by Jon Jacks
There are red roses on Marilyn’s crypt. Fresh ones too.
‘You’re the kid helps out in the garden, right?’ he asks at last.
I nod.
‘I hear you say it was not suicide?’
He’s looking intently into my eyes as he speaks, like it’s a test to see if I can be trusted.
‘Sure; what you think?’ I answer.
He chews his lip again. Then again, perhaps he can’t help it. I mentioned the teeth, didn’t I?
‘It is not safe, going around saying what you think. I hear the coroner is going to say it was suicide.’
‘And you think that too, do you?’
He gives me a shrug. Says nothing.
‘So what did Marilyn say when you called?’
I’ve got to ask. The guy’s narking me, the way he’s not just coming out with it.
‘Lawford’s making out he called before eight,’ I add. ‘Says she sounded drugged, crazed.’
‘Is he? I have not seen that anywhere in the papers.’
I forget; I’d just got that information from my own little shadowing agent, hadn’t I?
All the papers have Lawford saying how nice she was. How okay she sounded when he’d called.
‘Drugged? No way; she was fine,’ José insists, giving me a straight answer for once.
‘So what’d she say to you José?’ I say. ‘Or did she say more to the limey than she did to you?’
That needles him, like I knew it would. He bristles. He bares his teeth slightly; but that’s not hard for him.
‘Well, I have already told others, so I may as well tell you too.’ He’s so needled he almost spits it out at me. ‘But on your own life be it!’
The big build up. From a Mexican, that could mean he’s about to tell you your Buick needs an oil change.
‘Marilyn told me something that would shock the whole world!’
His eyes are ablaze when he says it. Then again, a Mexican’s eyes blaze when he tells you you definitely need that oil change.
(Look, in case you think I’ve got something about Mexicans; well, okay, I gotta tell you there’s one heck of a lot of Mexican in me too, right?)
‘What? What was it?’ I ask.
He holds up a hand, his facial expression indicating that I should be patient.
First, he wants to tell me that he and Marilyn never ended their call.
She had to lay the phone down without hanging up. There was some kind of disturbance at the door.
He never heard from her again.
Just as I never heard from José what it was that ‘would shock the whole world’.
Two cops are walking towards us.
They’re ginning.
Even a Mexican could see they ain’t here asking for donations to the Policemen’s Widows Benevolent Fund.
*
Chapter 9
José, of course, had been allowed to leave.
‘Have yourself a nice day sir.’
It was accompanied with a servile tip of the cap. Yet somehow it was said like he knew wishing a good day was a sure way of bringing ill luck down on someone’s head.
A hand on my chest told me I wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Nothing to concern you sir,’ one of the policemen said to José when it looked like he might protest. ‘We’re just aiming on asking the boy why he ain’t at school.’
José looks at me like he’s wanting to go, but feels he has to go through the motions of looking like he’d rush to my defence if I needed him.
I nod, giving him permission to head off with his tail between his legs.
And the press thinks Marilyn might have had a thing going with him?
Soon as José’s turned a corner, I get a stick to my stomach.
A hand grasps the back of my coat. Suddenly I’m thrown against a wall.
Now the hands are running everywhere up and down my body. Places you wouldn’t expect even a tailor to be laying his hands on.
I grunt as the hand between my legs almost lifts me of my feet.
‘Thought you said you wanted me for not being in school?’
I’m rewarded with a hard push in the back, slamming me hard against the wall. It knocks the breath out of me. I grit my teeth in agony.
‘We just want to play it safe with scum like you.’
The cop frisking me growls in my ear. He likes his garlic this one.
This time the hands find my switchblade. It whirls through the air as it’s thrown for the other cop to catch.
‘Let him up,’ the other cop says, satisfied I know my place now.
‘Look,’ I say, holding my hands out either side to show I ain’t intending to make any trouble, ‘I go in now and again, but sometimes it’s just boring, know what I mean? So I do a bit of work instead; me and Mom need the money.’
