Now he’s the one that laughs, only he does like it’s all one huge joke to him.
Suppose you get like that when you’ve seen a lot of people die, a lot of friends die. Don’t have such great meaning anymore, death.
‘Thing is, a friend of mine tells me, Otash says she’s wanting her house wired cos she’s hoping to record things she could use against the Kennedys. Get her own back for the way they were misusing her, see what I mean kid?’
‘I see what you’re saying. I ain’t seeing how it helps us prove anything.’
‘Yeah, smart kid, real smart; more stupid people would be jumping at the bit now, thinking we’ve got the villain nailed as smartly as an Agatha Christie movie.’
He rubs my hair, like it’s getting close to being an affectionate action.
‘Fortunately, kid, this here friend of mine is ex-LAPD too. And he reckons he’s not only managed to get hold of a few helpful phone records, but he’s also got Mickey Song to start singing.’
*
‘Mickey Song?’
We’re heading for Brad’s car.
Another car. One that’s blends in amongst the other cars like they’ve all come off the same lot.
‘Hairdresser kid; but not just any old hairdresser. Hairdresser to the Kennedys. He was also the one who put the finishing touches to Marilyn’s hair before she went to sing Happy Birthday to our beloved President.’
‘And your friend figures he’s got something out of him that’ll say who murdered Marilyn?’
‘Whhooaaa! Hold on there kid! We should be so lucky. But it’ll be a clue on our way to figuring out who killed her, sure enough.’
‘So why’s all this important to you? Why’d you need to know who killed her?’
He turns to look at me.
‘Me kid? I just hate corruption. And this case has corruption written all over it.’
*
Going by the state of the building we’re walking through, it don’t look like ex-LAPD guys do okay for themselves.
Last time this place was painted, they must have used paint left over from painting the USS Arizona. Last time it was repaired, Fred Astaire was pulling people into the theatres.
The elevator clunks, rattles and squeals.
I figure people living here have enough sense to take the stairs. You ask me, this is the first time it’s been asked to carry anyone in forty years.
Brad has to wrench the cage doors open when, with a gasp like a guy dying of pneumonia, the elevator finally drops us off on the third floor.
Brad’s friend obviously doesn’t go in for locking doors.
Maybe he figures even the dumbest thief would cotton on no one living here could have anything worth stealing. If a thief beyond plumb dumb shows up, he’d be put off by the sickening stench clawing its way past the door. Garbage dump come abattoir.
Brad raps gently on the door, calls out ‘Dan?’
He pushes the door farther open, walks in.
Dan’s sitting with his back to us, watching TV. Route 66.
Dan doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn around.
As we walk into the room, my eyes are on the TV.
Linc’s with a guy acting like a child. A guy with head wounds suffered in the war.
Make’s me think of Mad magazine’s version, Route 67; one of those cartoon strips, making out how crazy we are to be taken in by this dross.
Dan’s not being taken in by it any more. He’s dead, a carving knife rammed deep within his chest.
Even so, his eyes are wide, his tongue lolling outside his mouth. Like he’s enjoying every minute of Tod and Linc’s crazy adventures.
A reflection of Tod and Linc’s Corvette drives across Dan’s face. I hear Linc say something about his own experiences in the war; he’s haunted by his past, is Linc.
That’s what makes him so thoughtful, so liable to explode as his temper gets the better of him.
While I’m thinking all this, Brad is deftly searching Dan. Like he’s a dummy in a store window that needs its clothes rearranging.
Brad don’t appear too shocked that he’s found Dan like this.
I’m taking it all pretty damn calmly myself, I suddenly realise.
It’s like it’s all happening on TV, like it’s really Tod and Linc who have discovered Dan like this.
It’s Tod and Linc looking around this dingy apartment, wondering how anybody could live like this. Wondering why Dan ain’t capable of cleaning up after any meal he’s ever had.
There’s food rotting everywhere. Something that looks like a dead cat underneath the table.
