Bookmaker, The (23 page)

“Who you like?”

“Give me the Rebels and the points all day long,” I said, as if I had a choice.

“Well
, all right then, I’ll tell you what, give me nickel on Ole Miss. Let’s make it three out of three today.”

“You got it,” I said. I’d already given him two winners th
at morning. He was up over $12,000 and counting.

I’d been mulling it over in my head how I would get his story on paper—should I do a non-fiction book or novel, first person or third? Maybe a biography or an autobiography was the way to go? After some serious thought, I went with a non-fiction novel format like Capote’s
In Cold Blood
. And I decided to go third person narrative to capture it just as Preston told it to me. I thought it might come off more dramatic that way.

It was the middle of October. I planned to hole myself up in my guest house and get to writing with a lofty goal of
three thousand words a day, weekends excluded. Those were reserved for football with Preston—even if I wanted to work those days, he wouldn’t let me. It was a heavy workload for me, but I wanted to at least have a rough draft for Preston before our trip to Dallas—if he could make it that long. You could see his regression daily; it was hard to watch; he was going downhill fast.

I even had a title I liked:
Legacy of Brutality
. Sure, it was stolen from the last original Misfits album, but no one would get such an esoteric reference. The title had a two-pronged effect, I felt. Was it referring to Joe Kennedy Sr., or Preston himself? I would tell Preston the prior.

I took to locking myself in my room
, not to be bothered until dark. Three thousand words a day, I would hold myself to it. Corynne spent the evenings with me before retreating back to her own room. Jay and Dayla drove back to California for a month. Jay’s work was done in the fields and Dayla wanted to show off her ring and baby bump to waiting friends. I had the time to write, and after a slow start, I found it not so hard to tell someone else’s story—just follow the tape recorder with slight embellishments here and there for dramatic effect. On most days, I had my three thousand words by early afternoon, leaving me with a fried brain, sore fingers, and cabin fever.

By mid-November, I had over
eighty thousand words and a finished rough draft. I was wary of showing it to Preston, but he’d been hounding me to see something, and my elusiveness and self-imposed exile during the writing progress annoyed him. He wanted me to drink and watch football with him, but he also wanted a finished product.

I waited until Thursday
-night football. The game was Virginia Tech vs. Syracuse. I gave him the winner—Virginia Tech—and made sure he had a few scotches in him before I pulled out the three hundred-page manuscript. I looked forward to him reading it but was apprehensive nonetheless. Although, I didn’t know how he wouldn’t like it—I had written just as he had told it to me. I gave no opinion, no agenda, just the facts. He eagerly clutched the thickly bound papers and began reading.

“
Legacy of Brutality,
interesting title,” he said, not making it clear whether he approved or not. I knew he wouldn’t stop until he finished, so I left him alone and went to bed.

The call came at 4:00
pm the next day. Preston said he wanted to see me in his office. I couldn’t get a read on his tone, whether he was pleased or not. The hug he gave me as I walked into his office said it all.

He slapped me upside the head with the folded manuscript. “I didn’t know we had a budding Hemingway in our midst! A real page turner, had me up all night, couldn’t put it down. You did me proud
, son.”

I was pleased with his reaction but attributed most of his positive review to my telling the story pretty close to how he
had told it to me. “Thanks, Preston, I’m glad you like it. I still have plenty of editing and some clean-up to do, but I guess it’s a good start.”

“Goddamn right it is! Our trip to Dallas next week will help fill in some of the blanks and faded memories as well. I’ll tell you what…no offense, but it’s better than I expected.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess,” I said, taking the now well-worn, dog-eared manuscript back from him.

The morning of November 21 was cold—cold I hadn’t experienced before. Frost on the grass shone white in the morning sun
; I thought it had snowed. I complained about the cold as we loaded up the SUV and prepared to leave before 7:00am. The drive would take over eight hours. We’d spend most of the day heading southwest on Highway 30 and arrive in Dallas by dusk. This was Preston’s plan, and there was no straying from it. Matador would do the driving with Preston comfortably sitting shotgun; Corynne and I would sit in the back on either side of Tucker in his child seat. Corynne questioned him again as to why Tucker needed to go, but Preston was adamant that he be there to see it all, even after being reminded that Tucker was too young to remember anything.

