Bookmaker, The (21 page)

“He was quick with an answer
. ‘Aha,’ he said with a quick laugh, ‘watch.’

“The scene was a prison. A dark, dank place I wouldn’t want to spend a minute in. It made
American prisons look like our suite. The camera man walked backwards, filming the entourage of two guards, Dr. Bryant the hypnotist and the man known as Sirhan Sirhan. They all walked with purpose and direction, except Sirhan, who was in a daze. They marched down a tight corridor with cells on either side. The dead eyes of long-forgotten prisoners peeked behind rust-stained iron bars.

“They reached their destination. One of the guards opened the cell door with a key. As the door swung open
, it revealed an emaciated prisoner dressed in rags. He shuffled forward in his chained bare feet. His sallow face couldn’t hide a pathetic smile revealing his excitement in having someone open his cell door, no matter the reason. The doctor whispered something into Sirhan’s ear, and without hesitation he pulled out a pistol and shot the man in the chest. The prisoner went down, but he wasn’t dead. He held his arms up in a defensive pose. Unaffected, Sirhan emptied the chamber into him. Then he took the empty gun, put it up to his temple, and pulled the trigger over and over again until the film stopped.

“Hamshari motioned for Talib to turn on the light
, and with a smug look on his face, said, ‘You see, that is how it will be done. Sirhan did that with only two weeks training. He is more advanced now and can carry out far more complicated orders.’

“
I had to ask, as I still saw his haunting eyes, ‘Who was the prisoner?’

“‘What does it matter?’ Hamshari said. ‘He’s dead now, that is all you need to know.’

“‘I’m just curious. What were his crimes?’

“‘This is not your war, it is ours, but for the sake of an amicable working relationship
, I will tell you. He was an Israeli soldier, he committed no crime; his crime was being Jewish.’

“Matador gave me a look
indicating that what he saw, although unsettling, was exactly what we needed, and unfortunately, we had to work with these people.

“
Then he spoke. ‘Now, if you can do all this, why do you need us?’

“‘Excellent question my friend, and one we were anticipating,’ Hamshari said. ‘We have taken the art of hypnosis very far
, but it is still unproven in the field. You will be there to make sure the job is done correctly. My benefactor will leave nothing to chance. He has spared no expense, and he must have Bobby Kennedy dead, his existence shames him.’

“I thought of pursuing who his benefactor might be, but I had a pretty good idea
, and I knew Hamshari wouldn’t divulge the information, so I left it alone. Matador and I had seen enough and wanted out of the suite as soon as possible. We agreed to work with them. A venue was not decided upon yet, but the Presidential campaign would provide many opportunities, so we made plans to contact each other the next week and take it from there. As we left the hotel, we couldn’t help but feel dirty, but we knew we had to dance with the devil on this one. We took a long shower and left Paris the next day.”

* * * * *

Preston stopped there, we were so engrossed in his story we hadn’t realized that we needed fresh drinks and a fresh joint if we were to continue.

He tried to rise, but could barely move. “Before you hook me up with another scotch
, do me a favor and help me get up and move around a little, my muscles need to move, they’re starting to tighten up.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

He was heavy and didn’t offer much help, basically dead weight now. I didn’t let him know this. Once I got him up and he leaned on my shoulder so we could walk a bit, he was more manageable. The mosquitoes were out in full force tonight—the non-stop exoskeleton armada hell-bent on their vampiric mission. I was trying to brush them away while holding Preston up; he seemed unaffected by them.

“How come the mosquitoes don’t get you, what’s your secret?” I asked.

“They know better,” he said with no hint of humor.

“So you were dealing with some pretty shady motherfuckers with this one
, huh?”

Preston stopped walking. “Why don’t you put me down in that chair right there, get me another scotch
, roll us another joint, and I’ll try and finish this thing.”

I did as he asked.

* * * * *

“I was struggling with the idea of working with these terrorists, and more than once, I convinced myself I couldn’t do it, we’d find another way to get Bobby. Whenever I tried to explain this to Matador, he more or less agreed that he wasn’t happy with our new affiliation either, but Matador was the more practical
one between the two of us. He wasn’t my conscience, but he was the voice of reason, and he could think of no better way to carry out the hit while keeping our noses clean. Matador, as always, made too much sense. I pushed aside my apprehension and revulsion and went with him on this one, after all, he’d never steered me wrong before.

