Bookmaker, The (22 page)

“I made it back to our suite and told Matador what had happened. He agreed—I was fucked. They had a fake name and address, but now they knew my face. I couldn’t go back to the airport; it was too risky. Our anonymity was everything.

“Matador was undeterred. ‘We didn’t come all this way for nothing, did we?’

“‘It looks that way…we’ll have to try another flight, another airport.’

“‘Washington National is the one airport he’d be using the most, Bobby too. And they’ll probably send your photo to all the airports as a security measure.’

“‘You’re right. Shit, I blew it!’ I said
, conceding defeat.

“Then Matador had an idea. ‘Those ground crew uniforms
, they’re nothing but green jumpsuits, aren’t they?’

“‘Yeah
, basically.’

“‘Couldn’t we just go to an army surplus store and find something close?’

“‘Probably,’ I said, cursing myself again for taking such a risk when another option was available.

“Then Matador looked at me with fierce determination. ‘I will do it.’

“‘What, what are you gonna do?’

“‘I will do it. We’ll scour the cit
y’s surplus and thrift stores and find a passable uniform. I’ll get onto the tarmac with the Torpex, find out which plane they’ll be taking, and sneak it onboard. I can do it.’

“I looked at him, shaking my head. ‘I can’t let you do this for me. It’s too much to ask.’

“‘Do this for you? This is
our
fight and has been since we met. We’re in this together.’

“‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.’

“‘Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.’

“‘I know you can.’

“‘We’re in this together. Sink or swim, Preston. There’s no other way for me.’

“‘Me neither,’ I said
, pushing the Bible out of the way and grabbing the yellow pages from the nightstand drawer to find an army surplus store nearby.

“The army-green overalls we found at the first army surplus store we went to were pretty big on Matador, but the color was close and the design was similar. We checked out a few more stores, but this was the closest we‘d find. We were gonna give it a shot. Matador walked right onto the tarmac, no questions asked. Other than his uniform being a shade darker than the real ones, he fit right in. It’s amazing what you can get away with if you act like you know what you’re doing. He carried the Torpex in a similarly colored green knapsack
, not registering one suspicious stare. He was in. Now he just needed to find out which plane would be Teddy’s. He asked another member of his ground crew which plane it was and he was directed to a small twin-engine Aero Commander 680 waiting patiently for its flight.

“Matador went to the bathroom, got into the last stall
, pulled out the bomb, and wound the timer for two hours. It was 9:30am—the flight was scheduled to leave in an hour, as soon as the passengers arrived. The flight would take about two hours to West Springfield, and the bomb should go off mid-flight. He placed the Torpex back into the knapsack, flushed the toilet, and headed straight for the Aero Commander 680, unguarded and unwatched. He simply lifted the baggage hold and gently placed the bag in the back corner, surely to go undetected and quickly covered by less lethal luggage. Then he nonchalantly slipped off the tarmac and into the airport and then met me in the parking garage. We were gone; now it was the bomb’s turn to do all the work.

“We hurried back to the suite and turned on the radio and then the TV to CBS news and waited—we like to get our news from Cronkite. After a couple hours of sitting on our hands, we talked ourselves into the fact the Torpex was too old, it wouldn’t do its job. Every conceivable negative scenario was brought to light, scrutinized, became truth, then debunked, and then became inevitab
le. This vicious cycle continued until we got some news. Finally, at midnight, came a special news break simultaneously on TV and radio.

“It was Cronkite reporting
. ‘It appears another tragedy has befallen the Kennedys. Reports are now coming in of a small plane carrying Senator Kennedy, his aide, Edward Moss, Senator Bayh and his wife, Marvella, and the pilot, Edwin Zimny, en route to the state Democratic convention in West Springfield, has crashed in an orchard three miles from Barnes Memorial Airport in Westfield, Massachusetts. All five people have been taken to Cooley Dickinson Hospital in Northampton. Keep them in your prayers and we’ll keep you updated.’

“Matador and I looked at each other thinking the same thing. If the Torpex exploded like it was supposed to, the plane would have split in half in mid-air and they’d all be dead. Something unexpected must have happened. Did a weak explosion occur
, messing with the plane’s instruments? Did it go off at all? We debated the options until dawn, until another news report at 6:00am. The results were in—the plane went down in one piece, two were dead: the pilot, Edwin Zimny, upon impact, and Kennedy’s aide, Edward Moss, had just succumbed to his injuries. Senator Kennedy was in critical condition; Senator Beyh and his wife were stable. We’d never know exactly what happened that foggy night, but the wrong two people died, and Teddy would recover.”