‘You don’t do these things when you want boy! You do them when you’re supposed to!’
The cop holds the knife like he’s wondering if he should flick it open, use it even. He’s snarling, trying to intimidate.
It fails; he’s got ears that glow like dandelion clocks, lots of fine hairs that shine when the light’s behind them. A gut like that, well, I reckon he’s had way too many calls into Big Donuts. Washed ’em down with too many hot coffees too, breaking blood vessels across his cheeks like they’re roadmaps of LA.
‘You’re learning to go nowhere fast, way I see it kid!’
Garlic breath’s like a starved horse that’s finally decided to get up on it’s hind legs and make a complaint about it all. Tall, weedy. Uniform that makes him look like a kid dressing up, the face beneath the cap all stretched and pinched.
He whips out a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket, snaps it open. Reads from it.
‘Twelve different schools kid; nice going.’
‘And still none of ’em’s taught him any manners!’ The Big Donut whacks me beneath the ribs with his stick.
I grimace, try and sound suitably cowed.
‘We’ve lived in lots of different places.’
‘Twenty two different homes!’
He says it like he’s hoping to win a prize on The $64,000 Question. Like he’s the one host Hal March is feeding all the right answers to.
‘Let’s see–’
He looks at the paper, his horsy-face lighting up like it’s a picture of piles of sugar cubes.
‘Hey, you were even sent to an orphanage kid! Mommy saying she’s too poor to take care of him!’
He looks up.
‘Miss mummy did we sonny? That why we’re getting all these problems now is it?’
I want to snatch the list out of his hands, have a read of it myself. That’s what he wants me to do though.
So I don’t.
He also wants me to ask how he knows all this about me.
So I don’t.
I know how he knows it; Agent Jerk has given it all to him, natch.
‘Ain’t we been here before, running away from school, Jack?’
The Big Donut can’t help but sneer as he says it.
I look at the Big Donut like I’m surprised. Like I’m surprised he can actually read all the notes somebody has bothered putting together about me.
‘That’s right Vic,’ agrees Mister Ed, the Talking Horse.
He chuckles as he reads out an item that’s taken his particular fancy.
‘He was “put under a three-week court-ordered stay at a facility called Youth House for psychiatric observation following charges of truancy”.’
He struggles with words like ‘facility’ and ‘psychiatric’.
He looks up, leering.
‘The docs there gave you an even worse report than they gave your friend Marilyn, Jack!’
The Big Donut sniggers.
I try and lash out, but he’s faster than he looks.
He ducks, striking me hard in the gut with the stick.
/> I gasp and groan. He sniggers all the more.
Mister Ed is looking at the piece of paper once again.
‘Hey Jack, your problems are so bad even I ain’t sure what they’re getting at! “Personality pattern disturbance with schizoid features and passive-aggressive tendencies.”’
He really struggles with some of those words. He turns towards the Big Donut.
‘“Passive-aggressive tendencies.” That make any sense to you Vic?’
‘Nope; could be it means Jack here’d like to smack someone in the face, but he’s too cowardly to do anything ’bout it.’
I rush towards him, for my trouble getting a few brutal blows from both of them this time.
The Big Donut gets behind me, pinning me by the arms. He lets Mister Ed enjoy himself punching out my stomach.
‘As I was saying boy,’ Mister Ed snarls as he finally backs off in a sweat, ‘the doc seems to think that, like the deceased broad, you weren’t anywhere near being a full tool box.’
He nods over to Marilyn’s crypt. He twirls a finger by the side of his head.
Making out she’s crazy and I’m crazy.
Like an idiot, I struggle in the Big Donut’s arms, even though I know it’s no use. Like his gut, his hands are massive. They clench hard and painfully on my arms.
He bends his head towards my ear, his breath hot against my flesh.
‘This is a good neighbourhood kid. We ain’t needing your sort round here!’
