Ask Not

by Max Allan Collins

  “Don’t believe I do.”

  “About the man who jumped into the cactus? ‘It, uh, seemed like a good idea at the time.’”

  That gave me a chuckle. “And now you find you have no taste for jumping into cactuses.”

  “Or caucuses.” He sighed, gave up a tiny shrug, then sipped at his bottle of Coke. “They say I’m a carpetbagger, and, uh, well, they have a point—I did move out of New York in the sixth grade. The party bosses in New York hate my guts, and the Jews think I’m anti-Semitic, like my old man.”

  I raised a finger. “Don’t forget the far left. They think you’re a ruthless McCarthyite.”

  He nodded glumly. “That’s why I don’t want to go after that nice old man, Keating, and have the press hang that ‘ruthless’ sign around my neck again.”

  “Hell, they’ll do that anyway.” Outside, the murmur seemed to be building, a low dull throbbing with occasional accents of shouts or laughter. “Maybe you owe it to that crowd out there to give it the ol’ college try. Tell ’em Keating is a Commie or a dog-fucker or something.”

  He’d been sipping the Coke and almost choked on that as he laughed. He set the bottle on the little table next to him, on an issue of Newsweek with his sullen picture on the cover. “You’re still a pisser, Nate.”

  I was loosening him up. Good.

  I shrugged. “So who cares, if they’re here for Jack? You’re the one who’s here, man. Don’t disappoint ’em.”

  He was studying me carefully, his smile still there, but having melted some. “Okay, uh, so that’s your pep talk, Coach Rockne. But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

  “No.” I met his eyes, those bluer-than-Jack’s blue-green eyes. “You know the subject we haven’t discussed, the few times we’ve talked lately.”

  “… I do.”

  “You also know that I’m probably one of the few people who’s not in government, the Mob, the John Birch Society, or some Cuban exile group who knows that a conspiracy took your brother’s life.”

  He said nothing. He wasn’t looking at me now. He was staring past me, into the past maybe or God knew where.

  I kept my voice even, and didn’t push. I let the words do that. “What went down last year in Chicago, Bob, just twenty days before your brother was killed, involved the same sorry cast as Dallas. I even met Oswald, briefly.”

  His eyes flashed to life. “What?”

  I nodded. “And guess who introduced him to me? Jack Ruby.”

  Now the eyes tightened. “The hell you say. Where?”

  “Where else? A strip club. Not in Dallas or New Orleans, but on South Wabash, in Chicago, a little less than a month before the tragedy.”

  “What was discussed?”

  “It had to do with that Hoffa matter I told you about, which isn’t pertinent. What is pertinent is that Ruby, and Oswald, who were chummy as hell by the way, knew who I was, in the greater scheme of things.”

  “Don’t be coy, Nate.”

  “This room is secure?”

  “Your man says it is.”

  “Then it’s secure.” I sipped Coca-Cola. Rolled its sweetness around in my mouth, swallowed, and said, “Ruby knew I was instrumental in putting Operation Mongoose in motion. Bragged me up to Oswald, who’d been rabble-rousing at the University of Illinois, Urbana, pretending to be a Commie.”

  Bobby’s hands had been on the arms of the chair like a king at his throne. But now those hands tightened into bony, veiny things. The darkness of the room dropped shadows into the hollows of his face and the skull beneath the skin was apparent. Seconds ticked by as he sat there brooding as the words Operation Mongoose hung in the air between us.

  “In large measure, Nate,” Bobby finally said, “that’s why I haven’t come forward. Why I have in my own, uh, measured way gone along with this Warren Commission travesty.”

  That made me sit up. “Don’t tell me you knew who Oswald was, before the assassination?”

  His silence spoke volumes.

  “Jesus! You … you knew that Oswald was part of Mongoose?”

  A man in his thirties should not have been capable of so world-weary a sigh. “Well, I knew that Oswald was one of ours. A CIA asset, an FBI asset. You don’t just defect and trot off to Mother Russia like Oswald did, then a year or so later traipse back into the country and get a warm welcome from the State Department.”

  “Why would you know about a small fry like Oswald?”

