by Tim Baker
‘Well they’ve done an excellent fucking job, because I’ve never seen a sorrier, more confused investigation in my life. And as for your Buck Rogers bullshit about radio waves, I don’t buy it for a second. They were right here, making the call under your private dick nose.’
‘It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Fuck sense. They did it. Period.’
‘All right, let’s skip the how and go for the who . . . ’ Schiller nods, looking at me with pleading eyes. There’s fear there. And confusion. Save me, he seems to be saying.
‘Jesse will be calling in an hour. In the meantime, I want another talk with Mrs. Bannister . . . alone.’
‘You’re married, Alston—and in case you haven’t noticed, Caterina is a good woman.’
What I have noticed is Schiller’s eyes all over Cate every time they meet. ‘Lay off with the sermons, this is strictly work. What about the nanny?’
‘We picked her up at her mother’s place . . . ’ There is a long pause. ‘Jordan Downs.’ Well, what do you know? A fierce and famous racist like Old Man Bannister hiring a nanny from Watts. Was he softening in his old age? Or was he simply setting Greta Simmons up for a kidnapping rap? ‘She’s making a statement at the station.’
‘Do me a favour and bring her here when she’s done. I want to walk her through her final movements with the kid. In the meantime, we need to talk to Elaine Bannister.’
‘Talk all you want, it won’t do any good.’
‘She’s not . . . ’
‘Dead?’ He bites off the lip of a cigar and shakes his head impatiently.
‘So she’s awake?’
He spits the cob of tobacco triumphantly. ‘Even if she was, you’d get more conversation out of an Idaho potato.’ His laugh is an internal rumble, as though he were painfully digesting his own joke. He reads from a piece of paper torn from a prescription form, hesitating at each syllable. ‘Obtundation . . . That’s it.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means, for the moment at least, that Elaine Bannister is a Grade-A, Chef’s Specialty vegetable.’
Jesus Christ. ‘She’s comatose?’
‘Total state of shock. The doc said some people suffer from . . . ’ Reading from his scrap of paper again: ‘Status epilepticus. Words like that, make me glad I’m a cop.’
As if they’d ever let a man with fists like his near a scalpel. I snatch the paper from him. The name on the script is Landis.
‘Doc said emotional or toxic shock can bring it on.’
Toxic.
Toxic might be poison. Poison could explain why someone was trying to bury her. Toxic might be drugs. Elaine could be a hophead or powder jockey. That could explain why she was crawling through pipes practically naked in the middle of the night.
Maybe she snapped when she heard about the kidnapping. Or when the divorce became final. What does that do to a mother: to lose her infant child forever? ‘Nobody’s seen her since the divorce, when Old Man Bannister got full custody. Why was that, do you think?’
‘Because he kicked her out of the house.’
‘I mean—why did the Old Man get full custody?’
‘I don’t know, the normal reasons . . . ?’
Only, there’s no normal in the world of Old Man Bannister. ‘Question is: when did Elaine Bannister go nuts?’
Schiller presses so close, he bumps me with that barrel chest of his. ‘You’re telling me the Old Man sent her crazy?’
‘It figures, doesn’t it? He wants full custody. No judge is going to hand over a kid into the care of a mother who’s a turnip.’
‘We’ve got no proof.’
‘We start by finding people who knew her over the last twelve months. Something’s got to turn up . . . And, if we’re lucky, the trail will lead back to the Old Man.’
Schiller just stands there, staring at me, trying to tear a flake of tobacco from the corner of his mouth. This is a long shot, but the only one we have. We both know we’re in trouble. All we’ve got are three leads: one near death, one missing, and one who can’t speak. Plus a stolen lighter with initials telling me a truth I can see but don’t want to acknowledge. That Mrs. Bannister’s caught up in all of this. ‘Even if Old Man Bannister was involved, why would he or anyone else bury her here, right under our noses? Admit it, Alston, it just doesn’t make sense.’
Unless there is a reason none of us have seen yet. ‘Unless they wanted her found.’
‘Why even risk it?’