‘Up front kid, we don’t give a rat’s ass ’bout you jumping school.’
Ever seen a horse trying to look all-coy after it’s just thrown you?
‘You wanna ruin your life, that’s your look out. What we ain’t wanting is you ruining it for others, savvy?’
I nod.
Mister Ed suddenly reaches out, grabbing me either side of my mouth with his long, strong fingers and tightly pinching my cheeks.
For some strange reason I can’t help thinking I must look a bit like him now.
‘That’s my boy! Keep your mouth shut unless you’re spoken to!’
His face is right in my face. His eyes are wide and shining, like he’s had too many shots, the derby winner who’s come out of nowhere.
Sh–! He ain’t gonna leave it here!
Then I sense an unexpected slackening of the Big Donut’s hold on my arms, feel him twisting slightly behind me. Mister Ed’s face also turns, backs away.
I look the way he’s looking.
It’s Agent Jerk, coming up the path towards us.
*
Chapter 10
Strange thing is, the goons don’t seem to know Agent Jerk.
They just seem to recognise the type, like I’ve explained before. The face of a man clenching those butt cheeks like his life depends on it.
He’s taking his time, refusing to display any sense of urgency or even need.
For the first time, I notice he has, after all, gone for a splash of colour amongst all that white, dark grey and black.
He’ s got himself a tie-tack, a small glob of amber glowing in the sun like a miniature orange. Perhaps it’s there to give him some sense of personality. You know, when he’s standing there with his identically dressed friends.
Hey, look at me – I’ve been to the sunshine state, Florida! I’m Agent Orange!
The two cops are watching him warily as he approaches. He flashes his ID.
They back away from me a little, the Big Donut finally letting go of my arms.
I twirl my arms around a bit. I was never going to say, but it damn well hurt being held like that.
Agent Orange’s eyes light on the sheet of paper Mister Ed is still holding.
‘I’ll take that officer,’ he says, holding out a waiting hand.
‘You can be on your way now boys,’ he adds as the paper is compliantly handed over to him. ‘Thank you officers.’
He uses the rolled sheet to give a loose salute to them as they miserably sidle off.
‘You watch him sir.’
Mister Ed’s looking back, like a boy told to go on home, you’re out way too late.
‘We found a knife on him sir. And he’s one crazed kid, according to those there papers.’
‘Thanks officer. I think I can handle a boy still at school.’
I’ve gotta admit, I’m impressed. Agent Orange delivers this line so coolly it makes the two cops smart; you can see it on their pinched faces and in their narrowed eyes.
The Big Donut doffs his cap, like one of the geeks you see standing outside hotels, uniform like you only see on a tin soldier.
Mister Ed nods, touches the peak of his cap with a finger. The look on his face says he knows when to keep quiet and keep his thoughts to himself.
Then they’re gone, walking off down the path. Heading towards their car, no doubt looking for someone else to shake down and show who’s boss round here.
‘So now you need goons to do your dirty work. ’
See, I’m not as sensible as Mister Ed. Never was any good at knowing when to keep quiet for my own good.
‘They’re not my goons.’
He watches them through narrowed eyes as they finally step out towards the road and get into their waiting patrol car. He watches them like they’re the lowest of the low, like they’re hardly better than the dumb cops of Car 54.
He turns back to me.
‘I can do my own dirty work – and enjoy it too.’
His mouth threatens to turn up in the first glimpse of real pleasure I’ve seen on his face.
I notice something else about him.
He ain’t got a cigarette.
Most people have a cigarette somewhere about them. If it ain’t in their mouth, it’s in a hand, or a nearby ashtray, or still in the pack, just waiting for the licking flame of that Ronson lighter to bring it into life.
Me, I don’t smoke because I can’t afford them. But I’ve got to admit, it sure looks a cool thing to do.
‘They sure as heck seem to be reading off the same script as you; telling me to keep my mouth shut.’
