All the Way with JFK: An Alternate History of 1964

by F. C. Schaefer

  It was Braden’s associate who spoke up instead, saying they would gladly take the President’s offer. He then spoke directly to the Kennedy, saying words could not express how sorry he was for what he’d done. President Kennedy never once responded directly to him, but he did call Harbinson’s lawyer over and told him to give the man one of those phony lease agreements for him and Braden to sign. “That way they can tell the world they came by the money legally.” That was the closest the President came to saying anything to his former friend. Braden tried to object, but his partner told him to shut his mouth in no uncertain terms; he did the fool a favor, since if I read him right, Bentley Braden, who weighed 120 pounds soaking wet, was, as they used to say, “a little light in the loafers,” and I don’t think he would have enjoyed a stretch in a Texas prison.

  The lawyer, who was a local Dallas attorney named Dean Andrews, was more than happy to comply with the President’s wishes, the man obviously knew he could be disbarred for what he was doing and just as obviously, wanted to curry some favor with the side most in a position to do him the most harm.

  As the deal with Braden and his partners were being finalized, the next group of dirt dealers was ushered down the hall from their suite. These were the men who were peddling information on the Administration’s dealings with the Mafia; the end of my career would be the least consequence if what they had became public. There was a half-dozen of them, all men who’d held positions of authority in Cuba under the old dictator; their leader was Ramon Zayas, a member of a prominent family which included one of Batista’s puppet Prime Ministers. Zayas was a former police captain in the Cuban capital, where his chief duty was to ensure that Batista’s nightly cut from the casinos made it to the President’s office first thing in the morning; his other responsibilities included making sure Trafficante’s daily take from the same establishments got safely on the plane to Miami. After the Revolution, Zayas and his cronies ended up penniless in America where they had to go hat in hand to their old Mafia bosses and beg for work; somehow he wound up in the middle of Operation Mongoose, a good place to pick up inside information. Zayas proved to be a competent detective, uncovering knowledge some men would pay very dear to know. This Zayas and his retinue, all dressed like they were going out for a night at a Havana nightclub, had done while true patriots like Harry Williams and Manual Airtime were dying to free their homeland.

  Be that as it may, Zayas strode into the room with his men behind him, all carrying satchels and cases which contained the proof positive that the administration of John F. Kennedy was involved in an ongoing conspiracy with racketeers and murderers for mutual gain. “I am not afraid of you, Mr. President,” he said upon entering, “the truth will protect me.”

  “There is no need for anyone here to be afraid,” replied Kennedy, “we’re all going to leave here as good friends; I‘m sure of it.”

  “You are no friend of the Cuban people,” Zayas spat. “Because of you, they lived years under a Communist dictator; because of you, my brother died in a hopeless battle on a beach. You could have liberated Cuba anytime, but only when your own life was nearly cut short by a bullet through the head did you act. Only when a drop of your blood was nearly spilled, not before an ocean of Cuban blood had drenched the island. Threaten me all you want, Mr. Kennedy; I will not bend for you.”

  The President sat and nodded as Zayas spoke, appearing completely unperturbed.

  “That man is telling the truth!” Harbinson shouted when the Cuban was finished. “He’s got the goods on your whole crew, enough proof to convince the world that the great JFK is in bed with the Mafia, making deals with murderers and pimps and worse while good American boys are dying in Cuba just so some crooks can get their swanky hotels and casinos back.”

  “This man is hardly speaking the truth,” said Kennedy. “To start with, he didn’t have a brother die fighting against Castro, as of this date, both of Mr. Zayas’s brothers are currently running a brothel in Panama. But just so some crooks can get their swanky hotels and casinos back?’ I’ve arranged for some pertinent people to be here tonight and set the record straight.”

  At this point, the door was opened, and Marcello, Bannister and the guy with the painted on eyebrows, whose name I later learned was David Ferrie, were ushered inside. The sight of the Mafia Kingpin of New Orleans in their midst had an immediate impact on Zayas and his crew, from the expressions on their faces, the Grim Reaper himself might as well have walked through the door.

