by Tim Baker
Does that include sleeping with his wife? I tap the bottom of my cigarette packet, three long, slim tubes dancing up to the beat. It’s the only thing I have to offer her. She looks at my extended hand, then selects the longest one with the solemnity of someone drawing lots. Fire flares between us; dies with the shock of my breath. I look at the lighter she is holding. Gunmetal with engraved initials. EB. Well, well . . . It looks like Mrs. Bannister might know where we can find Hastings.
She looks away, exhaling smoke into the vast and empty house.
‘When was the accident?’
She opens a refrigerator door, light shining on her face, then looks at me. ‘It was the day after we were married . . . ’ A bloom of cold air rises around her. ‘The hospital was the first time I’d seen him since the wedding reception.’
She slams the Kelvinator shut and stares at me for a long moment, then cracks two eggs into a bowl, breaking the shells with short, hard snaps against the ceramic lip. She looks down into the bowl and laughs. I peer over her shoulder. Both eggs have double yolks. ‘Good luck, so they say . . . Although I was never one for superstition.’ She whisks the yolks into oblivion with dour zeal, the noise echoing off the high walls.
‘So that means . . . ’
’Well, bravo, Mr. Alston, I believe you’ve finally figured it out . . . ’ There is the hiss of gas and the detonation of combustion.
‘Figured what out?’
‘My nasty little secret. The marriage was never consummated.’ Oil protests on a pan. ‘Shocking, isn’t it? The young, yearning woman, in her physical prime, wasting away in the bed of an elderly cripple . . .’ She sacrifices her mixture to the heat, the eggs puckering in pain. There is the rasp of a spatula and then the omelette is presented to me: golden and burning to the touch. ‘The question is, which one of them is the victim?’
‘Maybe there doesn’t have to be a victim?’
She takes a bottle of beer out of the icebox and pours me a glass. ‘Oh, there’s always a victim in a loveless marriage. What do you think?’
‘About loveless marriages?’
‘About the omelette.’
‘Very spicy, Mrs. Bannister.’
She takes a long drink from the open bottle, froth clinging to her lips. Our eyes meet. She licks the froth away from her lips and smiles.
Provocation is a dangerous thing. Maybe it’s real; teasing reaction like a feather. Or maybe it’s just all in your head. There’s only ever one way to find out.
I tug her into my arms. We almost kiss but she pulls away at the last instant, opening her eyes with amusement. And something almost like admiration.
She steps close enough to hear my beating heart, her breath fragrant and shallow, her head inclined, hair masking half her face and flowering around her shoulder. ‘Kiss me,’ she says.
I am embraced by perfume, languorous and yearning, then by her hair and the warmth of her hand on my cheek, her lips full and moist as we kiss, her tongue eager, knowing.
There is a throb of pain and delight as she takes my lower lip between her teeth and quickly, gently bites. She pulls back, studying my reaction. ‘I thought so,’ she whispers, her eyes full of a knowing confidence as she pulls away, then turns, walking out of the kitchen.
I tug her back into my arms . . . And that’s when I see it, over her shoulder. She slowly draws away from me. ‘What is it?’
I point to the wall. ‘That dark stain there . . . What’s missing from the wall?’
‘Just a wall telephone. They took it down.’
Where else have I seen a wall phone before? ‘The garage.’
‘They took that one away too . . . ’
Something’s eating at me like a fading dream, the struggle to recall it only making it disappear faster. Then I remember. ‘Jesus Christ . . . ’ She’s staring at me in amazement. ‘The bomb shelter.’
‘I don’t understand.’
’Where are the keys?’
She looks at me for a long moment, her green eyes honeyed with panic and I begin to wonder if she might be in on it. Could she be such a good actress?
She unclips a gold chain from around her neck and hands it to me. On the end of the chain are three keys.
‘Who else has these?’
‘Only Mr. Bannister . . . Why?’
’Don’t you get it? There’s a phone down there. The call must have come from the shelter.’
She takes a step back, holding onto the doorjamb as though she’s about to faint. ‘But that means?’
