I. The Setting
I wasn’t always in the government witness protection program.
Certainly not on that sunny Dallas morning in November of ’63 when my
grandfather took me down to Dealey Plaza to see the President. Poppa
stood on an elevated step to boost his tiny frame and braced himself
against his secretary Marilyn to steady the movie camera. I held
Marilyn’s hand and clutched a little Instamatic camera in my other
hand. The crowd started buzzing as the head of the motorcade turned off
Main Street and onto Houston. I caught a glimpse of pink as I
recognized the familiar form of Jackie Kennedy waving in the distance,
and then disappearing from view. The motorcade slowed for the wide turn
that would bring the President down Elm Street past the School Book
Depository Building where Poppa and I were waiting to see him.
The
crowd started clapping wildly as the limousine emerged from the turn.
There he was! Bronzed, handsome, like a god. My heart beat madly,
adrenaline pumping on all cylinders. Poppa braced his movie camera as
the President rolled down Elm and waved in our direction. I thought I
was going to pee my pants.
Pop! Pop! A firecracker went off and
then another. The President clutched his throat and rolled toward
Jackie. Poppa jerked with each blast as he kept his finger on the Bell
& Howell. I turned as I heard a crack to my right. I saw a man
poke a gun over the top of a fence and blow the head off the President
of the United States.
The velvety tongue slid lovingly down the shaft, the soft blond curls
moving slowly in rhythmical splendor. Oh, that shaft. That famous
elongated quiver of delight. How many women had there been? Two
thousand? Twenty-five hundred? He had lost count somewhere over 1500,
but for sure there must have been over 500 since then. The constraints
of marriage had slowed things considerably, but the rigors of political
travel insured that the shaft would be exercised religiously. A
vigorous workout three times a week. Isn’t that what the doctor had
said? Yes, great vigor, indeed.
The warm sucking lips had completely
engulfed the golden prod, the soft hanging orbs dangling pendulously in
slow motion from above, brushing lightly against his aching loins, now
perched on the edge of sweet release. It should have been a moment of
uninterrupted, unmitigated bliss. After all, how often did one get
nominated to be the presidential candidate of a major American political
party? The nimble tongue continued working its moist wonderful magic,
spreading paroxysms of delight in its wake. The moaning grew louder.
“And so, my fellow Americans (Ooh, God!), ask not what your President
can do for you, but (OOOOH, slurp, slurp) what you can do for your
President.”
The grainy film danced majestically against the hotel wall, but the nominee had seen enough.
“I think, ah, Edgar, we get the point.”
The
stolid Director ambled slowly to the projection machine and switched
off the motor, sparing the exhausted brothers the anti-climax of the
climax.
“This is OUTRAGEOUS! It’s nothing but blackmail, that’s all it is,” screeched the shorter one.
“Calm
down, Bobby. I think, ah, gentlemen, we are all in agreement as to
what it is. The only thing we are negotiating is the price. Am I not
right, Mr. Hoover?”
The impassive figure stared blankly back at the
Golden Boy and savored this moment of clandestine triumph. It would not
be the last.
“It’s not money that I seek, Mr. Kennedy.”
Not
money? Impossible! What could the crusty old fuck want? Women? Did
he want the keys to the Augean stable of sensual delights that lay in
the grasp of the Senator’s beck and call? I thought the old cocksucker
was gay. Surely he doesn’t think I can be of any use to him there.
What does he mean not money? The candidate’s bewildered gaze was
brought back from the ceiling by the riveted icy stare of his
antagonist.
“Then what is it, might I ask, Mr. Director, that you do want?”
“I want you to nominate Lyndon Johnson as your vice president.”
“IMPOSSIBLE!,”
bellowed the younger brother, as he moved menacingly toward the
rock-like presence and then swiftly brushed by, continuing on to a
corner of the room, as if to protect himself from his own anger. He
wheeled back on his heels and began shaking his fist at the monolith
across the room.
“Who the fuck are you to dictate to us who we can
and can’t nominate for anything we goddamn please? Where the hell do
you get off telling the NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES what to do?
Huh?” A silence. The anger rippled under Bobby’s boiling red skin,
the veins in both temples visibly pounding. “Well, answer me, you
fucking pervert!”
The block of ice stared back at the slumping
candidate and rolled his eyeballs as if to say, “Can’t you control this
untoward youth?” The Senator half-grinned back.
“Bobby, let’s not be
too quick in our judgment. Let’s see if we can give Mr. Hoover the
benefit of the doubt. I must say though, Edgar, it does seem a rather
strange request. Would you mind if I inquired as to why?”
The master of the monotone shifted slowly on his haunches. “That, Mr. Kennedy, is for me to know and you to find out.”
