Bookmaker, The (6 page)

“Good times yesterday, good times,” Preston said
, showing no visible signs of a hangover as I walked into his office at 10:00 the next morning. “But we really should be getting down to brass tacks. Don’t want to be keeping you here forever; I’m sure you have many pressing concerns back home.”

Even with all th
e sleep the day before, I still felt like shit. “I agree, let’s get some work done today,” I said, placing the tape recorder on the coffee table between the two of us.

Since Preston had brought up the topic of the duration of my stay, it seemed a good time to broach the subject.

“Actually, I can stay as long as necessary. This is the slow time of year for me, and when business picks up, all I need is a phone. And I got to tell ya, I am really enjoying my stay so far. You guys have all been great and your house and the town are amazing. And you were right, the guest house is very comfort—”

Preston held his hand up
signaling me to stop, grabbed his cane and winced painfully as he pulled himself to his feet, “Well, all right then, good to hear, son, you can stay as long as you like. It’s not like we don’t got the room. In fact…here’s how we’ll do this from here on out. You are no longer a guest, now you’re extended family. My house is your house. Hell, Matador’s been here going on thirty years now, no sense in him leaving and no sense in you leaving anytime soon either. I’ll tell you what, after were done here today, we’ll go down to the garage and you can pick a car to use—call it yours while you’re here. Shit, I can’t drive ‘em anymore anyways.”

“Thanks
, Preston, that sounds great. I really appreciate it. You’ve been very generous,” I said, shaking his hand.

“
You want to pay me back? Go on over to the bar and pour me a Red Label.” I made his drink and placed it in his hand; he took a quick sip. “Not bad son, not bad.” We settled in to get to work. I pushed record and this time, he didn’t stop me.

“Now, before we get started
, let me preface with a few questions that I think are prudent to our little arrangement. I feel if I know a few things about you, I can find out if you’ll maintain an open mind about what I have to say. And it might help me in how I present the information I am about to impart. Which by the way, I have never gone ‘on the record’ as they say, with anything I am about to tell you.”

“Please, go ahead,” I said
, stopping the tape.

“Would you consider yourself a Republican or a Democrat?”

A rather innocuous start I thought. “Well, I don’t consider myself particularly political, but I am from Orange County California, the last bastion of Conservatism in California.”

“Good, good
, that’s what I wanted to hear. Question number two: are you a Catholic?”

Now I was getting a little puzzled
, but I played along. “I’m not very religious either, but definitely not a Catholic. I guess I would be considered a non-practicing Christian.”

“All right, not ideal, but that’s fine
, and lastly, do you believe in the death penalty?”

“The Bible says an eye for an eye, so do I,” I answered
, and quite cleverly I thought.

Preston let out a quick laugh, “I thought you said you weren’t very religious
, now you’re quoting Matthew 5:38?”

“I’ve caught a few highlights over the years,” I answered
, trying to be glib, but was intimidated by his knowledge of the Bible—although he could be making it up, I wouldn’t know.

“Well
, son, I am very pleased to hear this. I think we’ll work together just fine. I knew there was a reason I chose you,” he said, easing back into the leather cushions.

“Now, if I can ask you a question?” I proffered. “Why do you need to know this seemingly random information?”

“In due time, son, it will all make sense in due time,” he said in a tone indicating this part of the conversation was over. “Now, are you ready to hear what I got to say?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I answered, turning on the recorder and preparing myself for anything.

“Well, all right then.”

He took a sip of his scotch and began with the words:
“The first killing was by far the easiest. Hell, it probably would have happened without my intervention, but just to be on the safe side, I pulled the pin.”

As he told me the story of Joe Kennedy Jr., his cadence remained swift, yet the tone was a somber one. He told his tale without a hint of regret
or of boasting. He matter-of-factly told me how he planned and executed the murder of Joseph Kennedy Jr., the oldest and most revered of the Kennedy brood. His attention to detail was remarkable, but I sensed some embellishments throughout the story. And it was a good story, he definitely had my attention. I kept a straight face and tried to act as professional as I could. But this man I had basically just met was admitting to murder—sure, some fifty years after the fact—but a murder all the same. And even I knew that there wasn’t a statute of limitations on murder.