Good question. There was only one answer: they didn’t care if she lived or died; they knew she’d never talk. They just wanted her found. She was a secret message written in an ancient language that only one person still remembered: Old Man Bannister. ‘Blackmail.’
‘Blackmail? Why blackmail him when they’re already extorting ransom for the kid?’
‘What if it’s unrelated?’
‘A coincidence like that? Are you kidding?’
‘Okay, it’s a long shot, I admit it, but here’s another angle: imagine for a moment that Elaine was in on the snatch.’
‘A mother kidnapping her own son . . . ?’
‘Wait and listen for a moment, will you? Let’s say they need her to snatch the kid but when she sees him, she goes nuts . . . ’
‘She was already nuts!’
‘We don’t know when it happened. Maybe just seeing the kid sends her bananas. The kidnappers were just using her to get the kid, but when she does, she snaps . . . ’
Schiller’s eyes open in stunned illumination. He actually gets it. ‘And she doesn’t want to give the kid back!’
‘She wants to keep him, and to hell with the goddamn ransom . . . ’
‘Only the others, the ones who are using her, don’t give a fuck about the kid. They want the dough.’
‘They want the dough, and now Elaine is getting in the way, acting like the mommy she was never allowed to be, complicating everything.
‘So they decide to kill her . . . ’
‘Not kill. They’re in it for the money, but they’re not killers.’ Can I really be sure of that? What if they’re the mob? They wouldn’t hesitate to kill a kid for a cool million. Schiller seems to be reassured by what I’ve said though. ‘It’s money they’re after so now they decide to double down on their bet against the Old Man. Now they have the kid, and they also have proof that Old Man Bannister should never have had custody in the first place.’
‘What proof?’
‘Elaine Bannister and her sob story. A mother who’s ready to die for her kid.’
‘But who cares if the kid stays with the Old Man or not?’
Schiller’s still a cop even with that liver. I think about it. ‘Maybe someone close to Elaine?’ Like Betty Bannister for instance. Was that whole line about not talking to Elaine just a lie? Or is there someone else in the family with a special interest in who’s looking after Ronnie? ‘Or maybe they don’t give a damn about Elaine. She’s just another racket to them . . . ’ In which case it could be professionals like Johnny Roselli. A kid, a zombie broad. It’s all the same when money’s on the line. You use them, and if you have to lose them, you don’t hesitate. Business is business. ‘There is one other explanation . . . ’
‘Give it to me.’
‘What if there’s a whole group of kidnappers with only one thing in common?’
‘Being . . . ?’
‘What is it that anyone who has ever had any dealings with the Old Man always says about him?’
‘First-class son of a bitch.’
‘You got it. They hate him. Every single one of them. His past and present business associates, all his opponents, even his political allies. They fear him. They need him. But most of all, they hate him. Especially his ex-wives.’
‘I think it was that fucking crumb, Hastings. A grease mo
nkey working for the Old Man who took a look at all the dough just lying around, and said—why not me?’
Hastings . . . I had almost forgotten about him. Iwo Jima vet. Smart enough to have escaped. Smart enough to have stolen evidence. And who had fingered Hidalgo before anyone knew about the Feds’ interest in him. ‘Any luck with the all-points?’
‘It’s still too early.’
‘What I can’t figure out is how come the kidnappers know so little about the Old Man . . . And so much about me.’
Schiller steps in front of me, anxiety filling his meaty face. ‘Don’t make this about Tommy . . . ’
‘What if it already is?’ I look around the estate grounds. Tommy bought it in a mansion just like this in Brentwood, walking down a pebble driveway. The burglar must have heard him coming a mile off, and sapped him hard as he turned the corner. They figured he thought Tommy was the old man coming home, or maybe just a servant. But when he saw Tommy lying there in his uniform, his jaw broken, he knew what had to be done and opened Tommy’s throat with a long, sharp blade. Two minutes later, give or take, Tommy was dead. Golden Gloves. Purple Heart. Sergeant in the marines; sergeant on the Force. All that service. For nothing. In one night my brother had been turned into a dead chump.