* * * * *

I stopped him. I had to know. “So you never went after Teddy again? You let him get away?” It sounded wrong to me as soon as it came out. I was complaining that they hadn’t killed an innocent man? Was I becoming one of them, desensitized to their level?

Preston’s grin broke across his face
. “Well, I don’t think letting him get away is the right term. He was hurt pretty bad and out of commission for about a year. In that time, our attention turned toward Bobby.”

I nodded like I understood. “So Chappaquiddick…that seems like it’s got your name written all over it. That wasn’t you?”

This made him laugh. “That was just drunk-ass Teddy being Teddy, and once he killed that poor girl, he was essentially dead anyway, at least politically. But the real reason we let up was Joe Sr. died in ‘69. Without him around to see my work, my feelings of revenge lessened. It was the tree in the woods conundrum. And I’ll tell you what, it was nice, I could actually try and live a normal life for once.”

Preston fell back into the cushions, closed his eyes
, and fought a pain surging through his dying body. He held out his empty glass. I refilled it with his golden elixir. I made one for myself too and lit up a Camel.

He leaned forward and opened his eyes as he took the glass and said, “Joe S
enior’s final days might be the new final chapter to our story. In ‘61, he had a debilitating stroke. Froze half his body and he couldn’t speak. But he still had his faculties—he was aware of what was happening to his sons, his legacy. He had to watch in silent desperation as they were picked off one by one like ducks on a pond. I thought we were done, and you could get to writing now that we got Teddy out of the way, but I really think you should take down what happened when I paid a visit to old Joe a few months before he finally went to hell.”

I sat back down then glanced at the clock on the wall
, it was almost 5:30pm. “Did you want to do that now? Kickoff is half hour away.”

“Nah, fuck that, let’s see if your Southern Cal boys are for real. Besides, I’m sure you got some phone calls to take.
” I did.

Jay and Dayla wanted to take us out to dinner. To a nice restaurant for once, Dayla
demanded. So Friday night, the girls got all gussied up, and Jay and I put on jeans and button up shirts, and we all hopped in the Lincoln Town car and headed into town. Corynne guided us to Eredita, Oxford’s best Italian restaurant. Soft red lights, melted candle wax dripping on checkered tablecloths. The maître d’ recognized Corynne as Preston’s granddaughter and escorted us to a secluded corner booth under a litany of framed pictures of ancient Roman ruins and dead Italian celebrities.

It was truly grand. I glanced across at Jay
, who I could tell felt the same way. I couldn’t shake the thought that, here we were, two lowlifes from the projects of Huntington Beach, sitting at the best table at the fanciest restaurant in Mississippi with two of the most beautiful women this town had ever seen. Corynne was decked out in a black sundress—a dressier one, but a sundress nonetheless—just for me, she said. Her long, soft hair poured down her back, throwing shadows on her olive skin from the flickering candlelight. Dayla was a statuesque vision of sex. Her heels put her close to six feet and her low-cut dress made her swan-like neck seem even more graceful—a punk-rock Audrey Hepburn.

The waiter, a sad-eyed college boy with an indecipherable southern accent, asked us our drink order.

“The Merlot here is the best,” Corynne said with authority.

“Let’s do it then,” I said.

“Bring a bottle of Merlot. But only bring three glasses. And a diet coke for the lady,” Jay said, referring to Dayla.

“What, no booze tonight, Dayla? I thought you wanted to celebrate?” I asked.

“We are,” she said. “We’re celebrating the fact that I can’t drink.”

“Oh my God…!”

“What…what’s going on?” I asked.

“Oh my God! You’re not…?” Corynne shouted again.

“I am,” Dayla answered, beaming.

Jay jumped in, “What you’re failing to get here bro is we’re pregnant.”

“No way,” was all I could come up with.

“It’s true, you’re gonna be an uncle. We found out a week ago but didn’t want to jinx it.”

“How far along are you?” Corynne asked, practically bouncing in her seat.

“A little over a month,” Dayla said.

“I got her that first day we moved in. Remember, T, when we kicked you out?” Jay said, interrupting.

Dayla continued, pretending not to hear Jay. “That’s what I was doing in New Orleans all last week, seeing doctors. We had to make sure it was real. And it is.”

Dayla’s eyes welled up and she grabbed Jay’s hand. “And it gets even better, tell them, Jay.”

