 
The Caught

Jon Jacks
Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Boy in White Linen – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things – The Last Train

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien

Text copyright© 2012 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author.

Thank you for your support.

# Chapter 1

'Hi, is Marilyn home please?'

Can't say I recognise the weird guy who's answered the door. Face like he's clamping his pen between his butt cheeks.

I hadn't expected anyone else to be here this late.

She'd sent me away when I'd called earlier. Said she was sorry.

She was taking an important call, but she'd have something for me if I called back after nine. (Okay, so I was way over half-an-hour late.)

Just a little something for me, as usual. My allowance for mowing the grass, removing the weeds. All that dumb stuff.

Way I see it, I reckon she's paying me as a kind of personal favour, on account of Mom ain't working for her no more.

I ain't so dumb I ain't noticed she's already got regular gardeners doing that kinda thing for her.

'She was expecting me,' I say, seeing as how jerk-features ain't bothered speaking yet.

You'd think he'd be a bit more polite, seeing as how he'd kept me waiting. No one had been in a rush to answer the door, far as I could see.

I'd rung a number of times, got no answer for my trouble. So, as you do, I'd taken to peering in through the windows.

Not because I'm that type of creepy guy, understand? Just to make sure she was all right.

I'd seen some shadowy shapes moving around in there. Trying to duck out of sight too, you ask me.

So I'd rung again, and again, shouting out her name. 'Marilyn! Miss Monroe! Are you okay Marilyn?'

Five years later, the door's finally opened by this jerk.

Type I'd seen hovering round the President that time Mom snuck me in the back of a Peter Lawford party. (Mom has to clean plenty of houses to make ends meet). Suits _way_ too tight. These guys standing around like they've got ironing boards shoved up their ass. Chins and foreheads like someone's carved them with blunt chisels.

Where the hell had this jerk been all this time?

I've been calling, shouting, ringing the goddamn bell. And here he is still acting like I ain't even visible.

'I work here,' I say

'Any kid could say that.'

Wow, the jerk can actually speak!

He says it like emotions don't exist for him. Like he's reading it from a card. Talks like he ain't used to moving or don't like moving his mouth too much.

'She's always being pestered by nosy kids. Beat it jerk wad.'

'Miss Monroe knows me. I do odd jobs for her. She owes me fifty cents.'

The man stares down his nose at me.

He reaches into his pants pocket, fiddling around for some loose change. As I'd figured, the tight-cut don't make this too easy. Looks like he's having to readjust his family jewels.

Jerk-face finally flicks a dollar at me.

I catch it.

His face still ain't risking breaking into a smile.

'That's next week taken care of as well kid. Now, as I said, beat it!'

*

I go back next morning anyways.

Hoping I can clean out the pool. Maybe get a swim for my troubles afterwards. My threadbare trunks shoved in my coat pocket, just in case.

She don't seem to swim herself, Marilyn. But she don't mind others using her pool.

But I can't get anywhere near the house this time.

There are police cars everywhere, like this is the new LAPD parking lot.

A number of other cars too. Jerks from the press swarming around like someone's injected wasp venom in their brains. The police holding them back, closing the gates, keeping them away.

The jerks are drawing on their cigarettes like it's oxygen, a light mist of smoke swirling about them.

'What's going on?' I grab hold of a guy who looks like he should be upping his vitamin intake.

'It's Marilyn,' he bubbles, almost ready to break into tears. 'Ain't you heard kid? She finally got round to topping herself!'

*

# Chapter 2

'My journey ends here.'

That's what it says on the doorstep tiles. Only it's in Mexican, natch, on account of the house looking like a hacienda. 'Cursum Perficio.'

Marilyn told me what it meant.

Now I ain't saying she meant it like she was gonna commit suicide, got me?

She meant it like this was now her home. The place where she felt she finally belonged.

See, we talked a lot, me and Marilyn. Like we were best friends, sometimes.

Like she was a little girl once again, just gossiping and giggling on the doorstep.

Like we were going out together.

She used to have a dog that would walk along to school with her, you know that? 'Tippy' she called it. Black and white.

Given to her by her foster father, Albert something or other. Some dumb-ass neighbour shot it – the dog, not her foster father.

Can't help wondering, though, if it ain't been a damn sight better for her if it had been Albert, know what I mean?

Neighbour said the dog had been rolling around in his garden – like that's a major crime, yeah?

Even then she was dreaming of becoming a movie star. Sure, she knew all the little girls out there were dreaming just the same thing.

'I was the one dreaming hardest Jack,' she told me.

She still thought about that, still talked about it. Like she was still dreaming and it ain't ever really come true, despite her dreaming the hardest.

She was like that sometimes, see?

Like I said; like she was a little girl again.

The little girl abandoned by a mom and pop who'd gone a bit loopy, you ask me. A little girl who, like me, was always being dragged from place to place.

Like she was just something you loaded up on the removal van.

Least I've got Mom, I suppose. Not that I see too much of her, what with all the work and all.

For Marilyn, it was foster home after foster home. Having to get to know a whole new set of people each time, knowing you'd be leaving 'em again some point soon.

Moving on, putting that life and those people behind you.

You ain't to go getting too attached, that was the message.

Start preparing now, figuring out how you're gonna fit in with the next family. Figuring out when it's best to start packing your bags. Nothing's permanent.

They ain't ever gonna really care for you after all. That was the other message.

'Fifty seven places – I've lived in _fifty_ _seven_ places Jack!' she once said to me. 'Can you imagine that? I've counted them all.'

Was that kinda life ever gonna really end for Marilyn?

Abused, pimped (oh sure, I know the meaning of pimped – Marilyn told me, see?), fed with drugs by people supposed to help her. Insulted, used, thrown away.

Sure, then they'd try make it up to her, see? By giving her little gifts. Just like she was still that little girl, eager to please, easily bought off.

Take her present dog, Maf. Tiny, white – a French poodle.

You know why it's called Maf? Because Frank gave it her. Frank Sinatra, the singer. He gave it her when they went out with each other for a while.

Maf's short for 'Mafia', see?

She weren't as dumb as they make out.

She used to let Maf sleep on a white beaver coat that must've cost a fortune. Another present, this one from Arthur Miller, her last husband.

Some time after Joe DiMaggio, she told me.

You've gotta be kidding me, I'd said.

She'd laugh, because she knew Maf sleeping on the coat would upset him.

Bobby Vinton is playing on a jukebox in a nearby bar.

_Roses Are Red, My Love_.

I used to think it was a soppy song, know what I mean?

But now I know what he's getting at.

Those words say it all, don't they?

Satin pillows to cry on; yeah.

*

He steps out in front of me before I know anybody's even there.

Like a wall suddenly appearing in front of you. Only a wall that moves every time you try stepping round it.

'What'd you see last night boy?' he says.

No introduction. No explanation of why he's blocking my way. Just 'What'd you see last night boy?'

'Who's asking?'

I squint up at him, like I want him to know I'm pissed; him just jumping out in front of me like that.

See, I know who's asking.

It's one of those jerks who knock around protecting the Kennedys.

Taking themselves oh-so-seriously as they get out of cars, walk along kerbs, hang around on corners. Heads quickly looking this way and that, bodies otherwise almost as still as a corpse. All movement restricted to whatever will get them to wherever they're headed.

Suits like they'd bought them as a job lot. Ties too, and shirts.

My uncle, he used to be a tailor before the mob made it too expensive for him. He'd tell them straight; 'Suits that tight, they'll have you walking round like you're too mean to use Ex-Lax.'

This guy's inside-leg measurement is _way_ too tight.

'What's your name boy?'

He says it like he can only just get the words past his teeth. These guys, well, they ain't capable of showing any emotion. Unless you're counting different levels of nastiness.

'As _I_ said, what's yours?'

He produces a small identification wallet. Flicks it open in front of me, flicking it shut before I get to read his name.

There's a big 'i' on the card; ain't no time to see much else.

'Jack,' I say. 'My name's Jack – like the President.'

'He's called John. Jack to his friends. "Sir" to people like you. Ain't anyone got around to teaching you you say "sir" whenever you're addressing an adult?'

'No. My Mom, she ain't partial to being called "sir".'

He keeps his face expression free.

'Jack what?'

'Jack Leroyson.'

'Leroyson? There ain't no one by that name working up Monroe's place.'

'Mom went back to her own name when Pop left. Moorhead.'

'Jack Moorhead. That checks. Leroyson your pop's name, huh?'

'Kinda. Mom never lets on his real name. He was called Leroy. And I'm his son. Leroyson.'

'On account of you miss him, right?' He says it like I'm a cry-baby.

'On account of Mom embarrasses me.'

'Well listen Jack; I want you to tell me exactly what you saw last night. You were at the house, nine forty, right?'

'Sometime about quarter till ten, yeah.' I nod

'I just told you boy; nine forty. What you see?'

'Guy like you. Came to the door. Guy who's never laughed, I figure.'

'Defending our country's a serious business sonny. It's thanks to people like me other schmucks like you get the time to laugh.'

Hey, I'm pretty proud of myself. I've just managed to get this guy to frown. Oh, wow, and here comes a sneer too.

'You've got it wrong anyway wise guy. The guy who answered the door was that limey actor, Peter Lawford.'

'Nope, that weren't no Peter Lawford. As I said, he looked like you.'

'Looked like me? You saying I've got a twin I ain't knowing about boy? Sure it ain't just that anyone in a smart suit looks the same to someone like you?'

I look him up and down, like I'm considering what he just said.

'Like those stiffs you see lined up in store windows?' I say. 'Yeah, could be I _do_ reckon they all look the same. But Lawford, I've seen him afore; and that guy weren't no Peter Lawford.'

'It was ten o'clock boy–'

'Nine forty.'

He ignores me. Just looks at me with eyes that feel like they're piercing your skull.

'It was getting dark. You were mistaken. See the thing is, I don't even have to go telling you he was there. But as you were there, I'm trying to be open and honest with you.'

'He didn't _sound_ like no limey.'

'What's a limey sound like to you, Mr Anthropologist?'

'Like he's got a mouthful of glass. Speaking real careful so he ain't gonna go slicing his tongue.'

'That's him. That's Peter Lawford.'

I shrug, like he's won. Like I care. I just can't be bothered talking to this mulehead much longer.

He makes out I agree with him that the jerk at the door was this limey Lawford, saying, 'So what'd he say?'

'You don't know? You don't know what one of your own guys said?'

There, I couldn't resist bringing it up again, could I?

'Ain't I already told you kid? He wasn't one of our guys. He was that limey, Lawford. But I know _precisely_ what he said boy. I wanna hear how _you_ heard it. That's all.'

'He said Marilyn was busy.'

'Marilyn? Not "Miss Monroe"? What else he say?'

'He flicked me a coin. Told me not to bother calling back.'

'Beat it. He said, "Beat it!" Not, "Don't bother calling back."'

'Same thing.' I shrug.

'It ain't the same thing at all kid. Not the same thing by any stretch of the imagination. He said, "Beat it!" Got that?'

'Sure.'

'That's it? That's all you saw?'

'What else was there to see?'

'Nothing; as you say boy, nothing. Anybody ask, that's the way I want you to keep it, right? Fact is, any nosy reporter asks, you weren't there at around ten.'

He pauses, waiting for me to say, 'Nine forty.' His eyes tell me not to.

'You left after seven, and never came back. Right?'

'Why should I lie? Mom taught me I ain't ever to lie.'

It's a lie, natch. But I reckon that's the sort of thing he wants to hear.

'So she taught you something then? She also teach you love of your country?'

I give a nod and a shrug. Can't say I'm too sure Mom would know where the country ended and started if you ever put a map down in front of her.

'This is a matter of national security son. You understand that; national security?'

'Something about making it all safe for schmucks like me to laugh?'

'You've got a mouth on you sonny.'

He slaps me hard across the face.

So hard he nearly knocks me to the ground.

This is the moment when you're actually fighting yourself inside.

Do you take it, try and look like it ain't hurting? Or do you look cowed, stay down? Don't put yourself up for another slap?

This guy knows what's going on inside too; you can see it in his eyes, the way he's waiting to see what my reaction will be.

I give him the blank face. Boy, I gotta admit, it takes a _lotta_ control.

'Thing is, in the great scheme of things you don't mean jack, Jack. Got that?'

I've got to admit I almost say 'Sir!' But I keep my mouth shut for once.

'Ain't anybody ever told you to listen to your betters and do as they say?'

'Nope; ain't ever had much of a learning.'

'Well your learning's gonna have to improve leaps and bounds pretty quick kid. Otherwise, it just might be there ain't gonna be many more years ahead of you to catch up? Comprende?

'Sí señor.'

He raises a hand in the air, clicking his fingers.

With his other hand he slaps me hard across the mouth again.

'Wise up kid!'

Jesus! Who is this guy? I've had kicks to the head that hurt less!

I can feel the tears welling up in the bottom of my eyelids. I hold them back. Grimace as if I'm angry, rather than having trouble trying to hide that I'm hurt.

I've got enough sense, too, to know there are times when it's best not to fight back.

Bide your time, that's my motto. There's always gonna be a time when they're vulnerable. They can pay for insulting you then.

A black sedan screeches to a halt alongside us, the rear door already swinging open.

The guy steps to one side, slips in the back. The sedan speeds off.

I rub my smarting chin.

Damn, that hurt!

I've flicked a switchblade for less.

*

# Chapter 3

I head back to Marilyn's house, having wandered around for a while.

Trying to get my thoughts together, unsure what else to do.

I still ain't getting past either the police or the press.

Like they really care. Like they have a right to keep me out.

They'll go back home tonight, tell their wives how they were the ones attending Marilyn Monroe's suicide.

Like they were some kind of big hero.

Or they'll be writing up some horsesh– for their papers, making out they know all the answers, all the details.

They know sh–.

The gates open for a minute, letting some guys out. All dressed like they're ready for some dream date.

Don't they get it? She's dead. The world's most famous movie star is _dead_.

She ain't going out on any dream dates anymore.

*

Mrs Murray's green Dodge is still there, in the double garage.

She'll be loving all this, old hatchet-face Eunice (Eu _nasty_!). The centre of attention, like she always wanted to be.

Where the hell was she when Marilyn was committing suicide?

Ain't that why she lives in Marilyn's house? To look after her, take care of her?

That's the bull Mom was given when Dr Greenson said she was being replaced.

They needed someone who'd stay with Marilyn at all times, he'd said, calmly, politely. Like he was telling her to keep taking the pills.

Someone who'd receive visitors, that sorta thing, he'd said; not just keeping the house clean.

Someone who'd ferry Marilyn around in her old Dodge when she needed to get out. When she needed to visit Dr Greenson, for instance.

Mom can't even drive, let alone afford a car. So she weren't ever in with a chance, was she, know what I'm saying?

Heck, who'd've thought all these other things were suddenly so important?

You ask me, only guy thinks they're really important is good old Dr Greenson.

Truth is, Mom wouldn't do what Dr Greenson really wanted. He wanted someone to spy on Marilyn. Someone who was gonna report back to him each day.

Marilyn, she didn't see it as spying at first. Keeping track of her behaviour and moods, she'd called it.

I'd told her, it don't seem right to me.

Dr Greenson was a good man, she'd said. A psychiatrist who was helping her.

He saw her everyday, at his house just down in Santa Monica. Made her feel part of his family, she said. Letting her spend weekends, eat meals with them, even cook in the kitchen.

Marilyn liked that, the sense of being part of a family.

She called Dr Greenson 'Ralph'.

She was sorry she couldn't keep Mom on anymore. But she was sure Mom would manage all right with the other cleaning jobs she had.

So what the heck happened to old Eunice's daily reports? How come she ain't putting out the warnings that Marilyn's ready to top herself?

Okay, so I gotta admit I was pretty close and I ain't ever seen it coming either.

But then it ain't ever been my job, has it, to be on the lookout for it?

Then again, I ain't seeing it myself, I ain't seeing this as being suicide, like they're making out.

Sure, okay, I know all that crock the papers were spreading around – how she'd had a hard time a while back. How she was feeling way bad about herself and angry at the way she'd been treated. (Hey, how'd you feel if you'd been kicked around like that?)

But she knew herself that she needed help. Heck, that was why she'd moved down here in the first place, to be near Dr Greenson.

And recently, you know what? She was happier than I'd ever seen her!

She was doing up the house, realistic Mexican style.

Spent ages studying books and all that stuff! Went down Mexico way, she did, bringing back all this hand-made pottery and tiles. All these materials. Three _big_ pictures!

Here's another thing.

She wasn't at home last weekend.

And I know why.

She'd been off to Lake Tahoe. Spending a weekend there with Joe – Joe DiMaggio.

Okay, so they'd been married once before.

Way I heard it, they'd planned to remarry.

That's why she couldn't see me last night. Because Joe had telephoned.

Telling her he was breaking off his engagement to some other broad.

*

Thing is, apart from that call there was nothing unusual about that whole day, way I see it.

It was just like most other Saturdays.

I turned up asking if I could do I few odd jobs around the garden – you know, helping make it look more _Mexican_.

Eunice wanted to send me away. (You can tell; the way her face suddenly develops more creases than an elephant's crack.)

But she knows Norm would be okay about me giving a hand, so she makes an attempt at a pleasant grimace. She points me through to the garden at the rear.

Norman Jeffries is the caretaker. Oh, and also Eunice's son-in-law. I know what you're thinking – the good doctor and his friends really know how to keep it in the family, don't they?

Truth is, though, I like Norm.

The guy's even got hair like a welcome mat, what with those short, thick bristles, cut perfectly flat across the top of his head.

What you'd call a homey face too; like a solidly built house. All large projections and sharp angles. The mouth a regular picket fence of teeth.

Marilyn waved when she saw me, smiled.

She seemed fine to me.

But Eunice, well, way she has it Marilyn's best avoided; she's in a crabby mood, she hasn't slept at all well.

Okay, so I admit that when I hear Marilyn talking to Pat – that's Pat Newcomb, her press agent – she sure does sound a bit crabby. You gotta see these arguments to fully appreciate 'em.

See, Pat's like the sensible, older sister, all neatly bobbed, dark blond hair. Marilyn, she's got the glistening, awry halo, natch. So she's like the younger sister, fuming because she ain't gonna have anyone telling her how to live her life.

So perhaps Marilyn had a right to be crabby with her, know what I'm saying?

Fact is, she don't raise any fuss at all when I step in her kitchen for a drink. Just gives me that beaming smile of hers; 'Thirsty work out there Jack?'

Pat just got the worst of her, I guess.

Could be Pat's slept well and Marilyn, as per usual, ain't. So could be there's just a hint of jealousy there.

Could be a few dolls had been taken.

Whoops, I'd better explain. We're not talking illegal substances here, understand?

These are prescribed drugs; the sort all movie stars end up taking to zap them into life when they're about to start filming. Others to send them straight back to la-la land once their busy little day's over.

See, Dr Greenson was trying to break Marilyn's Nembutal habit. And the best way of doing that, he reckons, is to switch her to chloral hydrate.

Get what I'm talking about here?

Trouble being, Nembutal's Marilyn's sleep-aid of choice. And so another doctor, Dr Engelberg, obliged her with a prescription only yesterday.

Hell, that's what doctors are for, ain't it?

*

Old Dr Greenson himself turned up after lunch.

Eunice telling me she'd called him, on account of Marilyn asking if there's any oxygen around.

Now our Dr Greenson, he's obviously trying for the Albert Einstein look, right?

Going for the bushy moustache draped across his mouth. But his hair; well it ain't having anything to do with it. It's rushing back from his forehead like the tide going out.

Only way he'd get me sitting down with him, laying out all my troubles and worries, like Marilyn does, well only way he'd get me doing that would be if he paid me for the privilege, rather than the other way round.

Still, Marilyn's with him most of the afternoon. I could see them in the sunroom, through the large windows overlooking the back garden. Seated by a tapestry she'd hung on the wall in there.

Aztec, she called it.

A naked Mexican Indian chick. Surrounded by bright, multicoloured bands.

It's all part of that Mexican look I mentioned earlier, see?

That's what I'm doing out here, planting shrubs she's had specially imported.

There's also a lot of new furniture in there, some of which arrived just a few days ago.

It's all one hell of a lot simpler than the stuff you'd expect a movie star to be surrounding herself with too. Just polished wood, most of it. Matting for the seats, or thin, sand-coloured cushions.

Plushest thing is a red Mexican sofa she's placed in the living room.

Everything else in there is just the simple stuff once again. Leather top cocktail table. Folding benches, made from a single piece of wood.

She's kept the Rodin statue ('You pronounce it _Ro_ – _dan_ Jack'), a man and woman getting it on. It got you thinking that pose, know what I mean?

There's also a Golden Globe statuette in there, cracked and showing its lead filling. Marilyn finds that funny, the lead beneath the gold.

See, Marilyn's not like your usual stuck up movie star. They're all up in their mansions, up in Beverly Hills. Marilyn's down here, in Brentwood.

Take the kitchen, right? Table ain't no bigger than the one back in our apartment, tucked away in a small nook. Wall-mounted seats, crushed up either side of it. Blue tiles surrounding the window.

Course, it's all a lot cleaner than our apartment could ever be. Though not as clean as it could be if Mom still worked here. (Don't seem to make much sense that, does it? But, what with cleaning the big, sprawling houses of her betters' all day, Mom's too whacked when she gets home to be bothered about picking up yet another brush pan.)

So what makes this a movie star's kitchen? Nothing, unless you happen to walk in and find, say, a white fox boa, carelessly thrown over the table like it don't matter to her.

Strange thing is, Marilyn really cooks in here. Can you believe that?

Okay, so don't believe me; but the proof's right here. Marilyn's copy of _The Joy of Cooking_. I've seen her making notes in it as she cooks her favourites.

Beef bourguignon. Borscht. Stews. Homemade pasta. Guacamole.

She's even written out a recipe for rum cake in there.

Fact is, I reckon that if Dr Greenson hadn't been there Saturday, who knows, she could've spent it right there in that there kitchen.

I've seen her do it. Happily cooking away, letting me try a taste of her recipes now and again.

Either that or she'd've been outside in the garden with me. Helping pull out the weeds. Wearing her straw, candykiss-shaped gardening hat.

So, does all this sound to you like a woman who's about to commit suicide?

No, it don't to me neither.

*

# Chapter 4

Sure, Marilyn got into an argument that day, that Saturday.

I heard her through the open windows.

Now she's been talking to Joe again, she's finally got around to telling Dr Greenson she don't need him no more.

She don't need Eunice either, she said; in fact she's firing her.

It don't go down well with the good doctor, obviously.

Dr Greenson, he's saying she needs to cool off.

Mid-afternoon, he finally gives her a break, time-off to go for a drive with Eunice.

Can't've been too great an atmosphere in that old Dodge, eh?

*

If Norm's a well-built house, Eunice is a beat-up car.

Her face permanently set in the mean scowl of a Thunderbird grill. Her spectacles curving up at the edges like an old Packard's rocket fins.

Hair hanging like wispy exhaust fumes.

When she's going out somewhere special, she'll pull all that wispy hair back into a tight bun, like she's trying to pull all the creases out of her face.

She'll top it all off with a pillbox hat, kidding herself she looks as glamorous as Jackie Kennedy.

Yeah, and my name's President Kennedy.

Marilyn goes out only after dressing down.

Baggy this, baggy that. Old this, even older that. Scarf, if it's not too hot. No makeup. The darkest sunglasses.

She has two of everything, see? For the two Marilyns.

The dowdy one who wants to go into a store without being noticed or recognised.

And the one she transforms into when she has to; Marilyn Monroe, Movie Star.

Even the makeup case is different. Black, with her initials, M.M. Colours only she could get away with; bright greens and dazzling blues for the eyes.

None of that comes out when she's being ferried around in Eunice's Dodge.

Way I hear it later, she's been down to Lawford's beach house. There at four, back here before five.

Almost as soon as she's back, Lawford's on the phone; would she like to come over for supper with friends?

She says no, smiling at me as I make my way to the kitchen for another drink.

Now she's back, it's back with the good doctor for a while.

Now, though, he breaks off for a while himself. Calls Dr Engleberg, fails to convince him to come out, give her an injection that will help her sleep.

There are a few more sharp words between Marilyn and Pat, the good doctor deciding it's best if Pat leaves. She's away in a huff just before six.

An hour later, even the good doctor calls it a day, striding past me as I trim the forecourt grass. His eyes focused on nothing but the gate, like I ain't really there.

Okay, so now he's gone, I decide it's okay for me to knock on the door. Making out I just want a bit of money for my troubles. Really just wanting to talk to Marilyn awhile.

I finish the trimming first, making the angles of the small forecourt lawn look nice and regular. Sweep up the cut grass off the surrounding tiles.

'Jack, Jack,' she says excitedly as she opens the door to me. 'It's Joe! He's just called. He's broken off his engagement with that horrible woman. Isn't that wonderful? I just need to call Ralph, tell him the good news. Can you call later, let me know how much I owe you?'

I don't want to spoil this for her. I nod, I smile.

I'm hurt inside, but I don't show it. Marilyn can do that – hurt you without knowing it.

Joe's good for her, I know that.

She's had Joe round here before, of course. Had photographs taken of her and him, for a magazine I think. Lounging around. Smiling. Playing her white piano.

She's had that white piano a long time, you know?

She really cared for it, that piano.

*

I'm on my way home when the sedan tries to run me over.

It ain't like I'm jay walking or anything. Or not watching where I'm going.

I'm just minding my own business when, behind me, I hear this sedan suddenly accelerate.

That's what saves me, probably; the fact that the dumb ass accelerates to ensure he finishes me off good.

If he'd just sneaked up on me, I wouldn't've known he was there till it was too late.

I turn around.

I see the sedan swerve.

Curve sharply off the road.

Bounce on its springs as it mounts the kerb.

Grill like a snarling mouth.

Sh–!

*

I throw myself to one side, rolling across someone's neatly tended lawn.

The neatly tended lawn's churned up into muddied clods of earth, the sedan swerving and swaying like a fish struggling on a line.

Tyres spinning, whirling, as they try to get a grip on the recently watered grass.

I scramble back to my feet and run, my feet slipping and sliding like I'm in hell's version of a funhouse.

Running across other well-tended lawns.

The sedan following, careering from side to side, turning every lawn to brown mush.

I leap, hop, skip and jump. Throwing myself off to one side. Landing amongst a patch of roses sheltered behind a willow tree.

At last, the sedan decides it has to veer off.

It sweeps beneath the willow's curtain of hanging fronds, its roof clattering like machinegun fire.

It skids, sharply swings back towards the road, its rear fishtailing.

It leaps off the kerb, the springs sending it bucking and rolling like a broken soapbox cart.

It roars off up the road.

It was a black sedan. Pretty new, too, going by the way it sparkled.

I didn't see who was driving.

But I can guess.

I pick myself up from amongst the rose bushes, grimacing. Thorns catch on my skin, coat and jeans, like the plants have suddenly come alive.

'Hey! What you done to my lawn?'

A jerk's at the door to the house. His glasses opaque in the sunlight, so he looks like a mole come up for air.

His foggy eyes look out over a Bikini Atoll-like devastation. Only a moment ago it was his neat little lawn.

Yeah, like _I've_ done _that_.

'No charge mister,' I say, giving him a cheery salute.

I stride off, knowing he ain't the type who's gonna complain that I'm leaving.

*

# Chapter 5

If there's one thing Marilyn done bad by me and Mom, it's giving us her old TV.

Once back from work (sure, Sundays too; any day she can get, she works), Mom sits there in front of it like she's not allowed to miss a minute of it.

Like she wishes she could take it intravenously. Eyes as glazed as the jerk with the torn-up garden.

Sometimes, she only seems to blink when the smoke from her cigarette swims past her eyes.

_The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis_ or _Alfred Hitchcock Presents_. _The Price Is Right_ or _The Outlaws_.

Mom has no preference.

_Dr. Kildare_ has her drooling and weeping, _Candid Camera_ chortling like she's the happiest person in the world.

_Leave It to Beaver_ gets her all misty eyed; I swear she thinks she's really part of their quaint, happy little family.

She glances at me sometimes like she's thinking it's all my fault she ain't.

Like if only I'd be a little more like cute little Theodore Cleaver, we'd somehow have a house just like theirs.

Whatever it is she's thinking, it's usually not long after Beaver's finished charming us all that I get a whining, 'You know, you've been a disappointment to me Jack.'

All her emotions are tied up, all controlled, by that little box she's positioned on the middle of the table in the middle of the room.

Always on. Always turned to face where she's sitting or standing.

Her eyes never leave it, even on the rare occasions she's putting some food together, or cleaning pots and plates.

That's her real life, not this one. That's where her friends live.

Dick Van Dyke, Ed Sullivan, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Dick Powell, Steve Allen, Perry Como, Joey Bishop, Bob Newhart, Bob Cummings, Du Pont, Bullwinkle, Bugs Bunny – just who _doesn't_ have a show, 'inviting you into their home'?

_What's My Line_ has her talking to the TV like they can hear her dumb ass answers.