  “One of our Cuban assets brought me a photo of Oswald passing out pro-Castro leaflets in New Orleans. I’d asked this Cuban individual to keep me informed on any, uh, alarming exile activity.”

  “What was so alarming about passing out leaflets?”

  “Well, Oswald was also tight with Carlos Bringuier, an anti-Castro exile who had a strong grudge against Jack and me. We’d cracked down on Cuba raids, post–Bay of Pigs, you know. I did a little checking, learned that Oswald was a FBI asset.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “I assume he was also CIA or his Russian adventure wouldn’t have been possible. At any rate, in New Orleans he was obviously playing both sides—one day pro-Castro, the next day against. So I told my Cuban asset to, uh, steer this Oswald character a wide path—they wanted to kill him, just to see who would take his place! These Cubans are crazy, Nate.”

  “No shit,” I said, working to make my brain not explode.

  From day one, Bobby had known Oswald was no lone nut!

  “Damnit, Bob, you were still AG! Why didn’t you unleash the Justice Department on your brother’s murder, while you were still in a position to control things? And don’t tell me you were depressed, I’m sure you were, but I’m only half Irish and, Jesus, I would have stormed the gates of hell for revenge, in your place.”

  That was a little purple, but it made the point.

  Bobby had to take a few breaths not to rage back at me; but that funk of his was keeping the legendary temper in check.

  “Nate, the minute Jack was killed, my official power began to evaporate. Lyndon ignored me, wouldn’t take my goddamn calls, and Hoover? He invented new ways to fuck me over, daily.”

  “That’s not hard to believe,” I said.

  Bobby was gesturing to the murmuring window, saying, “Why do you think I’m putting up with this horseshit dog-and-pony show? First I have to get into the White House, and then I can really get this goddamn crime solved. And this Senate seat is the stepping-stone, even if it, uh, does make a goddamn carpetbagger out of me.”

  “No other reasons for waiting, Bob?”

  He frowned in irritation. “Well, of course there are. You and I both suspect that this conspiracy involves government elements. If that became common knowledge, at this juncture, it would tear the country apart! And then … well, uh, you know the rest.”

  I did know. Jack and Bobby had sanctioned Operation Mongoose, marrying the CIA to the Mob to fight a secret war against Castro, largely depending on assassinating the man code-named “The Beard.” Were that known to the public, the Kennedy legacy would not just be tarnished, but destroyed.

  And since Bobby was far more accountable for Mongoose than Jack, who had rubber-stamped it on his brother’s say-so, that made RFK—in a convoluted but inevitable manner—responsible for JFK’s assassination.

  Bobby Kennedy had been paralyzed with grief, yes … but also with guilt.

  “Anyway, on a, uh, very basic level,” he said almost casually, “I didn’t trust the FBI to investigate Dallas.”

  “I don’t blame you. But somebody should.”

  “Somebody is. In a very low-key fashion, I’ve put some of my own best people, from the Get Hoffa squad, on the case. Walter Sheridan, for one.”

  “Good choice,” I said, nodding.

  His smile came out a little forced. “And I’ve thought about, uh, hiring you, too, Nate … but I would assume you aren’t doing much fieldwork now.”

  “That’s a job I might consider,” I admitted, then sat forward. “But let me ask
you something first, Bob. This Warren Commission farce is wrapping up soon—have you testified? Or, are you planning to?”

  He shook his head. “Well, you’re right, it is a farce. My political enemies control it, I mean Dulles is an obvious CIA spy on the thing—did you know until recently Lyndon lived across the street from Hoover, and that, uh, Ladybird, Lyndon, Hoover, and Clyde Tolson would have regular Sunday dinner together?”

  “Cozy. I can just picture them holding hands and saying grace. Norman Rockwell should paint it. Or Mad magazine.”

  He smiled briefly but his expression immediately darkened and he shook his head slowly several times. “You would not believe what that fucking commission put Kenny O’Donnell through.”

  O’Donnell was one of Bobby’s best friends and advisers.

  His eyes unblinking and empty, Bobby was saying, in a voice so hushed I could hardly make out his words, “Kenny heard at least two shots fired from that grassy hillock … in front of the motorcade? So did Dave Powers—they were in the Secret Service backup car, right behind Jack. They saw and heard the whole horror, Nate. When Kenny reported what he’d witnessed to the FBI, he was informed that he was mistaken about the direction of the gunfire. He was told that the shots came from the book depository and that he should testify to that fact. They were both told that if they did not change their story, the results could be … damaging.”

