The Bookmaker

by Chris Fraser

  I wore the #18 Archie Manning jersey he got for me, and the fact that I gave him Ole Miss as one of my picks made his day. He was already in his favorite chair with the wheel chair nearby.

  He slapped me on the back. “How about a scotch and a smoke?” I made him his drink and rolled up a joint and then grabbed a beer from the fridge for myself. “How’s it going with my little girl?” he asked in a way that felt like he expected me to confess that we were already having trouble.

  I lit his joint. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Good to hear, son, good to hear, just know that I’m rooting for you kids, but be patient with her, she can be a handful at times,” he said, denigrating her again for no reason. I felt compelled to call him out on it, then thought better of it.

  We settled into the games—Michigan and Washington St. were both up big by halftime; Preston was cruising to another big day. I sipped beer, he drank his scotch, and we lazily passed the joint back and forth between us. We were feeling no pain by the time the big game started. It was just gonna be Preston and me today. Matador and Jay were still busy cleaning up after the fire, and Dayla and Corynne were in town shopping.

  The game was over before it started. Peyton Manning put on a clinic—never have I seen a more impressive college quarterback. By halftime, he was 16-18 with two hundred eighty yards passing and four touchdowns; Ole Miss was out-classed. The final numbers were staggering: Manning had four hundred seventy yards passing with six touchdowns and no interceptions in a 55-17 Tennessee rout.

  Preston took it better than I thought. “Well, if you were gonna pick a game to miss, that was it.”

  “Sorry, Preston,” I said. “I thought the Rebels had a chance to cover the fourteen. I figured Deuce would keep ‘em close.”

  “Don’t sweat it, son, you can’t win ‘em all.”

  “No, no you can’t, just as long as you win most,” I said, watching the other three TVs that had games with outcomes still in question.

  Preston switched the channel on the big screen to the late game on ESPN. “I’ll tell you what, that son of a bitch Manning looked better than I remember his old man looking. Someone dropped the ball at Ole Miss letting him get away.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” I agreed. “I wonder how long Tennessee can keep him. I bet the pros are already licking their chops.”

  “The boy’s got a bright future,” he said, then changed the subject. “You wanna get a little work in this evening? I’m feeling a little Bobby Kennedy tonight. Whaddya think?”

  As if I had a choice, I said, “Sure, let’s do it.”

  “What do you know about the death of Bobby Kennedy?” he asked.

  “Sirhan Sirhan in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel in L.A.,” I answered, rather proud of myself.

  “Well, in a way you are exactly right, Sirhan did shoot him in the kitchen that night, but he wasn’t alone. I was there, too, that early morning of June 5, 1968, and I fired the kill shot. Oswald was a patsy and so was that terrorist piece of shit, Sirhan Bashara Sirhan,” he paused and took a long hit off the joint. “Now this is gonna get a little out there, so hang with me.”

  “Okay, I’m listening”

  “Do you believe in the power of hypnosis?”

  This shit was getting weird, I thought. “I never really gave it much thought. Actually, no, I don’t believe you can manipulate people into doing something they wouldn’t normally do by putting them in a trance.”

  Preston shook his head slowly and took a sip of scotch. “Well, you’re dead wrong, son. I’ve seen its power with my own eyes. I was a bigger skeptic than you, but I was proven wrong. You only need two things: a talented hypnotist and a subject with a weak mind for the taking.”

  I stood up in disbelief. “The JFK story you told me seemed somewhat plausible. But now you’re telling me Sirhan Sirhan was hypnotized into killing Bobby Kennedy?”

  “No, he was hypnotized to be there so he could take the fall, but like I said earlier, I was the one who took him out,” he said a bit louder, responding to my reaction.

  “Okay, go on,” I said, sitting back down.

  “Did you know that Sirhan’s whereabouts for the two months leading up to the assassination are unaccounted for by everyone who knew him, including his family?”

  “No,” I said, becoming more interested.

  “Another thing, every witness to the killing—and there were quite a few—claims that Sirhan was in front of Bobby, while autopsy findings and common sense prove the kill shot came from behind him with a point blank shot in the back of the head.”

