*
Marina now has another daughter!
Audrey Marina Rachel Oswald, born the twentieth of October.
Thing is, Lee seems happier about the fact that his visa to visit Cuba has finally come through.
Even so, he begins spending his weekends down at Ruth’s, leaving me free to get on with my exercises uninterrupted.
‘JFK is a phoney, he’s not the Catcher in the Rye.’
‘The Catcher in the Rye says JFK is a phoney.’
When Lee’s around, he’s writing too. His thoughts on how to make the world a better place. A letter to the Soviet Embassy in Washington – I kid you not!
That I had to get a sneak at. But I just got a glimpse of the one line;
‘Had I been able to reach the Soviet Embassy in Havana as planned, the embassy there would have had time to complete our business.’
Beats me what it means – and I ain’t asking neither.
He seems to be all in a world of his own at the moment does our Lee.
Uptight. Touchy.
Like he’s geeing himself up for a fight.
Now Lee don’t strike me as being any great shakes as a man; but wound up, he’s like a taut rope that could just snap and take your head off if you’re standing in the wrong place.
He’s pissed more than ever when he hears agents have been visiting Ruth’s. Putting pressure on Marina, asking her questions.
Wouldn’t you know it, they reckon Marina’s a Rusky agent. Sure, guys; she trained in the art of disposing of dirty diapers and using pacifiers.
To get way from Lee for a while, I head off to the movies.
I miss Marina not being there with me. Miss her fits of giggles.
I laugh, but not like I used to, even though it’s a funny movie.
It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.
Ain’t it just?
*
Chapter 46
JFK, the great phoney, is set to visit Dallas.
As you’d expect, the papers are full of it.
‘The great fence mender!’ Lee sneers, angrily snapping the newspaper upright in his outstretched arms as he reads it.
He sees me looking back at him. He sees I’m puzzled.
‘Governor Connally and Senator Yarborough,’ he says, like I should know them, have regular jaw jaws over the garden gate with them. ‘Always got something to fight over. So JFK’s coming here, flattering himself he can smooth things over.’
He’s gonna tour downtown Dallas in a motorcade. Waving to us all like he’s the goddamn Queen of England. Later, it’s lunch with the city bigwigs.
Lee lays the paper on the table, carefully studying the route like it’s some sort of board game, his finger excitedly tapping any mention of the areas it’ll be passing.
To get to his luncheon, JFK has to get on the freeway.
To get on the freeway, he has to pass the Texas School Book Depository.
‘Great view from there Lee,’ I say. Though I’ll be dammed if I’ll be watching any of it.
‘Yeah,’ he says.
*
I ain’t seen a single thing about Rake in the papers.
Then again, he’s just another piece of road kill, ain’t he?
Even though we ain’t got Rake there to go with us, Brad has put together a way of meeting up with the judge in secret.
‘I’ve got a bit more info on the case that might just persuade him to take us seriously.’
As he says this, Brad winks mischievously. He also pats his coat around the area of his top, inner pocket, like he’s got folded papers in there.
‘What is it?’ I ask naturally enough.
‘Dynamite kid, dynamite. You’ll see soon enough. I can’t tell you just yet. I don’t want you spitting with fury when we’re talking to the judge.’
‘So you don’t think I’m gonna start spitting with fury when you tell it all to the judge?’
‘You ain’t kid, cos I’m gonna lay you out if you do.’
So I find myself in the kinda diner any self-respecting judge ain’t even gonna wanna be seen passing by – but I suppose that’s the idea.
Run a few fingers across the top of the tables and you end up looking like you’ve just had you fingerprints taken. A thin sheen of grease is smeared across the windows, grease that collects around the frame like an oily tar.
We’re seated a way away from the main window overlooking the street. Seats that allow us to keep an eye on the street, but place us deep enough inside the diner to make sure anyone passing sees nothing but dark shapes.
Least ways, not without them slowing way down to take a closer look.
Our coffees are going cold. They weren’t much more than lukewarm from the start, the waitress taking her time, acting like she was doing us a big favour just bringing them across. Sliding them across the table to us, the coffee slopping everywhere.
Brad aimlessly stirs the coffee, keeping his eye on the window. After a while, he glances at the clock on the wall. Then at his watch just to check.
He frowns.
The clock hand clicks to five minutes past the hour. Brad frowns again.
‘Something’s wrong. This ain’t like Judge Masters. He’s never late.’
His eyes are flitting around the diner, like he’s looking for signs, anything suspicious.
His eyes latch on to a sedan drawing up on the other side of the road.
‘We’ve been set up kid!’
He jumps up from his seat, grabbing hold of me by the arm and dragging me up with him.
Then we’re running through the diner, barging past tables, barging through the door leading to the back.
We hurtle through a kitchen that makes out-front look like a laboratory. If I’d eaten, I’d be spewing it up now. As it is, I wish we’d gone without the coffee.