There ain’t nowhere near the amount of blood I’d’ve expected, if I’d ever been told I’d be standing by a murdered body one day.
The body’s stiff, but lolls around a bit as Brad moves arms and even legs. Like the guy made of straw in The Wizard of Oz. Same dopey, surprised look on his face too.
Not much of a looker, our Dan. Most of his hair already gone. Made up for it by hitting the refrigerator, his loose flesh like curling folds of Spam.
Reflections of Tod and Linc stride across his chest, the clean-cut handsome guys Dan could never have even hoped to be.
Turns out the guy acting like a kid used to be Linc’s commanding officer.
Brad’s forcing open Dan’s hands, like he’s torturing him, breaking his fingers.
‘Got it.’
Brad stands up, holding a small scrap of torn, crumpled paper.
There’s no look of triumph on his face, only concentration as he reads what’s left of the typed page.
‘Sidney Guilaroff?’ he says, turning to me. ‘Name mean anything to you?’
‘Marilyn’s hairdresser – one of ’em, anyway.’
‘Seems like old Dan’s been meeting quite a few hairdressers recently. Sidney’s saying he spoke to Marilyn the night she died.’
‘He wasn’t there, I’m sure of it.’
‘On the phone, kid. Around eight thirty. And, get this, she told him she had a lot of dangerous secrets about the Kennedys.’
‘So you’ve already told me.’
Yeah, I try and keep the bitterness outta my voice. But I ain’t succeeding.
‘You’re not thinking kid. She’s saying this on a phone, right? And what does she say not an hour later when her wannabe Mexican boyfriend calls?’
‘She tells him she’s got something that’s gonna shock the whole world.’
I say it like I don’t believe it. But I’m starting to, believe me I’m starting to.
Brad looks back at the wildly staring Dan. Damn, I’m starting to wish we’d closed those eyes. He’s beginning to look like an eager-to-please puppy.
Brad ducks down and elbows Dan’s body aside like he’s fighting for space on the subway train.
‘Hold him kid,’ he says.
I’m horrified suddenly.
Like for the first time I realise I’m in the room with a dead man.
But I grab Dan beneath his arms anyway, holding him at an angle on the seat while Brad pulls up and rummages through the chair cushions.
Dust flies up, making me choke, making me gip; christknows what’s living in these damn cushions! The prefect breeding ground for a new kind of insect, like you see in the movies.
Brad looks like he knows what he’s looking for. He pulls out a square tin, the paint so faded and scratched it’s hard to tell what it originally held.
I figure whoever killed Dan might’ve thought of looking here too, but thought better of it, wanting to head back home free of any nasty rashes or bites.
‘Let him back kid.’
I pull my hands away, letting Brad slip back into his seat.
I look around, wondering if there’s anything clean I could wipe my hands on.
No chance.
Brad’s opened
the box, revealing a few sheets of folded, typed paper.
‘Good one Dan.’ Brad nod towards his ex friend. ‘Knew you ain’t one for letting me down.’
He slips the folded sheets into the pocket on the inside of his coat, throws the tin on the floor like it’s just another cookie tin.
‘Let’s get outa here kid, before someone comes in and pins this on us.’
Route 66 is finishing, the theme song playing as we leave.
Makes me feel all the more like we’re Tod and Linc, driving away from another adventure.
‘Who’d you think knifed him like that?’
‘Probably the guy who strangled him first kid. The knife was just there for show, to scare us off. Or just in case we’re damn stupid enough to grab it, putting us at the scene of the crime.’
‘Okay, so who strangled him?’
Brad’s walked past the elevator, taking us down the stairs. He’s in no rush.
He’s acting like he’s just called round to tell someone they’re late in their payments, and that ain’t a clever thing to do. An everyday occurrence in this sorta building.
He pats the papers in his top pocket.
‘Someone who ain’t wanting Song to sing, obviously kid.’
*
Chapter 37
Marina is preparing to follow Lee to New Orleans.
Most of her things are packed, the suitcases propped up by the door.
