Californian Nightmare

CALIFORNIAN

NIGHTMARE

Bob Hyslop

"America had often been discovered before Columbus, but it had always been hushed up."

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

‘The Jonas Forbes Saga’: Vol. 14

First published in Great Britain 2011 Cuthan Books (http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk/)

Copyright: Bob Hyslop

The right of Bob Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 978-0-9558718-9-4

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For those who look back on the past with regret but to the future with hope.

Acknowledgement to the Great American Songbook for the Chapter Titles

Acknowledgement to H. J. Fink & R. M. Fink as the creators of ‘Dirty Harry’.

Furthermore, apologies for any misrepresentation of that great cinematic icon, Inspector Harry Callahan, so brilliantly played by Clint Eastwood in ‘Dirty Harry’ (1971). I’ve freely adapted not only Harry himself but also his partner and lieutenant. The apology also covers them.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1. ‘HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN’

CHAPTER 2 ‘WHERE OR WHEN’

CHAPTER 3. ‘EV’RY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE’

CHAPTER 4. ‘COME FLY WITH ME’

CHAPTER 5. ‘The Nearness of YoU’

CHAPTER 6. ‘DON’T RAIN on My Parade’

CHAPTER 7. ‘I’LL BE SEEING YOU’

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1. ‘HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN’

The day was sticky, very sticky – and far too stuffy to be confined to an office in one of the seedier backstreets of central London. In itself the office wouldn’t have inspired much enthusiasm. One desk, pre-war and with several, rather carefree, previous owners, made of mahogany (now out of fashion) with three drawers (one of which could never be opened) and a pair of out/in trays conspicuously empty. The desk of a failure and bare walls did nothing to counter that effect. Nor the unwelcoming utility chairs facing the desk nor the rather-battered filing cabinet, whose dusted exterior concealed several months of disuse. Nothing that a touch of paint couldn’t perk up, any optimist might have said but the occupant of the desk at that moment was far from being an optimist.

Many Englishmen were looking forward to watching the FA Cup Final at Wembley in two days’ time. However, Jonas Forbes didn’t share any interest – let alone enthusiasm – for the approaching battle between Leicester City and Manchester City. His brain would have been stretched even to have known who was playing whom. As a man with a background limited to the Home Counties, a certain lack of interest perhaps might have been understood. But Jonas wouldn’t have been interested in ANY team showing off their skill and sportsmanship (or lack of them) on 28th April. He’d been conspicuous at school for his complete lack of interest in team games and, at the moment, he was lost in the dream-world which smothers frustration with optimism and takes the mind away from the glaring absence of work. To any observer his tall, lean frame, with heels stretched out on the desk as his chair tilted back at an awkward angle, might have appeared totally relaxed, if not asleep. But, in reality, his brain was trudging through the muddy paths of imminent ruin.

Suddenly he heard voices from just outside the door and swung his legs back under the desk. In the unlikely appearance of a client, he didn’t want to appear doing nothing. Busy schedules could warrant prompter payment – or so he’d been told sometime by somebody owning some kind of Daimler.

The door opened and the grinning face of Detective Superintendent John Wyatt almost made Jonas replace his legs back on the desk.

Vanessa said you weren’t busy so I -

Vanessa should never have said anything of the kind. No trace of hesitation as Jonas continued. ...I was actually planning future strategy.

The visitor ignored the lie and placed his 6’ 0" frame firmly inside the office which immediately felt crowded. His somewhat rumpled suit with matching wavy hair was in keeping with his present surroundings – strictures from above preserved the standards of his office at Scotland Yard. His hazel eyes swept over the signs of neglect and focused on his old friend. A knowing smile revealed a broken tooth which marred his good looks.

Sorry to interrupt your day-dreaming, Jonas, but I’ve got something which might be of interest. Without invitation the policeman pulled up a chair and rode out Jonas’s glare. I assume you wouldn’t mind working for the Foreign Office again?

Would they mind working with me?