'How'd you figure he's a taxi cab _repairer_?' I'd say.

'You never know,' she'd answer, ' _someone_ has to repair them.'

She'd draw me in like that, see?

Saw it as family life, as we were sitting there doing something together.

If I sat by her, she'd reach out, take and squeeze my hand, smiling.

Eyes still fixed on the screen, natch.

Both of us staring at a minute box on the table that goes more places than we're ever likely to see.

That would be mum's ideal, see? She wants me to be get hooked on her drug of choice, so we can share all those precious moments.

'It's _77 Sunset Strip_ ,' she'd say, the credits starting up, every moment of it unmissable for mum. 'You like that, don't you? The way Kookie – it is Kookie, isn't it? – is always combing his hair.'

Yeah, right, like always combing your hair is cool.

Look at me Mom – when did I last comb my hair?

Worse still are the cowboys. More cowboys, I reckon, than ever actually really existed. _Wagon Train_ , _Laramie_ , _Bonanza_ , _Tales of Wells Fargo_ , _Marshal Dillon_ , _Gunsmoke_.

Anyone of them gives Mom an excuse to refer back to a past I can't even remember anymore.

No, I don't mean back whenever it was when cowboys actually went about worrying if they'd get their herd to town in time.

I mean back to some mythical time when I was as cute as Beaver.

It'll come, usually, about half way through whatever it is she's watching. And always when it's time for the adverts, natch.

'Remember when you used to watch this with me? Never miss your–' and here she'd simply insert whichever dumbass cowboy she was watching –'you wouldn't.'

There might even come a bit about how I used to have a toy gun I'd fire into the air, or a hat I'd slope back at a jaunty angle just like they did on screen.

Times like this, I couldn't ever be sure she wasn't completely confusing me with sweet little Theodore 'Beaver'.

Okay, there could've been a time I was stupid enough to run around in this 'little red cowboy hat, with the silver badge,' she keeps harping on about.

What's for sure, it's a long time ago.

And a long time ago don't exist no more.

*

Mom glances up at me as I come in.

Gives me a weak smile.

Then back to the screen.

'You been in a fight again?'

'Yeah.'

I figure my face must be heavily bruised. It sure feels that way, anyhow.

I shrug, like it's one of those things you grow to expect round here.

She looks up, just in time to catch the end of the shrug.

'You okay fixing something for yourself?'

The weak smile again, like she's one of those women you see in movies, confined to bed with a wasting disease.

'Sure.' I glance over towards the dirty pots still piled in the sink.

She gratefully turns back to her programme, believing she's kept her eyes off the screen long enough to show motherly concern.

'Marilyn's dead.'

As I say it, I find it's hard to move. Like I'm dead inside. Like I'm empty, just a shell.

She laughs lightly. I'm angry, till I realise she's amused by something Roy Rodgers has just said to Dale Evans.

Is that another new show? They just keep on coming out with them, don't they?

'I know,' she replies. 'Such a shame. Such a beautiful woman as well.'

Her eyes are still locked on Roy and Dale, the only emotion she's capable of showing at the moment being one of mild amusement.

'You knew?'

'It was on TV.'

Figures. She probably cried then, when it was on TV – the emotions she was supposed to feel clearly set out for her by the tearful presenter.

I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised she knew, what with her sitting in front of the TV all night.

But usually, see, any news item is too much of a reminder of the real world for her to stay and watch when she can use the time to slope off and do her 'necessaries'. Best do that when there's no danger of missing anything important, eh?

'They're saying it's suicide Mom.' I'm sure I sound like I don't believe it.

'A drug overdose,' she agrees without looking up. 'They'll find out soon enough it's all a mistake.'

'Mistake?'

There's an awful lot of hope contained in that one word.

My head whirls with all the things the word 'mistake' could mean under the circumstances.

It's all been a mistake, and Marilyn isn't dead after all?

'All this about her being suicidal. She liked it, all this thing with people rushing around after her. She liked the thought of all these people caring enough to "rescue her".'

Mom's talking now because an advert's popped up on screen. An old one, for the Studebaker. Its big new feature – an oval wheel, for better leg clearance.

'Miss Monroe knew more about how many pills it took to get to sleep better than anybody down the drugstore. Sure, she'd take a high dose; get all confused, and speak like she was drunk. But she weren't ever in any real danger, no sir. Never in no real danger. People'd overreact, calling a doctor. Or she'd call somebody herself. She liked that, the attention, is all. And don't our Dr Greenson just love that, eh? Trying her out all the time with other drugs. Taking her money for making her feel bad 'bout herself.'

Mom finally looks up from the TV, the mention of Dr Greenson having roused her.

'All these here doctors, not one of 'em did the poor girl any good at all, you ask me. What they'd ever do for her, 'cept try take control of her life? Arguing with her directors, putting her on drugs whenever she was filming; confusing the poor girl and making her even more as somebody you couldn't rely on turning up on time.'

I can see my brief time with Mom is coming to an end. Even the adverts are pulling on her attention; 'Admit it Mary, you're fascinated by Glade!'

It's a pity the anger Mom has for Dr Greenson couldn't have been more usefully poured out on Pop at a time when it would have done some good.

Sure, the bile on Pop floods forth every now and again, no messing. But that's now he's no longer around.

What I want to know is, where the damnheck was all that fury when he was around? When she just used to cower whenever he came home, flinching as soon as he moved or spoke?

See, I may not be too hot on remembering if I went running around flicking back by little red hat or not. But I sure as hell can recall the way Pop used to knock her around.

You don't forget things like that, oh no.

Pop would have a hard day at work, and he'd take it out on Mom.

Pop would lose money on a horse, and he'd take it out on Mom.

Pop would have had harsh words with a friend, and he'd take it out on Mom.

Pop would have enjoyed himself all night down the bar, and he'd take it out on Mom.

Sure, when all that was happening, I'd have preferred to be anywhere. Riding the range. Herding up those dang critters. Up on the moon.

'You should have seen the _Beverly_ _Hillbillies_ ,' Mom says with a slight chuckle, like I care.

Another new show. Mom thinks she can recognise some of the places they pass through. Yeah, like we visit them all the time, those sort of places.

I jump as I hear a police siren, spinning around to look out the window. The ragged, chequered curtains are drawn.

The siren's coming from the TV.

Remember not to miss Car 54 _, Where Are You?_

_Naked_ _City_. _The Untouchables_. Somehow, I think these programmes are much closer to reality.

Much closer than I'd ever believed.

*

# Chapter 6

The sedan is waiting for me, parked at the roadside.

They've drawn it up just beyond a clump of roadside plants, so I wouldn't see it until it was too late to turn back.

Smart.

They knew I wouldn't be heading to school. They knew I'd head for Marilyn's, even though she won't be there anymore.

The car's black. It's sparkling, like it's pretty new. The rear door glints as it springs open.

I keep on walking towards it. Too late to run. No point.

The jerk who spoke to me yesterday steps out.

Hair cut like he's a Marine recruit, just a couple of weeks after his Sergeant Major ordered it all to be shaved off. Norm's welcome mat shaved within an eighth of an inch of its life. Face like a General Ordinance folding shovel, all chin and flat nose.

'Jack.'

I nod as I keep on walking, as if he's just offering a polite, morning greeting.

'Jack, shouldn't you be at school?'

'Nah,' I say, leaving it at that, guessing he's not really interested in whether I'm a star pupil or not.

He's heading towards me, cutting me off. His hand up; should have the word 'Halt' written across it.

It's not quite the same sedan as the one that tried to run me over.

There's something about it I can't quite place that tells me it's not the one.

The hood a slightly different shape, slightly more bulbous.

The fender more exaggerated, like the makers figured their drivers would be more accident-prone.

The sun's shining off the windshield, so I can't make out the driver.

Maybe he's the guy I saw at Marilyn's. Maybe not.

Some of these jerks look like they've rolled off a conveyor belt.

Let me tell you about these guys, the one's I saw hanging round Lawford's house the time the President came to call.

Boasting about the size and power of their guns like kids talk about my pop beating up your pop. (Not the sort of thing I could ever get involved in at school. But like I cared.)

They'd talk like I wasn't there, as dumb and as unimportant as the shrubs I pretended to be clipping.

Till one says, 'Hey kid – 'I'd take a bullet for the President. Would you do that son?'

No way, I wanted to say. Only a dumb ass jerk would take a bullet for someone else. Even the President.

'Suppose I would,' I'd said, playing him along, 'for the President. If it was my job.'

He'd actually made an attempt at a smile as I'd said that.

Like I'd confirmed he was a hero, doing a good job, or something.

Dumb ass job, you ask me; thinking someone's life's more important than yours. Just so's you can draw your wage check and pension.

'One of your cars tried to run me over,' I say as me and the agent confront each other alongside the black sedan.

'How'd you know it was one of our cars?'

I note he's not actually surprised someone tried to kill me. He's just concerned I'm fingering him and his friends for the attempt.

'Same colour. Same shape, just abouts.'

He takes a quick glance at the car.

'Plenty of black sedans around Jack. Plenty of cars that shape. If anybody I knew had tried to kill you and here I find you still running around, I'd want to know why they'd failed. Know what I'm saying?'

'That you ain't responsible?'

'You're a bright kid after all, Jack. Way I see it Jack, I reckon it was just some hothead giving you a warning. Putting the frighteners on you. See, when I put my report in, saying as how you believe an agent may have been at Miss Monroe's, all it takes is some new, young wannabe who wants to make a name for himself to overreact, got me? He don't know how to play it cool yet. He's worried that what you're saying could get out into the public domain, provide ammunition for those who enjoy shooting us down. Know where I'm going with this one Jack? People out there who like making political mischief, just for their own gain. Even if that means weakening America.'

'So you want me to lie?'

'So I want you to tell the truth. Anybody starts asking, that limey Lawford was there that night, like we agreed.'

'That what we agreed?'

'That's what everyone agrees happened kid. I've checked, got all my times right.'

He pulls out a small notepad, refers to it.

'See, Lawford's round there when you call, just after eleven-'

'Before _ten_. Nine forty; you said that in your own notes yesterday.'

'I checked again kid. Seems like we were both misled. Lawford was there after eleven. That's when you must've called.'

'Ten.'

'You gotta watch kid? Cartier is it? Never loses a second?'

'I ain't got a watch.'

'That's the way I figured it. So, come _eleven_ , Lawford and Pat Newcomb, Miss Monroe's press agent, are there. Like I said, it was the limey actor, Lawford, who answered the door.'

'How come you got the times so wrong yourself first time around? Ain't you got a watch neither.'

'I've got a watch boy, works like the finest clockwork. The time I'd got off some hick policeman, who probably couldn't understand the limey's accent.'

'Limeys call "eleven" "ten", do they?'

'They sorta rhyme kid, said a certain way. Policeman with his cap forced on way too low over his ears – he'd mishear it, get what I'm saying? What you don't seem to be hearing right, kid, is that I'm trying to help you. See, how much of a jerk are you gonna look when everybody else comes out with a different story to you? Now I'm seeing you ain't wanting to face up to the fact Miss Monroe committed suicide, but that's the way it is kid. And that's the way everyone but you sees it.'

'My Mom don't see it that way.'

'How come that don't surprise me kid? Madness runs in the family, yeah? Way I hear it, too, old Miss Monroe's mom and pop could have passed on a great deal more than her elegant derriere.'

'Lots of things I hear said about her just ain't true.'

'Well okay Mr No-Watch-Man, get this.'

He took a quick glance at his notes, looked up at me once again, his eyes hard and stern.

About seven forty-five, our Mr Lawford called our Miss Monroe, intending to invite her out to one of his fancy parties. But she sounded drugged, he says, not listening to him at all. Instead she's shouting, shouting her own name down the phone a few times. Then she said, and I quote–' he looks at his notes, reads from them – '"Say goodbye to Pat, say goodbye to the President, and say goodbye to yourself, because you're a nice guy."'

He looked at me as if to say 'enough said?'.

'You joking me?' I say. 'I told you yesterday, she was happy enough when I last seen her just half a-hour afore that! Joe had called, breaking off his engagement. You don't believe me, but you believe this limey?'

'And all this is going by the time on your no watch, right?'

'Fact is, she was happy, not ready to top herself like this Lawford jerk's making out.'

'Fact is this "Lawford jerk" was one of her friends. You go inviting her to any of _your_ parties kid? You the one she's gonna pour out all her troubles to, right?'

'Yeah, sometimes.'

'So you're saying she _did_ have troubles.'

'Not what you're saying, all this suicide sh-'

'Watch the mouth son.'

'If the limey's such a friend, how come he ain't getting help when he hears Marilyn sounding like she's gonna pop herself?'

'He did kid. Thing is, he's such a friend, our Mr Lawford, that he still goes round at _eleven_ – when _you_ saw him there – to check she's all right, remember?'

'So, was she? Was she all right? If she's suicidal, how come this limey and her best friend, Pat, ain't sticking around?'

'So remind me again what you do up that there house, boy. You a psychiatrist? No, wait, that's Dr Greenson's job now ain't it?'

He makes out he's having to check through his notes again to get his facts right.

'That's right,' he says, like he's just read it, 'you're the odd job boy. And it's the odd job boy who's making out Miss Monroe wasn't suicidal that night, yeah?

'Yeah, that's right.'

'Like she comes and tells everything to the boy who picks up litter in her garden, right?'

I shrug, smile. I can see the trap coming.

'She wasn't the worrier everyone makes her out to be,' I say rather than answering him. 'Like, she was once working on this movie, right? A real simple line, like, "It's me, Honey." And she kept on getting it wrong. Fifty times she gets it wrong. "Don't worry about it," the director says. "Don't worry about what?" she says.'

He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at me, like he's wondering whether to slap me again or not.

'There's gonna be a funeral for her soon son,' he says at last. 'My advice – stay away.'

*

# Chapter 7

I'm just one amongst what seems like thousands hanging around on the streets.

There are police everywhere, stopping them all getting too close.

So who the damnheck's gonna see me here?

All week, everywhere I've gone, I've heard Neil Sedaka singing; _Breaking Up Is Hard To Do_.

After the autopsy, Marilyn's mom ain't around to take care of the body, natch.

As all the papers are pointing out, she's in a sanatorium. And like the man said, it can be passed on, that sorta thing.

Joe's come to the rescue once again. Big hearted Joe.

He's claimed the body. Arranged what he'd hoped would be a small, quiet funeral.

The Corridor of Memories, Westwood Village Mortuary Chapel

You'd've expected the so-called stars to turn out, like it's some wonderful social event. Everybody who's anybody will be there darling!

But Joe's not having any of that, no sirree!

They're not invited. Been told to stay away. They're not wanted here.

Joe sees her Hollywood friends as being responsible for leading her into the lifestyle that led to her death.

Even so, the slick suits are out amongst the chief mourners. Pants so narrow and shoes so pointed any step off a sidewalk looks like the first twirl of Chubby Checker's _Twist_. Cigarette smoke forms its own veiling shroud.

I begin to worm my way closer to where the service will be taking place. Wondering what Marilyn looks like in her casket. Hoping she looks okay.

Way I heard it, the autopsy ain't left her looking too good.

Her hairdresser, Agnes, has had to use a wig. Combing it pageboy style, like she was going to look in the movie she was filming when she died.

Whitey, her regular make up man, he's been working hard on a flask of gin to help him through making her up as M.M. for one last time.

He'd once joked he'd do this for her. Marilyn taking him at his word, keeping him to his promise with a gold money clip, inscribed, 'Whitey Dear, While I'm still warm, Marilyn.'

I'm wearing different clothes to the ones I usually wear.

A dark suit. A thin white edging on collar and cuffs where it's frayed. The best I could borrow from the other guys who help keep Marilyn's place looking neat and tidy.

I've even managed to drag a comb through my hair, the nearest Mom's ever going to see me looking like Theodore Beaver.

I figure it's enough of a disguise to make sure any jerks watching out for me ain't gonna work out who I am until it's too late for them to do anything about it.

The disguise ain't so great it fools everyone, certain people here clocking me straight off. Turns out it's for the best, gets me nodded through the crowd so I get closer and closer to the silver and bronze casket.

It's the 'Cadillac of Caskets' I hear someone whisper in awe.

It's strange to see her so still.

She looks like she's sleeping, waiting for a kiss to wake her up.

Sleeping Beauty. Snow White.

She's in her green Pucci dress. A favourite of hers.

She wore it at a press conference when she was down in Mexico City, looking out for things for the house. She wore it when she had photos taken of her and Maf.

There's a posy of pink teacup roses in her hands. A gift from Joe. Like she's ready to walk down the aisle with him once again.

He sat with her all night.

*

A green chiffon scarf curls around Marilyn's neck, hiding the mortician's scalpel cuts.

She's surrounded by folds of satin, like she's already floating around in the clouds.

There's a lot of the music you expect at these occasions. All violins and guys sweating as they try and get a tune out of a few strings and polished wood.

There's the reverend or pastor or whatever you call him, talking about her like he really knew her.

Lee Strasberg, her acting coach, now he really did know her.

He stands up next, calling her a legend.

Says something along the lines of how it's hard to believe her zest for life (his words, not mine) has been ended by this dreadful accident (see, I wouldn't have quite put it like that).

Then he comes out with the sort of words I wish I could use to describe her. Words I tell myself I should try hard to remember.

A luminous quality, a combination of wistfulness, radiance and yearning everyone wished to be a part of and share in. A childish naiveté, so shy and yet so vibrant.

Fact is, people like that, they're there, floating around in your mind, even when their body's laid out right in front of you.

But in a similar way, Marilyn's Hollywood friends are here too, despite Joe's refusal to allow them anywhere near. Even Joe can't stop them flitting through the minds of everyone here.

They're always present, those stars.

Especially here in Hollywood itself.

*

All the people here, they've all read the papers.

'The hidden torment of Marilyn,' that kind of thing.

The famous line up she's joined, a list of the Hollywood dead; Carole Lombard, Jimmy Dean, Jean Harlow.

'My God, no,' says Joseph Cotton, a guy she'd been in a movie with.

Most of it though, it's just dragging up the usual stories that her career was on the skids. All about how she was always turning up late and drugged up to the eyeballs on the set of her last movie, _Something's Got To Give_.

(Yeah, see I mentioned the title cos even I get the irony.)

Heck, Dr Greenson had actually done something right for once and got her down to a couple of mild sedatives a night – it was the goddamn studio doctors who started pumping her full of methamphetamine shots once again.

Three failed marriages. A tragic childhood. Quotes along the lines of 'I was never used to being happy'.

The coroner, something something Curphey, suggesting a 'psychiatric autopsy' is required here.

Then there's the pictures.

The dishevelled bedroom where she was found. Stockings and shoes littering the floor.

Captions talking of twenty to thirty bottles of medicine on the bedside table.

She was holding a phone – was she trying to get help?

The way the papers have it, she went to her bedroom to play records, Pat leaving after dinner, leaving Marilyn 'in good spirits'.

See, even Eunice is letting on how Joe's earlier call had cheered Marilyn

Mixed messages everywhere you look.

Eunice had gone to bed at midnight, waking at three in the morning. The records still playing, the light still on.

Eunice knocks on the door, cries out – no answer.

So she calls Dr Greenson over, who calls Dr. Engelberg, who breaks a window to get inside Marilyn's room.

Dr. Engelberg pronounces her dead around four a.m.

There's nothing about the limey hero Lawford and his call, though he's in there sure enough.

'I loved her dearly. She was a marvellous, warm human being.'

*

Joe's kneeling by the casket.

He's whispering 'I love you', over and over.

His son stands nearby, his face as starched as his Marine uniform. The cap's visor pulled low, hiding his eyes.

What's he make of it all, his pop wailing like this?

It ends with the organist playing Judy Garland's _Over the Rainbow_ ; betcha Marilyn requested that one.

Know what? Frank even got his dog back, in a way.

His secretary Gloria's going to be looking after Maf from now on.

*

# Chapter 8

'Face it, she wasn't all there kid. Her world was falling apart.'

He refers to his notes, making sure he's got it right.

'Nervous breakdowns. Failed pregnancies. In and out of psychiatric clinics. Diagnosis "borderline personality disorder".'

He looks up again.

'She's getting treatment for severe addiction to barbiturates and alcohol kid. All of which she's throwing down her throat to blunt all that emotional pain she's suffering. Just to help her get to sleep nights. If ever I've seen anyone on the edge of destruction, this is it kid.'

The goon's here again, apparently coming out of nowhere as usual.

He'd recognised me sure enough, despite the suit. ('What'd I tell you kid? Don't you realise the danger you're putting yourself in?')

I'm standing by him in my shabby outfit, looking like I'm some poor imitation. His son even, trying to emulate pop's lack of dress sense.

But there's something strange about him today; like the way he isn't permanently eyeballing me.

His eyes are flicking from side to side, watching out for something. Like he's nervous even.

Now and again, his head turns to follow the direction of eyes that have become little more than slits.

He focuses in on some innocent-looking guy, some no-hoper going about his normal business. As if he's watching a suspect about to commit a serious crime.

'Hey, Marilyn was my friend,' I say. 'You saying I can't be there to see her one last time?'

'That's _precisely_ what I told you kid! And you know it.'

'Look, okay, but I came in disguise right. A _suit_ f' christsake!'

'You think that's a disguise? You think the guys after you can't see a guy in a suit and ID them correctly?'

I shrug.

'Only guy I know who's after me is you.'

'I've told you kid; some people don't like what you're going around saying. You're still going around shouting off that you don't think this is either suicide or an accidental overdose. You know what that means you're saying? That she was murdered, kid!'

'I suppose, putting it like that, yeah.'

'So who's your suspect, Miss Marple? Who you fingering for the crime eh?'

I shrug. 'Dunno.'

His eyes aren't on me.

They're on some guy standing looking in a window. Like he's wondering if the guy is going to up and run off with everything he can lay his hands on.

Agent Jerk turns back to stare intently at me.

'I've heard what you've been saying.'

I glance towards the guy at the window.

I almost jump when I catch the guy's eyes, like he's watching our reflections in the window rather than studying the goods inside.

His eyes dart away from mine, like he's as shocked as I am.

'Yeah?' I try to sound unfazed.

'Like calling our little miss Eunice Murray a liar. Saying as how you can't see as she knew Marilyn's bedroom light was on.'

'You seen the carpet in there? No _way_ was Eunice seeing light under the door with carpet that thick. And how come the door was locked anyway?'

'Why was the door locked? Because she was committing suicide, son!'

'Yeah, but what I mean is, there _ain't_ no proper lock on that door. It's just a deadbolt lock.'

'So now you're calling both Dr Greenson and Dr Engelberg liars?'

'Well there's another thing, see? Why's Dr Greenson got to call Dr Engelberg?'

'He's a psychiatrist. Dr Engelberg's what me and you would call a proper doctor.'

'So a psychiatrist can't tell when someone's dead, huh?'

His eyes narrow, like he's wondering whether to slap me again or not.

'Kid, I've met some stroppy people in my time, working with lowlife around the world. Yet I ain't met anyone taking it to the levels you manage to attain.'

'I like to see my country producing the very best, Agent...'

I paused, waiting for him to give me his name.

He rewards me with the sort of glare that could possibly burn through concrete.

He purses his lips, probably considering the best way he's gonna end our little conversation.

'I'm watching you kid. But the worst thing is, _they're_ watching you too.'

*

A conversation like that can make a boy nervous.

The days that follow, I'm seeing spooks everywhere I look.

A guy putting out his trash, and I'm telling myself he's eyeballing me, observing every move I make.

People stopping nearby in their cars become, in my imagination, someone tracking my every move.

Even some woman stopping to hitch up a stocking, I wonder if she's reaching for a small gun down there.

I take a sharp turn off from where I'm heading, checking if anyone is still following.

Just in case.

I've been watching too much TV, too much Robert Taylor in _The Detectives_.

That damn Agent Jerk's made me too damn jumpy!

*

Not that I'm alone in getting this whole weird sense of paranoia rolling along nicely. The papers are stirring it all up as well now.

Eunice, she's suddenly remembered this mysterious phone call. A call that might've woken Marilyn. That might've caused her to accidentally take too many pills in an effort to get back to sleep.

Eunice, she's saying all this horsesh– even though she knows Marilyn always puts the phone under a cushion on a night so it won't disturb her.

But the papers, they like nothing better than a mystery call. So now they're fingering the mystery caller as this jerky Mexican, José Bolaños.

A guy Marilyn met down in Mexico, giving her advice on things for her home.

Yeah, you got me right; a furnishings advisor.

Sure, I'd seen him around, what with them heading off to a few Hollywood nightclubs and the Golden Globes Award. And all this Mexican crap had got so under her skin she'd even given a grand to this institute for needy children. Even dropped a hint she might adopt one of the little brats.

But a romantic involvement, like the papers are making out? No way, José.

Sure, _he'd_ like to see it that way. Like to live off her fame for a while.

But you seen the pictures they're splattering across their pages? Handsome? You kidding me?

Too many teeth, you ask me. And if you ain't wanting to ask me, ask Pat Newcomb; she's told the papers straight there weren't anything ever going on between Hosé José and Marilyn.

Best thing is, though, that limey Lawford's finally come clean about his own call.

She'd called him, he'd called back, about seven. Inviting her to a party. Way he's saying it here, there's no ranting Marilyn. No 'say goodbye to the President's.

She was planning on going to bed early. She sounded no different than when he'd spoken to her hundreds of times before, he says.

He's upset, his wife's upset. (His wife Pat's a Kennedy, the President's sister, wouldn't you know?)

They're real upset that Joe had stopped them going to the funeral.

*

Today, I'm paying my respects.

Intending to talk to her again. Let her know how much I cared for her.

She'd appreciate that.

As I make my way to the crypt, I can hear a radio or something playing somewhere way off, the sound carried by a warm wind. _'Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl...'_

As you'd expect, the Los Angeles Cemetery is a plusher place to be than most people find themselves living in. All spotless white walls and perfect greenery.

There's the odd splash of bright colour, usually orange and red, like someone's decided all this white's nice but boring.

It ain't boring here today. There's plenty of activity.

All of it, as you'd expect, taking place around Marilyn's last resting place.

Flash bulbs pop, as if the sun isn't bright enough today. There's shouting too.

All completely out of place here, I don't need telling you.

It's all because he's here. Mr Mystery Caller himself.

José's acting nonchalant, cool. Striking the right poses as he stands by her crypt.

(Pink marble – I think she'd've liked that.)

A dark-suited angel, standing solemn guard.

I stand back, letting him have his moment. Letting him make out Marilyn cared about him. Hoodwinking a bunch of reporters who'll soak up anything that'll have their readers drooling over breakfast.

He looks suitably downcast as they finally leave. Letting him 'make his peace', as one reporter has it.

The reporters and photographers slouch past me, slipping finished reports into already overstuffed coats, changing used bulbs.

'He tell you anything?' I ask it nonchalantly, like it don't matter to me either way.

'Nuttin we ain't already knowing about.'

'Something that will "shock the world", he says. But just what he ain't saying.'

'Read it in the papers kid, like everyone else.'

'Thanks jerks,' I say, knowing none of 'em will be prepared to make a big deal of it.

'Ah, leave it Bob; he's just a kid,' one of them says, his eyes squinting as he draws heavily on the cigarette tightly clamped between his lips.

*

I head up closer to the crypt, nod in recognition to José as he sees me approach.

He recognises me too, I'm sure.

He was nine years younger than Marilyn. Not that you could ever tell when they were together.

The papers, they've fallen hook, line and sinker for this jerk's claims that they were planning on getting hitched.

'Did you make the call? The call they say killed her?'

I say it like it's an accusation. Like I'm not leaving without an answer.

He looks me up and down, puzzled, wondering if he should tell me.

'I would not do anything that would harm her,' he says finally.

He's got that sort of accent that shows he's trying to sound like us, I'll give him that. But he still ends up sounding like the guy cast as a movie's comic relief.

You don't really appreciate he's finished speaking. I'm expecting a ' _si'_ or a 'señor _'_ at the end, every sentence turned into a question.

He's probably got a mom back home who could give Stalin a run for his money in the moustache department.

'There wasn't a call then?'

He answers by asking if I'm reading the papers. ('Are you not reading the papers, señor?')

I say yeah, any I can get my hands on.

He says, yeah, he made a call. But at nine thirty, not a later call like the old hag Eunice is making out caused all the problems.

Then he pauses, chews his lip, like he's unsure if he should carry on.

He glances around, nervous, as if he feels someone might be watching.

There are red roses on Marilyn's crypt. Fresh ones too.

'You're the kid helps out in the garden, right?' he asks at last.

I nod.

'I hear you say it was not suicide?'

He's looking intently into my eyes as he speaks, like it's a test to see if I can be trusted.

'Sure; what you think?' I answer.

He chews his lip again. Then again, perhaps he can't help it. I mentioned the teeth, didn't I?

'It is not safe, going around saying what you think. I hear the coroner is going to say it was suicide.'

'And you think that too, do you?'

