Corruption of Blood kac-7

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "You're joking," she replied with a charming laugh. "He was a… a… putz-is that the right word? A nonentity. Nobody at home."

  "Maybe. A guy I work with says if he was such a schmuck, he didn't kill the president, and if he did kill the president, he wasn't such a schmuck."

  She laughed again and put her hand casually on his knee. "Oh, God! Please don't tell me you're one of those!"

  "One of what?"

  "An assassination nut, silly."

  Karp said, with some stiffness, "Well… yeah, I guess. I guess I'm supposed to be a kind of official assassination nut."

  "So, you honestly don't think Oswald did it? Forget about the obvious defects of Warren. Let's say it was a sloppy investigation because everyone was running around terrified. The fact remains that they came up with the right guy."

  Karp shrugged. "Well, they haven't proven it by me. How come you're so sure?"

  "Because I'm a journalist and this is the story of the millennium. If there was anything there that was real, that couldn't be interpreted in sixteen different ways, then serious journalists would have dug it out within weeks of the assassination."

  "Wait a minute!" Karp objected. "There are dozens, hundreds, of books digging at the thing."

  "No, I meant by serious journalists. All these buffs-they're all lawyers, or politicians, or sociologists, or historians. Or 'experts.' None of them ever made a dime out of any writing except writing about the assassination. There's not a real hard-rock working journalist in there. Why? Because journalists are suspicious-the good ones, anyway. They check their facts. And they can read people."

  She looked hard at Karp. "Just like I can see you don't believe me-you're becoming a conspiracy buff yourself." She smiled at Karp in a way he didn't much like, the smile of a mom patronizing a preschooler.

  "Look," she said, "I spent hours and hours and hours with Marina Oswald. This woman is just what she says she is. Lee Oswald is just what she says he was and what every reliable record of him says he was-a bum with delusions. He's exactly the kind of person who has been the killer in every presidential assassination: Booth, the failed actor and disgruntled southerner; Guiteau, a petty office seeker with a grievance against authority; Czolgosz, an anarchist, whatever that means. Zangara, the guy who tried to kill FDR, when they asked him why he did it, he said he had pains in his stomach. Oswald was cut from exactly the same cloth. Believe me, I spent some time with the man, so I know."

  "You knew Oswald?"

  " 'Knew' is a little strong. I was a stringer for the Post in New Orleans in September 1963, when he was arrested and went on the radio to debate the anti-Castro Cuban. The peak of his life until then-people actually paying attention to him, the little shit. I interviewed him after the program, but he was so boring and inane that I didn't bother to write it up. What was interesting was what he told me about his wife. I thought it might be interesting to talk to a Russian defector-a defectoress, actually. I was thinking of a piece for the woman's page as we then called it, so I went to Dallas and looked her up. I did the piece, but the paper didn't use it, and weren't they sorry the following month, when Lee pulled the trigger! In any case, after the hassle died down and the FBI quit holding her hand, I renewed our connection, and did some articles and now this film." She laughed. "Who am I to criticize? I've done pretty well myself off the JFK hit."

  They were silent for a moment, and then Karp asked, "And you have no problem with all the discrepancies, the lost evidence, the-I'll say apparent-cover-ups?"

  "Problems? Of course I have problems!" she replied sharply. "Who wouldn't? Do I know that Lee never talked to anyone who worked for someone who worked for the CIA or the FBI? That his name isn't stuck on some obscure file? Of course not! Christ! The Hosty thing alone would cause conniptions. FBI agent Hosty visits the assassin a couple weeks before the killing, and he knows he's a nut, who threatens violence, and a political wacko, who just happens to work in a place that's on the president's motorcade route, and nobody thinks to check this guy out while the big man is in town? So were there cover-ups? Probably. But not of conspiracy; the cover-ups were about incompetence. Like I said, Warren messed up, my boy, messed up big-time, but they got the story right."

  "Well, there I can't agree with you. Obviously, right? I mean that's what the House investigation is for, isn't it? To figure out what went wrong with Warren, and fix it."

  She looked surprised. "Surely you don't believe that? In fact, the point of your committee is to dispose of the criticisms of Warren and come up with approximately the same results."

