by Jon Jacks
Photos of nothing more than typed sheets of paper.
Brad grimaces, like he’s trying to stop himself breaking into a proud grin.
At first glance, the papers appear pretty meaningless to me; lists of figures and percentages. Then it dawns on me – these are blow-ups of the photos Brad took of the autopsy results.
‘This girl had more chemical substances swilling around inside her than a town’s drugstore kid.’
He points to a list of figures on one of the photos.
‘Her blood level kid; the drugs swilling ’bout her system. Four times the amount that could’ve killed her, even though she’d grown used to taking these things like candy. Hell, she’d’ve had to have been squirreling stuff away for months! Where’d she get all that from?’
He pulls out another photo. It’s another typed document, different to the ones I recall seeing in the mortuary.
‘Now our good Dr Engelberg, he’s saying he gave her a prescription of Nembutal a few days before her last bottle of twenty-five. Whaddya know, the pharmacy records don't agree with this.’
He waves the photo, letting me know these are the records.
‘So, when I politely point this out to him, he says the bottle dated August third was a refill. But it had a new order number, so it wasn’t a refill.’
He pauses, enjoying the horrified look on my face.
‘And here’s another thing kid. The amounts we’re talking here, she would’ve died long before it had all been digested by her stomach. But guess what? Know what they found in her stomach? Nothing, kid. Zilch. Not even the yellow dye the capsules leave behind.’
Now I’m gawping, I just know it. I can see it in the satisfied grin on his face.
‘So she didn’t swallow the drugs…?’ I’m almost sure that’s what he’s getting at here.
‘No glass, remember kid? Thing is, what they did find was an “abnormal, anomalous discoloration of the colon.”’
He says it without referring to the photos of the papers, like he’s memorised this phrase. He waits for me to ask what that means.
‘The drugs were forced up her butt kid. No one accidentally overdoses that way. No one commits suicide that way. Not even the Frenchies.’
*
‘Eunice! It’s got to be – she was fired that day! She wanted to get her own back!’
‘Kid, kid – calm down, calm down. I’m beginning to wonder if I did the right thing, letting you know what I’d found out. So she was fired; does that mean, hey presto, she suddenly changes into a homicidal maniac? If that’s how it works, hell, we’re in trouble the day Ford starts giving people the bullet.’
‘Who else, who else would be after killing Marilyn?’
He grabs me by the shoulders, makes me sit down as he talks firmly to me.
‘Look, Eunice put your mom out of a job so you’ve got something against her. I understand that – it’s understandable. But that don’t go meaning she’s suddenly America’s most wanted. Think about it rationally kid. She’s no spring chicken, our Eunice – how the hell’s she gonna hold down a woman who, believe me, would be struggling like hell way I see it.’
Dr Greenson – he was there. And Dr Engelberg. They’d help her.’
‘Kid, you still ain’t thinking straight, believe me. It’s one hell of a conspiracy you’re building up here. And why kill their own meal ticket, someone bringing in the money? Fame too!’
I clench my fists, grimace as I try to control my shock and anger.
‘What you don’t wanna go doing anyway is killing the most famous woman in world.’
Brad’s keeping his voice calm, controlled.
‘Not unless you’re wanting all the world’s press rushing to your door, trying to figure out what really happened here. Jeez kid, those reporters wanted to know whenever our Miss Monroe made one of those cute little sneezes of hers. Let alone when she ends up dead, naked, and with a phone in her hand.’
I look at him. My eyes feel like they’re wide, glazed – crazed.
‘Look, you’re overwrought kid – it was stupid of me to think you’d handle all this info, like it ain’t nothing more than somebody’s grocery list. I’ve got something for you that’ll calm you down. Something we used to use out in the jungle to keep our fears from overrunning our senses.’
He reaches into his pocket, brings out a small bottle of pills. He opens it, tips a couple out into his hands.
He hands them to me.
‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ he says, heading off to the kitchen.