Jay squeezed her hand back. “Yesterday I got down on my knees in that gazebo thing on the back lawn and asked her to marry me.”

Dayla took her left hand from Jay’s and held it up to us. “Look, we’re finally gonna do it.”

The diamond was huge and so was Dayla’s smile.

Jay looked at me. “T, it goes without saying…you’re my best man. It’s the easiest decision I ever had to make.”

“I’m in,” I said
, sliding out of the booth to give him a hard-slapping man hug.

“Corynne, will you be my maid of honor?” Dayla asked.

Corynne pushed me out of the way and squealed her acceptance while she practically attacked Dayla. Then she separated and said, “Oh, you have to have it at Walker Manor. You just have to. I know Papa will be all for it. He loves that stuff.”

“We were hoping we could,” Jay said.

Corynne sat back down. She was probably more excited than Dayla. “This is so wonderful, a wedding and a baby. Oh, Trent, a playmate for Tucker. This is just perfect!”

Dayla waited for Jay to get back in the both
and then sat down. “Now, we were thinking a spring wedding, March or April, before I’m too huge.”

“Whenever you want, everything will be taken care of. It won’t cost you a dime. I got Papa wrapped around my little finger.”

When the wine arrived, I poured everyone except Dayla a tall glass of Merlot, and we toasted to marriage, to kids, and to friendship. We emptied three more bottles over the long dinner. Dayla had to drive home.

Corynne was right. Preston was all for it. When Jay and I met up with him on the balcony the next day for a full slate of college football games—including Ole Miss at Auburn at 4:00
pm—he gave Jay a big hug and confirmed the wedding would be there and that he’d take care of everything.

Then he turned to me
. “Trent, this giving you any ideas? You gonna make an honest women out of my little baby girl?”

Although shocking and out of the blue, the thought of marrying Corynne seemed pretty good to me, however far-fetched it was. “We just got together
, Preston. Besides, you really don’t want your little angel to end up with a guy like me.”

“Why not? You’re as good as any of the other losers she’s brought home.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should, son, I’m giving you my blessing for krissakes.”

I needed to end the topic. “We’re nowhere near anything like that, but I’ll take your blessing anyways.”

“Goddamn right you will,” he said, his attention already diverted
to playing with the remote, trying to find which channel had the best game on.

Jay stayed and had a couple of beers with us
then left, complaining he had to do some wedding stuff with Dayla.

After he left
, Preston said, “That boy’s acting like he’s already married. You can kiss your old buddy good bye. Marriage has a way of changing men, slowing them down, a government-sanctioned castration.”

“Not Jay,” I said.

“Even Jay.”

We watched the games, but none of them really seemed to grab our attention
, so Preston craned his head back at me and said, “Let’s knock this fucker out today. I’ve told you everything I want to tell you except for my little visit to Joe Sr. on his death bed. Whattya think?”

“Why not, as long as we can finish before the Ole Miss game
,” I said, trying to please him.

“Son, I like the way you think, but no, this will be real quick, ain’t much to it.”

* * * * *

“Matador said I was crazy, said it was too risky, but I just couldn’t pass it up. I had to do it. It beckoned me, a siren song. It was October of
‘69, a year after Bobby, right after Chappaquiddick, eight years since the first of his many strokes and exactly one month before he died. I’d like to think I had something to do with it. The news accounts painted a grim picture; he was confined to his bed and the end was imminent. Once Teddy blew his shot at the presidency with his drive into the river, Joe checked out. All was gone, a legacy of shame, not greatness.

“Rose put him in a seaside hospice near their compound in Hyannis Port. Disguised as a janitor,
I snuck onto the grounds, it was quite simple. On a cold, rainy night when he was supposed to be sleeping, I slipped down the hall and into his room. The room was white and clean, yet surprisingly sparse for such a great man. The American patriarch of the twentieth century was dying alone, like we all do. Almost imperceptible under his ruffled bed sheets, the frail gnome lay motionless, staring at the ceiling while being monitored by persistently buzzing machines. Could this be the same man who so intimidated me as a child? The man I placed on the devil’s throne? The man who inspired so much hatred and vitriolic revenge that it kept me warm at night? It was.

“I took off my hat and slipped up next to his bed
, staring down into his blank, lifeless eyes, wondering if he was asleep even with his eyes open. Then his right eye caught mine, the left remained frozen in place. It had been almost thirty years since he’d seen me as teenager, but the flicker of recognition lit up his eye and then half his face. He opened his mouth in an attempt to make a sound—a small groan was all he could muster.