  “Really?” I asked, attempting a sip of my beer but finding it empty.

  Preston held up three fingers. “And a third piece of juicy information the general public doesn’t know is that there is audio and physical evidence of nine shots fired—that little Arab’s gun only held eight bullets.”

  “No shit?” I muttered as I cracked another beer.

  “Two were pulled from Bobby’s corpse, three bullets were removed from wounded bystanders, two passed through Bobby’s body, while two more were found in ceiling panels the next day.”

  “That’s nine where I went to school.”

  Preston shot me an irritated look. “Anyway, let’s get started, you got your recorder?”

  * * * * *

  “By the late ‘60s, my hatred for the Kennedys was still strong and my need for revenge was there as it always was, but with the passage of time, the knife’s edge dulls a bit. But when they forced themselves into the national spotlight and into my face, the scab was ripped from the wound and I had to act. Johnny Boy took some time, but we got him. And once Bobby starting flashing that toothsome grin and declared his candidacy for President in ‘68, that was his death knell. Matador and I began seeking outlets and like-minded individuals to carry out our mission. This led to some associations with some unsavory characters I’m not proud to have worked with, but it was a means to an end.

  “After a fruitless search for a method to take out Bobby that wouldn’t implicate us or get us killed, we turned to the man we should have started with in the first place. We hadn’t spoken with Clay Shaw since we worked together in ‘63—we thought it wouldn’t hurt to bounce some ideas off him and see if he had anything for us. Matador and I made the drive down to New Orleans and met him at Sonny’s. Shaw looked the same: impeccably dressed with the same tight white curly hair and world-class prissy attitude.

  “Shaw agreed to meet with us because of our shared history and to catch up and discuss old times, he admitted. However, it had to be quick and discreet; for over a year, he’d been under investigation for conspiracy to kill Kennedy. Garrison was gunning for him pretty hard. He had little proof, but that didn’t stop his attacks on Shaw—and hat’s off to Garrison, he was the only one who got close. Shaw assured us we were safe and he would never discuss our affiliation; his arrogance made him overly confident that nothing would come of the investigation.

  “I told him my desire to take out Bobby and he wasn’t surprised, but he was disappointed he couldn’t be involved. Looking back, I get the impression that Shaw never had any particular gripe against the Kennedys—not like me, or even Banister or Ferrie—I think he just liked the action; the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of being involved in something so big. But like I said before, I didn’t care what his motives were, I needed his help and once again he came through for me.

  “Sonny’s looked exactly the same, the patrons were different—less inhibited, some to the point of vulgarity. We sat in the same black velvet corner booth and ordered the same drinks.

  “Shaw was smoking one of his long brown cigarettes in between measured sips of his ever-present white russian. ‘What you need are some people who seek the same outcome that you require.’

  “‘That’s why we’re here, Clay, to see if you have any ideas or contacts we may want to talk to,’ Matador said.

  “Shaw looked up, searching for answers in the ceiling. ‘First things
first, let’s round up the usual suspects, shall we?’ he stuck one finger up. ‘The mob would love to see him gone, but that might be too obvious, let’s move that aside for now.’ His second finger joined the first. ‘The military industrial complex sure doesn’t want to see an end to the war like he’s promising.’ Third finger now up. ‘The anti-Castro Cubans are still pissed, along with hardcore militant commie haters and fringe elements of the CIA.’ Fourth finger; he thought hard for moment and then his eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, here’s a new angle we should pursue, gentlemen. Bobby’s made some new enemies with his support of the Hebe’s during that six-day skirmish they had in the desert a year ago. There are plenty of angry Palestinians who wouldn’t mind seeing him dead.’

  “He lit up even further, everything falling into place in his mind. ‘I know just the guy you need to talk to. I worked with him when I did business with Olympic Airlines last year. He works for a very powerful man who hates Kennedy as much as I hate pussy.’ We all shared a good laugh. Shaw was pleased with himself and went on. ‘His name is Mahmoud Hamshari—an abysmal looking towelhead who thinks our lifestyle is an affront to Allah. Do yourselves a favor, boys, and don’t let him know you’re gay; it’s a battle not worth fighting, trust me. All prejudice aside, he is a conduit into their backward world and he would be lucky to have you fine gentlemen do his dirty work for him.’