Bobby
lost it. “I can’t believe you’re going to let him get away with this
horseshit, Jack. I mean, is this what we worked so hard for?”
The
nominee drew a slash across his mouth with his left hand and indicated
with his waggling right index finger that he had had enough of his
emotional sibling’s outbursts.
“But, Jesus, Jack, it’s just that…………”
“Can it Bobby, NOW.” He then turned his frosty blue-gray eyes back to Hoover.
“And suppose we do as you ask. What then?”
“Then,
Mr. Kennedy, you have to win the election or the whole thing is moot.
But if you should be so fortunate to prevail, then you would be assured
of my complete cooperation and discretion during the course of your
presidency.”
“How generous of you,” snorted the nominee. The Director bristled at the Senator’s sarcasm.
“And if we should not choose to follow your sage advice?”
“That,
Senator,” shot back the sawed-off stump of a man, as he started packing
up the projector, “is your decision. Which, if you could let me know
in the next six hours, would be appreciated.” With that, the shadowy
presence moved slowly toward the door, and opening it a crack, looked
back at the newly compliant duo.
“I bid you adieu, gentlemen,” he
whispered, as he slithered out into the hallway. The brothers fixed
their discomfited gazes upon the shutting door.
“He can’t get away
with this,” yelled a seething Bobby, as he crossed back through the room
and over to the window. Jack sat at the edge of the bed, chin resting
on clenched fist.
“Oh, he can, and he will; I can assure you of that.”
The
crestfallen Robert slunk back to the bed where his brother was sitting,
and, pulling a chair across from it, slumped down like a decompressing
bean-bag. Jack just shook his head, which was now nestled in his cupped
hands.
“But all we’ve worked for, Jack. Lyndon Johnson? That snake-in-the-grass? I’d sooner nominate Mamie Eisenhower.”
The candidate chuckled. He was quickly adapting to his newly compromised position.
“Think about it, Bobby. Maybe it won’t be so bad. After all, it’ll balance the ticket geographically and ideologically.”
“Ideologically? Johnson has no ideology!”
“Yes, but neither do we.” Hmm. Good point.
A
knock on the door. UPI was by for an earlier promised picture. The
two brothers hung their heads low in mulled silence, as the photographer
snapped away and caught the hauntingly eerie scene of the practically
touching foreheads, for eternity. If only the public could know what
was currently transpiring in those weighted-down frontal lobes. The
cameraman thanked them for their time and made a quick exit. The
soon-to-be President mused.
“You know Bobby, I could make you Attorney General. You’d be the old slimeball’s boss.” Jack chuckled to himself.
“You can’t do a thing like that. Congress would have a shit fit.”
“I
know,” mumbled the candidate. “Just a thought.” He could never pull
it off. But it would sure be nice to have somebody he could trust in
the Cabinet. Of course, he’d have to get elected first.
The Senator
lay back on the bed and felt the full pounding of his eternally aching
spine pulsing through his entire upper torso. He was exhausted.
“Lyndon Fucking Johnson,” he kept mumbling to himself. Of all people,
why Johnson? What did Hoover have to gain from it?
“Maybe he thinks he can control Johnson and through that, can control us,” speculated a now calming Bobby.
“And
maybe,” responded the pondering political master, “he isn’t wrong about
that.” He smiled to himself. The eyes of Texas are upon you.
Texas.
I hate fucking Texas. If I never have to go to Texas again, it’ll be
all too soon. The goddamned place is cursed. And now its favorite son
was to be thrust upon them, festooned like a fatted pig to their
steamrollering express, to be dragged across the political landscape of
America like a festering boil, to be tolerated and endured. Ominous,
thought the future progenitor of Camelot, but also equally necessary.
Of that he was certain.
Bobby sat dour in the chair in front of him.
“So Jack?”
“What
now, Bobby?,” winced the candidate. He was too tired to sit through
another outburst, his younger brother’s alter ego status
notwithstanding.
“How was she?”
Jack stared calmly up at the ceiling and smiled.
“She was great, Bobby. Just great.”
The cigarette burned low in his fingers. From a distance he could
hear the noise of the crowd picking up, a sure sign that the motorcade
was right on schedule. A few more quick turns and they’d be upon him.
He crouched lower behind the picket fence.
What was it that the
Organization had told him? Not to worry, that was it. Everything had
been taken care of. A patsy in an overlooking building was all lined
up, a rifle had been planted, and even photos had been doctored,
incriminating the unsuspecting foil. Not to worry. Just be there and
shoot, one shot, maybe two, at point blank range; then duck into the
getaway car parked five feet behind, and be gone. The lookout beside
him would scoop the shells and quickly follow him into the idling
vehicle. By the time anybody knew what happened, they’d be on their
way. Not to worry, he told his pounding heart.