The burglar had picked up Tommy’s piece, walked back to the squad car and blown Tommy’s partner’s brains out. That had been the first thing I saw when I got there at dawn, brains sticky as egg yolk on the trunk. The blood had pooled calmly round Tommy, dammed by the pebbles, so completely still in the early light that I could see my own reflection in it. The blood of my parents. And of me. Tommy, white and empty, dead from a sucker punch, his own gun turned on his partner.
I knew what had to be done. I had pushed past the others, driven home, and loaded my car with rope, lighter fluid, a hand drill, a hacksaw, a fish fillet knife, ten feet of garden hose, a box of cigars, a bottle of brandy, three vials of ammonia and a pair of bolt cutters. Twenty-four hours later I hadn’t found Tommy’s killer but I had solved nineteen other cases and was off the force.
Big-time cover-up all round.
And Tommy’s killer was still out there, hiding behind the corner at the end of some pebble driveway, waiting for another sucker just like Tommy.
I look at my new Zodiac watch. ‘It’s time to talk to Jesse.’
CHAPTER 22
Manhattan November 7th, 1963
Twenty-seven hours till the hit in New York City. Time enough to panic. To feel the twin tidal currents of remorse and ruthlessness. Time enough for Hastings to try to figure a way out.
It was going to be a bedroom whack. JFK would be officially staying at the Carlyle but would be screwing at the Sherry Netherland. The heavy security would be at the wrong hotel. The skeleton Secret Service crew actually with the president would be no threat. Hastings would be in disguise as CIA. He’d arrange broads and booze for the Secret Service boys. The others had been told to assemble in the lobby twenty minutes before midnight. Hastings and Luchino would be jumping the gun by nearly three hours.
He left to stake out the hotel for safe exits, emergency retreats and possible traps. Then he went for a walk in the park. He felt exhausted from the pressurized atmosphere of overheated hotels. He needed the stinging clarity of cold air and traffic.
New York seemed unreal after the shadowless mountain mornings and ocean sunsets of Los Angeles. The trees in the park were all stripped naked, throwing up their bare branches in surrender to the frozen sky. Car horns echoed off the canyons of apartment houses. Manhattan imagined itself to be the centre of civilization, but Hastings felt removed from all human order and companionship. He was alone.
All across the city, museums were closing, offices were emptying, and storefront grilles were being locked. Trains were departing the city for suburban homes flickering with the fevered contagion of television.
Hastings slipped into a bar. The Cocktail Hour. One is not enough and three too many. But who’s counting? The Hour extended itself effortlessly, glass rims blushed with lipstick; heated air soiled with cigarette smoke. Knees touched under tables. Eyes invited. Mouths lied. ‘My wife doesn’t understand me.’ ‘My husband takes me for granted.’ ‘I never thought you felt the same . . . ’ Pockets were rifled for change, telephone receivers raised from their cradles, home numbers dialled. ‘Held up at work.’ ‘Better go ahead and eat without me . . . ’
The elegant ritual of collective anesthetization. The debate between the olive and the pickled onion. Lemon rind or Maraschino cherry. As for the rest, a dash of bitters is enough for the entire city. Ice is stabbed and fractured like a frozen carcass, comets of sheared cold glittering across clothing to amused applause. Bartenders shake drinks with a musical, metallic chime. No one remembers who ordered them. Nobody cares. A hand touches an arm, an arm brushes a breast; fingers drop to a knee, skate along the sleek path of nylon. Longing mouths are denied union. Perfume is breathed. Jokes are whispered; laughter is light and calculating. Cigarettes are exchanged like promises. Sentences trail away. Gazes are avidly met or studiously avoided. Watches are checked. Timetables don’t wait for small talk.
Hastings sipped his scotch on the rocks; looked around. Everyone was leaving, his solitude magnified by the empty tables in the mocking mirrors. Ever since the War, his existence had been dominated by death. Avoiding it, then delivering it on command. Everyone in the city will suffer the same fate. Nobody is spared. Yet they all turn their faces from the inevitability. The Grave or the Flame. Too impossible to imagine. Too gruesome to accept.
