‘No, listen to me,’ said Rollo Sekulovich. ‘Neither of them was ever seen alive again. Marilyn Monroe was said to have taken an overdose of sleeping-pills, Vera Rutledge disappeared without trace. I hired two private detectives to look for Vera but they had to give up after six months. They found some strays, all right, and how many corpses of young girls, you’d be amazed. Two murderers were prosecuted as a result of that investigation, and one of them went to prison for life. But I never found Vera. She just vanished, piff, the same night that Marilyn died, just like she was a ghost or something; just like she and Marilyn were part of the same person.’
Kathy said, ‘Where did Vera live, Mr Sekulovich? In Los Angeles?’
‘She lived with her mother in Van Nuys. Not far from where Marilyn used to live with Jim Dougherty, when she was first married. Her mother always used to say that the Rutledge family were friends with the Doughertys, but I believe that was just a story. Her mother lives there still.’
Daniel finished his breakfast and pushed away his plate. ‘Mr Sekulovich/ he said, ‘why did you tell us all this?’
Rollo Sekulovich made a silly, sentimental face. ‘You want to know the truth? That Vera Rutledge was always a fantasy to me. I never took her to bed. I was true to my wife, God rest her soul. I always thought I had principles. But Vera Rutledge was special; much more special to me than Marilyn ever was. If you could have made Marilyn perfect, and bright, then that’s what Vera was. And I sent her off to that party that night. “It’ll be good for your career,” I told her. “Just go.” And so she went, and I never saw her again. Never. She could be on Mars.’
Daniel thought of Susie, that Susie could be on Mars, too, for all he knew. Vera Rutledge and Marilyn Monroe and Susie Korvitz, fellow wanderers on an alien planet; scared faces under scarlet skies.
That afternoon, they drove out to Brentwood. Before they went to Mandevttle Canyon Road, where Lieutenant Lindblad lived, they took a left off Sunset Boulevard and drove slowly past the rows of exclusive cul-de-sacs called Helena Drives. There are twenty-five Helena Drives, eighteen of them south of Sunset, and on Fifth Helena Drive, Marilyn Monroe used to live, and was supposed to have died.
They stopped. It was a hot, smoggy afternoon; and the sun was screened by lunch time pollution. The engine of their rented Monaco burbled and whistled, but on Fifth Helena Drive that was the only sound, apart from a distant radio playing, with almost absurd irony, Candle in the Wind. It occurred to Daniel that it could actually have been possible for Elton John to have known Norma Jean; if only anyone had realized that she was hiding in Phoenix in fear of her life, under the assumed name of Margot Schneider.
Kathy said, That’s the Monroe house. Not much, is it?’
‘It doesn’t look like anything at all. A cement-brick hacienda.’
Kathy said, ‘Please have courage. I’m sure Susie’s all right.’ ‘
‘Courage? What the hell does courage have to do with it?’
‘I’m not sure. But it’ll help.’
‘If you say so.’
Lieutenant Lindblad lived in a small white combed-stucco bungalow with red Mexican tiles on the roof and a wrought-iron sign on the wall announcing that this was La Casita Mia. He was sprinkling the lawn when they drew up, a thin 67-year-old in a white short-sleeved shirt and light grey slacks, the kind of man from whom all the flesh seems to have shrunk, leaving nothing beneath his darkly-tanned skin but sinews and bones and arteries. His clip-on sunglasses were raised, revealing eyes that were faded by years of sun and years of detective work. He raised his hand in greeting as they approached, and Daniel could see his bicep muscle rolling around on top of his humerus. A walking anatomy lesson.
‘You folks care for some guacamole? My wife made some fresh. Makes the best guacamole in Greater Los Angeles, I can tell you. Rosa, come out and say hi.’
A pretty, plump Mexican woman came out of the house, her hair stuck up in combs, and smiled and shook hands and said, ‘hi, and ‘hi, and that was about all. She wore a bright crimson-and-yellow frock that just about managed to contain her enormous breasts and her huge haunches, and she jiggled back into the bungalow as if every part of her body was dancing to a different maracas-player.
