Fever City

by Tim Baker

  ‘Elaine . . . ’

  She looks up at me triumphantly. ‘There is no Elaine Bannister.’ She snaps the registrar shut with undue force, as though imagining my nose between the covers.

  ‘That’s impossible. She was brought in this morning, buried alive.’

  The nurse nods. ‘That would be Elizabeth Bannister—Room 14.’

  Although she’s been washed, there’s still the aura of the grave about her; a shading of ethereal grey that denies the presence of the sun, that speaks of the lurking menace of the tomb. Her breath is regular but slow, almost silent. She is so completely self-effacing in her state of semi-existence . . .

  I pick up the chart hanging from her bed. The name Elaine Bannister is clearly typed. Why then was she registered as Elizabeth in the admissions book? I stare at her calm suffering caused by the indignities of medically-assisted survival, enduring this life in a bed she didn’t choose, separated maybe forever from her child.

  The hand on my shoulder makes me jump. The doctor stares at me through thick spectacles which enlarge his eyes. Eyes like his have no right to be magnified. ‘No visitors. Mr. Bannister’s orders.’ The only thing that’s missing is the click of the heels at the mention of the Old Man’s name. I shove my badge in front of his Coke bottles. His eyes travel the not-too-gleaming badge, worrying the tarnished surface, the mug shot photo, the smear of ink for a signature. ‘Get out, ja?’

  ‘You work for the Old Man? So do I, and I’m going to report your lack of co-operation.’

  ‘That is ridiculous, no one can accuse me.’

  I make a bet with myself: plenty of people could accuse him of plenty. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Landis. Doctor Professor Boris Landis.’

  ‘Don’t you types salute?’

  He frowns, handing me back my badge. ‘I assure you I enjoy the complete confidence of Mr. Bannister.’ Translation: I have no hesitation in doing the Old Man’s dirty work. And the Old Man knows it.

  ‘In that case, Professor Confidence, tell me why this patient’s name has been deliberately falsified.’ He glances at the clipboard. ‘Falsifying medical records. That’s a criminal offence.’

  He takes off his gold-rimmed spectacles and polishes them with a silk handkerchief. Stalling for time. ‘I was unaware any name was changed. Certainly not with my authority.’

  ‘Who registered this patient?’

  ‘That would be Mr. Bannister.’

  ‘Mr. Bannister was here in person?’

  ‘That, I cannot say.’

  I want to kick the equivocating bastard in the balls. ‘What the fuck can you say?’

  ‘Was fällt dir ein! I am professor emeritus at the George Washington University. I will not tolerate being spoken to in such a manner.’

  I pull out my cuffs. ‘I’m guessing you’ll tolerate it more than spending a night in the lockup with a couple of homeless vets of the Battle of the Bulge . . . ’ The whine of the cuffs opening shrieks between us. ‘So tell me: why the confusion over her name?’

  ‘Nein, nein, nein.’

  ‘That makes twenty-seven. And that’s how many years you’ll get as an accessory to kidnapping if you don’t answer the question.’

  He stares at the cuffs with such fear that, goddamn it, for an instant a sliver of pity slots through me. ‘Twins, don’t you see? They are twins.’

  Elaine and Elizabeth. My friends call me Betty . . . Elizabeth is Betty Bannister. But why did Mrs. Bannister tell me Elaine was her half-sister? Because she didn’t want me to know she had a twin . . . ? Or she didn’t want me to know who her father was? I stare at the woman in the bed again. All this time I’ve been looking at her as a victim—the miraculous survivor of a bungled murder attempt or frantic escape—never as a real person; an individual. All this time I was just seeing soil and survival; dirt and despair. Near-death, not life. An apparition, as close to a ghost as you can get—buried alive. All this time I’ve been looking at her like a cop, not like a detective.

  I gently cover one of her eyes with a lock of hair and switch on the bedside lamp. Through the shade of the grave, it’s now unmistakable . . . Unmistakable only because now I know what I’m looking for: Betty-goddamn-Bannister to a T.

  ‘Who changed the name of the patient? Tell me.’

