“What?”
“Your reply is incorrect.”
“What the hell are you talking about! I am Harry Levine from the American Embassy…”
“No sir, you’re not calling from the American Embassy in London.”
“No, no, no. You’re right. Wait a minute,” said Harry. “I’m not calling from the embassy. I didn’t mean to say that. What I mean is, I’m from the American Embassy. My name is Harry Levine. My job is.. .”
“I know who you are, Mr. Levine. Where are you calling from?”
“I’m home. My flat. My apartment.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Thank you. How did you get access to this link and what is the purpose of your communication?”
“I need to speak with the President.”
“How did you get this number, Mr. Levine?”
“Who did you say you were? Lawrence who? What the hell’s going on here? I called this number to talk to the President. How I got this link and what my purpose is, is none of your goddamn business. Now, you will please put me through to the President of the United States at once.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Levine. My name again is Albertson. Lawrence Albertson. My responsibility is to take the details of your communication and report them to the President’s office and wait for a response. That response may be a written reply, which I will read to you, or it may be a message or other instruction for you, or there might be no response and, in that event, I will advise you to terminate this communication link.”
“What about the ‘response’ that brings the President on the line?”
“Mr. Levine, in my experience I’ve never encountered that response. Although I’m sure anything’s possible. If you will tell me what this is about we can get started.”
“I’ll talk only to the President of the United States,” said Harry.
The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office in the midst of a tough decision. Pencil in hand, poised to mark the appropriate box, unconvinced which way to go, he pondered the question-can Georgetown cover eleven points against Temple? It was the only game he hadn’t picked on the White House weekend college basketball pool. The games were starting in a few hours and his entry was already a day late. They’ll wait, he thought, not to begin the games of course, but for his entry sheet. I am, after all, the President of the United States. These difficult deliberations were interrupted by his secretary’s voice on the intercom.
“Mr. President, Lawrence Albertson is on ISCOM.” That meant the green phone in the upper right-hand portion of his desk, the one near the small lamp he brought with him from the Governor’s mansion. It was the phone designated International Special Communication. Therefore, ISCOM.
“This is the President,” he said picking up the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Albertson?” There followed some head shaking up and down, and “un huh” three different times. “Is that all he said?” the President asked. Another “un huh,” and then, he laughed robustly, “‘None of your goddamn business.’ He said that? Well, okay, okay Albertson. Let’s do it.”
The next sound Harry heard was the well-known, high-pitched, raspy, half-hoarse voice of the President of the United States. “What is it?”
“Sir, my name is Har…”
“I know all that already, now why am I talking to you?” As he spoke, the President decided to take Georgetown and give the points.
“Mr. President, this deals with a matter…”
“You misunderstand me,” interrupted the President. “I want to know why I am talking to you and not the Ambassador.”
“He’s not available,” replied Harry.
“It’s a long way from McHenry Brown to Harry Levine. That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I realize I’m not the Ambassador…”
“No kidding? So do I. Well you know, doesn’t matter if you were, I don’t get a lot of calls even from ambassadors on this line. This is a pretty important telephone hookup and I’m still trying to figure out what I’m doing talking to a Deputy in the legal department of the Trade Section. Can you answer me that?” demanded the President of the United States.
“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