But to be honest
, I didn’t think much less of Preston once he told me, partly because I didn’t know the person killed—hell, I never even knew there was a Joe Kennedy Jr., I thought JFK was the oldest—but even more so because I thought he was full of shit.

“I’ll have that drink now,” I said
, trying to convince myself I was beginning to get a taste for scotch.

“I hope this isn’t going to be too much for you. This is just the first quarter
, son, I got plenty more to tell you,” Preston said, pointing to the bar.

“No, no I’m fine,
it’s just that a little nip might take the edge off is all,” I answered, getting up to make my own drink, the hierarchy established.

“Now, I am perfectly aware that you could come to despise me for what I tell you, and I’m fine with that, but what I will need is big ears and a small mouth. There will be no judgment here, and trust me
, by the time I tell you why I did what I did, you’ll wish you were driving the getaway car.”

“Of course
, Mr. Walker, strictly professional. I’m in no position to judge anyone for anything.”

He pulled a joint out of his front
-shirt pocket—this one fatter than the day before’s—and proceeded to light it up and take a hit, and then he handed it to me. I knew better than to turn him down and gently pried it from his shaking hand.

“We still friends?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “Of course.”

When Preston turned on Sports Center, I knew we were done working for the day. I, however, still had some questions. “So you knew Joe Kennedy Jr.? He got you the job on the air force base?”

“It wasn’t a job,” he said, looking at me like I was stupid. “He got me the assignment; I was only sixteen and at least two years younger than anyone else at the base. And hell yeah, I knew all of them Kennedys—practically grew up with them sons’a bitches.”

Th
at left me with a million questions, and as I began the barrage, he stopped me and said calmly, “We’ll go ahead and get to that tomorrow, patience my boy, patience.”

Frustrated and confused
, I sat back on the couch, took another hit, and tried to hold my tongue. This was getting interesting.

After dinner
, I went out to the back porch to have a smoke and process all I had heard. The heat was still suffocating, but the night air and singing crickets made it appear cooler—another little trick the mind plays to make our lives more palatable. This was a darkness I’d never experienced before—complete, both eerie and serene. I stared out into the pitch and felt the blackness crawling nearer, ready to engulf me, when Corynne came up from behind and startled me.

“Didn’t eat much tonight…I think you hurt Delotta’s feelings
. Didn’t say much either. Everything okay?” she asked, joining me at the railing.

“Yeah
, I’m good, just a little worn out trying to keep up with your Papa,” I said, lighting her cigarette.

“You sure, you seem a little distant? Did Papa start in about the Kennedys?” she asked
, trying to meet my gaze.

Then I became overwhelmed with that smell, the same smell from the first night, the dying plant smell.

“Oooh, the wind must have shifted,” Corynne said, waving her hand in front of her face.

“What is that?”

“Don’t know,” she said, “it’s been here on and off ever since I’ve been here. I’m sure it’s a crop of some sort, they grow just about everything out here, still plenty of farms around.”

“It’s familiar to me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“So what did Papa say that got you so spooked?”

I looked for an ashtray, didn’t find one
, then just ashed over the railing. “Today he told me about Joe Kennedy Jr., that’s as far as we got.”

“Ah, yeah, he’s always been proud of that one because he was so young.”

“You know about all this, and you’re okay with it?”

Her eyes darkened and she slowly moved her hand through her hair. “When Papa found out he had ALS
, he decided he needed to come clean. I know that he has a history with the Kennedys, that’s fact, but his latest tales…I just chalk it up to an eccentric old man. And now he’s got you out here to document the whole thing.” A smile lit up her face. She continued, “I’m just trying to go with the flow and indulge him when I have to, and try to make whatever time he’s got left as comfortable as possible.”