‘Well, that is good advice kid; even when it comes from Muldoon and Toody back there.’
He indicates the departing cops behind him with a flick of his head. See, I got him right; to him they ain’t anything more than Los Angeles’ version of Car 54’s dumb cops.
‘They don’t come across to me as guys who’d put together all that just for the good of the neighbourhood.’
I nod towards the sheet of paper he’s holding. Okay, it might seem crazy to draw his attention to it. But something tells me he knows everything down on there anyway.
‘You having me on kid? You really that stupid? You think in a case like this there’d only be me interested in telling you to keep schtum?’
He unrolls the sheet, glances at it.
‘Hell, hardly top secret all this, is it kid?’
He hands it over to me.
It’s basically my school history, a few quotes taken from reports, all minutely but painstakingly typed to fit as much as possible on a page.
Some of the comments have been underlined. One has been ringed in dark ink.
‘“He has a vivid fantasy life, turning around the topics of omnipotence and power, through which he tries to compensate for his present shortcomings and frustrations.”’
‘At least you can read kid.’ Agent Orange says it like he’s pleasantly surprised. ‘Way I heard it, you’re spelling and writing ain’t any better than a kid in the third grade.’
I hand the paper back to him, but he makes like he’s gonna refuse it.
‘Keep it kid; it ain’t mine, as I’ve tried to tell you.’
‘So if you didn’t set those goons on me, who did?’
I force him to take the paper, show him I don’t care who knows my history.
‘Who knows kid? You really so naive you think everyone in government knows what the
rest of it’s up to? Fact is, I lost my naivety on that score the hard way. Lost some friends along the way too. So you can count yourself lucky you’re learning the easy way from me; don’t trust anyone kid. The left hand not knowing what the right hands doing ain’t the half of it; you don’t even trust the fingers right next to you in this business!’
‘So now you’re giving me helpful advice? Gee, thanks officer!’
I’ve loaded it with sarcasm. His eyes narrow, like he’s going to hit me again.
But hey, he smiles, like it’s now all one huge joke after all!
‘You think you’re smart. Think you know everyone around you, got them all summed up in your Mr Wise-crack dictionary, eh kid?’
He waits for a smart-ass answer that will give him a good reason for giving me a good smack.
I can see it on his face; that barely restrained eagerness to put me back in my place. The cat who’s clawed your furniture, but still knows you’re gonna give him a fresh bowl of Friskies.
‘Thing is kid,’ he says, deciding to give me a lecture rather than a smack, ‘did you know your beloved Miss Monroe was a commie?’
‘You’re getting your facts mixed up,’ I say, holding back my anger. ‘It was that dumb-ass husband of hers. Arthur Mr-I’m-so-great Miller. He was into all that.’
‘Sure kid; the FBI had a file on him, you bet. Un-American activities. But they’ve kept a file on our Miss Monroe too since she married him. And when she went down Mexico way, she hit the town with Americans who’re openly communist.’
He sees the doubt in my face, continues before I can begin to protest.
‘I’ll give you this kid; she wasn’t the dumb-blonde everyone makes her out to be.’
‘Tell me something I didn’t know.’ I say it as coolly as I can. ‘She didn’t like the roles she was being given in her movies. She really wanted to play some broad called Grushenva. She was always telling me.’
‘Grushenka, kid. From a book, The Brothers Karamazov; written by a Ruski. And you being such a wise guy, kid, I take it you already know she didn’t have a single diamond to her name. A millionaire, kid, yet no diamonds. What’s that tell you about her?’
I shrug. ‘Things like that never mattered to her. You’ve seen her house – all simple stuff, not all that fancy stuff you’d expect. Why else you think she moved down Brentwood, when she could’ve been living with all the other stars?’
‘The girl who sang Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend? You kidding me again, kid? You know what that says to me? It was all an act, even in real life. She was into politics big time, way I see it. See, when we look at files on people, we see things revealed we wouldn’t ever know from just looking at ’em.’