  “Matador spoke up, ‘As long as he can find a scapegoat for us.’

  “‘I’m sure he could scrounge up someone for you two, maybe not as perfect as Oswald but a patsy nonetheless.’

  “Shaw stood up and finished his drink. ‘I’m sorry to be so brief boys, but I'm due back in court. I really do think that Garrison’s got a little thing for me. And trust me; you would be wise not to be seen with me right now. I’ll contact Hamshari and set up a meeting, and then I’ll contact you with the particulars.’ He gently put out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I’ve got to confess boys, I’m jealous. I would love to get my hands dirty on this one and work with you two again, but Garrison’s got me on a tight leash and not in a good way. We had ever so much fun the last time, didn’t we? Oh, and Preston, I never did get a chance to say it…nice shot.’

  “We shook hands and said our goodbyes. As we turned to walk away, Shaw stopped us. ‘By the way, you two look fantastic, you must tell me your secret.’

  “‘Guilt-free conscience,’ I said.

  “‘You know…it warms my heart to see you two still together. We don’t find that much with our kind, such a promiscuous lot we tend to be.’

  “‘You’ll find the right guy one day,’ Matador said.

  “‘Well, it’s certainly not for lack of looking,’ Shaw answered and then quickly slipped through the kitchen out the back exit.

  “Shaw came through as promised, and by the next week, a clandestine meeting was setup. The only issue was it had to be in Paris. Hamshari was living there, and as a member of the PLO group Fatah, he was no longer welcome in America. We flew out a week later. The meeting was to take place at the Plaza Athenee. As much as we’d liked to have enjoyed Paris, this was no pleasure trip; it was all business, and we wanted to get in and out as fast as possible. We were both nervous about dealing with these people, but with Shaw’s recommendation and our desperation, we had to check it out. We tried to take in the city as much as we could from the back seat of a taxi, but our driver didn’t speak English, and even if he did, he was too snooty to give us a tour anyways. Although, we did think he might be gay.

  “We turned down Avenue Montaigne and the driver said, ‘Voila, Hotel Plaza Athenee.’ It was a beautiful, century-old building with intricately designed black-wrought iron patios dripping with red flowers. The foyer was magnificently posh. The furniture and the decor looked older than the hotel and had a regal renaissance flair. Matador gave me a look that said we must stay here sometime.

  “‘Top floor, penthouse, suite four,’ Matador told the man working the elevator. He just gave us a bored look and pushed the button. We knocked on the penthouse door and heard rustling inside, but no one opened the door.

  “Finally, a voice drenched in a thick Middle Eastern accent yelled through the closed door, ‘Shaw’s boys, yes?’

  “‘Falafel,’ Matador said the password.

  “The door opened. Once he confirmed our identities, the two men with him put the guns down and relaxed somewhat.

  “The man who opened the door spoke. ‘I am Mahmoud Hamshari, pleased to make your acquaintance. Forgive our cautiousness, you never can be too careful,’ he said as the two men patted us down.

  “Matador and I gave him the fake names we decided on beforehand and sized him up. Shaw was right, he was hard to look at: short and squat with thick glasses, haphazard facial hair, beady eyes under dark bushy eyebrows; he was a stereotypical swarthy Middle Easterner. His two silent companions were bigger but cut from the same cloth. Hamshari stood out from them because he was educated, he spoke almost fluent English, and we found out later, five more languages. When you were in his presence, he was in charge or at least acted like he was; he liked to talk and expected to be heard.

  “He walked as he spoke, leading us through the room. ‘I’d offer you boys a drink, but I’m afraid we don’t have any alcohol, we don’t drink you see. I can offer you tea or water?’

  “‘We’re good,’ I said with an urgency meant for him to get down to business. Unaffected, he continued on with the small talk as we walked through the opulent suite and stepped out onto the large balcony that looked down on Paris and directly at the Eiffel Tower. The view was breathtaking. Both Matador and I stopped following him and headed for the railing to try and take it all in as we both knew this was our only chance to really see the city.

