Fever City (24 page)

Hastings looked up from the envelope, his gun already in his hand. But all he could hear was the loud putter of a refrigerator struggling against the heat, and the distant splash of an outdoor swimming pool. He was jumpy. Hastings turned on the radio low, wiping the switch with his handkerchief.
Midnight
by Hal Singer. Sensual. Stirring. A dangerous place to be. He looked at his watch. It'd be dark in an hour. The shrink had booked a table at the Dresden for eight. Plenty of time to get rid of Stark's body. To go through all the details one more time. Fly to Dallas the following morning. Meet up with Luchino. Stop the hit. Escape to Houston by car. Fly back to LA. Pick up Bella from the kennel. Go straight to Big Bear Lake. Wait for her; then run. It was so clear. It was so risky. Hastings closed his eyes and, without seeking it, fell asleep to the lament of Charlie Shavers's trumpet.

 

* * *

 

He dreamt of the war; of cleaning his rifle after a tropical storm. He dreamt of mud, of leeches burrowing into his legs. He dreamt of the torment of mosquitoes at dusk and the terrible thirst at midday. They were running uphill under the volcanic sun, chasing retreating enemy forces when they were ambushed. The crack of a bullet through somebody's helmet; the splinter-crumple of skull; the hump of a body falling in sparse undergrowth. No cover. No shade. No shadows. The swoon of machine-gun fire tearing up the terrain; the click of broken rock, flint splinters in the face.

Hastings elbowed his way forward, the air scorch of bullets tracing the blue sky with the riot of combustion. He kept going, doubling up behind the high ground. On his own. Clear sight lines into the three nests that were holding back both companies. Grenades. Gunfire. The rush of others joining him. The swivel and slit of bayonets. The nests had fallen; the first of many. When they finally came out onto a stream, he sank into its tannic waters, sunburn and blisters thumping from the temperature change, and drank until he heaved. He was nineteen. They had forced this upon him; island upon brutal island. This was war; he was changed forever. He thought back to the deer that morning with his stepfather. The silver silence of dawn. The patina of frost on the leaves. The fog of his breath affirming his decision. He had let that creature live when dozens of men had been denied such grace. That thing of beauty had survived. And then the slap across his ear, the sting in the bitter air. If a stepfather could do that to his own son; what could a stranger do to an enemy's? The war gave him the answer. The tiny river danced to the whistle of bullets. It had already begun again. Hastings hauled himself out of the miraculous water and up into the foliage, ready to kill once more . . .

On the sofa, Hastings moaned and turned. Across the room, the plastic-clad corpse of Walter Stark stared back at him, like a mummy from a lost civilization, immutable and accusing.

E
velyn sits opposite me, the candles blushing her body with a rose-coloured glow. She moves the ruins of our dinner to one side and picks up one of the large candles, cradling it within her fingers. ‘Let me show you where I work.' Without waiting for a response, she leads the way down a long corridor, tiles winking at me under the flush of candlelight.

I have to bow to pass through a vaulted passageway into a huge room with a glass cupola. Evelyn places the candle inside a deep crystal globe carved into the shape of a pinecone. Instantly the room leaps into magnified illumination, waves of unsettled light everywhere. Three walls are consumed by high bookshelves. A moveable brass stepladder is attached to horizontal rods, allowing access to the highest volumes. Its highly -polished surface mirrors the flickering flame. The last wall is bare except for some artwork and a king-size bed.

‘This is my study.'

I gesture to the bed. ‘You do your best work asleep?'

‘Much of my work concerns dreams. Where better to sleep?' She climbs one of the brass ladders. ‘I have a book that will—' There's the crack of her heel catching between rungs and she slips. Evelyn reaches for support, clasping at books that tumble, the ladder rolling wildly on its tread towards me.

I catch it as it sails past, gathering her in my arms, her body nestled against mine. A long unspoken moment passes then she tugs me up towards her, moving against me, a barely discernible undulation of the hips. I can feel her heart against my chest, beating fast.

She slowly turns and reaches up with both hands, hoisting herself almost out of reach, nearly breaking contact, then lowering herself against me again, one of my hands gliding along her calf, the other finding the zipper down her back, which purrs as I open it.

