Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald

by Douglas Brode

  By five of seven, the doctor had retrieved his new Cadillac from an adjacent garage and sat behind the wheel, driving away from uptown New York to the George Washington Bridge, crossing over into New Jersey. This was highly irregular. On most days, Martinelli parked at one of three Manhattan hospitals where his skills were in high demand. Not today. He’d been informed by his Mob contact, Johnny Rosselli, that he would be required at their establishment, hidden deep in an all but unknown and virtually unapproachable stretch of Appalachia.

  As a poor boy decades earlier, Angelo Martinelli, his desire to become a doctor and heal those in pain hardly a secret, had been approached by a representative of the Made Men: We'll take care of you if afterwards you take care of us. Your university and medical school bills will all be covered by a secret benefactor. When you graduate, most of your time will be your own. Here’s the catch: you must earn a degree in the advanced study of plastics. At rare times, you will be called upon to perform operations for us; twinnings, as we refer to them.

  Martinelli had requested several days to think it over. That was fine; if he chose not to take the offer, no problem. If he did opt to do so, he was 'in'. Forever. Two days later Angelo returned to the meeting place, a Jersey shore bar, presenting his own variation on 'the deal.' Yes, he would do that, so long as he was absolutely guaranteed of one thing: Never, under any circumstances, could he be used to create such a double if this 'twin' were to be employed for violent purposes of any sort.

  That never even occurred to us, Angelo was assured. Look, it's simple: Sometimes guys get in deeper than is good for us or them and need to disappear, go off and for the rest of their lives enjoy the suburbs. Maybe head to Europe, even back home to Sicily. The hard part is getting out of the country, or in the U.S. remaining unidentifiable to any enemies. So we have specialists, called in on such occasions, to alter his identity.

  Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. So! Do we have a deal?

  That, Martinelli sighed, wishing there were another way to become a doctor, knowing there wasn’t, I can handle it. He only hoped the Made Men meant what they now said, praying that they would not at some time in the future decide ... that was then, this is now—things change—all the old deals are without warning null.

  Forty-two minutes after leaving home, Martinelli turned off the main highway, driving down a rock-formation road so outdated most Garden State residents were not aware of its existence. This led to a more primitive path still, circling around through a thick forest, nearly a jungle; similar to what Joseph Conrad, in Angelo’s favorite novel, had tagged the heart of darkness. All at once, he was out in the open again, driving across a field of what appeared an isolated, innocuous farm.

  *

  "What's up, Doc?"

  Judging from the look in the gaunt plastic surgeon's eyes, Lee guessed he had just committed a faux pax by trying to appear lighthearted as to this upcoming twinning process. The doctor, who had initially eyeballed Lee, turned away, glancing down at the floor, clearly not at all pleased.

  "Hello yourself," he muttered.

  Turning serious in tone, hoping this might possibly solve everything, Lee stretched forward his hand for shaking. "I'm—"

  "No, please. I don't want to know your name. Nor should you be familiar with mine. The more hush-hush this remains, the better all around, for everybody. Particularly you.”

  They stood together in a pleasant waiting room, to which Lee had been summoned by a slick, handsomely oily fellow in a form-fitting sharkskin suit. The man known to Lee throughout his stay at the hospital only as 'Johnny.' He’d met Lee at 3:35 A.M. when the bumpy, late-arriving flight landed at this hospital, designed to appear from any angle including the air as a farm.

  Johnny brought Lee to his whitewashed cabin, attractive and comfortable. Johnny returned to wake Lee at six-thirty with a knock at the screen door, apologizing for the early hour. Lee laughed, explaining that this was a gift. In the Corps, everyone had to rise and shine at five. Johnny seemed amiable though Lee sensed this ruggedly built Sicilian was not someone to underestimate.

  Johnny accompanied Lee from the pleasant cabin to breakfast in a large, agreeable dining room. Several other people seated at white plastic tables on matching seats. An attentive waiter quickly arrived.

  "Are they all here for 'twinnings'?" Lee dared inquire.

  "No, no," his host laughed. "Only you, this time around. Everyone else, other than the regular doctors who work here, have arrived owing to ... well, you know ..."