We’d spend most of the day driving
and then enjoy the sites for two days before heading back. Preston was very excited about seeing Dallas again and regaled us with stories about their last visit there. Rather than being shocked that he was waxing nostalgic about the assassination in front of Corynne and Tucker, I’d become accustomed to the talk, and apparently, so had Corynne as she seemed bored from the animated stories coming from the front seats.

Eventually his stories grew tiresome even to him and we all dozed off, except Matador of course. We stopped for lunch
at a main street diner in Hope, Arkansas. Hope was the childhood home of President Clinton, and they weren’t shy about advertising it. We arrived in Dallas around 5:00pm and pulled up to the Adolphus Hotel. The statuesque twenty-two-story beauty stood out red and white amidst the otherwise unimpressive downtown Dallas skyline. The lobby was a trip back in time, almost too pristine. I made sure not to touch any of the overly decorated turn-of-the-century furniture. Preston boasted that he even reserved the same suite they’d shared thirty-five years ago. Corynne and I were given suites as well. The top floor required special keys to access the button on the elevator. The room was by far the nicest I’d ever stayed in, including Walker Manor. I wondered aloud how much this trip must be costing Preston. It wasn’t a mistake that Corynne and I had separate rooms. Preston gave us an hour and we were to meet downstairs in the French Room for dinner.

Preston was hitting the Johnny Walker harder than usual. He was in a jovial mood but was unusually reflective and gushing forward his love for his family and even called me the grandson he wished he’d had. The conversation at the table became uncomfortable when he started talking about what he wanted to
have happen after he died. It was revealed that Matador would retain all his worldly possessions until he passed on and then Corynne would inherit everything. He even went on to say that no matter what happened, I would always be welcome and could stay at Walker Manor for as long as I liked. He then told me he wanted me to have all his Ole Miss paraphernalia and sports collectibles as I would properly respect their value and meaning. Matador was quiet, he didn’t like this talk—no one did. Finally, he’d had enough of the depressing conversation and excused himself.

“Matador,” Preston yelled after him, “we must face the inevitable. Unfortunately, reality is all we’re given.”

The knock on my suite door was unexpected. I was tired and had to put some clothes back on to see who it was.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Trenty, let me in, hurry.” I pushed the door open, Corynne was in her overcoat and bare legged down to a pair of red pumps, something was afoot. She slid in and caught me eyeing her, then quickly opened her coat to expose her frilly lingerie—the red see-thru two-piece did nothing to hide her amazing assets.

“Wow, what’s going on?” I asked.

“You’ve been a good boy for so long, and good things come to those who wait. You deserve this,” she whispered, throwing her coat onto the bed.

“If you’re here, who has Tucker?” I asked
, wondering how that thought even got into my head after seeing her like this.

“Don’t you worry about that. He’s with Matador and Papa in their suite. He’s out; the little guy had a long day.”

She kissed me long and slow. Feeling my response through my thin boxers, she moved her body close and grinded against the growing bulge. I could feel her warmth against my skin; she was ready, and God knows I was. Entwined we fell onto the bed.

She began pulling my shirt off and gasped, “Oh my, Trent, what do we have here, look at this…it’s huge!” She ran her fingers softly from shoulder to shoulder then down my spine; following the ink all the way down to the small of my back .While passionately kissing
, we teased and explored, until we could no longer take the anticipation. She pulled my boxers off and threw them on the floor. With my slow persistence and her eager invitation, I entered her—gently, patiently, taking my time; this was a moment to treasure. Maintaining eye contact she gasped, then quietly moaned, urging me further. We were one. Complete. I’d had sex many times before, but this was the first time I’d ever made love, and the difference was night and day. Lost in each other for what seemed forever—probably only a few minutes—we finally climaxed together; we were one.

