Читать книгу The Day John Fitzgerald Kennedy Past - Welby Thomas Cox Jr. - Страница 13

Ray Ray could not wait to leave the meeting.

He drove back through Denton, slowing to observe the local speed limit so as not to attract any attention and record his whereabouts on this date. He headed toward Fort Worth and then the short hop to Dallas then would drop down to Shreveport and across Louisiana into New Orleans.

It didn't take long to get to Fort Worth, where he found a pay phone and called his old friend Guy Banister, a former FBI agent who was asked to leave because of too many complaints about the use of excess force. Banister now ran a detective agency and had become the funnel for CIA dirty money supplied to anti-Castro forces efforts in the area.

In return for his work, the Agency buddied up to the local police and they looked the other way on the arms and munitions coming and going from Banister's warehouse/office on Camp Street.

Ray Ray had known Banister prior to the failed Cuban invasion. They had participated in a couple of incursions, the last being in Guatemala. Ray Ray knew Banister as a team player...even-though he was a bit greedy.

The voice on the phone was not Banister. Ray Ray recognized it as that of David Ferrie, the office queer that Banister took a liking to.

Ferrie didn't like hang-ups, though he was weighted down with them including a raging bought with brain cancer of the incurable type.

Flynt drove toward Love Field in the rented Ford Fairlane. It had been a long day and he preferred to clear his mind of the secret. But he could not get the vision from his mind, the reoccurring scene of the Presidents limo with the beautiful couple...America’s royalty out among the faithful where the sun is shining bright on the chestnut hair of the young President and his perfect white teeth are displayed as the cameras take one picture after another by devotees who line the parade route...and then a shot rings out, sending the gulls soaring...only they are aware of the danger, the President slumps forward holding his throat...Jacque feels dampness on her hand...and then she sees the blood.

Flynt turns on the radio finds a country music station and turns the music up. He reaches over opening the glove compartment and retrieves a bottle of Jack Daniels and places it between his legs to open the top. He takes a large swig and feels the liquid coat his throat as it burns its way into the stomach, the main line passage to a spot with no memories.

He wished that he had one of those great car phones which he had used in the company cars. What a treat, he could call his wife and she could help him through his funk. This didn't happen to him most of the time. Killing was old hat to him, it was his job and most of the time those he killed deserved it. But Kennedy did not...hopefully as a Catholic; the good Lord would protect him from anything going wrong. The big question was could this kid be taught to be a team player, follow the instructions and miss the President as ordered.

He thought about George and wondered if he was well enough to handle this assignment. Had there been sufficient time for him to recover from the mental collapse when he lost his job and was demoted to a desk job? He looked well enough but there was no pressure answering the phone. How would he respond to this pressure cooker?

Flynt needed this one. He was onto Cuba for reasons that were his secret and would remain this way.

He thought how nice it would be to have a driver so that he could kick back after a few more drinks and take a long nap. He had been around the world...all the hot spots and he traveled well. He had been around long enough, took enough school boy oaths that he had been accepted as a gentleman spy...not quite old school yet, but circling the wagons.

The radio announcer broke in with a news report that retired General Edwin Walker was resting well in a Dallas hospital and was expected to make a full recovery. The report went on to say that the General was under an armed guard after the attempt on his life.

Flynt remembered Walker as a radical right winger and was never comfortable around him, Walker always seemed to feel that it was his right to know the planning going on at the agency and was angered by the fact that Flynt was unable to respond.

He arrived in Metairie, just south of New Orleans. He decided to find a motel, get a nice shower and then find a spot for some shrimp and dirty rice. He then would call his wife and crash early.

It was a sultry, sticky night common to Louisiana. Flynt held his arm out the window and felt the hot air through his fingers. He flexed his hand into a fist and watched the wings of his tattoo of a bird take flight. The tattoo uniquely spread across the width of his knuckles on his left hand. If no one knew better they would think that he was a gang-banger just released from prison at Leavenworth.

He found a Howard Johnson motel, checked in and placed the call home. After which he checked in with Guy Banister making arrangements to be at his office at 9:00am.