Authors: Chris Fraser
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Historical, #Spies & Politics, #Assassinations, #Conspiracies, #Political, #Terrorism, #Thrillers
Bookmaker, The
By
Chris Fraser
Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2013
All rights reserved.
© 201
3 by Chris Fraser.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
By reading this novel you qualify to receive FREE and Reduced price ebook offers from Writer’s Edge Publishing directly to your inbox! If that weren’t enough, every month a winner is chosen at random from our mailing list to win a $200.00 Amazon gift card. To sign up for these exclusive offers, simply follow the link below and enter your name and email address. In less than 15 seconds you are entered to receive exclusive offers and the chance to win our drawing each and every month! Any information received will never be shared with a third party, and emails are periodic and as such will not overcrowd your inbox.
Dedicated to my dad
, Terry, who instilled in me a love of sports and who inspired this book from the many times we heard his story of how he was questioned by the LAPD when found loitering around the Ambassador Hotel the night Bobby Kennedy was assassinated, and it left me asking the question—what if...
The old man winced painfully as he shifted his weight
, seeking the comfort he‘d never find. He took a long, hard drink of his scotch and said, “The first killing was by far the easiest. Hell, it probably would have happened without my intervention, but just to be safe, I pulled the pin.”
* * * * *
Excerpt:
Legacy of Brutality
by Trent Oster (pp. 50-55)
The boy’s enlistment had nothing to do with the sweeping patriotic fervor of the time
. He signed on for only one reason: The boy had an in, and he used it. He knew the famous lieutenant foolish enough to fly the dangerous bombing missions. He would use his past and the requisite pity it brought. He knew the lieutenant would feel sorry for him and put in a good word with the Norfolk Royal Air Force base commander.
He got on a crew. The crew’s job was to help prepare bombers for their missions over Nazi
-occupied France. The job was menial—gut the B-17s like a fish and then fill the hollowed out aircraft with as much explosives as it could carry and still get airborne.
RAF meteor jets and anti-aircraft guns were able to destroy most of the German V-1s. The V-2s, they were a different animal. The long
-range ballistic missiles were ruthless killers consisting of one-ton warheads and nearly impossible to locate when launched from a remote or mobile site. Propelled by liquid alcohol and liquid oxygen, the V-2s soared some 315,000 feet and then plunged into English soil at a rate of 1,800 mph. Commissioned by Hitler and designed by Werner Von Braun, over a thousand of these “wonder weapons” had been fired at London, causing untold damage and fatalities—mostly civilian. Safely tucked away in a bunker underground, the Nazi’s couldn’t be touched by conventional Allied bombings. Worse yet, there were rumblings of a V-3 in the works that could fire a projectile over 95 miles every two minutes—these weapons had to be stopped or the war would be lost.
The Allies had a plan: radio
-controlled drones carrying massive bomb loads would be sacrificed and crashed into known German V-2 sites. The sacrificial planes were decommissioned B-17s. These B-17s were stripped of all combat armament and other nonessential gear and equipment that included armor, guns, seats, transceivers, and bomb racks, leaving the plane 12,000 lbs lighter. Remote control equipment was then added—cameras mounted in the cockpit sent images of both the instrument panel and the ground below to a mother ship that followed at a safe distance. A stripped-out B-17 would now be known as a BQ-8 and was loaded up with more than twice the normal bomb payload of Torpedo Explosion, or Torpex as it was called, which was 50 times more destructive than TNT.
The caveat
, of course, was that the BQ-8s could not take off unmanned. The Allies weren’t the Japanese and didn’t condone kamikaze missions and would have had a hard time finding volunteers even if they did. Our boys would jump out of perfectly good airplanes, parachuting out before entering enemy territory and long before the well-planned crash. However, there were problems: early naval testing and subsequent missions using the radio-controlled BQ-8s were unsuccessful and often deadly. Despite this track record, the U.S. proceeded with the nearly suicidal missions dubbed Operation Aphrodite. The operation so far had been an unmitigated failure and very dangerous to those brave enough to participate. With only four missions completed so far, there were two American casualties and extensive damage to Allied territory. But the lieutenant would not be deterred; this was his chance to become a hero and his shot to finally impress his father—if that were even possible.