‘She’s a terrific woman, Rosa, said Lieutenant Lindblad. ‘My second wife. Just the sort of woman I always wanted. My first wife was thin and mean and sour as hell. I wanted a woman I could get hold of. You know what I mean? Never had so much damned fun in my whole life.’
They sat inside, in the cool, around a glass table with black wrought-iron legs, and ate guacamole with fresh-baked taco chips and drank Budweiser out of Budweiser glasses. ‘I came from Wisconsin originally, did my training
in Milwaukee. Can’t touch this Western beer, not for nothing.’
Daniel said. They told us round at the police station that you were concerned with the Vera Rutledge disappearance. Well, they checked it in the files.’
Lieutenant Lindblad steadily ground up a taco chip between his dentures. He took a swallow of Bud. Then he said, ‘Vera Rutledge, hunh? I thought you said you were writing a book on famous Hollywood scandals.’
‘Wasn’t Vera Rutledge a scandal?’
‘Vera Rutledge was a disappearance, that was all.’
‘Routine, yes? Nothing special about it?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘I’m surprised you remember it at all/ said Kathy. ‘It was more than twenty years ago, after all. Just one case in a hundred thousand.’
‘She disappeared the night Monroe died, that’s all. That’s why I remember it.’
‘And she looked like Monroe?’
‘I guess so. That was one description.’
There was a very long silence. Lieutenant Lindblad looked from Daniel to Kathy and then back again. ‘Is that all you want to know?’ he asked them.
‘It depends whether that’s all you’re going to tell us,’ said Kathy.
‘What’s to tell? I was on duty that night; I was given a report that some blonde young starlet had gone missing. Then it came over the radio that we were supposed to go round to Fifth Helena, because Marilyn Monroe was suffering from some kind of an overdose. That’s all. That’s all I remember. We put out the usual searches for Vera Rutledge. We found quite a few bodies, quite a few stray starlets, but then you always do when you comb Hollywood real thorough. You could do it today and you’d find the same. But we never found Vera Rutledge.’
‘What time was Vera Rutledge reported missing?’
Ten o’clock maybe. I don’t exactly remember.’
‘And what time was Marilyn reported to have OD’d?’
‘Listen,’ said Lieutenant Lindblad, sharply. His dentures made a loud clicking noise. ‘You want history, you go to the history books. Don’t bother me about it. I was only doing my job.’
The history books are full of lies and discrepancies,’ Ka’thy insisted. ‘You know they are, because you were actually there, and you know what happened.’
‘What are you trying to say, that something happened different?’
‘I know something happened different.’
‘Well, there’s no use in asking me. I don’t remember too much about it. It was one of those nights, you know? Pretty confused. Lots of publicity, lots of confusion. And everybody lying their asses off to protect their reputations.’
Daniel said, ‘We know that Marilyn Monroe didn’t die that night.’
Lieutenant Lindblad stared at him. ‘Are you crazy?’
Daniel shook his head. His heart was bouncing like a dolphin at Sea World, but he was determined to stick to his story. ‘Marilyn Monroe didn’t die that night, but somebody did. Some girl who hadn’t eaten supper, like Marilyn had. Marilyn ate supper that night with Bobby Kennedy and Peter Lawford, as well as Pat Newcomb, and her housekeeper Mrs Murray. But the autopsy on the girl’s body showed that her stomach and her intestines were completely empty. Only her blood was thick with barbiturates.’
Kathy said, i
n her gentlest voice, ‘On the same night in 1962, Marilyn Monroe was supposed to have died in mysterious circumstances; and a girl who looked almost exactly like her disappeared without trace. Twenty years later, in Phoenix, Arizona, a woman was murdered; a woman who in all probability is Norma Jean Baker, aged 57. So what kind of a conclusion can you draw from that?’
Lieutenant Lindblad said, ‘What are you trying to suggest? Why don’t you say it straight?’
‘You want me to?’ said Kathy.
Lieutenant Lindblad sucked thoughtfully and anxiously at his dentures. Then he said, ‘I don’t know why you want to dig all this up. It’s all dead and buried, twenty years ago. It doesn’t make no difference, not now. If that woman who was murdered was Norma Jean; well, what of it? What difference does it make? They’re both dead now; and so are Jack and Bobby, and that’s the end of it.’