“To make certain that he knew exactly who he was looking at, I bent over him and whispered, ‘I see you recognize me
, old man. My face takes you back, does it? You must have known this day would come or at least wondered what ever happened to me. In case your feeble brain can’t place the name, it’s Preston Walker, son to a murdered father, and brother to a sister who you killed.’

“Terror filled his good eye and he tried to move, to get up,
to somehow get away. All he could manage were some weak movements on his right side, a pathetic sight really.

“I backed off a bit, but stayed close to his bed
. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you, although as you know, I have every reason to. But looking at you now, I don’t think I’d be capable of creating a more sorry state than what you’re already in.’

“Joe struggled harder
, then relaxed a bit, resigned to his immobility. ‘No, I’m not here to hurt you old man. No matter what pain I could inflict upon you right here and now, it couldn’t come close to the pain and anguish I have already caused you and your family.’

“His face rushed with blood. I paused and let that sit with him for a moment. I noticed a chair behind me under the bay window that looked out onto the ocean. I pulled the chair up to his bed and sat down, putting my boots onto his frail chest and
resting them there with full weight. I could feel his aching ribs struggling not break.

“I leaned back and spoke louder; I wanted to make sure he heard me. I didn’t know if his hearing was bad too
. ‘I hear all this talk of a Kennedy curse, and perhaps you buy into that bullshit, maybe it provides you some solace. But I’m here to take away any thoughts you may have had that your family tragedies were random acts of violence or accidents. No, Joe, it’s all on you. Your impact on my family has not been forgotten; it wasn’t a curse, it was simply your chickens coming home to roost. Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it, Joe? It was
me
all along. I was the one. It was me, I was always there: with Joe Jr. over England, with Kick over France, behind the fence in Dallas, over Massachusetts with Teddy, and in the Ambassador kitchen with Bobby. You know as well as I, the media and the history books are full of lies. Oswald and Sirhan were patsies. It was one man and one agenda—an agenda to make you pay, to destroy what you hold most dear, your legacy. Did you even care about your children, or were they just a means to exalt you?’

“Joe was bright red now, his teeth clenched and his right fist tightly squeezed into a ball. He was shaking so hard the bed beneath him was rattling. I pressed down harder with my boots to quell the noisy movement. He let out an indecipherable groan.

“‘Shut the fuck up!” I said. ‘When I first came here, my plan was to kill you, but now I realize that would only be doing you a favor. No, I’m gonna let you live, let you dwell on the fact that your family’s pain is all your doing. The fallout and debris left behind from the acts of a selfish, greedy, and despicable human being. Live with that! I know it won’t be for long, but let that be your last thought, your dying breath.’

“I heard some activity out in the hall. I took my boots off his chest and felt him take in some much
-needed air.

“He was still struggling to get at me any way he could when I leaned down and whispered, ‘We’ll meet again
, old man. This is not over. Wait for me in hell.’

“I slipped out of his room undetected and out of the hospice
, feeling a hundred pounds lighter and quite proud of myself for destroying the last days of a condemned man.”

* * * * *

“Did you really do that? Confront him like that?” I asked, breaking his concentration.

“You’re goddamn right I did!” he snapped back with a smile. “That day felt better than all the other jobs combined. He was the one I was after. He was the one I was trying to hurt. The killings were just tools I used to get to him. After that day
, I never felt compelled to lash out at the Kennedys ever again. I was done, it was over.”

“Well yeah, outside of Teddy
, you got them all.”

“True, but don’t think I’m not keeping a close eye on little John John. I kinda like the kid from what I’ve seen; he’s got more of his mom in him than his old man, but he better not get too big for his britches and make me come out of retirement,” he said with a wink and grin. I couldn’t tell if he was serious.

I motioned to Preston that the Ole Miss game was about to come on. “Hell yeah, we’re finally done anyways, ball’s in your court now, son. I think it’s time you got to writing this thing. How’s that coming, anyways?”

“I got a solid outline and some good ideas. I plan on getting started on Monday, if I’m not too hung over
,” I lied. I had nothing.

“Sounds good, and sorry about the hangovers
, they come with the territory around here. And hell, that’s why God invented weed, son.”

“You know your weed is too strong to do anything productive on. That shit knocks me out most of the time.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll think of something. Hey, what’s the spread in this game?”

“Auburn by six
.”