The rebel, p.47
The Rebel, page 47
“Cut the shit, and tell me what you’re trying to say.”
“You should let me sweep your premises regularly.”
“Why, do you need the work?” Jimmy asked. Failed humor.
“Because I found something. It could have been just something left by the electricians or something. It’s nothing you couldn’t find anywhere, nothing really out of the ordinary.”
“But you think it’s something,” Jimmy said.
“I think somebody pulled the wires when they heard I was coming.”
“Is it the phones?”
“As I said, it’s just a gut feeling. The house is clean as a whistle.”
“But you’re not going to blow the whistle.”
“If that’s all, Governor…”
“Was it Bobby? Give me that much.”
“Was it Bobby what?”
“In Marilyn’s house. Did he—”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“I need to know.”
Budd stared down at the whorls in the blood-red Persian carpet. “Bobby had his own interests, but I don’t think he was involved in her suicide.”
Jimmy’s face seemed to soften, but he said, “It wasn’t a suicide. Was it?”
“Bobby was there, before…and he was there after, cleaning up, sort of,” Budd said. “That’s all, and to answer your question, or your joke, no, I don’t need the work. Get yourself someone else to do your house cleaning, Governor. I got to catch up on my Proust.”
“I don’t trust anyone else,” Jimmy said.
TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1968.
It felt like a replay of Jimmy’s election night: the same hotel, the same suite, the same humid, crowded rooms, drinks spilling, hail-fellow-well-met slaps on shoulders, hushed insiders’ conversations, eye contact leading to illicit liaisons, evening gowns, jeans and T-shirts, favors exchanged, flashbulbs incandescing, burning purple retinal afterimages in seeking eyes, and noise, the hum of voices punctuated with laughter, a hundred cocktail parties compressed into one, and five floors below, in the Embassy Ballroom, three thousand of the party faithful were talking shouting shoving screeching buzzing laughing, eating, drinking, looking up at televisions for election results, looking down at wristwatches, drinking schmoozing reminiscing waving placards balloons posters pennons and getting ready…getting ready for their candidate to embrace them, to electrify them, to prove and justify to everyone in the great, high-ceilinged, chandeliered room that hope was indeed alive and well.
By 9:30 P.M. the ballroom was so overcrowded that Los Angeles fire marshals had to cordon off the main entrance; well-wishers and supporters were allowed in only when someone else had squeezed out of the room.
In the suite, Jimmy and Caroline played host, even though it was Bobby’s victory night; and they chatted with Bobby and Ethel’s friends and relatives, with George Plimpton, Jimmy Breslin, Teddy White, Ted Sorensen, and Steve Smith; they talked with Carl Reiner, Paul Schrade of the United Auto Workers, and Bobby’s de facto “unofficial” bodyguards for the night—Los Angeles Rams defensive tackle Rosey Grier and Olympic Gold Medalist Rafer Johnson. The room was filled with luminaries, with directors and producers and actors, with singers—notably Elvis and his bride, Priscilla, dressed like a virgin queen in white sequins—with politicians, friends, and enemies. Jack Kerouac was on the wagon, dressed in a wrinkled suit, standing close to Nick Ray, as if for protection; and Jimmy—with one arm around Caroline and the other around a pregnant Ethel (her eleventh)—tried valiantly to do a passable Jewish shtick with Milton Berle.
It was a glorious night, and Caroline looked beautiful, beautiful and pregnant; that was her gift for Jimmy, and the swirling of guests, the crystal noise, muted light, and cosseting human warmth seemed singular and perfect to Jimmy, as if he were seeing everything and everyone for the first time.
Handing out cigars. Hugging Ethel and whispering, “We’re going to the Factory for the real victory party.” Showing off Caroline as if she were a new discovery while Bobby polished his speech in a locked bedroom.
Elvis: “Hey, Jimmy,” nodding, bowing to Caroline, “we goin’ to make that record together or not?”
“Maybe we should wait until I’m done with politics.”
The Colonel: “Jimmy, Caroline…Jimmy, I need to speak to you.”