He gives me a shrug. Says nothing.

'So what did Marilyn say when you called?'

I've got to ask. The guy's narking me, the way he's not just coming out with it.

'Lawford's making out he called before eight,' I add. 'Says she sounded drugged, crazed.'

'Is he? I have not seen that anywhere in the papers.'

I forget; I'd just got that information from my own little shadowing agent, hadn't I?

All the papers have Lawford saying how nice she was. How okay she sounded when he'd called.

'Drugged? No way; she was fine,' José insists, giving me a straight answer for once.

'So what'd she say to you José?' I say. 'Or did she say more to the limey than she did to you?'

That needles him, like I knew it would. He bristles. He bares his teeth slightly; but that's not hard for him.

'Well, I have already told others, so I may as well tell you too.' He's so needled he almost spits it out at me. 'But on your own life be it!'

The big build up. From a Mexican, that could mean he's about to tell you your Buick needs an oil change.

'Marilyn told me something that would shock the whole world!'

His eyes are ablaze when he says it. Then again, a Mexican's eyes blaze when he tells you you definitely need that oil change.

(Look, in case you think I've got something about Mexicans; well, okay, I gotta tell you there's one heck of a lot of Mexican in me too, right?)

'What? What was it?' I ask.

He holds up a hand, his facial expression indicating that I should be patient.

First, he wants to tell me that he and Marilyn never ended their call.

She had to lay the phone down without hanging up. There was some kind of disturbance at the door.

He never heard from her again.

Just as I never heard from José what it was that 'would shock the whole world'.

Two cops are walking towards us.

They're ginning.

Even a Mexican could see they ain't here asking for donations to the Policemen's Widows Benevolent Fund.

*

# Chapter 9

José, of course, had been allowed to leave.

'Have yourself a nice day sir.'

It was accompanied with a servile tip of the cap. Yet somehow it was said like he knew wishing a good day was a sure way of bringing ill luck down on someone's head.

A hand on my chest told me I wasn't going anywhere.

'Nothing to concern you sir,' one of the policemen said to José when it looked like he might protest. 'We're just aiming on asking the boy why he ain't at school.'

José looks at me like he's wanting to go, but feels he has to go through the motions of looking like he'd rush to my defence if I needed him.

I nod, giving him permission to head off with his tail between his legs.

And the press thinks Marilyn might have had a thing going with _him_?

Soon as José's turned a corner, I get a stick to my stomach.

A hand grasps the back of my coat. Suddenly I'm thrown against a wall.

Now the hands are running everywhere up and down my body. Places you wouldn't expect even a tailor to be laying his hands on.

I grunt as the hand between my legs almost lifts me of my feet.

'Thought you said you wanted me for not being in school?'

I'm rewarded with a hard push in the back, slamming me hard against the wall. It knocks the breath out of me. I grit my teeth in agony.

'We just want to play it safe with scum like you.'

The cop frisking me growls in my ear. He likes his garlic this one.

This time the hands find my switchblade. It whirls through the air as it's thrown for the other cop to catch.

'Let him up,' the other cop says, satisfied I know my place now.

'Look,' I say, holding my hands out either side to show I ain't intending to make any trouble, 'I go in now and again, but sometimes it's just boring, know what I mean? So I do a bit of work instead; me and Mom need the money.'

'You don't do these things when you _want_ boy! You do them when you're _supposed_ to!'

The cop holds the knife like he's wondering if he should flick it open, use it even. He's snarling, trying to intimidate.

It fails; he's got ears that glow like dandelion clocks, lots of fine hairs that shine when the light's behind them. A gut like that, well, I reckon he's had way too many calls into Big Donuts. Washed 'em down with too many hot coffees too, breaking blood vessels across his cheeks like they're roadmaps of LA.

'You're learning to go nowhere fast, way I see it kid!'

Garlic breath's like a starved horse that's finally decided to get up on it's hind legs and make a complaint about it all. Tall, weedy. Uniform that makes him look like a kid dressing up, the face beneath the cap all stretched and pinched.

He whips out a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket, snaps it open. Reads from it.

_'Twelve_ different schools kid; nice going.'

'And still none of 'em's taught him any manners!' The Big Donut whacks me beneath the ribs with his stick.

I grimace, try and sound suitably cowed.

'We've lived in lots of different places.'

_'Twenty two_ different homes!'

He says it like he's hoping to win a prize on _The $64,000 Question_. Like he's the one host Hal March is feeding all the right answers to.

'Let's see–'

He looks at the paper, his horsy-face lighting up like it's a picture of piles of sugar cubes.

'Hey, you were even sent to an _orphanage_ kid! Mommy saying she's too poor to take care of him!'

He looks up.

'Miss mummy did we sonny? That why we're getting all these problems now is it?'

I want to snatch the list out of his hands, have a read of it myself. That's what he wants me to do though.

So I don't.

He also wants me to ask how he knows all this about me.

So I don't.

I know how he knows it; Agent Jerk has given it all to him, natch.

'Ain't we been here before, running away from school, Jack?'

The Big Donut can't help but sneer as he says it.

I look at the Big Donut like I'm surprised. Like I'm surprised he can actually read all the notes somebody has bothered putting together about me.

'That's right Vic,' agrees Mister Ed, the Talking Horse.

He chuckles as he reads out an item that's taken his particular fancy.

'He was "put under a three-week court-ordered stay at a facility called Youth House for psychiatric observation following charges of truancy".'

He struggles with words like 'facility' and 'psychiatric'.

He looks up, leering.

'The docs there gave you an even worse report than they gave your friend Marilyn, Jack!'

The Big Donut sniggers.

I try and lash out, but he's faster than he looks.

He ducks, striking me hard in the gut with the stick.

I gasp and groan. He sniggers all the more.

Mister Ed is looking at the piece of paper once again.

'Hey Jack, your problems are so bad even I ain't sure what they're getting at! "Personality pattern disturbance with schizoid features and passive-aggressive tendencies."'

He _really_ struggles with some of those words. He turns towards the Big Donut.

'"Passive-aggressive tendencies." That make any sense to you Vic?'

'Nope; could be it means Jack here'd like to smack someone in the face, but he's too cowardly to do anything 'bout it.'

I rush towards him, for my trouble getting a few brutal blows from both of them this time.

The Big Donut gets behind me, pinning me by the arms. He lets Mister Ed enjoy himself punching out my stomach.

'As I was saying boy,' Mister Ed snarls as he finally backs off in a sweat, 'the doc seems to think that, like the deceased broad, you weren't anywhere near being a full tool box.'

He nods over to Marilyn's crypt. He twirls a finger by the side of his head.

Making out she's crazy and I'm crazy.

Like an idiot, I struggle in the Big Donut's arms, even though I know it's no use. Like his gut, his hands are massive. They clench hard and painfully on my arms.

He bends his head towards my ear, his breath hot against my flesh.

'This is a good neighbourhood kid. We ain't needing your sort round here!'

'Up front kid, we don't give a rat's ass 'bout you jumping school.'

Ever seen a horse trying to look all-coy after it's just thrown you?

'You wanna ruin your life, that's your look out. What we ain't wanting is you ruining it for others, savvy?'

I nod.

Mister Ed suddenly reaches out, grabbing me either side of my mouth with his long, strong fingers and tightly pinching my cheeks.

For some strange reason I can't help thinking I must look a bit like him now.

'That's my boy! Keep your mouth shut unless you're spoken to!'

His face is right in my face. His eyes are wide and shining, like he's had too many shots, the derby winner who's come out of nowhere.

Sh–! He ain't gonna leave it here!

Then I sense an unexpected slackening of the Big Donut's hold on my arms, feel him twisting slightly behind me. Mister Ed's face also turns, backs away.

I look the way he's looking.

It's Agent Jerk, coming up the path towards us.

*

# Chapter 10

Strange thing is, the goons don't seem to know Agent Jerk.

They just seem to recognise the type, like I've explained before. The face of a man clenching those butt cheeks like his life depends on it.

He's taking his time, refusing to display any sense of urgency or even need.

For the first time, I notice he has, after all, gone for a splash of colour amongst all that white, dark grey and black.

He' s got himself a tie-tack, a small glob of amber glowing in the sun like a miniature orange. Perhaps it's there to give him some sense of personality. You know, when he's standing there with his identically dressed friends.

Hey, look at me – I've been to the sunshine state, Florida! I'm Agent Orange!

The two cops are watching him warily as he approaches. He flashes his ID.

They back away from me a little, the Big Donut finally letting go of my arms.

I twirl my arms around a bit. I was never going to say, but it damn well hurt being held like that.

Agent Orange's eyes light on the sheet of paper Mister Ed is still holding.

'I'll take that officer,' he says, holding out a waiting hand.

'You can be on your way now boys,' he adds as the paper is compliantly handed over to him. 'Thank you officers.'

He uses the rolled sheet to give a loose salute to them as they miserably sidle off.

'You watch him sir.'

Mister Ed's looking back, like a boy told to go on home, you're out way too late.

'We found a knife on him sir. And he's one crazed kid, according to those there papers.'

'Thanks officer. I think I can handle a boy still at school.'

I've gotta admit, I'm impressed. Agent Orange delivers this line so coolly it makes the two cops smart; you can see it on their pinched faces and in their narrowed eyes.

The Big Donut doffs his cap, like one of the geeks you see standing outside hotels, uniform like you only see on a tin soldier.

Mister Ed nods, touches the peak of his cap with a finger. The look on his face says he knows when to keep quiet and keep his thoughts to himself.

Then they're gone, walking off down the path. Heading towards their car, no doubt looking for someone else to shake down and show who's boss round here.

'So now you need goons to do your dirty work. '

See, I'm not as sensible as Mister Ed. Never was any good at knowing when to keep quiet for my own good.

'They're not my goons.'

He watches them through narrowed eyes as they finally step out towards the road and get into their waiting patrol car. He watches them like they're the lowest of the low, like they're hardly better than the dumb cops of Car 54.

He turns back to me.

'I can do my own dirty work – and enjoy it too.'

His mouth threatens to turn up in the first glimpse of real pleasure I've seen on his face.

I notice something else about him.

He ain't got a cigarette.

Most people have a cigarette somewhere about them. If it ain't in their mouth, it's in a hand, or a nearby ashtray, or still in the pack, just waiting for the licking flame of that Ronson lighter to bring it into life.

Me, I don't smoke because I can't afford them. But I've got to admit, it sure looks a cool thing to do.

'They sure as heck seem to be reading off the same script as you; telling me to keep my mouth shut.'

'Well, that _is_ good advice kid; even when it comes from Muldoon and Toody back there.'

He indicates the departing cops behind him with a flick of his head. See, I got him right; to him they ain't anything more than Los Angeles' version of Car 54 _'s_ dumb cops.

'They don't come across to me as guys who'd put together all that just for the good of the neighbourhood.'

I nod towards the sheet of paper he's holding. Okay, it might seem crazy to draw his attention to it. But something tells me he knows everything down on there anyway.

'You having me on kid? You really that stupid? You think in a case like this there'd only be me interested in telling you to keep schtum?'

He unrolls the sheet, glances at it.

'Hell, hardly top secret all this, is it kid?'

He hands it over to me.

It's basically my school history, a few quotes taken from reports, all minutely but painstakingly typed to fit as much as possible on a page.

Some of the comments have been underlined. One has been ringed in dark ink.

'"He has a vivid fantasy life, turning around the topics of omnipotence and power, through which he tries to compensate for his present shortcomings and frustrations."'

'At least you can read kid.' Agent Orange says it like he's pleasantly surprised. 'Way I heard it, you're spelling and writing ain't any better than a kid in the third grade.'

I hand the paper back to him, but he makes like he's gonna refuse it.

'Keep it kid; it ain't mine, as I've tried to tell you.'

'So if you didn't set those goons on me, who did?'

I force him to take the paper, show him I don't care who knows my history.

'Who knows kid? You really so naive you think everyone in government knows what the rest of it's up to? Fact is, I lost my naivety on that score the hard way. Lost some friends along the way too. So you can count yourself lucky you're learning the easy way from me; don't trust _anyone_ kid. The left hand not knowing what the right hands doing ain't the half of it; you don't even trust the _fingers_ right next to you in this business!'

'So now you're giving me helpful advice? Gee, thanks officer!'

I've loaded it with sarcasm. His eyes narrow, like he's going to hit me again.

But hey, he _smiles_ , like it's now all one huge joke after all!

'You think you're smart. Think you know everyone around you, got them all summed up in your Mr Wise-crack dictionary, eh kid?'

He waits for a smart-ass answer that will give him a good reason for giving me a good smack.

I can see it on his face; that barely restrained eagerness to put me back in my place. The cat who's clawed your furniture, but still knows you're gonna give him a fresh bowl of Friskies.

'Thing is kid,' he says, deciding to give me a lecture rather than a smack, 'did you know your beloved Miss Monroe was a commie?'

'You're getting your facts mixed up,' I say, holding back my anger. 'It was that dumb-ass husband of hers. Arthur Mr-I'm-so-great Miller. He was into all that.'

'Sure kid; the FBI had a file on him, you bet. Un-American activities. But they've kept a file on our Miss Monroe too since she married him. And when she went down Mexico way, she hit the town with Americans who're openly communist.'

He sees the doubt in my face, continues before I can begin to protest.

'I'll give you this kid; she wasn't the dumb-blonde everyone makes her out to be.'

'Tell me something I didn't know.' I say it as coolly as I can. 'She didn't like the roles she was being given in her movies. She really wanted to play some broad called Grushenva. She was always telling me.'

'Grushenka, kid. From a book, _The Brothers Karamazov_ ; written by a _Ruski_. And you being such a wise guy, kid, I take it you already know she didn't have a single diamond to her name. A millionaire, kid, yet no diamonds. What's that tell you about her?'

I shrug. 'Things like that never mattered to her. You've seen her house – all simple stuff, not all that fancy stuff you'd expect. Why else you think she moved down Brentwood, when she could've been living with all the other stars?'

'The girl who sang _Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend_? You kidding me again, kid? You know what that says to me? It was all an act, even in real life. She was into politics big time, way I see it. See, when we look at files on people, we see things revealed we wouldn't ever know from just looking at 'em.'

He flicks the piece of paper so it stands up straight in his hand. Perhaps I should've kept it after all.

'Take this bit kid,' he says, reading from it. 'One of those docs you saw, his recommendation, right? "Continued psychiatric intervention". And hey, for a while you're doing all right at school.'

He's no longer looking at the paper. He already knows all this.

'Things are looking up for you at last. So what happened kid, how'd you end up here, a dead beat who don't know when to keep his mouth shut and call people "sir"?'

He only pauses for a second.

'I'll tell you what happened kid. Your mom decided to move yet again. And you know what? They were considering taking you from your mom to ensure you got the care you needed.'

He lets this new information sink in.

'Your mom kid; _she's_ the one who messed you up.'

*

# Chapter 11

Mom's the type who dreams she'd go to hell if she wore a Maidenform bra.

Me, I thought all those women in those ads looked great. Wearing not much more than their Maidenform bra and a cheesy smile.

'I dreamed I was arrested for indecent exposure'; that's my favourite.

Mom, of course, sees it as a warning that all her fears are true.

Make yourself attractive and be eternally damned, that's her motto.

Not that she's in anyway religious, understand? It's a handy excuse so she ain't gotta make the effort to look even halfway decent.

Truth is, if it hadn't been for those ads (and the pictures flashed around school of Elizabeth Taylor in _Cat On A Hot Tin Roof_ ) I'd've had no idea what the female form looked like under all those sweaters and pink dresses until I'd started working for Marilyn.

She sure didn't think she'd go to hell if anyone caught her walking around with nothing on but the sort of thing Mom ain't even calling clothes.

I've already told you there were two Marilyns, right? The one who went down the stores and the Hollywood star, MM.

Well, she might've told the whole world she ain't wearing no bras, but I tell you, I know better! Trust me on this one; she had these special bras that _looked_ like she ain't wearing anything!

She even wore them when she went to bed, to stop her breasts sagging, she said.

As for Marilyn the shopper, she had the simplest, poorest looking bras you've ever seen. On her, of course, they had me dreaming I'd gone to heaven.

And you know those mesh-stockings you only see broads wearing in the movies? She wore those about the house too.

Oh, and here's another thing I can let you into. Those claims by the studio that she was 37-23-36? Nope; more like 35-22-35, believe me. Bra size 36D, pant size 8. Dress size 12, shoe size 7AA.

Mom hasn't really what you'd call a body as such. It's more strips of beef jerky, given human form by the shabby dresses and cardigans holding it all together.

Perhaps she used to look okay before I was around, but I can't see it.

'All the appeal of a whipped dog,' that's all I can remember Pop ever saying about her. He should know; he did all the whipping.

Even I'd be hard put to say how old Mom is. Anyone would give her at least an extra twenty years if they could be bothered to make a guess.

Makeup doesn't help, not on a face as creased as frayed kitchen curtains. Whether it's blue or green eye shadow she uses, it somehow all just highlights the unnatural tones of her wasted skin.

The TV's on, natch, as I enter the room.

_Top Cat_ – she's actually watching _Top Cat_.

Officer Dribble's telling him off. Wonder if he'll get out his stick, tell Top Cat he's a psycho who ain't wanted round here anymore?

Apart from the TV, only thing on the table is a magazine. Mom's left it open on an advert; 'Armstrong Vinyl Floors. Let us help you decorate.'

Nearest we'll ever get to having a floor like that is when Mom cleans it in someone's house. Even the magazine is probably an old one. Most likely a Ladies' Home Journal given to her by Mrs Denham.

There's no food on the table. None by the cooker neither. Not even a can waiting to be opened.

The only surprising thing is that Mom's not sitting in her chair.

Suddenly a door flies open, like someone's gonna come out of Mom's bedroom with guns blazing. Popping me before I even have time to see who's gunning for me.

But it's Mom, rushing into the room. Eyes as wide and glazed as a Cadillac on high beam in a rainstorm.

'Jack! You're all right!'

She howls like I've come back from the dead.

She hurtles towards me, throwing her arms round my shoulders. Clings on to me like she ain't done since Pop used to kick her around the place.

This moment of unfamiliar, intense emotion is over in a couple of seconds.

She backs off, embarrassed, instantly reaching for the more reassuring comfort of a cigarette between her fingers. Between her lips.

She lights it up, shaking. She throws her head back as she draws deeply on it, like a man saved from a river gulps in air.

'It's good...good to have you back Jack!' she stammers nervously.

I look around the room, any dumb-ass-jerk capable of realising something ain't quite right here.

There's smoke curling from Mom's bedroom like we should be calling the fire service or Northwestern National Insurance.

I can just see the ashtray on the edge of her crumpled bed, the butts sticking up like she's been creating a miniature rockery. The ashtray near the cooker's also full, wisps of smoke still rising from lipstick-smeared ends.

The window is unusually bare, a direct view of the maze of iron fire escapes outside. There's usually a vase there, filled with whichever wilting flowers one of Mom's employers has decided are past their best. Mom called it a perk of her job, getting these bent lilies and fading roses.

Today they're not in the window. They're in the waste bin beneath the sink, bedded in the broken crockery that used to be the vase.

My eyes slide from the bin to Mom's petrified eyes.

'It...it was an accident.'

Her hand shakes so badly ash from the cigarette flies into the air before spilling across the floor.

'Like Pop used to have his "accidents" you mean?'

She looks at me with the Cadillac eyes.

'Yes,' she says.

'Who was he?'

I find myself saying it the way Pop used to say it when he wanted to know everything about the men Mom had seen throughout the day. Like every man she came across thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

'Short hair, dark suit? Did he have a tie-tack? An orange tie-tack?'

Hell, I'm sounding far more like my Pop than I want to!

Mom looks more scared than ever. As scared as she used to look when Pop was having a go at her.

'T...t...tie-tack? I...I don't know Jack; I d...d...don't ko...know if he had a t...tie-tack!'

'Short hair then! You must have noticed if he had short hair!'

'Yes, yes! He...he had sh...sh..short hair! And yes, yes, a _dark_ suit!'

I didn't think it was possible, but she suddenly looked more petrified than ever. She stepped forward, grabbing me fiercely by the shoulders.

'What've you done now Jack? He says you're in trouble!'

'Trouble? If I'm in trouble Mom, it's only the trouble he can cause me!'

She shook me, like I'm the fool here.

'He said he can help you! Only _he_ can help you!'

The lying-son-of-a-

'He's lying Mom.'

She backs away slightly, lets me go.

'He told me I'd to stop you going around saying stupid things!'

_'You've_ to stop me?'

I almost laughed.

She's been drawing on her cigarette so hard it's already almost down to the filter.

She nervously looks around for the packet. Eyes unnaturally wide, like one of those small, strange animals you see in zoos.

'Don't worry about him,' I say. 'He won't hurt you.'

She grasps me hard across my chest with her free hand, the fingers long and gnarled.

'He _could_ help you Jack! Like Lieutenant Joe Friday! He'd help you Jack!'

Even now she can only see her life in terms of the TV screen. _Dragnet_. She'd watch it every Sunday without fail. 'The story you are about to see is true; the names have been changed to protect the innocent.'

Somehow, I don't think the innocent are the ones being protected anymore.

*

# Chapter 12

It's strange seeing the house without being allowed in anymore.

It's like I need one of those weird gizmos you see advertised on the back of _Astounding Tales_ or _Sad Sack_ comics; those X-Ray Specs that help you see through walls, or something to help you throw your voice and distract people while you sneak in.

Yeah, sure, like those things actually work.

There was nothing more I liked than walking in through those gates. Working in the garden, putting out the trash, cleaning out the garage; I didn't care what I was doing as long as I was doing it behind those walls.

Now and again Marilyn would come and talk to me. We had something going between us, having so many things in common.

Did you know she used to stutter when she was living in the orphanage? Some old jerk who should've found himself in the electric chair, he caused it all.

Course, everyone at the time thought he was the bees knees, Mr Wonderful. When Marilyn told on him, told what he'd done, she had her face slapped for the trouble.

'It's only a game,' he'd said. So why'd he bolt the door, huh?

Eight, she was only eight. And it happened at one of her foster homes.

A family that took in boarders, including this old jerk who should've been gelded like you do with filthy pigs.

'I don't believe you. Don't you dare say such things!' Marilyn's foster mom had said when Marilyn told her what had happened.

And that's when she'd begun to stammer.

*

There were other homes, natch.

Homes with closets she was locked in. Homes with people who beat or threatened her or even held her head under water.

And you know what? Eventually, amongst all these scumbags, she finally found someone who treated her right.

A Limey couple who taught her how to juggle, how to play rummy. They even took her real mom out of hospital and let her come and stay with them.

But her mom had to go back. And so did Marilyn.

She was only twelve when she'd started developing those curves that'd make her famous. She married at fourteen, not knowing what a husband expected on a night; just so, she told me, she wouldn't have to go to no more foster homes.

At fifteen, she was told she was illegitimate.

'They say you forget the bad things in your life and only remember the good ones,' she'd say to me. 'Well, maybe for others, but not for me.'

Thing is, there's plenty more people than me now saying her death was no accident or suicide.

_Friends, people she was working with; there's plenty of 'em now saying she seemed content with her life, even happy._

_None of them's coming out and saying, yeah, sure, this looks like an accident to me, or, yeah, she was suicidal right enough._

_Ok, so the_ coroner, something something Curphey, he's making out it was probably suicide. T _he usual horsesh– that_ 'she was psychiatrically disturbed'. _But hey, it's also right there in the papers that he reckons_ she wasn't 'mentally unbalanced'.

Yeah, go figure.

So how's he end up saying it's gotta have been suicide? Cos he's also saying she was too _old a hand at handling drugs to have made a mistake. So, hey, it's just_ _gotta_ _be suicide, ain't it now eh?_

_The papers, they don't believe all this buffalo crap anymore either._

_There are_ _big_ _gaps,_ the _Los Angeles Herald-Examiner_ _says, in the timetable that night Marilyn died. Her body was secretly taken from its place in the morgue, they reckon too._

_You telling me none of this stinks?_

_Still, all these old jerks, they're all coming out of the woodwork, looking to make a name for themselves, say how they figure she was crazy._

_One old coot, he's saying Marilyn's bedroom had no pictures, a sure sign that she was depressed. That there was nothing there to say 'I live here'._

You kidding me?

She was decorating for christsake!

Art, she loved art! Picasso, she loved him! And some Spanish guys too. Goya I think it was. Some guy called Geko, too, I think.

Some of the stuff she'd ordered from Mexico arrived the day she died! I helped put it all in the garage!

It's probably all still sitting there right now, going nowhere and doing nothing but getting covered in dust.

How can you get it into the wooden heads of these old jerks that Marilyn was finally making a proper home for herself after being kicked around all her life? I can see that, so why can't they?

There's over four hundred books in there, you know that? Proper books too, like I ain't never heard of.

I'd look at 'em, wondering why there weren't any pictures in there. Names on the cover that weren't even proper names. Tolstoy, Camus – what sort of names are they, eh? Italian? Mexican. Beats me.

But Marilyn said I could borrow them, that I should read them. Philosophy. Religion. All the stuff we should read to improve ourselves, she'd said.

You know, when I hear Marilyn singing _When I fall in Love_ , I know it ain't prefect. Know for sure some Mr Smart-Ass-Music-Teacher would say it ain't pitch perfect.

But she sings it like she really means it, know what I mean?

It almost makes me cry, it really does.

I walk closer to the closed gates, try the large handle to open them.

The lever just dully rattles, hardly moving.

Like me – I hardly move for the rest of the day.

*

By the time I begin to make my way home, it's getting dark.

It all seems reasonably quiet tonight.

Course, you can hear cars, but they're mainly passing along roads a distance away. There are the sounds of people too, some of them quite noisy, possibly even drunk. But it ain't there all the time.

Listen close and you can even hear a few insects going about their business. Buzzing around in the air, crunching trees and wood fences, or whatever else it is they do.

One buzzes past ridiculously close to my ear. At a speed I didn't know was possible for an insect too.

A moment later, part of a wood fence by me crunches so violently it throws up splinters.

I'm being shot at!

I duck, throw myself into a roll, like I've seen in the movies.

I'm heading for a bush, the only cover close by that I can see. I scuttle across the ground the rest of the way as quickly as I can.

I keep close to the ground, looking around urgently, knowing that a bush is gonna help hide me but it sure ain't gonna stop a bullet.

And, if I've got it wrong about where those bullets are coming from, I probably ain't even hidden.

The leaves and branches of the bush sharply rustle, snap and break.

The ground beyond me erupts, a rough, narrow furrow of mud magically forming in the grass with a dull splat.

I stop looking around and simply try and bury my face in the stinking soil.

I'm gonna die, I just know it.

*

# Chapter 13

There's a roar of an engine, a sedan coming fast up the road.

On the other side of my bush, there's a squeal of tyres, the clunk of a door flying open.

I feverishly scramble to my feet, staying in a crouch so I'm still hidden by the bush. I'm getting ready to run for it as soon as I figure which is the best way to go.

'Jump in kid!' a harsh voice fiercely bellows. 'Quick!'

I glance over to the car. It's Agent Orange, leaning across from the driver's seat to hold the passenger door open.

I glance everywhere about me, unsure what I should do.

'Quick!' Agent Orange repeats, louder than ever.

What choice have I got? I rush over towards the open door.

'Keep _low_ you fool!'

I dive into the car, Agent Orange already pulling it sharply away from the kerb as I drag my legs in after me.

The door swings backwards and forwards. It finally slams shut as Agent Orange throws the sedan into a screeching turn, heading off down a side road.

'Stay down kid!'

He presses down hard on my head with his hand, just in case I'm stupid enough to try and sit up.

'Chances are they'll have back up waiting in a – yep, here they are! Thunderbird, out-of-state plates.'

The sedan accelerates, throwing me farther back into the leather. I slide uncontrollably across the long seat, Agent Orange fiercely swinging the sedan around another corner.

'You've sure managed to make yourself some wealthy enemies kid. That sniper was a pro. And this car chasing us is top of the range!'

He spins the wheel sharply.

Suddenly we're bouncing wildly, like he's taken us down a back alley. Sure enough, looking up through the windshield I see the tops of stained white walls, overhanging trees.

There are a number of incredibly noisy clangs, accompanied by a violent juddering of the car, like we're striking trash bins and whatever other sh– has been thrown out into the alley.

Agent Orange sniggers gleefully as he glances in the mirror.

'Boy, this sure ain't doing the T-Bird's low suspension any favours, I can tell you.'

I try and rise up from the seat so I can see the pursuing T-Bird. He presses down harder on my head, forcing be back down.

'What did I tell you kid? Stay _low_! They ain't gonna risk shooting me, but get a bead on you and they might just take your head clean off!'

I slide away from him as he flings the sedan into a screaming corner. The sedan bounces, clipping the kerb, hits the road again.

The engine roars as Agent Orange floors the accelerator.

*

All I can see are the tops of trees, passing by in a blur. Hear horns blaring.

The sedan brutally swerves from side to side, tilting heavily on its straining suspension.

