Fever City (4 page)

I head back the way I came and hit a dead end. Panic settles like a fog. I freeze, taking short breaths, the trickle of soil hissing softly against my shoulders. Is this what it's like: the tomb; the final, narrow resting place. The shower of soil from above . . . ?

I put my back against the wall and stick to perimeters until I come back to the column. It was the lavish sweep of the curve that confused me, amongst all the straight, nocturnal lines. I ease my way back out into the spatial luxury of the main cellars. Behind me there's a secret scuttle. Too light for a man with a knife. Too assured for a lost kid. A rat. Or a giant spider, like in
The Incredible Shrinking Man
.

I shiver and go over to the shelter, brushing the soil from my shoulders and hair. I tap on the door. The kid's not in there; if he is, he's already dead.

I nose around the rest of the cellars. There is a door at the end of one of the larger passageways. It opens. I hit the lights.

It is a large, circular chamber with a giant gold and purple pentagram painted on the ceiling. The way it's been painted, there could almost be eyes staring down from its centre. In the middle of the room is a round stone altar. Something hangs from it. Four restraints at compass quadrants. One side of the wall is lined with monks' habits with cowls. A pipe organ squats at one end of the chamber. I bet that's good for a laugh. Opposite is a huge brick fireplace. Nice and cosy, only I don't think it's ever been used for roasting marshmallows. There's a heavy red velour curtain concealing an entrance into a large changing room. More costumes, some in leather. A black satin cape. Golden sandals. Some wizard outfits. Riding crops, leather handcuffs. There's even a light-lined theatrical makeup mirror for showtime. I can imagine what happens when this curtain goes up. I come out, almost walking straight into Mrs. Bannister. She looks over my shoulder, staring straight into the changing room. ‘Some show . . . '

‘I wouldn't know. All that was way before my time.' Her eyes glitter with amusement. ‘What . . . ?'

‘It's not like this place is snowed under by dust.'

‘We have a staff of nineteen.'

‘Quite a little army.' I glance back at the circular marble table in the centre. ‘Now that's a conversation piece, if ever I saw one.'

‘It's from the middle ages.'

‘It doesn't look six hundred years old.'

‘I mean Mr. Bannister's middle ages. That agitated time of life when men get up to strange things.' She looks at me, her green eyes challenging. ‘Tell me, how old are you, Mr. Alston?'

‘Still young enough to imagine what that table must have looked like when it was laid . . . '

‘Altar, Mr. Alston . . . '

She jingles something in front of my eyes and smiles. Her mouth is large with a slight overbite that heightens her high cheekbones. ‘For the shelter.'

I take them with a nod of thanks, opening the door for her. ‘I can hardly wait to see what's inside.'

‘Relax, Mr. Alston, it's a model of humble utility.' She closes the door and then there is the tumble of bolts.

‘It wasn't locked before.'

‘It is now.'

‘Tell me, Mrs. Bannister, what do you think has happened to Ronnie?'

‘I haven't the faintest idea. That's why I suggested they call you.'

‘You?'

She nods. ‘You helped out a friend of mine. Judy Turner.' She drops the name with false modesty. Only very close friends used Lana's real name. ‘She spoke highly of you.' She takes the torch from my hand. ‘What did you do for her?'

‘Client confidentiality.'

‘Stompanato had it coming to him.'

‘We've all got it coming to us. The trick is to make sure we're ready when it does.'

‘Really, Mr. Alston? I thought the trick was to hide.' She moves the torch. We're standing in front of the shelter. I have trouble finding the keyhole. She guides my hand towards it. ‘Just slip it in and turn. That's normally all it takes.'

‘I'll try to remember for next time . . . ' I shine the torch into the interior. So this is it: at the end of the world, this'll be the last place standing. Steel and concrete walls on the outside. Supermarket on the inside. Canned food, bottled water. First-aid kits. Gramophone and records. Radios, torches, an old wall-mounted telephone, and books, books, books. What the hell else would there be to do but read? And maybe pray. There's a toilet hooked up to some kind of septic system. Shaving equipment. Rifles on the wall. A man could live six months easy inside here. Although you certainly wouldn't want to bump into him coming out. ‘Cosy, isn't it. A real home away from home.'

‘Don't make fun, Mr. Alston. Every family in America dreams of having one.'