Okay, so we’re running for our lives and I’m thinking these crazy things.
But we’re rushing past shocked kitchen staff who’re leaping out of our way, like they don’t wanna risk getting caught up in whatever’s going on. And that’s what I wish I could do – just leap out of the way, avoiding any trouble.
At some point Brad’s pulled out his gun. He doesn’t have to use it threateningly for it to be threatening.
Brad crashes through the door leading to the alley out-back. I follow after him, almost tumbling as I trip and stumble down a short flight of concrete steps.
The door crashes to behind us.
No one rushes out to see what the hell we’re up to, maybe realising there’s a connection between curiosity and stupidity.
People tend to say one alley’s much like any other alley. Fact is, some manage to be far worse than others. The trashcans here overflow like the dustcart broke down years ago, like everyone who backs on to this alley uses it to dump waste they’ve collected from family and friends.
The surrounding buildings are low, some even boasting small, walled backyards.
Brad glances around, quickly taking everything in.
The alley forms an L shape, the longer part of which heads away from the street. That’s where we wanna run, I think.
‘Up there kid,’ Brad says, pointing towards it, ‘that’s where you’ve gotta go.’
‘Me?’ I notice he didn’t say ‘we’. ‘What about you?’
He nods, indicating the shorter part of the alley leading to a side street.
‘Once they’re out of the car, that’s where they’ll come down. I just need to lay down a few warning shots. Make them think twice about following us.’
As he speaks, he draws out a long, brown envelope from his coat’s inner pocket. He hands it to me.
‘Take this kid – and no matter what you see happening back here, keep running. You need to get away with
this.’
He slaps me hard on the shoulder to force me on my way.
Spinning on his heels, he turns and lopes away in the other direction.
*
I run, heading down the alley.
There’s the sharp, echoing crack of a couple of gunshots coming from where Brad had headed.
Like the fool Brad had warned me not to be, I stop, turn, and dash back.
Brad’s at the street corner, using a trashcan as cover. It looks at first like he’s raising his gun. But he raises it too high, like he’s gonna take a pot at the sun.
The gun slips from his hand.
He falls to the floor.
*
Chapter 47
When I finally get back to the apartment, I’m gasping for breath like I’m gonna die right there and then.
My heart hurts like I’m carrying a huge stone in there rather than flesh and blood.
I’d run all the way back here, stopping for nobody, stopping for nothing.
Not even traffic – I’d run across roads, dodging oncoming cars like a bullfighter dodging a bull’s horns.
Damn! I didn’t check that I’d been followed!
No point worrying about that now.
I’ve been tightly grasping the envelope every step of the way.
If Brad thought it was important enough to risk having a meeting with the judge – important enough for him to die for! – there ain’t no way I was going to lose it.
The envelope rips as I frenziedly reach inside and pull out the folded photograph inside. I let the envelope fall to the floor as I unfold the sheet.
It’s a photo of an official document, from the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital.
Dated 21 July, 1962.
There’s a name I don’t recognise near the top of the sheet, the name of the patient.
It’s a report on the birth of a baby; no, wait a minute. It’s something to do with the baby being ‘terminated’. ‘Aborted’ it says elsewhere.
Somebody didn’t want their baby, natch. Obviously, too, they found themselves a hospital willing to deal with the ‘problem’.
But what’s the big deal about somebody’s abortion?
Why the heck did Brad think this would get the judge to give us official protection?
Why’d he put his life on the line just to make sure I got away safely with this photo?
I pick up the envelope, peer inside.
There’s a small slip of paper in there, a paper clip attached.
Like it should’ve been fixed to the photo.
Dragging it out, I see it’s just a handwritten note. But the writing’s clear, easy to read.
‘Monroe checks into hospital under assumed name. Baby is JFK’s.’
*
Now I remember.
She’d been away for three days. Came back jaded, depressed.
The President’s baby! She’d had to abort the President’s baby!
I sit in front of the mirror, start writing.
‘JFK is a phoney says the Catcher in the Rye.’
What would he think, this Holden guy? What would he do, the Catcher in the Rye?
He’d empty a revolver into a guy’s stomach, he said. Empty a revolver into someone that had done him wrong.
‘The phoney must die says the Catcher in the Rye!’
My mind’s black with rage. There’s nothing there, in my mind, but anger. A blackness.
‘The phoney must die says the Catcher in the Rye!’
‘JFK must die says the Catcher in the Rye!’
*
Chapter 48
JFK is flying down to Texas today.
Not to Dallas just yet. That’s tomorrow.
Although it’s a Thursday, Lee says he won’t be back tonight. He’s getting a ride down to Ruth’s place.
He has to pick something up, he says. ‘Curtain rods,’ he says, with a strange giggle.
He’ll be getting a ride back tomorrow morning.
‘Oh, sure I’ll be watching the motorcade,’ he says when I ask.
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, opens up a crudely drawn map.