  Marcello took in a seat in an empty sofa chair without asking permission and promptly lit up a cigar and started puffing away while Bannister and Ferrie flanked him. The Secret Service agents did a quick shuffle to reposition themselves so that some of them were between President Kennedy and a man who seriously entertained the thought of having the President assassinated.

  The President continued, “I have asked Mr. Marcello to be here to set some things straight and clear up some misunderstandings. I understand how some parties might come to believe there has been a quid pro quo between the government and men in Mr. Marcello’s line of work, but that’s not the case. Is it?”

  This was evidently Bannister and Ferrie’s cue to speak up; they began by introducing themselves as a retired FBI agent turned private investigator and a former airline pilot respectively. Taking turns, they went on to detail how they became involved in aiding Operation Mongoose to free Cuba from the grip of Castro, doing so out of a deep-seated hatred for everything Communism stood for and a proud love of America. They had worked over the past few years with a number of organizations dedicated to helping free Cuba; Bannister chief contribution being a purchaser of arms while Ferrie flew the weapons to rebel camps in Central America. In this good work, they had turned to a man who had often employed their services in the past, Carlos Marcello of New Orleans, a man who shared their desire to rid Cuba of Castro. More than once, Marcello had stepped in to provide needed financial assistance to help pay for fuel for boats and planes. Marcello had provided other assistance as well; because he was a heavy investor in Cuba before the Communists took over and a frequent visitor to the island, he had given the American government vital intelligence, also convincing his good friend, Santos Trafficante, whose knowledge of Cuba was vaster than his own, to help the government as well. At no time was there any compensation from Uncle Sam for their help in ousting Castro, nor was there any promise of compensation in the future. “Everything we did, we did out of hatred for Castro and love for our country,” was how Bannister summed it up.

  “I’ve never heard so much bullshit in my life,” was how Harbinson immediately responded. “That man,” he pointed at Marcello and said, “was nearly deported by the Kennedy Justice Department as an undesirable alien; less than a year ago he was in a Federal courtroom being tried on charges of extortion and racketeering before beating the rap. There is no way he or any of you would ever do anything simply out of love of country. You’re not patriots, you are all mobsters and worse, and you don’t get out of bed in the morning unless you’re getting paid.”

  Carlos Marcello’s response was to simply puff on his cigar and glower.

  Harbinson then turned on me. “You are a Colonel in the Marines,” he said, “and you were negotiating face to face with these gangsters. There are pictures of you with them, so don’t deny it and or say they were doctored. That won’t fly here. Tell the truth here and now; you represented this administration, you spoke for the President, and you shook hands on a deal to return to the Mafia all their hotels, and nightclubs and casinos in Havana after good American boys died liberating them from Castro. Tell the truth, Colonel!”

  It was the moment the President warned me about, the moment when a lie was to be told, and I would be required to remain silent.

  President Kennedy spoke up. “Colonel Maddox was involved in an intricate way in the planning for the invasion of Cuba, in that capacity, he spoke to many intelligence sources, among them Mr. Marcello here, and his associate Mr. Trafficante. Tog
ether, they gave us the names of many patriotic Cubans who would be most willing to aid the American military in its battle to free the island and the occupation afterward. For reasons I think you will understand, Mr. Harbinson, our contacts with these men had to be handled most delicately and confidentially. It was something which could not be done through regular channels or documented in any way. A lot of intelligence work is conducted this way, but at no time was any quid pro quo deal made with either Mr. Marcello here or Mr. Trafficante. You might have the pictures, but they tell you nothing about what was said.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” said Harbinson, “I asked the Colonel a question, and I would appreciate it if he would answer me.”

  I did not waver in my duty, not once, not on a battlefield in Korea or in a hotel room in Dallas, Texas.