‘Lieutenant, that isn’t the end of it. That’s just the very beginning. Marilyn Monroe was hustled out of Brentwood in 1962 because she knew something she shouldn’t have known - wasn’t she? And maybe Bobby Kennedy was trying to protect her. But he couldn’t protect her after he was dead; and after twenty years someone found her and killed her. And if what she knew was important enough for someone to look for her for twenty years; then believe me it must have been damned important. I don’t know how important, I’ll admit that. But people don’t get sacrificed for nothing, not even by Kennedys.’
Lieutenant Lindblad put down his beer, stood up, and went to the door. His wife Rosa was cheerily cooking in the kitchen. He gave her a little finger-wave and then closed the door. Then he went to the window and looked up and down the street. ‘You don’t have no microphone, do you?’ he asked Kathy. I don’t want no record of this; not in my own voice.’
Kathy raised her hands to show that she was clean. Daniel did the same.
‘How much is this worth?’ asked Lieutenant Lindblad.
‘What’s the bottom line?’ Kathy wanted to know.
‘Two thousand, cash.’
‘Fifteen hundred, that’s all I’ve got.’
‘Okay, then,’ said Lieutenant Lindblad. ‘Money first.’
Kathy opened her purse, took out the large roll of bills which the Flag had given her for buying street information in Los Angeles, and stripped off $1,500. It left her with nothing more than two $20s, and a $5. Lieutenant Lindblad took the money and pushed it into his back pants pocket without a murmur.
He poured out three more beers, and then settled down in his armchair.
I’m going to say this once only, okay, and I’m not
going to repeat myself. You don’t take notes, got it, and you don’t make no recordings; and if you ever ask me again if this is what I’ve said, then I’ll deny it. I’ll deny that I’ve even seen you, and so will Rosa. So don’t try to get funny. I’ve still got plenty of friends on the force, and I still carry my own gun, I’m entitled. So don’t try to get ny.’
I promise you that neither of us will try to get funny,’ said Daniel.
Lieutenant Lindblad gave him a wary look. But Daniel managed to keep his face deadly serious; and at last Lieutenant Lindblad said, ‘Right. This is the way it happened, back in August, 1962 … this is the way it really happened.’
Twenty-Five
Joe Jasper carefully hung up the phone and ran his hand fcough his hair. On the other side of the room, on a Makeshift cot, Crack Nielsen was still swaddled in a pink blanket, his mouth gaping open, snoring his way through sixty cords of good dreamland lumber. Joe looked at him for a while, pursing his lips, then got up from his own bed and went through to the living-room and opened the
drapes.
Colleen was already up, although it was only a minute or two past seven o’clock. She was wearing a pale-green baby-doll nightie in flounces of transparent nylon, through which her nipples showed with unremitting prominence. Joe ignored her. He was not a sexual creature in the conventional sense; he was not aroused by America’s naked big-breasted babies, or by women in general, or in particular.
Joe Jasper was aroused only by humiliation; and by hurt. If he had any credo in life, it was probably that the obedient and the masochistic will eventually inherit the earth.
‘You’re up early,’ he told Colleen.
‘I haven’t been to bed yet.’
‘What time did you get in?’
‘Four.’
‘Crack was with you?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘You realize you’re running a risk, going out so much?’
‘Fuck it, Joe, Nadine said I could. Besides, I’m not The Prisoner of Zenda.’
‘I didn’t say you were. But you’ve known all along that you’d have to do this some day. Stay inside, keep yourself safe. That’s valuable evidence you’ve got there.’
‘Don’t you keep reminding me. It was me who had to swallow Marshall Roberts’ piss. Not you. Or maybe you would have liked to.’
‘What was the difference between Marshall Roberts piss and any other man’s piss? You do it all the time.’
‘I do it when I feel like it. That’s all. With Marshall Roberts, I did it because he said he wouldn’t pay me, else.’
‘Such a hardship.’
‘Asshole.’
Joe Jasper went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large DOM liqueur. It was dry and strong and if you were going to drink first thing in the morning in the company of transparently-clad whores, it was probably the best drink going. Colleen watched him, and said, ‘I don’t even know what the hell this is all about.’