*
Chapter 26
Brad’s got another way of ‘reinstalling calm’.
He’s got me sitting in front of a mirror,
‘Sit in front of the mirror kid; tell yourself all this ain’t gonna get you down. You’re gonna be strong.’
He’s given me a pad of paper too, and a pencil and pen; ‘Whichever you feel most at home with kid.’
He’s brought a radio along. Put it on low. so low the only things registering on my mind are the adverts, repeated over and over.
Stuff for getting around like Continental Airlines and National Shoes.
Cars like Buick, Chevy, Dodge. And all the stuff you’ll need to keep ’em running, like Gulf Power, Crest Batteries, Rayco.
Stuff you’ll need for the perfect house, from Betty Crocker's Brownie Mix to Tender-Cut Bread. Stuff you’ll need to get it all started off in the first place, such as Household Finance Loan Corporations.
Stuff for what you’re suffering from or made to think you’re suffering from, like Vicks Cough Drops, Noxema Cover Girl Matte Makeup, Mennen Spray and Push Button Deodorant.
And, of course, all the stuff to help you forget what you’re suffering from; Budweiser, Ballantine Ale, Schlitz, Piels (Bob Elliott and Ray Goulding thinking they’re being funny); Salem, Winston, York and Pall Mall (So smooth, so satisfying, so downright smokeable!); drugs too, naturally, like Compoz.
Brad’s always turning up to make sure my own pills are close to hand, ‘As I sure ain’t wanting to see you having a relapse kid.’
‘They’re not like the ones Marilyn used to take, don’t worry kid,’ he adds, winking.
‘We’ll get you safely through all this kid; just as soon as I figure out who the heck it is were dealing with here.’
‘What you writing kid? Remember how I told you to write down whatever came into your head? To get it out of your system, vent your anger. You ain’t gotta let it swill around inside you.’
He’ll take a look at my pad, see what I’ve been writing.
‘Beige, Black, White, Red.’
‘Marlon Brando, Clark Gable, Charlie Chaplin.’
‘Romanoff's.’
‘Bloomingdales.’
‘Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo, Jean Harlow, Ginger Rogers, Olivia de Havilland.’
He looks up from the pad, frowning.
‘What are they kid, some sort of code? What’s going on here?’
‘Her favourite things; they were her favourite things.’
‘Your mom? Your mom’s favourite things?’
‘Marilyn’s.’
‘And September sixteenth? Why you keep on writing September sixteenth?’
‘That’s when she said she was due to start filming again. Start filming Something's Got to Give again.’
It’s almost dreamlike, the way I feel now.
When Brad’s not here, it’s like he’s here anyway.
Like the radio’s whispering to me. Like it’s all in my mind and yet it isn’t.
The paper he’s given me is bone coloured, bone coloured like Marilyn’s stationary.
Hers was embossed; Marilyn Monroe.
I start writing again.
‘Gin a body meet a body…’
‘Gin a body kiss a body…’
‘Comin’ thro’ the rye…’
*
Chapter 27
Brad rushes in one day, snatching things up, throwing them into a bag.
‘We’re moving again kid. We’ve been discovered.’
*
We’re in the sedan again. A different one, I think.
After sitting for so many days in front of a mirror, it’s strange seeing the road open up before me through the windshield; like the mirror has burst into life, and I’m floating through a strange world.
‘What happened?’
I can’t take my eyes of the wondrously moving landscape.
On the radio, it’s Monster Mash.
‘Can’t explain,’ he replies, his eyes as firmly fixed on the road as mine. ‘Things just don’t seem right, that’s all.’
Outside, on the streets, everyone files past as if we’re not even there. Are these people really out to kill me?
Of course not, I realise. It only needs one of them.
One of them’s enough to kill you.
Brad flips through the channels on the radio. There’s a snatch of the Four Seasons; ‘…Sher…rrr…ry, Sherry baby…’ Other tracks I don’t recognise.