“June 5
, 1968, had a special significance to Hamshari’s Fatah. It was the one year anniversary of the Six-Day War; they wanted to do it then. Bobby would be at The Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles during the Democratic primaries, which would take place June 4. But with the results coming in later that night, the event would carry on well into the next morning. Hamshari considered it a gift from Allah that Kennedy would be in a public place on that date, so it had to be then—we had a month to prepare. This wasn’t our ideal venue—far more public and crowded than we would have liked, but Hamshari insisted it had to be that day. It had to be June 5. The thought of being bossed around by these sub-humans didn’t sit well with me, but it wasn’t our call, they were holding all the cards—they had the scapegoat. Matador convinced me to carry on with the plan, for now. We could show up prepared to carry out the assassination, and if things looked or felt wrong, we’d just walk away, no harm no foul. Except for dealing with Hamshari afterward, I reminded him.

“Just like in Dallas five years earlier, we moved into a hotel a week before to prepare. This time
, we got a little bold and stayed in the Ambassador Hotel itself. Maybe not the smartest move, but we figured actually living in the setting of the act was a great way to get a feel for the place and scout out every inch of the ballroom and the other rooms that were to be used for the event. We had fake names and rock-solid fake IDs, our identity was safe. Our faces were not, so we went as incognito as possible: I grew a beard, we used hats, glasses, fake facial hair, and even wigs throughout the week during our reconnaissance.

“It was from a pay phone on Sunset Strip that I made the international call to Hamshari. He informed me in his usual arrogant and confident tone that everything was on schedule. Sirhan had been in town for over a week and
was being overseen by handlers, including the hypnotist, Dr. Bryant. On the night of the primary, Sirhan would enter the lobby at 11:00pm. I was told to wait for him to show up there, and as soon as I saw him, everything was a go; if I didn’t spot him, abort the mission.

“Matador, of course, would be there, but he wouldn’t be getting blood on his hands this time— this was
a one man, one shot job. The plan was simple: I’d trail Sirhan close and as soon as he opened fire, I’d swoop in with a head shot. Matador would be my eyes and ears, my look out, and help me slip out once the job was done.

“The gun was my father’s gun, the same .38
Special that he used to kill himself. I took it out of the hotel room safe and cleaned it one last time. I found poetic justice in the fact that the gun Joe Sr. used to kill my father would now be used to kill his son. The few hours leading up to the act were always a surreal whirlwind of fear, excitement, and preparation. Matador and I both dressed in dark business suits, hoping to fit in with Bobby’s entourage, who’d have the closest access to him. We paced our rooms until about 9:00pm and then headed downstairs to the ballroom to get a sense of the moment.

“The scene was a party atmosphere both inside and out. Rather than a Presidential primary
, you would have thought you were at a company Christmas party. I loitered around the hotel, mainly in the lobby, looking for a short, slightly built Middle Easterner with a blank stare on his face, no sign yet. By 11:00pm, the party was still building. The polls had closed three hours earlier and the results were starting to solidify into a Kennedy victory. At 11:30pm, I spotted a familiar face—not Sirhan, but Dr. Bryant, the hypnotist, also in a suit. Coming out from behind him, was Sirhan—smaller and less threatening in person, but it was him. He was dressed inconspicuously in a white T-shirt and blue jeans and the only thing that might make people stop and take notice of him was his dead-eyed stare. Once they passed through the lobby and into the ballroom, they settled into a corner where Dr. Bryant began whispering into his ear. It wasn’t overtly strange to see, but if you really focused on the figure of a white business man whispering into a young Middle Easterner’s ear for long periods of time, it would have struck anyone as odd. But the ballroom was crowded and drunk, the only thing on most people’s mind was the opposite sex and where their next drink was coming from. I had them in my sights, and Matador had me in his.

“My stalking was interrupted when a rolling cheer erupted throughout the place. I stopped a young blonde man and asked him what was happening
, I all I got was a slurred, ‘Fuck if I know, there’s free booze, it’s a party.’ He wouldn’t be much help. Then I overheard that the results were in. Kennedy had won California—virtually assuring his spot as the Democratic candidate for President, left vacant by LBJ. Sirhan didn’t move, he stayed in his corner hidden in plain sight among the crowd.

“A crowd rushed into the Embassy Ballroom, Bobby was coming down to make his victory speech. When he stepped up to the podium I glanced at Sirhan, his eyes lit up in Pavlovian recognition. I kept my eyes on him. He kept his on Kennedy, not even blinking. Dr. Bryant whispered to him one last time then got lost in the party. The speech was short and exuberant. I watched his uniquely Kenned
yan face reveling in his victory, drinking in the crowd’s adoration, and I hated him. It brought me back to my childhood and the pain their family caused mine. He wouldn’t leave the hotel alive. I had him.