Evelyn lets go of the bars, trusting me to stop her fall. My lips trace their way up her spine towards her neck, her heat elemental, like a desert wind. She glances at me over her shoulder, her face masked by hair.

I turn her gently and peel the dress from her, the silk straining then freeing itself from her body. Evelyn seizes the rungs and pulls herself up, out of my reach. I see a smile through her hair as she lowers herself upon me, her hand seizing a fist of my hair as her breathing begins to quicken.

I lean out on the ladder then return, one of her legs locked around my waist, the other over my shoulder, Evelyn drawing herself up and lowering herself down: two rhythms, one intent.

I
s this the one?'

I stare down at the paper marked Hidalgo and nod. ‘What's your name?'

Defensively, ‘Huston.'

‘Huston, do you know the guy who brought him in?'

‘I wasn't on duty when he arrived. But the driver should have signed in somewhere . . .' More papers get shuffled desultorily, as though an old, drunken cardsharp were going through his rounds for the last time. Basic moves, but still beyond the dying hustler's shaking hands. Papers spill, gliding to the floor. Finally something of significance is retrieved. ‘Here we go. No wonder you're looking for him!' He looks up at me. ‘Archer is one strange bird, all right.'

I snatch the paper from him. He works for CHD. We've got him.

I call the Bannister Estate. Mrs. Bannister answers, her voice rich, deeply textured; thrilling in its promise. ‘It's Nick Alston, Mrs. Bannister. I need to talk to Schiller.'

There is the pause of power interrupted. ‘I'm sorry but the Captain's speaking to my husband, Mr. Alston.'

‘It's an emergency, Mrs. Bannister.'

I wait on the line, listening to distant murmurs. A voice rises, argumentative, then drops fast—easily defeated. Schiller startles me, booming into the phone: ‘This better be good.'

‘We got him. Works for CHD. His name is Nelson Archer. Lives at 66 Kenton Avenue, El Monte.'

‘That's near Legion Stadium.'

'We need him, Schiller.' I hang up and turn to the talking filing cabinet. ‘Where are you keeping Hidalgo?'

‘I'm not keeping him anywhere . . . ' He points to a sleepy wall clock that seems stunned to be consulted with such urgency. ‘In fact, I'm officially off duty. Try reception.'

Hospitals. Churches for the nonbeliever. Penance is out, Penicillin is in. And the corridors of the Emergency Ward have become the Stations of the Cross, universal suffering displayed one lonely bed at a time.

A light flickers like a nervous tic over emergency reception. I flash the badge, gravel down the voice. ‘We have a suspect here, Hidalgo.'

She looks up at me with a slow, vindictive smile, like a house detective who has just caught the girl creeping out of the room. ‘There's been a lot of comment . . . '

With one single phrase, she has turned my intimidation against me. ‘Comment?'

‘Police brutality. Handcuffing a seriously injured man to his bed.' I had forgotten all about Rico's cuffs. How the hell did that happen? Forgetting was never like me. ‘The next-of-kin is most irate . . . '

‘The family is here?'

‘His brother's waiting at the bedside.' She glances over my shoulder. ‘He's been here for hours. He was kind enough to give me his autograph.' I turn, peering into the room. There is a slim young man with shoulders hunched. ‘He was so good in
Giant
, I cried . . . ' Her voice keeps going, like a sports announcer describing the scenes after the match, unable to stop the rush of vocal adrenaline. ‘When the train pulls away and his coffin is just standing there . . . '

‘What did you say next-of-kin's name was?'

She looks at me with sympathetic amazement. ‘You don't recognise Sal Mineo?'

‘Sorry, lady, I don't eat popcorn.' The kid looks up at me as I walk into the room, rising not in greeting, but in nervous defence. I walk over to the bed and start trying the keys I'd lifted from Rico. There is the crisp click of liberation.

‘You didn't have to do that . . . ' He starts circling, his hands moulding the air, as though searching for something to break. ‘It's not like he's going to run away. Not after you ran him down.'

‘Shut up, kid. The prick who handcuffed him was a Fed named Rico.' Colour slides from his face, emaciating it. ‘That's right, and he knows all about Operation 40, so you better start talking or I'm taking you in.'

Something in his eyes.

If it were fear, I'd recognize it.

If it were hate, I'd deserve it.