Everyone except for Hastings. Not after all that had happened. Not after all he had seen. All he had done; was about to do. One of the telephone booths was free. His fingers found the numbers in the dark, the dial a wheel of fortune. His destiny awaited an answer to his spin of fate. There was the click of response. ‘ . . . Mrs. Bannister?’
There was a protracted, shocked pause. Then her voice rose with amazement. And recognition. ‘You . . . ?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Not on the phone . . . ’ She had already told him two things. Her phone was bugged. And she’d been waiting for this call. It had been three years but the voice still thrilled him: a delicious surge of pleasure pitted with the promise of pain. Her scent. Her intimate taste. The quicksand of desire and despair. ‘Meet me.’
‘Where?’
‘Our old place . . . ’
Why LA? he wondered. Was she planning on skipping town? ‘When?’
‘Fifteen minutes.’
It took a moment for Hastings to understand she meant the New York Roosevelt. Her surveillance must be total. ‘Make it twenty.’ She hung up. A long, breathless pause. Then the faint snapping signal of eavesdropping. Hastings cradled the phone and thought about who was behind the tapping. It had to be Hoover. But why Mrs. Bannister? His ex-boss’s soon-to-be ex-wife. Like him, a one-time suspect in a kidnapping.
He remembered the rule: the hardest fall is always for the wrong person.
Susan had been the right person. Hastings had married Susan straight off the train coming back from the war. He thought he could put the Pacific behind him by walking down an aisle with his high-school sweetheart. Hastings found out a week after the wedding that Susan was eight weeks pregnant with her uncle’s child when a rock smashed through the window.
Through her sobs, Susan managed to tell him the whole story in the course of that night. The abuse had started when she was just a girl. First it was her teacher: Hasting’s own stepfather. Then the preacher, long gone. Then the mayor. And then her uncle, who ran the gas station on the interstate. She wasn’t the only one. Sons and daughters were traumatized.
Shame and culpability turned the husbands violent. The men were short-tempered and cruel with their wives—who were judged wanting compared to what the husbands had been violating night after night: hurting and damaging children just for a fast shudder of
pleasure. The men kept their secret the way men always do: with liquor, brutality and sullen silence; the women struggled with the burden of their knowledge and their hatred of their husbands. Many pretended they didn’t know, choosing ignorance over despair. Some beat their daughters. Others ignored them. One or two defended them; tried to even save them. Susan’s mother didn’t care. Her own ordeal had seen to that: the town was already second generation; socially entrenched, like church on Sundays and the Labor Day picnic.
Susan had been passed around amongst the Elders but now she had a husband who loved her. Even after she told him. A husband who promised to save her. A husband who said it wasn’t her fault. The pendulum swing was too far and too fast for Susan. She had been blamed from the very beginning. Because of Eve. Because of the weaker sex: provocative and shameless. The men were blameless. It was always her fault. She, the temptress. A Jezebel.
A woman.
Hastings’s four years overseas had introduced him to war and death and despair but had spared him the abusive savagery of his hometown’s complicit cruelty; its sanctimonious denial, its vicious easy formula: victim as predator.
Those missing years were about to catch up with him.
He found her in the river. Dead, along with the unborn child he would have raised. He had wanted to take her away from the past and out west to the future, to Dallas, or further, to California. To follow the sun to a place where no one knew them or their past. But her sunset couldn’t wait.
There was no funeral. The church would not allow it. Suicide was the public reason. Fornicator was the private one. The men folk had no control over their throbbing pricks and rancid minds. She made them do it. She deserved everything she got. And they gave her plenty. No one came to the burial, not even her mother. Hastings dug the grave himself. Then he went back to the hovel they had rented; that he had been prepared to call a home.
The following night it was a new moon. A perfect Kill Night in the Pacific. When the tormenting mud and underbrush transformed into the hush of silence and cover. A sorrowful rain made the leaves of the sweetgums bow their stars to earth. Hastings went out and stalked the Elders of the town armed with his navaja sevillana, won off a deserter from Franco’s Guardia Civil in a poker game in Manila in 1945.