It wasn’t as if he
hadn’t killed before. Many times, in fact. Coolly, methodically,
scientifically, with panache. He loved the danger, the excitement, the
living on the edge. Which was why they had chosen him to begin with.
He was the best. But this was beyond danger. If gunning down the
president of the country in broad daylight, downtown in one of the
nation’s largest cities wasn’t living on the edge, then he wasn’t sure
what was. Yes, he was the best and that’s why he was there. He softly
cradled the stock of the leveled rifle and rolled the barrel gently to
and fro between two beveled edges of the upright posts. He would engage
the picket fence in a little foreplay while waiting for the approaching
motorcade, presaging the orgasm of the blast.
And, oh, the money!
The contract of a lifetime. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for
one well-placed bullet, for an eighteenth-second of work. What did that
figure per hour? The thought made him giddy.
But there were so many
questions. What about security? What about the Secret Service? It
would be light, he was assured. Ever since the President’s trip to the
South had been announced several months earlier, details had been
meticulously monitored. The motorcade route had been gone over with a
fine toothcomb. Security, at this stretch, would not be a problem.
The
direction of the bullets? An autopsy report? Details, strictly
details. Besides, as the Organization had pointed out, that’s our
problem, not yours. Let us worry about it. You just be there and
shoot, that’s all. We’ll take care of the logistics. Okay, fine.
That’s my specialty, after all. But it’s usually pimps and pushers, not
presidents. The rifle started shaking in his tightly gripping hands.
The
motorcade came into view and the noise from the crowd ricocheted off
the surrounding buildings as the long procession negotiated its final
turn. It was just a job, he reminded himself. A very big job, but
still a job, just the same. The big limo started the slow descent that
would bring it to within fifty feet of the impending blast.
He caught
his first glance of the stately, tall President, seated next to his
wife, the feel of monarchy expansively emanating from the confining
borders of the open-topped vehicle. What a life of achievement this man
had had! From war hero to president. Too bad it would have to end so
soon, so suddenly. Just a job, it’s just a job. The dying cigarette
hit the ground.
He turned for one last look at the get-away driver. A
half grin and thumbs up, the same that he got from the lookout. The
President was twenty-five yards from the kill zone. The motorcade was
moving at a snail’s pace.
He caught the erect bearing in the cross hairs. Right temple, lock on; fifteen, ten, five, NOW! A flick of the index finger.
Click!
What the hell? NOTHING; SILENCE. THE GOD DAMN GUN HAD JAMMED! Get
the hell out of here, now! A mad scramble to the car, and tear ass
out. The getaway was perfect, just like they had planned. Only they
forgot to kill the President.
Down on the road below, a beaming
Charles DeGaulle moved peacefully by. Now basking in the triumph of his
Marseille reception, he would never know how he had come to within a
whisper of his death. That twit Kennedy thought the people loved him?
Voila, pretty boy, you are no match for the icy titan! Visions of
Charlemagne filled his surprisingly still-attached head.
Speeding to
the distance and safety of the countryside, the failed assassin beat his
fists in fury upon the back of the driver’s seat. The little Renault
bounced rhythmically in response. He had checked the rifle just the day
before, and the day before that, as well. No problem. Hair trigger
response. Why now of all times? Was it fate? Why would fate want to
spare DeGaulle? It was inexplicable, just one of those things. An
exceedingly big just one of those things.
The contract of a lifetime,
lost in the bat of an eye, a jam of a chamber. Two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars, down the tubes, just like that. Would he get a second
chance? Not likely. It would be too risky. The Organization would
lose trust. No, you only get one shot at the big time. Literally.
But
he had done what he could. Hadn’t he? He was the best. They had told
him so themselves. The driver, the lookout, they knew, they saw it
all. They’d defend him. And yet, in spite of the pep talk, the mental
bravado, he had failed, plain and simple. It didn’t really matter why.
Failure was failure.
He would plead for redemption. But with all
the months of planning, just for this one brief encounter, what were the
odds of it happening again? Pretty damned slim. Well, maybe a
different victim, another big shot that the Organization needed to take
care of. But who could be bigger than DeGaulle, leader of one of the
most powerful nations on earth? There would never be anything as big as
this, and even if there was, would the Organization give it to him?
Highly unlikely.
He slumped back in his seat, a gray gloom cloud of
depression engulfing him. The driver and the lookout tried to cheer
him, to no avail. He was inconsolable.
He had pictured the
headlines: DEGAULLE SHOT DEAD; WAREHOUSE CLERK HELD. His own private
little triumph, a secret of incredible magnitude, to be basked in along
with the comforts of 250K. Gone in a heartbeat.
As the crowded
Renault bumped along the winding country road, the soft misting rain
cleared and a bright powerful rainbow spread in the valley before them.
The driver turned and smiled. “It is a sign of fortune, of good things
to come; you shall see.”