“Smart girl,” came a voice shattering the darkness. Corynne let out a quick scream and my heart nearly left my chest. It was Matador. Had he been there the whole time? He walked toward us
, smoking a pipe we couldn’t smell over the plant stench.

“It’s best if you just indulge Preston in his stories. No point in upsetting him now, calling him a liar and such,” he said in his typical laid back fashion.

“Matador, you scared the shit out us,” Corynne said, trying to catch her breath.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya like that, couldn’t help overhearing you two.” He joined us on the rail and stared out into the night
. “And look, as far as Preston goes, I’ve known him close to forty years now, and there ain’t nothing he likes more than telling a good yarn to anyone who’ll listen.”

He stopped, took the pipe out of his mouth
, and turned to us.

“Trent, you hear him out. Take down his story, write his book
, and get your money. And Corynne, you just keep doing what you’re doing, and everyone’s happy.”

Corynne gave him a hug and he glared at me
. “And you, last thing Preston needs is another drinking buddy. Besides, that’s my job,” he said with a wink. He and Corynne went back into the house arm in arm, leaving me alone in the dark.

If yesterday’s session started out ominous
ly, today’s seemed downright sinister now that the Kennedy cat was out of the bag. A thunderstorm raging outside only added to the somber tone. Preston didn’t acknowledge me when I arrived at 10:00. He sat in his usual spot on the couch and stared into the dormant fireplace with an untouched scotch in his right hand and his cane in his left. I sat down on the couch across from him.

My presence must have snapped him out of whatever dark place he was in because in a flash his countenance lit up and he said
, beaming, “Today, I will tell you about my father.”

He struggled to pull himself up with his cane and the arm of the couch. I wanted to get up to help but didn’t want to hurt his pride. He carefully made his way to the window and looked out
at the storm, mesmerized by the heavy rain pelting the ground and splashing against the window.

After a few minutes
, and without turning around, he said, “Now I’m sure you will recall that I told you my grandfather, Elijah, sold off most of our land to those carpetbaggers from up north and made a killing, right?”

“Right,” I said
, pushing record.

* * * * *

“Those two Yankees continually pestered Gramps on the best practices of the business of growing cotton, as they didn’t have a clue. They thought it would be easy money. They needed a crash-course on where to sell it, how to handle the help, when to reap, when to sow, dealing with insects—all that and plenty more. All their questions and pestering aside, the northerners and Gramps soon become friendly. They’d sit on his porch sipping his moonshine and start bending his ear about the north: the culture, the big cities, the women, but especially the universities. They went to Harvard and thought the sun rose and set there. Well old Gramps got it into his head that his son, my father, would receive the best education money could buy now that he could afford it. Whether my father liked it or not, he was going to the Ivy League.

“Dixon Walker was born in 1890, named after the line. You know
, the Mason-Dixon Line. He was Grandma and Grandpa’s only child. Spoiled, they’d say. He didn’t want for much and hadn’t had to toil in the fields like his father and grandfather before him. Gramps used to say that my dad had a devious mind, always getting caught up in one scheme or another. Too much idle time he’d say, devil's plaything and all that. He’d say he wished he never sold the land so my dad could learn a thing or two working the fields. Long story short, they didn’t get along too well. When it came time to go off to school, using Gramps' money and his own craftiness, he got into Harvard.

“Another story (and probably the right one) is Gramps had to get
Dad out of town, far out of town. It seems that dear old Dad got himself into a little trouble with the townsfolk when he started up a Ponzi scheme (before they were called by that name) with some landowners and a few other locals with deep pockets and small brains. Well, as Ponzi’s go, those late to the party don’t get any cake, so needless to say, he was
persona non grata
around here, and his leaving for school came just in time.

“
Now, Ole Miss’s colors are Harvard Crimson and Yale Blue, so it was between those two schools. I often wonder what all of our lives would have been like if he had gone to Yale. When we were kids, Joe and Father took us on a tour of Harvard, so I can picture what my father saw on that crisp September day in 1908 as he made his way through the pristine campus and headed toward Hollis Hall, his dormitory home for the next four years. He must have stood in front of the four-story red-brick building with six chimneys jutting from the purple tinged roof and must have thought it would fit right in at the Oxford Town Square.