  "No. I don't know anything."

  "Gunshot wounds. That sort of stuff."

  "Oh, sure. Suffered in the line of duty. But ... why not simply take them the nearest hospital?”

  Johnny considered Lee curiously. "Well, there are reasons sometimes why these things have to be kept quiet, Lee.”

  Lee didn't press the issue any further. The bacon and eggs proved perfect, an extreme contrast to what passed for breakfast on the base. God, almighty! Was that only three days earlier? It seemed an eternity, as if he'd passed into an alternate galaxy.

  When Lee finished, Johnny gave him the look-over once more, than accompanied Lee to the meeting place. Crossing over a turf so green it resembled a plush golf course, Lee spotted a fellow of about his size firing an automatic rifle at targets.

  As it happened, the shooter took a brief break in his practice as Lee and Johnny passed near to him. Smiling, he stared at Lee for a moment, then waved: “Hey, guy. What d’ ya know?”

  "That's him," Johnny offered, guessing Lee’s thoughts.

  "The man who's going to look like me?"

  "Right. You've got the easy part. He’s in for an ordeal.”

  "Why am I needed for two weeks, then?"

  They’d reached the main building, the one that appeared an immense barn but which, on entering, Lee saw for what it was: a hospital facility as advanced as anyone could ask for. "It's a slow, painstaking process. The Doc will need to photograph and re-photograph you. He may not like the original mold and need to create another. When you do leave, the procedures on the other guy will be complete. He'll of course remain here, bandaged and under 24-7 medical surveillance, for another three weeks.”

  Lee followed Johnny up a circular staircase to the second floor. "Then I won't be able to see the results—"

  "Nah. You wouldn't wanna anyway. It's kind of eerie, y’ know, looking at your own twin."

  They reached the top of the stairs and entered the waiting room. An exquisite silver pitcher contained rich coffee. Servants had neatly surrounded this with saucers and cups that struck Lee as the sort that might be used for High Tea in some English manor.

  If they could see me now! All of them, any of them ... the kids in New Orleans and Fort Worth ... the boys in the orphanage and later Youth House, the grown-ups running those places ... the marines back at base, others I trained with ... they'd never believe it ... me, Lee Oswald ... here! ... in a place catering to the special, the elite, the chosen few ... a place they'll never see, other than in the movies ... I'm here, now ... as if I've entered into a Hollywood film ... all my life, I've anticipated this moment ...

  *

  "What am I expected to do in my off hours?" Lee asked.

  "Relax," Johnny told him. "Enjoy yourself. The dining room's always open. There's a game room if you enjoy pool, table tennis, that sort of thing."

  "I like to read a lot."

  "Fine. You can do that by the pool or in the privacy of your cabin, whichever you prefer."

  Why had I worried that this might be an ordeal? Everything here sounds like a free vacation at a resort. The only thing confusing is the ornateness of it all. From what George has said during our meetings, I had the impression that under Allen Dulles, the CIA was not in the habit of throwing a lot of money around on luxuries for its agents. How do they justify this?

  Lee's fascination with the place continued to mount during the following weeks. Initially, he read in his own room, feeling insecure about taking advantag
e of those amenities. On the third day, having finished Profiles in Courage, he moved on to The Trial by Franz Kafka, more in line with Lee’s preferences in literature. Lee slipped into the pair of swimming trunks in his brightly painted room. Carrying a towel along Lee strolled over to the pool. On arrival he was stunned to see several of the most beautiful women he had ever observed other than in the movies stretched out on lounges. Each wore a bikini so brief they would have put the new French starlet, Brigitte Bardot, known for her daringly skimpy swimsuits, to shame.

  One blonde, lying face down, raised her head, strands of hair whirling all over, signaling to Lee to come on over and take a nearby lounge next to her. Gulping, Lee did as indicated. He also fell madly in love with her at first sight.

  "Hi, I'm Honey."

  "I’ll say you are! I’m Lee."

  "Perfect timing, Lee. Would you please undo my top and rub some oil on my back? I don't want to burn."