  “To whom?”

  A little fatalistic shrug. “The country, I would suppose. Or possibly themselves. Still, Dave wouldn’t budge from his story, and, uh, was not then asked to testify. Kenny went along with them, though, and I asked him why he’d done that, why had he lied, and he told me he just didn’t want to stir up any more pain and trouble for my family.”

  “Did you tell him to come forward?”

  “Nate, he was under oath. He’d committed perjury. I wouldn’t ask him to do that, not when he’d been trying to do the right thing by the Kennedys. Anyway. Now is not the time for these … revelations.”

  My laugh was hollow. “What, you want to wait till your friend can correct the record, and receive a presidential pardon, huh?”

  He held up a hand like the cops outside, keeping back the crowd. “Suffice to say I have refused to testify. To avoid that, I agreed to give Warren a signed letter stating I didn’t believe there was a conspiracy behind Jack’s murder.”

  Of course, unlike Powers, he hadn’t been under oath.

  I said, “You’ve made similar statements in public.”

  “It’s what is needed at this point. I mean, there would be blood in the streets, if right now the American people found out what really happened in Dallas. Oswald the lone killer, Ruby the sorrowful nut, it’s a myth that keeps the public reassured … while in the meantime, I authorize a sub-rosa investigation.”

  “You want to know who to go after,” I said, “the day you hit the Oval Office.”

  “Correct. Which is why Steve and everyone around me is right—I need to get my head in this game.” He had a tortured expression now, as he glanced at that window. “But, Nate, they look at me and they see Jack … and I know what a joke that is.”

  “Cut that crap. Quit sniveling. And I’m not convinced you should wait till you’re President. That’s a little like me giving up sex till I can get next to Kim Novak.”

  I’d made him smile again—not that easy a task under the best of conditions.

  He said, “You, uh, are the Private Eye to the Stars, aren’t you, Nate? I would think, uh, a meeting with Miss Novak could be arranged.”

  Sooner or later, when you were hanging out with the Kennedy boys, bedding beautiful movie stars came up in conversation.

  I sat forward again. “Bob, a lot of the American people already aren’t buying the lone gunman theory. Maybe when the Warren Commission puts its report out that’ll change … but I don’t think so. People have questions.”

  “Do they?”

  “Sure! Like how can there be a lone gunman when the Parkland docs say one of the bullets entered the throat? Or how can a guy using a shitty twelve-buck mail-order bolt-action rifle squeeze off three expert shots in under six seconds?”

  “You’ve seen the same tasteless articles I have,” Bobby said, with a derisive tone and a sneer to go with it. “These so-called assassination buffs, they’re creeps and kooks, even if they have asked some of the right questions.”

  “Well, here’s one they missed—if Oswald was a pro-Castro pinko, why would he shoot a president who was trying to improve relations with Cuba? Of course, you and I know that Oswald was a CIA asset. So maybe his motive was the Bay of Pigs fiasco.”

  Irritation was showing in his face again. “Nate, stop it.”

  “This isn’t going away, Bob.”

  “I know it isn’t. And when I’m in the White House, it’s going to be exposed.”

  He meant it would be exposed when he had the power to manipulate the facts to whitewash himself and his brother in Operation Mongoose. And as the guy who had set up the first meeting between the players in that sad game, I was just fine with that.

  “Then,” I said, sitting back comfortably, “I need to tell you what I’ve been doing in Dallas the last week or so.”

  And he sat forward. Not slumping now.

  I gave it all to him, including the Billie Sol Estes cleanup effort, though I wasn’t convinced it had anything to do with the dead witnesses in Dallas, similar though the approach might be.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and shuddered. “Flo Kilgore? A gossipmonger? A silly game-show celebrity? That’s not my idea of a credible investigation.”

  That rated a laugh. “You aren’t conducting a credible investigation, Bob. You are, in your own words, mounting a very timid, sub-rosa one. Why not let Flo be your stalking horse? She’s going to do it anyway.”