“It seems fate was afoot that day as both my father and his new roommate had paid to have their own rooms, but overcrowding made that impossible.
Father climbed up to the fourth floor, heading straight for room 401, where he came upon his roommate, a tall, skinny kid in glasses with an odd accent. His name was Joe, and halfway through their second bottle of Gramp’s moonshine, they declared themselves best friends.

“Four years can go by fast, especially when they become gin
-soaked memories of too many parties, too many girls, too much privilege, and just enough studying to pass their courses and keep their parents off their backs. Joe and Dixon became great friends. Gramps said it’s because they got too much in common, including that devious mind. In fact, there were a few times when each of them could have had their own room, but they both decided to keep things as they were.

“After graduation
, they went their separate ways. Joe got a job in banking, married Rose, and started having kids. Then he saw opportunity in a troubled bank, and with family money, bought the Columbia Trust Bank and became the youngest bank president in the country. Dixon, on the other hand, wasn’t so motivated. Not quite ready to enter the real world, he went back to Oxford and started law school at Ole Miss. Once he settled in, he fell in love with a beautiful coed, a local debutante enrolled at Ole Miss in search of a suitable husband more than an education, as was the case for many women in college back in the day.

“Dixon dragged out both his graduate work and his courtship as long as he could, but with pressure coming from both sides to either shit or get off the pot
, he graduated and married my mother, the former Camille Valmont, in 1915. The newlyweds moved into a wing of Walker Manor because at that point Gramps was living there alone since my grandmother Velma passed in 1911. Elijah did have some help, mainly Delotta’s grandparents, whose names I cannot recall, but I do know they were descendants of former slaves who continued to work for our family as they were treated well and thought of Walker Manor as their family home.

“With Gramps’
s help, Dixon opened up a small law firm off the town square specializing in wills, divorces, and small claims suits. He soon grew bored and restless with this work and was itching to quit when he got involved with some shady real estate developers buying up prime land from the unsuspecting farmers and the government. These hucksters paid handsomely to keep their unscrupulous land operations out of the courthouse, and as you might expect, this backroom underhanded dealing was right up Dixon’s alley. He gained quite a following as the go-to lawyer for any business looking to skirt the law and avoid fines or prison.

“By 1917, he was making a decent living working the grey areas of the law. At twenty-five, with a new a baby girl born that same year—my sister Audrey—and with Gramps’ influence and money, he was conveniently passed over by the draft board for conscription into WWI
, which was now raging in Europe.

“In 1919, Joe Kennedy joined the prominent stock brokerage firm Hayden, Stone & Co. He became the resident expert in dealing
with the unregulated stock market and became heavily involved in what is now known as insider trading and market manipulation. At the same time, Congress passed the Volstead Act, better known as Prohibition, and the ever-wily Joe Kennedy began bootlegging booze from Canada—supplying New York and Boston speakeasy’s with all the watered-down spirits they could handle, making a fortune for Joe. Now, with all this on his plate, Joe needed some help, a right hand man he knew he could trust, but who also wouldn’t have a problem with these morally questionable, let alone illegal, activities he’d entered into. He could think of no better man for the job than his old college roommate and partner in crime, Dixon Walker.

“In 1923
, Joe wanted to direct his attention to starting his own investment company, which was his legitimate business—if you call insider trading legitimate. He needed a version of himself to work the illegitimate businesses: the bootlegging, stock swindles, and of course his real estate interests, both legit and not so legit. With the latter, Dixon had plenty of experience from his dealings in Mississippi. He had Dixon come for a visit to catch up and see his operations. The offer was unbelievable for the time, $100,000 salary and plenty of opportunities for ancillary earnings hustling and skimming, which was not only condoned, but anticipated and accounted for. Joe was of the paranoid, yet accurate, mindset of
if they aren’t skimming a little that you can see, they’re skimming a lot you can’t.
And Joe could live with that as long as it made him money, didn’t take away from the bottom line, and didn’t take from Joe himself. They were friends, but Joe was the boss.

