Maid of the Mist (20 page)

He pulled her back up, cupping her face in his hands, the power shower battering both of them. 'You don't have to do that,' he said.

'You don't like it?' Sad and doe-eyed.

'Of course
I like it . . . but . . . goodness' sake . . .'

'Then let me, please. Seventy dollars.'

'No. No. No. Please.'

He moved her to one side and stepped out of the shower. He picked up a towel and tied it round his bulging groin. He shook his head. 'Why on earth would you want to . . . I mean . . .'

'I was only joking,' Lelewala said, 'about the seventy dollars.'

'What?'

'Joke. I do it for free. In Georgia I was known for my sense of humour. Perhaps it does not travel well. You will reconsider now?'

'I don't understand.'

'My English is not good?'

'Your English is perfect. I just don't understand . . .'

'You are Sahonwadi.'

'Excuse me?'

'You are Sahonwadi.'

'I am Frank Corrigan. Sahonwadi is a myth. Lelewala is a myth. And even if they're not, they're both dead, long ago.'

'Why is it then,
Frank Corrigan,
that I remember you, that I remembered you even before I ever saw you. That when I woke up in the women's refuge, I recognized you.'

'I don't know. Lele . . . Gretchin . . . you used to live round the corner from my apartment. It's not inconceivable that we've crossed paths before.'

'I know that we've crossed paths, Frank Corrigan.'

'Not like that.'

'I feel it.' She gave a little shrug and stepped back into the shower. 'Do you still say no?'

'Do I still say no to what?'

She looked down at his towel. The erection had not noticeably diminished.

'What is this obsession with having sex?'

'It's what I do.'

'I thought you were an actress.'

'Not yet. For now I suck . . .'

'Cocks. Yes, I know. And no . . . I don't . . . well I do . . . but it's not right. My wife's dead, I've been shot in the arm and we only met last night.' He laughed. 'I'm not that kind of a guy.'

She shook her head, then pulled the plastic curtain across again. As he turned away she said: 'Yes you are, Frank Corrigan.'

Tarriha was right. The False Faces were a social organization. The Long House was practically empty. They all had jobs to go to, in town, across the border in the casino, in the generating stations. There was little work on the reservation. Tarriha came across with a cup of coffee. He looked as refreshed as a hundred-and-five- year-old man can. He smiled at Lelewala. 'Apartment OK?'

She nodded.

'Arm OK?'

'Fine,' Corrigan said, 'but we have to go.'

Tarriha frowned. 'Go where?'

Lelewala looked at Corrigan. 'West,' she said.

Corrigan smiled. 'Hollywood,' he said. Lelewala smiled at him. Maybe he would go with her. He could meet David Hasselhoff, and punch his lights out.

'You can't do that,' said Tarriha.

'Can,' said Corrigan.

Tarriha's leathered face assumed a wise old great-great- grandfatherly expression as he looked at Lelewala. 'We have to protect you. We can't protect you in Hollywood. Can hardly protect you in Niagara. Much better you stay here. We can protect you here. No problem.'

Lelewala sucked on a lip. 'I appreciate the help you've given me. . .'

'Last time, woman died.'

'What?' said Corrigan.

'Last time she went to Hollywood, she died. Came from Hollywood too, but she went back, we told her not to, she died.'

'Tarriha, what are you talking about?'

He eased himself into a seat opposite them. 'Yellow Hair,' he said, smiling at the memory. 'Marilyn.'

'Marilyn?' said Lelewala.

'Marilyn,' said Tarriha.

'Marilyn?' said Corrigan.

'Marilyn,' said Tarriha. 'Monroe.'

Corrigan put his head in his hands. 'Tell me this,' he said, peering out from between his fingers. 'Are magic mushrooms in season? Or are you just friggin' nuts?'

'No,' said Tarriha,
'she
was nuts. Because she went back to Hollywood. And they killed her.'

'Who
killed her?'

'The Kennedys.'

'Fuck,' said Corrigan. He stood up, pushing his chair back. It toppled over. 'Look,' he said, 'I appreciate that you saved my life, but we really have to get going.'

Tarriha's narrow eyes narrowed further. 'Inspector,' he said slowly, 'the police are looking for you. Others want to kill Lelewala. Stay here. Be safe.'

Lelewala looked at Tarriha. 'Even in Georgia we know the great Marilyn Monroe.'