The target was Nazi
-occupied Mimoyecques, France, supposed home of a cache of German V-2s. On August 12
,
at 1800 hours, the lieutenant and his co-pilot, Bud Willy, took off under clear skies. Their BQ-8 would be accompanied by a virtual armada of aircraft. They were joined by two operational B-17s acting as signal relays over the English Channel and two P-38s handling the aerial photography. Also along for the ride were two Mosquito bombers, six P-51s, and two Lockheed Venturas that would act as remote control for the flying bomb.
The lieutenant and Bud Willy were instructed to bailout over Dover once the mother ship took remote control of their plane. After twenty minutes
, Bud Willy lifted his hands from the controls and nodded to the lieutenant that they were no longer in control. Taking his cue from his co-pilot, the lieutenant made his way through the plane, which was almost impossible with nothing to hold on to, shifting and stumbling through the empty plane to the overloaded bomb bay. He managed his way through the tightly packed explosives so he could release the arming pin, set to prevent an accidental ignition. To his horror, he found the pin already pulled. Even with balance and traction at a minimum, he sprinted his way back to the cockpit to warn Bud Willy. In a fit of panic, both men headed for the open side door and jumped out of the airplane, falling toward safety. They never saw the explosion that disintegrated the plane. The flames and debris stretched a half-mile in circumference from its core and engulfed the two falling figures in white-hot death, burning them alive as they fell to earth. There wouldn’t be enough of their bodies left to leave an impression on the green grass of the English countryside.
Norfolk Royal Air Force Base quickly got word of the explosion. The entire operation was in a panic
, frenzied airmen racked with sorrow and confusion scrambled in all directions. More dead soldiers, more dead friends, but this was more than another mere war casualty. This was Joe. Joe couldn’t die—it didn’t seem possible. He was one of the lucky few who seemed to have the glow of invincibility. And even if he could die, what did it mean for them? They were common—he was special. The scion. His mark on the world would never be made. Reared and groomed for greatness, now he would be less than ashes.
The tragedy of the moment surprised and
saddened all but one. The boy—sixteen-year-old Preston Walker—sat by himself in an empty hangar, smoking a cigarette, trying to hide a smile. He looked out onto the base at the chaos he had created and then reached down into a pocket of his greasy denim overalls and pulled out an ordinary looking metal pin. He spun it in his fingers, said a prayer, and apologized aloud to Bud Willy and then lost his ability to contain his grin.
* * * * *
The old man opened the letter. He already knew the contents and would not be showing it to his wife, not yet. Rose had been through enough. The letter, while trying to sound remorseful, still had an air of cold indifference uniquely found in official government correspondence. He already knew the devastating news and had come to grips with it; after all, it was war. But Joe, goddamnit, not Joe. He was the one. He put his reading glasses on and read:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy,
This is as difficult a letter as I will ever have to write, and as you know, it is not the first of its kind. It is with great regret that we inform you…
The letter went on to apologize and blow smoke up Joe Jr.’s ass with vague details surrounding his great sacrifice. But the old man had friends in high places—he knew exactly what happened. Joe had to be the cowboy, had to fly the most dangerous missions. Joe became another casualty of a young man’s false notion of invincibility. Another Navy fuck up.
Joe Sr. put down the letter
—no tears today, not ever. He poured a tall whiskey neat and thought aloud, “Now, who do I have left?”
Otto Bailey threw the towel over his shoulder and stepped away from the ledger that held his attention. He slapped at the offending pages, turned around, and pulled a cold mug from the freezer and hit the tap. After a perfect pour, he slid the pint down the glossy bar where it glided to a stop in front of me.
“‘Bout time
,” I said, watching ice sheets fall from the mug.
“
There you go, a little hair of the dog. You happy now?” He returned to the thick, leather-bound ledger I had brought in and slapped at it again. “Look at this shit…our side is all paid up while we got over twenty Gs out there owed to us from fifteen different deadbeats. Look T, we gotta get our shit together.”
“I’m well aware of what’s still out there,” I said
, taking the first sip of the day (always hard with a hangover). “Football’s coming—if they wanna play, they gotta pay. We’ll see most of that by the end of August, happens like this every year.”
“Easy for you to say, I’
m the sap that’s gotta pay up when they win.”
“That was the deal man. I do all the work, you’re the bank.”
“Some fucking deal…”
“Look Otto,
‘97 was a great season for us, this year will be better.”