Walter Cronkite: “Jimmy, we’ve got an interview scheduled after the press conference.”
What press conference?
Frank Mankiewicz, one of Bobby’s aides: “Jimmy, Bobby asked me to let you know you’re doing a press conference together after his victory speech. It’ll be in the Colonial Room.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll all be going together. Paul Schrade and Jesse Unruh will be involved, too.” Unruh was the speaker of the California State Assembly.
“The Colonel, too?” Jimmy asked.
Mankiewicz laughed. “No, we’re not letting him near Bobby, or anyone else tonight.”
And then Kenny O’Donnell, one of Bobby and Jack’s oldest friends, announced: “Here it is, everyone, final results are forty-six-point-three percent for Bobby—”
Shouting, hallooing, clapping.
“Forty-one-point-eight percent for McCarthy, and eleven-point-nine percent unpledged.”
Booing, and then Bobby appeared, grinning and relaxed, shaking hands with everyone, pushing his way through the large suite toward Jimmy and Caroline and Ethel, and aides and friends pressed after him, as if they needed to be close, to be attached. He hugged Ethel, then kissed her wetly and loudly on the nose.
“Ugh,” Ethel said, laughing and wiping her face. “I’m going to have to wear a veil to protect myself when you win the presidential election.”
Bobby kissed Caroline and grinned at Jimmy boyishly. “I feel now for the first time that I’ve shaken off the shadow of my brother. I feel I made it on my own.”
“You did, Bobby,” Ethel said. “You did.”
Jimmy shook Bobby’s hand, and they squeezed hard, one trying to roll the knuckles of the other. They laughed, let go, and Jimmy said, “You sure the Colonel didn’t orchestrate this?”
“What?”
“Kenny reading the numbers and you suddenly appearing.”
“Why, of course,” Bobby said, laughing, and on cue the Colonel appeared.
“You boys takin’ my name in vain?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing, Colonel,” Bobby said, and then they were all out the door—Jimmy’s bodyguards in front of them, Bobby’s behind; and Jimmy, Bobby, Caroline and Ethel, aides, and a favored reporter broke away from everyone and took the freight elevator down to the kitchen. Walked briskly past wheeled tray stackers and stainless-steel steam tables, walked toward pantry doors that swung open; but before Bobby pushed through the doors, he stopped and asked, “Well, Jimmy, what did you decide?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know goddamn well what I mean. You said you’d give me an answer today. Well, it’s today.”
Jimmy grinned mischievously. “You’re right. I’ll tell you—after your victory speech.”
“You fucker,” Bobby said, and pushed through the doors.
Caroline looked at Jimmy quizzically; he had told her that he would turn Bobby down. “Have you changed your mind?”
“Maybe,” Jimmy said, smiling and patting her stomach.
Outside, in the ballroom, people were singing “This Land Is Your Land,” shouting “Bobby power! Kennedy power!” chanting, “We want Bobby! We want Jimmy! We want Bobby! We want Jimmy!” George and Jay were scowling at them.
“Come on, no time,” said one of Bobby’s aides.
People pushed into the pantry ahead.
“We’d better get out there,” Jimmy said. “I’m supposed to be doing the introduction.” But in those few seconds, Bobby had been swept up onto the podium. As Jimmy pushed through the shouting crowd, his arm protectively around Caroline, Bobby was at the lectern, saying, “Hello, everyone. You know, I had this great opening line planned, which is ‘I want to express my high regard to Don Drys-dale, who pitched his sixth straight shutout tonight, and I hope that we have as good fortune in our campaign.’” The room seemed to shake—earthquake shouting, screaming, feet pounding, streamers waving, as if the podium were a ship and the crowd waving bon voyage to loved ones. “And you know, that’s all very fine, but I need to be talking about the high regard I have for the people right here in this room who have made our victory—our victory—possible, and you know who just happens to come to mind?” Bobby glanced around the podium. “Well, what do you know, he’s finally decided to grace us with his presence.”
The crowd clapped and shouted for Jimmy. “I’m just a shy person,” Jimmy said, leaning in front of Bobby to get to the microphone.