Rainbows? Fortune? I don’t think so. One
crack at the big time, one shot at the show. Right? The darkness
quickly descended.
Everything about Lyndon Johnson was larger than life. His ears, his
nose, his ego, his energy, his ambition. No question about it, he was
larger-than-life Lyndon.
Johnson had taken that energy and used it to
bounce out of the hills of southwest Texas into the U.S. Congress. He
hitched his star to the New Deal of FDR who had taken a liking to this
exceptional young man. After several years in the House, Lyndon ran for
the Senate in l940 against savvy Texas Governor, Coke Stevenson.
Despite having won a solid and published victory, Lyndon watched the
election mysteriously snatched away from him in a major heist,
outrageous even by Texas standards. Licking his wounds, Lyndon prepared
for the 1948 race, and this time he was not a man to be fucked with.
Recruiting the tombstones of scores of departed Mexicans, he won a
smashing victory of 87 votes, earning him the sobriquet “Landslide
Lyndon.”
Ole Landslide took the Senate by storm and under the
guidance of fellow Texan and House Speaker, Sam Rayburn, forged
connections and alliances that would take him to Majority Leader.
Lyndon
ate, breathed and slept politics. Armed with a phone in each hand,
cartons of cigarettes and cases of Cutty Sark, he was a whirlwind of
activity. Wheedling, cajoling, entreating, Lyndon was a horse trader
nonpareil. Politics was his mistress and Lyndon would smear his
oversized body with oil and roll around naked on the Senate floor with
her, immersing and consuming this passionate lady through every pore in
his being.
Lyndon loved the Senate, loved every little thing about it. Except for The Boy. The Boy stuck in his craw.
The
Boy had an easy grace about him that Lyndon, with all his furious
energy, could never match. The Boy got laid. Regularly. With
different women. Scores of them. The Boy was a nonentity, but somehow,
he managed to stay above the fray. The Boy was usually absent, and
when he was there, he might as well not have been.
Lyndon didn’t
understand why The Boy existed, and much less, what he was doing in the
Senate. The Boy had national aspirations, or at least his father did,
and Lyndon decided that The Boy must be a test of God’s will on earth
for him. Yes, indeed, that must be why The Boy existed, and Ole
Landslide was never one to walk away from a challenge.
But Lyndon was
no match for The Boy’s charm or his daddy’s money, and slowed by a
heart attack, Johnson was forced to concede ignominious defeat at the
1960 convention. Things looked pretty bleak for Lyndon, what with The
Boy ascending and all, and his own future uncertain. It wasn’t that The
Boy didn’t like Lyndon; it was just that the two were totally different
and The Boy had never had any need for him. Until now.
In a strange
twist of fate, The Boy had decided that Ole Lyndon would be the perfect
man to balance the ticket, philosophically and geographically. Despite
knowing his ancient fellow Texan, John Nance Garner’s maxim, that the
vice presidency wasn’t worth “a warm pitcher of spit,” Lyndon said he
would consider the offer; he just needed time to think about it. After
three or four minutes, longer than the introspective Johnson usually
took on such matters, he accepted. Lyndon figured that one in every
four presidents had died in office, and even though The Boy was only 43,
you never knew. He’d take the odds.
The deal was done. Lyndon sat
in his hotel outside the convention and relaxed, for the first time in
ages. He loosened his tie, took off his shoes, put his feet up on the
table and sipped his Cutty Sark. No phone was attached to his ear.
Perhaps there was something to this acceptance of fate, after all.
Lyndon
had started slipping into a blissful dream when he heard a loud rapping
at the door. What could this rude interruption be at such a moment of
peace? He got up, slowly walked across the room, and opened the door a
crack. There he was. The Boy’s little brother. The Infant. The
Infant was full of fury as he pushed his way into the room. Who did
this impudent little bastard think he was?
The Infant paced back and
forth and without warning blurted out, “My brother wants you off the
ticket, now!” Lyndon could hardly believe his gargantuan ears. Wasn’t
it less than twenty-four hours ago that The Boy had asked him on to the
ticket, invited him of his own free will? No, this would not do. The
Infant just did not compute.
The Infant demanded, The Infant
bellowed, The Infant threatened, The Infant was inconsolable. Lyndon
watched in amazement, and though repulsed by him, decided that The
Infant was more of a kindred soul than The Boy would ever be. But
Lyndon had not gotten to be where he was by being bullied by petty
tyrants or their self-appointed emissaries. If The Boy wanted him off
the ticket, then The Boy would have to tell him himself. Lyndon made
this quite clear to The Infant as the latter stomped out of the room.
The call never came.
And so it was that Lyndon, The Boy and The
Infant joined forces in the summer of 1960 for a bumpy voyage that would
change the course of history.