  “Hamshari motioned for us to come join him at a glass table set with four chairs. He sat down. ‘So, you are Shaw’s boys? You come highly recommended from one of America’s truly elegant criminals.’

  “We both sat down. ‘Yeah, we’ve worked with him in the past.’

  “Hamshari rubbed his sweaty hands together. ‘So I hear, so I hear. You know, I admire what Mr. Shaw has accomplished, it’s unfortunate he has chosen a lifestyle that offends God so.’

  “Matador and I planned for this rhetoric and held our tongues. I touched his knee under the table, a quick gesture that said let’s just get through this.

  “Hamshari went on. ‘It’s funny, this homosexuality, it is not an issue in my culture. Where I come from, there are no homosexual men…or women for that matter. I feel it must be a western phenomenon. Perhaps your liberal ideals have taken you too far away from God and His way. I myself have no problem with the queers, as they are called. I consider myself open-minded. Plus, more women for the rest of us, right, my friends?’ He waited for us to laugh or respond somehow; when he saw he would get no response, he went on. ‘So I understand that you and I have something in common—you would like a certain man out of the way. This man offends you?’

  “‘We have our reasons and we’d prefer to keep them to ourselves, if you don’t mind,’ I said.

  “He was taken aback by my bluntness but remained unfazed. ‘Fine, fine, what do I care, as long as you do your job and I do mine we can work together just fine. Right, my friends?’

  “‘Right,’ I answered.

  “Hamshari shifted in his seat and sipped his tea. ‘I will, however, tell you about my motives, if you don’t mind. Perhaps my openness will help loosen your tongues.’

  “Matador and I nodded and stared at him, he had our attention. ‘My benefactor is a very wealthy and important man. He has it in his intentions to marry the widow Kennedy, and he finds Senator Kennedy’s actions to stop their courtship infuriating. When he heard the rumors that they were having an affair, he came to me for help, and now I come to you.’

  “‘Actually,’ Matador said, ‘we called you.’

  “In an attempt to test his level of respect for us, I asked, ‘What is that you’re drinking there?’

  “‘This
,’ he made a face indicating we wouldn’t like it, ‘this is Turkish coffee, very strong, bitter. You would not like.’

  “‘That’s for me to decide,’ I said. He snapped for one of his goons and pointed to his coffee; they quickly obeyed.

  “Hamshari took a sterner tone, apparently from being taken off the subject, and got down to the point. ‘My conversation with Shaw was brief, but he informed me you would take care of the act as long as I would supply the…what is the term you use…scapegoat. Yes? Such an odd language you have.’

  “The hairy man with the rifle gently handed me the cup, and I placed it down on the table. ‘Basically,’ I agreed.

  “Hamshari smiled. ‘Good, now we are getting somewhere. Our mutual friend has made me aware of your past work, and I must say, I am impressed.’

  “We assumed Shaw had told him about JFK. ‘Now I must prove to you that I can hold up my end of the bargain. If you please take your drink and follow me inside, I have something you need to see.’

  “We stepped back inside, fighting off the abrupt change from the bright sunlit balcony to the darkened suite. The two men were already preparing the scene.

  “Hamshari directed their every move. ‘Talib, the screen.’ He motioned to the other man. ‘Aquib, the projector. Are we ready?’

  “Aquib gave him a nod. Like a classroom film strip, it began counting down in the familiar test pattern 3…2…1…

  “I interjected, ‘What are we about to see here?’

  “Hamshari annoyingly motioned for Aquib to stop the film. ‘This is the process we will use to achieve our goal, we are creating your scapegoat organically, now please, watch.’

  “The film was grainy and silent, which was fine because Hamshari planned to narrate the entire scene. ‘We have in our control an American doctor. Dr. Bryant is the world’s foremost expert on hypnosis.’

  “The film opened up with a middle-aged, bespectacled white man diligently speaking to a vacuous-eyed peasant of Middle Eastern descent.