‘I know. The kid’s been here all along.’
CHAPTER 18
Dallas 2014
JFK loved sex and he loved it most with blondes. Blondes were not Jackie. Blondes were dumb; Jackie spoke French. Blondes were easygoing; Jackie was controlling. Blondes were loud; Jackie was discreet. Blondes looked the other way; Jackie got even. When Jack did Marilyn, Jackie did Bill Holden. Jackie was vengeful, blondes were not.
Or so JFK thought.
But he’d been a politician so long, he had forgotten how to switch off the stereotypes button, and it turned out to be the blondes who gave him the most trouble. In fact it was an intelligent, highly sensitive, extremely vulnerable blonde who may have helped get him killed. A fun night out slowly segued into the Shot Heard Round the World. Marilyn Monroe, the most famous woman in the country and also the most lonely, became JFK’s Sarajevo. Marilyn didn’t mean to do it. It was all Jack’s fault. He was myopic. He never could see past his dick.
Or that, at least is what Mr. Dwayne Wayne, a man with a stutter for a name, is maintaining.
The Marilyn Did It complot was so delightfully frivolous I had to find a place for it in my book on the murders of the Kennedy brothers. It was like a giant champagne soufflé with a chorus girl stuffed inside, ready to pop just as the snooty guests sit down. Say, waiter, what is that blonde doing in my egg whites? The premise was exactly the kind of light relief the book needed. I was so excited, I even called Monica.
‘I’m meeting this guy who actually believes Marilyn killed JFK.’
‘Is it any more ridiculous than an ass-hat like Lee Harvey Oswald killing the president?’
Only he didn’t. Maybe. ‘She died a year before Kennedy!’
There is the silence of consideration. ‘Maybe JFK killed Marilyn?’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘Then someone who was close to Marilyn killed JFK to revenge her.’
‘Avenge . . . ’
‘Avenge her. It’s a motive, isn’t it?’
‘Pretty wild.’
‘But possible . . . ’
‘Anything is possible, angel . . . ’
‘You’re not supposed to call me that.’
Angel. ‘Call you what?’
‘We’re divorced, Lew . . . ’
Saying it almost as if it’s news to me. Sometimes it feels exactly like it is. Sometimes I wake up and am still surprised to find myself alone. ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t have called.’
‘Anyway, it sounds promising . . . ’
‘Really?’
‘Well, more promising than your other leads . . . ’
The problem with divorce is that it doesn’t stop the knowing barbs. Exactly what made you want to get a divorce in the first place. I can still feel the sting as I look up from the photo of Marilyn singing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President,’ to the man who has promised information linking her to JFK’s assassination. ‘Some dress . . . ’
‘Isn’t it?’ He taps the photo of the crumpled, jug-eared author on the dust jacket. ‘Norman Mailer had information proving the connection between the murders of Marilyn and Kennedy but unfortunately it was withheld from publication when his book came out . . . ’ Mr. Dwayne Wayne, amateur photographer, would-be bounty hunter and full-time conspiracy buff, shakes his head in regret.
‘Why would they leave that out? Claims like that are exactly what sell books.’
‘Mailer didn’t want to but he had no choice.’
This is the problem with all conspiracy theories. Nobody ever has any choice. Things just happen and no one can stop them. Everybody knows that events are covered up, but no one can prove it. No one can produce the smoking gun, although anyone can see it—all you have to do is stare real hard. Evidence is not forensic, it’s fantastic. Blow Up meets the Rorschach test.
In the Age of Conspiracy, Plausible Deniability has been replaced by Plausible Doubt. Any possible crack in a single detail is enough to bring into question not just an event but an entire political system; the whole course of Modern History. The Conspiracy Theorist is the latter-day boy at the dyke, only instead of putting his finger into the hole, he’s threatening to take it out. Catastrophe is better than Cover-up. He is Samson in the Temple. The pillars shall fall, the Son of Sam shall perish, but the truth will out: you don’t shave a man’s head without his consent. You don’t conceal UFOs in Area 51. You don’t pretend to land a man on the moon. You don’t force Elvis into the Witness Protection Program. And you sure as hell don’t blame seven gunshot wounds on a single Magic Bullet. ‘You said you’d found a connection between JFK and Marilyn’s deaths . . . ’
‘Murders . . . ’
’What was the connection, Mr. Wayne?’