Exhausted, dripping with sweat
, and smelling of pent-up lust, we collapsed and separated. I lit up two of her American Spirits with one match. No words were necessary—we were beyond that now. We lay together dropping ashes on the hotel ashtray resting on my stomach, breathing softly while listening to the street noise below and watching the city lights reflecting on the ceiling, blue and white. We fell asleep in each other’s arms and woke up the same way. The clock read 7:47am, she kissed me and told me she loved me and then slipped out to keep our tryst our own.

I was in too good a mood to go back to sleep and when I looked out the window on the bright Dallas morning
, I couldn’t help but think of Preston seeing the same thing thirty-five years earlier. Feeling the cold from my hand on the window, I had to admire him and Matador regardless of the act—the courage it took to go through with it was immense. I tried to place myself in their shoes, and there was no way I could have done it. Courage is an admirable trait no matter what you are using it for.

Breakfast was at 10:00
am, a continental breakfast at the Adolphus Bistro. Corynne gave me a peck on the cheek, and no one was any wiser.

“Big day today, big day,” Preston said
, holding Tucker on his lap, feeding him grapes. “You know, we never have been up into the book depository and I hear it’s a museum of sorts now, I say we start there.”

“No shit?” Matador said. “I’d love to get that perspective, we gotta go.”

“After that, we’ll take you guys through a step by step, play by play of our every move that fateful day,” Preston said, handing a fussy Tucker over to Corynne.

With all the walking we had planned for the day, Preston’s wheelchair was in order. And for once he didn’t seem to mind getting into it—not one bitch or moan. The hotel had a shuttle going downtown
, so we took the 11:00am. It was just a couple minutes ride down Commerce Street to go the quarter mile to Dealey Plaza and it dropped us off at the Memorial—an unimpressive white box with thin-slitted entrances that centered a black plaque summarizing what had happened there and the enhanced virtues of the ex-President. Everyone except Preston did a quick walk through; even if he wanted to see it, I don’t think his chair could have squeezed through the entrance. He waited for us with an annoyed look on his face. “All right, enough of that shit; let’s go check out the book depository. Let’s see what Oswald was dealing with.”

Matador did the pushing on the ten
-minute walk to the corner of Houston and Elm, where we looked up on the familiar red-bricked façade of the former Texas School Book Depository. As with most famous things—be it buildings or people—it seemed smaller in real life. But there it was, there was no mistaking it. The tours were self-guided, so we skipped past all the kiosks and informative signs espousing their false truths to the unsuspecting public. Preston and Matador were the closest thing that make-shift museum had to any real truth. We took the elevator to the sixth floor and exited into much of the same bullshit as the lobby—more glass information booths, more plaques and random evidence. Preston only wanted to see one thing, so we quickly skipped past all the filler and headed right for the sixth floor perch. The boxes were stacked as they supposedly were by Oswald and everything claimed to be frozen in time to that early afternoon on November 22, 1963.

We all took turns sticking our heads out the open window. It was an ideal perch, looking right down on the curving Elm Street. And there on the asphalt of the street, there to satisfy the morbid curiosity of tourists all over the world
, was a painted white X that needed no explanation.

Preston pushed himself out of his chair and made his way to the window. “Well shit, I’ll tell you what…look at that view, it was like hitting ducks on a pond, no wonder he got ‘em.”

Matador didn’t say a word. He just stood with hands on his hips, looking out onto Elm, shaking his head slowly back and forth. Corynne and I, with Tucker in my arms, patiently waited out of the way as they silently took it all in.

Matador helped Preston back into his chair and said wistfully, “Well, that was it
, Pres.”

Then Preston, in a panicky motion, began patting his shirt and pant pockets. “Goddamnit, I think I left my camera back in the hotel. Matador
, hand me my bag.” He rifled through it, cursing to himself. “Yeah, it ain’t here. Trent, you’re a young buck, how about you do us a huge favor and run back to my room and get my camera?” Looking down onto Elm, he pointed and said, “There’s a shuttle down there, hustle and catch it. I’ll bet it goes by the hotel, then meet us back on the street below where it all happened.” He handed me his key; I had no choice, I was going. I handed Tucker to Corynne and hurried down to catch the shuttle.