I wasn’t always in the government witness protection program.
Certainly not on that sunny Dallas morning in November of ’63 when my
grandfather took me down to Dealey Plaza to see the President. Poppa
stood on an elevated step to boost his tiny frame and braced himself
against his secretary Marilyn to steady the movie camera. I held
Marilyn’s hand and clutched a little Instamatic camera in my other
hand. The crowd started buzzing as the head of the motorcade turned off
Main Street and onto Houston. I caught a glimpse of pink as I
recognized the familiar form of Jackie Kennedy waving in the distance,
and then disappearing from view. The motorcade slowed for the wide turn
that would bring the President down Elm Street past the School Book
Depository Building where Poppa and I were waiting to see him.
The
crowd started clapping wildly as the limousine emerged from the turn.
There he was! Bronzed, handsome, like a god. My heart beat madly,
adrenaline pumping on all cylinders. Poppa braced his movie camera as
the President rolled down Elm and waved in our direction. I thought I
was going to pee my pants.
Pop! Pop! A firecracker went off and
then another. The President clutched his throat and rolled toward
Jackie. Poppa jerked with each blast as he kept his finger on the Bell
& Howell. I turned as I heard a crack to my right. I saw a man
poke a gun over the top of a fence and blow the head off the President
of the United States.
The velvety tongue slid lovingly down the shaft, the soft blond curls
moving slowly in rhythmical splendor. Oh, that shaft. That famous
elongated quiver of delight. How many women had there been? Two
thousand? Twenty-five hundred? He had lost count somewhere over 1500,
but for sure there must have been over 500 since then. The constraints
of marriage had slowed things considerably, but the rigors of political
travel insured that the shaft would be exercised religiously. A
vigorous workout three times a week. Isn’t that what the doctor had
said? Yes, great vigor, indeed.
The warm sucking lips had completely
engulfed the golden prod, the soft hanging orbs dangling pendulously in
slow motion from above, brushing lightly against his aching loins, now
perched on the edge of sweet release. It should have been a moment of
uninterrupted, unmitigated bliss. After all, how often did one get
nominated to be the presidential candidate of a major American political
party? The nimble tongue continued working its moist wonderful magic,
spreading paroxysms of delight in its wake. The moaning grew louder.
“And so, my fellow Americans (Ooh, God!), ask not what your President
can do for you, but (OOOOH, slurp, slurp) what you can do for your
President.”
The grainy film danced majestically against the hotel wall, but the nominee had seen enough.
“I think, ah, Edgar, we get the point.”
The
stolid Director ambled slowly to the projection machine and switched
off the motor, sparing the exhausted brothers the anti-climax of the
climax.
“This is OUTRAGEOUS! It’s nothing but blackmail, that’s all it is,” screeched the shorter one.
“Calm
down, Bobby. I think, ah, gentlemen, we are all in agreement as to
what it is. The only thing we are negotiating is the price. Am I not
right, Mr. Hoover?”
The impassive figure stared blankly back at the
Golden Boy and savored this moment of clandestine triumph. It would not
be the last.
“It’s not money that I seek, Mr. Kennedy.”
Not
money? Impossible! What could the crusty old fuck want? Women? Did
he want the keys to the Augean stable of sensual delights that lay in
the grasp of the Senator’s beck and call? I thought the old cocksucker
was gay. Surely he doesn’t think I can be of any use to him there.
What does he mean not money? The candidate’s bewildered gaze was
brought back from the ceiling by the riveted icy stare of his
antagonist.
“Then what is it, might I ask, Mr. Director, that you do want?”
“I want you to nominate Lyndon Johnson as your vice president.”
“IMPOSSIBLE!,”
bellowed the younger brother, as he moved menacingly toward the
rock-like presence and then swiftly brushed by, continuing on to a
corner of the room, as if to protect himself from his own anger. He
wheeled back on his heels and began shaking his fist at the monolith
across the room.
“Who the fuck are you to dictate to us who we can
and can’t nominate for anything we goddamn please? Where the hell do
you get off telling the NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES what to do?
Huh?” A silence. The anger rippled under Bobby’s boiling red skin,
the veins in both temples visibly pounding. “Well, answer me, you
fucking pervert!”
The block of ice stared back at the slumping
candidate and rolled his eyeballs as if to say, “Can’t you control this
untoward youth?” The Senator half-grinned back.
“Bobby, let’s not be
too quick in our judgment. Let’s see if we can give Mr. Hoover the
benefit of the doubt. I must say though, Edgar, it does seem a rather
strange request. Would you mind if I inquired as to why?”
The master of the monotone shifted slowly on his haunches. “That, Mr. Kennedy, is for me to know and you to find out.”
Bobby
lost it. “I can’t believe you’re going to let him get away with this
horseshit, Jack. I mean, is this what we worked so hard for?”