  ‘Not me.’ Landis backs away, banging into a gleaming metal trolley. There is the racket of falling trays and pans echoing off the hard floor. His shaking hand points to the bed chart. ‘The name is there . . . ’

  I grab the chart. The name is there all right, on the bottom of the third page under authority of next of kin for procedures: Rex Lionel Bannister. I grab the little bastard by the cuffs of his white coat. ‘What the hell is this?’

  He backs away from the chart, as though expecting me to slap him with it. ‘What?’

  ‘This procedure the NOK has authorized?’

  He takes the chart, adjusting his glasses. ‘Ja, transorbital leucotomy . . . It is nothing, a common procedure performed under local anaesthetic.’

  ‘Can the technical bullshit. What is it in layman’s terms?’

  ‘Lobotomy.’ Stretching the four syllables as though the ‘common’ procedure had already been performed on me.

  ‘That woman is a witness to a crime. You touch a hair on her head, and so help me God . . . ’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  There’s plenty I don’t understand. ‘You better explain it to me then, doc . . . ’

  He points to Elaine Bannister like a tour guide pointing to a statue in a museum. ‘This procedure is not for Elaine . . . ’

  ‘Then why is it marked on her sheet?’

  ‘Because she is incapable of giving consent.’

  ‘Consent for what, goddamn it?’

  He shakes his head, marvelling at my ignorance. ‘For the procedure on her child . . . ’

  I snatch the chart from him and go back to the last page. Unpronounceable medical terms, hospital stamps and fucking Latin. Then I see it. Ronald James Bannister. The kidnapped kid; snatched before they could poke a knitting needle into his eye. And this is what awaits him if he’s brought back alive: Herr Doktor and his procedure.

  Jesus Christ, is this a kidnapping . . . or a rescue?

  I shove Landis out of the way, my footsteps slapping an angry passage out of the stinking hospital.

  The rookie cop is lounging by the squad car, chatting up a nurse, unable to hide his annoyance at my arrival. He flicks his cigarette between my legs. ‘Back to the Bannister joint?’

  ‘We’re taking a detour. To Sunset Boulevard.’ The moment I’d been dreading ever since I first spoke to the Old Man had finally arrived. It was time to make a house call on Johnny Roselli.

  CHAPTER 35

  Los Angeles 1960

  Johnny Roselli’s house lay at the end of a crest of long, open lawn on North Linden Drive. Sparse. Hyper-manicured. No trees to hide behind. No cover; no ambush. No surprises for a man who preferred to spring them. Whatever direction you approached the house, he’d see you coming, silhouetted against the wide, empty space, like a moving target at a rifle range.

  Roselli’s home was less than two blocks from where Benny Siegel was shot dead. Roselli had learnt from Benny’s mistake. After all, rumour had it that he and Johnny Stompanato had been the triggermen.

  The rookie cop looks at me like I’m nuts when I tell him to pull up outside Roselli’s joint. Rookie cops know where all the gangsters live. They’re like Hollywood tourists with stars’ homes. ‘Mr. Roselli’s place?’

  I stash my Colt Police Positive .38 Special, Allen’s KA-BAR and his Moose Hunter, a couple of spare clips, my cuffs and my knuckle dusters under the front seat of the squad car. ‘What’s your name, kid?’

  ‘Gillis.’

  ’Let me give you a word of advice, Gillis. Never say Mister Roselli. I
t only makes you sound like a shit-heel on the take . . . ’ I slam the door hard, wishing his dirty little fingers were in its hinges, and march across the lonely lawn.

  Before I’m ten paces from the door, two goons come out, their bodies lumped by weapons and the desire to use them. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Tell your boss I’m a representative of Mr. Rex Bannister. He’s expecting me . . . ’

  Two small heads swivel painfully sideways, cutting through acres of sinew and muscle, just so they can look at each other. As if either of them had the brains to make a decision like this. One of them grabs me. A voice booms from the other side of a screen door. ‘For crying out loud, how many times have I told you? Never frisk outside! What will the goddamn neighbours think?’

  If they had any brains, the goddamn neighbours would pull up stakes and move to another city—pronto. Living next door to Johnny Roselli is like living next door to the Nevada Atomic Bomb Test Site.