Dwayne Wayne smiles. ‘Kennedy was being blackmailed.’
I play along. ‘LBJ?’ Dwayne Wayne shakes his head. ‘J. Edgar?’ He wags a finger. Not even close. He’s got me. ‘I give up. Who?’
‘Howard Hughes.’
‘What did Hughes have on the president?’
‘TFX.’
Tactical Fighter Experimental.
A big-ticket item smack-bang-boom in the middle of the Atomic Age. The largest single government contract ever. Four hundred and sixteen billion dollars in today’s currency.
‘TFX is an interesting story, but how exactly does it relate to blackmail?’
‘Hughes was in bed with General Dynamics. He pushed the F-111 as the winning design.’
‘So what? Hughes was a billionaire airman and gambler. He’d be involved in any big aviation contract.’
‘This wasn’t involvement, this was manipulation. It all adds up. One: Hughes bought his TWA Convair fleet from General Dynamics. Two: Hughes Aircraft bought General Dynamic’s Missile Systems Division. Three: both Hughes Aircraft and General Dynamics had access to the same technology—’
‘Wait—what technology?’
‘TFX technology for starters.’
‘The plane was a fiasco.’
‘The engineering was a fiasco. But the concept—swing wings, turbofan propulsion, TERCOM navigation—that was perfect, Mr. Alston. Revolutionary. Where did the technology come from?’
‘General Dynamics?’ He gives me a long, sad stare of amazement, then shakes his head knowingly.
Here it comes, I can feel it: Jerry Fletcher Redux. ‘The Russians?’
‘Roswell.’
Well, they both start with the letter R. As in ridiculous.
‘Not as ridiculous as it sounds . . . ’ He intercepts my thought waves. ‘Reverse engineering. Hughes financed most of it himself.’
‘Mr. Dwayne, I mean Wayne. That is just . . . ’ I hesitate, lost for a soft synonym, but he jumps right in.
‘Crazy? Is it? Explain how Hughes went from plywood seaplanes to Syncom satellites in less than fifteen years. To soft landings on the moon; to Pioneer and Galileo? Everything that Hughes Research laboratories has done, from inventing lasers and ion propulsion units to reconstructing metallic microlattice comes from the Roswell Saucer.’
Dwayne Wayne stares at me with a bright, intent smile and brown eyes rimmed all the way round by white—if they looked any more startled, they’d burst. Monica’s voice comes back to me. ‘The problem with you, Lew, is that you’re too polite.’ I asked her what was wrong with being polite. ‘Nothing,’ she said, kissing me, ‘as long as it’s with the right people.’ I didn’t need my ex-wife to tell me that Dwayne Wayne is not the right people. It is time to pack my bags and leave this madhouse city. ‘We’re done here . . . ’ As soon as I say it, I shudder. I just unconsciously quoted Adam Granston, the horn man. It must be Stockholm syndrome.
Dwayne Wayne blocks my way. ‘Kennedy was against the F-111. Hughes had to recuperate the money he’d invested in Area 51, and the only way to do that was via TFX, even if he had to resort to blackmail. Stand back and look at the big picture, Mr. Alston.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Too polite, again. ‘The problem is that no one ever looks at the big picture. Instead, all anyone ever does is peer at the minute details. That’s where coincidence exists. And coincidence feeds conspiracy.’
‘Coincidence is the first sign of conspiracy.’
‘Lincoln was shot in the Ford Theatre, Kennedy was shot in a Lincoln. Does that mean the automobile industry was behind both assassinations? If you want to find connections, you’ll always find connections. Like Orion’s Belt . . . ’
‘The constellation?’