It's something a hell of a lot bigger. There's an earthquake going on inside that head of his—a seismic shift. I instinctively take a step back, as though his skull were about to explode.

'You think this has anything to do with Operation 40 . . . ?' His voice is a wheeze of contempt.

Silence needles his question. How the hell would I know? I'm in the dark. I swallow my pride. It humps its way painfully down my ganglion-riven throat. ‘What is Operation 40?'

A malicious hiss of satisfaction. ‘It's nothing . . . '

‘Nothing? That's not what Rico said.'

‘It's everything.'

‘Look, I'm trying to help you here . . . ' His short, incredulous laugh would kill me if it were a bullet. ‘But I need you to help me first. Why does Rico think your brother's tied up with this Operation 40?'

‘First, he's not my brother . . . '

‘But the nurse said . . . '

He repeats my phrase with a mocking tone. ‘But the nurse said . . . !' His face gets in close to mine. ‘You fucking idiot, he's my lover.'

I grab him by the shoulders. ‘Look, buddy, I'm here to help.'

He pulls away from me with wiry ease. ‘Like all the other ‘helpers'?'

‘What others? What is this racket, Operation 40?'

‘Racket's right. It's just a fancy name, a swanky title, that's all; a lousy gimmick. A Hollywood hoax to sell the packet to Washington.' He stares at me, his head tilted, as though the whole planet is about to slide over with it. ‘You think senators would vote funding if it was called ‘Operation Phony'? Do you think even they would be that stupid?'

‘Okay, already, it's a racket. So what are they selling?'

‘Shakedowns, blackmail; smut photos. It's the red scare but with sex. It's unaccountable, untraceable money. Lots of it. They say it's to fight communism, but that's bullshit. It's a heist. A scam to get Dick Nixon into the White House.'

‘And how's it going to do that?'

His head suddenly springs back up as though a trigger-trap's been sprung inside. ‘By shaking down the biggest name there is: Old Man Bannister.'

The Old Man. Again. He didn't just have a finger in every pie: he made them all himself. The Cosmic Baker. ‘What's he got to do with it?'

‘What hasn't he got to do with anything . . . ?'

'All right, settle down . . . '

‘Settle down? You sons of bitches nearly killed Félix.'

‘I had nothing to do with it,' I lie. ‘Calm down and tell me where Hidalgo—Félix—fits in.'

‘Pedro Díaz Lanz tapped him. It's worse than the Black Hand. They needed someone inside Old Man Bannister's household. Fucking Díaz. He said he'd get Félix's family out of Cuba. It was bullshit. He'd burnt all his bridges after the leaflet drop over Havana.'

I don't understand a single word he's saying. I've got to focus. Fast. On answers I understand. While Mineo's still caught up in his rage of words. ‘So Rico works for Nixon?'

‘Rico's from Boston.' The fuse of information is guttering. His eyes narrow; judgmental and cruel: why waste words on a moron like me.

‘Who then?'

He shakes his head, appalled by my detective powers. ‘Joe Kennedy, of course.'

‘But Rico also works for Hoover?'

‘He's a Fed—of course he works for Hoover.' He gives a disgusted sigh, like a priest giving up on a rummy sinner. What's the use? Three Hail Marys and get the fuck out of my sight.

But he's given me enough. It's the first real lead I've had all day. Hoover is happy to have Rico moonlighting for Kennedy—as long as Rico gives him the skinny on all that he learns. But back doors generally swing both ways. What has Rico been feeding Joe Kennedy about Hoover? And what has Hidalgo been feeding Rico about Old Man Bannister?

‘This is connected to the kidnapping?'

He's right up there, in my face again. ‘As far as Hoover is concerned, this is connected to Rock Hudson.'

It takes all my control not to slug him. ‘Cut the wisecracks. Answer the question.'

He does a slow turn, walking back over to the bed, taking Hidalgo's hand as he sits down in a chair. ‘Hoover's got a thing about Roy.'

‘Roy?'

‘Rock Hudson. Rico was using Félix to get to me, so I could get to Roy. We stalled him, honest. And while we were stalling, we found out about Joe Kennedy.'

I offer Mineo a cigarette. He accepts. There is a whisper of a match between us. ‘What about Joe Kennedy?'