  “And if you accept her job offer,” he said, thinking it through, “then you’ll know what she’s found, and you can control the situation.”

  “To some degree,” I said, nodding. “And I can report back to you. Plus keep my eye on preserving the Kennedy legacy. But I didn’t want to take her money without you giving the okay.”

  His expression remained thoughtful. “I appreciate that. But it’s not like I could stop you, Nate.”

  “If you said walk away, Bob, I’d walk away.”

  His smile was barely there, but it meant a lot. “Thank you, Nate.”

  “And I may walk away, anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  I told him how this had begun, with what appeared to be an attempt on my life disguised as a hit-and-run accident. And I told him how, afterward, I’d approached both my CIA handler and my primary Mob contact, and had been assured they were not responsible.

  “Thing is,” I said, “I promised them I’d stay out of any inquiry into the assassination, or anyway implied as much. I presented myself as a loose end not worth tying off.”

  “But now you find yourself in Texas,” Bobby said, “in the midst of what looks like a concerted effort to, uh, tie off various loose ends.”

  “Yes. A cleanup crew. Getting rid of pesky witnesses and annoying snoops. And you may have noticed that I fall into both categories.”

  He was frowning in thought, his fingertips tented. “Who do you suspect in this?”

  “Not CIA. As my handler said, if the CIA wanted me dead, I’d be dead by now. The Billie Sol aspect, if it ties in, might indicate Texas oil. But Ruby, and whether anybody can connect him to Oswald, pre-assassination, seems to be the focus.”

  “Which means mob.”

  I nodded. “Which means mob.”

  He cocked his head. “And this began with a Cuban trying to run you down.”

  “Yup.”

  “And you’re someone else who saw Ruby and Oswald together.”

  “Right.” I shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe everybody’s trying to kill me.”

  “Nate,” Bob said, some spark back in his blue eyes, “considering how long you’ve been around? Everybody�
�s got a reason.”

  “Glad I finally cheered you up,” I said.

  The sound from the window seemed to be intensifying. “You didn’t really know Jack well, did you, Nate?”

  “No.”

  “Half the days he spent on earth he was in intense physical pain—scarlet fever, terrible back pain, and just about every conceivable other ailment in between.”

  Including VD, I thought.

  “We used to joke that a mosquito took a hell of a risk biting him.” He was smiling with the memory. “On a trip around the world about ten, twelve years ago, he, uh, got so sick I thought we’d lose him. His Senate campaign? He spent it on crutches.”

  “No kidding. Did he bitch?”

  “Not once. I never heard him say anything resembling God had dealt him a bum hand. If you were close to him, you knew when he was having trouble, because his face got a little whiter, the lines around his eyes a little deeper … maybe his, uh, words a little sharper. Those who didn’t know him so well didn’t pick up on anything.”

  “If you want to honor his memory, Bob, then do me a favor and let my guy Bill Queen tighten up your security.”

  But he wasn’t hearing me. He was saying, “When that Jap destroyer sank his PT boat, Jack swam and swam, rescuing six of his crew, leading them to this small island, towing his badly burned engineer all the way. Then he went for help—he swam for two or three hours in the black cold of that water and that night, and then tread water and finally just drifted till dawn, his mind a hallucinating jumble, his only clear thought that he was going to die and then when he didn’t, it changed him. He told me so many times, ‘You’ve got to live every day like it’s your last day on earth.’”

  That had been the nobility of Jack Kennedy, all right. Also his weakness—it had put him in bed with Marilyn Monroe and Judith Exner and so many other willing women.

  But who was I to talk?

  We spent another five minutes with family chitchat, shook hands, and then I left him there, with his brother and the waiting throng.

  CHAPTER

  10

  This was the same kind of warm sunny fall day that had greeted John F. Kennedy last year when he and his wife Jacqueline and their entourage emerged from Air Force One at Love Field late on the morning of November 22. That had been a Friday. This was a Monday, just after two P.M. Traffic was medium, the tourists minimal, the citizens of Dallas at work or otherwise occupied. Meanwhile, a New Yorker named Flo Kilgore was giving a Chicagoan named Nathan Heller a tour of the most famous crime scene of the twentieth century.