'Do you know why they killed her?' Tarriha asked.

Lelewala shook her head. Corrigan sat down again. He sighed. 'Tell me. Tell me why the Kennedys killed Marilyn Monroe.'

'Because we weren't there to protect her. And the same will happen to Lelewala.'

'What?' Corrigan asked, exasperated. 'The Kennedys are going to kill her?'

Tarriha's eyes narrowed. 'You mock me,' he said.

'No,' said Corrigan, both of them aware that they were treading familiar territory, 'I think you mock me.' He nodded at Lelewala. 'Let's go,' he said.

She moved, but only slightly. She looked helplessly at the old Indian. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'but I have to . . .'

He wasn't listening. He was fishing in his wallet. It was made of rough, barely treated leather, as if he'd ripped it off a cow's hide and merely folded it up and put it in his back pocket to dry where it wouldn't be disturbed. Corrigan drummed his fingers on the table. Lelewala reached across and stilled them and he smiled oddly at her. He had the strangest sensation that he wasn't ever going to go anywhere without her again. He shook his head to get rid of the foolish thought. But it stayed where it was, and glowed.

Tarriha produced something folded and began to unfold it. It was a photograph. Black-and-white and creased and old, but he flattened it out on the table with his fist then slid it across the surface to them. They both peered at it.

'Marilyn,' Tarriha pointed out, needlessly. 'False Faces,' he added, equally needlessly.

It was. They were.

Twenty False Faces. Wearing the gear.

Corrigan said: 'Marilyn Monroe was . . .'

'She was filming
Niagara . .
. June 1951, with Joseph Cotten. Jean Peters. She first did the walk. The Marilyn walk. Henry Hathaway directed.' A pin-thin finger touched one of the False Faces. 'That's me,' Tarriha said. 'Day off, they came here. See what she's wearing?'

Lelewala lifted the picture, stared at it. 'That's my dress,' she said.

'Our dress.' Tarriha took the photograph back and began to fold it carefully. 'The mistress of the False Faces dress. She wanted to try it on. Fitted her as it fitted you. Like a glove. Although, of course, not a glove. Last living woman to wear it before you. She became honorary mistress, Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-nas-tase-ta Monroe. She's dead now. So will you be. I tell you no lie.'

Corrigan was drumming his fingers again. 'What we have here, Tarriha, is a souvenir snap of a film star visiting the local Indians. Nothing more, nothing less. It proves nothing.'

'She's dead, isn't she?'

'Half the fucking world is dead since then.'

'She was Monroe, Ho-nun-nas-tase-ta.'

'Yes, I'm sure she was. But she was still only . . .'

'She phoned.'

'She what?'

'She phoned me.'

'What are you on now?'

'Night she died. Last call she ever made.'

'Tarriha, all the calls she made are documented. I know this. She didn't phone you.'

'Yes she did. Callbox. Down the block. Round the corner. She told me.'

'She told you what?'

That it was down the block and round the corner.'

'But what the fuck did she tell you?'

'That they were trying to kill her.'

'That who was trying to kill her?'

'The Kennedys.'

'Fuck.'

'Or the Mafia. She was a little confused.'

'I'm a little confused,' said Lelewala.

'You and me both,' said Corrigan. He stuck a finger out at Tarriha. 'What's your point, chief ?'

'That she wanted to come home.'

'Home?'

'Here. Where she felt safe.'

'Jesus,' said Corrigan.

'And when she spoke, she spoke in Tuscorora.'

Corrigan rolled his eyes. 'I don't believe this.'

'Please,' Tarriha said, reaching a wizened hand across the table and placing it gently over Lelewala's clasped fingers. 'You must stay. This is a place of safety. We can protect you here.'

'Protect her from what?'

'The evil that walks this land.'

'This time,' Corrigan said, 'I've had enough.'

Nobody tried to stop them leaving. There was nothing to pack. Corrigan and Lelewala stood in the car park looking at the road that stretched ahead of them through the reservation and a couple of miles distant into Niagara Falls.

'I don't suppose,' Corrigan said, 'that you have a quarter on you so I can call a cab?'

Lelewala shook her head.

She waited in the pleasant early-morning breeze while he went back to ask Tarriha as politely as he could manage if he could use a phone. Tarriha nodded magnanimously.

While Corrigan waited for the taxi company to answer, Tarriha came up and stood at his elbow.

