didn’t say anything for what seemed to be a long time, and then he said, “I’ve been retired, for years . . . but I was a pack rat, you know. Against all orders. I kept documents and papers and photographs . . . lots of information ...”
“You did?”
A slow nod from the old man. “I certainly did ... A book. You said you’re working on a book?”
“I am.”
Brown said, “Would you like to see those materials?”
“God, yes.”
Brown nodded, slowly got up off the couch, holding on to the walker with both gnarled hands. “You wait right here. I’ll go get them.”
Kevin clasped his hands together, his heart thumping yet again, thinking of how he would spend the day with the old man, debriefing him, figuring out all the angles of this story, the biggest story of the millennium, and all belonging to him. Kevin started smiling. Questions of tenure at old shabby Lovecraft U? Lancaster was right. When this book was done, he’d be considering offers from Yale and Harvard and —
Brown came back into the room. He moved quickly. He didn’t have a walker with him, not at all, and he moved with the grace of an old man who had kept himself in shape. And there were no papers or books or photographs in his hand. Just a black, shiny, automatic pistol.
“You should have stuck with your Shakespeare,” Brown said, his voice even and quite strong, and those words and the sharp report of the pistol were the last things that Kevin ever heard.
~ * ~
After receiving the news from a coded transatlantic phone call, the man who sometimes called himself Lancaster and sometimes called himself York got up from his desk and walked across the room to a thick oaken door. He rapped once on the door and entered at the soft voice that said, “Do come in.”
The room was cozy, with long drapes and bookshelves lined with leatherbound volumes, some framed photos on the dull white plaster walls, and a wide window that looked down upon the windswept Thames. From his vantage point, looking over the desk and the comfortable chair that the old man sat in, Lancaster could make out the round shape of the rebuilt Globe Theatre.
The man wore a thick dressing gown, and his black hair was swept back, displaying a prominent nose. One arm was on the desk, and the other one, withered and almost useless, was propped up on the arm of his chair. The old man was known as one of the richest and most philanthropic men in all the world, and on the wall were photos of him with the president of the United States, Prince Philip of Great Britain, the prime minister, and several other notables. Including a small photograph of him with Richard Nixon, and Nixon was the one smiling the most, as if pleased at what had just been agreed to. He looked up and said, “You have news?”
“I do,” Lancaster said. “The college professor has been removed. Mister Brown fulfilled our request admirably, and his compensation is en route.”
“Good,” the man said. “Any loose ends?”
Lancaster paused, and then proceeded, knowing that the man before him was always one for direct questions. “No, no loose ends. But I am concerned about just one thing, sir.”
“Which is?”
Lancaster said, “I understand the whole point of this exercise. To locate those people with sufficient imagination and interest to look into our activities, and then see how far they can go before we eliminate them. And eliminate those they have contact with, who have supplied them with damaging information. But there’s just one thing. Mister Brown, our man in Maine.”
“Yes?” he asked.
“Don’t you think he should be... taken care of, as well?”
The man at the desk turned and looked out at the mighty Thames and sat still. Lancaster knew better than to interrupt him when he was in such a reverie. Finally, he said, “No. I don’t think so. And you want to know why?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Loyalty,” he said. “The man has done noble services for us, many times, over the years. He deserves our loyalty. So he shall remain alive. Understood?”
“Yes,” Lancaster said.
“Good,” said the man who called himself Richard. “As the Bard once said of my spiritual ancestor, ‘I am determined to prove the villain, and hate the idle pleasures of these days.’ Come, we have work to do.”
“So we do, sir,” he said. “So we do.”
<
~ * ~
ELMORE LEONARD
When the Women Come Out to Dance
from When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories
Lourdes became mrs. mahmood’s personal maid when her friend Viviana quit to go to L.A. with her husband. Lourdes and Viviana were both from Cali in Colombia and had come to South Florida as mail-order brides. Lourdes’s husband, Mr. Zimmer, worked for a paving contractor until his death, two years from the time they were married.
She came to the home on Ocean Drive, only a few blocks from Donald Trump’s, expecting to not have a good feeling for a woman named Mrs. Mahmood, wife of Dr. Wasim Mahmood, who altered the faces and breasts of Palm Beach ladies and aspirated their areas of fat. So it surprised Lourdes that the woman didn’t look like a Mrs. Mahmood, and that she opened the door herself: this tall redheaded woman in a little green two-piece swimsuit, sunglasses on her nose, opened the door and said, “Lourdes, as in Our Lady of?”
“No, ma’am, Lourdes, the Spanish way to say it,” and had to ask, “You have no help here to open the door?”
The redheaded Mrs. Mahmood said, “They’re in the laundry room watching soaps.” She said, “Come on in,” and brought Lourdes into this home of marble floors, of statues and paintings that held no meaning, and out to the swimming pool, where they sat at a patio table beneath a yellow and white umbrella.
There were cigarettes, a silver lighter, and a tall glass with only ice left in it on the table. Mrs. Mahmood lit a cigarette, a long Virginia Slim, and pushed the pack toward Lourdes, who was saying, “All I have is this, Mrs. Mahmood,” Lourdes bringing a biographical data sheet, a printout, from her straw bag. She laid it before the redheaded woman showing her breasts as she leaned forward to look at the sheet.
“‘Your future wife is in the mail’?”
“From the Latina introduction list for marriage,” Lourdes said. “The men who are interested see it on their computers. Is three years old, but what it tells of me is still true. Except of course my age. Now it would say thirty-five.”
Mrs. Mahmood, with her wealth, her beauty products, looked no
more than thirty. Her red hair was short and reminded Lourdes of the actress who used to be on TV at home, Jill St. John, with the same pale skin. She said, “That’s right, you and Viviana were both mail-order brides,” still looking at the sheet. “Your English is good —that’s true. You don’t smoke or drink.”
“I drink now sometime, socially.”
“You don’t have e-mail.”
“No, so we wrote letters to correspond, before he came to Cali, where I lived. They have parties for the men who come and we get — you know, we dress up for it.”
“Look each other over.”
“Yes, is how I met Mr. Zimmer in person.”
“Is that what you called him?”
The Best American Mystery Stories 2003 Page 18