John Wyatt scratched at his slightly-receding wavy hair as if that question offered a challenge. He concluded it didn’t and managed some kind of smile but his mind went back the range of cases from the tragedy in 1956 with the murder of the GRU lieutenant, Natasha, and to the mess that had been HAVOK’s first and last tour of the USSR last year. There’d been enough ripples to threaten the proverbial bank guarding that unsteady structure which made up British diplomacy. The smile disappeared. He’d been surprised the Foreign Office had accepted his suggestion of ‘Jonas Forbes, Private Investigator’ to help out in their current problem. Could they have forgotten whatever details were hidden away in their ‘data-retrieval system’ aka dusty filing cabinets? Maybe they haven’t got round to putting you on their black list.

As somebody to avoid like the plague. It wasn’t a question and Jonas wasn’t smiling. He could imagine the ceremonial washing of hands which formed an integral conclusion of his latest assignment when employed by HMG. To him there’d been several regrets (e.g. Natasha Rykov), slightly more shrugs (e.g. Prince Abdullah, Svetlana Petrova and ‘VICE’) but also a warm feeling of a job well done (e.g. James Bonus and John Stewart Peel). However, he was sure history was viewed very differently in King Charles Street or wherever erstwhile employer ‘slaved away’ towards their pensions. Last year his boasted record of 100% preservation of clients had crumbled along with the demise of that odious specimen called ‘VICE’ on the floor of a Soviet Hall. How often ‘when first we practise to deceive’ we start with ourselves just to show we can do it.

John Wyatt removed a notebook from an inside pocket of his navy-blue suit. He dressed as he expected a DS at Scotland Yard to be dressed but somehow didn’t quite make it. The suit was clean but the trousers had lost the sharp point of their crease months before; the coat bore all the signs of having been hung on an inappropriate hanger; the pockets had nasty habit of bulging with ‘necessary items’ – which others might have discarded or concealed in less obvious locations. His wife, Jane, had effectively failed to raise standards but then she was a fellow ‘copper’.

Jonas waited while his friend flicked through to the required page. He’d known John for twelve years and he still didn’t fully appreciate him. Many people, including a sizeable contingent from the criminal fraternity, had made the grave error of under-estimating him. Sometimes he appeared slow, occasionally pedantic and frequently easily distracted. Even so, Jonas had come to realise underneath all those signs of threatening incompetence lurked a calculating mind, assessing possibilities like a chess grandmaster. He was also grateful for the ‘slack’ John Wyatt had given him over the years, possibly at the cost of faster steps up the ladder.

The FO have a difficult job – one that might leave them with unwelcome sticky fingers – so naturally they’ve turned to you.

As a fall guy?

You might say that, I might think that, but what else have you got on at the moment? John slowly swept his eyes around the room – the grubby window, the battered filing-cabinet, the untidy mass of reference materials weighing down a single shelf. Not very encouraging.

If even a friend can’t see much evidence of prospects, it shows how desperate the FO must be to consider using me. That thought passed through his mind but Jonas simply asked, So the heirs of Sir Eustace Fanshawe and Sir Jeremy Smith have moved on?

Both have left the ‘Corridors of Power’ but their opinions scrawled away somewhere still persist.

So who do I talk to?

Don’t be in such a hurry, Jonas, even if you’re sitting around watching the flies climbing up your window. Jonas resisted the temptation to check whether such was the case. Not being an obsessed gambler meant he could resist placing a bet on the winner. Instead his eyes narrowed as he looked across the desk at his friend. Clearly he was merely a messenger-boy – and, in some ways, a reluctant one.

So what’s the catch?

It may all be a complete waste of time. The Superintendent detected a smile appearing on his friend’s lips and hurried to add, but that may help your bank balance in the short run. There was a pause, perhaps more significant than intended. ... Long-term it may discourage future clients.

I’ll take that risk. No hesitation. Vanessa Holmes could have told the world her boss was at his most headstrong when faced with boredom. In fact, she’d come close to a row with her husband twice this week through moaning about how quiet everything was at the office. Simon had pointed out her pay was the same without the extra risks working for Jonas Forbes too often produced. Even so, John Wyatt shared Vanessa’s fears that an inactive Forbes could slide into a reckless Forbes with the ease of a snake shedding its skin.

