The Case of THE PINK LADY (A Dick Nixon Mystery)
Page 3
“That's why I came out tonight, to check. You have them set to go on at one in the morning, and go off at one forty-five. The cops said time of death was between midnight and three. So last night in the wee hours of the morning, you must have walked across your wet lawn to take her to her car. Then, you got in and made her drive somewhere else, so the neighbors wouldn't spot you; somewhere where you could talk.”
Nixon cocked his head slightly to one side, in thought. “You held a gun on her and made her commit suicide, for the glory of her Comrades and Mother Russia. Cyanide works quickly, so you didn't have to wait very long.”
“And what makes you such an expert on cyanide?”
Nixon laughed. “Oh, I've been hunting Commies a long time, Murray, you know that! I've got friends in the FBI, CIA. I know all about that spy stuff. I know all about cyanide. It makes the skin pink, like sunburn, which is what the police said the victim had. They called her The Pink Lady. How apt. But it couldn't have very likely been a sunburn, since we've had this cloudy weather for two weeks. Cyanide, though, makes the victim vomit — which she did, in the car. And it makes the blood cherry red, the color of her blood inside the T-Bird.”
Nixon smiled. Even in the glow of the porch light he could tell the color had drained from Murray's face.
“So you forced her to take the drug, then drove her body back here, back to your house. You took the pistol with a silencer, so as not to disturb the neighbors, put her in the driver's seat and shot her already dead body in the head. Then you put the gun in her hand to make it look like suicide. You probably even planted the suicide note in her apartment. I'm sure the apartment manager will have no trouble identifying you as her uncle.”
Nixon finished, like he was winding up a debate point. "And that is what I know, Murray."
Murray sneered. “You'll never make this stick. You're a has-been, you have no influence anywhere. You're an amateur.”
Nixon laughed. “Not as much as you Murray. I might never have put it all together, if it hadn't been for your pansy, amateur, mistakes. Number one, I wondered why there wasn't very much blood in the girl's car? Well, dead bodies don't produce as much blood, so she was dead when shot. Number two, when you drove her body back here, you re-adjusted the rear view mirror for your height. When you put her back in the driver's seat and shot her, you forgot to change it back. Pretty sloppy.”
Nixon clucked his tongue and wagged his finger. "No Murray, if this is the kind of spying we can expect from the Soviets, then I'm happy to say we don't have much to worry about!"
It was a tour de force, and Nixon knew it. He was nothing if not a superb speaker.
“Uh, one last question Murray: did the Russians turn you, or did you come into the Nixon camp already a commie traitor?”
“You miserable loser.” He watched, as Murray put a capsule up to his mouth and placed it between his upper and lower front teeth.
Without thinking, Nixon ran forward and threw all of his mass into Murray, his arm outstretched, like he was a quarterback in an old, Knute Rockne, movie.
Nixon thought, with a certain satisfaction, that although he had been nothing more than a tackling dummy for his Whittier College team, all that pounding was coming in handy. Nixon slammed into Murray's gut, and watched him go down, the air knocked out of him, the capsule spit into the night.
From out of the shadows stepped Detective Myers, and another man that Nixon vaguely recognized from the dark Impala that had been following him around.
“Cyanide,” Nixon said, looking to Murray in disgust. “But it won't be that easy, Murray.” Then Nixon looked to the Detective. “Will it, Detective? And just what do they call you at the C.I.A.? Is Myers even your real name?”
The man Nixon had known as Jimmy Myers laughed and pulled out his ID. “Robert Hanson, C.I.A. This is my partner, Ed Bray.”
Nixon nodded. “I thought so. You're too classy to be an L.A. Dick. The suit's crummy enough, but your shoes are way too nice. I assume your mission from the White House is to keep this out of the papers?”
“In the interest of national security.” The agent turned to Murray. “Mr. Gold here will be quietly retiring. We'll be wanting quite a lot of information from him.”
“Somehow, I think he'll be willing to co-operate. Isn't that right Murray? An old political hand like you must know when you've run out of votes?”
Murray didn't say anything. Nixon got up close to him.
“Oh, by the way: your friends in the Kremlin might have thought that your little operation would be a success. They may have believed, with Kennedy in the White House instead of me, Khrushchev would be able to push him around. In Cuba, for example.” Nixon cocked his head. “Well, young Jack surprised them, didn't he? Young Jack behaved like a Republican.”
***
On the street, Nixon watched as Murray was loaded in the back of the black Impala.
Agent Hanson approached Nixon, and with the slightest hint of a blush said, “Sir, I have instructions to ask you— ”
But Nixon held up his hand, stopping him. “Tell Jack and Bobby that I accept the political truce. Tell them that I appreciate you being sent to look after my well being once they caught on to the truth of the, uh, situation.”