The
nominee drew a slash across his mouth with his left hand and indicated
with his waggling right index finger that he had had enough of his
emotional sibling’s outbursts.
“But, Jesus, Jack, it’s just that…………”
“Can it Bobby, NOW.” He then turned his frosty blue-gray eyes back to Hoover.
“And suppose we do as you ask. What then?”
“Then,
Mr. Kennedy, you have to win the election or the whole thing is moot.
But if you should be so fortunate to prevail, then you would be assured
of my complete cooperation and discretion during the course of your
presidency.”
“How generous of you,” snorted the nominee. The Director bristled at the Senator’s sarcasm.
“And if we should not choose to follow your sage advice?”
“That,
Senator,” shot back the sawed-off stump of a man, as he started packing
up the projector, “is your decision. Which, if you could let me know
in the next six hours, would be appreciated.” With that, the shadowy
presence moved slowly toward the door, and opening it a crack, looked
back at the newly compliant duo.
“I bid you adieu, gentlemen,” he
whispered, as he slithered out into the hallway. The brothers fixed
their discomfited gazes upon the shutting door.
“He can’t get away
with this,” yelled a seething Bobby, as he crossed back through the room
and over to the window. Jack sat at the edge of the bed, chin resting
on clenched fist.
“Oh, he can, and he will; I can assure you of that.”
The
crestfallen Robert slunk back to the bed where his brother was sitting,
and, pulling a chair across from it, slumped down like a decompressing
bean-bag. Jack just shook his head, which was now nestled in his cupped
hands.
“But all we’ve worked for, Jack. Lyndon Johnson? That snake-in-the-grass? I’d sooner nominate Mamie Eisenhower.”
The candidate chuckled. He was quickly adapting to his newly compromised position.
“Think about it, Bobby. Maybe it won’t be so bad. After all, it’ll balance the ticket geographically and ideologically.”
“Ideologically? Johnson has no ideology!”
“Yes, but neither do we.” Hmm. Good point.
A
knock on the door. UPI was by for an earlier promised picture. The
two brothers hung their heads low in mulled silence, as the photographer
snapped away and caught the hauntingly eerie scene of the practically
touching foreheads, for eternity. If only the public could know what
was currently transpiring in those weighted-down frontal lobes. The
cameraman thanked them for their time and made a quick exit. The
soon-to-be President mused.
“You know Bobby, I could make you Attorney General. You’d be the old slimeball’s boss.” Jack chuckled to himself.
“You can’t do a thing like that. Congress would have a shit fit.”
“I
know,” mumbled the candidate. “Just a thought.” He could never pull
it off. But it would sure be nice to have somebody he could trust in
the Cabinet. Of course, he’d have to get elected first.
The Senator
lay back on the bed and felt the full pounding of his eternally aching
spine pulsing through his entire upper torso. He was exhausted.
“Lyndon Fucking Johnson,” he kept mumbling to himself. Of all people,
why Johnson? What did Hoover have to gain from it?
“Maybe he thinks he can control Johnson and through that, can control us,” speculated a now calming Bobby.
“And
maybe,” responded the pondering political master, “he isn’t wrong about
that.” He smiled to himself. The eyes of Texas are upon you.
Texas.
I hate fucking Texas. If I never have to go to Texas again, it’ll be
all too soon. The goddamned place is cursed. And now its favorite son
was to be thrust upon them, festooned like a fatted pig to their
steamrollering express, to be dragged across the political landscape of
America like a festering boil, to be tolerated and endured. Ominous,
thought the future progenitor of Camelot, but also equally necessary.
Of that he was certain.
Bobby sat dour in the chair in front of him.
“So Jack?”
“What
now, Bobby?,” winced the candidate. He was too tired to sit through
another outburst, his younger brother’s alter ego status
notwithstanding.
“How was she?”
Jack stared calmly up at the ceiling and smiled.
“She was great, Bobby. Just great.”
The cigarette burned low in his fingers. From a distance he could
hear the noise of the crowd picking up, a sure sign that the motorcade
was right on schedule. A few more quick turns and they’d be upon him.
He crouched lower behind the picket fence.
What was it that the
Organization had told him? Not to worry, that was it. Everything had
been taken care of. A patsy in an overlooking building was all lined
up, a rifle had been planted, and even photos had been doctored,
incriminating the unsuspecting foil. Not to worry. Just be there and
shoot, one shot, maybe two, at point blank range; then duck into the
getaway car parked five feet behind, and be gone. The lookout beside
him would scoop the shells and quickly follow him into the idling
vehicle. By the time anybody knew what happened, they’d be on their
way. Not to worry, he told his pounding heart.