‘Dreams . . . ?' I take the torch and get down on my hands and knees, looking under beds. ‘Don't you mean nightmares?'

She sits down on the bed opposite me, her robe opening, revealing the graceful lines of her legs. ‘Find anything?' I get to my feet, dusting off my knees. She shakes her head at the cigarette I offer. There's the snap and flare of a match. ‘The thing you need to understand about my husband, Mr. Alston, is that he is a very thorough man. When he decides on something, he follows through, right to the end.'

I mask my eyes behind smoke. ‘Except when it comes to marriages?'

‘I'm sure you feel better, now that you got that off your chest.'

‘All I meant was . . . '

Mrs. Bannister stands, cinching her gown tight with a silk belt. ‘What you meant to do was to humiliate me, but I think you've achieved only the contrary. Now instead of standing there ogling me, don't you think you should be doing your job?' She tugs the cigarette from my mouth, but the paper sticks to my lip, tearing it. I let out a curse, my finger coming away wet. First blood to her.

She drops my cigarette to the ground, grinds it under her gold sandal, then dabs at my lip with a silk handkerchief. ‘I hope you don't think it was intentional.'

I smile at her, tasting blood. ‘I don't think you're capable of performing any act that isn't.'

The smile that's been hovering across her lips ever since we met is gone. She moves closer to me. Her eyes widen, searching my face for a truth. ‘I'll take that as a compliment.' She brushes past me, so close that her hair passes across my lips. My bleeding lips. I hear her stumble and shine the flashlight for her, but it goes right through her gown, illuminating a perfect silhouette; a naked shadow puppet. ‘Mind your step, Mrs. Bannister.'

She turns, standing proud in her spotlight. ‘And yours as well, Mr. Alston. I would so hate to see you fall.'

T
here is the dislocation of sudden darkness, the doors swinging shut like a spring trap behind me, the sour stench of beer rising up from damp carpet. ‘Hello, pilgrim.'

I turn around, shaking the proffered hand, a sweat-shining face spilling out of the shadows. ‘Lewis Alston . . . '

‘Hell, I know who you are. I recognized you from your Twitter photo.' He leans in close, scenting the air with a sweet, boozy haze. ‘Personally, I stay away from all that internet bullshit. Just look at PRISM. What a circus. The less the NSA knows about my whereabouts, the better.'

For all, by the look of things. ‘Mr. Jeetton, I presume?'

‘At your service. Speaking of which?' He holds up an empty glass of ice. ‘Bourbon and Coke's my pleasure.'

One of these. Every journalist has lived through one of these. The man with the dope and the rope—the rope in this case free booze; as much as he can drink while talking fast enough to keep you interested.

‘Now I can tell you're an intelligent man with a powerful focus, I mean it. The average person coming in here, first thing they do is glance up at the television. All of them; eyes drifting to the TV. Doesn't matter what's on; could be football, girls, cars . . . Goddamn talking heads. But they've got to look, not because it's interesting but because it's there, dominating the space. Irresistible. Like candy or pussy in a box. But you, you're different. You live in your own space. You understand that, you'll understand what I'm about to tell you.' He slams his glass down. There is the rattle of freshly bereaved ice. ‘Don't mind if I do . . . '

‘If you do what?' Just for the pleasure of stringing him along.

He frowns. ‘Have another drink, of course.'

Of course. ‘Mr. Jeetton . . . '

‘Call me Tex.'

Original. ‘You're not driving, are you, Tex?'

‘You fill up this here glass and I'll let you drive me home.'

Tempting invitation but I think I'll pass. There is the riot of new ice against glass and the inexplicable mix of dry burn and sick sweet. I take out my phone and start recording. I'll give him five minutes, or two drinks. Whichever comes first. He catches me looking at the time.

‘Nice watch. Zodiac Sea Wolf. Collector's item.'

Already weighing my worth. ‘A gift from my father. Now Mr. Jee—Tex. You said you had some information, something about E. Howard Hunt?'

‘Hunt was in the CIA as you well know.'

Sometimes realizing the difference between a lead and a waste of time comes down to something as small as a definite article, or lack thereof. No one who knew anything about CIA called it
the
CIA. It was the first gatepost. He had just stumbled.