Now I'm slipping crazily across the seat, crashing first into the door then back towards Agent Orange.

All I can think is that we're swerving in and out of other cars on the road.

Suddenly, I hear a police siren burst into life.

It's in the distance but, despite the way we're hurtling along, it's gaining, growing in intensity.

Our sedan begins to slow, take a straighter course.

We pull in beneath the shade of roadside trees.

'Don't worry kid,' Agent Orange says as he finally draws the sedan to halt. 'At least these cops have scared the T-Bird off.'

As soon as the sedan stops, he leaps out, his ID already flicked open in a raised hand.

'Official business officer,' he shouts. 'Thanks for scaring off that T-Bird!'

'T-Bird?'

The cop sounds like he ain't scoped the T-bird chasing us. He's obviously pulled us in for speeding, nothing more.

'Anything else we can do to help?'

The other cop sounds like he's eager to help a Fed agent, or whatever it is Agent Orange is – I never got a close scan of his ID.

'Sure, officer; you can make sure you keep an eye on this kid for me.'

He says it like it could mean keep an eye on me to keep me out of danger, or to make sure I don't get into trouble.

One of the cop laughs. 'Let's just have a look-'

The cop never finishes his sentence. There's a gunshot, so loud it makes the sedan rattle.

There's another shot, sounding even louder.

Agent Orange leaps back into the car, slamming the door behind him, slamming the sedan into drive again.

He pulls away from the kerb like he's a racing driver.

'Sh–!' he screams. 'They've just shot the two cops!'

*

# Chapter 14

'Look, how many times I got to tell you kid? If someone like me wanted you dead, you'd be dead.'

Yeah, thought he'd say that.

We've finally pulled in somewhere safe. I ain't shy of admitting, he had to calm me down.

I ain't ever thought I'd be around when two cops were shot.

'Killing cops is a serious business kid!' he tells me, like I'd never have guessed.

Sh–, no kidding, I'm tempted to say.

But I don't feel so smart anymore. I feel like a little kid, truth be told.

'I was behind a _bush_!' I find myself screaming. 'He shot at me even though he couldn't see me. So he ain't exactly minding if I ended up dead or not!'

'A bush kid?' He gives a hard, grimacing chuckle. 'You telling me you think an agent can't make out a target behind a _bush_?'

'So you're admitting it was an agent, yeah?'

'Whoever it was, he had a silenced sniper rifle. Things like that don't come cheap.'

'An agent, yeah?' I persisted.

'Chances are – yeah.'

'Working for you?'

'You got the memory of a goldfish kid? I just rescued you, remember?'

'Rescued me from someone who ain't after killing me, so you're telling me.'

'Didn't want to kill you at _first_. That ain't the same thing as killing you soon as he reckons it's time. My guess is, any guy prepared to kill a couple of cops reckons it's time.'

'So you're the big hero Captain America. So how come you ain't just getting these guys to back off?'

The hard, grimacing chuckle again.

'You know, you make me laugh kid. You should be up there on stage, with Jerry Lewis. Falling around, making a fool of yourself. At least get some money for being stupid.'

'That a way of saying you ain't got no influence over these other guys, yeah?'

The chuckle again. Perhaps he's right, perhaps I should get myself on Broadway.

'You forgotten already what I said 'bout right hands not knowing what left hands are doing? Fingers not knowing what the one next to it are up to?'

It's not a real question; least ways, he doesn't wait for an answer.

'See, you're learning this the easy way cos I'm telling you, boy. Me, I found it out the hard way out in French Indochina. You know French Indochina?'

I shake my head. I could probably point out China on a map, but I ain't ever heard of no French Indochina.

'Not surprising, kid,' he says. 'They don't want anyone knowing 'bout Viet-nam. The Frenchies were taking a pasting from the commie Viet Minh out at a place called Dien Bien Phu. Me and some flyboys, we weren't officially out there, but we were set to go in, the US Cavalry charging to the rescue, right? Never happened, kid. We let the Frenchies die and the commies take over. And you know why? Turns out ever since World War Two we'd had agents out there supplying and supporting the Viet Minh's leader, Ho Chi Minh.'

'So all this tale of heroics in China, it's all just to let me know – what? That you ain't helping me after all? That you're all squabbling away like kids in a playground.'

'What I'm saying is kid, they got no scruples 'bout letting good men die to hide what they're up to; so what chances you giving a dumb ass kid, eh?'

'So what'd I do, eh? Hide? Where'd I hide?'

'First thing, I'd say goodbye to your Mom. Second thing, pack your bag, kid!'

*

# Chapter 15

Mom's glazed eyes are intently focused on the flickering screen.

Lassie, coming to the rescue; 'What you saying girl?'

Mom's eyes never leave the stupid dog. It's running past the same clump of fir trees it runs past every week.

The pack's by the cooker. Franco-American Macaroni with cheese sauce. A 'quick trick that makes a little meat go a long way'.

She's added her own special touch of course. Hunt's Tomato Sauce. 'The modern way to cook with tomato.'

Mom's always bought into these slogans. Like they're her equivalent of philosophies from Marx or Sartre (yeah, I have seen these around Marilyn's house).

'Newport refreshes while you smoke' – she's bought into that one big time. All those sea-blue packs and ads featuring beautiful women bathing in Mediterranean waters. 'Only Newport adds a refreshing hint of mint to the soothing coolness of menthol...'

She coughs, splutters. Reaches for another 'refreshing' smoke.

They're as far away from our home life as anything, those ads. A life we'll never see.

'I was cleaning at Elizabeth Pollard's today.'

She says it without looking up, even though it's now the adverts. She says it like it's something I should be really interested in.

Normally, I ain't giving a rat's ass whose house Mom's been cleaning. Could be the Queen of England's house, all I care. But, see, Elizabeth Pollard's a neighbour of Marilyn's.

'And?' I say.

'And she and her friends were playing cards – bridge, I think.'

Playing bridge. That's up there with the sort of life you see in old Fred Astaire movies, way Mom sees it.

Up there with long, slim cigarette holders and dinner parties with forks and knives set out like you ain't got anything better to do than neatly line 'em up.

That don't mean Mom knows how to play, natch. But any mention of bridge will always come with a hint of excitement in her voice.

This time, though, it's slightly different. Like she's dying to tell me something, but she wants me to ask the right questions first.

Like when I was younger and she'd be egging me on to try and guess what was in the wrapped Christmas presents under the scrappy bit of fir that passed for a tree in our house.

'And?' Now I'm wondering if this is really going anywhere after all.

She spins around in her chair to look at me. She can't hold in her secret any longer.

'They were full of it, Jack, all of 'em. All thinking they knew more than anybody else 'bout poor Marilyn dying like that.'

Her eyes flash like miniature TV screens.

'So you know what I said Jack? I stop cleaning, Jack, and I said you'd seen one of Bobby's agents there that night, Jack!'

'What? Are you crazy Mom?'

I'm livid. I can't help it! Is the stupid woman trying to get me killed?

'I never said I'd seen Bobby's agents there that night Mom!'

Mom's eyes are wide, like she's shocked I'm so angry. Like I'm angry that I didn't get the Christmas present I wanted.

'That man who came here said you said you did!' she says defensively.

_Bobby_ Kennedy?

What'd he be doing there?

Sure, okay, I could see the President, Jack, turning up – they'd met at Lawford's place, and he had an eye for the broads, way I'd heard it. And who wouldn't have an eye for Marilyn?

'Sure, and what else'd he say Mom? He said to keep quiet 'bout it, didn't he?'

I splutter and spit I'm so angry.

'You trying to get me killed, you stupid woman?'

She's on her feet now, pleading for understanding.

'No, no, it ain't just me said this Jack! Lizzy – Elizabeth – well when she hears this, she's all quiet, right, thinking 'bout it! Oh, I weren't sure if I should say this, she said, but now everyone knows, well, she said, I saw him there that night too! She'd seen him there too, Jack, she said! So it ain't just you who's saying it Jack! You ain't in danger no more if Lizzy's saying it as well!

'Seen who? Who had she seen?'

'Bobby! Bobby Kennedy – she said she saw him and two other men go to Marilyn's house!'

'Aw, she's making it up Mom – can't you see? She's just trying to outdo her friends.'

'She said she was playing cards and they all saw him!'

'What time?'

'Six or seven.'

'Can't have been Mom. I was there round then; I never saw him.'

'So they ain't got the time right, is all! Bridge, they were playing bridge, I reckon, and they ain't aware how long they've been playing.'

'It'd have to be 'bout nine thirty Mom!'

'So what time is it now, eh, Mr Know-everything? Go on, tell me what time it is _now_!'

'Well I ain't sure Mom! Five? Six?'

'See, you ain't knowing, are you?'

'Okay, okay Mom – you could be right. They could've got the time wrong. It could've been about nine thirty.'

I ain't gonna go telling her you lose track of time when someone's out to pop you. And I ain't wanting any arguments with her, not when I ain't sure when I'll be seeing her again.

I head off to the curtained-off bit of the bedroom that passes for my room. I pack a small bag quickly. There's not much to pack, to be honest.

'I'm heading out for a while Mom.'

I swing the bag over my shoulder, like I've persuaded some mug to pay for an hour's bowling.

'Jack, you ain't angry with me are you?' she asks.

'Nah,' I say, bending over to give her forehead a kiss. She is my Mom, after all.

She acts surprised, pleased.

'I'll make you something special later,' she says, smiling, taking my hand and holding it like she doesn't want to let go.

I slip my hand out of hers.

'I've got to go Mom,' I say.

Great; the most she's ever said to me, and it happens on the night I'm leaving.

Outside, I slip into the car's passenger seat. I can't help but look up at the window, glowing dimly behind the filthy curtains.

I couldn't even tell her where I'd be going.

He said it wasn't wise.

He hadn't told me where we're going anyway, just to make sure I couldn't tell her.

He pulls the sedan away from the kerb.

'It's for the best kid,' he says.

*

# Chapter 16

'Kid, I'm really beginning to wonder if I ain't doing myself wrong here, putting my life on the line to save you. More I hear from you, more I wonder if ain't been better if you and kooky Miss Monroe had been locked away some place together.'

The sedan's main beams are on, forming a glowing pyramid of light across the road ahead of us. Damn it all if it ain't later than I thought it was.

Mom was right 'bout how time can fool you, passing by quicker than you think it can.

I'd told Agent Orange how Mom's 'friends' had seen Booby Kennedy approaching Marilyn's house around nine thirty.

'Ain't I already told you Marilyn ain't kooky?' I say in reply to his put down.

'And I've already told you kid, don't go thinking you know someone just cos you enjoy flattering yourself you know them. If you think you know them, it means you don't. All that I told you earlier about the Frenchies – it's still going on kid, betrayal at all levels. Few months back, friends of mine died trying to help Cubans take back their own country. Brave Americans dying on a beach all because some other Americans suddenly decided there's things they ain't wanting disclosed. Not just rogue agents neither; people in power, kid, with their own secret agendas. So tell me kid, why should I trust the word of some stupid broads who've over indulged on the martinis?'

'They were playing cards, not drinking martinis.'

Agent Orange gives me a withering glance.

'Kid, martinis will've been involved, trust me.'

'You told me to trust no one.'

'Lucky for you I've got both hands on the wheel kid, otherwise you'd've earned yourself a good slap there. See, your Mom and her friends, they've got overactive imaginations; see a guy in a smart suit, and they think it's Bobby Kennedy. You ask me, they've got their times wrong and it was that limey Lawford they saw going over there.'

'Big difference in time; you said he was there at eleven.'

'You seen a woman after a couple of martinis kid? She'd be hard put to tell the time on a town clock, let alone an itsy-bitsy wristwatch.'

'Going by what I see in the papers, it ain't looking to me like Lawford's ever gonna admit he was there that night.'

'He was there kid, trus–'

He pauses, gives me a sly smile.

'I've been doing some digging kid. Why else you think I'm here helping you?'

'So now you're saying you believe me things ain't adding up?'

'Things don't add up – but that don't mean we've got the sort of answer you're looking for kid.'

'So?' I give him a look, like I'm waiting for an explanation.

He makes out he suddenly has to concentrate on his driving, so I decide to start the ball rolling.

'See, the way the limey says it in the papers, when he calls Marilyn she sounds sleepy. Ain't no different from when he's called a hundred times before, he says. She's planning on going to bed. Yet he tells you or your boys that she's ranting. That she's goodbying the President, Bugs Bunny, Wily Coyote and anyone else who cares to listen.'

'Yeah, I see kid. I also see you're hoping your little nuggets of fools gold is gonna get me revealing what I know.'

'Well all the others calling her that night say she's fine. Both before and after the limey's call. See in the papers where DiMaggio's son Joe Junior calls? Eight thirty he's on the blower, seeking a little advice regarding his romantic problems–'

'Sure, I know that kid. His engagement had been broken off. Pamel Ries, twenty one year old honey blonde. "If anything was amiss, I wasn't aware of it," he says.'

'Fact is, only one saying she's crazed is this smarmy limey. You telling me there ain't anything strange there?'

'Plenty of things're strange about that night boy.'

He doesn't go any further. I decide to help him out again.

'Here's another thing that just ain't stacking up right. Lawford, he says he's calling cos he thinks she's lonely. Inviting her to a party, right? So how come he's asking her again when he's already asked her twice? First time when she's round his beach house, second when he called around five. Both times she says no.'

'Way he has it kid, your Miss Monroe called him asking for his wife's phone number, vacationing with the kids out in Hyannis Port. She sounded lonely, so he called her back.'

'His wife Pat _Kennedy_ , right?'

He gives me the sly look again, managing to say 'Don't mess with me kid' just with his narrowed eyes.

I reckon he must practise that look in a mirror to get it off so pat.

'Means nothing kid, and you know it. No matter what he told the papers, he told _me_ he _was_ worried about our Miss Monroe. So he calls his manager, Milt Ebbins. Ebbins tells him not to go over – How'd it look? You're the President's brother-in-law, for christsake! So _he_ calls Monroe's lawyer, Milton Rudin. So Rudin calls the house eight thirty, getting Eunice to check out on Miss Monroe. Eunice says she checks out okay.'

'That phone sure sounds like it was doing a lot of ringing that night. Sounds like Marilyn was fine again, you ask me. Sounds like you also been doing a lot of checking yourself.'

'Told you kid, I don't trust no one. Especially our limy hero, who makes out he's _still_ not satisfied, see? He calls another friend just before eleven, this guy Joe Naar. Asks him to call round and make sure Miss Monroe ain't gone and given herself an overdose. Before Naar can even leave his house he gets another call – Rudin again – telling him everything's okay after all. Turns out our good Dr Greenson has given Marilyn a sedative.'

He's turned off the highway, heading down some streets with low-built houses on either side. The streets here aren't even straight. They wind over and around what must have been rolling hills at one time.

_'Still_ our hero's concerned,' he says. 'So he goes round, taking Pat – Pat Newcomb, the press agent – with him. And, well, perhaps that sedatives not working too well or something, because now he's panicked, and – and, well, here's the rub kid, the detail that shows those broads have been dipping into those martinis like they're bathing pools – because, come eleven thirty, he's on the phone again. This time to Bobby Kennedy.'

He glances over at me, his smirk caught in the light of a lonely streetlamp we're passing under.

'So there you have it kid; Bobby wasn't there that night, because our hero had to actually _call_ him.'

'Call him for what exactly?'

He looks at me strangely.

'Kid, you telling me you really don't know?'

I don't want to shake my head, don't want to look like I don't know things I obviously should know.

'I'm just saying it still ain't adding up to me,' I say. 'Why's this limey making such a big deal of things when everyone else is saying she's fine that night? José Bolaños, what about him? He called nine thirty, said she was fine.'

He smirked, snorted back a smothered laugh.

'Yeah, so fine, kid, she says she's gonna tell him something that's gonna "shock the whole world"!' Now he really laughs. 'Something so amazing he ain't even got around to telling us what it is yet!'

'Could be he's scared. Could be _he's_ had someone shooting at him.'

'Kid, way he tells it he's probably got the entire US Marines chasing after him! He's a fantasist kid, living in a fantasist's world. He's told the papers she and him had plans to co-produce a movie. Plans even for a secret marriage they'd be having down Mexico way. Thing is, his mom didn't know anything about it. You know any Latino who ain't gonna tell his mom he's getting married to a nice girl?'

He's switched off the main beams. Now he's moving real slow, the engine only purring, a cat creeping up on a wounded bird.

He draws up outside a house that's right at the very end of the road. Just behind it, there are cliffs, stretching up through the darkness to any height imaginable.

The house is small, single story, overlooked by dark fir trees that crowd around three sides of it like they've decided to box it in. There's no light on.

Even though it's all just a mix of shapes in various shades of black, I get the impression it's ain't exactly well looked after.

'Make yourself at home kid – I guess you're gonna be staying here quite a while till the excitement dies down.'

He switches off the engine, takes out the keys

'This your place?' I say, not looking forward to sharing any more time than I have to with him. Even if my life depends on it.

He chuckles, like it's some huge joke I've just cracked.

'Nah kid, this ain't my place. This is what we call a safe house, a place where people can hide out until we find somewhere more permanent.'

'More permanent?' How long's this guy think I'm gonna be hiding away?

'I don't know what you're up against yet kid; I'm just playing safe for the moment.'

'Can't we just tell someone what we know? Make sure there's no reason for anyone to be after me anyhow?'

'What _do_ we know kid? I don't even know what it is you're supposed to know that's made you a target! Besides which, look at your history kid – no one's going to be seeing you as the perfect witness now, are they sonny boy?'

He opens the sedan door, begins to slide out of his seat. He pauses, looks back at me.

'Fact is, I don't even know who's targeting you kid. And until I know that, we can't trust _anyone_!'

*

# Chapter 17

'It's not great,' he says.

Thing is, he's wrong – it _is_ great.

When you're used to living in the dumps I've been shuffled around all my life, a place with walls that ain't peeling gets ten out of ten far as I'm concerned.

Sure, it's dusty, and it obviously hasn't had a decent clean since the Wright brothers took to the air, but hey – my Mom being a cleaner, she never liked bringing her work home with her.

The kitchen's what Agent Orange calls 'a filthy tip not fit for rats to eat in', and what I call a taste of home.

He's switched the lights on, not that anyone outside would know – the drapes at every window are so thick they're more like hanging carpets. I reckon they must hang a good foot either side of the glass too.

Agent Orange sets down the paper bag of groceries he'd picked up off the car's rear seat before we'd made our way up the partially overgrown path. (The door, at least, was well cared for, the lock and hinges so well oiled that it opened noiselessly.)

He checks that the water's running. Picks up a box of matches, lights a small boiler above the sink.

He begins to take the groceries out of the bag, placing them on the kitchen's small table; Mr Big Celo bread, Maltex cereal, Chun King Chow Mein, a Mother's cake, Johnston Cookies.

Stuff I'd only ever dreamed of eating when I'd heard them advertised on the radio, or seen them in the stores.

Mom never went big on spending on groceries. The quality of her smokes, that was all she really cared about.

'When'd you have time to shop?' I ask.

'Before I rescued you kid. Got this in for myself, before I realised I was going to be in the rescuing business today.'

'Gee, you eat well,' I say, saying anything to avoid thanking him for saving me.

'Think so kid? Eating on the hoof ain't my idea of fine eating.'

He pulls out a book from the bag, handing it to me. _The Catcher in the Rye_.

It's obviously not a new book; it's scuffed along the cover's edges. The pages are curled and warped.

'Guess you ain't much of a reader kid, but here's your chance to learn – you ain't gonna be getting out much for a while.'

'I'll keep my head low.'

_'Way_ low kid; I don't want you stepping outta this house till I say so.'

'I can't go out?'

'You kidding me? I bust a gut setting all this up, and you think it's some holiday inn you're staying at?'

I look at the book. He notices I'm not impressed.

'See, you might like it kid, on account of it being all about a stroppy kid who deserves a good slap. Banned when it was published. This is my very own copy I'm letting you have here.'

'There's no TV?'

I say it knowing what the answer will be. He shakes his head.

'If it looks like you'll be here a long time, I'll see 'bout getting you an old set.'

'A long time?'

I look around my surroundings with a newfound loathing, like it's suddenly been transformed into a prison cell.

'How long? What'll my Mom think?'

'Your mom's dead kid.'

He says it like he's telling me I need to wash my hands before eating. I'm not even sure he means it.

'Dead? What'd you mean, dead?'

He looks at me like I'm some pathetic little five year old who ain't facing up to the fact he's just dropped his ice cream into a pile of dog mess. No pity. Just a stare that tells me it's time to grow up.

'Two cops were killed today and you were there. Whoever killed them will have come looking for you. They don't find you, they give you a message you're gonna have to keep running to stay alive. Your mom's that message kid.'

I feel like banging my fists hard against his chest, telling him he's lying, telling him to tell the truth. That's what he's expecting.

'Yo...you could've brought her _here_!' I say.

He shakes his head.

'You telling me your mom would've just come along without asking for reasons that would've just delayed us? We were already risking it going back there kid. I told you I wanted you to say your goodbyes.'

'I...I didn't know you meant _that_ sort of goodbye!'

He shrugs, like I should've known.

'You were saying goodbye to your old life kid. You should've realised that the day you couldn't keep your trap shut.'

*

# Chapter 18

Reports on the radio are making out the cops must've been shot close up. That's how these things usually happen.

Guy gets pissed for being stopped by the cops; something like a busted taillight, but he don't know that. Guy gets his gun out, not in the mood for talking. Guy thinks he's been spotted holding up a store or gas station. Guy pops the cops and drives off, griping that these days folks like him can't make a decent living without being harassed every moment of their lives.

Well, the reporters ain't gonna waste time considering how a couple of average cops might have been taken out by a trained sniper. Mess a bullet like that's gonna make of someone's head ain't gonna look much different from your average Joe's popgun at close range.

I only noticed just before he'd left that Brad's suit was splattered with blood. ('Just call me Brad,' he'd said when I'd finally got round to asking him his name.)

The blood had darkened as it had dried, not showing up too well on the dark material.

Perhaps that's why all these goons wear these dark suits; a means of cutting down on the Agency's dry cleaning bill.

Perhaps that's why he'd been so particular about giving me a list of instructions I'd thought were way over the top at the time.

'No phone calls, not even pick ups, got it?'

'Don't open the drapes, don't open the windows, no matter how hot it gets in here – no one is living here as far as the rest of the street is concerned.'

'No going outside, not even if the place catches fire.'

'No loud noises, the radio playing real low if at all.'

'Don't answer the door unless you hear me knock like this,' he'd said, rapping on the table

I'd grinned nervously, thinking it was like a scene out of a Bogart movie. The scene where he's with someone you just know ain't gonna make it to the end of the movie.

He must've thought I was grinning because I'd found it amusing.

'This ain't no joke kid,' he'd growled. ' _My_ life's in danger here, let alone yours. This game, you trust no one. Not even grandpops knocking at your window, waving tickets for the Hollywood Park Race Track, got that?'

Life like that, locked in a house with nothing much to do, you begin reading anything you can get your hands on. Old magazines stacked on a small side table in the main room. Grocery packs, finding out more than you'd ever need to know about Real Gold Orange Base and the Campbell Soup Co.

You read _The Catcher in the Rye_.

Brad or somebody has written a strange little poem in the front, like it's in some weird foreign language.

'Gin a body meet a body

Comin' thro' the rye

Gin a body kiss a body

Need a body cry?

Ilka lassie has her laddie

Nane, they say, hae I

Yet a' the lads they smile at me

When Comin' thro' the rye.'

The story ain't much better. Sure, I ain't too hot at this reading business, but way I see it this guy ain't anywhere near as cool as he thinks he is. What's the big deal about him that got this book banned?

So he's got a dorky roommate. So he's got a dorky guy in the next room at his dorky prep school.

Sure that makes him a rebel, but only to a guy who irons his socks every morning.

Thing is, when Brad comes round late one night, bringing me fresh clothes – Howards, and Keds Shoes, like he's wanting me to look like these dorky guys in his book – and more groceries (he'd told me I should start eating the wallpaper or the soles of my shoes before I decide on going out), all he wants to know is how I'm enjoying his book.

'Cool I say,' like it'll get him off my back.

Some hope.

'You're not reading it right kid.'

He almost snarls this at me, your least favourite teacher with a hangover and too many hang-ups.

'Haven't you cottoned on yet that this guy – Holden Caulfield – is pissed with the phoniness of everyone he meets? I'd've thought that was right up your street kid!'

I shrug. I hadn't read it like that, but I'm not going to let him know.

'Way this Caulfield sees it, kid,' he continues, 'everything is soiled. Innocence is lost. Doesn't that click any switches in your head, make you think, "Wow, that's me sure enough"?'

'I can see he's got girl problems, if that's what you're getting at,' I say nonchalantly. 'And stuck in this house, I'm with him on that one.'

He looks at me, smirks.

'Like you were Hollywood's very own lady-killer before you came here, eh kid?' he sneers.

My protector, the guy who treats me like dirt on his shoe.

'You telling me I ain't noticed you were smitten with her kid? Our Miss Monroe, I mean. And sure, who ain't gonna think they'd got a chance with her kid? Somehow all childish innocence but sexy with it too, know what I mean kid? Meaning she comes across as all vulnerable, needing your protection, that right kid? And what sorta reward you expecting for that protection kid? See where I'm going with this? But let me tell you, you weren't her type by a long shot. You don't believe me? Take a look-see at the jerks she married, kid. All these guys older than her, more staid than she was. All father figures, you ask me, on account of she'd never really had any real pop and mom to look after her, to protect her, see?'

He's not a guy to pull his punches, old Brad.

'You know that schmuck Arthur Miller? You know what he told me when I had a quiet chat with him 'bout whether she was capable of suicide or not? He told me nothing but destruction could've come from their marriage, his own destruction as well as hers. He chose to save himself. Some father figure, huh?'

He pulls out a jar of Nash's coffee from the grocery bag.

'You like coffee or not kid?' he says casually, like he's just been discussing the weather.

Still, when he leaves I've got to admit I feel kinda lonely.

I make myself some of the coffee he's brought, chew on some Beechnut Gum. Being alone again, it gets me thinking.

_Bobby_ Kennedy?

Why the heck did Mom's 'friends' think it was _Bobby_ there that night?

Why'd that limey Lawford say he called him?

'Kid, you telling me you really don't know?' Brad had said that with that all-too familiar sneer in his voice – like it was something I should know, but didn't.

Was it something Marilyn had been keeping from me?

Why would she do that?

The phone in the small hallway rings.

I ignore it, as Brad said I should.

It keeps on ringing, somehow seeming to get shriller every second it rings.

I walk into the hallway, looking at the phone, like just studying it in this way will give me an idea of who's calling me.

It rings and rings and rings.

There's another sound behind it now, a sound just as rhythmic as the ringing but one I don't recognise.

The door behind me splinters and shatters, the rhythmic sound suddenly much louder. Shards of wood are sent flying over my shoulder and down the hallway.

I throw myself to the floor, recognising at last the clatter of bullets ripping apart the kitchen I'd just stepped out of.

Glass, crockery and even the sink crack violently. The coffee flask explodes. Cupboards disintegrate, walls crumble. It all sends a cloud of plaster and small wood chips swirling around the room.

I rush along the hallway in a hurried crawl, all sorts of sh– shooting over my head like a hailstorm.

The phone is still ringing, like it's trying to outdo the sound of the machinegun's destruction.

Then a line of bullets begins shredding the table it's standing on, the phone jumping and jerking. It finally explodes with a sharp crack as it receives a direct hit.

The ringing ends.

The machine-gunning continues, the door behind me now little more than slivers of wood loosely hanging off the hinges.

Outside, I hear a sharp blast, like someone's dropped a grenade out there. I hear the last of the glass of the kitchen window splinter, hear what sounds like a full bottle shattering.

When I take the risk of peering round, I see that fire is spreading across the table and cupboard tops.

There's another sharp blast, and then another, now sounding to me more like a shotgun being fired. Abruptly, the maddening clatter of the machinegun becomes muted as its attention is turned on something outside.

The shotgun blasts again. The machinegun goes quiet.

I'm wondering if it's safe to get to my feet. I lift my head off the floor, glance around.

Suddenly, the side door begins pounding faster and harder than my heart!

It's been hammered viciously from the other side, so violently it's beginning to crack.

A shotgun blast blows out a huge hole near the door's huge bolts.

Seconds later, a hand curves up through the hole, swiftly pulling back every bolt like the guy outside knows exactly where they are.

The hand vanishes, the door jerks as it's struck harder than ever – and, with a loud crack, the door swings open.

*

# Chapter 19

It's Brad, resting the shotgun's butt on his hip like he's John Wayne.

He's got the long overcoat too. Open down the front, flowing out behind him.

'We've got to get out of here kid,' he barks. 'I don't know how many more of 'em are out there!'

He rushes over, grabs me and pulls me to my feet. Plaster and other sh– falls off me to the floor.

