Bookmaker, The (24 page)

The shuttle dropped me off right in front of the hotel. I used Preston’s key in the elevator and then into his suite—his was bigger than mine. I was going through his suitcase when something caught my eye in the mirror across from the bed. A manila envelope was propped up against the center of the mirror with the word “Trent” written in large
, black felt-tip letters. I opened it and inside was a hand-written note on a single piece of thick paper.

To my family,

I do this not with any ill will or malice, and I am of sound mind. Please try and forgive both the act and the method I have chosen to carry it out. Please forgive my decision to involve Tucker; he is my joy and my light. I will admit my act is selfish and reckless. It is all too evident that my violent past has inflicted this insidious disease upon my once strong and capable body. I will be a burden no more. I end it for my sake and yours.

The vision came to me in an epiphany: when a corrupt soul has a living angel with him when he passes, his chances in the afterlife must improve. As it is now, we all know where I am going, my fate sealed by my own actions. My selfishness has led me to this last act of salvation, and as desperate and irrational as it seems, I feel it is my only hope. I am ashamed of what I am about to do, and I regret the pain it will cause, but I see no other way.

Corynne, my beautiful Corynne, I know you will never forgive me, but please try and understand. I am so sorry this is the family you were born into. Please try and remember me fondly. I leave everything to you. It is your legacy now. Carry it forward, do good with it, not like I have.

Trent, I consider you family, whether you like or not. I trust my story in your capable hands. Tell the world or keep them in the dark. The choice is now yours. Take care of my baby.

And Matador, thank you for sharing your life with me, a better partner I could not imagine. Wherever I’m going, I’ll be waiting for you.

Forgive me. I love you all.

Preston

The note froze me. I stood stock-still
, holding it at my side trying to digest it all. Then true terror set in,
“Please forgive my decision to involve Tucker.”
What did that mean, what did he have planned? I had to stop it. I shoved the note into my pocket and rushed out to catch the elevator. It was there waiting for me, it moved down painfully slow, the Muzak mocking my impatience. Finally, it opened up to the lobby where I burst out onto a busy Commerce Street. I ran down the sidewalk as fast as I could, side stepping and colliding with people as I tore recklessly toward Dealey Plaza. I frantically made my way past the memorial then down Houston, left onto Elm, and toward the white pergola and grassy knoll area now clustered with tourists.

I spotted
them from one hundred yards away. They were standing on the sidewalk next to the painted X in the street that the light traffic unapologetically drove over. Everything seemed normal. Matador and Corynne were chatting and Preston was doting on Tucker, who was sitting on his lap. Then, Preston glanced over at them, making sure they weren’t watching, and with Tucker still on his lap rolled off the curb onto the street. It was happening! What was happening? The sound of cars screeching to a halt got Corynne’s attention. She screamed as Preston wheeled over the white X and turned his wheelchair to face them. I made it to them and yelled for Preston not to do it.

Preston reached into his bag and pulled out a gun. “Don’t step off that curb,” he said
, holding the gun on his lap next to a squirming Tucker.

“Preston, what are you doing!”
Matador shouted.

“Papa, stop, please!” Corynne screamed.

He looked at us with tears in his eyes and calmly said, “I’m sorry, I have to do this. Trent has everything you need to know.”

They looked at me like I was a part of this. I shook my head and yelled again for him to stop. A crowd was now gathering—a macabre curiosity filled the plaza.

Preston lifted the gun from his lap. The pistol shook in his hands as he brought it up to Tucker’s head and held it at his temple. “This is the same gun my father used. There’s a sheet under my chair for after.”

Corynne screamed a guttural roar of maternal instinct. Maybe it was a reaction to Corynne’s pleas
, or his conscience got the best of him, we’ll never know, but something affected him, because he moved the gun above a now crying Tucker toward his own head. He placed the shaking pistol against his right temple—time froze as his eyes met mine—then he pulled the trigger. The blast was followed by the bloody splat of skull and brain matter on the asphalt. The screams were simultaneous and horrifying: parents covering children’s eyes, women turning away in disgust, brave men becoming cowards in the face of such carnage.

All three of us ran toward him. A hysterical Corynne grabbed an eerily still Tucker and wiped the blood and gore from his face with her skirt and held him close. Matador dropped to his knees sobbing, he put his head on Preston’s lap, cursing him for what he’d done. I tried to maintain composure. I found the sheet he’d mentioned
—it reminded me how carefully he’d thought this all through—and placed it over his gruesome visage—a welcome act for the stunned onlookers.

Matador backed away, looking at us with terror. “I‘m so sorry, I have to go
.” Then he ran up Elm Street toward the book depository.