‘The miniature galaxy in Men in Black. Billions of stars inside a tiny globe. The closer you look, the more there is to see.’ I gather the little things that are the sum of my existence in this city: iPhone, sunglasses, rental car keys. ‘Stop looking so closely at things, Mr. Dwayne.’
‘Wayne.’
Whatever . . . ‘You need to come up for air.’
‘But the devil’s in the details.’
‘Wrong, Mr. Wayne. The details are the devil.’
‘Don’t go, Mr. Alston. There’s more.’
‘I just wish that for once someone actually had physical evidence, rather than wild theories and suspicions.’
Wayne hands me an old manila envelope. On the outside is an address in Chula Vista, California. On the inside are photos. ‘How about these . . . ?’
I stare at a face in one of the pictures, her eyes challenging me to look away. I can’t. How could I? The eyes belong to Marilyn Monroe.
CHAPTER 19
Los Angeles 1962
The night was fragrant with the scent of datura, the bell-shaped flowers hanging heavy amongst lush leaves, like bats enfolded within their wings; nocturnal and still.
Hastings moved through a small orchard of oranges and came out at a kidney-shaped pool. Immediately beyond was a Spanish-style bungalow. This was exactly what LA aspired to be: palms, pool, perfumed. Perfect. But there’s one thing a house with a garden can never really provide: security.
Every night across America, trespassers prowled the darkness. Strangers stared through windows, cataloguing secrets, decoding possibilities, identifying valuables. Snapping photos. Windows were tested, locks compromised, interiors cased; animals silenced. Our dreams were patterned by the torch beams of burglars as our wealth was harvested by gloved hands and passed across windowsills. No matter how well-protected, our homes, like our loves, are always vulnerable to the touch of others, to unexpected entries and silent exits; our secrets, like our wallets, slipped into the back pockets of cunning intruders.
The door to the kitchen was unlocked. Hastings paused, feeling the cold flush the kitchen’s terra-cotta tiles gave to the summer night. Remembering Bella and the murdered fence. He exhaled but there were no clouds of condensation. The dead weren’t walking. Yet.
He listened carefully. Nothing at first, then a moaning. He paused at the entrance into the living room. There was a dull yellow light spilling out from under the door of a bedroom. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The house was supposed to be empty. Maybe a car broke down. Maybe someone got sick and a vacation was cancelled. Maybe the owners had left and the help or a teenage son were taking advantage of the absence. Or maybe Roselli lied.
Hastings had seconds to decide. No one wa
s supposed to get hurt. But no one was supposed to be there either. He was supposed to find the book and get out without being seen.
Without being caught.
He glanced around the living room. A clean fireplace. Shades half drawn. Not much on the walls. It felt like a house that had just been moved into; or just moved out of. It wasn’t close to being a real home. He crossed the thick carpet towards the bedroom door, freezing when he heard a man’s laugh—light; unauthentic. Through the door he recognized a woman’s voice, but couldn’t quite place it. Rich with anger. Distended with irritation, and maybe liquor. The man’s voice was low with frustration. Hastings couldn’t make out what he was saying, just the rhythm of patronizing repetition.
Headlights swept across the room, Hastings pulling back into the shadows beside the fireplace. He could feel his heart beating against the wall as he unholstered a suppressed .45. Two car doors opened, then slammed shut. Visitors. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The whole scene stank of a setup. Of death. Maybe even his.
The doorbell rang.
The door to the bedroom opened and a slight, young man with a long, careless cowlick charged out, heading straight for the front door, never glancing at the shadows where Hastings hid. Hastings looked back at the bedroom and caught the silhouette of a woman projected on the floor, her words slurred with hurt, the hairs on his neck rising in wonder as he was finally able to put a name to the voice. ‘Tell him to go to hell!’ The shadow retracted, the voice talking to itself now, distant and sad: ‘They can all go to hell . . . ’
Hastings crossed quickly, standing in the shelter of the still open door, listening to a flurry of restrained sobs slowly ebbing. He could see through the angle of the living room window that the man was arguing outside on the porch with the two visitors. They looked like government men in dark suits and hats. One held a black medical bag.