Hanson smiled. “I will, sir.” He shook Nixon's hand and turned to get into the car, but Nixon called after him:
“And tell Jack that if he ever needs any advice — well, I'm here.”
Hanson smiled again. “I’ll tell him, sir.”
Nixon pointed his finger at Hanson. “But tell Bobby to stop tapping my damned phone! The crackle on the line makes it sound like the woods are on fire!”
Nixon watched as the Impala pulled away. It was a bitter-sweet moment for him. He realized, with a dead certainty, that if Murray hadn't sold Kennedy his debate notes — instead of standing there in the Los Angeles night — he would now be President of the United States.
***
Pat snuggled next to him on the pool chaise. The stars were out — the weather had finally cleared — the tiki lamps were lit, the girls were in bed. Van Clyburn was playing Rachmaninoff, softly, from the stereo in the living room.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” Nixon said.
“For deciding to practice law again. For getting out of politics. It'll be nice to have a normal life.”
Nixon kissed her. He had taken the job at the Brentwood law firm. It seemed like the right thing to do, and he knew it would please her. And pleasing Pat was one of the most important things in the world to him. He loved her with all his heart and all his soul.
“Another high ball?” he asked. Pat smiled and nodded.
Nixon pulled himself out of the chaise, light headed, and humming along with Van Clyburn, walked over to the pitcher of drinks on the picnic table.
He poured two more whiskey sours and turned to look at Pat. She was beautiful, there in the moonlight. Maybe it was the booze, but a sudden wave of happiness washed over him. After all he had been through, he realized that his life was pretty damn good.
He considered telling her right then, telling her that he was heading to San Diego, to give a big speech at a Republican fund raiser.
But, he decided to wait until morning.
No use ruining a perfectly good night of fornicating.
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An Excerpt--
DEAD GUY ON THE FLOOR
A Dick Nixon Mystery
By Casper Bogart
Dick Nixon was working on his tan.
I wish those pricks who were advising me during the ’60 campaign had told me about “The Tan,” he thought. Kennedy, the “bronze warrior”—that son of a bitch was always tan. And rested. And shot full of steroids. Shit.
He adjusted the reflector under his chin. The sun felt good.
True, he was a little warm in his black slacks and wing-tips, but he wasn’t about to dress sloppy while he was in the political wilderness. His enemies might spy him in bermuda shorts, or wearing a big funny straw hat, and they’d find a reason to kick Nixon around again. Those cocksuckers in the press just need an opening, and they’ll destroy me but good.
Not that there was really anything left to destroy. After losing the Presidency in 1960 he came to California and got talked into running for governor. He was politically buried in that race in ’62, and had promised his wife Pat he’d get out of politics.
But that was with his outside voice.
His inside voice still longed for the arena— the thrill of battle! He just had to figure out how to get back in!
Nixon felt his nose burning, and reached for some lotion.
1964 was out. Jack was going to get two terms, especially after the Cuban Missile Crisis. Nixon felt a bit of admiration for his former rival. He was certain that Kennedy’s generals had advised him to bomb Cuba, but Kennedy held firm and finally found a peaceful way out. Nixon liked to suppose he wouldn’t have done it any differently, but in his heart he wasn’t sure that he could have said no to The Joint Chiefs. If he were President now, he might have ordered an air strike, and America might be in the middle of World War III.
Hell. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. I’m not President.
He should have been President. Old man Kennedy stole the election for Jack. Bought it for him, just like buying a new yacht. But that was how the game of politics was played, and Nixon was out of politics.
Out, until I can find a way to get goddamned back in.
The kitchen timer sat next to him along with his Saturday afternoon whiskey sour, and when it dinged, Nixon knew to get out of the sun. He wanted to be tan, but he did not want to get burned.
He laughed out loud at that thought.
Burned. Hell, I got plenty burned. In the televised debates, Jack looked like a God, and I looked like a criminal out of a Dick Tracy cartoon—white and pasty, with a blue five o’clock shadow. Like a bum!
But now he knew about The Tan, the miracle of the sun that erased his five o’clock shadow and made him look healthy. If it worked for Jack Kennedy and Cary Grant, it could work for Dick Nixon.
As God is my witness, he thought, I’ll never be pasty again!
DEAD GUY ON THE FLOOR
A Dick Nixon Mystery
By Casper Bogart
Available here: http://amzn.com/B008GGB8OC
Copyright © 2011, 2012, 2014 by Thomas Edward Bray
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Published By: New Century Pulp
COVER BY: Jimmy Gibbs
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First Edition: v4.0
Contact: Casper Bogart: www.CasperBogart.com
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