THE TRUTH AND NOTHING, BUT THE TRUTH by PETER NOLAN SMITH
Published BEAR ONLINE 2001
The driver of the black car had planned to drive straight to Iron Mountain, but upon spotting the van in the Wonderland Diner parking lot he stopped onto the highway’s shoulder and slowly surveyed the surroundings. The agent in the government-issue sedan sensed no danger from wind-buffeted expanse of Lake Michigan or the northern pine forest beyond the two-laner. He checked the van’s disabled person plates and banged the steering wheel. “Now I have you.”
Throughout October federal agents had searched Lower Michigan for this vehicle without success and this morning the Assistant Field Director in Petrowsky called off the hunt, saying. “The fat man has slipped through our net, but someone that size will surface sooner or later.”
The driver of the black car hadn’t imagined ‘later’ would arrive so soon and he punched a number on his cell phone. The direct line to the agency was busy. 911 and the State Police were off line. Someone jamming the service and the agent’s gut said the overweight fugitive was inside the diner, however a solo arrest was a dangerous proposition and the g-man chose to follow SOP.
During the thirty minute wait not a car or truck passed the Wonderland Diner, whose sign blinked HOME COOKING every five seconds. The sun dropped beneath the pines and the light lessened by half. Darkness would give the fat man cover to escape into the Upper Peninsula’s trackless woods. The agent had no choice to drive across the highway and park right behind the van. The diner’s windows were steamy, but he sighted the fat man in the corner booth and checked his 9mm. It was loaded and the safety was off.
Inside the Wonderland Diner the cook and the young man at the counter were fixated on the food fest at table #5. The fat man had teed off with a double order of bacon and eggs followed by an apple pie washed down by a pitcher of water, after which he had wiped out two chicken potpies and shoveled down a double serving of home-fried potatoes. Lifting his head from the near-empty plate the fat man asked, “Where them pasties?”
Michigan had no law against eating yourself to death and the cook flipped the half-dozen meat-stuffed pasties onto a plate, then froze, as the front door opened for a tall man in a rumpled suit. His right hand was by his side. His build a little too athletic for a man in his forties, but the cook had seen all types during his ten years running the Wonderland. “You comin’ or goin’? Cuz either way you gotta shut that door.”
The newcomer shut the door. “Business so good you can insult customers.”
“Sorry, mister, I don’t heat the great outdoors. Not this time of year.”
The tall man sat at the counter. “What’s good?”
“Most everythin’.” The fat man stopped eating. “Chicken pot pie was damn good. Ya should try that.”
“I’m not that hungry.” The tall man eyed the young man at the counter. The dirt on his hands had not come from any honest labor and the leaves in his long hair probably came from sleeping under a bridge. He was no one and the tall man whipped out his 9mm.
The cook blubbered, “Don’t shoot me.”
“No one’s shooting anyone.” The fat man poked a fork into the flapjacks.
“Not if I don’t have to.” The tall man produced a badge. “I’m a duly authorized federal agent and that man is a fugitive from justice. You two stay out of the way and nobody will be hurt. Big man, keep your hands in front of you and stand away from the table very slowly.”
“I….” the hippie stammered and the agent snapped,” This doesn’t concern you.”
“Stay out of it,” the fat man mumbled through his pancakes.
The agent approached the booth. “Drop that fork.”
“Ya goin’ to shoot me for eatin’?”
The agent wasn’t in a laughing mood. “I’m not kidding.”
“Damn, who ya’ll? The fat people police?” The big man rose with extraordinary grace for a man his size. “Yer wanna arrest me, Ah ain’t gonna fight.”
The fat man was wanted Dead or Alive and his lack of resistance surprised the agent. Still it was too premature to daydream about glory with a prisoner to secure.
“You’ve been through the drill; turn around, face the wall, and spread them wide.”
The fat man stretched his elephantine arms and legs against the Formica wall. “Tell me, if Ah’m gonna be safe with ya’ll.”
“Safe?”
“Ah mean, the only reason Ah ain’t surrendered before was that Ah weren’t sure that yer cud keep me someplace safe.”
“Oh, we have safe places for you.” The agent dangled handcuffs to the cook. “Slap these on the man. If he moves, I’ll shoot him.”
“Shooting a man that big like trying to hit a bear in a vital spot.” The cook was wary of providing any help. “No offense, big man.”
“None taken.” The fat man’s head swiveled to show his smile. “Yer a good cook and Ah gots to dig yer fer that.”
“Keep your eyes straight ahead.” The agent threw the cuffs.
The fat man pressed his face to the wall. “Ain’t that a laugh? Here ya are tryin’ to earn a decent living and this bloodhound starts messin’ with yer customers and orderin’ ya around. Bet that makes ya feel real safe.”