“We’ll see,”
Otto said, slamming the ledger shut and sliding it down to me the same way he had the pint.
A
glare reflected off the mirror behind the bar, stinging my blood-shot eyes. Both the front and back doors were wide open—Otto’s miserly attempt to air out the place and keep the air conditioning off. He often bragged about having never turned on the AC or the heat since the day he bought the place in the late ‘70s. I informed him it wasn’t that great a feat as the weather in Huntington Beach rarely called for either. But today was hot; the mid-day sun spilled through the open doors like an unwelcome visitor, illuminating an otherwise dark room. The only patrons other than me were a couple of old drunks sitting at the end of the bar playing Keno. The pool tables sat racked and waiting, and the tall oval tables were empty. In the back, by the bathrooms, was a bearded man in a red bandana and jean shorts playing darts alone.
I knew the numbers would piss Otto off, but it was
always this way during the spring and summer. He couldn’t get too upset; this whole arrangement was his idea. His first partner got married and went domestic, leaving him without someone to run the show. I was one of his players and owed him money, and when I told him I couldn’t pay, he made me an offer. I was eighteen and just out of high school, but that was seven years ago. In time, my apprenticeship became a partnership, and over the years, we’ve settled into a dysfunctional father-son relationship.
He knew as well as I that a change in seasons was on our side—it was mid
-August, football was in the air. If our players wanted to get any action this season, they needed to pay up first. That’s most likely what got a wild hair up Marcus Walker’s ass, and why he was willing to pay me a visit. In my experience, you take it when you can get it. The days of breaking legs and hiring thugs were long gone. So we focused on screening our players for deadbeats and relied on the honor system. Half the time, it worked.
“What time Marcus say he’s coming in?
” Otto asked, getting back to the sports page.
“Noon.”
“So he’ll be here at one then?”
“That’s what I
’m assuming.”
“And you really think he’s gonna pay up, after all this time? C’mon, even if that low-life came into a shitload of money
, we’d be priority one-hundred thirty-eight on his list, meth being number one.”
“Look Otto, I don’t know what else to tell you, he called and told me to meet him here and he’d take care of his debt, so I’m here.”
“Yeah, well don’t get your fucking hopes up.”
It was a quarter after 1:00 when I heard Marcus’s booming voice. “Hey, Trent, what’s up?” he yelled, shattering the silence in the bar. I caught his silhouette as he passed though the sunlit door; he looked even thinner than the last time I saw him. I took a big swig and pretended I was pleased to see him.
“Hey Marcus, so a rich uncle die?”
“I wish,” he said, flicking his nose.
Marcus always seemed to be sniffing and fidgeting. He had an annoying habit of flicking his nose with his right thumb, always his right. I chalked it up to his speed habit, or maybe he was naturally twitchy and the junk exa
cerbated his condition. This jumpiness and his inability to sit still or even stay on one subject for long made him a hard guy to talk to, and the drugs made him impossible to trust. When I got my money from him, I wouldn’t be taking any action from him ever again. Marcus straddled up to the bar stool next to mine and ordered a beer from Otto.
“You got cash
, Marcus?” Otto blurted.
“Ah come on
, Otto, why you gotta come at me like that?” Marcus said, flicking his nose twice. Like everyone else, he both feared and respected Otto, and to prove it, he laid a $20 on the bar. He got his beer and we both glanced up at the Angels’ game on the twenty-seven-inch TV above the bar—Salmon hit one out.
“So, you called me?”
I said. “Hope you got something, you’re long overdue.”
“Yeah
, I got something, something that’ll make you real happy.”
“I hope it’s
my $5,000.”
“Well, not exactly,” he said with a slow motion flick of the nose. “But I got something potentially worth much more than that, and it’s all yours if you see fit to erase my debt.”
I knew it. I knew Marcus couldn’t come up with any cash that he wouldn’t waste on junk. “Goddamnit, Marcus, what
did
you call me out here for?”
“A story my man, a story,”
he answered.
I finished off my pint and motioned to Otto for another.
“What the fuck you mean ‘a story?’”
“Yeah
, man, a great story. The man who writes a book with this info will make a mint.” I caught him in the mirror across the bar flicking his nose.
“What makes you think I’d be interested in a story, much less be willing to trade it for five grand?”