'You are young and you are foolish,' he said, gravely. 'But you are in love, Sahonwadi. And you will return.'

Corrigan looked him in the eye. 'Give my head peace, would you?' he said.

Lelewala held his hand and looked out of the window. They had only just turned out on to the highway and already she felt tense. He reached across and caressed her cheek. 'It'll be fine,' he said.

She nodded weakly. 'What if he's right?' she said.

'He's not right. He's just a senile old man lost in some myths. Forget him. You'll be fine.' He began to sing 'California Here We Come'; she smiled, but she didn't look convinced or entertained and his singing soon trailed off.

The taxi driver was eyeing them up in the mirror. Corrigan said: 'Something wrong?' and he averted his eyes. But he knew.

He dropped them at the Rainbow Bridge. Corrigan gave him a dollar tip, but he suspected it wasn't enough to prevent him calling the police. They nosed around a tourist office at the foot of the bridge for ten minutes until a bus pulled up and disgorged a crowd of unruly Poles, then mingled with them as they queued to have their passports checked before crossing over into Canada.

Corrigan guessed right. The guards, almost overwhelmed by the sudden influx, waved them all through after checking just the first half-dozen.

A couple of minutes' walking across the bridge and they were back in Niagara Falls. Corrigan found a phone box and made a collect call to Stirling. There was no response. He called Madeline's mobile number. She said she'd be there in ten minutes. In five a silver-grey sedan pulled up and three hoods climbed out. Lelewala froze against him. They removed guns from the pockets of their blue tracksuits and tried to look menacing.

'Hello, Gretchin.' A rich, high voice came from within the vehicle, and then a moment later the body it belonged to appeared. Lelewala immediately looked to the ground.

He was tall and bald and his four front teeth had gold crowns. He had a smile like melting butter. His suit was black with thin lapels and he wore a red AIDS awareness ribbon, which was pretty noble for a pimp and gangster like Gavril Popov. He raised his finely manicured hand to her hair and began to caress it as if it was a cat, then slowly bunched his fist about it and pulled her close. He was about to hiss something at her, but was distracted as one of his three hoods raised his gun at Corrigan, who was coming forward with his own fists bunched.

'No,' Popov said simply. The hood didn't fire, but he didn't drop his aim for one second, even as Corrigan came right up to him, as close as he could without the barrel of the gun getting stuck between his ribs.

'Get your hands off her,' Corrigan began.

The hood traced his pistol up Corrigan's shirt, on to his chin, and then poked it into his eye. Corrigan reeled back. The guy went after him, punched him in the stomach, then chopped at his head as it came down. Corrigan hit the road with a thump. He felt hands on his body checking for a gun. When he opened his one good eye, blinking back sympathetic tears for the other, he saw that Lela wasn't even looking at him. And then a shiny head came into his moist and hazy line of sight.

'You tell the Old Cripple, Gavril Popov take his woman back, that's all. Ceasefire still holds, OK?'

Corrigan struggled to his knees. 'She's not yours to take . . .' he gasped.

Popov smiled and the sun, flashing off his teeth, blinded Corrigan further. He turned to Lelewala. 'Get in the car.'

She got in the car. She didn't look at Corrigan. In a second the sedan was off. Corrigan remained on his knees in the middle of the street watching after it, watching the back of Lelewala's head. He was still sitting there watching it a minute later – it was a long, straight street – when another vehicle braked suddenly behind him and blared its horn; he was suddenly back to reality and pushing himself up off the ground and nodding apologies at the driver when he saw it was Madeline. She had the window down and was shouting something he couldn't hear because his ears were full of noise. Just noise. Rushing blood. He staggered to the window and said: 'What?'

'Get in! We can follow them!'

And he bounced off the bodywork round to the passenger door, pulled it open and jumped in. She gunned the engine and they were off.

She looked across at him and smiled. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement. The same red hair cut short. The same little turned-up nose.
Why would they be any different?

'You look like death warmed up,' she said.

'Thanks.' Popov's car was about three hundred yards up on them, turning left out of Garner Road on to Lundy's Lane.

'Half the world's looking for you,' she said.

'That'll be an exaggeration.'

'OK. Half the cops in Toronto.'

'I can live with that.' She offered him a cigarette. He accepted it gratefully and began to twiddle with the car lighter.