  “What the President said is true, no deals were made, and if Captain Zayas says otherwise, then he is lying.” I’ll let those words stand for themselves.

  Harbinson looked at me like he was about to spit, he knew he’d lost.

  Throughout all this, Zayas and his accomplices were sweating bullets because their little attempt at a big payday at Carlos Marcello’s expense had been exposed with the man himself in the room.

  The President wrapped it up by saying he had a deal to propose: in return for a specific and substantial sum of money, Ramon Zayas would surrender all evidence he had gathered on any purported collaboration between the Administration and the Mafia. This was not to taken as a confirmation of validity by the President, simply as a preventive matter in an election year. “We’ll even dress it up as one of Mr. Harbinson’s lease deals,” he said, “just to make it all appear legal.”

  Zayas was more than happy to accept the offer; I think he would have agreed to anything that would have gotten him out of the presence of Carlos Marcello. It again fell to Mr. Powers to usher Zayas and his cohort to the other suite, where the co-opted Mr. Andrews would get the appropriate paperwork done to make it look like Mr. Zayas had just bought the leasing rights to some oil rich land.

  Marcello, Bannister and Ferrie were escorted out a few minutes later by the Secret Service; the Mafia boss did not acknowledge anyone, except for a quick nod to the President and a hearty handshake which he gave me by reaching out and grasping my right hand as he passed. I think it was his way of saying the deal we had made over the phone was still on.

  There remained only one more group to deal with, and in fact, it was not a group at all, but one man, whose name was Murray Chotiner, who had been cooling his heels in another suite the longest time. Mr. Chotiner was a man well known to the President and was greeted like an old friend when he entered the room, so much so that Chotiner was the only one whom the President stood up for and whose hands he shook. Chotiner, unlike the others, was a man used to being in the presence of the politically powerful, and if he was intimidated in any way by the President, he didn’t show it. “Well, this is a surprise,” was the way he greeted John F. Kennedy.

  Chotiner and Kennedy were not friends or allies. They were the exact opposite. Chotiner was to another famous man what Mr. Powers and Mr. O’Donnell were to the President. Chotiner had been peddling private medical records, ones that painted a radically different picture of the President’s health than the one shown to the public. This was what he was selling to Harbinson and partners, but his presence there told us all we needed to know as to who was really calling the shots.

  Wade Harbinson made a last play in an attempt to salvage the situation. “This man cannot get away with deceiving the country like he has been,” Harbinson said to Chotiner. “You can put an end to him right here and now, Mr. Chotiner, it’s what you’ve spent years working for.” He then quoted a substantial figure if he held firm.

  President Kennedy’s response was to bring in the other man who rode up in the elevator, Dr. Mark Jacobsen, the man from whose office the records had been stolen. The doctor was to present a completely different set of records; ones which would paint the President as a man in nearly perfect health other than the afflictions known to the public. These records would make the ones in Chotiner’s possession appear to be forgeries fabricated to smear the President. Chotiner would be sent away like the rest, well compensated in return for surrendering all copies of the stolen and damaging records.

  That was the plan, but it never got that far.

  Murray Chotiner took one look at the good Dr. Jacobsen and said, “Mr. President, if you accompany me down the hall and give me at least five minutes of your time, I think it will be worth your while.”

  “Murray, you’re worth more than five minutes,” was the President’s response and he left the room with Chotiner and two Secret Service agents in tow. They were gone a lot longer than five minutes, and I cannot speak to claims that a certain former Vice President was in the other room and met face to face with President Kennedy that night. If someone else was there, I did not see him.

  What I did see was the current Vice President come into the room and sit down in the chair occupied by the President only moments before. His attention was on Harbinson, Hunt and Hoffa, all three of whom had just had the rug pulled out from under them. “You men came here tonight to make a deal,” Johnson said, “and things did not go as planned, but you don’t have to walk away empty-handed.” He then told them it was in everyone’s interest to pretend this evening did not happen. LBJ then promised complete silence from each and every participant from the Kennedy Administration and the campaign, and this could be guaranteed in return for the not inconsiderable amount of cash the three of them had brought to the hotel that night in hopes of buying information to use against the President. “Of course it was all false,” Johnson said, “complete bullshit which could easily be refuted, but there are always good people who fall for a smear job, which is why it was a necessity for the President to come here tonight.”