“The speech ended in triumphant applause
, and Kennedy was on the move—so was Sirhan, and so was I. In Bobby’s entourage were two men I recognized: L.A. Ram, Rosey Grier, and Olympian, Rafer Johnson. I hoped I wouldn’t have to get into it with either one of them. Bobby was headed toward the kitchen and Sirhan was moving fast, pushing his way through the throngs of admirers hoping to see their hero, possibly touch him, seeking a transfer of the Kennedy mystique into their own dreary lives. Halfway through the kitchen corridor, he met up with a large group of supporters offering their congratulations, causing Bobby to stop and chat and shake a few hands.

“Sirhan saw his chance. He squeezed his way through the corridor
, pushing people out of his way. I was right behind him—it must have looked like I was chasing him. Once he caught up to Bobby’s entourage, he stopped and then circled around to the front of the group. In all the chaos of the moment, the bodyguards—pinned to the walls of the corridor—couldn’t keep track of who was getting close. I took a position behind Bobby, who backed up slightly at Sirhan‘s affront. I pulled out my father’s gun but kept it low and concealed and waited for Sirhan. All eyes were on Bobby—I watched Sirhan. He pushed closer, right in front of Bobby, only inches away, then, without hesitation, began firing. After the first shot he was mobbed, but kept firing, shot after shot caromed around the tight kitchen corridor, screams of shock, terror, and pain echoed from the walls and from those getting hit by the bullets he was carelessly unloading.

“I slipped right behind Bobby
, who continued backing up towards me and I quickly put my gun to the back of his head and fired. It was a little left of center, but I knew it was a kill shot. As quick as I shot him, my gun was back in my pocket and I dissolved into the mayhem. I saw Rosey and Rafer and a few other men beating on a now unarmed Sirhan while trying to subdue him; he was fighting back, but would be taken alive. I walked against the flow of people rushing to the scene and bumped into an attractive woman in a polka dot dress who gave me a curiously knowing look and pushed past her. Once I was out of the kitchen and back into the ballroom, I joined the confused crowds and nonchalantly slipped out onto Wilshire, avoiding the ambulances and police cars already arriving in droves; further adding to the madness of the scene and making my escape even easier. Matador met me out front, he’d been trailing me the whole time but lost me in the tight confines of the kitchen.

“Out of breath but relieved, he asked, ‘You get him?’

“Yeah, I got him.”

The grass was still a little dewy wet on the overcast Thursday morning. We brought out a football,
a soccer ball, and a baseball with three mitts—two adult, one child. Tucker liked the soccer ball; he liked the way it rolled when he kicked it. Corynne and I would kick the ball back and forth and he would chase it as it rolled between us. He laughed and laughed, once so hard he threw up his milk and we had to take a fifteen minute break. Once the grass dried some, I brought out Wade Boggs to play with us. His actions of late had told me I was neglecting him, so I included him in our fun. He was hesitant at first, probably more from the wet grass than anything else, but soon joined us in chasing the soccer ball around, and when he caught it, he tried to bite and kick at it with his hind legs. Tucker couldn’t say his name, so he just called him “Meow.” He chased him around the grass yelling, “No, Meow, no,” over and over again.

Corynne glowed with a smile a mother gets when watching her child at play. The smile lit up her face like the shine on a new penny. She was beautiful and she was with me
, and I couldn’t help but laugh and smile as well. I really enjoyed having Tucker in my life; he took to calling me “T” and I called him “Little T.” He really was a good kid. His first reaction was always to smile or laugh, and the only time he got upset was when he had to stop doing something he enjoyed, which I could understand, but you can’t play forever.

The booming voice that carried across the back lawn was Preston‘s. “Don’t let him play with that soccer ball
, this ain’t Europe, goddamnit. Give him the football to throw around or at least the baseball; this is America, for krissakes.”

“Sorry
, Papa, he likes the soccer ball, the football doesn’t roll,” Corynne yelled back.

“Oh well, at least he’s playing sports. Hey, when you’re done
, come on in, Delotta’s making sandwiches.”

“Okay, give us about a half hour,” she said
, kicking the ball for Tucker to chase.

Lunch was tuna on toasted sourdough. Corynne, ever the over-worried mom
, had heard about mercury levels on the news and asked Delotta to make Tucker a grilled cheese.