However, as usual in his Flambard Street premises, Jonas continued to bury those two gnomes of Hesitation and Boredom under a slab marked ‘Desperation’. That’s no catch... It just delays me going to the wall -

Which you may do, Jonas, literally... A frown took over the DS’s face and the mood darkened. Rumour has it somebody’s looking for a shooter to work in America.

I’d have thought they’d had more than enough of the home brand.

Maybe. But the story says it’s going to be a political hit.

And they want another fall-guy like Oswald?

I didn’t say that, Jonas. I don’t go along with all that white-washing of Lee Harvey Oswald for the killing of JFK. No comment from Jonas so it could be assumed HE believed other hands were involved in the Dallas tragedy of five years before. But I DO think it might appear too-hot for one of the more usual operatives over there to take up.

It must be something special. Jonas’s brain sifted through what he recalled of recent events over the Atlantic. It didn’t take long. ... Any idea whose political hopes are taking a nose-dive?

The national elections are nearing the climax stage -

Where anybody and everybody gets introduced as ‘the next President of the United States’?

I just love your cynical approach to human endeavour, Jonas.

Over here everybody makes out they’re voting Labour or Conservative when really the choice is between Wilson and Heath.

Perhaps they’re a bit more honest over there. No comment from Jonas. ... To continue... But whatever diatribe being prepared was strangled at birth and never made it to the lips. So I guess the likely target is one of the front-runners in the race for the White House.

One of whom possesses the name of Kennedy so he must be odds-on favourite.

I’m surprised you know Bobby Kennedy’s running for office.

I expected, John, you’d ask ‘Favourite for what – President or Assassination’?

Well?

Assassination, John. Assassination all the way. The murder of JFK didn’t wipe the Kennedy slate clean for some elements in the US of A.

Do I hear a believer in the conspiracy theory? Detective Superintendent Wyatt’s eyebrows were raised in question. Then he smiled. If you think Oswald was the fall-guy, you must go along with the critics of the Warren Commission.

But we don’t want to go down that road, do we, John?

No.

&&&

Jimmy Naylor couldn’t believe his ears. Bobby Kennedy was running for President. Why? Had he forgotten where it got his big brother, Jack?

He’d never have run against Johnson – maybe because JFK had selected the man as his Vice-President in 1960 and -

Don’t tell me, Dick, Johnson took on the mantle of his brother after Dallas! Jimmy was almost at screeching point but Dick Schultz could so naïve sometimes. He twisted what Jack Kennedy had wanted in Vietnam and the result has been over 20,000 dead Americans and the death-rate’s rising.

It’s more than that, Jimmy. I read what RFK said recently and I remember it clearly. He closed his eyes as if to improve his memory. "‘If someone could appeal to the generous spirit of Americans to heal the race question, this is what the campaign should be about.’"

He’s wrong! He’s wrong! It’s the fucking war, Dick. Don’t you realise that? We’ll be facing the draft in twelve months and then-

You’ll be able to shed your blood for your country. A rough voice intruded and both teenagers turned to face Wayne ‘the Drain’, except nobody even thought of that name after he’d returned from Vietnam minus the kidney destroyed by a VC sniper.

But we’ve already got McCarthy, asserted Jimmy, trying to shut out the pale image of the youth he’d once seen run the others into the ground in the High School marathon. He’d never be able to do that again. Running for a bus would stretch his strength. He’ll bring our lads home. He’ll -

Never get elected. Wayne just whispered those words but he shut Jimmy up in full drive. That was the problem. McCarthy may have had the passion but he lacked the magic of the Kennedy name. He’d also made the mistake of challenging a Democrat President in office and many in the party could never forgive him for that. Certainly President Lyndon Johnson, worn out by the traumas of racial tension at home and military frustration in the jungles of Vietnam, had announced he wouldn’t be seeking re-election but he blessed the campaign of his Vice-President, Hubert Humphrey, and that was good enough for many.

Kennedy’s going to run now... He’ll bring in swathes of the US public.

He could finish up with a bullet in his head like brother Jack, said Wayne and this time he ended the discussion. All three knew whatever support Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy had among the general public, especially the under-privileged sections who generally stood out of elections, there were many who hated him, if only because his name was Kennedy.

&&&

Why do I think you’d be sticking MY neck out there? Lennie Denton offered that half-smile which even to ‘Crazy Charlie’ was no smile at all but a challenge to put up or shut up.