Basically, we’re just waiting for her friend Ruth to call by. Ruth’ll be driving her there. We’re talking about things she might need, things she can buy there.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other.
‘It nots forever,’ she says, taking my hand, smiling.
She kisses me. Kisses me on the forehead, like an aunt saying bye to her favourite nephew.
I go to the door, open it.
It’s Brad, not Ruth.
‘Hi kid,’ he says happily, ‘I got you some more – oh, hi there Marina.’
Over my shoulder, he’s seen that Marina is still here.
He was about to hand me another bottle of pills. He closes his fingers tightly around it, like it was never really there.
‘I thought you’d’ve left by now.’
He smiles, but like he don’t really mean it.
She steps forward, frowning angrily.
‘Whatch you gots him some mores of?’
She’s looking down at his hand. She reaches forward, trying to prise his fingers open. She’s scratching his skin with her long nails.
‘Open it, goddamn you!’
She stares intently into his eyes, daring him to resist her.
He opens up his hand, revealing the small bottle.
‘Heck Marina! It’s only some drugs for the kid! He’s going through a lot of pressure at the moment; needs something to calm him down now and again.’
Marina grabs the bottle, studies the label.
‘Calm him down?’
She says it like she doesn’t believe it. Like she’s angrier than ever.
Brad laughs.
‘Marina, coming from Russia, you obviously ain’t getting how we trust the drugs we buy from our drugstores. There ain’t no danger–’
‘No danger?’
She pushes the bottle of pills back at him, holding it hard against his chest. Like she’s trying to force it deep within his flesh.
‘So whatch happen to Marilyn Monroe? She die of watch you call safe drugs, yes?’
Brad looks over at me, shrugging his shoulders. A shrug somehow saying, ‘Women, what’re they like, eh?’
‘That’s a completely different level of drug taking Marina. All the kid’s doing here is taking a couple of downers now and again to help keep him compos mentis.’
He grins at me.
‘Downers?’ She spits the word out. ‘I had studying Pharmacology in Russia!’
‘Hey, so good luck Marina when you get your job working in a drugstore. But you–’
‘It not work in drugstore! It study of how drug work on body!’
She turns, throws the bottle across the room so it shatters against the wall.
She turns to face me.
‘Jack, you not touch these things no more!’
She’s waving a finger at me, the teacher telling off the naughty school kid.
‘Okay Marina.’
I nod, not knowing what else to do.
She’s about to walk back over to me, I can tell. But suddenly Ruth’s also at the door, standing just behind Brad.
‘Everybody ready?’
She says it like asking a kid if he wants anymore Jell-O. Failing to understand that she’s walked in on a squabble.
Ruth ain’t the kinda friend you’d expect Marina to have.
She’s more the kinda friend I’d expect Eunice to have. You know the type: hair piled up in tight curls; glasses that look like they’re trying to sprout wings and fly off her face.
Still, she’s cheerful enough, and I reckon Marina ain’t wanting to be seen arguing in front of her.
Marina smiles at Ruth, turns to me and says sweetly, ‘Jack, I not wantch you take these pills, yes?’
Brad’s already picked up Marina’s luggage. He effortlessly carries it down the stairs, throwing the largest across his back.
Marina comes over to me, kisses me on the forehead again.
I feel I’m about eight-years-old again. I feel I’m gonna cry.
Downstairs, standing on the sidewalk, I wave them off.
She’ll be back, she told me.
She’d kissed me on the cheek before getting into the car.
‘No pills, remember?’ she’d whispered.
*
According to Brad, Marina’s overreacting.
‘You know how these people are in drugstores kid. They’re worried you might end up overdosing on mouthwash.’
‘So what are they Brad? What’ve you been giving me?’
‘Just regular pills, for christsake kid. Why’d I wanna harm you? If I wanna harm you, all I gotta do is leave you to be hunted down by all these schmucks who want you dead. Think about it kid. Marina ain’t really got the whole spec on what you’re going through, yeah? You tell her ’bout how we found Dan?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope. Course not.’
