Fever City (17 page)

‘Sweet-Jesus-fucking-Christ-all-fucking-Mighty!' Schiller turns to me, his face awed and uncomprehending: the cop who thought he'd seen everything suddenly transformed and contrite.

I shove past him, rushing across the snap and glitter of broken glass to the gaping insult that was once a window and look down. Greta Simmons's lifeless body lies broken on the ridge of marble steps, the wind flicking the scarf about her like little boys taunting a dead animal, tugging on its tail.

E
velyn Rutledge is not a natural blonde, but she is a natural beauty. Two things she shares with Norma Jean Baker, who stares dolefully over her shoulder. The black and white still is from
The Asphalt Jungle.
In her late thirties, Evelyn bears more than a passing resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. It's the sense of a tender beauty that would bruise if touched the wrong way.

The Spanish-style house in Vickery Place is large and airy and opens onto a shaded garden. Datura flowers hang stricken by the heat, filling the air with the scent of their poisonous promise. It's almost a shock to see such open access to nature, such disregard for the claustrophobic control of air-conditioning. There's even birdsong. Evelyn Rutledge offers me a glass of French rosé and bowls of Brazil nuts, Japanese crackers and Greek olives. Evelyn Rutledge is the United Nations of Dallas and seems proud to be the rest of the world's ambassador, the rest of the world in Dallas being everything outside of Texas. She confirms her own alien status here. ‘I'm from South Carolina but grew up in Savannah. I got a job as an intern in the Menil Collection. I just love Rothko. That's where I met my late husband. He was visiting the chapel. We moved to Dallas after the wedding. My family never forgave me for marrying a man older than my own father. But when Mr. Rutledge suddenly passed on, and I inherited his estate, they were more than willing to forgive. Unfortunately . . . ' She shrugs, refilling our glasses. ‘After all that had been said, I just didn't feel the same way. The move to Texas wasn't as hard as you'd think . . . ' I have a feeling I've already reached the end of the Mr. Rutledge part of the story. ‘ . . . Although I do miss being close to the sea. Even when I was in Houston, Galveston was just not the same.'

‘I suppose not . . . ' The only thing I know about Galveston is the song. Something about a gun. Neil Diamond. Or was it John Denver?

Evelyn Rutledge's claim to have psychic evidence about the JFK assassination puts her firmly in the same category as her plate of almendras, but she is by far the most civilized and approachable of all the conspiracy theorists I have visited so far. And definitely the most alluring. She places an olive pit companionably next to one of mine, her liquid brown eyes assessing me. There is the hint of a smile. ‘I see that you're divorced . . . '

She says it as though I'm stepping out of a large building marked ‘Divorce Court' to loud applause with a decree pasted to my forehead. Could this little tête-à-tête be some kind of awful mistake? Has she confused me for someone from an online dating service? ‘What . . . ?'

Her smile is no longer camouflaged. ‘I see it in your hands, Mr. Alston.'

‘But you haven't read my palms . . . '

‘I read people, Mr. Alston. Your ring finger still has a circular indentation between the second and third joints. The hairs above the knuckle have been worn away by time. You wore that ring for years.'

‘Seven years.'

‘And . . . ' She gives a pleasing if wicked smile. ‘In the interests of transparency, as they say, I also looked you up on Facebook.'

‘But there's nothing about my divorce on my Facebook page.'

‘True. But it led me to your wife's—your ex-wife's page. All her friends are obsessed with the divorce. Not to mention Monica's wedding announcement.' I try not to show any reaction. But what can I do? She just told me she reads people. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't know you didn't know . . . ' That wicked smile again. Liar, liar. She's not the only one who can read people.

‘I hope that made you feel better.'

There is the teasing tumble of more wine. And then her fingers touch my hand. A thrill passes through me. Another response I can't hide. I want to ask Evelyn who Monica is planning to marry but not only would it be humiliating, it would be wrong. I am here to do my job, to pretend to be interested in initials like ESP, JFK, CIA and LBJ. Then I have to go back home to an empty house in Sydney and make sense of this shifty alphabet soup. Besides, as soon as I leave Evelyn Rutledge, I can find out myself. If Monica hasn't unfriended me.