The fat man had goaded previous arrest teams into mistakes and the tall man resisted the use of force, “You shut up.”
“Oh, they want to censor what Ah gotta say. That’s why they’re after me. Cus Ah’m privy to the truth about lies. Cookie, why don’t ya ask Bossman why he’s arrestin’ me? Doesn’t ahve a clue.”
The cook fumbled with the cuffs. “They’re too small.”
“You have to open them up.” The tall man checked the silent longhair. His hands were over his head. The agent snatched the handcuffs from the cook and stepped closer to the fat man. “Don’t try anything stupid or else I’ll shoot you.”
“Ya mean like a dog grown too old to hunt?” the fat man whined like a crybaby accustomed to getting his own way.
“Get real tight with that wall and put your hands behind you.”
“Yeah, yer just doin’ your job, only Ah ain’t done no wrong to no one in a long time. That didn’t keep ‘em from comin’ after me.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m gonna obey your every command, bossman.” The fat man brought his hands behind his back and the agent saw that cuffs were too small. “You have tape?”
“Ain’t ya supposed to use government-issue tape?” the fat man joked.
“I told you to shut your hole and I meant it. Where’s that tape?”
“Right here.” The cook offered a roll of masking tape.
“Wrap his wrists tight.”
“Hey, ya don’t wanna be cuttin’ off the blood. Ah mean Ah gotta eat with these hands.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be stuffing your yap soon enough.” The agent put the cook out of his line of fire.
“I hate GI Joe grub.” The fat man spun on his heels and pushed the cook. The agent had been expecting this move and pulled the trigger, only the shot went wide and three hundred plus pounds of sweat, fat, and bones squashed the agent into the wall like a Samoan lineman sacking a quarterback. When the fat man stepped away, the unconscious agent fell to the floor.
“You kill him,” the cook declared with horror.
“Ain’t dead, son, only knocked out and people will come in droves, cus ya had somethin’ happen to hear you tell all about what happened and not much happens this time of year or any other, right? If fact ya should be thankin’ me for savin’ yer winter.” The fat man de-ammoed the 9mm. “Cookie, give the man his piece after I’m gone.”
“What you gonna do?” The cook looked at the payphone.
“Ah’m gonna go down the highway and yer can tell the fellas that come for this one that too.” The fat man smiled at the cook. “Jist put them pasties in a bag.”
“Sure, take what you want.” A call to the local police seemed in order.
“This ain’t no stick-up.” The fat man handed him several twenties and told the long hair, “You can drop yer hands.”
“I’m no trouble.” The long hair stared at the man on the floor.
“And ya ain’t gonna have none neither. I wanya ta drive fer me.”
“Drive for you?” The longhair lowered his arms.
“They have an all-points on my van, so Ah’m takin’ the bossman’s car.”
The longhair retreated and the fat man said in a low voice, “Maybe ya didn’t hear me right. You’re drivin’. Ah can’t fit behind the wheel and ya’ll can. Afterwards ya can say that Ah forced ya’ll, which is exactly what Ah’m doin’, ifn’t I hear the word ‘no’ agin.”
“You’re not leaving me any choices,” the longhair protested to the fat man.
“Yer exactly right.” The fat man searched the fallen agent’s pockets, finding the car keys, and then jerked the pay phone from the wall. “Sorry, Ah can’t take chances.”
In the parking lot the longhair said, “He might have another phone.”
“That’s okay, cuz where Ah’m goin’ ain’t no one can follow me.”
“You expecting an alien abduction?”
“They already land on Earth. Sum of ‘em tubes. Funny, maybe that’s why people in the fashion businesses are so skinny and Ah’m so fat. They don’t abduct no fat men, cuz they can’t achieve orbit. Now git in the car, we have to go.” The fat man shoved the long hair behind the wheel and then sat in the rear with the car teetering to the right.
“Where to?”
“Head west.”
The hippie studied the rear-view mirror. This steadiness of his eyes came from training. Pegging the drifter as a government operative, the fat man peered out the window. Thankfully no helicopters flitted over the treetops.
“Who’s been chasing you?” The hippie backed out of the parking lot.
“The FBI, the CIA, the NSA andn even NASA had a shot..”
“Was that guy one of them?”
“He might have been after the million-dollar bounty on my head.”
“Why you worth a million?” The hippie glanced in the rearview mirror.
The fat man pushed him forward. “Yer seen me enough at the diner.”
“I ain’t seen anyone human eat that much.” It was for more than two people.
“Yer can’t get a better disguise than a fat person.”
“So you didn’t tell me why they hunting you.”