Then he stops, some boring guy intoning the news like he’s reading it direct from a newspaper.
JFK’s warning Russia. Saying the US ain’t gonna stand for having Commie missiles in Cuba.
He’s put a blockade in place already. Talk of a possible Third World War.
Armageddon. Nukes going off all over the place.
Yeah, I’d heard all about that. That’s what comes of sitting in front of a mirror all day just listening to the radio.
‘The Thunderbird kid.’
Brad’s eyes are on the rear-view mirror. I spin my head around.
Way behind us, moving in and out of the traffic, looking like he ain’t got a care in the world, there’s a pink Thunderbird.
*
Gently weaving in and out of the other lines of traffic, keeping to a steady pace, the Thunderbird continues to follow us.
He’s in no rush. And neither, surprisingly, are we.
‘Ain’t we gonna try and lose him?’
‘No point just yet kid; I need to see who else’s out there tailing us.’
He glances in the mirror every now and again.
‘The other guys a bit more on the ball; chosen a vehicle that blends in with the rest of the schmucks going about their daily business.’
After a couple of miles, the Thunderbird veers off. It takes an exit, its bright pink flashing like a gloriously plumed flamingo against its much duller background.
Brad’s eyes dart continually towards the rear-view mirror.
‘The old Buick. Keeping way back.’
I spin around in my seat again. I can’t see the one he means. There’s a number of old sedans behind us.
Brad gives me a quick glance.
‘It’s a classic pass, see kid? The T-Bird leaves, so you think you’re safe. You’ve let your overactive imagination get the better of you, you tell yourself. You’re paranoid, ha ha ha.’
It’s not a proper laugh; it’s mock laughter.
‘Then some guy in some old beat-up Chevy you ain’t ever gonna suspect follows you all the way to hell.’
We drive at a leisurely place for a number of miles, Brad’s gaze hardly off the mirror. Thing is, Brad actually seems to be driving slower than ever.
We’re dropping back, car’s overtaking us. He’s keeping quiet too, until he says calmly;
‘Brace yourself kid. Put your hands out on the dashboard.’
I stretch out my arms, my hands splayed across the dash.
Suddenly, Brad kicks down hard on the brakes.
My head jolts forward. Horns are blaring everywhere.
There’s the squeal of other cars braking so hard the drivers must have floored the pedal.
There’s also a dull crump here and there, like some cars have struck others.
I’m forced back in my seat as Brad abruptly accelerates. Flung to one side as he throws the sedan into a tight corner.
We’re cutting across the road, the vehicles coming up behind us now having to brake even more violently than before. Car’s skid and slide. Some sweep towards us side-on, bouncing to a halt only a few inches from hitting us. Those beyond these ain’t so lucky, striking and smashing, crump after crump after crump.
Horns going off, like they’re going to make any difference.
Then we’re heading down an exit, Brad smiling grimly. Head down like he don’t need to check we’ve left the Buick behind.
It’s cruising along a road they ain’t gonna get off for at least a couple of extra miles.
Even so, Brad spins our sedan round a sharp corner, spins it around another, and another.
Not even bothering, the way I see it, to work out what he’s doing. If you ain’t got a plan, no one can second-guess what you’re gonna do.
I’m sliding across the seat like the fair’s come to town.
After quarter of an hour of this, I say, ‘The Buick ain’t following us; I checked.’
Brad chuckles harshly.
‘Kid, they might have reckoned we’d do that at some point; give them the slip, slow down and shoot off down an exit. In which case they’d have other cars hanging around. Placed just off the road, seeing if we drive past them.’
He brings us to a screeching halt just ahead of an empty, parked car he’s just spotted. He bangs into reverse, the tyres squealing.
He brings us up real close to the other car. He jumps out, looks around, like he’s checking no one else is about. It’s pretty deserted around here.
‘Bring your stuff kid,’ he says, ‘and bring whatever you can out of the trunk.’
Opening the trunk, he takes out a wire, twists it into shape as he stands by the driver’s door of the other car. In a second he’s opened the door.