‘Good, kid. That’s the way to keep it too.’
He ruffles my hair, the affectionate uncle.
Just like my affectionate aunt kissed me on the forehead.
‘I ain’t a little kid anymore.’
‘Sure, I know that Jack. That’s why I know you’ll do what’s best for you. And you know, the state you’re in, it’s dangerous not to keep taking the pills. Fact is, if I find you’ve started throwing ’em away, I’ll have your privates for matzo soup. See that’s how much I care ’bout you kid, comprende?’
The firm hand on the shoulder. The concerned stare, aimed directly at the eyes.
Yeah, I get it. He’s saying, See, I care enough to give you tough love kid.
Before I can say anything, he pulls out some folded sheets of paper from his coat’s inner pocket.
They’re neatly typed, the paper reasonably unrumpled. They’re not the sheets of paper he’d put there after visiting Dan’s
‘Here it is kid; Song’s song sheet.’
‘They’re not the ones we got from Dan’s.’
‘Sure kid; those were in one heck of a mess. So I’ve tidied them up, sorted out the information of use to us. Mickey Song, you’ll recall kid, was hairdresser to the Kennedys. Kindly touching up Marilyn’s hair before she went out singing Happy Birthday to the President, that kinda thing. Now, later, it turns out, Marilyn invites him round her place. Supposedly to help get her hair into shape, right? But really it’s to get him to agree to spill the beans on the Kennedys. Song says no, he ain’t game
.’
‘So that’s it? Or did he tell Dan what she wanted him to say?’
Brad shakes his head.
‘Ah ah. We still ain’t got any idea what Marilyn was wanting him to say ’bout the Kennedys.’
My shoulders must slump with disappointment.
Brad grins, says, ‘Cheer up kid.’
The affectionate hair scrub follows. This is getting to be a bit of an irritating habit of his.
‘What he does say to Dan is almost as good; maybe even better. See, not longer after Song’s been round Marilyn’s, Bobby comes over to him, thanking him.’
‘Thanks for what?’
‘That’s what Song says; “Thanks for what?” Maybe Bobby gives that big Kennedy grin; I betcha he does. “Thanks for telling Monroe where to go,” Bobby says. See, Bobby tells him he’s heard it all on the tapes. They’ve got tapes of the jaw jaw between Song and Monroe!’
I’m sure my mouth drops open. I don’t know what to say, what to think. Brad waits, letting me work it all out.
‘So the Kennedys were the ones who’d had her house wired, yeah?’
‘Natch kid. Which means they know who’s calling her that night she died. Know what she’s saying to them. So, come eight-thirty, they hear her tell Sidney Guilaroff she’s got a lot of dangerous secrets about the Kennedys. Come nine thirty, maybe someone hears her telling the Mexican she’s gonna shock the whole world. Fact is, it don’t matter anymore far as Marilyn’s concerned.’
I’m struggling, still not exactly sure what Brad’s leading up to here.
‘See, kid, they’re already on the move after that earlier call. What’s the Mexican say? His call’s interrupted by a knock at the door.’
Do I look bewildered to Brad? I certainly feel it.
‘What I’m saying kid,is I reckon you’ve been right all along. Our mystery man at the door that night was Bobby Kennedy.’
*
Chapter 38
‘It don’t mean Bobby killed her kid; that limey Lawford was round there after eleven, remember. And he ain’t saying she was dead at that point, right?’
Yeah, Bobby was just round there to put her straight. To threaten her to keep her trap shut, or else.
Brad makes out there’s still a great deal we need to know before we can say for sure who killed Marilyn.
My money’s on Bobby.
I begin, at last, to see the Kennedys for the phoneys they are.
When there are bomb attacks in Birmingham, Alabama, the President comes out making he’s all concerned. Making out he’s a friend of the black people. Making out he’s like the Catcher in the Rye, protecting all the innocents.