  Karp bridled and snapped, "That's not what Bert Crane thinks."

  "Yes, I know," McDowell said darkly. "That's the problem. Look-you seem like a very nice man, honest and forthright and all that, so I'm going to give you some free advice. Don't hitch your wagon to a falling star. Hello, Blake."

  The man standing over them and smiling was large and built on an angular plan. His shoulders were squared off and broad, his jaw was sharply drawn, there was a sharp fine dividing a short crop of crinkly black hair, graying on the side, from a flat, smooth forehead. Below that were thick eyebrows straight across and black squarish glasses like Clark Kent's. The lines in his face and his wide mouth seemed also to run rectilinearly, as if drawn on graph paper. He wore a sharply cut, expensive dark suit, pinstriped, of course. Karp knew who he was: next to Jack Anderson and perhaps James Reston, Blake Harrison was at the time the most influential political newspaper columnist in the country.

  Harrison said, smiling, "Hello, yourself, Felicity," and then said his name to Karp and stuck out his hand. Karp rose and took it, and said his own name.

  Harrison said, still smiling, "Felicity, would you mind terribly if I poached a bit? I have to get somewhere and I do need to have a few words with Mr. Karp here."

  "Not at all," said McDowell, her smile a trifle forced. "Nice talking to you, Butch."

  Karp nodded and voiced similar sentiments, and was led away, noticing that no one had asked him. Apparently, when Blake Harrison wanted to talk to you, it was not a negotiable issue.

  Karp followed Harrison out of the crowded living room and down a hallway. Harrison was hailed by several people on the way, and returned their greetings, but refused to stay for conversation. He also seemed to know his way around the Dobbs house. They reached a doorway and Harrison ushered Karp into a small room that appeared to be some kind of den: wooden bookshelves along one wall, a desk, an elaborate stereo system, sporting prints and political cartoons on another wall, two large red leather library chairs flanking a coffee table piled with magazines. Harrison sat in one of the chairs and propped his feet up on the coffee table, seeming quite at home. He motioned Karp into the other.

  Harrison said, "So… Butch. They still call you Butch, don't they?"

  "Or worse."

  Harrison smiled briefly. "Yes, I'll bet. I'm Blake, and they call me worse things than they probably call you. Well, I could butter you up with tales of what I've heard about your reputation, but knowing that reputation as I do, I know that you have no use for flattery. So I'll get to the point. Your boss is going down. It may be this week or the next one, I don't know, but for sure he's finished. The question-"

  "Why?" Karp interrupted. "What's he done?"

  Harrison smiled, the same smile that McDowell had given him, the patient smile of an adult addressing the question of a child. "Why does anyone fail in Washington? He has not made happy the people he ought to have made happy, and he has made unhappy the people he ought not to have made unhappy."

  "I thought he was supposed to run an honest investigation, not put on A Chorus Line. Who exactly are these people he's pissed off?"

  "His committee, for one. Elements of the press."

  "You mean Flores? He's a jerk."

  Harrison chuckled. "Doubtless, but that does not disqualify one from a position of power in Washington. No, Bert made a very serious mistake in accepting this invitation to speak before the caucus without clearing it
with Flores. Flores is hurt and he's going to lash out. Bert could have opposed him if he himself was in a position of unassailable power or if his own record were absolutely clean, but such is not, apparently, the case."

  "Crane is dirty? That's bullshit!"

  "Let's just say that there's a cloud. On Monday, two major papers, one in Philadelphia and one in Washington, will break stories about Bert Crane. The Philadelphia story will explore unsavory connections between Crane and various organized-crime figures that took place while he was a DA in Philly. He let a mobster named Johnny Serrano off on a corruption charge and sometime later there were contributions made to his campaign from a union known to be influenced by the Serrano crime family. The Washington story will focus on the operations of the committee staff. Apparently a good deal of money has been spent without legal authorization, and the comptroller general is starting an investigation."

  Stunned, Karp paused a moment before responding, aware that the other man was examining his reaction. "That's ridiculous!" he said at last. "Crane never did any deal with mob guys. And the only money that's been spent is on essential items for the office. What, they think he's ripping off paper clips?"