I looked around at the crowd of people who stood watching with mouths open and eyes wide. Corynne was sobbing back on the curb
, tightly clutching Tucker. Everyone was now waiting for me to do something. In a slow-motion blur, I went behind his chair and rolled it back out of traffic back onto the curb—it was all I could think to do. The line of cars that stopped for the scene hesitantly rolled forward, wheels straddling the gory mess still spreading red in the street; their tires splashing blood as it trickled into the gutter. I joined Corynne on the curb and put my arm around her to console her and waited for the cavalry to arrive.

Tucker was ambulanced to Dallas Memorial Hospital. After an examination
, the doctors confirmed he was physically unharmed. He was deaf in his right ear, but the doctors felt it was only temporary and he would regain full hearing in a few weeks. While I tried to comfort a still-dazed Corynne, the police arrived with their obligatory questions. Unyielding and repetitive as they were, I held up well and gave them a story they liked. I told them that Preston was suffering from fatal ALS and he’d been a big fan of the fallen President, and I assumed this was homage. I told the police we’d known nothing of his plans and were just as shocked as everyone else. They never asked about Matador and I didn’t offer anything up.

The police bought my story, and once Tucker was released
, we all headed off to the mortuary. Thanks to the good people at Dilman and Son’s, we obtained a coffin for Preston and went through the process of getting his body on an airplane back to Oxford. Before our flight, I went back to the Adolphus to collect our stuff and found the rooms paid for. Matador’s luggage was gone and the valet told me the SUV had been picked up. Where the hell had he gone?

We arranged for Preston’s body to be flown back to Memphis and then driven down to Fallen Rebel Mortuary in Oxford. We flew on the same flight
, got a rental car, and took the solemn drive back home. As we crossed the state line back into Mississippi, I realized I still had the note in my pocket. I’d completely forgotten about it in all the chaos. I briefly debated whether to show it to Corynne or not but then decided, who was I to keep it from her?

I pulled to the side of the road, woke her
, and handed her the note. “What’s this?” she asked.

I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s the suicide note. It was left for me in his hotel room. I found it right before everything happened.”

“And you’re just giving me this now?” She took the note from me and read. The tears came fast and heavy. She dropped the note on her lap and turned to me, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Do you really think he was gonna do it…Tucker?”

I brushed away the remaining tears from her face and took her hand. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll never know.”

She broke down uncontrollably in my arms.

Breaking the news to Delotta was far harder than I
’d thought it would be. She was inconsolable, crying on my shoulder for a good half hour before I could even get through the door. Once she calmed down, she told us she’d known something was up because Matador had come storming through the house like a man possessed. She saw him pack up and leave in the Lincoln Town Car after only twenty minutes without saying a word. I told her exactly what had happened in Dallas and she threw her hands up and headed off for church.

Corynne put Tucker to bed. Aside from the temporary hearing loss, he seemed unaffected by the ordeal. H
e’d be okay, and, if Tucker was okay, I knew Corynne eventually would be too. I put her to bed and lay next to her. I held her tight as she quietly sobbed in between short fits of sleep throughout a long, sleepless night.

News travels fast in a small town. The story made the Dallas Morning News
; then appeared in the Mississippi Clarion Ledger and landed on the doorstep of Walker Manor the next day in the pages of the Oxford Eagle.
“Prominent Oxford man commits suicide in Dallas.”
The wave of grieving townsfolk and curious well-wishers arrived first thing in the morning. Delotta handled the situation until the questions became too specific for her. Corynne was not up to it, so it fell to me—the new man of the house—to step in and field the queries. Preston was well known and beloved in Oxford—people wanted to know what happened.

My story never wavered. Preston’s last drastic measure was a reaction to his ALS death sentence and his admiration for JFK. This made sense to most and answered nearly all the questions. Most people simply dropped by to offer their condolences along with some food: pies, cakes, casseroles
, and fresh bread—it just kept coming. You would have thought they’d read about us starving to death rather than losing a loved one. “This is what they call southern hospitality,” Delotta informed me as I carried the trays and plates into the kitchen. Between the three of us, we set a date for his funeral, chose a spot in the Walker family plot next to his father, mother, and sister, and planned for a wake at Walker Manor. It would be come one, come all—everyone was invited. We hired caterers and an event service to set everything up on the back lawn.

Jay and Dayla were still back in Huntington Beach, they’d been staying there for about a month in Dayla’s old place. I called Jay and told him the news, he left right way. Corynne wanted her brother to attend the funeral, but she had no way of finding him and asked if I could help. I called Otto, told him the situation
, and asked for the biggest favor I would ever ask of him. I needed him to find Marcus and get him on a plane back to us. I told him to use the money he’d been holding for me to pay for the plane tickets for both of them, first class if he wanted. Otto, although very pissed at the prospect of having to deal with Marcus, agreed. He said he came into the bar almost every day so finding him wouldn’t be problem. He then broke down and said he’d been looking for an excuse to come out and see me, although he never thought this would be it.