“Tim Davis said you were some kind of writer and might be willing to deal for the story of the century.”
Tim was an old friend from high school who was already on my shit list for vouching for Marcus in the first place
, and now he’s telling him to trade a story for money. I’m sure Tim told Marcus all of this during their last speed deal.
Well
, shit, I thought, I’ll play along. “Okay, what is this story of yours that’s so fucking great?”
“It’s not
my
story, it’s my grandfather’s.”
“Your grandpa’s, of course it is, well what’s
his
story then?”
“Listen,” Marcus said
, taking a sip, “my grandfather has money and when I told him about my little dilemma with you, he laid out a deal for me. He said if I could get a writer to come out and document his story, he’d not only cover the five grand I owe, but would match another ten of his own.”
“Well that’s a pretty sweet deal for you Marcus, but that leaves me with a few questions: the first is
, if your grandpa is so rich, why you always broke? The second questions is, where is he and why does someone have to go to him? And lastly, what the hell is this story?”
He flicked his nose three times. “My grandfather and I have never really got along
.”
I wonder why
, I thought.
“He lives in Mississippi and has ALS, you know, Lou Gehrig’s disease
.”
I knew
, but I was surprised he did.
“He don’t get around too good anymore, so he needs someone to go to him.”
“Okay, okay, I’m on board with that…makes sense. So again, what’s his story?” He stopped fidgeting, flicked his nose, then looked around suspiciously and moved in closer.
“My grandfather’s killed people—important people, history
-changing people.”
“What the hell, you mean assassinations?”
“Look T, obviously I can’t tell you everything until you agree to the deal and meet with my grandfather. If you’re on board, he’ll tell you everything. Basically what he wants is, before he goes, is to tell his story and have it written, so the world can know the truth, but only after he’s dead.”
“Bullshit!”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
“I need a smoke.” I reached into my pocket and found my half
-empty pack of Camel Lights, took one out, and before I could find my lighter, a Zippo with a huge skull was shoved in my face. Otto flicked the wheel.
“You got one for me?” Marcus asked.
“Big surprise,” I sighed.
“Look, I left mine in the car; I got Donna out there waiting for me.” I handed him one and Otto begrudgingly lit his too. How a speed freak like Marcus got a girl like Donna was beyond me.
He was a pretty good-looking guy, I guess: tall, thin but not skinny, shoulder length black hair, green eyes, and a face that hadn’t been harmed by the speed, yet. I guess it helped that Donna was into the junk too—better loving through chemistry. It angered me that I was jealous of this fuckup. And I wouldn’t mind a crack at Donna regardless of any bad habits she may have. He might be close to putting her on the bargaining table next. I told myself I wouldn’t be that guy.
“Listen
, Trent, are you interested in the story or not? I’m sorry I got no loot for you right now, but this is something, and hell, it’s a way to triple your money.”
I turned to him
, blowing smoke in his face. “So, your grandfather claims he’s killed important people, and he wants to come clean about it to me? I haven’t published anything; he can get any writer he wants if this story is legit.”
Marcus
flicked his nose and blew some smoke back in my direction. “That may be the case, but I told him about you, how you’re my book, just graduated college and want to be a writer. He said he wants someone raw and unknown. Shit, man, who knows why, but he’s willing to talk to you. Look, Trent, I’m no writer, but this sounds like the story of a lifetime to me.”
“Well, is this shit true?”
“I don’t know my grandfather that well, and my dad died ten years back, so that kinda shut off all ties with him, but I’ve heard these stories my whole life growing up, and they always sounded on the up and up to me. Hell, you may be right, it could be bullshit. I wouldn’t put it past the old man. I hadn’t talked to him in years when I called to see if he could help me out with your debt. Look at it this way, you go out there, hear his story, and you get $5,000 whether it’s true or not. He’s gonna pay you as soon as you walk through his door and the other $10,000 when you’re done.”
“So
, what if I am interested?”
“He’ll call you—I’ll give him your number.”
“Well, shit, I don’t have much to lose, might as well hear the old coot out.”
“Cool, I gotta run, I’ll tell him to call you.” He finished his pint, put out his Camel
, and left.
Otto
walked over. “Well…?”
“It was same old Marcus. He didn’t have any money. He was looking to make a trade.”
“Trade what?” Otto asked.
“It doesn’t matter. It was all bullshit.”