  "That's not the point. It is a fact of political life that you can survive accusations if you have a strong political base, or, if you have a weak base you can survive by ensuring that no accusations are made against you-as I said, by making the necessary people happy. But Crane has made people angry without a political base, and that's fatal."

  "I can't believe this," replied Karp stubbornly.

  "For the sake of argument, then, assume he'll be forced out. The question I wanted to raise with you, Butch, has to do with your position."

  "My position?"

  "Yes. Assuming Bert has to go."

  "Well, obviously, I hadn't thought about it. I don't agree that Bert's going."

  Harrison waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, very loyal, of course, but let's cut the crap. Crane is finished and the only problem that remains is who replaces him. I think you'd be ideal. No-let me finish. One, you're as apolitical as a lamppost. That's essential. The report the committee writes is going to have to be salable to the public at large and that means no detectable political influence. Two, I've checked you out pretty thoroughly, and I've been unable to find a cloud. In fact, on several occasions you've dug up nasty stuff that could've been used to good advantage in building a career for yourself and you haven't used any of it. Very commendable, and useful in the present case. Incorruptibility is a salable commodity in this town, but it's as perishable as oysters. It requires, let us say, a certain protective shield. Let's say that I can arrange such a shield."

  "I don't understand," said Karp, and he meant it.

  "What I mean is that Crane's job is yours, if you want it. If we can come to some understanding."

  "Which would be what?"

  Harrison checked and grinned and fanned his hand in front of his face. "My God, such frankness! It takes my breath away. Okay, I'll be blunt, as much as it violates my sensibilities. You take Crane's job. I'll use my influence and the influence of people who owe me favors to make sure you get it. I will ensure cover for you in the press while you do your work. In return, you will provide me with a first look at everything you turn up. Also, if you're as smart as you seem to be, you'd also accept such political guidance as I may offer from time to time. How is that? Blunt enough?"

  "Yeah. Tell me, you're a reporter-how come you can offer political guidance?"

  Harrison laughed at that. "How? My friend, you might as well ask how a telephone can transmit stock market tips. I am a conduit for powerful people. They tell me things. I tell them things. Everyone knows that, which is why my column gets read, and why it's influential. It's the way this town works, as I'm sure you'll find out, if you survive. So-what do you say?"

  "I say I'll think about it."

  Harrison nodded his cube of a head several times. "Good. But don't take too long. The train is pulling out of the station and those who aren't on it will be left behind."

  Karp was tired of this sort of advice. He said, "Well, Blake, the fact is that I really don't give two shits about whether I'm on the train or not. I came here to find out what the truth was about the Kennedy assassination, which is a legal and forensic investigation, a job that, with all due respect, I don't need any advice from you about. If I can do that, fine. If I can't, for whatever reason, I'm out of here."

  Harrison rolled his eyes and brought his fist angrily down on his knee. "The truth! Yes, of course you want the truth. Don't you think that's what I want too? I was in Dallas when Jack was shot. I was at Parkland when they brought him in with his brains spilling out of his head. Nobody ever forgets something like that. My point, if you'd care to listen, is that without some experienced political guidance and some cover, you will not get to the truth. You will not be allowed to. So the choice I put to you is whether you want to remain a 'legal and forensic' choirboy with an unsullied heart, and get kicked out on your ass, or whether you want to play this game and win. Let me know when you make up your mind which."

  He rose from his chair and stalked out of the room, leaving Karp sitting there thinking about what Clay Fulton had said those many weeks ago: indeed, he was way over his head. And in muddy water too.

  After vomiting copiously in a primrose yellow toilet, Marlene washed her face, dried herself on one of the charming flowered guest towels, and went looking for a place to lie low until the wretched party had reached its end and she could sneak out.

  She walked away from the sound of well-informed conversation, down a darkened hallway and through a door. She found herself in an echoing room with tall windows and a flagstoned floor, smelling oddly of both earth and chlorine. The windows on the left side were lit, those to the right, dark. To the right, then, obviously a pool; to the left a greenhouse, or, she supposed one should say, a conservatory. There was a door and she went through it.