The blinds were shut and the curtains closed. That’s how she wanted it. I asked her if she felt weird sleeping in Preston’s room
. She said no, so I didn’t either. Corynne wouldn’t let me leave her side. She made me promise I would never leave.

I promised.

It felt good to be relied upon, to be needed—a new experience for me. All three of us slept in Preston’s four poster California king. Tucker slept horizontally between us, making sure he was touching both of us as he slept.

On our third night sleeping in Preston’s room, two days before the funeral, she whispered over a sleeping Tucker, “Take him to his room, we’re gonna need some privacy.” I gently carried him out
, wondering what she had in mind. I returned to find her sitting up in bed. “I need you inside me. Take me away from all the fear, the pain, and the confusion. I want to be lost in you. Make love to me.” I did as she asked.

Jay and Dayla arrived the next morning. Otto and Marcus pulled in the driveway in a rented green Toyota Camry an hour later. The living arrangements were set: Otto would stay in my guest house as I’d moved into the big house with Corynne, and Marcus would stay in the third guest house currently vacant. Jay and Dayla offered the requisite condolences and we got to work preparing for the funeral.

Marcus looked skinnier and more tweaked out than I’d left him. He shook my hand, flicked his nose, and sneered, “Looks like you really made yourself at home out here with my family, T.”

“Screw you
, Marcus,” Corynne said. “You shut yourself off from this family a long time ago. Trent was the grandson you should have been.” Corynne continued chastising him as they walked inside.

Otto gave me a big bear hug. “That boy is even more fucked up than he was before. I had to permanently eighty-six him from the bar. This little favor you asked me to do was like a steel cage death match the whole trip. He’s either gonna end up in jail or dead—I almost killed him myself.”

“I know, I know it was a lot to ask. I really owe you one.”

“Goddamn right you do,” he said looking around
, taking it all in. “My man, T,” he said with a big grin, “the prodigal son that didn’t return. You weren’t ever coming back, were you? And now I see why.”

I thanked him again for coming out and gave him a quick tour of the house and grounds.

“Jesus Christ, T, you’ve really stumbled into something out here, haven’t you?”

“It ain’t like that,” I said.

“Come on, man, look at this place. And your little squeeze there, very nice—sure beats last-call floozies and girls who take their clothes off for a living.”

“I forgot how fucking charming you could be
, Otto. And you wondered why I didn’t come back?”

“I’m just saying is all.”

“Whatever, who’s watching the bar?”

Otto gave a sharp laugh
. “I hired Martha as a waitress a few weeks back, trusted it to her while I’m gone.”

“
Ball-buster Martha? Good choice.”

“Hey, she’s good, she won’t put up with no shit.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

“Cool, then we need to talk some business,” he said
, giving me a hard slap on the back. It was good to see him.

A day before the funeral, a familiar face stopped by the house. Jimmy Ray Upshaw, Esq. came calling, business suit and briefcase in tow. Although distraught from Preston’s death, he was all business. He needed to discuss Preston’s estate. As Preston had told us
, at the now prescient dinner that night in Dallas, everything would be left to Matador to hold for Corynne. But with Matador’s disappearance and his insistence on not being found, everything went to Corynne. Walker Manor and all the surrounding land was hers. Over the years, the land had slowly been gaining in value with the proximity to Oxford and the college. Corynne would also inherit the bank accounts—both domestic and off shore—the contents of the safe deposit boxes, the cars, the cash, the bonds, and the headaches. She didn’t tell me exactly how much it all was when I pried, but she did say it was well into eight figures. That shut me up.

Preston kept his promise to me as well. I received not only his Ole Miss season tickets, all his football collectibles—which Jimmy Ray estimated to be worth into the $100,000s—but in a surprise
, I was also left his gun collection, including both the rifle and the pistol that changed history. I didn’t know what I would do with any of these items, and I was completely shocked that they were left to me. Oddly enough, I also received the $10,000 that was part of the deal to finish the book. Jimmy Ray did need to see the rough draft, and according to the details of the contract, that was sufficient. For Corynne, the money—although life changing—was an afterthought. She was still overwhelmed with Preston’s death, especially how it was carried out. She told Jimmy Ray to handle everything, and he would still maintain the same role he had before, both lawyer and executor.

On the day of the funeral
, the crowds began to arrive two hours before the scheduled noon ceremony. We weren’t gonna have enough chairs. We thought we had plenty with two-hundred of the sensible white chairs blankly staring at the grandstand. Some people would have to stand. Preston was early too—in a closed, gilded coffin, he waited patiently for his adulation to begin. It became evident early on that most of the crowd came to celebrate Preston’s life, not to mourn his death. Walker Manor began to take on the appearance of a tailgate party—did we have enough booze? More than a few mourners asked about Matador’s whereabouts; our company line was we didn’t know, probably around here somewhere.