Then we're rushing out the door. Rushing down the overgrown path.

*

His sedan is parked by the kerb, the driver's door already wide open.

He more or less throws me in through the door, sending me sliding across the seat.

He jumps in after me, guns the engine into life.

He swerves out into the road without bothering to close the door or switch on the beams.

When I sit up and look out the window behind us, the house is already ablaze at the back.

The fir trees glow like it's suddenly Christmas and they're glistening with ice and red light bulbs.

Down the rest of the street it's all still remarkably dark, though lights have come on in some of the bedrooms. Like people have been woken up by the clatter of the machineguns, but they're all way too scared to do much about it.

Brad still hasn't switched the beams on, anyone daring to peer through their curtains hearing nothing but the roar of the accelerating car, seeing little more than a passing blur in the darkness.

'Watch out kid; they might be following!' Brad takes a hand off the wheel to push my head down.

'I can't see anyone,' I say.

'Sure you can't kid,' he growls. 'They'll have the sense to keep their beams off, like we are. They'll be following, believe you me.'

*

Brad doesn't put the car's beams on until we begin to approach other traffic on what are mainly deserted roads at this time of night.

'I'm hoping we shook 'em off.'

He slows down to something less than seventy miles an hour for the first time since we left the house about a quarter of an hour ago.

He also begins to point the sedan in a generally straight line, rather than swerving around as if every road was full of obstacles and potholes, every corner or exit there to send the sedan into a screeching turn.

'It was a T-Bird and an Edsel I reckon; possibly a Lincoln too. Hard to tell in the dark, truth be told.'

He peers in the mirror.

'Either they're gonna have to switch their own beams on, or some pissed guy in another car is gonna flash them for not having them on. Either way, we'll know if they're there.'

I sit up, look out through the car's rear window.

There's a handful of darkened shapes and bright orbs following us.

I wait for a new set of beams to burst into life. Nothing happens.

Every driver's driving as if he ain't looking forward to ending up where he's going. Every car's pootling along like it ain't got more than two gears, the distance between them never changing.

'We must've shook them off.'

Brad gives a small, satisfied grin, his eyes back on the road ahead of us.

'We need to find another safe place for you kid.' He glances over at me, his face grim. 'Safer than the last one, least ways. First off, we need to head back.'

He jerks hard on the wheel, putting the sedan into a ridiculously tight turn. The back wheels slide across the road as he spins the sedan one hundred and eighty degrees.

All the other drivers are pissed, natch, banging down hard on their horns, crying out through opened windows, 'You crazy son of a...'

We're heading back towards Hollywood.

*

# Chapter 20

Having parked the sedan as far away from any lights as we can, Brad tells me we go the rest of the way on foot.

He still ain't bothered telling me where we're heading.

We're in an area with buildings that look like they've been around forever, old but still looked after. Government buildings, I reckon.

Not that you can make out too much, it being so dark and all. They're all just shapes, angles jutting up into a slightly lighter sky.

We're keeping to the sides and the backs of buildings as much as we can, Brad moving quietly, stealthily, hissing at me whenever I'm careless enough to make a noise. As we come up the side of one particular building, he takes extra special care, looking around, making sure no one's nearby.

Approaching a small, low window, he begins to work at it with some tool he'd grabbed from the trunk of the sedan before we'd set off. With a crack, part of the window jerks open.

'Jack – you're smaller than me.' He grabs me by the shoulder, pulls me forward. 'In you get!'

He cups his hand around one of my feet, levering me up and pushing me in through the narrow window. I drop clumsily to the floor.

I open the rest of the window and help Brad clamber in after me.

I'm still not sure where we are. This could be the janitor's room in any building I've ever been in; pokey, uninteresting, no attempt at tidiness. Old table, filing cabinets, illustrations of half naked girls tacked to the walls.

'There'll be a guard around, but he's old, probably asleep at his desk.'

Just in case, Brad's keeping his voice low.

'No one's expecting anyone to go breaking into a mortuary.'

'Mortuary?' I gulp.

'Yeah, you know – where they store all the dead bodies.'

'Yeah, course I knew that! Just thought you had to be kidding me, right?'

'Shhhuusssh kid; voice like that, you could wake the dead.'

*

Wouldn't you know it, all the corridors are pitch black in the house of the dead.

Brad's brought along a flashlight, but he's keeping it low, lighting up only the area just ahead of us.

The rest of the corridor looks like one of those tunnels you see in the movies, guys unknowingly walking deeper and deeper into a nest of giant ants.

What the heck are we doing here?

Brad still ain't letting on, even though he's constantly referring to a folded plan of the building, like he's known all along that we'd be breaking in here at some point.

He finally opens a door, leads the way into a large room. A number of strangely high tables glow in the flashlight's dim beam, like it's a diner for people who prefer eating standing up.

'Don't worry kid,' Brad whispers, 'they've put all the bodies away.'

That's when I realise what the tables are for; cutting up the dead, like a butcher cutting up joints of meat on his slab.

This is where Marilyn's body will have been brought.

This is where she'll have been sliced open, guys digging their hands deep within that once perfect body.

I feel sick. I wanna get outa here, like now!

Brad grabs me, like he senses I'm ready to make a bolt for it.

'How old are you kid? Five? Dead men are the least of anybody's problems, believe me. It's when they're alive you gotta fear 'em.'

He makes his way to another room, one full of tall filing cabinets. He swiftly runs the flashlight beam along the letters and numbers on the cabinet drawers. Like he knows what he's looking for.

He holds the beam on one of the drawers, hands me the flashlight, obviously expecting me to keep the light trained on this particular drawer. He reaches in his pocket, takes out what looks like an elaborate pocketknife.

Once he's wiggled the tool's thin blade in the lock, the drawer slides open.

He quickly flips through the files, takes out a sheaf of papers from one of them. He places them on top of the other files.

'Bring the light in closer.'

He's now got the smallest camera I've ever seen in his hands. He clicks away, telling me to move the top sheet, then the next, and so on until he's taken a picture of every one of them.

'Keep them in the same order,' he says to me.

He slips the camera back in his pocket, grabs the papers off me. He deftly puts the papers back in their file.

As he pushes the drawer back, the lock clicks, locks itself.

'Didn't have a clue what all those facts and figure meant kid,' he admits to me, leading the way with the flashlight once again. 'I'll get these developed soon as I can. Might be some time, seeing as how I can't go through official channels now-'

He suddenly switches the flashlight off, places an arm across my chest to stop me in my tracks.

There's a sound up ahead. Someone walking down another corridor.

A flashlight beam probing the way ahead of him, like some death ray from _War of the Worlds_ seeking out its victims.

We both quickly glance everywhere around us, looking for something to hide behind.

There's nothing, nothing we can get to in time without making too much noise.

*

We throw ourselves as flat against the wall as we can manage.

I even hold my breath, pull in my stomach; as if that will help.

I'm sure the guy heading towards us can hear my heart beating anyway.

The guard appears at the end of our corridor, the peak of his cap shining in the beam's reflected glow.

He turns on squeaking shoes, shines the light down our way.

Along the floor, up the walls – directly on us.

Christ! How do you explain breaking into a _mortuary_?

The light passes over us, back along the wall, sweeping away from us.

The guard spins on his squeaky shoes once more, continues on his way down his own corridor.

Brad explains it all to me once we're safely outside.

'A guard older than God, like I said. And too damn vain to wear his glasses at that.'

*

It was a motel, way out in the middle of nowhere from what I could tell by the amount of time it had taken to drive here.

The sun was already way up, yet we hadn't even stopped for a drink let alone a bite of something for breakfast.

Brad leaves me sitting in the sedan as he books us in, a guy with a face like a squished locust staring out from behind his desk to give me the once over. Brad probably giving him some bull that I'm his son or idiot nephew he's been left caring for.

Locust features hands over the keys like he don't care what a thirty-odd-year-old guy is doing here with a teenage boy. Yakking and pointing, no doubt laying down the rules of whatever it is you can't do while staying at the Noway Motel.

The room has one of those carpets that stick to your feet, getting you all worried 'bout what it's gonna be like when you slip your shoes and socks off. A stench of smoke so ingrained you'd swear there's someone hidden in the lumpy bed, pulling his way through the last stick of his Winstons.

There's a TV though, making this the equivalent of the Executive Suite far as I'm concerned. Hey, you try sitting around indoors all day, nothing to read but a book somebody's expecting you to read, like their gonna be asking questions on it later.

Brad obviously thinks I'm thinking about switching it on, like I wanna see if it's working or not. He places a hand across my arm, stops me from even going near it.

'I need to be able to hear kid; in case someone's been following us. Read the book.'

He takes a book from one his overcoat's large pockets.

Wouldn't you know it; it's _The Catcher in the Rye_.

*

# Chapter 21

Even that strange little poem is in the front once again; the girl coming through the rye.

Every other 'lassie has her laddie', but 'None, they say, have I.' And so the boys smile at her, when she's 'Comin' thro' the rye'.

It reminds me of Marilyn, but I can't say why.

I wanna ask Brad, 'So is this all they stock in your town library?'

'What's with the poem in the front?' I say.

He's hardly spoken since we got here, only grunting 'Quiet' whenever I complained that I was hungry.

He's cleaned and prepared his shotgun, a revolver and a pistol, neatly laying them all close to hand on a side table next to the chair he's sitting in.

He's placed the chair so he can look out through the window.

Not that he's put the chair _near_ the window. It's right at the back of the room, where most of the shade is.

He's also pulled back all of the drapes, flicked them over the rails so he's got a clear view.

He just sits there, looking directly and calmly out of the window. Like Mom would watch her TV, only without the dazed stare and glazed eyes.

'It's a song; Scotch,' he answers, rather than telling me to keep schtum, as I'd expected. 'Read the goddam book!'

He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't take his eyes from the window.

*

Later, the locust arrives with some food from a local diner.

He looks suspiciously at the chair that Brad has moved.

Looks suspiciously at me on one of the two narrow, worryingly crumpled beds.

Brad's hidden the guns, one tucked down the front of his pants but covered by the shirt he's pulled loose. The locust looks suspiciously at the loose shirt.

Fortunately, he don't see the bulge.

Personally, I wanna bop him for even thinking what he's thinking. I'm hoping he does something that makes Brad whip out his gun and make the creep mess his pants.

But he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Bet he's smirking as he leaves, patting the wad of notes Brad's given him for a round of drinks and food a Mexican peasant would have turned his nose up at.

'Make it last kid.'

Brad takes his seat, laying out the guns once again before he starts eating.

'How come you're helping me,' I ask between mouthfuls.

'On account of how you're still making out it can't have been an accident or suicide. I'm still checking up on our Miss Monroe's death, kid.'

I'm interested. I bet it shows on my face, because he continues like he's telling me I've just inherited a million dollars.

'Turns out Sergeant Jack Clemmons of West Los Angeles finest didn't believe much of what he heard either. Believes he just got a crock of horsesh– from all the people he found at her house that morning. Eunice, Dr Greenson, Dr Engelberg. Four thirty in the wee hours, and the poor guy's being fed a lot of crap, he reckons. Eunice Murray, she's up and about doing the laundry in the washing machine and cleaning the house. You credit that? Says she wants to make sure the place looks nice when the coroner come to rope of the house.'

He risks a quick glance at me to catch my reaction.

Hey, it just makes me hate Eunice even more than I thought possible. Useless, heartless cow!

Brad's looking out the window again.

'Now we've all read in the papers, right, how Eunice didn't call Dr Greenson until she woke at three, noticing the light was still on, right? The good doctors finally breaking into Miss Monroe's room, saying she died around three fifty. Dr Engelberg saying it's suicide, yeah?'

I nod, even though Brad's no longer studying me.

'Well, get this kid, this may be the story they gave Los Angeles finest at six am. But when the police had first turned up, our three little stooges were all making out they'd discovered the body four hours earlier, saying she must have died around twelve thirty. They needed permission from the studio's publicity department, they say, before they could contact the police. But come six am, kid, and they're all changing their stories to the one we all read in the papers.'

'Sh–,' I say.

Once I've finished eating, I lie back on the bed, stretching out. Before I know it, I've drifted off into a surprisingly deep sleep.

*

Course, I don't realise I've actually fallen asleep until I wake up, still feeling remarkably drowsy.

Brad's still seated in the chair, rigidly sitting there like he's a part of the furniture.

I make my way to the bathroom, freshen up. Swill my mouth out with cold water. Come back into the bedroom, take a sharp swig of one of the drinks the creep had brought in.

I lie on the bed again, bored.

Brad kicks my overhanging foot, nods towards the book.

'Read kid. It'll help take your mind off things.'

He's fingering his pistol like it's an order.

I pick up the book once again, even though I can't see what all the fuss is about.

This guy's saying everyone he meets are phoneys, though far as I'm concerned he's the biggest phoney of them all.

I've been hoping the story might liven up, wondering when this 'catcher' guy will show up; what's he gonna do, who's he gonna catch?

This guys flunking at school, his mom and pop so pissed they send him off to a boarding school. But whaddya know, he gets expelled from here too.

So he leaves early for Christmas, too scared to go back and tell the folks. He spends a few days wandering round New York City.

He books into a cheap hotel, goes to a couple of nightclubs, dances with older women and even has a whore up in his room.

But all he does is talk and think about sex.

He dates an old girlfriend of his – the theatre, ice-skating. What a great life this guy has. Why's he so depressed?

But she thinks he's crazy when he asks her to run away with him.

He's also got a little brother who keeps popping up, talking to him, a little brother who died.

Whenever I even sigh or look up from the book, Brad makes like he's suddenly decided to clean one of his guns.

Like he's prepared to use it if I don't read his damn stupid book. He frowns, glares.

Don't this guy ever sleep?

Thing is, if this catcher turned up, cutting and slashing, perhaps I'd actually enjoying reading this piece of...

Wait a minute – here he is!

But hold on; what a let down!

He ain't some guy catching all the kids and throwing them on some roaring fire.

The catcher is this guy himself! The way he sees himself in a dream; catching kids to stop them falling off a cliff.

Why the hell's Brad got me reading all this?

I look up, hoping he's decided I've read enough. I try and make out I'm nearly at the end of the book.

'You've missed a few pages kid.'

He ain't even looking my way. How'd he know?

The guy's told his sister Phoebe about the dream; snook into his folks' apartment at night to tell her.

Phoebe and his dead brother Allie, they're the only guys this guy likes. Like they're all innocent cos they're still kids while everyone else is corrupt and tainted.

Phoebe says she'll runaway with him, but then the guy chickens out. He goes to see his folks instead.

They have him put away, I reckon, figuring out he's a few cents short of a dollar.

I put the book down, smile at Brad like, Hey, what a great book! I've really enjoyed wasting my time reading that!

Later, when he appears satisfied no one is coming after us, Brad lets me switch on the TV.

_Top Cat_. Yeah, I get it; _Bilko_ , but without the costs and tantrums you get with real actors.

Same with that other cartoon, _The Flintstones_ – the _Honeymooners_ , only without Jackie Gleason.

'Did you kill anyone?'

I ask as Officer Dibble chases two wise guys dressed in Mafia style suits. Like my Mom, I keep my eyes fixed on the TV.

Like I don't really care what the answer to my question will be.

He's peering out of the window, the pistol back in his shoulder holster.

'We'll move out of here as soon as it starts getting dark,' he says, avoiding answering my question.

'Why'd we come here anyway, if we're being chased?'

I try a different tack, wondering if I can get him to ever open up to me. He knows more than he's telling, that's all I know.

'I thought it might draw them out. Thought they'd be fooled into thinking our guard was down.'

'I was bait, you mean?'

Dibble's ended up in a trashcan.

_'I_ was the bait. _You_ were the target. They'd be after you no matter what kid.'

'You reckon they're still after us?'

I move over to the window, look out across the parking lot and fields. Wondering what it is he's looking for.

There's just the regular movement you'd expect out on the road. Cars and trucks shimmering in the heat like they're gonna disappear before our eyes.

Down in the parking lot, a family's lazily unloading their dusty Plymouth. The mother's getting pissed with one of her pig-tailed daughters for dragging a suitcase.

'Sure they're still after us.'

He looks over at the family, like he's expecting them to start blasting us at any moment with hidden machine guns and bazookas.

'They'll be after us until they know for sure you ain't gonna go blabbing to the press or police.'

*

# Chapter 22

As evening sets in, we're on the road again.

I've eaten the last of the food we'd had brought in from the diner. It was even worse cold, the grease having set around it like a grey jelly.

'How's the reading coming on.'

It's the closest thing to conversation Brad's made all day. I shrug.

He observes my shrug like he's offended.

'Wise up kid,' he growls. 'You telling me you been reading all day and ain't got to the bit about the kid singing the poem you were asking about?'

I look at him, thinking.

'Yeah,' I say after a pause. 'Make's more sense in the book though; "See a body, catch a body, coming through the rye."'

He looks away from the road, gives me an admiring glance.

'Good memory kid.'

'But I don't get how that makes this Holden guy dream he's the catcher, stopping children from falling off a cliff. All this Catcher in the Rye stuff had me thinking of some sort of evil guy, catching kids in the fields and roasting them alive or something like that.'

'Yeah, but look at me kid – despite my better judgement, I'm rescuing you, right?'

_'I'm_ not falling off a cliff.'

'Depends what sort of cliff you're thinking of kid. You can fall off the cliff of your entire life – and that's you sure enough.'

'That bad, huh?'

I look at him like he's just told me I ain't having chopped nuts on my ice cream.

'That bad,' he grunts, his eyes back on the road.

'Strikes me that kid don't ever really wanna grow up, don't want anyone to grow up.'

Brad grins.

'I thought you were smarter than you made out kid. Insightful, that's what I'd call insightful. But ain't you the opposite, ain't that why you've spotted it? Trying to grow up too fast?'

'I ain't falling, if that's what you're meaning,' I say, full of bravado once again.

'You ain't falling, how come I ain't seen you crying over your mom kid? That ain't natural, you ask me. I've seen grown men out in the jungle cry for their mom.'

I give him the shrug again, turning away before he can see that my eyes are glazing over.

Damn, why do they _do_ that?

'You ain't fooling me kid. You're just trying to look like you don't care. Fighting it, letting it all build up inside you where one day it'll tear you apart.'

Another shrug, like I'm the big man.

Fact is, I've cried my heart out, getting the shakes, back in the house. Like a girl.

Not that he needs to know.

Sure, he's coming out all understanding now, but I know his type; moment you show a hint of weakness, they see themselves as your master.

It's not something I want to dwell on, those moments of weakness.

Natch, Mom wasn't the perfect mom, like you see in all those ads; baking cakes, cleaning the house, looking beautiful even as she comes back from making sure the drains are clear. Smiling at everything like she's overdosing on toothpaste.

Even Mr Magoo could see it wasn't a great relationship we had there.

Sticking together because we thought we had to, that's what we were doing. Because that's what a mom and her son are supposed to do.

More through need rather than love.

But she'd had it hard, I realise that; it ain't her fault she'd been dealt a hand any broad in their right mind would've stacked before the game even got under way.

Can't hate her for that, can I?

Strange thing is, it does hurt when I think she ain't no longer around.

Strange to think she ain't gonna be there, eyes glued to that square little box, living her life in there rather than with me.

It ain't nice to think about her that way neither

'My advice; let it out now kid. Then get over it.'

'I'm over it,' I say.

He laughs. A tough guy laugh, like you get from Robert Mitchum in that _Night of the whatchamacallit_ movie.

'You thinking I ain't noticed you took the loss of you're beloved Marilyn harder than you did the death of your own mom? Bet you cried over her, eh? How guilty you gonna feel, kid, when you look back one day and think on how you didn't cry for the woman as raised you, and fed you?'

He looks at me hard, like he's trying to detect any tears forming in my eyes.

He ain't gonna see any.

'Thing is, you know why that is kid? Why you feel more for Marilyn's loss than your own?'

'I take it you're gonna tell me whether I wanna know or not.'

'It's all down to the fact she was just an innocent like you kid.'

'I'm no innocent.'

The stupid bravado once again.

Met by the tough guy laugh once again.

'Marilyn was caught up in this great big nasty world just like you kid; seeing everything through those great big innocent eyes of hers, she couldn't help but be finally broken. That old guy, messing with her like that?'

I get the look again, the look that says he's pushing for a reaction.

'So you know about that.'

I say it as nonchalantly as I can, even though I feel he's messing with her every much as that old guy.

'It's all in the papers kid. There ain't a time she's gone for a piss in the park that the papers don't wanna know about now she's gone and died. There's not much every Jack in the street ain't knowing about her now.'

'Except the way she died. No one's figured that out yet.'

'She died, kid, because no one caught her. There was no Catcher in the Rye. No one to save her when she was just an innocent child.'

*

# Chapter 23

I think Brad's flipped when he heads out into the desert.

We've got nothing left in the sedan to eat and drink. He even refuses to buy anything when we stop for gas.

It's after stopping there that he turns off into the desert. If I'd've known, I'd've lifted enough food to see us safely through the hellhole we're heading into.

Sure, we pass the odd lonely homestead; but that's exactly what we do, pass them by without Brad even giving them a glance. Let alone head towards them with the intention of begging for food and water.

'So we're gonna die out here, huh?'

'We're all gonna die at some point kid. The trick is to keep putting it off.'

'You know we ain't got enough water to see us safely through all this'

'Sure I know kid; thing is, those following us'll know it too if they're doing their job right and making all the right checks. They'd know too that we'd be crazy to head on out here without water.'

'Crazy, huh?'

'They'll figure it out eventually, sure; but if they're low enough down the food chain, they ain't gonna have any idea where we're heading. Meaning they'll waste even more time checking out all these here _Bonanza_ boys to see where we got fresh supplies.'

'And if they _do_ know where we're heading?'

He gives me a sly glance.

'In that case, kid, we've got far bigger problems to worry about than dying of thirst in the desert.'

*

# Chapter 24

If I'd thought Brad had lost it when he'd headed off into the desert, I know it for sure when he turns off the road and starts heading across a track marked by nothing more than other tyre prints.

There's nothing ahead of us but land you couldn't grow a weed in.

After a while, I spot a dust cloud on the horizon, like there's a storm brewing. And that's where Brad's heading.

As we draw closer, I begin to make out a tall wire fence. It stretches off to completely encircle the area where the cloud hovers and swirls.

A guardhouse and a striped barrier lies directly ahead of us, a couple of soldiers stepping forward. One raises a hand, a command that we should halt.

Brad drops his window, shows his ID. Says, 'I'll vouch for the kid,' the soldier bending down and peering at me suspiciously.

The barrier's lifted and we're waved through.

As we drive on, I begin to realise it's just a huge building site.

Unbelievably massive bulldozers and diggers burrowing vast holes in the ground. Towering cranes lowering tubular concrete sections like their creating a vertical, upended subway.

Trucks are everywhere, throwing up almost as much dust as they're carrying away on their backs.

'Welcome to the brave new world kid. The new frontier. Crops like this are going up all over the US. And Russky land too. A crop no sensible person would ever wanna see being harvested.'

I give him my best blank look.

'Missiles kid; silos for missiles, not grain. Someday soon people won't be allowed anywhere near this place, not even people like me.'

'So we hide out here? The guy's following won't be allowed in?'

'As I said kid, depends on what size fish they are; little fish or big fish. Just to be on the safe side, we'll just be taking on rations and be on our way.'

We drive past row after row of trailers, like there's a small city here of people from the wrong side of the tracks. But it's construction workers you see everywhere, thousands of them, milling around like termites building the biggest nest in the world.

Thousands of workers means hundreds of places to eat and Brad stops off at one of these joints. A pasty looking guy comes back out with him, struggling with a box full of food he loads into the car's trunk.

Pasty goes back for some canisters of water as Brad hands me three opened cokes, a couple of warm hamburgers.

I'm still drinking and eating as we speed back along the dusty track, heading away from the destruction site.

*

Another house, another home.

This time in New Orleans.

We didn't stop over anywhere; just bedded down in the car, huddling under blankets Brad had stored in the trunk like he was used to this sort of thing.

The new house is in the old quarter of New Orleans, so 'new' in that sense it definitely ain't.

You get the feeling you've stepped back a century or so, everywhere smelling of hot horsesh– and vomited whiskey. A sharp, sour reek you can taste on your tongue.

Thankfully, there's none of the instructions I had to live by in the previous 'safe' house. Here I can go out when I choose. Throw the drapes open.

But nothing 'that'll draw attention to you, natch.'

A party with all my friends is definitely out then, huh?

No school though; that's a bonus. I can just laze around all day, waiting for my man with his deliveries of food, glib comments, and his opinions on all manner of things.

'Mark my words kid; there's an obvious connection between all them there nuke bombs the Ruskies are letting off and the way they're just throwing commies up into space in rocket fuelled tins.'

'Well, what did he expect, eh kid?' (On Martin Luther King being jailed.)

'Three thousand men, just to get a few blacks learning how to read and write?' (On JFK sending troops into the University of Mississippi.)

Thankfully, I have a TV.

Sh–, I think; it ain't all deeply ingrained in my genes, is it?

*

Still, time passes quick when you're just letting yourself wallow in whatever's thrown your way by the little grey screen.

Before I know it, we're into October. I find myself wondering how much Mom would've loved a couple of new programmes.

I can see her here now, gently wetting herself at _The Lucy Show_.

She'd've called me over, saying 'just _listen_ to this', getting me to sit there and listen to every word Joan Crawford was coming out with as she revealed all to this guy Johnny Carson.

_Dennis the Menace_ is back too. I'm watching it when Brad comes by, letting himself in as usual and frowning as he catches me slumped in front of the square box.

I shrug. Mr Wilson is up on a charge. Wouldn't you know it, it's 'Children's Day in Court'. Meaning children get to run the court, and Dennis is the judge.

Brad switches it off.

'Hey, I was watching that!' I hear myself saying in my head.

I hold it back from coming out of my mouth. He looks pissed.

'The Ruskies are setting out their missiles in Cuba, kid. And you're laid out here like it's the last days of Rome.'

I shrug; hey, I don't know anything about Ruskie missiles in Cuba. It ain't as if it's been on the TV or anything.

'So what? We've got our own missiles,' I say.

'Yeah kid, but these Ruskie missiles are so close they could aim for your butt and put one right down your rear passage.'

'Yeah, but they ain't gonna actually be aiming there are they, eh?'

'They would if I had control of the buttons kid. Just to get some form of life back into that wasting bag of bones you still call a body.'

He grabs me by the shirt collar, hauls me up close to his face.

'Besides, I have some news that'll _really_ interest you.'

He lets me down again, like this was all just to show who's in control here.

'There's one thing that's still been puzzling me about our Miss Monroe's "suicide" kid.'

He's already pulled out an envelope from the bag of groceries he's brought.

He pulls out two photographs from the envelope, handing them to me. They're almost identical pictures, only the angle of the camera's slightly different.

They're pictures of the clutter in Marilyn's room the day she died.

Brad points out something to me, indicating the same spot on both photographs.

'See, there was no glass kid – and then, later, as if by magic, there _was_ a glass.'

*

# Chapter 25

'How'd she swallow enough drugs to kill her if she ain't using champagne to swill it down with?'

'Champagne?' Brad looks puzzled.

'She'd take her pills with champagne,' I explain.

'Well that ain't no champagne glass. And how come it ain't there at first and then, hey presto, there it is! Someone's put it there kid. Someone who wants us to think it's suicide.'

I look up at him.

'This mean's you're beginning to believe me when I say agents were there that night?'

'This means I'm beginning to wonder what out three stooges aren't telling us. See, I check up on what our Sergeant Clemmons – the cop called out to the scene – says about it all. He says he's seen plenty of suicides in his time, and the way our Miss Monroe's laid out ain't looking like suicide to him.'

'How? What'd he mean by that?'

Heck, _I_ knew it wasn't a suicide, but here we've got a cop saying the same thing. And no one's reported it. No one's listened to him.

'Thing is, anyone overdosing goes into convulsions, kid. Vomiting too. They end up in one heck of mess, contorted like you ain't ever wanting to see. Marilyn was laid face down, her legs stretched out – like, he says, she'd been placed that way.'

'Could be Eunice – tidying up, like she did with the washing.'

I say it, but I don't believe it. I don't want to believe it.

He gives me a 'you don't believe that do you?' look.

'Now I'm more curious than ever, right? See, another strange thing about all this is the autopsy results. They ain't made public, and there ain't no record of the findings. I checked. Lucky for us we took copies of those results before they were "lost", eh kid?'

He pulls out another set of large photographs from the envelope.

Photos of nothing more than typed sheets of paper.

Brad grimaces, like he's trying to stop himself breaking into a proud grin.

At first glance, the papers appear pretty meaningless to me; lists of figures and percentages. Then it dawns on me – these are blow-ups of the photos Brad took of the autopsy results.

'This girl had more chemical substances swilling around inside her than a town's drugstore kid.'

He points to a list of figures on one of the photos.