  Both Harbinson and Hunt became irate at hearing this, accusing Johnson of shaking them down.

  “I would think two old Texas oilmen would know an opportunity when it was laid out right in front of them,” Johnson said. He went on to explain that in return for their silence and generosity, the Administration would be willing to sweeten the deal. “Might be that your dealings with the FTC, SEC, even the mighty IR Goddamn of S will suddenly go a lot smoother. Investigations and audits could disappear or not be launched in the first place; no nasty little Feds pawing through your confidential business and prying where they don’t belong. I think you gentlemen should appreciate that.”

  Hoffa had been silence so far, but not now. “My problem is with someone named Kennedy,” he said. “My problem is with the FBI, the Justice Department and their Federal Marshalls and their Federal grand juries, the Congress and their damn son-of-a-bitchin’ investigative committees. You don’t speak for them, Lyndon. Your word ain’t any good with me.”

  “Ask the President when we’re done,” was Lyndon Johnson’s reply. “He’ll stand by every word I say.”

  “It ain’t Jack,” Hoffa retorted, “it’s that little bastard Bobby who’s the problem.” Johnson pointed out that the Attorney General was not there and his absence should speak for its self. That seemed to give Hoffa pause. I could say the three men mulled over the offer the Vice President had laid before them, but it wouldn’t be true, once they were convinced it was on the level, they simply agreed. I think they simply wanted to cut their losses and get out of there.

  Once the three men were on board, the Vice President pulled out a piece of paper from a pocket and let them read it. “I think this will give us all the legal cover we’ll need,” he said. “Let your lawyer go over it; I’m sure he’ll say the same thing.”

  The President was out of the room a good 45 minutes, when he returned, it was Harbinson who addressed him. “Mr. President,” he said, “an offer has been put to us, do you stand by it.”

  “Yes I do,” he answered without hesitation. “I say that because, even though we are bitter enemies, it is in m
y interest you leave here tonight with at least something in hand. Someone said politics is war by other means - I think that person ever heard a gun fired in anger - and what happened here was as close as we can come in this business to a nuclear exchange. Let’s go home and fight another day.”

  Then, the President offered his hand to Harbinson, who took it after some hesitation, the same for Hunt, who grimaced but shook Kennedy’s hand just the same. Jimmy Hoffa was standing with his arms folded when the President thrust his hand forward, the Teamster Boss just glared at first, but with the Justice Department spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to build a case against him, he could hardly afford an offer from the President himself to ease up on him. Hoffa took the President’s hand in the end; it is history’s loss that no photo exists to prove it ever happened.

  As I watched John F. Kennedy and Jimmy Hoffa shake hands, it sunk in how deep in this thing I was now, there would be no illusion of simply moving on from the White House staff to my next command like just another Marine officer. Done was done, and I was chained to the Kennedy’s fortunes from now on, with no key to the lock.

  I made a mental note to get in touch with Vance Harlow as soon as I got back to Washington, to say I had a lot of questions for the man is an understatement, to say the least, but try as I might, there was no finding him. As of October 1964, he simply vanished.

  Wade Harbinson

  October 1964

  There is nothing that would change the fact that Kennedy was a lying, immoral, Communist-coddling son of a bitch who was ruining America.

  Still, I do admit to more than a little admiration for the way he faced us down at the Hotel Adolphus; JFK should have been a Texan. We had him politically dead and buried, and he walked into that hotel room and resurrected himself on the spot. I still marvel at the guts it took to bring in that old bastard Marcello and Dr. Feelgood to make his accusers looks like liars. He upped the ante, and we could not help but fold in response.