Fever City (43 page)

That stuttering laugh again. ‘Hope you've packed your winter socks. This will be fine, thank you, driver . . . ' They get out, the hack looking at his tip as though debating whether to toss it back at Leon or not. ‘One thing they taught me in Minsk. Tipping is antisocial. Here we are.'

Hastings looks all around. There was a movie house opposite. ‘What's
here
?'

‘Rendezvous with Gerry Hemming. This is where I come in . . . '

Hastings studies the terrain. Ambush territory. He feels as if they'd just been herded into a box canyon. He wants out. ‘Good luck, Leon . . . '

The goofy smile slides off his face. ‘You're not leaving?'

‘That's exactly what I'm doing . . . ' Hastings starts heading west. He's going to find a car, hot-wire it, and get the hell out of Dallas as fast as he can. He was booked on the 6:15 flight from Houston to LA and he wasn't going to miss it.

Leon follows him. ‘It's because you don't think I have it in me, isn't it?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about . . . '

Leon grabs his sleeve. ‘It's because you don't think I can do it, right?'

Hastings stops. ‘You're making a scene.'

‘Answer me!'

A couple comes out to watch the ruckus. ‘Keep it down, for Christ's sake! Do what?'

Leon pulls out his .38 Special. ‘Kill Gerry Hemming.'

There is a shout behind them. Someone's seen the gun. Hastings pushes past him. ‘Do whatever you want, I'm getting out of here.'

Leon points the gun at him. ‘I stood by you back in Dealey Plaza, now it's your turn to stick by me.'

‘You're going to get us both killed, do you know that . . . ?'

‘Once a Marine, always a Marine . . . Here he comes!' Hastings glances out of the corner of his eye. A Dallas Police patrol car pulls up next to them. A single, uniformed driver with a slick-backed duckbill. And no partner. It didn't make sense. ‘Hey, Gerry, look what I've got for you.' The driver gets out, his face just clearing the car's cherry light when Leon pulls the trigger. Three shots. All point-blank. The officer staggers, then falls. ‘I got him, did you see me? I got him!'

Hastings pushes past Leon, staring at the fallen officer. ‘You idiot, that isn't Hemming!'

Leon slowly circles round the squad car, staring at the bleeding man. ‘But it looked like Hemming. They told me Hemming would be here . . . ' He stares at Hastings, his face a map of confusion.

Hastings doesn't wait. He starts running. ‘Hey, come back! Please? Elvis? Come back!'

Hastings runs down Patton Avenue, looking back one last time. Leon is going into the movie theatre. He looks at his watch. Five hours to steal a car, drive 250 miles and catch a plane—without getting caught. And then, if he made it back to LA, the hard part would begin.

A
rriving in France had been like a fever dream, the afternoon heat at Nice crushing with humidity. I hadn't slept since the night before last with Evelyn, and even then, we had spent most of our time not sleeping. It took over an hour to get to my hotel in St-Jean, and when I finally arrived I was exhausted but resisted the cool temptation of white sheets striped by the shadows of Italian shutters, and walked down to the nearest beach, Paloma Plage.

The water was cooling and green as jade from the sea grass, the whole scene contained by limestone cliffs enfolding the bay like a huge amphitheatre. A plane flew by, its single prop engine whining high above the shouts of children on the beach as it trailed an aerial banner for a nightclub in Cannes. I swam far out, past swimmers with snorkels and masks and couples kissing on floats; past kayaks and anchored yachts to a great yellow buoy, and watched a three-master sailing by under motor, “The Maltese Falcon”. I Googled her when I got back to the hotel. Three hundred feet. Half a million bucks to charter for a week. A sum so far beyond comprehension I needed to get some more air.

I felt better back outside, especially when I saw a one-man fishing boat returning for the day, keying the still waters with its low, persistent wake. At the end of a curving road was an ancient chapel on a hill, and just below it a cemetery, filled with the sickly scent of datura, the pale closed bells digesting their secrets in silence, their poison hidden deep within thorny kernels.