“Ah didn’t, otherwise they’d hunt you to the ground.” The fat man prayed they could outrun the pack of cars chasing them and strangely thought about the radical diet to lose this obese disguise. Months of exercise and vegetarian meals with plenty of water. A cleansing of the soul to accompany the creation of a new identity. He leaned into the seat and saw himself high in the Himalayas or on the West Coast of Sumatra.
“Heck, I’m already wanted for credit card theft, so I’m off to Canada.” The driver spoke with a grim determination. “I’ll head to the Eskimo nation to hunt seals or whales or carve tusks. I’m good with my hands and there’s not much call for that in the old USA, right?”
The fat man hadn’t remained alive by trusting strangers and leaned forward to whisper in the driver’s ear, “Yer wanna hear why they’re after me?”
“Hell, I’d tell you I’d keep it a secret, but after two beers or a joint I’d surrender the family secrets to entertain the crowd, so if you don’t want it spread around the Eskimo nation, keep it to yourself.” The driver’s gray eyes gleamed with a hustler’s sincerity.
There was only one way to test the driver and the fat man settled into his seat. “Ah was once young and full of life. One day Ah heard a story, which altered my life. A secret Ah wuzn’t supposed to hear and didn’t believe. Anyway this man told me the truth of this world. Oh, Ah heard why we were in Vietnam to stop communism. Fer dope. Why we gave China to the Reds? To control one billion people under one leader. The government waved the flag and blacklisted commies in America, which was smoke fer the real drama. None of those truths got me in trouble. No, the one that endangered me is the greatest mystery in the American Century. Yer have any idea which one that might be?”
“Is Elvis alive?”
“Elvis is dead. Ah saw the body.”
“Saw the body?” the longhair demanded in disbelief.
“Ah saw plenty in my old job and heard more. Elvis’s death ain’t the greatest secret in America, unless yer an Elvis impersonator. C’mon, try a little harder.” He squinted, as the setting sun’s golden glow filled the long corridor of pines.
“Biggest secret. Oh, I have it. Who killed Kennedy? You’re talking about that, right?”
“You score ten points.”
The driver stepped on the gas to indicate he didn’t need any telling that they were in a hurry.
“Ah’ll tell yer and it’ll only take about seven minutes after which Ah’m gonna step out of the car and you drive away. Yer got that?” The fat man began his tale after the driver said, “Yes.”
“Ah was alive, when Kennedy was killed. Hell, Ah can tell you what Ah was wearin’, cuz Ah went to a Catholic school. White shirt, blue tie, black pants, black shoes. Anyway Ah believed that Oswald was the killer.”
“Same as the rest of the America.”
“Ah believed that, until Ah met the assassin and he wuzn’t no CIA agent either.”
“Who was he?”
“His identity is unimportant, cuz he wuz part of the machine that killed the president.”
“Cause of the Bay of Pigs?”
“Cold.”
“Vietnam?”
“Not warm.” Most people had died after hearing this story and the fat man wondered whether the driver understood the severity of the sentence awaiting him. It really didn’t matter. “This story doesn’t begin with the Kennedys. Yer heard of Marilyn Monroe?”
“Yeah, the movie actress JFK was banging.”
“That proves yer an ignorant fuck buyin’ what the TV sells you.”
“Okay, okay, tell me your story then.” The driver flicked on the headlights.
“What yer do that fer?”
“Cause it’ll be dark soon, that’s why.” The drifter acted like it was normal.
The passenger was not fooled. The other cars were making their move. “So as Ah said, the story starts with Marilyn Monroe. Not many people were aware of that she was the
illegitimate daughter of a Mafia gangster. Anyway Marilyn becomes a movie star and every citizens in America believes she’s havin’ an affair with JFK, only JFK is usin’ her as a ‘beard’ to hide his womanizin’.”
“With Judith Exner Campbell.” The driver cracked the window to let in a cold wind smelling of pine.
“Glad you watch The Learning Channel.” The fat man could tell the story faster without the phony accent. “Anyway Marilyn becomes a real pain in the ass and JFK tells his brother, Bobby, to tell her it’s over. Bobby goes to Marilyn after the birthday bash in Madison Square Garden. Normally the sight of a crying woman had no effect on the hard-hearted bastard. Only he’s a man and she’s a beautiful woman and he comforts her broken heart.”
“So JFK never…..”
“Never is a long time, anyway Bobby falls in love with Marilyn and starts telling his business and JFK’s too. Starts talkin’ about leavin’ his wife and the Kennedys had a hard enough time electin’ Catholic in 1960 without having a divorce in the family for the re-election in 1964. JFK orders his brother to dump Marilyn. Bobby says he’s marrying Marilyn. JFK vows to stop this union. He can’t turn to the Mafia, since he’s stiffed them on Cuba. Instead he goes to that old drag queen, Hoover, who’s pleased as punch to get more dirt on the President. The little fruitcake tells him not to worry and flies out to Los Angeles with his boyfriend and they kill Marilyn. Bobby walks in on them and beats the shit out of them. J. Edgar confesses that his brother ordered her murder.”