'Her blood level kid; the drugs swilling 'bout her system. _Four_ times the amount that could've killed her, even though she'd grown used to taking these things like candy. Hell, she'd've had to have been squirreling stuff away for months! Where'd she get all that from?'

He pulls out another photo. It's another typed document, different to the ones I recall seeing in the mortuary.

'Now our good Dr Engelberg, he's saying he gave her a prescription of Nembutal a few days before her last bottle of twenty-five. Whaddya know, the pharmacy records don't agree with this.'

He waves the photo, letting me know these are the records.

'So, when I politely point this out to him, he says the bottle dated August third was a refill. But it had a new order number, so it wasn't a refill.'

He pauses, enjoying the horrified look on my face.

'And here's another thing kid. The amounts we're talking here, she would've died long before it had all been digested by her stomach. But guess what? Know what they found in her stomach? Nothing, kid. Zilch. Not even the yellow dye the capsules leave behind.'

Now I'm gawping, I just know it. I can see it in the satisfied grin on his face.

'So she _didn't_ swallow the drugs...?' I'm almost sure that's what he's getting at here.

'No glass, remember kid? Thing is, what they did find was an "abnormal, anomalous discoloration of the colon."'

He says it without referring to the photos of the papers, like he's memorised this phrase. He waits for me to ask what that means.

'The drugs were forced up her butt kid. No one accidentally overdoses that way. No one commits suicide that way. Not even the Frenchies.'

*

'Eunice! It's got to be – she was fired that day! She wanted to get her own back!'

'Kid, kid – calm down, calm down. I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing, letting you know what I'd found out. So she was fired; does that mean, hey presto, she suddenly changes into a homicidal maniac? If that's how it works, hell, we're in trouble the day Ford starts giving people the bullet.'

'Who else, who else would be after killing Marilyn?'

He grabs me by the shoulders, makes me sit down as he talks firmly to me.

'Look, Eunice put your mom out of a job so you've got something against her. I understand that – it's understandable. But that don't go meaning she's suddenly America's most wanted. Think about it _rationally_ kid. She's no spring chicken, our Eunice – how the hell's she gonna hold down a woman who, believe me, would be struggling like hell way I see it.'

Dr Greenson – he was there. And Dr Engelberg. They'd help her.'

'Kid, you still ain't thinking straight, believe me. It's one hell of a conspiracy you're building up here. And why kill their own meal ticket, someone bringing in the money? Fame too!'

I clench my fists, grimace as I try to control my shock and anger.

'What you don't wanna go doing anyway is killing the most famous woman in world.'

Brad's keeping his voice calm, controlled.

'Not unless you're wanting all the world's press rushing to your door, trying to figure out what really happened here. Jeez kid, those reporters wanted to know whenever our Miss Monroe made one of those cute little sneezes of hers. Let alone when she ends up dead, naked, and with a phone in her hand.'

I look at him. My eyes feel like they're wide, glazed – crazed.

'Look, you're overwrought kid – it was stupid of me to think you'd handle all this info, like it ain't nothing more than somebody's grocery list. I've got something for you that'll calm you down. Something we used to use out in the jungle to keep our fears from overrunning our senses.'

He reaches into his pocket, brings out a small bottle of pills. He opens it, tips a couple out into his hands.

He hands them to me.

'I'll get you a glass of water,' he says, heading off to the kitchen.

*

# Chapter 26

Brad's got another way of 'reinstalling calm'.

He's got me sitting in front of a mirror,

'Sit in front of the mirror kid; tell yourself all this ain't gonna get you down. You're gonna be strong.'

He's given me a pad of paper too, and a pencil and pen; 'Whichever you feel most at home with kid.'

He's brought a radio along. Put it on low. so low the only things registering on my mind are the adverts, repeated over and over.

Stuff for getting around like Continental Airlines and National Shoes.

Cars like Buick, Chevy, Dodge. And all the stuff you'll need to keep 'em running, like Gulf Power, Crest Batteries, Rayco.

Stuff you'll need for the perfect house, from Betty Crocker's Brownie Mix to Tender-Cut Bread. Stuff you'll need to get it all started off in the first place, such as Household Finance Loan Corporations.

Stuff for what you're suffering from or made to think you're suffering from, like Vicks Cough Drops, Noxema Cover Girl Matte Makeup, Mennen Spray and Push Button Deodorant.

And, of course, all the stuff to help you forget what you're suffering from; Budweiser, Ballantine Ale, Schlitz, Piels (Bob Elliott and Ray Goulding thinking they're being funny); Salem, Winston, York and Pall Mall (So smooth, so satisfying, so downright smokeable!); drugs too, naturally, like Compoz.

Brad's always turning up to make sure my own pills are close to hand, 'As I sure ain't wanting to see you having a relapse kid.'

'They're not like the ones Marilyn used to take, don't worry kid,' he adds, winking.

'We'll get you safely through all this kid; just as soon as I figure out who the heck it is were dealing with here.'

'What you writing kid? Remember how I told you to write down whatever came into your head? To get it out of your system, vent your anger. You ain't gotta let it swill around inside you.'

He'll take a look at my pad, see what I've been writing.

'Beige, Black, White, Red.'

'Marlon Brando, Clark Gable, Charlie Chaplin.'

'Romanoff's.'

'Bloomingdales.'

'Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo, Jean Harlow, Ginger Rogers, Olivia de Havilland.'

He looks up from the pad, frowning.

'What are they kid, some sort of code? What's going on here?'

'Her favourite things; they were her favourite things.'

'Your mom? Your mom's favourite things?'

'Marilyn's.'

'And September sixteenth? Why you keep on writing September sixteenth?'

'That's when she said she was due to start filming again. Start filming Something's Got to Give again.'

It's almost dreamlike, the way I feel now.

When Brad's not here, it's like he's here anyway.

Like the radio's whispering to me. Like it's all in my mind and yet it isn't.

The paper he's given me is bone coloured, bone coloured like Marilyn's stationary.

Hers was embossed; Marilyn Monroe.

I start writing again.

'Gin a body meet a body...'

'Gin a body kiss a body...'

'Comin' thro' the rye...'

*

# Chapter 27

Brad rushes in one day, snatching things up, throwing them into a bag.

'We're moving again kid. We've been discovered.'

*

We're in the sedan again. A different one, I think.

After sitting for so many days in front of a mirror, it's strange seeing the road open up before me through the windshield; like the mirror has burst into life, and I'm floating through a strange world.

'What happened?'

I can't take my eyes of the wondrously moving landscape.

On the radio, it's _Monster Mash_.

'Can't explain,' he replies, his eyes as firmly fixed on the road as mine. 'Things just don't seem right, that's all.'

Outside, on the streets, everyone files past as if we're not even there. Are these people really out to kill me?

Of course not, I realise. It only needs one of them.

One of them's enough to kill you.

Brad flips through the channels on the radio. There's a snatch of the Four Seasons; '...Sher...rrr...ry, Sherry baby...' Other tracks I don't recognise.

Then he stops, some boring guy intoning the news like he's reading it direct from a newspaper.

JFK's warning Russia. Saying the US ain't gonna stand for having Commie missiles in Cuba.

He's put a blockade in place already. Talk of a possible Third World War.

Armageddon. Nukes going off all over the place.

Yeah, I'd heard all about that. That's what comes of sitting in front of a mirror all day just listening to the radio.

'The Thunderbird kid.'

Brad's eyes are on the rear-view mirror. I spin my head around.

Way behind us, moving in and out of the traffic, looking like he ain't got a care in the world, there's a pink Thunderbird.

*

Gently weaving in and out of the other lines of traffic, keeping to a steady pace, the Thunderbird continues to follow us.

He's in no rush. And neither, surprisingly, are we.

'Ain't we gonna try and lose him?'

'No point just yet kid; I need to see who else's out there tailing us.'

He glances in the mirror every now and again.

'The other guys a bit more on the ball; chosen a vehicle that blends in with the rest of the schmucks going about their daily business.'

After a couple of miles, the Thunderbird veers off. It takes an exit, its bright pink flashing like a gloriously plumed flamingo against its much duller background.

Brad's eyes dart continually towards the rear-view mirror.

'The old Buick. Keeping way back.'

I spin around in my seat again. I can't see the one he means. There's a number of old sedans behind us.

Brad gives me a quick glance.

'It's a classic pass, see kid? The T-Bird leaves, so you think you're safe. You've let your overactive imagination get the better of you, you tell yourself. You're paranoid, ha ha ha.'

It's not a proper laugh; it's mock laughter.

'Then some guy in some old beat-up Chevy you ain't ever gonna suspect follows you all the way to hell.'

We drive at a leisurely place for a number of miles, Brad's gaze hardly off the mirror. Thing is, Brad actually seems to be driving slower than ever.

We're dropping back, car's overtaking us. He's keeping quiet too, until he says calmly;

'Brace yourself kid. Put your hands out on the dashboard.'

I stretch out my arms, my hands splayed across the dash.

Suddenly, Brad kicks down hard on the brakes.

My head jolts forward. Horns are blaring everywhere.

There's the squeal of other cars braking so hard the drivers must have floored the pedal.

There's also a dull crump here and there, like some cars have struck others.

I'm forced back in my seat as Brad abruptly accelerates. Flung to one side as he throws the sedan into a tight corner.

We're cutting across the road, the vehicles coming up behind us now having to brake even more violently than before. Car's skid and slide. Some sweep towards us side-on, bouncing to a halt only a few inches from hitting us. Those beyond these ain't so lucky, striking and smashing, crump after crump after crump.

Horns going off, like they're going to make any difference.

Then we're heading down an exit, Brad smiling grimly. Head down like he don't need to check we've left the Buick behind.

It's cruising along a road they ain't gonna get off for at least a couple of extra miles.

Even so, Brad spins our sedan round a sharp corner, spins it around another, and another.

Not even bothering, the way I see it, to work out what he's doing. If you ain't got a plan, no one can second-guess what you're gonna do.

I'm sliding across the seat like the fair's come to town.

After quarter of an hour of this, I say, 'The Buick ain't following us; I checked.'

Brad chuckles harshly.

'Kid, they might have reckoned we'd do that at some point; give them the slip, slow down and shoot off down an exit. In which case they'd have other cars hanging around. Placed just off the road, seeing if we drive past them.'

He brings us to a screeching halt just ahead of an empty, parked car he's just spotted. He bangs into reverse, the tyres squealing.

He brings us up real close to the other car. He jumps out, looks around, like he's checking no one else is about. It's pretty deserted around here.

'Bring your stuff kid,' he says, 'and bring whatever you can out of the trunk.'

Opening the trunk, he takes out a wire, twists it into shape as he stands by the driver's door of the other car. In a second he's opened the door.

He crouches underneath the steering wheel, rips out a panel; wires it. The engine chugs into life, like it don't like being woken up.

All the stuff from our sedan goes in the back seat.

'Looks like we lost them,' I say half an hour later as we rush down an empty road.

'Sure kid,' he growls. 'And I've slipped into a parallel world, where everything's completely different to the one I'm used to.'

He stares at me intently.

'You _never_ lose these people kid.'

*

# Chapter 28

Even Mom never had me moving places so often.

The first few days in Dallas are spent in a deserted house, Brad breaking into it like he could make a good living from it. The locks opening up for him like Moses and the Red Sea.

He rigs the electricity up so we've not only got the supply back on but we're also getting it for free. Water ditto; he opens up a few holes in the ground, twists a few stopcocks. After an initial violent clunking and streams of what looks like murky swamp water, it's running sparkling and clear.

Out on the streets, I find myself suspecting everyone.

They guy lingering as he stops to buy a paper. The drunk, ambling along like he can't even focus three steps ahead of him. The woman, holding a grocery bag that looks too light to be full of things she's just bought.

We're out one day and I feel a nearby cop watching us.

I feel like I'm under suspicion, end up acting suspiciously. Trying to look way too casual.

Damn it if I ain't almost whistling!

The cop's whole attention is on me now.

He approaches, goes through the usual guff; 'Howdy gents, how y'all doing there?'

Voice friendly, just in case he's made a mistake. Eyes hard and still, saying he don't think so.

'Can we help you officer?'

Brad, subservient; first time I've ever seen him like this. Head down, his back slightly bent, like 'I ain't after any trouble officer'.

He and the officer talk. Nicely, calmly; but like two guy's playing checkers, looking for a weakness, an opening.

Acting real friendly like but on their guard, on the attack. The cop's eyes warily flicking to me every now and again.

The cop's young, probably just out of the army. Still smart, like his mom proudly presses his shirts for him everyday.

Probably still sees his job as a service to his country. Suspects every one of a certain type as a potential wrongdoer.

Kids like me, we've got wrongdoing written all over us. Like it's a rash we were born with.

It's the sort of questioning you'd expect from a rookie cop. Putting out what he thinks are probing comments.

Keeping it polite, flattering himself he's sharp enough to catch someone out.

Where you heading for? Where you coming from? Guess you folks are from outatown, yeah? Where you staying? How long you planning on staying?

Brad's still got presence; he's just hiding it. He's gradually moving forward, the cop sidling away, backing off without even realising it, you bet.

Brad looks like he's embarrassed, his gaze flicking from side to side. Like the cops the master and he's ashamed that his loyalty could be even doubted.

But I reckon he's checking no one's around, waiting for the handful of people in the street to move on.

Because as soon as the last person disappears indoors, Brad crouches into a football charge, barrelling hard into the cop's chest.

The cop stumbles backwards into a narrow alleyway, his body moving faster than his feet can move. He finally topples backwards, sent sprawling amongst garbage and trashcans.

Brad leaps on him. Lifts his head, twists sharply.

Sh–!

He just killed an ffffing cop! Brad just killed an ffffing cop!

'What the ffffing hell you think you doing? You just killed a ffffing cop! You just killed an ffffing cop Brad!'

Brad doesn't seem to be listening. He's dragging the cop deeper into the alley, taking us all behind the trashcans.

'He was going to take us in kid; last thing we need. Even just putting in a report about us is bad enough. Makes a light come on somewhere showing where we are. Makes us trackable.'

'I thought you were talking him out of it! You can't just go killing a cop anyways!'

As soon as he thinks we're all out of sight, he starts rifling through the kid's pockets with one hand, unclipping the ID with the other.

'See, I don't think he was a real cop kid. Odd, the way he just came up to us like that.'

He flicks open and glances at the ID, lifts it up so I can take a look.

'Check the ID kid; fake.'

I look at it, but needn't have bothered. It looks fine to me. Someone's ticket to see the Dallas Cowboys would look fine to me.

'It's the cop's number kid,' Brad explains, realising I wouldn't know a fake ID unless it had LIES stamped all over it. 'It's not a number for this area.'

'Why send a fake cop after us? Where's the sense in that?'

'Because they figure we'd come along quietly. Thinking we were just being pulled in for a bit of innocent questioning, some sh– we could talk our way out of.'

'Figures,' I say, shrugging.

He's wiping down everything he's touched. He clips the ID back into place.

'What we gonna do about the body?'

'Nothing.'

He stands up, dusts himself down.

He takes me by the elbow and begins to lead me out of the alley, back towards the street. He's already glancing around, making sure no one's about.

'Cops get killed; fact. They'll suspect we were involved, but there ain't no proof. No leads they can use. They'll also be busy trying to cover up their involvement, the papers sniffing a bigger story when they figure he ain't a cop at all.'

Walking down the street, Brad acts like it's just another day.

'We'll move on, just to be sure,' he says, grinning as the sun strikes his face. 'I've got something in mind – it ain't ideal. But could be that's why they'll never figure you're there kid.'

*

# Chapter 29

'Jack, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Lee – Lee Oswald.'

I take the guy's hand. It' ain't what you'd call a firm handshake, but it's warm enough.

'Lee, Jack Leroyson.'

Brad's brought me to a small diner, introduced me to his friend, a guy already seated at a table.

The guy has a strangely timid manner, almost girlish. Timid smile, too.

Fact is, the face is pretty rather than handsome too; all small features, soft contours. Early twenties, at a guess. Prep school haircut.

How I'd imagine that guy Holden Caulfield could've looked, the phoney from _Catcher in the Rye_.

On the table in front of him there's just a cup of cold-looking coffee and a book. I glance at the book, wondering what sort of stuff this guy reads.

The title makes no sense, though, like the book's upside down. Like it's some foreign language.

Don't even look like it's using normal letters, like it's from another planet.

'You still at the welding company?'

Brad takes his seat. With a wave of his fingers, he indicates to the waitress that she should bring over three more coffees.

'Nah, I quit.'

Lee's voice ain't as squeaky as I thought it might be. Dallas twang, confident. Like they have the monopoly on speaking like cowboys in the westerns.

'Wasn't for me. Just lasted three months there.'

'And so now?'

'Trainee; company doing photographic printing, typesetting. That sorta thing.'

'Useful,' says Brad with a large grin.

Lee gives him a weak grin in return.

*

The waitress smiles likes she's sick and tired of smiling.

She more or less spins the three cups of coffee across the table.

The coffees more or less end up in front of each one of us.

We all give her a nod, mouthing but not saying 'Thanks'.

Brad turns to me.

'Couldn't leave you with anyone safer than Lee kid.'

'You're leaving me?' It's the first I've heard of it.

'They're on the look out for me and you kid. If they don't recognise one, they'll recognise the other; as we saw with that cop.'

The dead cop made the papers. No comment about him being a fake cop. Just interviews with his shocked colleagues. His distraught wife of three months.

'They're messing with your mind kid,' Brad had assured me. 'They want you feeling guilty. Want you to do something stupid like turn yourself in. There ain't no weeping nineteen-year-old widow, believe me. What's worrying me is they're getting the cops to go along with all this bull; meaning they're far more powerful than I'd figured.'

'You'll just be staying with me and my wife for awhile,' Lee says in answer to my question. 'Give Brad more chance to snoop around on his own. Find out who the bastards are who're chasing you down.'

'Lee's got a story much like yours kid.'

Brad's almost finished his coffee. He likes it hot, scalding.

'Lived in more homes than you can count on your fingers and toes; New Orleans, Louisiana, Covington, Dallas. Might as well have had a truck for a home. He's been in the orphanage too, his mom too poor to take care of him.'

Lee gives me a friendly nod, like he's already been filled in on my history. Like he's already made the connections.

'Unlike you though kid,' Brad continues, 'Lee here got his act together by joining up with the US marines. Got himself noted as a sharpshooter. Scored two hundred and twelve. A marksman too, scoring one hundred and ninety one.'

'Just a couple of points above the minimum for qualification.'

Lee says it like Brad's making a big deal out of nothing and he wants to put the record straight.

'In case Brad's giving you the wrong idea here, like I'm some sort of war hero, you should also know I was court-martialled, twice.'

Brad's finished his coffee. He laughs, his teeth partially stained by the strong drink.

'Busted from private first class down to private. Served time in the brig too!' Brad turns towards me. 'Started a fight with the sergeant he blamed for getting him court-martialled in the first place!'

Lee shrugs.

I grin; the guy sounds all right.

*

Lee turns towards Brad, his face strangely warped, like he's fighting to contain a great deal of explosive anger.

'See Kennedy got Khrushchev to start dismantling the missiles in Cuba.'

'Yeah, they're all saying Khrusky blinked first. Way I see it, there's been a trade off. Kennedy ain't the bright boy we're all supposed to think he is.'

I ain't interested.

My eyes drop towards the book, the book whose title I still can't make out, even though Lee's moved it around when he rearranged his coffee cups. It looks like it's been written by some alien from some wacky movie.

Lee notices that I'm puzzled by his book.

'It's Russian,' he says. 'It means "Crocodile".'

As I hear the word 'Russian', I can't help but look back towards Brad.

Could be the look on my face says, 'Is this guy a _commie_?'

Could be Brad just naturally feels some explanation is due.

Either way, he says, 'Lee got himself a security clearance in the Marines, allowing him to handle classified material.'

'Read much yourself Jack?'

Lee has picked the book up, slipping it inside a small satchel-like bag he has with him.

'Yeah, you do don't you Jack?'

Brad's answered for me. He turns towards Lee.

_'The Catcher in the Rye_ ; he's reading _The Catcher in the Rye_ at the moment.'

I shrug, like yeah, that's what I'm reading at the moment.

'Good book, Jack,' Lee says. 'Always remember this; "Thou shall seek the truth and the truth shall make you free."'

*

Lee's got himself one of the prettiest wives I've ever seen.

Russian. He met and married her in Russia too.

They've got a daughter, just under a year old. Born in Russia.

Guess that makes her Russian too.

Lee's wife Marina can't be much older than me, I reckon. Looks more like some high school student than anybody's wife.

Long hair. Small, half-grapefruit-like breasts. Dark eyebrows that draw attention to her eyes.

Like Lee, she has a face that's almost masculine/ Like she's a female Elvis. Right down to the remarkably straight nose and full lips.

She smokes Salem, that light-green pack somehow setting off the pastel tones of her loose top or slacks. Like some young, aspiring Jackie Kennedy.

She trips around the place lightly, like she's gaily walking through a wood. Perhaps that's why she chooses Salem; all those ads, people by rivers in untouched woodland. _'_ _Salem_ refreshes your taste, "air-softens" every puff.'

Yeah, Mom could've done with those.

But I suppose Mom always wanted to see herself more as the Rhode Island babe. Bathing in blue waters with a handsome, rich dude.

Some hope Mom. Some hope.

Thinking of Mom, I have to choke back the feeling I'm gonna burst into tears unless I get a hold of myself.

Truth is, when I'd first been introduced to Marina, I'd seen her more as a Viceroy girl. You know, like the smart broad in the ad; wearing that loose, bright orange top. All those guys from the band surrounding her, all wanting to share her smoke of choice. 'Viceroy's got the taste _that's_ _right_!'

That's what she's like, Marina – you want to be with her, to share in the brightness she brings with her. Like it's her own special perfume.

Not that Marina would ever smell anything but wonderful. You should see the washroom. Evening in Paris Bath Oil. Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder. Noxema Cover Girl Matte Makeup.

Only time we had that sorta stuff in our washroom at home was when Mom brought home the dregs her employers no longer wanted anymore.

And the things she says.

She says, 'You knows whatch the world's most beautiful instrument is Jack?'

And when I say I don't know, the violin I suppose – those sorta instruments they use to play all that boring music that don't have any singing – she laughs.

She laughs in such a way I totally believe her when she tells me she reckons the world's most beautiful instrument is the human voice.

'Have you ever heard choral music Jack? It's literally heavenly, like we're all rising up to meet God, to converse with him in his own language. Don't you think that's proof that a part of heaven or even God exists within us all?'

Okay, so she don't say it exactly like that. She mangles her words, like she's only just learning English.

But she says it all with an accent that makes even 'Hello Jack' sound like the most exotic thing I've ever heard.

Marina – the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

*

# Chapter 30

What can I say?

Lee might be a bit too uptight for his own good. Rattling on about all the world's problems, like it's all up to him to solve them.

And little June cries throughout the night like any baby.

And Marina and Lee talk or more usually shout all the time in Russian, so I haven't really got much of a clue what's going on.

But Marina more than makes up for every single bit of it.

*

The months around Christmas make it the best Christmas I've ever had.

I can't quite put my finger on why that is.

Everything just seems so _exciting_ , like everything's all coming together, keeping me bouncing along like I've got no worries anymore.

Everywhere I go, songs seem to be blaring out from jukeboxes and radios, telling me to make the most of my life.

The Crystals singing 'He's a Rebel'. The Four Seasons warbling 'Bi...i...ig girls don't cry...y...y'. Four limeys just putting out all this weird electronic stuff, celebrating the launch of Telstar.

Sure, Brad shows up every now and again, telling me he ain't getting nowhere with his leads. Warning me the people after us can show up any moment and I should make sure I 'don't go getting too damn complacent'.

But even this ain't bringing me down.

See, soon as Lee's back from work, he keep himself busy. Putting together what he calls his 'memoirs', like he thinks anybody's gonna bother reading them.

It's a 'commentary on Soviet life', he says, which he's gonna call _The Collective_.

That means me and Marina, we go to the movies whenever Lee's okay about looking after June.

'Sure, you need to get out now and again.' Leastways, I think that's what he says, as he says it in Russian.

Normally, I'd've been up for _The Longest Day_. One of those 'Hey Hitler, no one goes messing with the US of A' kinda movies.

Marina, though, she's not on for it. Besides, that limey creep Lawford's in it.

Marina prefers movies that make you feel good.

I surprise myself. I actually like _Gypsy_ , a musical.

Perhaps it's because Marina is sitting alongside me. Crazily shaking her head to the beat of the songs. Mouthing the words of the choruses even though she can't possibly know them.

Natalie Wood's in it too; she played Maria in _Westside Story_.

There's also Karl Malden, his squashed nose and squat, taught body giving him all the angry presence of barroom brawler. A man who can't help but look like he's itching for a fight in every scene.

I even find Doris Day funny, as long as Marina's alongside me laughing at more or less everything she does. (I'm sure she ain't getting a single word of what Doris is saying.) _That Touch of Mink_. Marina seems to think it's the funniest thing she's ever seen.

Cary Grant's trying to get Doris to sleep with him, but Doris ain't having any of it. She's only the marrying kind. He's rich, is our Cary, driving Rolls Royces, vacationing in Bermuda.

Mom would've liked this movie, you bet. Mom and her Newports.

*

Back at the house one day, I'm watching TV; Miss World, attending some event, some place somewhere outside of America.

She's Dutch, so it figures.

She's also nowhere near as beautiful as Marilyn ever was. But she has an accent that reminds me of Marina.

She's not as pretty as Marina though.

Marina flops down beside me.

'Whatch you watchings?' she asks.

She's gradually picking up an incredibly basic form of American from me.

She's incredibly bright, learning words and phrases each day. She was a student in Russia, learning Pharmacology, whatever that is.

Lee doesn't want her speaking American. He prefers speaking in Russian.

'The news.'

'Ah Miss Vorld; Catharina Lodders, yes?'

'Yeah.'

_'Beautiful_ , yes?'

'Well, yeah...if you, you know, like that sorta thing.'

She giggles. She's eating an apple and she has to raise the back of her hand up to her mouth to stop a piece falling out.

'That sorta thing? Watch "that sorta thing"? She _beautiful_ Jack!'

She giggles again, takes another firm bite of her apple. It crunches between her teeth, some of the juice running down her lip.

I shrug.

'Yeah. I've seen others more beautiful.'

She moves back, away from me slightly. She brings the back of her hand up to her mouth once again, but this time like she's said something wrong.

'Ah, yes; I knows who you means.'

She says it like just mentioning it could send me into floods of tears.

I shrug.

She reaches out, places a hand on one of mine.

Little June starts crying.

Marina clenches my hand, smiles.

Then she gets up to attend to her daughter.

*

There aren't many days that pass by where Lee isn't ranting about some injustice in the world.

Ranting about some guy who sums up all those injustices. If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard General Edwin Walker mentioned...

Weird thing is, I've also heard Brad mention the very same guy. For different reasons, though. Brad having at blast at JFK for relieving the general of his command.

'Sure Jack, but that's because the general had been handing out rightwing material to his troops,' Lee explains when I point this out.

How the heck did these two guys become friends?

Way Lee has it, General Walker's little better than Hitler.

'You know all that trouble at the University of Mississippi Jack? When JFK had to send in the troops to allow Negroes to attend? Well that was General Walker who was against the troops going in. There was a riot, two people killed. Sure, he was arrested, but you know what – the federal grand jury refused to indict him.'

Thing is, despite his rambling, a lot of what Lee says seems to make a lot of sense to me.

'You seen all those international sports events, Jack? When all the glory's brought to us by the Negroes? They're the ones taking the medals from the Russians Jack, yet you know what? – when they come back home, do you think they find a welcome, a grateful nation? No Jack, they come home to blind hatred and discrimination.'

The only time he stops talking like this is when Brad shows up.

Like he knows Brad ain't gonna take too kindly to this view of America.

*

# Chapter 31

'Sh– me if the goddamn commies ain't gone and got themselves a one hundred megaton bomb!' Brad says first time I see him just after Christmas.

He's been drinking, drinking too much.

'Me and some of the boys who've been working abroad finally got around to celebrating Christmas, he explains to a disgusted Marina.

'Hey Lee, hey, our friend JFK; it looks like, looks like, you know, he might even get old Khrusky to get all his _troops_ outta Cuba! How about that eh? How about that Lee?'

He shouts across the room, like he wants all the neighbours to hear.

'Oh yeah, and how's he achieved that Brad, eh?'

Lee shouts back almost as loud.

What's he given away to get that? You tell me, eh, you tell me!'

Brad puts an arm round my shoulders, like the supporting father.

I feel I'm supporting him, the way his weight leans against me now and again. His breath is stale, too close.

'That JFK boy!' He winks. 'You gotta know, kid, cos you're sure as hell gonna know soon enough, that he ain't the fine upstanding young President you perhaps might think he is.'

He chuckles, splutters, repeats, 'Upstanding!'

He gives a slow wave to Marina and Lee as he leads me out of the room.

'I need to talk to the boy alone, if you don't mind Marina, Lee?'