It wasn’t as if he
hadn’t killed before. Many times, in fact. Coolly, methodically,
scientifically, with panache. He loved the danger, the excitement, the
living on the edge. Which was why they had chosen him to begin with.
He was the best. But this was beyond danger. If gunning down the
president of the country in broad daylight, downtown in one of the
nation’s largest cities wasn’t living on the edge, then he wasn’t sure
what was. Yes, he was the best and that’s why he was there. He softly
cradled the stock of the leveled rifle and rolled the barrel gently to
and fro between two beveled edges of the upright posts. He would engage
the picket fence in a little foreplay while waiting for the approaching
motorcade, presaging the orgasm of the blast.
And, oh, the money!
The contract of a lifetime. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for
one well-placed bullet, for an eighteenth-second of work. What did that
figure per hour? The thought made him giddy.
But there were so many
questions. What about security? What about the Secret Service? It
would be light, he was assured. Ever since the President’s trip to the
South had been announced several months earlier, details had been
meticulously monitored. The motorcade route had been gone over with a
fine toothcomb. Security, at this stretch, would not be a problem.
The
direction of the bullets? An autopsy report? Details, strictly
details. Besides, as the Organization had pointed out, that’s our
problem, not yours. Let us worry about it. You just be there and
shoot, that’s all. We’ll take care of the logistics. Okay, fine.
That’s my specialty, after all. But it’s usually pimps and pushers, not
presidents. The rifle started shaking in his tightly gripping hands.
The
motorcade came into view and the noise from the crowd ricocheted off
the surrounding buildings as the long procession negotiated its final
turn. It was just a job, he reminded himself. A very big job, but
still a job, just the same. The big limo started the slow descent that
would bring it to within fifty feet of the impending blast.
He caught
his first glance of the stately, tall President, seated next to his
wife, the feel of monarchy expansively emanating from the confining
borders of the open-topped vehicle. What a life of achievement this man
had had! From war hero to president. Too bad it would have to end so
soon, so suddenly. Just a job, it’s just a job. The dying cigarette
hit the ground.
He turned for one last look at the get-away driver. A
half grin and thumbs up, the same that he got from the lookout. The
President was twenty-five yards from the kill zone. The motorcade was
moving at a snail’s pace.
He caught the erect bearing in the cross hairs. Right temple, lock on; fifteen, ten, five, NOW! A flick of the index finger.
Click!
What the hell? NOTHING; SILENCE. THE GOD DAMN GUN HAD JAMMED! Get
the hell out of here, now! A mad scramble to the car, and tear ass
out. The getaway was perfect, just like they had planned. Only they
forgot to kill the President.
Down on the road below, a beaming
Charles DeGaulle moved peacefully by. Now basking in the triumph of his
Marseille reception, he would never know how he had come to within a
whisper of his death. That twit Kennedy thought the people loved him?
Voila, pretty boy, you are no match for the icy titan! Visions of
Charlemagne filled his surprisingly still-attached head.
Speeding to
the distance and safety of the countryside, the failed assassin beat his
fists in fury upon the back of the driver’s seat. The little Renault
bounced rhythmically in response. He had checked the rifle just the day
before, and the day before that, as well. No problem. Hair trigger
response. Why now of all times? Was it fate? Why would fate want to
spare DeGaulle? It was inexplicable, just one of those things. An
exceedingly big just one of those things.
The contract of a lifetime,
lost in the bat of an eye, a jam of a chamber. Two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars, down the tubes, just like that. Would he get a second
chance? Not likely. It would be too risky. The Organization would
lose trust. No, you only get one shot at the big time. Literally.
But
he had done what he could. Hadn’t he? He was the best. They had told
him so themselves. The driver, the lookout, they knew, they saw it
all. They’d defend him. And yet, in spite of the pep talk, the mental
bravado, he had failed, plain and simple. It didn’t really matter why.
Failure was failure.
He would plead for redemption. But with all
the months of planning, just for this one brief encounter, what were the
odds of it happening again? Pretty damned slim. Well, maybe a
different victim, another big shot that the Organization needed to take
care of. But who could be bigger than DeGaulle, leader of one of the
most powerful nations on earth? There would never be anything as big as
this, and even if there was, would the Organization give it to him?
Highly unlikely.
He slumped back in his seat, a gray gloom cloud of
depression engulfing him. The driver and the lookout tried to cheer
him, to no avail. He was inconsolable.
He had pictured the
headlines: DEGAULLE SHOT DEAD; WAREHOUSE CLERK HELD. His own private
little triumph, a secret of incredible magnitude, to be basked in along
with the comforts of 250K. Gone in a heartbeat.
As the crowded
Renault bumped along the winding country road, the soft misting rain
cleared and a bright powerful rainbow spread in the valley before them.
The driver turned and smiled. “It is a sign of fortune, of good things
to come; you shall see.”