I ate on a terrace in the main square, watching swallows riot around the church tower. I'd never been to the Riviera before. Everything felt beautiful and unreal. We can board a plane at night, get off halfway around the world. But we can't expect to feel the same. It's not just the difference in season and landscape. Movement changes us. Move too fast and we change in ways we don't expect. Ways we never knew were possible. I came to France because I was told to; because—let's face it—I was afraid. Now that I was here, it felt as though I had chosen it myself.

 

* * *

 

I wake with a start. For a second I could have sworn someone was in my room. I look out the window. The moon has just come up, simmering crimson and defiant above the waves. How many times do you get to see a moonrise? A sunrise? Like everyone else, I'm locked inside a city, canyoned behind walls and smog and the camouflage of streetlights. When was the last time I bothered to look up at the sky? It was in Mexico, in Ciudad Juárez. But that was a city without stars.

The horror of what happened there still fills my soul with night grief. I have it bad; I can barely breathe from the weight of remorse, especially in the heat of the night. It is more than just fatigue and jet lag. It is as if something has always been wrong with me; as though my timing were off. It is something organic, not environmental. Something deep inside me. Integrated and internal. Not so much a feeling of loss as a sense of displacement. Misplacement. Something is amiss—I've always known it. And here, staring at this foreign moon, I think I've finally figured it out. It's easy, really.

I'm just not me.

Never was.

Never will be.

I stare out into the sea. There's something out there, far out on the horizon, past the blaze of anchored yachts and the drift of green starboard lights. A set of pillars rising from the sea, and just beyond, the mountainous peaks of an enchanted island. I keep losing it, then seeing it again; a fata morgana, the kind of bewitchment that once befell Ulysses. I keep staring until a mist rises, and the apparition disappears.

I drink a half bottle of water, take a piss, wash my face, check that the door is locked and then lie down again. Sleep's out of the question, but if I'm lucky, I'll stop thinking . . .

And it's not until nearly dawn, when the seagulls start their crying, that I not only get lucky, but finally drift away.

 

* * *

 

Betty Bannister's house sits on a hill sheltered by a grove of pines restless in the morning breeze, cicadas already frantic with the heat.

The gate is not even locked.

Music comes from a shaded terrace. Lilting; mournful. Compelling. I walk slowly towards it, passing a stone-clad swimming pool, following a trail of wet footprints evaporating on terra-cotta tiles. There's a record player sitting on a large terrace shaded by vines, an LP cover lying on the glass top. I pick it up.
Tijuana Moods
.

‘Charlie Mingus. You must know him?' Whereas Eva Marlowe's voice had been liquid and musical, Betty Bannister's was sculptured and grand. And while Eva had hidden her age behind make-up, jewellery and carefully styled hair, Betty Bannister was natural and strong, standing there clad in a one-piece bathing suit and a hairbrush she was running through her hair. It wasn't simply that time had been kind to Betty Bannister; compared to her it had been unkind to everyone else. ‘That's my favourite number,
Flamingo
.' She slowly lowers the brush, staring at me. ‘My God, you are so much like your father . . . '

‘You knew my father?'

‘I didn't like him, but I knew him.'

I wasn't expecting that. ‘He was a good man. He tried very hard. He had problems . . . ' I don't know whether to keep defending him or not. She just stands there, staring at me. Embarrassed, I put the LP cover down. ‘My father listened to this stuff all the time . . . '

‘Not you?'

I shrug. ‘It has its moments . . . '

‘It most certainly does. I'm sorry, can I get you something to drink . . . ?'

I follow her into the house. If there's anyone else in there, they're being awfully quiet. ‘It's a lot cooler inside . . . '

‘Isn't it? Italians know how to build for the summer. This all used to be Italy, not that long ago . . . ' She opens a fridge. ‘Do you like blood oranges?' Without waiting for an answer, she half-fills two double old-fashioned glasses with freshly-squeezed orange juice, then drops in ice and wedges of scarlet orange. Then she fills the glasses to the brim with Campari, stirring them with a glass swivel stick. She hands one to me. ‘It's called a Garibaldi.'

‘Really? I nearly wrote a book about Garibaldi once. The grandson.'