Marina smiles, nods. Lee waves dismissively with a raised hand.

Now Brad holds me tightly by both shoulders, leans down and looks me as straight in the eye as he can in his condition.

The father about to give his son a lecture – you need a grip on yourself boy!

'Look kid, you might be wondering why, when you told me our Miss Monroe was too happy to commit suicide, I took it all with a pinch of salt, yeah?'

'But you know she didn't commit suicide. You've said that yourself now. You said she was murdered.'

'Sure kid, that's right; but we still don't know who did it, right?'

'Sure.' I nod, wondering where all this is heading.

'What I'm saying, kid, is that I never bought into all this she's so wonderfully happy because she had a wonderful weekend with Joe sh–. Because I know things you don't know kid.'

I say nothing. I just look up at him, warily.

He's gonna tell me, I know he is. What it is, I don't know.

'See kid, it wasn't Joe who arranged that wonderfully idyllic weekend up at Lake Tahoe like you think, comprende? It was Frank, Frank Sinatra, who'd set it all up. Him and his old friend Sam Giancana – a Mafia mobster kid, get that? Planning on plying her with drugs and taking compromising photos. Stuff they could use as blackmail if she threatened to expose the Kennedys. Old Joe, he turns up unexpectedly, late Saturday night. See, our sweetly innocent Marilyn had invited him. He's furious, you bet, what with Sinatra and the Kennedys luring Marilyn there.'

'The Kennedys? Why would they do that? Why get her up there?''

'JFK kid; he had been, shall we say, _seeing_ your precious Marilyn.'

'Seeing?'

I say it like I'm some dumb kid.

I'm just trying to get my thoughts together, know what I mean?

I know what he means.

He looks down at his feet, trying to think of another way of saying it.

'I never saw it,' I say.

He guffaws drunkenly.

'You think she'd let you know kid? Fact that she's dating the President? She'd keep it secret boy!'

'She never kept a single secret from Ralph – and he told me most things.'

'Ralph? Ah, yes, Ralph _Roberts_? Her masseur.'

'She called Ralph her brother.'

I try to keep the envy out of my voice. I can feel my vocal chords quivering. Sh–.

'There wasn't much he didn't know about her. You know what she said about Bobby Kennedy? She said he was puny. That she liked him, but not, you know, body wise.'

Ralph would massage her as she lay in front of the sunroom. By the pool she hardly ever used.

Ralph would prepare an ice bath, and Marilyn would add her perfume.

Chanel No. 5.

She'd use Nivea Skin Moisturizing Lotion. For her face, when not wearing makeup, she'd smear it with lanolin, olive oil, even Vaseline.

She'd also rinse her face fifteen times after every wash; part of her beauty regime.

She'd also regularly dine with Ralph out there, by the pool. Looking out over the most incredible views of the valley below.

'Sure kid.' Brad shakes me hard by the shoulder. 'And you know what she said about the President? That he made love like an adolescent.'

He grins at this.

'It was all over in about minute, know what I mean? But it didn't stop the broads fancying the hell out him. Didn't stop Marilyn dating him.'

'She didn't want to be the wife of no politician!'

'We're not talking politician here kid. We're talking President. We're talking First Lady.'

'He was already married. He already had a First Lady.'

He snorts, trying to hold back his laughter.

'You telling me you don't think a sex puss like Marilyn couldn't knock a sour puss like Jackie way out of the ball park? Let me tell you kid, you must know about the happy birthday bash for the President; where Marilyn stood up, sang, wowed the entire audience?'

'Sure. Madison Square Garden. Who's not to know about that?'

'Wow, kid, let me tell you I was there. And if anyone had sung _Happy Birthday_ to me like that, well – I'd think all my birthdays had come all at once, know what I mean?'

I shrug. Yeah, I know what he means.

Everyone who's seen it knows what he means.

That dress cost her twelve thousand dollars. A Jean Louis beaded gown, she called it.

She'd told me, giggling, that she'd had herself stitched into the dress just before she went on stage. Making sure it clung to every curve of her body, like it was a sparkling, sliver skin.

Afterwards, they had to carefully snip her out of it. Bathe her with cool hand towels to lower her temperature.

Even when she'd simply stepped out into the stage lights, the audience had gasped.

They'd roared as she'd approached the mike.

She went out in an ermine wrap, letting it fall behind her into that limey Lawford's hands.

Then she started singing.

'Kid, she sang so breathlessly, it was like mass seduction out there, believe me. The crowd yelling and screaming for more. And you know what the President said afterwards? He thanked her for singing to him in "such a sweet and wholesome way". But the crowd knew kid, they knew for sure after her singing to the President like that – she was the President's lover, kid.'

I shake my head, grin sickly.

'Kid, that limey, Lawford; he knew it. He was teasing the whole crowd with in-jokes about a secret most of them already knew. Hell, even the First Lady knew it kid – she stayed away.'

'So what gives? Why you telling me all this all of a sudden?'

Now he's the one to shrug.

'You telling me I'm so stupid I didn't notice you had a thing for Marilyn? Even though she was way out of your league –your age group even, kid?'

He clutches me by the shoulders once again. Holds me so he can look directly into my eyes.

'There are some broads we fall for who just ain't attainable, savvy?'

He says it like there's some hidden meaning behind it all.

'Guess I'm just giving you a quick introduction to the hard facts of life, seeing as how pop ain't around to do the deed.'

He lets my shoulders go, lets me step back.

'Life's hard kid. Makes us face up to things we don't really want to face up to. What'd you think it was like for the First Lady, eh? You think Jackie knew what I know? That the fine, upstanding JFK maintained a penthouse in the Carlyle Hotel?'

He pauses, letting this sink in.

'That's where he went after the event with Marilyn. Me and a few other agents, we snuck them both in there. Tunnels running from Arthur Krim's house to the hotel, you credit that kid? Krim, he's a theatrical big wig. Held a party after the event. Marilyn's there no more than an hour before Jack and Bobby take her away into a corner. A photographer took a picture; boy, were they pissed!'

I'm angry, the way he thinks all this is one huge joke.

'There were other occasions too, kid. A weekend at Bing Crosby's house out in Palm Springs. Plenty of meetings down at the limey Lawford's house. In her own house too. Probably when you weren't around. One of our guys caught her nipping naked out of a shower the President was using. Like they didn't care who knew what they were up to.'

'You were the one saying the Kennedys weren't involved in her death!'

'Not in her death, kid. They weren't involved in her death! The President called off the whole thing. Worried 'bout what it'd do to his political career, the family name.'

Another pause.

'Can't you get what I'm really saying here kid? Women are a lot more complicated than you seem to think they are. Just because they show you a bit of kindness, well, it don't mean they're coming on to you. It's an easy mistake to make; even old Bobby, once the President had dropped her, even he got it into his dumb-ass head that he had a chance with her. That he could just pick up the pieces. He wanted it, you betcha. But I checked; their diaries, their schedules. She and Bobby were never alone together, unless you're counting the time he called round to tell her the bad news – that the President was dropping her.'

'You checked? You went through their diaries?'

'Yeah, why not kid? When I start looking into these things, I check all angles. I'd heard the rumours about Bobby and Marilyn. Fact is, only contact they had was because the President got him to do his cleaning up for him. See, Marilyn was becoming a bit of a nuisance. Refusing to take the hint, even when her calls to the White House weren't being answered. The number JFK had given her, see, had been changed. The operators gave her the usual kiss off; he was in an important conference, that sort of thing. But hey, this had been the real thing for Marilyn – she'd begun to imagine life as a future First Lady.'

He holds up the palm of his hand to me; he's not going to listen to my protests.

'Now JFK, he ain't got the guts to tell her to her face that it's over. He sends Bobby to do his dirty work. Bobby's the expert at this sort of thing. He hides JFK's affairs with a Mafia party girl, Judith Exner, classifying phone logs and documents as top-secret. He deports a young German broad soon as he finds out she's also been seen around with a Soviet attaché. These guys are vicious, kid. So not long after she's fired from the set of _Something's gotta Give_ , Bobby takes Marilyn for a walk round her own pool. Takes well over an hour to get it into her head that she's gotta stop calling the White House. Then that's it; the Kennedy family have quietly locked her out. She just don't exist to them no more.'

'You saying all this sh– was going on when she was having all those problems filming _Something's gotta Give_?'

'If you're thinking that's what might have caused her to be fired kid, I'm way ahead of you. I've checked Dr Greenson's files too kid; he knew all this was going on. Says the damage to her fragile state of mind just couldn't be imagined, know what I'm saying?'

'But how could they treat her like that?'

'To guys like these, it means nothing kid. It's the rich college boy, see? Dumping the girlfriend from the wrong side of the tracks.'

*

# Chapter 32

Marina sits with me, listening intently as I repeat what Brad's just told me.

As I tell her what I can remember about Marilyn's death.

Tell her that I'm sure Bobby was there that night.

*

'Maybe he there to tell her for sure it all over with the President. Maybe she commit suicide, if she wanting to be First Lady.'

She says it all with a sad face. Like a mom telling her kid that Fido's died.

I shrug.

I hadn't told her about the autopsy. About the way the drugs had been... It all just seems like it's an insult to Marilyn's memory to talk about all that.

'It hurt badly, Jack, when you told it all over. You reject, is that word?'

I smile, nod.

'Rejected. You're not wanted.'

'Like you, like Lee, I from broken family Jack. I see Lee, I see it hurt badly. When your father leave, not want you. We feel crazy sometime, not know how deal it – deal it right words, yes? Deal it different ways. Marilyn she become sexy woman; no one, she think, leave sexy woman. But then someone _do_ leave her.'

'It weren't no suicide Marina. Brad knows that, for sure. I can't explain how I know. But we know it for sure.'

She places a hand on mine. The consoling hand again. The concerned smile.

'You said President also have love for girl, Mafia girl? They kill _everyone_ , the Mafia?'

I can't help but grin at Marina's naivety. She's probably been told all about the Mafia in Russia. Or got her ideas 'bout them from the movies.

'There ain't no reason for them to go popping Marilyn, Marina!'

'But you say Mr President, he make love like young boy, yes? So what they do when together all these times? They talk, yes? Maybe he learn some things from Mafia girl, he tell Marilyn. Mafia they want "shut her up", yes?'

I laugh at her innocence, move my hand on top of hers and grip it tightly.

'Yeah, suppose they could,' I say. 'But some how I don't think so.'

Lee's seated just behind us at the table, writing his 'memoirs'. He's obviously overheard.

He says, 'It ain't as crazy as you'd think, Jack.'

He stands up, comes round to our front. I quickly let go of Marina's hand.

'Think about it Jack; the Kennedys ain't wanting it out that JFK's been playing around with some broad on the FBI files as an associate of communists. A broad who even married a suspected communist, Arthur Miller. The Mafia's pissed, Bobby Kennedy waging war on them. Take down the most famous woman in the world and you expose these guys as hypocrites. More so if you can somehow tie 'em in with her death.'

'But it ain't happened like that, has it Lee? No one's really admitting Marilyn was killed. Let alone tying in the Kennedys.'

'So the Mafia ain't counting on how well Bobby could cover their tracks. Ain't I hearing you say he'd made phone logs top-secret, so no one ain't gonna access them? Who's to say he ain't done that here?'

'But how'd the Mafia know about Marilyn and the President?'

'Someone would know. The Mafia pay for information. They may have bugged her home. Who knows what JFK might have said to this Judith what's-her-name, the Mafia chick? Right-wing organisations, like your CIA, Jack, they could be feeding information to the Mafia.'

'Oh, Lee – Jack not want hear you going on about right-wing groups waiting take over America!'

'Why would the CIA be helping the Mafia?'

I grin as I say it, thinking it's all so crazy. Plus I don't really like the thought that it might be the Mafia who's out to kill me.

'To bring down the President, Jack. To install their own regime. A symbol of the American way, Jack, is that we allow the existence of the Communist Party U.S.A. It's a sign of our strength, our liberalism, that we allow them to operate, support their right to speak. Their views, no matter how misguided, no matter how much the Russians take advantage of them, must be allowed to be aired. But you think the far right agree with that? Now, you might think, like most Americans, that we're not some Latin American country, where our government could be easily replaced by a military coup. But is that true? Sure, our Army, our Navy, our air force, are actually so vast, so spread out in bases across the world, that there's little chance of them making such a move. What you need for a coup, Jack? You know? You need something smaller, concentrated in just a few bases. And with a permanent, hard core of officers. Know who fits that description Jack? Let me give you a clue; President Truman said the Marine Corps should be abolished.'

'But weren't you in the Marines?' It's all I can think of saying.

'My brother joined; I thought I should too. Got me away from mom.'

Marina says something to him in Russian. She sounds angry.

Thing is, though, a lot of things said in Russian sound angry. Harsh, hard words.

Lee answers back, sounding even angrier.

It's worrying when they're like this.

I'm sure Lee, like my Pop with Mom, hits her now and again when I'm not around.

Then again, Pop used to hit Mom when I _was_ around. So there is a difference.

But Marina, like Mom, tries to make out that she's banged her eye on a door, a cupboard, that sorta thing.

Like she's a walking accident, who ain't capable of passing a piece of wood without banging into it.

And Lee, like Pop with Mom, says he loves her. He just naturally gets a bit upset with her now and again, know what I mean?

'Is there anything to eat?'

I look at them both as I ask. They both look at me, stop their squabbling.

'I thought you said you were a reader, Jack,' Lee says irritably. 'So how come I never see you reading, eh?'

He storms off, out the door. Heading off somewhere outside.

Marina smiles at me.

'I make you sandwich,' she says brightly, turning and stepping towards what passes for a kitchen in here.

Yep, that's what I feel like, I think; a sandwich.

*

Whenever Marina and Lee are out, I continue with what Brad calls my 'self-improvement exercises' in front of the mirror.

I stare at myself. I write on the pad.

'Gin a body meet a body

Comin' thro' the rye.'

It all comes so natural, just repeating it time after time.

What was the rest, how did it go, what's that poem?'

'Gin a body kiss a body

Need a body cry?'

It reminds me of Marilyn, of Marilyn's body. Her naked body. Her dead body.

Did the Kennedys cry?

'Yet a' the lads they smile at me

When Comin' thro' the rye.'

They smiled at her. They used her.

They kissed her body. They pushed her aside.

She's out of their life. It's a relief to them, her death.

They won't cry over her body.

'JFK is a phoney.'

'JFK is a phoney.'

'JFK is a phoney.'

'JFK is a phoney.'

*

# Chapter 33

This guy Holden, the guy in the book; perhaps he's not such a phoney after all.

Maybe, as he says, the world is full of phoneys.

Maybe that's why he ends up in hospital; they think he's crazy, cos he knows everyone else are the real phoneys. And they ain't gonna admit it, natch.

He's walking around, walking around with his little brother, Allie. His dead little brother Allie.

He was innocent, little Allie. The Catcher should've saved him.

Like the Catcher should've saved Marilyn.

She was an innocent too.

An innocent in a nasty world. Only she didn't realise it; that's how innocent she was.

She was so innocent, she just didn't realise how nasty the world could be.

She was too trusting. Too trusting in a President who makes out he's one of the good guys.

Just like Allie walks around with Holden, would I like that if Marilyn was walking around with me?

How would she look?

Would she be naked, the way she died?

*

February fifteenth.

Little June Lee Oswald, Marina and Lee's baby daughter, is one year old.

There's a small birthday celebration, with Hawaiian Pineapple, Pattie Cake Cookies, Barricini Chocolate and Old London Snacks.

We're all eating like kids, apart from June, who has to stick to milk and mushed-up food.

Lee offers me a choice of beers, Blitz Weinhard or Gunther, so I take a bottle just to show I'm an adult.

I realise I've been playing too long with one of June's presents, a monkey that climbs up a stick when you pull on a string.

What can I say? – it's addictive, it honestly is.

Lee and Marina swap presents too, giving each other kisses, speaking as sweetly as they can to each other in guttural Russian.

Lee gets Vaseline Hair Tonic, says thanks, I think, in Russian.

Marina gets Revlon Sunbath Sun Tan Lotion and Lanvin Arpege Perfume. Says something like, 'It's just what I wanted, how did you know, it's wonderful'. Whatever it is she says, it goes on for a while and Lee gets a lot of kisses for his trouble.

I'm grinning stupidly, cursing myself for not getting presents for anyone. Not even for little June.

I feel even worse when Marina, smiling hugely, hands me a present.

'Go on – open it!' she giggles as I sit there embarrassed and dumbfounded.

I pull away the paper. Vitalis Hair Cream.

Ok, so it might seem an odd present, the way I just used to let my hair take whichever style it wanted.

But recently, see, I don't know why but I've just been taking a bit more time over my appearance. Using a bit of Lee's hair cream, that sort of thing.

Wondering if I needed a shave.

Marina picks up June, swings her in her arms as she sings a song in Russian to her. Lee joins in, but it's more of a forced grunt than a melody.

'June is an Aquarian, Jack,' Marina says to me. 'Sop-histicat, glamour, mystery, charm! What you Jack?'

'Yeah, her and every other twelfth person, Marina,' Lee says sourly before I can answer.

Marian retaliates harshly in Russian. Lee retaliates in even harder Russian.

I pick up the monkey stick again.

Weeee! – just look at that boy _climb_!

*

Come March, a time when the Four Seasons are telling us to _Walk Like A Man_ and the Chiffons are saying _He's So Fine_ , Lee buys himself a gun.

Not just any old gun either. You know, the Diana you can use to knock a few birds out of the trees. If you're so inclined.

No, it's a 6.5 mm calibre Carcano. A surplus Italian military rifle. ('Never been used,' ha ha ha.) Delivered via mail order.

He saw the ad in the February issue of _American Rifleman_. Those wonderful folks at Klein's Sporting Goods in Chicago sell these things like they're selling bean sprouts.

He filled in the coupon, calling himself Alek James Hidell. Maybe he included some of the identification documents under that name he's been forging at work.

A few days' later, Lee picks up his new toy at the Dallas mailbox he's rented.

Hey, is buying a surplus Atlas missile so easy?

Lee lets me handle the gun.

'Feel its balance, kid.'

He lets me pretend to be knocking the windows out of the houses on the opposite side of the street, 'long as you make sure no one can see you.'

Outside, in the yard, he gets me to take photos of him posing with the gun.

Drives me outta town too, lets me take practise shots.

Wow, you feel like you can do anything with this baby in your hands. No one can tell you sh– when you can pop 'em off before they even get close enough to see the anger in your eyes.

The small rocks we've set up in a row fall over like soldiers stepping up out of the trenches.

'Wee, just look at those boys _go_!'

Lee's as excited as a little kid as the rocks shatter and fly off high into the air.

*

When she finds out, Marina is well pissed.

Lee says he's pissed too. The Ruskies are withdrawing their troops from Cuba.

And General Walker is a fascist, a leader of a fascist organisation.

'A sh–, the only difference being that sh– originally had some goodness in it!'

He's even more pissed April first, his supervisor at Jaggars-Chiles-Stovall telling him he's no longer wanted there.

He's been seen reading his book _Crocodile_ in the cafeteria, dumb ass.

On top of that, he's been so rude it's almost broken out into fights.

Oh yeah, 'inefficiency, lack of precision, and inattention' also had something to do with it.

A few days later, Lee takes me by General Walker's house.

*

# Chapter 34

We move along walls like we're in a war movie. Only here you're constantly having to make sure no one's around to see you acting so suspiciously.

Lee's brought his gun from the car.

I'm hoping he ain't as pissed with General Walker today like he normally is.

*

Through one of the windows we can see General Walker.

He's sitting at a desk in his dining room. We're less than a hundred feet away

Lee doesn't say anything.

He just brings his gun up to his shoulder, levels it.

He squints through the sights at the general.

Sh–!

I'm wondering if I should seem to accidentally knock Lee's gun.

I'm still wondering this as he pulls back on the trigger.

The gun cracks, so loud it feels like my ear has exploded. It leaps in Lee's hand like it's suddenly alive.

The window frame splinters.

Just beyond it, the general leaps in his seat. Screams in agony, topples to the floor.

Oh my God, oh my God! The idiot's gone and fffing shot him!

Gone and killed a US General!

*

Lee smiles grimly, lowers the gun.

He drags me after him as he slinks away. He has to drag me; I can hardly move, feel like I'm in a dream where nothing makes sense.

_Hope_ I'm in a dream.

I can't take my eyes off the window.

Then, inside, I see movement. The general, groggily rising to his feet once more. An arm held to his head.

Blood pouring from his head down his arm.

A zombie come back to life, even though he has a shattered skull. He stumbles, supports himself against a chair.

I stumble as Lee angrily drags me after him.

'We have to get outta here!' he hisses.

*

# Chapter 35

Turns out, we find out later, the general's lucky.

The bullet was knocked off course when it struck the window frame. The general just gets bullet fragments in his forearm.

It's reported as an assassination attempt in newspapers nationwide.

The Dallas police have no suspects.

Marina knows a couple of suspects, knows who did it.

Soon as we get home, Lee tells her.

Not that she wouldn't have guessed.

*

Lee continues taking me outta town to practise firing the gun.

Marina frowns an awful lot, but she don't complain much.

He tells her I just watch.

'He's not even allowed to touch the goddamn gun,' he lies.

*

On TV, there are two new programmes set around hospitals. _General Hospital_ and _Doctors_.

Mom would've loved them.

Marina loves them too, though I find it hard to believe she can follow everything that's going on.

She's watching one of them one day – don't ask me which one – and, with a puzzled frown, she gets up from her seat and comes over to me.

'Whatch you read Jack?'

I close the book, hand it to her.

I forget she can't read American too well.

_'Catcher in the Rye_ ; it's called _Catcher in the Rye_.'

I'm reading it again. I'm not sure why.

'What it about?'

She's flicking through it, as people do. As if, somehow, the book's gonna magically reveal its purpose.

I grimace, I squirm. I don't know.

'I'm not sure,' I admit.

'Not sure? You not read yet?'

I grin sickly.

'Yeah, I've read it. A few times. But I ain't too sure what it's about.'

Marina looks bemused.

'Well, okay,' I say, 'I know it sounds crazy, but I think it's about this guy who don't want children to grow up. He thinks all adults are corrupt, see? See, he goes into school, starts wiping all these curse words and things off the walls.'

Marina glances over to where June is peacefully sleeping. She's wrapped up incredibly tightly in a number of blankets. Like it's a cocoon.

'That a wonder thing to do, you think yes Jack? Protect the innocent of children. They all so innocent of the world, children. Then they grow up, what do they become? What we make them?'

'Well, yeah, Marina; suppose that's what this guy, this guy Holden, thinks, right? And, you know, I know this sounds crazy, but, well, like him, see, well – I'm starting to see myself as someone who has to rescue them. Like there's only me who knows the dangers they face. The guy in the book, see, he sees all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye. Thousands of 'em. All these little kids, right, and nobody's around – nobody big, I mean. There's just me, and it's up to me to save them. Only I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff, and all these kids are so happy playing they don't know it's there. Only I do. So they're all running, all these kids, and they ain't looking where they're going. So I have to catch them, Marina. Before they all start going over the cliff. Is that crazy, Marina? To think like that?'

'I not think so. I think it wonder filled – don't you Jack?'

She's flicking through the book again, like the words will leap up and help her understand what the book's trying to say.

She stops flicking through the pages as she comes to the front of the book. She sees the poem written there.

'What this say?'

She hands the opened book back to me.

'It's a poem,' I say, reading it out to her.

Her eyes light up as I read.

'I know this song!' she exclaims excitedly.

I chuckle.

'No, it's a _poem_ Marina – it ain't a _song_.'

'No, no – it _song_! _Scotch_ song!'

She jumps to her feet, starts singing the words to a jaunty little song that reminds me of a sea shanty.

'Gin a body meet a body

Comin' thro' the rye...'

She can't seem to help but move her feet and hands as she sings. Now and again, she kicks out, placing her hands on her hips.

'Gin a body kiss a body

Need a body cry?'

She waves a hand out at me, smiling, obviously wanting me to get up and join her.

She frowns when I grimace and slump farther back into my chair.

'Ilka lassie has her laddie

Nane, they say, hae I...'

She suddenly leaps over to me, grabs my hand, pulls me up to join her.

Now she smiles again, and I smile too, even making an attempt to join in her rough and ready dancing.

I gruffly sing along, using what I can remember of the words.

'Yet a' the lads they smile at me

When Comin' thro' the rye.'

I think that's it, but she starts again, singing and dancing with even more gusto.

Like she's really getting into this. Like it reminds her of the Russian folk dancing from home.

'Gin a body meet a body

Comin' thro' the rye...'

Before I can help myself, I'm joining in.

It's a simple beat, with even simpler dance moves. As catchy as the chorus of a song you'd hear on the radio.

Only it's harder, sadder. Like an argument, a complaint.

Now we're holding hands and dancing round and round.

We find it harder and harder to sing as we begin to laugh at how strange and silly we must look.

We're also getting breathless.

'Why do you let him beat you?' I cry over the singing. 'Why do you let Lee hit you like that? Why don't you leave him?'

She stops singing, stops dancing. Lets go of my hands.

She frowns, turns.

She angrily strides away.

*

# Chapter 36

It's as if it never happened.

The happy dance never happened. I never asked her to leave him.

She isn't angry with me anymore, and that's the main thing.

*

Lee's gone for a while anyway, off to New Orleans.

Says he's been there before. Needs to clear a few things up.

Me and Marina, we head off to the movies. To see a movie that seems to have brought together every star going.

Henry Fonda, John Wayne, Gregory Peck, James Stewart, Richard Widmark.

The screen seems to curl right around us, the stars on screen towering over us like giants.

_How the West Was Won_.

Marina asks if that's how it really happened. If that's how the west became America.

I shrug; how the heck should I know?

If that's what the movie says, I suppose it must be true. Why would they lie 'bout something like that?

Then I see him, loitering on the corner of the street. Like he's just a guy stopped to read his newspaper.

He doesn't make any other effort to hide what he's up to, like I'd expect.

Like I've seen in all the movies. Sidling over to us like he don't really know us. Whispering that we need to talk, but not looking our way.

No, he just walks over, says, 'Sorry I ain't been dropping in too much kid. Thought it would be for the best in case I'm being followed.'

I nervously glance around, suspecting everyone I can see.

All the people filing out of the theatre. All the people on the streets, supposedly out shopping. Supposedly just driving past at this particular moment.

Brad laughs.

'I ain't being followed today kid! Trust me!'

*

'Here's the thing kid; we know your Marilyn was dead long before the police were called, right?'

He's given Marina 'a few dollars to treat yourself'. He's sent her on her way so he can talk to me.

'Well, yeah, but ain't we more or less figured that out already? She was murdered. It weren't no suicide.'

'We'd more or less figured something wasn't entirely kosher kid. But we ain't knowing for sure _when_ she died. Figure that out, and maybe we'll begin to get ourselves an idea who popped her. Or maybe _why_ she was popped – then either one can begin to lead us to the other.'

'So how we go 'bout figuring out when she died?'

'Evidence kid, facts. Like when did she make her last phone call, things like that. Trouble is, most of the phone records seem to have gone and disappeared. So, too, has our star witness Eunice – she's hightailed it to Europe. No one stopping her, no more questions asked.'

'Bobby Kennedy? You think Bobby's doing all this? Stopping all the phone records, like he's done before?'

'Might be kid, might not. I don't go along with this squeaky-clean image the President likes to put across to an adoring public, that's for sure. But that ain't saying he's set his brother cleaning up after him – other agencies have the power to do all this too, see kid? Far more than you'd imagine too. Even if Bobby's got his hand in this, could be they just ain't wanting nobody out there making certain connections. Covering up the affair when they know the press are going to be circling looking for sh–, like flies following a buffalo herd. It don't mean they popped her.'

'But _somebody_ popped her, yeah?'

'But that _somebody_ don't have to be the Kennedys, got that? Thing is, _somebody_ was paying a great deal of interest in her kid. Enough interest to go about bugging her house.'

'Bugging? What, you mean listening in? The house was wired, you mean?'

Brad notices me grinning.

Ok, so what's the joke kid?'

'Well, for once you've got it wrong. Can't I have a joke at your expense?'

'If you think it's one huge joke having someone trying to pop you kid, you go ahead and laugh yourself silly.'

Ok, sorry – so this is serious, yeah? Sorry. But Marilyn had the place wired herself – suppose she wanted to get something on Eunice and the doctors. I dunno. But she got hold of a guy called Tash, Tass, or something.'

'Otash, kid, Fred Otash. Ex-LAPD vice detective. And more crooked than the crooks he chased, you ask me. Sure, it was a big joke when he heard she wanted him to do it; see, he'd already wired it for someone else. The phones tapped at the very least.'

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.

But he didn't protect Marilyn.

He didn't catch her.

He cast her aside.

She was an innocent, and she died. Died because our President is a phoney.

I know I'm getting all-uptight about all this. Even through Brad warned me not to.

I'm back on the pills, wondering when they'll begin to calm me down

I sit in front of the mirror, writing down all the things that come into my head.