  "Sure," he managed to reply. Moving on to her lounge, his legs rubbing up against hers, Lee did as requested, snapping the plastic pieces apart, allowing the strings of her top to fall gracefully, one to either side. Lee reached for her container of lotion and squirted some on Honey’s back. The blonde then shivered slightly and giggled. Lee rubbed it in, over, across, around ... every contour of her already tan and perfectly proportioned backside, augmented by the white material.

  “Ooooh, Lee-eee,” she whispered provocatively.

  That pleasurable task accomplished, Honey smiled again and thanked Lee. Swallowing hard, he settled down on his own lounge and attempted to concentrate on Kafka. Suddenly, though, that surrealist's dark vision, one which ordinarily would click with his ever-depressed mind, struck him as ridiculously out of place in this wondrous playground for ... the CIA?

  Johnny strolled up, wearing another slick suit, equally impressive to yesterday's if a slightly different shade of gray.

  "Hello, Honey. Hey, Lee. What're you up to?"

  Lee admitted he was trying to read but could not get into his book. Johnny retrieved a paperback from his inner pocket and tossed it over. "Try this. Just finished it."

  Lee thanked Johnny and glanced at the cover. On it, the title was emblazoned in bright red lettering across the top: Casino Royale. The author's name, Ian Fleming, appeared at the bottom. The picture featured a rugged looking fellow with cold, hard, merciless eyes. A pair of beautiful, nearly naked women, one blonde, the other brunette, stood behind him on either side, nestled against the man's back shoulder-blades.

  Lee considered the image; his dream vision of the way he, like any man, wished his life would be. Of course, this was only some paperback fantasy, concocted in the creative imagination of the author. Yet, Lee guessed, there had to be at least an iota of truth to it. Somewhere, somebody lived like this.

  Why not me? Hey, I’m doing that right now! From the slums of New Orleans to ... this? My God! I’m halfway there.

  "Agent James Bond, 007," Lee read from the prologue. "Licensed to kill."

  "Great stuff," Johnny assured him. They made plans to shoot pool in mid-afternoon. How about that? This super-cool Sicilian, treating me as his guest of honor. Johnny asked if there might be anything Lee would like. Honey piped in that she could use a martini. Lee, wanting to be a part of everything, echoed that he'd very much enjoy one, too.

  Johnny nodded, then left as quickly as he had come. A while later a brunette, also sporting a skimpy bikini, hers blue, marched up carrying a small tray. With a smile as sweet as Honey's she served the drinks, promising to be back briefly to see if there might be anything else they should desire.

  A half an hour later, Honey requested Lee redo her back-strap so that she could head over to her cabin. That task accomplished, Honey rose, allowing Lee an ever better angle of vision on her remarkable body. Before stepping away, Honey mentioned that she'd be busy for the remainder of the day but, if Lee liked, she could stop by his cabin at midnight.

  In a suddenly hoarse voice, Lee answered that he would be delighted. Brushing her long-flowing blonde mane against Lee's face, she winked provocatively and strutted away.

  *

  After the game of pool with Johnny, Lee had to report to the doctor for more photographs and the fitting of yet another mold. With Dr. Martinelli stood another surgeon, Dr. Joe Battle, considerably younger, also Sicilian, introduced as Martinelli’s assistant. Following that, Johnny accompanied Lee to dinner. More beauties dined with middle-aged men in sharkskin suits.

  “I tell ya, Johnny. Never in a million years would I guess that those guys are CIA agents. They just don’t look the part.”

  “They’re not. GoodFellas. Get my drift?”

  Lee didn’t, but he was too busy anticipating whether Honey would actually show to think much about it. Later, Lee retired to his cabin, passing the hours by trying to concentrate on Casino Royale. At the stroke of midnight there came a rapping from out front. Wearing the luxurious, plush white robe he had discovered in the closet, Lee opened the door. Honey, as good as her word, now wearing a golden wrap that fit her body like a tightly twisted piece of cellophane, entered without a word. The blonde slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him hard.

  When Lee awoke the following morning, Honey was gone. With her lipstick she’d left a note on his bathroom mirror:

  see you later by the pool?