Rainbows? Fortune? I don’t think so. One
crack at the big time, one shot at the show. Right? The darkness
quickly descended.
Everything about Lyndon Johnson was larger than life. His ears, his
nose, his ego, his energy, his ambition. No question about it, he was
larger-than-life Lyndon.
Johnson had taken that energy and used it to
bounce out of the hills of southwest Texas into the U.S. Congress. He
hitched his star to the New Deal of FDR who had taken a liking to this
exceptional young man. After several years in the House, Lyndon ran for
the Senate in l940 against savvy Texas Governor, Coke Stevenson.
Despite having won a solid and published victory, Lyndon watched the
election mysteriously snatched away from him in a major heist,
outrageous even by Texas standards. Licking his wounds, Lyndon prepared
for the 1948 race, and this time he was not a man to be fucked with.
Recruiting the tombstones of scores of departed Mexicans, he won a
smashing victory of 87 votes, earning him the sobriquet “Landslide
Lyndon.”
Ole Landslide took the Senate by storm and under the
guidance of fellow Texan and House Speaker, Sam Rayburn, forged
connections and alliances that would take him to Majority Leader.
Lyndon
ate, breathed and slept politics. Armed with a phone in each hand,
cartons of cigarettes and cases of Cutty Sark, he was a whirlwind of
activity. Wheedling, cajoling, entreating, Lyndon was a horse trader
nonpareil. Politics was his mistress and Lyndon would smear his
oversized body with oil and roll around naked on the Senate floor with
her, immersing and consuming this passionate lady through every pore in
his being.
Lyndon loved the Senate, loved every little thing about it. Except for The Boy. The Boy stuck in his craw.
The
Boy had an easy grace about him that Lyndon, with all his furious
energy, could never match. The Boy got laid. Regularly. With
different women. Scores of them. The Boy was a nonentity, but somehow,
he managed to stay above the fray. The Boy was usually absent, and
when he was there, he might as well not have been.
Lyndon didn’t
understand why The Boy existed, and much less, what he was doing in the
Senate. The Boy had national aspirations, or at least his father did,
and Lyndon decided that The Boy must be a test of God’s will on earth
for him. Yes, indeed, that must be why The Boy existed, and Ole
Landslide was never one to walk away from a challenge.
But Lyndon was
no match for The Boy’s charm or his daddy’s money, and slowed by a
heart attack, Johnson was forced to concede ignominious defeat at the
1960 convention. Things looked pretty bleak for Lyndon, what with The
Boy ascending and all, and his own future uncertain. It wasn’t that The
Boy didn’t like Lyndon; it was just that the two were totally different
and The Boy had never had any need for him. Until now.
In a strange
twist of fate, The Boy had decided that Ole Lyndon would be the perfect
man to balance the ticket, philosophically and geographically. Despite
knowing his ancient fellow Texan, John Nance Garner’s maxim, that the
vice presidency wasn’t worth “a warm pitcher of spit,” Lyndon said he
would consider the offer; he just needed time to think about it. After
three or four minutes, longer than the introspective Johnson usually
took on such matters, he accepted. Lyndon figured that one in every
four presidents had died in office, and even though The Boy was only 43,
you never knew. He’d take the odds.
The deal was done. Lyndon sat
in his hotel outside the convention and relaxed, for the first time in
ages. He loosened his tie, took off his shoes, put his feet up on the
table and sipped his Cutty Sark. No phone was attached to his ear.
Perhaps there was something to this acceptance of fate, after all.
Lyndon
had started slipping into a blissful dream when he heard a loud rapping
at the door. What could this rude interruption be at such a moment of
peace? He got up, slowly walked across the room, and opened the door a
crack. There he was. The Boy’s little brother. The Infant. The
Infant was full of fury as he pushed his way into the room. Who did
this impudent little bastard think he was?
The Infant paced back and
forth and without warning blurted out, “My brother wants you off the
ticket, now!” Lyndon could hardly believe his gargantuan ears. Wasn’t
it less than twenty-four hours ago that The Boy had asked him on to the
ticket, invited him of his own free will? No, this would not do. The
Infant just did not compute.
The Infant demanded, The Infant
bellowed, The Infant threatened, The Infant was inconsolable. Lyndon
watched in amazement, and though repulsed by him, decided that The
Infant was more of a kindred soul than The Boy would ever be. But
Lyndon had not gotten to be where he was by being bullied by petty
tyrants or their self-appointed emissaries. If The Boy wanted him off
the ticket, then The Boy would have to tell him himself. Lyndon made
this quite clear to The Infant as the latter stomped out of the room.
The call never came.
And so it was that Lyndon, The Boy and The
Infant joined forces in the summer of 1960 for a bumpy voyage that would
change the course of history.