Family was reserved for the front row. Corynne was flanked by her brother, myself, Dayla, Jay, Delotta, and Darnell with his fiancé
, Erika—which caused quite a stir because she was white. The eulogy would be given by Dr. Theodore Cummings, the minister of Delotta’s church—which also caused a stir, as he was black. He gave a long-winded eulogy detailing every virtue Preston had and many he didn’t. I found his speech impressive considering he’d never met the man. Finally, after the Lord’s Prayer, he asked if anyone in the audience had anything to say. The crowd remained silent, a heavy awkward silence. With a nudge from Corynne and prodding from Jay, I was reluctantly on my feet and headed to the dais.

A crowd of
three hundred watched as I walked up the grandstand steps. It was so quiet, the creaking of the wood was deafening. I wasn’t planning on this, I hadn’t prepared anything. I lowered the microphone and tapped it by accident—the offensive sound reverberated across the lawn. I looked down on eager stares focused on me. I was terrified. I thought about the courage I’d mustered when expressing my feelings for Corynne and I channeled that and then racked my brain for something to say and began.

“Hello…” I was frightened by the booming sound of my own voice. “Many of you don’t know me. My name is Trent Oster
, and I’m new in town.” Dead silence, a muffled cough from the back row, birds in the trees. The crowd didn’t even blink. I had nothing. I looked to the front row where Jay was nodding encouragingly. Then I looked at Corynne. She had a smile for me that was heretofore only reserved for Tucker, I fed off that.

“I’d only known Preston for a few months, but in that time he had a profound effect on me. He didn’t have to, but he opened his home and heart to me–a total stranger—and quickly welcomed me in as a member of the family. I didn’t come from a strong family background and his unconditional acceptance was a revelation to me. In the short time that I knew him
, I feel I learned a lot about the man: he was always more concerned about someone else’s well-being rather than his own, he was generous—almost to a fault—he’d give you the shirt off his back, underwear too if you needed it.” Some polite laughs rose from the stoic crowd.

The fact that I wasn’t booed off the grandstand gave me confidence to go on. “He was first and foremost a family man. Maybe not in the traditional 1950s ‘Leave it to Beaver’ sense, but his devotion and loyalty to his family knew no bounds. That word
, ‘loyalty’…if I had to pick one word to describe him. that would be it. He was loyal to his family, his friends, his neighbors, and all the great people of Oxford.” An echoed cheer broke the silence. “But most of all, he was loyal to his team.” The crowd erupted, everyone knew who I meant, and the scene took on a party atmosphere.

“In case there are any of you out there who don’t know what I’m talking about, and by the response
, there’s not many—I’m talking about Ole Miss!” I shouted, knowing the reaction I’d get from the partisan crowd. I tried to calm them down by waving my hands. “A more ardent supporter I have never known, a bigger fan does not exist,” I yelled over the growing din. “His love for the Rebels was legendary, and until he became sick, he hadn’t missed a home game in over thirty years.” The cheers grew louder, more raucous. The scene felt like a tent revival more than a funeral. “That brand of loyalty should always be respected and commended.”

I looked down at Corynne and focused on her. “In conclusion, I feel I owe Preston dearly, for he’s the one who brought me out to Oxford—truly God’s Country if there ever was.” More cheers. “Because it was here that I met the love of my life, his beautiful granddaughter Corynne. Corynne, I love you. Thank you for letting me be a part of your life, and
, Preston, thank you for bringing her into my life.” She blew me a kiss, and her tears, along with the
aahh
s from the women in the crowd, told me things were getting too sappy, so I switched it up. I turned back to his coffin. “We’re all here for you, Preston. You were one in a million. You will not be forgotten and you cannot be replaced. God bless you, man.”

I walked off the stage to the applause normally reserved for a dictator, shaking hands and hugging whomever crossed my path on the way back to my seat. I went to hide myself in Corynne’s outstretched arms but was tackled by a screaming Jay. He brought me to the ground, then Otto piled on
, followed by Marcus, and little Tucker slid off Corynne’s lap and jumped on, too, adding the final comic touches. The crowd rose from their seats, the party had begun.

As the afternoon warmed up
, so did the festivities. Even the most sullen and serious mourners broke down and had a drink, realizing it would be an Irish wake. I was hovering around one of the three outdoor bars ,sharing a cocktail with Otto, Darnell, and Rhonda from Johnny Rebs, when there was a persistent and annoying tapping on my right shoulder. The offending character was a distinguished-looking older man in a three-piece suit, cane, and top hat; he looked like the Monopoly man, sans the monocle.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said in a soft British accent. “But may I ask who you are?”

Now I was really annoyed, his pompous carriage belied his grandfatherly look. “Why don’t I start things off by asking you the same question?”