“Well, when he’s done upstaging me”—
Laughter, hysteria—“I would like to thank the governor of this great state, Jimmy Dean—you know, that, uh, actor.”
More laughter, and “Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy.”
“I’ve asked the governor a very important question, but you know how shy he is?”
You son-of-a-bitch bastard…you know the answer. And he did, Bobby knew that Jimmy would say no and mean yes. He knew. You’ve certainly got brass balls.
“So maybe we’ll get an answer tonight.”
Cheering, and then Bobby was in full form, thanking Steve Smith, Cesar Chavez, Jesse Unruh, Paul Schrade, Rafer Johnson, Rosey Grier, his dog, Freckles, on and on, then into the meat, glancing at Jimmy, and Jimmy knew that Bobby was flying, this is the moment, Bobby, right now, this is your fucking moment…until you become president…if then…
Jimmy was holding Caroline’s hand and smiling. Reflected glory.
“I think we can end the divisions within the United States,” Bobby continued. “What I think is quite clear is that we can work together in the last analysis. And that despite what has been going on with the United States over the period of the last three years—the violence, the disenchantment with our society, the divisions, whether it’s between blacks and whites, between the poor and the more affluent, or between age groups, or over the war in Vietnam—we can start to work together again. We are a great country, an unselfish country, and a compassionate country, and I intend to make that my basis for running over the period of the next few months. So, my thanks to all of you, and it’s on to Chicago, and let’s win there.”
The crowd was wild, and people were pressing around the podium as Bobby gave the V-for-victory sign and smiled. “Hey, Jimmy,” Bobby said, “come on, we’re taking a shortcut through the kitchen to the press conference. Otherwise we’re never going to get through all this. Hurry!” He jumped off the three-foot-high podium, and Jimmy followed.
“Bobby, I can’t get down!” Ethel called. Caroline rushed over to help her.
“Jay, take care of Ethel and Caroline!” Jimmy shouted, and Jay was beside him and Bobby was holding his wrist and Kenny O’Donnell was holding Bobby’s wrist, pushing, pushing through the crowds, then through the swinging doors into the pantry, but the crowd followed, trying to get to Bobby, trying to get to Jimmy, and the maitre d’, a chunky Viking of a man in a tuxedo, cleared a path for Bobby.
“This way, Senator…this way, Governor.”
Two busboys rushed toward Bobby and Jimmy, who stopped and shook hands with them, and Jimmy saw it first, saw a glint of metal against the metal of the steam tables, saw the young man in an open white shirt and jacket—dark, handsome, chiseled face, curly hair—saw him raise the .22-caliber Iver Johnson Cadet revolver as he shouted, “Kennedy, you son of a bitch!”—and in that instant there were two things becoming one, the noise of the pistol, the first pop, and Jimmy in motion, reflexive motion, unthinking motion, and Jimmy pulling Bobby out of the way, saving him, pushing himself, like pulling an oar, one second, one thought, one pop out of pop-pop-pop, a slow-motion instant, as the bullet struck Jimmy in the forehead, tearing through the brain, releasing light…and Jimmy could see only light, blinding blond light.
Bobby?
No sensation of falling.
Caroline?
Nor pain.
Pier?
Only light and warmth, as if he were baking in the sun, burning in its yellow, consuming warmth, burning out all events, memories, and dreams.
Marilyn? Momma…
Momma?
About the Author
JACK DANN is a multiple-award-winning author who has written or edited more than sixty books, including the ground-breaking novels Junction; The Man Who Melted; the international bestseller The Memory Cathedral; The Silent, a novel of the Civil War; and Counting Coup. Dann lives in Australia on a farm overlooking the sea and “commutes” back and forth frequently to Los Angeles and New York.
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ALSO BY JACK DANN
Counting Coup
Junction
The Silent
The Memory Cathedral
The Man Who Melted
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE REBEL. Copyright © 2004 by Jack Dann. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JANUARY 2008 ISBN: 9780061882036
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Jack Dann, The Rebel