“Shit. A car’s following us. In fact they’re catching up.” The longhair stepped heavily on the gas.
“Could be anyone.” The fat man glimpsed over his shoulder.
“No, not just ‘anyone’ has flashing lights, but they ain’t catchin’ us on this straightway. So keep the story coming.”
“Thanks, kid, it’s comforting to have a friend in your corner.” The fat man bit his lip, knowing his freedom could be over in minutes. “Now where was I? Oh, yeah, Bobby wants revenge. Nothing comes to him, until the brightest and the best at the White House are discussing the drop in JFK’s polls. The president asked, if anyone has an idea to boost his popularity. Bobby suggested they stage a fake assassination attempt. The rest of the brain trust calls him crazy, except Old Man Kennedy understood street politics and mumbles nothin’ boosts a president’s re-election more than a failed assassination. JFK accepted his father’s edict and gave the CIA the go-ahead. Those university minds plotted the fake assassination in Dallas. A CIA team on the grassy knoll shoots blanks. JFK becomes a hero, the election a landslide, and a mandate assures a new era of prosperity. None of them suspected Bobby would set-up his brother for the old Mafia boss.”
“Who was Marilyn’s real father?”
“Ten points. Bobby tells the old man how JFK had killed his daughter and they planned to place another shooter on the scene.”
“The Texas Book Depository,” the driver spat like he was rushing an answer to a game show.
“No, Oswald was a fall guy. The Mafia chief put his shooter in the building across the street, November 22, 1963. Everyone’s in place. The CIA team shootin’ blanks on the grassy knoll. The fall guy in the Depository. The Mafia hit man waiting for his shot. Anyway the limo makes the turn and the Mafia hit man bangs away, hitting the president. The CIA team is confused by the change in the plans and pulls off a round. The hit man delivers the coup de grace and Bobby has his revenge. Fraticide.”
“It fits,” the driver murmured with the car gliding to a halt. The fat man had been blinded by a forlorn prospect of rescue. His choices had diminished to one and he dipped his hand into the bag of pasties.
“Sorry, big man,” the driver apologized, adding, “I’m only doing my job.”
“No problem, I understand.” He bit into the pastie. It might be his final meal. Blinking lights filled the interior of the car and the long hair asked, “You want to make this easy for them?”
The fat man spoke, as their lives depended on his words. “You think about what they’ll do to you, once they’re rid of me?”
“What are you talking about?” The agent had been warned not to believe the fat man’s stories.
“Officer Tippitt, Lee Harvey Oswald, Dorothy Killgallen, Jack Ruby to name a few. We don’t have time to discuss this. I step out of this car and I’m a dead man.” Scores of people attached to this story had graced the obituary columns. “You’re dead too, because I told you too much.”
“That was some crazy bullshit.” The fat man’s voice spoke Ivy League.
“Okay, you talk to your boys. If they ask, if I told you anything, then come back to the car and drive faster than hell. A plane is at a deserted airfield nearby and the pilot will wait another ten minutes. Tell them I have a gun and will only surrender to you.”
“You don’t have a gun.”
“Yes, I do.” The fat man withdrew a .22 Beretta from under a fold of fat. “Now if I’m wrong, step away, because I’m not goin’ to jail and I don’t wanna kill you.”
“Why not?” The driver rested his hand on the door handle.
“Because you’re my only out.” The fat man flicked off the Beretta’s safety.
The longhair walked to the men behind the cars. They spoke for a few seconds and the longhair returned to sit behind the wheel. The fat man tapped him on the shoulder. “So?”
The longhair shrugged, “You were right.”
“I wish I wasn’t.” The fat man had to trust the longhair. They were both dead men if he didn’t. “You ready?”
“Ready?” The driver stamped on the accelerator. The black car burnt rubber to the crack of shots. Several shattered the rear window, missing the passenger and the driver. Sirens filled their ears and the cold air rushed inside the car. “That’s one way to quit your job.”
“No one in my job has ever retired, so it’s welcome to run for your life.”
“Yeah, head out of the highway, looking for adventure and whatever comes your way,” the fat man sang, imitating Elvis’ voice.
“Fire your guns into space.” The driver showed they were on the same team and the fat man repeated the line, “Head out of the highway.” because the open road was the only world left for people like him, until the expected the ranks of the resistance outnumbered the liars in power and that could take an eternity.