Between small bites of his sandwich, Preston said, “It’s nice to have a sit
-down meal once in a while. Everyone is always out doing their own thing—myself included. We must make an attempt to get together as a family more often, including Dayla and Jay, I don’t think they’ve even had one meal at this table.”

“We should
, Papa, you’re right,” Corynne said, breaking up Tucker’s grilled cheese into bite-sized pieces, making it easier for him to throw.

Preston was now having his scotch with lunch
, and most days he was on his third by noon.

He took a long
, burning drink and then placed his glass down. “I’ve been doing some thinking…I want us to all go on a little trip, all of us here at the table and Matador too, of course. Unfortunately, Jay and Dayla will have to stay behind as I want to take one car, besides, Jay’s got plenty of work to do.”

This got Corynne’s attention, she liked the idea. “Oh yeah, where do you want to go?”

“I want to go back to Dallas, see it one last time, a final pilgrimage if you will.”

Corynne’s excitement for the trip waned, but she was determined to cater to the dying man’s last wishes. “Okay, when would you like to go?”

“I want to be there on the anniversary.”

“The anniversary?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’d like to be there thirty-five years after the fact, on November 22, and I won’t take no for an answer,” he said with a serious smile.

“Okay, we’ll go, whatever you want
, Papa.”

Preston turned to me
. “Trent, this will be an ideal fact-gathering opportunity for the book. I’m doing this for you, too, you know.”

“I look forward to going. It sounds like fun,” I said.

As Delotta cleared the plates from the table, Preston said, “Hey, Trent, why don’t we take care of a little business today. We’re almost done; how about you help me to my office and we can get some work done before we catch the night game. Should be a good one—we got your USC boys against Arizona State.”

I looked at Corynne; we had plans to spend the day together. “Is this okay?”

“Of course, work comes first,” she said, taking Tucker out of his high chair. “We didn’t have anything special planned today. You boys have fun. I need to get this little guy down for a nap, maybe I’ll join him.” As she was leaving she leaned down to give me a kiss, but caught herself and left with a light squeeze on my shoulder.

We had decided that although Preston approved of our relationship
, it might be best to keep the public displays of affection to a minimum. He could still be a bit old fashioned when it suited him. Although, there wasn’t much he was missing, we were taking it slow, very slow. She played the proper southern belle, while I begrudgingly played the part of a gentleman. We spent almost every free moment we had together. I had much more than her, as she was often busy with Tucker and school. But with the roles we were playing, and with Tucker as an ever-present third wheel, we hadn’t progressed past kissing and some light petting. We each had our own room, and that’s where we slept. It was frustrating at times, but a small price to pay if it meant being with her.

Preston was getting worse by the day. I more carried him than helped him to his office. When we finally arrived, I was exhausted and unapologetically dropped him on the couch. My hands were on my knees as I tried to pull myself together.

“You’re a young man…you shouldn’t be panting like that. You need to get in to better shape. Maybe we should get you out into those fields more with Matador and Jay.”

I fought the urge to remind him that I
had just hauled his two hundred pounds of dead weight up the stairs and through the long halls. I just nodded in agreement instead.

“You ready for the Teddy Kennedy chapter of our story?” he asked.

I was confused. “Isn’t he still alive?”

“If you can call that living
, then yes, yes he is. My white whale, the one that got away.”

“I’m ready when you are.”

He held up his empty glass and rattled the cubes. “Why don’t you freshen an old man up and we can get started.” I grabbed his glass and went to the bar. After such a pleasant morning I wasn’t much in the mood for the doom and gloom his tales of revenge evoked.

I needed a break from all this death. I handed him his drink and a pre-rolled joint I pulled from the tin. “How about we talk about something else for a while?” I asked.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t care, anything.”

Preston perked up, finding a topic he wanted to delve into. “Okay, let’s talk current affairs.”

“Sounds good,” I said
, anxious for anything other than the Kennedys.

He took a long sip and settled back into the couch. “So what were you
r thoughts on the OJ verdict? I know it’s not current, a few years old, but it’s still relevant.”

“Guilty as hell,” I said without hesitation.

“Well, of course he’s guilty. That’s obvious, but that’s not the issue at hand.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Do you think Nicole deserved what happened to her?”

“Of course not, she was murdered by her husband.”

“Let me ask you this…do you feel bad when a heroin addict overdoses and dies?”

“I guess not,” I said hesitantly, now curious where he was going with this.

“Do you feel bad when a motorcyclist not wearing a helmet crashes and dies from head injuries?”