  —XXX! Honey

  Feeling like a million bucks, whistling a happy tune, Lee shaved and shampooed. Somewhere between showering and brushing his teeth, Lee's ultra-logical mind, always sharpest in the early morning hours, returned to a topic that had been forcing its way into his consciousness: This hospital is not owned and operated by the CIA. The grounds here belong to the Mob!

  Ipso facto, if that’s the case, then the Combination is in bed with The Company. Which means I’m working not only for the U.S. government but also organized crime.

  Jesus H. Christ! This is so freakin’ cool ... .

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHANGING OF THE GUARD

  “Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and

  an end—though not necessarily in that order.”

  —Jean-Luc Godard, 1963

  Midway through 1959 mobster Johnny Rosselli, aka Johnny Roselli, aka “Handsome Johnny R.,” aka “Johnny Handsome,” aka a half dozen other monikers (born in Esperia, Frosinone province, Italy), then recently returned to the U.S. following the debacle in Cuba, did something he’d never before considered: the 44-year old asthmatic drove to an L.A. art house to catch a French film.

  With subtitles, no less!

  Previously Johnny had always guffawed at the thought of watching anything but a Hollywood picture. He enjoyed the glossy color items 20th Century Fox produced with that woman The Boys liked to think of as ’their girl,’ Marilyn Monroe. Also the sort of cheesy crime flicks he’d overseen while executive-producing low-budget items on Poverty Row during his brief turn as a co-producer. Rosselli had been the executive who made certain that, despite weak productions values, such B budget (at best) items conveyed the flavor and heat of America’s big cities.

  Recently, some guy he knew whispered that one of those new European films the intellectual set adored had been dedicated to none other than ... Johnny! ... more or less.

  Wait a minute here. Aren’t those frogs highbrow types who likely never even heard of me? This, I gotta check out. God knows I never thought I’d drive halfway across town to see somethin’ called A Bout de Souffle ... what does that even mean?

  All the same, here he was: seated in a drab, clammy old bijou, one of those places where movies were referred to as cinema. In the lobby they served wine and cappuccino rather than popcorn and Pepsi. Rosselli watched as the house lights dimmed and the film’s American title, Breathless, appeared.

  *

  When 91-year-old Robert Maheu attempted to rise up out of bed on the morning of August 4, 2008 he felt a sudden sharp pain tearing upward toward his heart and instinctively sensed that in a second or two
he would be dead. Like a proverbial drowning man whose life passes before his eyes, providing just enough time to decide whether or not he can justify his existence, Maheu’s mind flashed back to his education at Holy Cross, particularly those Jesuit values that he’d learned there. One stood out vividly: Though Shalt Not Kill. How could Dick Tracy resolve that ideal with his own involvement during the early 1960s in Operation 40, the plot to secretly rid the world of Fidel Castro?

  Now, as always since that day of his recruitment, Maheu remained loyal to a theory that way back then allowed him to, if against his better judgment, accept an invitation into a complex spider-web of men, motives, and mechanisms geared to achieving a single goal. All the while hoping he’d been right in believing the greater good of America must remain his top priority. Maheu adhered to an attitude he’d learned from Johnny Rosselli, a questionable source at best, while each was operating out of Vegas. All the same, characters like that could sometimes come up with unexpected bits of worldly-wisdom.

  Once, while sharing late night drinks in the neon-bathed bar of a Mob-owned casino, Maheu blurted out: “How do you go on living, believing as you say you do in a God, when you have performed acts that make even me, a former FBI agent who has witnessed pretty much all that’s out there, cringe?”

  Johnny switched positions, flashing a look of lizard-like comprehension. “Here, ‘Dick Tracy,’ is your answer. A Sicilian saying goes like this: The thief knows he is not so bad because he is not a killer; a killer knows he is not so bad because he is not a rapist; a rapist knows he is not so bad because he is not a child molester; the child molester knows ...”

  Even as, in 2008, the elderly Maheu began a slow spiral to the floor, he attempted to offer up a combination of prayer and confession to the Catholic God he still worshipped. If Johnny had been right, the mobster’s words recalled by Dick Tracy in the split-second he had left to live, no matter how terribly we sin, always there is someone else who has done something far worse. Might I then be admitted to purgatory, if not heaven? Otherwise, Maheu had just begun his long descent down to hell.