  They shove me inside, the screen door slamming on the back of my heels, frisking me with a contained brutality, as though I were to blame for their mistake outside. And in a way I was. I can’t imagine that Mr. Roselli receives that many visitors, and my hunch is that most of the ones who enter his home never come out again. At least not in an identifiable state. Word on the street was that Roselli had a basement pizza oven even busier than Big Tuna’s in Chicago. I raise my hands to help them with the frisk—co-operation is better than incineration—but these goons are strictly old-school: they don’t appreciate assistance. I get my arms yanked and twisted and my back pounded as though I were Tommy Dorsey choking at the dinner table. One of the gorillas paws my wallet out of my inside jacket pocket—along with its lining—and tosses it to Roselli, who’s dressed in a silk dressing gown and leather slippers: quite the lord of the manor. All that’s missing is the pipe and the pooch with the paper.

  ‘Say, that was a fifty-dollar jacket.’

  Roselli handles the wallet as though it’s just been retrieved from a piss trough, peering at what’s inside. ‘A private dick wouldn’t spend more than twenty bucks on a suit, even if it was for his own wedding . . . ’ Dark eyes, hollowed by all the evil they had witnessed, ride up from the badge, staring into mine. ‘Let alone for his fucking funeral.’ He tosses the wallet back to one of his Neanderthals, who shoves it into my outside jacket pocket, the shriek of the pocket tearing filling the room. ‘Jeez, you’re falling to pieces. I think a visit to your tailor is in order.’ Roselli laughs at his own joke, always the first sign of a man without class.

  Roselli nods towards the centre of the room. I slowly walk towards the fireplace, the goons two steps behind. Escape routes are scarce. Either into the great unknown behind the kitchen door, or up the chimney.

  Then it hits me.

  The chimney in the star chamber, in the cellars of the Bannister joint.

  The old entrance in the north well had been transformed into a chimney for the fireplace there. That’s why I hadn’t notice it, and when I went back to look, the door to the star chamber was locked. But it wasn’t locked when I first went there the night of the kidnapping. That’s how Elaine entered the old aqueduct system. Via the chimney. The question was—

  ‘Wake up, scumbag!’ Someone slaps me hard across the face. ‘I’m talking to you.’ I rub my face, coming back to immediate, painful reality. ‘I said: how do you like my home . . . ?’

  The joint’s certainly swanky. ‘Must have cost a bundle . . . ’

  The asshole preens. ‘It don’t come cheap . . . ’ He smiles, the proud homeowner of a five bedroom Spanish Colonial in Beverly fucking Hills, and me, a poor sucker living in a dump in Westlake.

  Well, fuck him. ‘Sure . . . They’re all smart operators out here. They know a pigeon when they see one.’

  A right to the solar plexus.

  Gasping pain.

  Thank God it was Roselli. If it had been one of his goons, they’d have busted my ribs, burst my spleen. Maybe punctured a lung. I wheeze my way back to an upright position, sucking in enough air to speak. ‘Face it. No matter how much you puff out your chest, they see a chump, not a champ.’

  Roselli turns, bends down to pick something up from the table. I flinch, expecting a gun. Schiller always said I never knew when to keep my mouth shut.

  He always said it would end just like this.

  But Schiller is wrong—this time at least. Roselli hasn’t gone for a gun, he’s gone for a cat. A white cat with a grey cap around its ears. Two green eyes gaze into mine as its whiskers come forward. I feel a soulful communication. How did either of us wind up in the same room with this hoodlum? Roselli cradles the cat in his arms. In the silence, I can hear it purring a message at me: help me escape and I’ll do the same for you.

  ‘I don’t like dogs,’ Roselli says. ‘There’s something about them. The way they bark. The way they see things us humans can’t see . . . Ghosts.’ He takes a shot at a smile; almost gets there. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like if there was a mutt in this house? Nonstop fucking barking. Barking all the fucking time. Yapping at a crowd of dead fucking men.’

  ‘Worried about the neighbours, huh?’

  The way he’s staring at me leaves no doubt: as far as he’s concerned, I’m already a member of his household’s ethereal congregation. I rifle in my trouser pockets for a pack of cigarettes. One of the goons already has my arm, slowly pulling my hand out, his thumb almost breaking my wrist with its pressure. Roselli sees what it is I’m holding and nods. After all, a condemned man is entitled to a last smoke, especially if he has to listen to a speech about cats and dogs.