“Well yeah, a little I suppose.”

“What about a bank robber who gets killed while robbing a bank? Do you feel bad for him?”

“No,” I answered
, seeing the obvious pattern.

“And why don’t you feel bad for all these people I’ve just mentioned?”

“They died from their own actions, by their own choices. They knew the risks, they took ‘em, and they died because of it.”

“Exactly!”
he cried triumphantly.

Angered by his logic
, I asked, “So you’re saying Nicole deserved to get killed by OJ?”

He studied my reaction
. “I don’t think deserved is the right term, I think she knew the risks.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nicole should have known that when she married a black man that there are inherent risks that come with that. Now, do you think she’d have been with him if he wasn’t rich and famous?”

“I don’t know,” I said
, doubting my response.

“Of course she wouldn’t. If he worked at a car wash or shoe store
, she wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. She went for the money and the lifestyle, fully aware of the tendencies of abuse the statistics bring.”

“So when she married a black man she knew she was taking a risk, but she went for it anyway. So her death, like those you mentioned earlier
, was caused by her own risk-taking behavior?”

“That’s what I’m saying and that’s why you shouldn’t feel bad about it,” he said
, content that I grasped his point.

“That sounds pretty fucked up to me. I ain’t buying it, but I guess I see where you’re coming from.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

“What you’re alluding to is some pretty racist shit, I thought you were past all the typical southern bullshit,” I said, knowing this would piss him off
. I didn’t care.

“Watch it
, son...”

“What I’m saying is, you have Delotta stay in the house and you’re very good to her
, and she thinks the world of you. And hell, you even paid for Darnell’s college tuition.”

“It don’t mean I want him in the house, especially not with my granddaughter living here! All I’m saying is, it’s in their nature and you can’t trust ‘em.”

“That’s some backward ass way of thinking,” I said, standing my ground.

“Well, it looks like we’re gonna have to agree to disagree,” he said
, finishing his scotch and the conversation I wished I’d never asked for. I stood up and walked to the window. The clouds weren’t gonna burn off, looked like rain.

I spoke without turning around
. “Maybe I should have stuck to the original subject.”

“Ah come on, can’t we have an intelligent discussion that don’t involve the Kennedys?”

Intelligent? Obviously not, I thought, but no point in trying to convince him otherwise, his views are archaic and forty—no, a hundred-and-forty years behind the times; he wouldn’t change his mind.

“Tell me how you got Teddy,” I said
, ending the topic for good. “Let me guess, you were at Chappaquiddick…the troll under the bridge?”

He had a good laugh. “No
, Chappaquiddick was Teddy’s own doing. I wasn’t involved. No, we have to go back five years from that, back to ‘64 and another plane crash.”

“Really? Go on,” I said
, sitting back down and turning on the recorder.

* * * * *

“After we got Johnny, we set our sights on the two remaining brothers. Back in ‘62 Bobby was a much harder target with his position as Attorney General—if the mob couldn’t get him, how could we? So we started trailing a young up-start Junior Senator from Massachusetts. Teddy was flying all over the country that summer, seeking reelection after being given his Senatorial seat in ‘62. We had fifteen pounds of Torpex left over from the original batch. The explosives were almost twenty years old, so we took a couple pounds out into the woods, set it on a timer, and it still worked—in fact there is still a large hole out there. Our plan was to get the remaining thirteen pounds onto one of Teddy’s smaller planes.

“On June 1
9, Teddy would be in Washington to vote on the Civil Rights Act. It was the Kennedy’s baby and there was no way he’d miss it. We also knew he would have to be in Massachusetts the next day for the state’s Democratic Convention, where he would receive his Senate nomination. Matador and I took a drive up to Washington a couple days before and got a suite at the Hay-Adams Hotel, overlooking the White House.

“We did a little snooping around Washington National Airport and found that Teddy would fly out the evening of the 19
th as soon as he could get away from the Senate vote. Then, I made a mistake. I needed access to the tarmac to get to the plane. The plan was to steal a ground crew uniform. I made my way into the empty ground crew locker room, pulling each locker handle to see if any were unlocked and someone must have seen me, ‘cause two airport security guards confronted me and asked me my business. I told them I was waiting to pick up someone from the airport and I got lost and ended up in the locker room somehow. They didn’t buy it, but I had no stolen items on me, so they had to let me go. But not before getting all my information and taking my picture for airport security. I left, cursing myself; I couldn’t risk going back. Our trip to Washington was wasted.