They're not nice things anymore, I gotta admit.

*

# Chapter 39

Brad's now full of reasons why Bobby might wanna call round on Marilyn.

'She's getting pushy about becoming First Lady, see? She ain't your regular broad who can just be pushed aside. She ain't gonna take that lying down, not Marilyn, no sirree. It's one thing playing around with silly little broads no one's ever heard of. But this is Marilyn Monroe, sex symbol to the world.

'And boy, what _has_ she got on them, eh? This girl ain't no dumb blonde, we both know that kid. She's been taking notes. There were notebooks all over her house kid, you know that?

'Those dumb Kennedys, kid, just to impress her they're telling her things they shouldn't be telling the head of the CIA. Secrets they definitely ain't wanting the American people to get to know about. Take Cuba, kid; all that guff about how well our wonderful President played it getting the Ruskies to junk their missiles. Fact is, they turned him over good and proper. What you ain't reading in the papers is how boys like me had spent ages setting up our own missiles in Turkey, a spit-throw from the Rusky border. And every single one of these had to be taken down kid – years of work, ruined. Now you tell me, that sound much like a victory to you?'

He's gabbling away, not noticing at first I'm not giving him my full attention.

Fact is, now Marina's gone, I'm not eating so well.

Fact is, ads I see on the TV or even just hear on the radio have me wishing she was here, making sure I was eating right.

Rosarita Mexican Foods; for some reason, that has me thinking of her.

In the magazines Marina left behind there's an ad for Maidenform, this girl sitting on a leopard; 'I dreamed I charmed the spots off a leopard.'

I think of Marina every time I see it. She could charm the spots off a leopard, no problem.

Everywhere I go, The Angels are singing _My Boyfriend's Back_.

I'm watching a lot of TV, like Mom used to do. _The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis_. I'm watching that a lot for some reason.

Dobie's at this swank junior college now. St Peter Pryor. Still always getting cheated by the rich kid, Chatsworth, though.

Ain't that what this Holden Caulfield from _The Catcher_ would be like?

Maybe not; he's angry with all that lifestyle, ain't he?

Not old Dobie; that's what he'd like to be – rich. And successful with the girls.

Which he clearly ain't, just as he clearly ain't ever gonna be rich.

His pop makes sure of that, only happy when Dobie's at the end of a broom, sweeping out the store.

That's my life; a life sweeping out stores, if I'm lucky.

Brad eventually cottons on to the fact my mind ain't focusing right on the things that matter anymore.

He says I need a change.

He moves me out of the apartment, sets me up in a new place. An eight-by-twelve-foot room up in Oak Cliff.

Just in case, he says; it don't pay to stay too long in one place.

*

All hell's let loose in Alabama.

Churches bombed. Young black girls killed.

Black kids entering schools they ain't supposed to be seen at.

The police lining up to stop them. To send them back on their way.

The Alabama governor saying he ain't gonna allow these black kids in these here schools. The Alabama governor being told he ain't got no choice.

I find it pretty hard to follow what the heck's going on out there.

The phoney making out he thinks it's all terrible. Making out he just ain't gonna let this happen anymore.

Way I see it, September's an odd month.

Marina's back, her friend Ruth driving her all the way back from New Orleans.

She'll be staying with Ruth, Lee having decided to stay behind for a while.

Besides which, I hear, Marina's pregnant.

*

I sit in front of the TV more than ever.

Mom would have loved it. Her son, sitting alongside her, eyes as glazed as hers.

'And all these wonderful new programmes too!' she'd have said.

She only ever used the word 'wonderful' when it applied to TV programmes. Like she'd got it out of her TV guides.

_The Judy Garland Show_ ; wow, how she'd have loved that! ('Wonderful, wonderful!')

_Outer Limits_ , now that might've not been for her. But _My Favorite Martian_ , that would've had her giggling away for sure. That's the kinda science fiction she'd like.

Where even the aliens are so dumb they get it all wrong.

Then there's _The Fugitive_. A guy on the run, fleeing from town to town.

A few months ago, I wouldn't have believed it.

*

I meet up with Marina in a small diner.

A place suggested by Brad because it's out nowhere. A place where hardly anyone goes.

Bobby Vinton is on the jukebox when I walk in, slowly breathing his way through _Blue Velvet_.

The place is more or less empty, people behind the bar looking bored. Unhappy even that another customer has walked in, disturbing their daydreams.

She's seated at a table, looking much the same as she always did. A weary smile, but a beautiful smile, all the same.

She struggles to stand up as I approach the table, her stomach jutting out in a huge bump. She has to wiggle her way up from the seat to stop the bump catching on the table.

She takes my hand in a loose handshake.

'Jack!'

No kiss this time, not even on the forehead.

We sit back down, go though the usual stuff, 'Good to see you,' 'What can I get you?'

A waitress as thin and pale as a cigarette pours me a coffee.

She takes the money Marina leaves for her with a 'thank you' that tails off into something sounding like a prayer for a happy day.

I make an effort at sounding pleased about the baby.

'When will...you know?'

'Soon. Less than a month.'

She asks about the pills. I ask if Lee will be staying in New Orleans.

He stayed on a few extra days, to collect an unemployment cheque, she tells me. Then he moved on someplace else for a while.

She either don't know where he's going or she don't want to let me know.

She also tells me how he'd been arrested after getting himself into a scuffle. He'd been handing out pro-Castro fliers.

'Maybe he's heading there, to Cuba,' I laugh.

She doesn't laugh. She just gives a half-smile, half-grimace.

Ruth pulls up outside in the car, waves through the car's windows rather than getting out.

Marina says she's sorry, she has to go now.

She's already wiggling up from her seat once again. I help her out to the car, like she's some frail old lady.

I get the kiss on my forehead as my reward.

*

It's as I'm heading back to the dingy room I call my apartment that I spot Rake.

I almost miss him. It's so dark inside the bar, I only get a glimpse of him as I pass the open door.

That glimpse is enough to make me double back, check if it's him or not.

I don't know many people with hair like a badly trimmed bush. Even fewer with hair like that topping a body that looks like its been wrung and hung out to dry.

For obvious reasons, we called him Rake. The guy working as a gardener for Marilyn.

Strange thing was, his hair might never have seen a comb, but the bushes were always trimmed like he was wet-shaving a Mafia don.

As I walk in the bar, I say 'Rake?'

He almost dies of a heart attack.

His whole body jerks like he's been struck by lightning. His drink leaps outa his glass, slops across the bar top.

'Christamighty!'

He's wide-eyed when he turns around and sees me.

'Thank Jesus it's only you Jack!'

Going by the looks I'm getting, nobody else is pleased to see me in here.

Rake throws what's left of his drink down his throat, grabs the half empty bottle by him.

He casually slides a few crumpled bills towards the bartender. He puts his free arm around my shoulders, leading me outside.

'Goddamn it Jack, I thought you were dead!'

He says it like he's saying it's dark at night, like it's the most obvious statement in the world.

Wow, is he drunk! So drunk he sways even though he's leaning on me.

I quickly guide him away from the main street, away from where the cops could see him rolling around with a half empty bottle in his hand.

I'm lucky he weighs little more than a dried leaf.

He mumbles something about coming here to get away from everybody. Something about how he didn't want to end up like me.

'Like me?'

'Dead Jack, dead. I thought you'd been murdered too.'

He's words are slurred, over emphasised.

'No, I've not been murdered Rake. But who else was murdered? What do you mean, "murdered too"?'

'Marilyn, who else Jack? She was murdered as sure as they're gonna murder me and you once they find out we know.'

*

# Chapter 40

Norman, good old homey faced Norman Jeffries, was more or less there when it happened.

Not sure that really comes under the duties of a caretaker, being there when your employer is murdered.

His mom-in-law, Eunice, she was there too. Not so much of a surprise there, of course.

Rake's weeping drunkenly now and again as he tells me the story.

Seems poor old Norman couldn't keep that secret swilling around inside him any longer. Went and got himself crazed-drunk just like old Rake here.

Let it all pour out of him like he needed to share it with someone before it just tore him apart.

'Damn fool gave me a death sentence!'

Rake's sobbing, wiping away the tears even as he takes another swig from his bottle. Old Taylor bourbon whiskey ('The gift most likely to be remembered,' it said in an old _Time_ magazine of Lee's.)

He takes the drink deep down, but spits out his words.

'Might as well have gone and put a goddamn gun to my head himself! Might as well have pulled the goddamn trigger!'

He weeps, his back bent.

'We cain't run from them Jack! They're everywhere.'

'Who's everywhere?'

Rake turns to look at me, surprise wiping the self-pity from his face.

'The _state_ Jack!'

He says it like it's obvious, like I should've known.

'You cain't run away from the state Jack. You cain't even leave the goddamn country, because as soon as you try it, they'll know where you are.'

He snivels again, his nose running as he raises the bottle to his lips once more.

Then just as Norman let the tale pour from his lips, Rake tells me everything that happened the night Marilyn died.

*

Bobby was there that night, there at the time I'd called round.

Two men with him.

They'd shown up just after nine thirty, asked Norman and Eunice to leave the house.

Norman and Eunice, they head round to a neighbour's house. Stay there until Bobby and the men leave around ten thirty.

When Norman and Eunice return to Marilyn's, she's already lying face down in her bed. Already naked and holding the phone in her hand.

As Rake's telling me all this, I'm gasping every now and again in shock.

Otherwise, I let him drunkenly ramble on.

Norman reckons Marilyn's dead. Eunice calls for an ambulance.

Then she gets on the phone to Dr. Greenson.

Norman's still there when Lawford and Pat Newcomb arrive at the house. Both of 'em panicked as hell.

They don't need to call Bobby, like Lawford claimed.

He's already been round, been there while Marilyn died.

*

I'm shaking. Not sure if it's with fear, shock or just plain, simple anger.

I seem to be going through different emotions in turns. Like I no longer have any control over my body.

Old Rake, all he was full of was fear. Fear like I've never seen, like it's eating away at his innards.

'What'll we do?' I say to him after he's finished telling me what happened that night.

He looks at me like I'm stupid.

'What'll we do? We keep damn quiet about all this Jack, that's what we damn well do!'

'But the cops, the cops have to know about this!'

He hangs his head, starts bashing clenched fists against his skinny thighs.

'I shouldn't've told you, I shouldn't've told you!'

He begins repeating it like some new, weird song. Like repeating it might make everything all right.

'Look, don't worry about all this Rake. I ain't gonna go telling anything to the cops, promise.'

He looks up, his eyes glazed but happy, a kid who's been crying so long for an ice cream he's finally got his way.

'No one Jack, you cain't tell no one.'

He smiles with relief.

Abruptly, his expression changes, like he's magically slipped on a trick-or-treat mask.

'You cain't trust _anyone_ Jack, _any_ one! See, I've got this agent helped me get away-'

'Me too Rake! There are some good guys, see-'

Rake backs away, like I've suddenly come out in boils and cysts.

'Good guys? You crazy Jack?'

He twirls a finger by the side of his head.

'You cain't tell who the good guys are any more! This agent, he could just be fooling you Jack! Leading you on!'

'If you need any help Rake, let me-'

'No, we cain't see each other again Jack! It's too dangerous. You might've been followed.'

It's as if this ain't even dawned on him until now. Suddenly, his head's spinning this way and that. Looking up the street, down the street.

Studying everyone who's within shouting distance.

His eyes now are crazed, bulbous and bloodshot. Like they're gonna explode all over me.

'I'm moving on – cain't tell you where.'

He stares at me with those eyes, an alien telling me the earth's doomed.

Then he's gone, running off.

Clutching tightly on his bottle, unaware or uncaring that the booze is spilling out behind him.

*

# Chapter 41

I sit in front of the mirror, going through my exercises.

I'm writing, let it all pour out.

JFK – the big phoney.

The guy who makes out he's protecting the innocents of the world. When, really, he's just arranging for them to be murdered.

*

'So what's he like, this Rake?'

Brad took the news of Rake's story like he wasn't surprised. Like he'd already figured all this out long ago but just hadn't got round to telling me.

'Tall, skinny, like he's never ever gonna put any meat on his bones. Hair like a used mop.'

'I mean, is he believable kid?'

He sighs, like I should've known this.

'If we get him to stand up in court, are our twelve upstanding citizens of the jury gonna believe him? Believe him when he says the brother of our highly-popular President killed Marilyn Monroe?'

I think about Rake standing up in court. Like you see on _Perry Mason_.

He'd last about five minutes, tops. He'd crack under questioning, deny it all.

'Nope,' I say. 'But you believe him, right?'

'I believe him kid. I've still been doing my own digging on this case. Turns out, wouldn't you know it, that Marilyn's publicist, Arthur Jacobs, had been told of Marilyn's death sometime between ten and ten thirty that night. Poor guy, he had to leave a concert to deal with the press issues.'

'So you knew about this, but ain't got around to telling me?'

'Hey kid – it's as I said. I can't exactly call myself Bobby's greatest admirer, right? But even I find it hard to believe he's gonna be mixed up in this at this level. There's a part of me still saying he ain't gonna stoop to this. Still saying there's gotta be a mistake amongst all these here facts stacking up against him. But, see, here's the clincher kid; the guy who took Marilyn to the mortuary Sunday morning, know what he says? He says there was advanced rigor mortis – that's when the body starts stiffening up kid.'

'Yeah, so anyone who lives within ten foot of a TV knows Brad. So he's saying she died earlier than when Dr Greenson said, yeah? How much earlier?'

'Between nine thirty and eleven thirty, kid.'

'Then we've got him, we've got Bobby.'

He stares hard at me.

'We ain't got nobody kid. We've just got ourselves an even bigger problem than I already thought we had.'

*

# Chapter 42

Lee's back.

Like Marina, he's moved in to Ruth's house.

'I've been to Mexico City, Jack,' he says. 'Come back by bus, would you believe it?'

We're in the same diner I'd met Marina in. The same waitress gives us the same line that sounds like a mumbled prayer for a nice day.

'I think I might move into the apartment Brad's set up for you kid. If that's all right by you? Leave Marina to stay with Ruth.'

Sure, I say, wondering why he'd want to lave Marina behind.

'I'm being watched,' he says, as if he's read my mind.

I glance towards Brad, wondering if it's such a great idea meeting up with Lee again.

'I knew about that kid, don't worry. Fact is, I'm one of the guys set to keeping tabs on Lee here. See, it's perfect; whenever we're seen together, I just make out I'm laying down the way it is to him.'

'So they know where you are. So they know where _I_ am.'

Brad chuckles.

'Good to see selfishness is setting in kid – that's good for self-preservation, believe me. But I've been putting a few feelers out. Now I know for sure what I'd always suspected; they don't see me as the one who's spirited you away, see? As for you, who's gonna think you're dumb enough to hide out with someone already under observation? Best place to hide anything or anybody is out in the open, where they're least expecting it to be.'

He looks back towards Lee, winks mischievously.

'Lee here, he's making sure his notoriety means no one would suspect him of ever doing _anything_ serious. Tell him Lee, tell the kid how you've been stirring up a hornets nest to keep them well and truly occupied.'

'Down in Mexico; I applied for a visa at the Cuban Embassy. Said I wanted to visit on my way back to Russia.'

'Damn it all kid if he don't head down there the way he came back – on a bus. And he's telling everyone on that bus that he's planning on heading to Cuba.'

'Course, the Cubans say the Russian Embassy has to okay my trip to Russia before they're handing out any visa. So I'm heading back and forth between these embassies. Getting into all kinda arguments with them for being so slow in getting my visa sorted.'

'Turns out the Cubans say a guy like Lee here would be hindering their precious revolution rather than aiding it!'

Brad guffaws loudly, making the only other customer look round in surprise. The staff act like they've seen it all before, and don't care whether they see it again or not.

'So Lee didn't get what he wanted? To visit Cuba?'

Brad laughs out loud again.

I can't understand what the big joke is. Lee also looks pokerfaced, serious even.

'It's misdirection kid.' Brad slaps my shoulder. 'Like a magician, when he makes _sure_ you're watching him – but what the hell if he ain't making you watch the _wrong_ hand!'

I shrug, more confused than ever.

'So...so if that _ain't_ what you _really_ want to do...What is it you're _really_ after doing?'

Brad looks at me, grins.

'Keeping you safe kid; what'd'ya think?'

*

'We're looking for a guy; hair like he ain't washed it for fifteen years. Body a skeleton would be ashamed of.'

Lee's headed back to Ruth's, so me and Brad have called in at the bar I first saw Rake in.

Brad reckons we might get ourselves official protection, provided we can get Rake to testify in front of a judge he knows, 'a judge so honest I'm surprised he's still in the job.'

We've been keeping the bar under observation for a few days now, hoping to see Rake going in, hoping we can get to see any sign of the agent he mentioned.

We ain't seen hair nor hide of either of them.

Brad's none too easy about this agent Rake says has been helping him. Like Rake, Brad's saying we can't trust anyone.

Could be this agent's on the level, like Brad taking it upon himself to protect a guy who's got himself into trouble with a corrupt state. 'Plenty of people out there are keeping their heads low since all this hit the fan; unsure who to trust, even if there's _anyone_ you can trust.'

Could be, though, the agent's using Rake as bait. 'Staking him out in the open, drawing out fools like us stupid enough to go looking for him.'

He'd finished by drawing a finger across his throat.

I'd gulped.

'That's what'll happen to us if he turns us in?'

'No, kid, that's what'll happen to _him_ if he turns us in.'

I'd expected a grin, but there wasn't even the beginnings of a smile.

His smile still ain't there as he finishes asking the bartender if he's seen Rake recently.

'Seen lots of guys in here. Who's asking?'

Brad flashes his ID.

'Ahh,' says the bartender, his heavy eyebrows arching.

He's a big, bulky guy. He leans forward on the bar like he knows how to handle himself. Like his whole body is saying we don't want any trouble in here, but if you insist chances are you're gonna loose.

As if to stress this point, his shirtsleeves are rolled right back, gripping tightly around his biceps.

Just to stress his own point, Brad suddenly grabs the guy's Dean Martin mop and smashes his face down hard on the bar top.

The guy's face comes up dazed and bloodied. Dean Martin after a few rounds with Sonny Liston.

Brad does it again, just to be sure.

'I ain't got time to waste being polite.'

Brad doesn't even bother sneering. He says it like he's ordered a pack of Pall Mall.

'He ain't been here! He ain't been in for ages now!'

The guy screams it out. His eyes are wandering, wondering how many of his customers are witnessing his humiliation.

'Ages?'

Brad just says the one word, but I've never heard a simple word like that said with such menace.

'How long is "ages"? Think carefully about this now.'

'Less than a week. A few days!'

'Is that usual? Or does he usually come in here?'

'Most days he's in here. Drunk. Drinks like he's trying to forget, know what I mean? Easier than joining the French Foreign Legion. Loosing yourself in Milwaukee's finest.'

The guy's starting to get his confidence back. Brad puts him back in his place by smashing his face down hard on the bar once again.

The guy comes up more bloodied than ever, his nose probably broken. Teeth like blood splattered tombstones on a ghost train ride.

'Where's he live?'

I gasp out the question for some reason. I was with him just a few days back; Rake, the guy who tended bushes like they were babies.

And now he seems to have disappeared.

'Never said, never said!'

The guy looks at me like's he's every bit as terrified of me as he is of Brad.

Brad's still holding the guy hard by his hair, holding his head back. Blood's running from the guy's crushed nose down onto the bar.

'He didn't want anyone to know. Used to say he always took a different way home, never the same. Take him hours sometimes, he'd say.'

Brad pull's the guy's face round so they're looking at each other. The guy grimaces in pain, the Dean Martin hair coming out by the roots here and there.

'Why'd he do that?'

'He'd been scared for his life! Thought you knew, thought that's why you were here!'

The guy's almost weeping. He's spluttering, the blood swirling into his mouth.

'You...you friends of his?'

'You could say that, yeah.'

Brad jerks hard on the hair for extra effect.

The guy tries to hold back a scream. He talks quickly.

'He'd been coming out with some crock 'bout the Kennedys being after him. It don't go down well with some of the guys here, know what I mean? He was always getting into fights, like he enjoyed the pain, like he wanted knocking out!'

Brad looks around the bar. Eyeing the other customers like a snake figures out who it's gonna force its venom into.

Everyone looks away. Makes out they're busy chalking a pool cue, studying the label on a bottle, scratching a badly shaven chin.

Brad stares hard at a guy nervously twiddling the cap of his bottle of Bud.

'You. The guy with the Bud. Where'd he live?'

He asks it without even bothering to change his grip on the bloodied bartender. The guy's head's still forced right back, like he's studying cracks on the ceiling.

The guy with the Bud looks up, squeaks out his reply.

'He never said. He'd threaten people, telling them they ain't gotta follow him. When he was drunk. He was _always_ drunk.'

At last, Brad lets the poor bartender go.

The guy's head springs up like a scarlet painted jack-in-the-box. The Dean Martin's ruined, the hair standing up, making him look like some cousin of Rake's.

The guy grimaces, rubs his head. He quickly checks in the mirror that he's still got some hair left.

Brad throws some loose change his way. Grunts something about the guy needing to smarten himself up, needs to get himself some pomade.

'Looks like we've got ourselves a dead end again, kid,' he says to me. 'And I ain't too sure how literal I'm being with the word "dead".'

*

# Chapter 43

Lee's moved in with me.

Marina has stayed at Ruth's.

Way I see it. Lee's lying to everyone he meets at the moment. Specially when it comes to his name.

O.H. Lee, he says his name is.

Don't ask me – he says he needs to. Says he's under observation, and the agents following him are getting more nosey, more persistent, by the day.

Ruth's helped him get a job, too. Filling in book orders at the Texas School Book Depository.

Not much of a job he says.

But heck, he needs the money.

*

Lee's not smiling much.

Gets pissed when he sees me grinning at something on the TV.

_The Dick Van Dyke Show_. Wouldn't you know it, Rob and Laura aren't married after all. They're planning on eloping.

'What's so great about the world that anyone deserves to smile?' Lee asks.

Fact is, I'm grinning because I still figure we've got a chance of finding Rake. Still got a chance of persuading the guy it's best for everyone if we can get him in front of this fine, upstanding judge Brad knows.

Turns out my optimism ain't that misplaced after all.

Brad turns up, says turn that dammed thing off kid. Says we've had a breakthrough, but we're gonna have to move damned quick.

He's got Rake's address. Sweet Jesus, he's got Rake's address.

'Don't go getting so dammed excited kid!'

Wow, he says it real hard, real surly, like he's gonna hit me if I keep on dancing around like my feet have caught fire.

'You ain't asked how come I know.'

I stop dancing.

'He's...he's not dead, is he?'

'Not that I know of kid. But a friend of mine, the agent who was protecting him, he's down the morgue with more holes than a pauper's sieve.'

*

That's how Brad had found out Rake's address.

He'd heard of his friend's death. Heard how he and a few cops had died in a shootout with no one quite sure who was firing at who.

'Yet what d'ya know, the paper's don't see fit to print even a few words on the kinda street massacre we ain't seen since we took down Bonnie and Clyde.'

So Brad knows someone powerful is holding the news hounds back.

'Ergo,' he says, 'I start wondering if my friend ain't been a victim of his own good nature. Maybe protecting some idiot on the run from the Kennedys. So where's my friend got a safe house round here, I start thinking?'

The safe house, it seems, is deserted. Brad's been round there, checked it out, kept it under observation for a while.

Nothing.

No one going in. No one coming out. No lights coming on during the night.

But Brad's checked at the utility departments. Someone's using water in there, and electricity.

Brad sends me round to knock on the door.

To call out to Rake that it's only me, there's no danger. Brad ain't gonna be anywhere near, worried we'd just end up spooking Rake.

'He ain't gonna be too happy seeing anyone who looks like an agent till you calm him down a bit kid. Let him know I'm on the level, then we'll meet.'

There's no answer to my knocking. No reply to my calling.

'Rake, it's me, Jack! There ain't no one with me. I know you're in there. You stay here, you're in danger Rake. Think about it; I found out you're living here, yeah?'

Beyond the door, I hear scuffling.

The door eases open, jerks to a halt on a chain stopping it opening more than a few inches.

As if a chain like that could stop anyone wanting to kill him!

The eyes are wide, terrified. Constantly moving. The eyes of a cornered, doomed animal.

'Jack? You might've been followed!'

'I wasn't followed Rake – I checked. I'm in danger too remember.'

'They might've followed you here! Get us both together!'

'Rake, this ain't a safe house no more. You're gonna have to get outa here! Better still, come with me.'

I say it as calmly as I can, trying not to spook him.

'Come with you? They're after you too Jack! How'd you find me?'

'Your agent, Rake. Other agents know where he had his safe houses.'

His eyes blink. Seems like it's the first time I've seen 'em blink since he's been at the door.

'I saw him die Jack. Gunned down. He told me to run for it. But when I turned to see if he was following, I saw him fall.'

He says it like he's hypnotised.

'We can go to a judge Rake; get ourselves official protection.'

His laugh tells me he's already lost it. It's the laugh of a madman; James Cagney, as he's about to blow himself to kingdom come.

'A judge Jack? No _judge_ can protect us!'

'If this judge can't protect us, Rake, no one can.'

His eyes turn like balls bobbing on waterspouts at a shooting range. He undoes the chain. Opens the door just enough so I can walk in as he quickly moves aside.

He shuts the door after me, bolting it top and bottom.

There's food everywhere, stacked in piles waiting to be eaten. Cans already opened and thrown into a corner around an overfilled trashcan.

Flies and cockroaches are having the party of a lifetime.

I tell him how our only chance is to spill everything we know to this judge. A judge with the power to give us sanctuary or whatever it's called.

He listens like he's a parrot on a perch, the eyes never leaving you but jerking around in their sockets like they have a life of their own.

He nods, grabs his coat.

Follows me out the door.

For the first time in ages, I'm beginning to think we might have a chance of proving Marilyn was murdered. Proving the Kennedys were involved.

And, more importantly, making sure we aren't gonna get killed trying to prove it.

*

# Chapter 44

There's a phone booth on the corner of the street.

Brad's given me a couple of coins, told me to ring him from there soon as I've managed to persuade Rake he's gonna have to testify in front of the judge.

Told me to ring him even if Rake's decided he ain't gonna testify in front of anybody.

The phone booth's out in the open. Brad's told me I can look for a phone I feel safer using if I want.

Using it might spook Rake, having to stand around where any watching sniper could take him out easier than shooting chickens in the back of a truck. 'If you do use it, tell him to head across the road, get in the shadows of the buildings.'

As I dial the number and slip in a coin, Rake sets off across the road.

He's lolloping along like an excited kid heading for the fair.

I'm watching him through the phone booth's glass. It's so cracked and stained with grime, it makes Rake look like he's some jangling puppet, all angles and distortions.

The coin slips out, like it's too thin or the wrong size or something.

I bend down, catch it before it rolls out and falls to the floor.

As I straighten up and slip in the other coin, the sedan hits Rake full on.

A loud smack, like a bag of mud, wood and bricks striking the sidewalk after dropping from the Empire State Building.

His body don't look like a body anymore, bending like it's nothing but straw and string.

The hair like a shock of flame on top of a shattering match.

The new coin slips unhindered through the machine and rolls to the floor.

*

# Chapter 45

I'd run away.

Looked around, watched the sedan squeal around a corner, looked around again to see if anybody else had seen it all.

Then run away.

*

'Not much else you could do kid. It wasn't safe to stay around there.'

Even Brad looks shocked when I tell him what had happened.

'We were fools kid. They must've been watching. Knew like we knew it would spook him if they went calling. Didn't want to risk a noisy showdown in an apartment block with walls the Japs would call paper-thin.

'But what about me? How come they didn't get me too?'

He shrugs.

'Who knows kid? You weren't in the road like Rake was. Not even a sedan's gonna come out too good after an argument with a phone booth.'

He pauses, his head slightly bowed, his brow furrowing like he's thinking. Like he's a panellist on a game show, finally given the question that's really got him thinking.

'Guys around you ain't lasting too long kid. Thing is, I'm beginning to wonder how much longer I've got too.'

He looks up, the panellist who's just had a spark of inspiration.

'Thing is, I'm beginning to wonder quite a lot. Like, maybe I got it wrong kid when I thought Rake was the bait. Perhaps, kid, someone's been using you as the bait all along. And we've both just been too goddamned dumb to realise it.'

*

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.

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

I lower my gun, let it fall down to my side.

The First Lady is leaning over her husband, protecting him.

In pink. Like Marilyn would've worn.

At least he's not humiliated. Not laid out naked upon a bed, like they left Marilyn.

I throw the gun into the back of the station wagon, watch it roll before coming to a halt alongside the book; _The Catcher in the Rye_.

I slam the tail door shut.

As I walk away, I sing the song Marina had taught me.

'Gin a body meet a body

Comin' thro' the rye

Gin a body kiss a body

Need a body cry?'

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Boy in White Linen – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things – The Last Train

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien

