“Look,” said Harry, trying not to breathe too fast or too hard into the phone. “This morning I was given a document detailing the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and, at the same time, I was notified that this document will have to be made public this coming Monday.”
“Huh? You what?”
“I was given a document…”
“I heard that the first time. You were ‘given’ a document which. .. Are you serious?”
“Earlier this morning, sir, I was called upon to meet with Sir Anthony Wells who showed me a document, a confession really, prepared by the man who planned and was responsible for carrying out the killing of…”
“I don’t believe this,” the President said, his voice trailing away as if he had taken the phone and was holding it out away from his face. Harry envisioned the President reeling back holding the phone outstretched in his hand, looking at it, his brow all wrinkled, biting his lower lip, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look here, whatever this is about, you wait for your ambassador to make himself available, whenever that may be, and you talk to him about it. You just let Ambassador Brown handle everything. And as for you…”
“Mr. President, this morning I was instructed to meet with Sir Anthony Wells, the senior partner in the firm of Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson. He gave me a document, upon which I am at this moment resting my hand as I speak to you. He gave it to me to give to you. This document is, among other things, the handwritten, detailed confession of Lord Frederick Lacey that he killed President John F. Kennedy. What you also need to know is Lord Lacey was responsible for the death of Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. And, sir…” Harry tried to catch his breath, to calm his racing heart. “He killed Bobby Kennedy too.” Harry swore he could hear the President utter something, an involuntary, guttural, primal sound. He continued. “Shortly after meeting me, Sir Anthony was murdered. News reports said his office was torn apart. I believe whoever killed him was looking for this document. There are other things in it people would not want known. This is not a joke. I’m not a crackpot. Time is of the essence and this can’t wait for McHenry Brown. I’m scared, sir.”
Years of training, often just pretending, had prepared this President to act in an emergency. Once he recognized it as such, he treated it accordingly. As if by command, his respiration and heartbeat slowed, the muscles in his shoulders, back and arms relaxed. His voice lowered and his bowels constricted. “Tell me everything that happened,” he said, “starting from when you received your instructions until you placed this call to me. Take your time, son. Leave nothing out.”
“Some of the greatest, they never retired,” said Billy. He looked to Helen, who was shuttling back and forth from the kitchen to the bar. For reasons unclear to him, Walter or Ike, she stopped and looked at Billy.
“Who?” she asked.
“Like Sinatra, right?” Billy waited for confirmation, some positive sign he felt he had every right to expect from the woman he lived with. “He never quit. ‘The Chairman of the Board’ kept singing until the end, right?”
“That’s true, Billy,” she said and waltzed back into the kitchen, showing little regard for, and even less interest in, whatever it was he was talking about.
“See,” Billy went on. “I told you guys. There’s plenty of the best who never give it up.”
“What about Joe Louis?” asked Ike, belching smoke from his mouth and nose. An unforgiving breeze blew it straight back at him. He looked every bit a smoldering fire and showed not a wit of concern about it. “The man never should have come back.” He followed that with a cough. Ike was coughing more than ever, thought Walter, who made little effort to hide the concern he felt. The hacking sound coming from Ike inspired Billy to berate him for the millionth time.
“Damn! For the life of me I don’t know why that shit hasn’t killed you already.” Ike paid no attention to either one of them. He just took another long drag and this time exhaled quite smoothly. No grimace. No wheezing or coughing. Victory was his. A big smile crossed his wrinkled face while his mind spun in sweet circles drenched in nicotine, inspired by the sudden increase of carbon monoxide in his lungs and heart and brain and everywhere else.
“Joe Louis retired a champ,” he said. His chest back to normal, he picked up where he left off. “Top of his game. Then, when he came back, couldn’t do it no more. Rocky whatshisname, beat up on him real bad. Beat up on his legend too. You hear that, Walter?”
“Willie Mays, too,” Billy added. “Quit and came back. Had nothing left. Punks who couldn’t get guys out in the Texas League were striking him out. Should have stayed retired.”
“Willie Mays only retired one time,” said Helen, not looking up at all. None of them had noticed when she came back into the bar from the kitchen. “He never came back either,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Am I sure, Billy? I am sure. He never tried to come back.”
“Well, he should have quit sooner then, because he had nothing in the tank at the end. A real shame.” Billy went back to wiping down the counter next to the old cash register. He was careful to move the rimless chalkboard and put it back in its designated spot when he was done.
“Sinatra didn’t have much left either,” said Ike. “Just a ghost of himself. But that didn’t stop him. People kept paying to see him. That’s why they call it show business, you know that. But it’ll keep for another time. I’ll go with the Brown Bomber. Quit. Came back. Shoulda stayed quit. Shoulda kept his money too, like Sinatra.”
“And I’m sticking with Willie Mays,” proclaimed Billy. “I don’t give a shit if he retired or not.” He glanced at the kitchen door looking for Helen who wasn’t there. “The Say Hey Kid was no kid anymore and all that ‘Say Hey’ was say-gone. You know what I mean?” Billy was satisfied with that. They both waited on Walter. But he said nothing. He just sipped his Diet Coke and continued reading The New York Times. At least he looked like he was reading it. They knew he heard every word. Finally, without looking up from his paper at either of his friends, he said, “Winston Churchill. Retired. Came back. Retired. Came back again. Saved the world from the fucking Nazis. Not bad for an old man.”
“How old was he, Churchill?” asked Billy.
“Just a kid,” laughed Ike. “No more than-how old are you, Walter?” Walter laughed too. Ike knew Walter wasn’t as old as Churchill. “‘Saved the world from the fucking Nazis,” said Ike. “That’s good. That’s very good. I like that. Had some help, though. I oughta know.”
“You want me to write it up?”
“Yes sir, Billy,” said Ike. “You write it. Walter? You see any Nazis around here? You want to check the men’s room? Maybe they all at Caneel Bay.” Again the old man laughed and this time he began coughing again.
Billy looked to Walter for the go-ahead. Walter nodded, and the pale-skinned, stubble-jawed bartender grabbed the chunk of blue chalk and wrote-Louis/Mays/Churchill-on the blackboard.
Just then, Helen opened the kitchen door, directly across from Walter’s seat at the bar. She emerged carrying a large plastic bottle filled with a pink liquid. She needed two hands to hold it. She put it down under the bar, near the small ice maker and cooler, looked up at Walter, like she knew something he’d overlooked, and said, “She’s got a great ass, but she’s no German.”
When the phone rang-even The Phone -he picked it up and answered with a simple, “Yes.”
“Hey Louis,” said the President of the United States. “I got to see you. Get over here right away.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Louis Devereaux replied, careful not to say anything more. At 54, he was a thirty-year veteran at the CIA. His current job title, Assistant Director for Regional Operations, was a bogus title. He’d had a dozen or more similar ones over the years. The Act that created the Central Intelligence Agency in 1949 exempted the agency from having to disclose its table of organization, job descriptions or even the number of people who worked there. Devereaux had begun with a real job, as an Analyst, but as he gained reputation and authority his job titles became less reflective of his real duties. It was doubtful more than one or two Senators would recognize the name and even they might scratch their heads and say something like “Devereaux. Devereaux… I know that name… just can’t seem to place it exactly…” Not a one of his titles required their consent. Within a small group at the CIA-those who really know the speed and direction the wheel spins, those whose hands actually guide its progress and call its turns-Louis Devereaux eventually became a leader. By the time the President called him that day, he was the unquestioned top at CIA. Of course, he was not the Agency man who dutifully appeared to testify before committees of the Congress, or on the Sunday TV news shows, and surely not the bureaucrat who served as chief administrator. Louis Devereaux made policy, for the Agency, for the country, for the world.