‘If you change your mind about wanting to watch, Brad told me I should tell you to watch it from here.’
He points to an area marked on the map. An area just down from the book depository where he works.
I ask him if he’d heard anything of Brad.
‘Nah,’ he says as he prepares to head off to work. ‘From what you say Jack, sounds to me like he bought it. Part of the job, that; dying for your country or cause.’
*
Friday’s warm and sunny.
There are plenty of people here, waiting to see the phoney. The phoney and his wife.
Looking at the way the road sharply turns back on itself here, Brad was right about this being an ideal place to watch the motorcade.
The cars will have to take that corner real slow.
I check the crumpled piece of paper once again. Check that I’m in the right position.
Yep, this is the grassy knoll all right.
It’s slightly raised here, a high wooden fence between me and the rest of the sparser crowds standing round this part of the route. Nothing behind me but a parking lot.
A parking lot with a dark brown station wagon, parked right behind me.
I check the crumpled map once again. Where the grassy knoll is marked, there’s also a crude rectangle, representing a car. There are tiny words near the oblong, so tiny I have to squint to read them – but I realise I must’ve read them before without even realising I was taking them in.
‘Dark brown station wagon.’
I look up, head towards the dark brown station wagon.
It’s a regular station wagon. Nothing unusual, nothing startling.
Normally, it’s the sort of car that would just blend into the background.
The back of the car’s towards me. Through the rear window, I can see a long canvas bag laid out on the floor.
It’s placed where it’s easy to see. A label on the bag says ‘Curtain Rods’.
Next to it, there’s a book.
The Catcher in the Rye.
*
Chapter 49
As I lean slightly on the station wagon, I realise the tail door’s loose; it rocks gently back and forth as I move.
I prise it open, reach inside for the book. Flipping the cover open, I see it’s my copy; there’s the poem.
‘Gin a body meet a body
Comin’ thro’ the rye…’
It makes me think of Marilyn. Think of how the phoney betrayed her.
‘…Yet a' the lads they smile at me
When Comin’ thro’ the rye.’
I look at the bag. I drag it over to me.
It’s heavy, doesn’t feel like curtain rods.
I slip the bag’s tie. I reach in and pull the contents from the bag.
A rifle.
A 6.5 mm calibre Carcano.
*
Chapter 50
The midnight blue of the limousine glints in the sunlight, like a flash of night.
A Lincoln, more or less brand-new I reckon.
Closely behind it, there’s a Cadillac, a slightly older model. Agents plastered all around it like big-busted broads at a Detroit show.
There are agents running alongside too, running alongside the Lincoln. Like excited sightseers wanting a glimpse of the handsome President and his pretty, pink-clad First Lady.
Marilyn liked pink too. <
br />
Look at him; the new King of Camelot!
Look at the king, look at the king!
Smiling at all his joyous subjects!
Not one of them knows the truth, knows the dark heart hiding behind the smile.
*
All the limousine’s windows have been wound down, letting everyone get a good look.
A good look at the phoney.
‘Look at the king, look at the king…’
The king and his queen are raised way up on the back seat. An older couple sitting closer towards the front, like they’ve brought along their mom and pop.
As the limo reaches the tight corner by the book depository, it has to slow right down.
Now it’s heading towards me, real slow.
I bring the gun up to my shoulder, like Lee trained me to do.
Wow, it fits snugly; like it’s a part of me, a part I’ve always missed but never knew what I was missing.
I lean in towards the sights, my finger preparing to squeeze on the trigger. (‘Squeeze Jack; don’t pull back.’)
‘JFK must die says the Catcher in the Rye!’
I peer down the site, see everything wonderfully magnified.
That gleaming smile. That gleaming smile that entranced an innocent, trusting Marilyn.
‘JFK must die says the Catcher in the Rye!’
As the Lincoln drops down the road’s slight incline, my sighting wavers slightly. The Cadillac following behind suddenly looms large in the centre of the crossbars.
The agents are grimfaced, like they still haven’t learned to loosen their pants. Dark suits and even darker sunglasses. They all look just the same, only their hair–
I nudge the gun slightly to one side.
Two guys standing on the driver-side running board come up into scope. One guy with hair cut like he’s just stepped from a Marine recruitment tent.
Brad.
Brad intently looking everywhere about him.
Looking up at the book depository.
Looking over towards the grassy knoll.
Looking directly into my scope.
He smiles, like he knows I’m there. Like he sees me.
Like he knows I’ve got the gun pointed directly at his head.
Like he’s knows I’m wondering if I should shoot him or not.
Just what other lies have you told me Brad?
*
Like a lightning bolt striking while the midday sun boils down, the crack of the gun is totally shocking.
The phoney’s hands begin to rise. He starts to turn toward his wife.
The smile has gone. Now he’s astonished, unbelieving.
I stare up at the book depository.
Lee.
He’s killed the President.
*
Chapter 51