You know Dad values you, Lennie – just like one of his sons. The half-smile grew to three-quarter length and Charles Carter backed off that argument. Well, maybe not quite as much as that -

Who could? The smile had disappeared. Now he felt Charlie was being straight with him, not trying to push him inside a madhouse and slam the door.

It was Charlie’s turn to grin. Perhaps the old man does have that extra soft-spot for his sons but you’ve worked so long for us, Lennie, you’re almost one of the family.

I should cocoa. Lennie remembered how ten years before he’d set his eye on Maureen, the youngest of Joe Carter’s children – and the only girl. Joe had dropped heavy hints he didn’t exactly think the two were suited; then Lennie got reports of Maureen announcing how little she felt for the army sniper. Lennie had heard differently and he preferred those sources. Then suddenly Maureen wasn’t there and it took the young soldier three weeks, indirectly as he was stuck out in Malaya, to find out she’d gone out to the far west of Canada. And that was that. Lennie returned his attentions to lascivious Miriam Endelmann, who’d certainly never give up on him.

It’s just a matter of business, Lennie. Joe’ll pass it up and the potential contract will go elsewhere.

You’re telling me the Yanks are prepared to hand over large bundles of ‘Benjamins’, Lennie employed US slang for $100 notes just to impress Charlie Carter and failed because Charlie knew Lennie had never set foot in North America, which meant all his slang was at second or third-hand. Now Charlie had gone to the States – but only for a week – so he felt himself something of an expert on Americans.

I do know that whoever carries out the hit ... glancing over his shoulder as he uttered the word, as he sometimes thought trees were getting together to knock him off. The reader should know ‘Crazy Charlie’ had already done spells in five first-rate mental institutions because he’d employ anything he could stick/pour into his own body to undercut his command of reality. ...would pick up the vast bulk of what could be a very large transfer of funds.

And Joe?

Would be acting like a kind of agent – and collecting a percentage. Charlie looked deeply into Lennie’s eyes and his irises appeared to grow in size. If I had the ability, I’d go after the job.

And would Joe back you up? No! Lennie looked at the gang-leader’s eldest son who was fast going to seed. He was there because of genetics – and the ability to incite terror into victims by his maniacal approach to personal confrontation, with the aid of a hatchet. After all, Joe Carter had a reputation to safeguard.

So who’s due for the chop?

No idea.

So you’re handing me over to bump off any Yank – from Mickey Mouse to President Johnson – with no idea of who. You lot must be slipping.

Don’t say that, Lennie. Dad wouldn’t like to hear things like that.

Would Charlie tell his Dad? Possibly. But Lennie couldn’t care. He knew he was vital to Joe. But he wasn’t going to be a cat’s paw for anybody. Get me more details, Charlie, and then I MIGHT look at it – no promises.

Charlie wished he had Lennie’s nerve when facing up to his old man – but then he didn’t have Lennie’s particular skills.

&&&

Charles Beardsley-Simpson MBE was out of the usual system – minor public school, national service in the Guards and fast-tracking through a series of minor diplomatic posts in unimportant European embassies or Consulates. At last he’d reached his apogee in the structure of the Foreign Office, although not realising it, of being the chief functionary dealing with North Atlantic affairs. He hadn’t recognised an ever-expanding waistline, in some ways, wasn’t a help in the diplomatic world. His wife might have told him but Felicity had long been schooled into the world of ‘let sleeping dogs lie’; in many ways she saw her husband as a dog, probably an Old English Sheepdog – faithful but uninspiring. Now he looked over the top edge of his spectacles at the individual standing in front of him and the sight confirmed his worst fears. He’d read through the extensive dossier on Jonas Forbes and hadn’t been pleased; indeed, he’d felt the need to work his way through most of a small bottle of Johnny Walker to quell the anxiety over this interview.

Why had this individual been even considered for further employment – anywhere in HMG, he’d skimmed through comments by the Home Office personnel which didn’t alter the picture? The man was disrespectful - even truculent - and with an ignorant attitude. His police record was filled with violence. Why hadn’t Forbes been locked away for GBH, let alone murder, before now? Clearly the