‘You’re not supposed to. Nobody is supposed to. Not even I know what it’s all about. Not completely.’ ‘Well, that shows what a cretin you are.’ Joe took a mouthful of liquor, and closed his eyes. In actual fact, he was desperately worried, although he was
trying his utmost not to show it to Colleen. If Titus believed for one moment that Nadine was right, and that the United States really had become the American Capitalist Oblast in the summer of 1962; then there was a strong possibility that Titus would allow Marshall Roberts to go ahead with RING n, and seriously threaten Kama’s chances of taking over from Ikon as chairman of the Oblast committee. Titus was a hawk; and he hated Marshall Roberts for giving so much away to the Russians in the RING talks. But Titus was also a patriot, fierce and dogged; and if he was brought to perceive that RING was the lesser of two threats to what was left of the American nation; if he actually understood that RING would mean only a gradual decline in American influence, while Kama wanted an immediate takeover on all levels, then Titus would withdraw his opposition at once, and leave Joe holding the tar-baby.
On the phone this morning, Titus had said that he was ‘anxious, to say the least’ about the things that Nadine had told him. Joe had denied any knowledge of an American Oblast. In fact, he had laughed out loud. Was Nadine serious? How could the United States possibly be run by a Soviet committee? It was just a gag; a way of making Titus feel uncomfortable about putting such an immediate stop to the RING talks. They both knew how strongly Nadine felt about nuclear disarmament. She was a liberal, wasn’t she? That was the kind of thing you had to expect from liberals.
But all the time, Joe had detected in Titus’ voice a lack of sureness; a suspicion that Nadine would never have told him such a preposterous story if something about it hadn’t been true. I mean, the Russians running the United States for twenty years? Did she really expect a hardnosed soldier like Titus to swallow anything so patently stupid? You only had to look at America, didn’t you? Free, prosperous, and as nutty as ever. Would the Russians allow Times Square sleaze; or whores in hotpants on Hollywood Boulevard? Would the Russians allow drugs, and booze, and profiteering, and the Hunt Brothers? America hadn’t
changed, or had it? Look at all the money we’ve been spending on defence. What was the point of that, if Russia was in charge? Would the Russians finance MX, or B-l bombers, or cruise missiles that were targeted straight towards the heart of Moscow?
&nbs
p; Except, of course, if the Russians had theorized that the United States was too large and too hostile to be conquered in the usual way in which nations are conquered; that perhaps the easiest way of taking over a prosperous and opinionated continent of 220 million people would be simply to reach out and grasp the reins of finance and power and leave the body of the nation to continue to grow in its own characteristic way, at least for the time
being.
Except, of course, if the Russians had theorized that a balance of armed conflict was necessary for global stability; and in particular for stability within the Soviet Union itself, and its satellites. For who within the Soviet bloc would knuckle down to the Communist regime if there was no threat from the West? Who would tolerate a life of repression and deprivation, of lines and boredom and no fresh meat, if there was no corrupt capitalist ogre at the gates, waving his nuclear club?
Joe knew Titus well enough to guess that thoughts like these must at least have flickered through Titus’ mind; and that Kama’s succession to the committee could immediately and substantially be threatened. Joe had been tempted to argue with Titus, but he had managed to control himself sufficiently to say nothing more than, ‘Well, sir … it all seems pretty far-fetched to me. I mean, I haven’t seen anybody on Constitution Avenue with snow on their boots.’
Colleen said, ‘I’m hungry, Is anybody going to fix
breakfast?’
‘What do you want?’ Joe asked her, with considerable
self-control.
I don’t know. Eggs, maybe. Bacon.’ ‘Why don’t you fix it yourself?’ Colleen looked up at him. There was nothing in her
eyes at all, no sympathy, no friendship, nothing. She was a whore and she knew her value, that’s what he thought. She knew when she was needed and she knew when she wasn’t needed; and exactly how much. Right now, Joe Jasper needed her badly. She didn’t understand what it was all about, but she could smell fear the same way a child can; or a cat. Joe Jasper was frightened. His glands gave him away, like a polecat.
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