The Day John Fitzgerald Kennedy Past. Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
Chapter IX
A DOUBLE AGENT
He made it to the Camp Street address in ample time, parked a couple of blocks from the office and walked back as though he was going to work. He was casually dressed in slacks and sport shirt, but still did not fit-in.
There was an elderly woman beggar, a seemingly disoriented outcast, a forgotten someone who had slipped through the cracks. Obviously disturbed she wore a heavy winter coat in eighty degree sticky, muggy weather. It had a white fur hood and she was wearing black galoshes and was pulling a grocery cart with all her precious and worldly worth.
It seemed odd to be in this warehouse section, few people here to panhandle, no restaurants or restraints or coffee houses for the easiest touches, the tourist.
Flynt watched her adjust her pace to make certain no one was behind her, moving along in a cautious manner and stopped in front of 544, using her free arm to wave people on as you might do if you had a flat on your car and were attempting to get to the emergency lane...or was it that she simply wanted a better look at them?
Flynt’s sinister wit caused him to enjoy the elderly woman’s paranoid action. Perhaps Guy Banister had hired her as the door-woman into his three story building long overdue for some new siding and paint.
Motels for half-a-buck a night, coffee roast plants, cotton and tobacco warehouses, 544 continued to be labeled the Stevedores and Longshoremen’s Hall. Banister was a smart guy; this location was the perfect site for his operation and the cast of characters who slipped in and out of the shadows with few sightings of a police cruiser.
Flynt crossed the street, ditched his smoke and went into the building handing to old woman a five spot which she fingered while casting Ray Ray a cautious look, and then a smile revealing no teeth.
Banister's office was on the second floor. He was a sixty-something tough guy look of a former cop. Twenty years with the FBI, after which he spent some time as an Assistant to the Police Chief in Baton Rouge but that lasted less than a year after it was clear to all that he was a second story operative. He went to work for Thomas Gillen who had a quasi-insurance and investigative concern and began investigating fraudulent insurance claims...stolen autos, house fires and all manner of phony health claims.
Guy loved working for Gillen who had been the former black-bag man for Governor Huey Long and any one he did not know wasn't worth knowing. He taught Guy a few tricks of the insurance fraud game and gave Guy a wide space to run his own scam connected to his favorite pastime, gun running and munitions.
Bannister waved a bottle of Old Frankfort at Flynt who shot him three fingers indicating the size of the shot. They clicked the stained cups and smiled on recognition of latter day incursion which permitted obscured use of firearms and bonus money for a kill with metals.
"You drink my whiskey, but won't tell me where you're staying and why you are here...just slip into town...wham-bam-thank-you-mam."
"I tried to call Guy but got the strange one, so
I just hung up...just in on a quick turn-around."
"I smell money." he laughed.
"Could be...if it goes down."
"Where you off to?"
"The Training Center in Virginia."
"You lead a fabled life Mick, holding the hand of pampered youth and teaching them to cut the juggler vein." They laughed.
"Some sweep floors, I kiss ass." Mick said.
"Maybe, but if you ask me, the last ass kicking you participating in, where you risked your life because of this piece of shit President. We need some answers for that action. First he does all he can to jack these exiles off with promises of training, weapons, munitions and explosives, in addition to top leadership support and most important...air cover for the landing at Blue Beach. Then he makes the movement pay. Now he gets the fucking FBI raiding our guerrilla bases, seizing all the weapons we paid for...and now the goddamn government is selling them again. Jack Kennedy went to work on his old man Joe's rape and pillage techniques which my old partner Thomas Gillen knew so well. He told me this was the most ruthless, lying, backstabbing, worthless son-of-a-bitch that God ever created."
"Have another hit Guy, and cool down before you have the big one."
"Seriously Mick, it’s like a guy goes to a police auction for stolen goods, buys an oversized bike for his kid to grow into and that night the cops show up, seize the bike and arrest the guy for stolen goods, place his kids in a foster home that is operated by a lesbian and her faggot partner and, his poor wife becomes a whore and begins selling her privates, that’s how fucking crazy this guy is. And, worst of all the congress, federal judges and prosecutors have adopted the same fucked-up mentality."
“We definitely have entered the twilight zone in this country." Flynt said.
"I promise you in fifty-years you will not recognize this country. We will have moved into a Cast-Society where the rich get richer and the blacks will own all the country south and west of Wall Street. That is, all those that are not in prison, by then we will have more prisoners and more prisons than all the other nations of the world combined...at least a quarter of a million inmates costing the taxpayers sixty grand per year.
Most of the citizens arrested for conspiracy and for "what is on their minds...”mark my words this country will make the Russians, the Chinese and Attila-the-Fuckin’-Hun look like baby sitters. This country is on a slippery slope, it doesn't begin to look like what the founders imagined, and the Constitution is nothing more than ass wipe, the federal judges in this country thumb their noses at it.
You see that old woman out front...once she had a husband, kids, lived in a lovely home on a tree-lined street in Mobile. Her husband was a vet of Vietnam. He got sick over-night with the shits and high fever. Didn't puke mind you, the poor bastard spit across the room, a vile yellow vomit...blistering hot poison...died in two days.
It was Agent Orange; the United States had sprayed the foliage with chemicals banned around the world. The government denied responsibility, would not bury this man who had given his life for this country. So the old lady began to drink and turn a few tricks to stay alive... and then some fat-assed black bitch who spoke jive bull shit waddled in and took her kids.
From then on Mick she was treated for DT’s every Monday morning. No coffee in the world strong enough to mitigate this hang-over or obscure the trauma of a broken heart."
"Sure makes you wonder where it all went wrong?"
"I let her hang out, leave the back door to the warehouse for her to sleep and use the toilet. It breaks my heart to go back there; she has two faded photos of her kids on the pallet. She collects enough around here for a little food and a quart of Mogen David. I've offered her a cot and some clean clothes but she starts yelling and accuses me of wanting to rape her.
I hold this administration responsible for the degradation and the pain, while they sip Long Island Tea at Hyannis Port and watch the gulls soar and dive into the Blue-Green Atlantic. Despising this old woman as Jacquelyn whispers in his ear,“the old bitch is nothing more than a couturiere displaying the latest fashion."
It cracks Mick up and he laughs so hard that he vomits into the trash can, dam it, just a waste of good whiskey.
“Guy, you're killing me...but I love it...you should write a book, with no sugar coating, say it like it really is." He took a sip of Kentucky bourbon and a little branch water with a lemon twist to cleanse his mouth, and continued.
"Look Guy, I don't have a lot of time, you know why I'm here?"
"I've tried to tell your people... things are tight down here, the Feds are busting our balls...not just mine but every gun runner across the south."
"Come on Guy I know you have more stash than the Cuban army."
"Mick,