‘I know. When you were in Mexico . . . '

How does she know about Mexico? I sip my drink, waiting for more, but there's nothing. The drink's better than good. It's dangerous. ‘I don't normally drink in the morning . . . '

‘Drinking's like sex. You don't have to wait until dark to do it.' She looks at me, her eyes flickering with amusement.

I clink glasses.

She gestures to a leather sofa, taking a silk scarf from the back of a chair and wrapping it around her waist. Opposite is a bay window with a view onto the sea and the cliffs beyond. ‘That's Italy over there,' she says. ‘Bordighera. You should visit it.'

‘I thought I saw an island out there last night.'

‘The Island in the Clouds . . . ' She stares at me, then smiles. ‘You're lucky,' she says. ‘You normally only see Corsica in the winter, and even then not everyone can see it. The Corsicans say the island only reveals itself to certain people.'

‘What people are they?'

‘Very good people. Very bad people. And those who are about to die . . . '

There is a pause as I try to figure out which category I belong to. I change the subject fast. ‘How far is it?'

‘Ten hours under sail in a stiff breeze. I had a friend from there once; not a close friend, but . . . He did his best to help us.'

‘Some people believe a Corsican killed the Kennedys.'

‘You can get into trouble listening to “some people”. Especially when talking about Corsica . . . '

I wonder what the Corsican word for ‘omertà' is? Probably omertà. I point to the
Maltese Falcon
anchored at the other end of the bay. ‘It went right past me yesterday. An amazing ship.'

‘Registered in Malta. Its owner is from Greece . . . ' That smile again, both mocking and mischievous. ‘Two countries that have had their share of troubles recently . . . And yet you wouldn't know it, looking at that ship. It seems to be riding out the financial storms quite nicely, doesn't it? My late husband would have appreciated the irony.'

I gesture to the view. ‘You don't seem to be doing too badly yourself . . . '

She puts her glass down on a coffee table. ‘I live here because it's beautiful. I live here because I love it. And I live here because I can.'

‘All I'm saying is—'

‘You're just like your father. Trying to humiliate me. There's something about an independent woman that drives men crazy. I had hoped it would stop when I grew older but . . . ' She gets up and goes over to a drawer, rifling through papers. She slams the drawer shut. ‘As for my late husband's fortune, I've given most of it away to charity, and the rest will go there too, after my death.' She hands me a folded piece of paper. ‘Which hopefully won't be for some time yet. I promised I'd give this to you one day.'

I take the paper. ‘Who did you promise?'

‘A man you don't know. Philip Hastings.'

‘The killer . . . ?'

She takes a long sip of her drink, watching me. ‘If you had ever known him, you'd never have called him that . . . '

I open the paper. It's a State of California Certification of Vital Records birth certificate for Ronald James Bannister. I glance down at the details of the father's full name. ‘John Fitzgerald Kennedy?' I scan further. Under Occupation of Father someone has written United States Senator. ‘This can't be real?'

‘Of course it's real.'

‘But . . . We would have known.'

‘It depends who
we
is . . . Of course some people knew. You can't keep a thing like that hidden for long.'

I read the name of the mother: ‘Elaine Bannister?'

‘My dear, tormented sister had one unforgiveable fault. She just couldn't tell a lie. Of course when they found out, they had the birth certificate amended. But you're holding the original in your hands.'

‘Is this why Eva Marlowe sent me here?'

She sits down next to me. ‘I sent for you. When Eva told me you were in Dallas, I knew I couldn't put it off anymore . . . '

‘Put what off, Mrs. Bannister?'

‘I hate that name. Call me Betty. I can't put off telling you the truth anymore . . . ' There is a ringing in my ears. She places her hand on my arm. ‘Are you all right?'

I feel faint. ‘It's about my father, about the Bannister case, isn't it?'

‘That's right . . . '

‘The rumours were true, is that what you're going to tell me? That he was in on the kidnapping?'

She slaps my face. ‘How dare you say that about Nick Alston. He's the man who saved your life.'

My voice is husked with a rising anger. ‘What then?'