  ‘But I like cats. Know why I like ’em?’

  ‘Cute and cuddly?’

  ‘Wise guy . . . ’ He slowly puts the cat back down on the table. It springs away fast, disappearing under a sofa. ‘It’s because they’re like people. They don’t hunt just to eat, they do it for fun. A cat will keep a mouse alive for days. Just for amusement.’

  My hand is shaking as I light my cigarette. They all notice. It’s always that part of ourselves we trust the most that betrays us. He nods to the goons. There’s a brass candlestick on the mantle above the fireplace. And a framed mirror behind it. It’s not going to be pretty. They’ll get me in the end. But I’m going to separate them from as many pieces of their anatomy as I can before they do . . .

  Roselli clicks his fingers and the goons both freeze. He cocks his head, and then I hear it too—a sound slowly seeping into the room, changing the air pressure like a tidal flood, bringing us back to the now of the city outside, not the mayhem and murder about to erupt in this room. The approaching sound begins to build in layer upon layer of keening volume.

  For me, it’s the cavalry.

  For Roselli, it’s a killjoy teacher, breaking up a schoolyard brawl.

  Sirens.

  Roselli looks out across the killing fields of his front lawn, past the trunks of felled trees to the sidewalk curb, the first squad cars already pulling up, strobing the windows with the insistent flutter of red. ‘What the . . . ?’ He looks back at me.

  Improvise a lie before he’s tempted to shoot me anyway. ‘Mr. Bannister wanted to make sure I’d come back safe and sound.’

  Roselli’s curse is dark and savage. Even the goons step back in shock. He snatches my tie, pulling me so close, I can smell the acrid tilt of digestive acids stewing on their problem. ‘Listen, you smartass fuck. You tell the Old Man he’s not welching out of the deal. He keeps the kid, but we keep the money, got it?’

  ‘ . . . But the kid’s dead.’

  There’s the pucker of internal detonation, his eyes quivering as though about to shuck themselves out of his skull in phosphorescent amazement. ‘Are you fucking nuts? That kid was dug out of a grave—of course he’s fucking dead.’

  The banging at the front door makes him turn. Maybe he didn’t see the look on my face. I knew
it: the dead kid was a ringer. One question nailed. But the most important one is still unanswered: what happened to the real Ronnie Bannister?

  The racket at the door’s getting louder. The goons go over and lean against it, as though expecting battering rams. Roselli shakes his head like a man whose rent money just came in fourth at Hollywood Park. ‘What a fucking hullaballoo!’ He looks at the police through the window, then back at me. ‘Do you have any idea what the neighbours are going to think?’

  The cops are coming through the door. I’ve got maybe five seconds on my own with Roselli. I grab him by the throat, either side of the Adam’s apple. ‘Tell me where I can find the real Bannister kid or I’m going to pluck me a piece of fruit.’ I let go just enough to let him talk. ‘You dumb fuck,’ he wheezes, ‘there never was a Bannister kid.’ His last word comes out as a squeak: ‘Period.’

  Someone grabs me by the shoulders and spins me round. It’s my old pal from LAPD, Sergeant Barnsley. He goes up to Roselli. ‘Everything all right, Mr. Roselli?’ His cap may as well be in his hands.

  Roselli has to massage his throat before he can answer. He points to my torn jacket. ‘I was just fixing a sandwich for this itinerant type, you know? This here vagrant.’ He catches the look Barnsley gives me. ‘Well, no big deal, right? Robin Hood shit. Do it all the time. I even help out at the church, ask anyone . . . ’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Roselli . . . ’ Barnsley turns to me. ‘You’re under arrest.’

  ‘Cute.’

  There is the hard snap of cuffs on my wrists. ‘Grand theft auto.’

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  ‘A 1957 Chevrolet Nomad, stolen earlier today, abandoned on Hawthorn Parade.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding?’

  ‘Well, what do you know? And to think I let this miscreant into my own home.’ Roselli turns to me, sucking his lower lip in false regret. ‘Look at you . . . I brought you into my house, offered you the hand of friendship, and what do you do? Bite it. You lousy crumb. Do you have any idea how much you let me down?’