Evelyn Rutledge puts me out of my misery. ‘His name is Kaplan . . . Alan Kaplan.'

My mind runs after faces with names, like a dog chasing a car. Then I have him. Not quite the face, but a handshake. Firm and, in hindsight, oddly satisfied.

Eight years ago, I was handshaked through Monica's previous life and now I had been handshaked into her future one.

When we met, she fell hard. It had never happened to her before. When she proposed, I accepted without hesitation. She was the most exciting person I had ever met. Hard to believe after all that's happened, but she felt exactly the same way about me. She found me handsome; I reminded her of John-John Kennedy. Monica had palled around with Caroline in Martha's Vineyard the summer of '97 and developed a huge crush on the dashing Junior. I never cared for them; they were just another celebrity couple, but I did feel a wave of sadness after the plane crash. Monica believed in the Kennedy Curse. It was at least as convincing as the Curse of Tutankhamun. But why would such curses be reserved just for powerful families? They could equally apply to families no one's ever heard of. Families just like mine.

I had already been married twice before, but with Monica, if felt different. When we finally surfaced after our first three weeks together, very sore but hardly sorry, we were focusing on the future—Us Together Forever. She took me on a tour of the faculty where she worked. This was her mentor, her colleague; this was her former student who was doing his doctorate. Always ‘pleased to meet you'. Then the circuit got bigger. This was her old mixed-doubles partner. This was a friend from up at the lake; or down at the gym. The motorcycle club—Monica rode an Indian Chief.

I didn't get these impromptu social calls at first. We'd be on our way to the beach and stop off at some university facility, or go by a gallery or rehearsal space, and Monica would introduce me to another guy. Quite a few were older than me, a couple were younger than her. Occasionally it was a woman.

It was a professor who gave it all away. He didn't want to shake hands. He just wanted to talk to Monica. Alone. I stood outside the frosted-glass door, his muffled voice pleading at first, almost sobbing, then rising in outrage and anger.

Did they know about all the others; did they think it was only a matter of time before they'd lose her? Had they ever even cared about her, or was she just a convenient and easy pleasure on the side—erotic fast food? Were they secretly relieved that they could simply give up the stress that goes with adultery and go back to their families, hiding their reckless episode with Monica in the attic of their memories? Along with all their other clandestine indiscretions, embarrassments and fantasies: the students and the secretaries and receptionists in Friday-afternoon offices.

Then around two years ago, there was Kaplan, a distinguished-looking French teacher who reminded me of myself, only a little more old-school, a little more stylish. More Cary Grant than John-John . . .

I didn't realise till it was too late. The story of my life.

J
FK's daiquiri sits untouched by the bed, melting ice draining the high lime tint. Eva Marlowe stretched across the president, her nipple raking the hair on his chest as she helped herself to his drink. Eva liked to screw as well as the next woman, but she wasn't exactly crazy about Jack's ‘lay back and give it to me' style. It was all about dick; nothing for Dora.

Eva was a party girl with an artist's mind. When she was up on the screen, audiences only ever saw her beauty. They thought that's what gave her sex appeal. But her crooked smile hid a huge intelligence. Eva knew that nothing got a man up so fast—or deflated him so quickly—as a well-chosen word, and Eva had plenty of those in her repertoire.

She was able to hold her own with most men, whether they liked it or not. Dukes or playboys. Cowboys or bandits. Presidents. She practically collected them. Adolfo López Mateos was the first. She had loved him. Here was a man who wasn't interested in power for its own sake, but as a means of making people's lives better. When Alfredo became president in '58 he wrote down a list of things that would help the ordinary Mexican's life become better: compulsory education; increased minimum wages; farmers' markets that cut out middlemen. Housing. And then he set out in a methodical fashion to try to achieve as many of those goals as possible. It was all a little too radical for a few, very important people and Eva wondered if the terrible migraines Alfredo started suffering weren't caused by some kind of slow-acting poisoning. A hugely popular, internationally respected social reformer was always a threat to those intent on preserving the status quo—the status quo being accumulating the greatest amount of wealth amongst the fewest possible individuals. The Bannister Way.