He crouches underneath the steering wheel, rips out a panel; wires it. The engine chugs into life, like it don’t like being woken up.
All the stuff from our sedan goes in the back seat.
‘Looks like we lost them,’ I say half an hour later as we rush down an empty road.
‘Sure kid,’ he growls. ‘And I’ve slipped into a parallel world, where everything’s completely different to the one I’m used to.’
He stares at me intently.
‘You never lose these people kid.’
*
Chapter 28
Even Mom never had me moving places so often.
The first few days in Dallas are spent in a deserted house, Brad breaking into it like he could make a good living from it. The locks opening up for him like Moses and the Red Sea.
He rigs the electricity up so we’ve not only got the supply back on but we’re also getting it for free. Water ditto; he opens up a few holes in the ground, twists a few stopcocks. After an initial violent clunking and streams of what looks like murky swamp water, it’s running sparkling and clear.
Out on the streets, I find myself suspecting everyone.
They guy lingering as he stops to buy a paper. The drunk, ambling along like he can’t even focus three steps ahead of him. The woman, holding a grocery bag that looks too light to be full of things she’s just bought.
We’re out one day and I feel a nearby cop watching us.
I feel like I’m under suspicion, end up acting suspiciously. Trying to look way too casual.
Damn it if I ain’t almost whistling!
The cop’s whole attention is on me now.
He approaches, goes through the usual guff; ‘Howdy gents, how y’all doing there?’
Voice friendly, just i
n case he’s made a mistake. Eyes hard and still, saying he don’t think so.
‘Can we help you officer?’
Brad, subservient; first time I’ve ever seen him like this. Head down, his back slightly bent, like ‘I ain’t after any trouble officer’.
He and the officer talk. Nicely, calmly; but like two guy’s playing checkers, looking for a weakness, an opening.
Acting real friendly like but on their guard, on the attack. The cop’s eyes warily flicking to me every now and again.
The cop’s young, probably just out of the army. Still smart, like his mom proudly presses his shirts for him everyday.
Probably still sees his job as a service to his country. Suspects every one of a certain type as a potential wrongdoer.
Kids like me, we’ve got wrongdoing written all over us. Like it’s a rash we were born with.
It’s the sort of questioning you’d expect from a rookie cop. Putting out what he thinks are probing comments.
Keeping it polite, flattering himself he’s sharp enough to catch someone out.
Where you heading for? Where you coming from? Guess you folks are from outatown, yeah? Where you staying? How long you planning on staying?
Brad’s still got presence; he’s just hiding it. He’s gradually moving forward, the cop sidling away, backing off without even realising it, you bet.
Brad looks like he’s embarrassed, his gaze flicking from side to side. Like the cops the master and he’s ashamed that his loyalty could be even doubted.
But I reckon he’s checking no one’s around, waiting for the handful of people in the street to move on.
Because as soon as the last person disappears indoors, Brad crouches into a football charge, barrelling hard into the cop’s chest.
The cop stumbles backwards into a narrow alleyway, his body moving faster than his feet can move. He finally topples backwards, sent sprawling amongst garbage and trashcans.
Brad leaps on him. Lifts his head, twists sharply.
Sh–!
He just killed an ffffing cop! Brad just killed an ffffing cop!
‘What the ffffing hell you think you doing? You just killed a ffffing cop! You just killed an ffffing cop Brad!’
Brad doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s dragging the cop deeper into the alley, taking us all behind the trashcans.
‘He was going to take us in kid; last thing we need. Even just putting in a report about us is bad enough. Makes a light come on somewhere showing where we are. Makes us trackable.’
‘I thought you were talking him out of it! You can’t just go killing a cop anyways!’
As soon as he thinks we’re all out of sight, he starts rifling through the kid’s pockets with one hand, unclipping the ID with the other.
‘See, I don’t think he was a real cop kid. Odd, the way he just came up to us like that.’