  The room was large, about fifty by thirty feet, and had one wall all of glass, which by night threw back the reflection of the overhead fluorescents and the variously shaded greens of the plants, mingled with the brighter hues of their blossoms. There were large specimens of the usual indoor plants-impatiens and prayer plants and tradescantia-but also more exotic growth. Huge staghorn ferns hung from the sprinkler pipe supports. Ficus and hibiscuses, oleanders and eucalypts grew from pots, and there were tables covered with weird aloes, and euphorbias and other fleshy, striped and waxy-flowered items that Marlene could not identify. A faint scent of jasmine floated over the bass note of the moist earth.

  She saw a flash of a remarkable lavender color through the dense branches of a large croton and went around a potting table to see what it was. The plant was in a pot on the floor. It had dark green shiny leaves like a rhodie, but its flowers looked like giant purple pansies. She poked under its branches to see whether there was a label.

  Behind her a voice said, "It's Brunfelsia floribunda, from Brazil."

  Marlene jumped back six inches and whirled, startled. Maggie Dobbs was sitting on a low green wooden bench in an alcove made by a pair of potting tables.

  "It's lovely," said Marlene, recovering her composure. "Do you, um, do all this?" she asked, gesturing to the conservatory.

  "Yup. Me and Manuel the gardener. I have a green thump. Thumb." She held up her hand with the thumb sticking out. The fingers, Marlene saw, were wrapped around a squat brown bottle. Maggie looked at the bottle as if she had just noticed its attachment to her hand. "Want a drink? It's B and B."

  "Um, I think I had enough already tonight, thanks. As I'm sure you observed. I have to apologize…"

  "Nah! Life of the party. It was worth it to see the expression on that jerk Jim Royce's face when you started talking about fucking corpses. Oops! Excuse my French!" She placed her hand over her mouth and giggled. Marlene wondered how long she had been hiding from her own party behind the potted plants. Apparently, and contradicting her previous thinking, the
ability to give nice parties was not a perfect recipe for the good life.

  "Mind if I join you?" Marlene asked.

  "Sit," said Maggie, and she took a swig from her bottle. There were two bars of hectic red across her cheeks and her blue eyes were bleary, but aside from this, she still looked neat and doll-like in her golden hostess costume. Marlene did not want to think about her own appearance; she thought she had removed all of the vomit from her hair. Some people are neat from the core out, she decided, of which happy company Marlene was not a member.

  Marlene leaned back against the wall behind the bench, drew out her Marlboros, and lit one.

  "Oooh! Ciggies! Thank God!"

  "You want one?"

  "God, yes! I'm quitting."

  On impulse, Marlene finger-palmed the cigarette and used a standard sleight-of-hand production, seeming to pluck it out of thin air with a snap of her fingers.

  "Yikes!" cried Maggie. "Do that again!"

  Grinning, Marlene hummed an upbeat version of "Tea for Two" and did a little routine of vanishes, acquitments, and productions using her own lit cigarette.

  "That's terrific!" Maggie screamed. "How did you learn to do that?"

  "I had a lot of time to practice. A physical therapist I had after I got blown up thought it was a good way to strengthen my hands." She held up her hand and wiggled the mutilated fingers.

  "Blown up?" Maggie said, her eyes widening.

  "Yeah, by a letter bomb."

  "Oh, God, she was blown up, she knows corpse fuckers, she does magic…" She hung her head and her golden Dutch boy covered her face. "I'm so dull I could scream."

  "Well, I'm dull too, now, invisible, in fact, at least according to what's-his-face-that Royce asshole. Wife-of-hood."

  "Yeah, he treats me like I was Twiggy, only not as socially valuable."

  "Well, at least you're dull and rich," said Marlene. "It beats being dull and poor." It was a cruel thing to say, and Marlene immediately regretted saying it.

  Maggie let out a wail. "I know! I'm so ashamed! I have everything and most people have nothing and I'm still miserable. And, of course, even saying that makes me feel even more ashamed. I have a marvelous husband and two marvelous children. There's no end to it." A fat tear plopped onto her cheek.