President Goulart of Brazil was one of the most chivalrous men Eva had ever met. But he could also be surprisingly earthy. He had a real love of music and popular traditions. And was tenacious and effective where it counted. His land reforms terrified the oligarchy.

And then there was Jack. Small beer by comparison, and she wasn't just thinking of his politics.

‘What are you thinking about . . . ?'

‘ . . . Politics.'

‘Jesus.'

‘What?'

‘Politics is the one thing I don't want to think about. Not tonight . . . ' For such a famous voice, it wasn't that attractive. ‘Tonight, all I want to think about is . . . ' He leant over and touched her between the legs. ‘Sex.'

She had foolishly thought he was going to say ‘you'.

Who was she kidding? Sure, he was the president, but he was also a louse. She threw off the sheets and got out of bed. He reached for her waist, but then froze, groaning in pain. Tonight's specialty: naked president with bad back. She must be slipping.

Eva knew she should offer to give him a massage. But she also knew where that would lead. She crossed the room to where her bathrobe hung across a chair, freezing as a man entered, unannounced, through the front door of the suite, holding a camera in his hands. She ripped a sheet off the bed, covering the front of her naked body. ‘Who the hell are you?'

JFK rolled off the bed to the heartbeat of the shutter, Hastings shooting as he approached—snap, snap, snap—thinking: head shot, chest shot; kill shot.

Eva started to scream. Hastings had her, her squirming body warm in his arms. ‘Shut up or we're all dead,' he whispered into her ear. She spun around, slapping him hard across the face, but keeping quiet. Eva was a trouper. She tossed her robe to JFK, who had taken shelter between the bed and the wall. He was going for the phone. ‘Forget it . . . ' Hastings said, ‘it's dead.' He lowered the camera and stepped back, the silencer long and lethal in his hand.

Both Eva and the president stared at it, the gun controlling the scenario. ‘Do you have any idea—'

‘Listen to me!' Hastings said. ‘Your life is in danger.'

‘And yours isn't? Coming in here and threatening me with a gun.'

Eva stepped towards the door. ‘And how about my life, is it in danger too?'

Hastings turned to Eva, recognizing her for the first time. ‘Step away from the door, Miss Marlowe. He's the one they want; you're just an incidental target; “the broad in the bed”.'

‘I resent that.'

‘What are you talking about?' JFK thumped the phone, trying to get a dial tone. ‘And where the hell is my protection?'

'It was supposed to be Chicago. Soldier Field. You know that.'

‘Know what?'

‘Shut up.'

Eva turned to Kennedy, outraged. ‘How dare you talk to me that way.'

Kennedy looked at her for a long, incredulous moment, then gave a short, scoffing laugh. ‘I'm sorry if I offended the lady.' He turned to Hastings, cinching the bathrobe around his body. ‘How do you know about Soldier Field? That was top secret.'

‘I was the man who was supposed to shoot you there.'

Kennedy stared at him for a long moment. Again the light, scoffing laugh. Somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration. ‘I'm glad you had a change of heart.'

‘Why are you warning us like this? Why not just call the cops? And why the goddamn camera?' She turned to JFK. ‘It doesn't make sense, Jack. He's probably a shakedown artist from
Hollywood Whispers
.'

Hastings looked at his watch. ‘I'm here because in precisely three hours, people will force their way into this room to kill you both.'

‘That's ridiculous.' JFK said it with a lack of conviction unimaginable in most politicians. He was almost human. ‘I have . . . ' His voice faded. Men who know victory also know defeat.

‘Security? Not tonight.'

‘So what are we going to do now, pose for some more snapshots?'

‘I'm getting you out, Miss Marlowe. But first we have to get the president out.'

‘Whatever happened to women and children?'

‘Relax, Eva, I'll take care of you. Why the camera? She's right. This is a shakedown, isn't it?'

‘Insurance, that's all. You leave me alone and you'll never see these photos.'