‘He was in on the JFK hit. And probably on Bobby's too.'

‘Tex, do you know how many people are supposed to have been in on the hit?' I did. I had spent months researching every conceivable conspiracy theory for my book on the assassinations of the Kennedy Brothers. ‘E. Howard Hunt was an unsuccessful novelist, CIA operative and burglar. What makes you think he was a successful presidential assassin?'

‘The same thing that made him unsuccessful in everything else. Complete lack of imagination. He never anticipated the consequences of anything he ever did, including JFK.'

‘So how exactly did Hunt fit in?'

‘The way every patsy does: He was pushed. Marginalized. There was no other place for him to go but with the conspirators. They were the only ones who would still have him after Bay of Pigs.'

‘What was his role in Dallas?'

‘He was the benchwarmer. The man who picked up the phone and put the suitcases on the plane. Always doing, never thinking. And then it blew up in his face.' Tex leans forward, the stench of soda-masked booze saturating the air. ‘He was expecting a reward. But when he started to see what was happening to the witnesses . . . ' The famous ‘murdered witnesses' to the JFK Assassination, most of whom had actually died of natural causes. Jeetton shrugs with a gesture of helpless magnanimity. ‘He realized he was lucky to be spared.' Some luck. When a president needed a leak fixed, Hunt was told to take his plumbing tools to the Watergate Building. Unlike Nixon, no one spared Hunt his prison time.

Tex pulls out a crumpled piece of glossy newsprint, unfolding it carefully. There is a photo of three men being marched across a Dallas street by two escorting police officers. I recognize them instantly. The notorious Three Tramps, detained shortly after JFK's assassination. Tex's nicotine-stained fingers caress the photo. ‘The small one here is Hunt. This one up front was a Frenchman. And this one, in the middle? That's Philip Hastings.'

Ice from the machine rattles the silence. ‘The Philip Hastings from the Bannister case?'

That's one conspiracy theory I've never heard before. Tex nudges his glass towards me. That has to be a three-drink revelation. ‘One and the same.' He taps the photo of the small Tramp. ‘Of course you know E. Howard Hunt was Deep Throat.'

‘Deep Throat was Mark Felt.' Felt was furious because he thought he was next in line to become FBI chief, and when he didn't get the promotion, he started blabbing. Behind most whistle-blowers, there's usually a backstory of paranoia, wounded pride and vengeance. ‘Everybody knows that.'

Jeetton stares at me, his eyes hooded with alcohol and exasperation. ‘You liberal reporters come down here sniffing round for information . . . ' Here we go. ‘ . . . And when you actually get it, you turn your noses up because it's not what you want to hear.' He looks into his glass, drains what dregs might still be lurking there amongst the caramel-coloured melting ice, the heat of his resentment flushing the too-small space between us. Normally he should be saying these things on a phone to a shock jock in a radio studio, not a stranger in a bar.

‘It's not because I don't want to hear it; it's because I know it's wrong.'

‘Because the
Washington Post
or the
New York Times
told you it's wrong?' He slams his glass down hard on the bar counter, making the stale peanuts jump in their miserable saucer. That's it. He's lost his free drinks after two rounds: a new record for Mr. Tex Jeetton. ‘You and your goddamn Political Correctness.'

The tell-tale sign of the irredeemable bigot: the vicious sneer in the voice, like a death-choke, whenever they utter those two, detested words. Politically Correct. It deprives them of the easy racial epithets they'd been freely using all their lives; that shorthand all extremists employed to create their simpleminded world of segregation and apartheid; of anti-Semitism, sexism and homophobia. Of concentration camps and plantations. Then someone came along and said: you can't say those words anymore.

‘Tex, I can see I made a big mistake . . . '

Fear and anger tremble across his drink-scarred face. ‘So blinded by mirrors, you don't see what's staring you right in the face.'

He says it as though it were verse from Conspiracy Theology: the religion of the post-Atomic Age. In the beginning, the Roswell Saucer crashed. And on the Seventh Day we get the Gemstone Files because, hell, there's just no time to rest when shape-shifting lizards are sitting in Buckingham Palace. When empty skyscrapers are being destroyed with controlled demolitions. Duck and cover, everybody, and don't forget to look under the bed when you're down on the floor—you might find a fake lunar rock.