“So that same year, my father, mother, sister Audrey
, and two-year-old brother Phillip, packed up and moved to Brookline, Massachusetts. Joe found them a house on Beale Street—the same street the ever-growing Kennedy family lived on. The growing brood now consisted of Joseph Jr., age eight; John, age six; Rosemary, age five; Kathleen, or Kick as she was called, age three; and Eunice, age two. The Walker house on Beale Street was not as impressive as the Kennedy house, but it was very nice, and Camille was more than pleased to have a big house with a white-picket fence in an upscale New England neighborhood. Status was everything to her; money was everything to my father.

“So
, before I was even born, the Walkers were living the upper-crust Kennedy lifestyle. Our families did many things together: barbeques, sailing, parties, flag football, even vacationing together in Hyannis Port. Rose and my mother got along great. Mother idolized Rose with her blue-blood heritage and the classy lady-like manner in which she ran her household, and Mother tried to emulate her whenever possible. In fact, my very existence was little more than a reaction to Bobby Kennedy’s birth in 1925. Nine months later, I came into the world so Mother could have a baby in common with Rose. Rose had Patricia a year before Bobby, had Jean Anne three years after that, and Teddy would be the last in 1932 for a total of nine.

“The days on Beale Street in Brookline were good times for both of our families. The Walker children went to the same private schools as the Kennedys and enjoyed every advantage and privilege. Mother wouldn’t settle for anything less. She was fond of saying
‘If we can’t be as well-bred as the Kennedys, we will certainly appear that way,’ obviously referring to our southern, thus inferior, roots.

“
One advantage Mother had over Rose and the other New England society women was her looks. She was very attractive, and the fact that she was from the south added to her beauty and gave her an exotic appeal not lost on the men in the community or the rather plain women. But she played down her looks in order to fit in—fitting in was everything to Mother.

“Now
, my sister Audrey was also strikingly beautiful, and by the late ‘20s, she was impossible to ignore. She couldn’t try to play down her looks if she wanted to—truly a natural beauty—and by her early teens, she was already drawing plenty of attention, most of it unwanted from much older men.

“Now
, I know I’m not supposed to say this because she was my sister, but Audrey Walker was the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on. To this day, I have not met a woman so pleasing to the eye. I say this strictly platonically, of course. Corynne reminds me a lot of Audrey. She is beautiful and has many similar features. But Audrey was a one-in-million beauty, and as it often has been throughout history, her beauty would be more of a curse than a blessing.”

* * * * *

“Let’s stop for the day right here. I think it is a nice point of delineation between the good times and the bad times up north. I don’t think I got it in me to start in on that right now,” he said, trying to stand up too fast and falling back onto the couch with some of his drink splashing on his silk shirt. I offered him my arm, he reluctantly took it, and I slowly helped him up.

“So the Walkers had become Yankees?” I said
, trying to be funny.

Preston
forced a smile, sipped his scotch, and slowly made his way to a decorative wood box on the mantle of the stone fireplace. He opened the box and took out a smaller tin case and an orange pack of zig-zags, then handed them to me.

“I don’t have the dexterity to roll my own anymore,” he said, almost ashamed. “I’ll tell you what
, son, the day I realized I didn’t have the control to execute such a simple task was one of the darkest of my life and the day I knew this disease would beat me. Now, if you would, please roll me one, the weed seems to help my condition.”

I did as he wished, being
careful to roll it like the ones I’d seen him pull out before, wondering who rolled those for him. I handed it to him and was eager for his approval of my work.

”Not bad,” he said and lit it up, then offered
it to me. I waved it off and waited for his rebuke, but he kept puffing away.

“So we’ll continue tomorrow?” I asked
, now eager to hear the rest of the story.