BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 17-A. Jack Kennedy remembers Marilyn's passing, as Bobby relives his “Kelsey’s nuts” discussion with her. Jackie also remembers MM, at Newport, but not kindly.

J. Edgar Hoover listens to "Marilyn tapes! <https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B08NWCN6XG&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_p_kb_dp&reshareId=N1C6R6AK8XQKGJB52N77&reshareChannel=system>.

———-

CHAPTER 17-A

President Kennedy was just as shocked as the rest of the country when Marilyn’s death was announced, but he had to admit, at least to his brother, that a part of him was hugely relieved. Between the maid coming and going Bobby spoke first.

“Can’t believe she’s gone...” Bobby looked like a forlorn boy. “One minute we’re arguing and the next she’s dead.” He appeared more gaunt than usual, his face beginning to radiate a “Lincoln during the Civil War” strain. Jack Kennedy chose his words carefully .

“She wasn’t the kind of person you’d expect to live to old age, you know. Like some of those historical women – Cleopatra, Joan of Arc – she was destined for a youthful demise. Marilyn fit the mold perfectly. I’m just sorry I got you in so deep. I should have known she’d find you... irresistible.”

Bobby looked up from his drink. It was time for a confession.

“I hit her...that last night. Her head banged against the dresser and she...I guess I killed her. Lawford doesn’t think so. Said it was her sedatives. Same with the coroner. But hell...” Bobby stopped. He was really working himself up over the broad, thought JFK. He had already heard the inside story from Lawford. If Bobby had killed her, which he doubted, then so be it. The woman had come close to destroying the American Presidency, for God’s sake.

“I can’t help thinking that if we had just had a deserted island to ourselves...” said Bobby, beginning to flagellate himself with the fantasy. Jack Kennedy knew exactly where he was taking it and zeroed right in.

“And she and you would have had a litter of puppies as well. Forget making up scenarios, Bobby. Do like I do. Remember the hot times and leave it at that. She was one hell of a woman, more than any of us could handle. And she would have damn well brought down this administration if she had decided to. At least Lawford cleaned up her bedroom, got the letters and her diary out – destroyed it all, right?”

Bobby just nodded, realizing that all his complex and interesting conversations with Marilyn had gone up in smoke along with the incriminating evidence of their affair. He remembered her voice, telling him, “slow down...I need time,” making him speak slowly enough for her to carefully copy down each and every word he spoke. He had mentioned Kelsey’s nuts. She had asked what the saying meant, where it had originated, when he had first heard it, in what context, and so on. He had said it to Martin Luther King when they were discussing the safety of the marchers during the Freedom Rides. He had said he, himself, would be “as dead as Kelsey’s nuts” if he walked into a certain Mafia neighborhood.

There were dangerous streets somewhere for each and every person. At any rate, Bobby had seen Marilyn carefully print the words “Kelsey’s nuts” in her red leather book. The next time they had met she showed him a couple of carefully penned pages in her journal, one covering the personal biography of the Irish leader John Kelsey, another on the history of the Boer War, where and when the expression, derived from Kelsey’s death, had first occurred. The woman may have been a sex machine, but she also had a fine mind. Because of her keen interest in everything he said, she had made him, the Attorney General, respect his own thoughts more, believe in himself. Neither of his parents had ever given him that kind of non-judgmental respect. From them it was always, Can you do it better?

Bobby Kennedy could never earn enough love. Marilyn gave him unconditional love and support. That had been her gift. And now she was gone, along with the historical record they had created together. That thought suddenly made him extremely sad.

“Do you realize how close it all came to blowing up in our face? Jack suddenly restated, now looking directly at his brother, trying to bring him back to reality. Out of all the problems raging around him – civil rights marches, generals pushing to expand military action in Vietnam, covert activities spiraling out, worry over nuclear proliferation, along with low opinion polls adding doubts about his re-election, JFK had to admit that Marilyn’s death added up to the first lucky break in a long time.

***

J. Edgar Hoover had heard the Marilyn tapes three times, had easily distinguished the voices of Peter Lawford, Bobby Kennedy, and her ladyship. It was clear that there had been a fight, that Kennedy had hit Marilyn hard, and that her head had struck something solid, either a wall or, most likely, a heavy table. On the tape the bonk sounded hollow, but given the secret report from the LA coroner,

Noguchi, she had definitely hit her head against something pretty damn hard. It was fortunate that he and Noguchi went back a ways, had exchanged favors in the past. Once a body went through Coroner Noguchi’s office, all loose ends were tied off permanently.

Hoover sat back in his chair and happily added up all the evidence he had against the Kennedys. He had three tapes of Marilyn and the President of the United States screwing (with clear voices in each instance), and two tapes of Bobby and Marilyn chatting before, during, and after the act. Plus, he had the latest tape of the fight the night of Marilyn’s death. And, beyond that, he had records of known prostitutes entering and leaving the White House, and an accurate accounting of the drugs being peddled and administered to the Kennedys, both Jack and Jackie, by “Dr. Feelgood” Mathews. He had evidence of hard drug use; cocaine, but mainly marijuana, substantiated in interviews with D.C. call girls. When Hoover added up all that with what he knew about the senior Joe Kennedy, his rum running and earlier connections to Giancanna and the mob, it made him smile. The ammunition contained within a few filing cabinets protected him against ever being removed from office by a Kennedy.

Even if Bobby and Teddy made successful runs, got themselves elected, he’d still be sitting right there, right where he was...in a comfortable, black leather chair in his private office as Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Over the last thirty years he had built an unassailable fortress of protection. While he would have enjoyed going public with all the dirt and scandal, he knew that his position would be compromised because of how the material was collected. Hell, he was involved in illegal wire-tapping and surveillance on all fronts. But it didn’t really matter, because he had the goods, had them all by the balls. He could feel it, that invincibility .

Looking down at the laced edges of his blue skirt, Hoover felt beautiful. With his right hand he gently nudged up the hemline and came in contact with the sheer silk underpants. He’s Hoover. Hoover doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do. He knew his bets had been played at the track, sure bets that would win sure money. Winchell knew the tips were dependable and bet twice like always. When you bet on the fix it was pure, un-reportable profit. Good spending money for up the road. Money or sex, sex or money. Or power. Another hard choice if you could only have one. But J. Edgar didn’t have to choose. He had all three.

***

“Do you think I’m being...” Jackie Kennedy began, trying to put a cap on thoughts that she’d aired to her friend as they sat watching the boats off the Newport, Rhode Island.

“She seemed so unstable,” Dolores interrupted, pushing her blond hair off her forehead before taking another sip of her gin. The deck of her Newport house remained a favorite destination for Jackie, who associated Newport with beach parties, a few first kisses and happy times from her college days. Of course the simple gaiety of those early years was gone. The requirement of five Secret Service agents staking out the property for her protection didn’t lend itself to the earlier ease and naiveté. But when Jackie focused on the ocean, sunshine, the Victorian charm of the porch or her friend’s amiable face, it was pleasant enough.

“I can’t believe that Jack would have risked his Presidency to have sex with that woman.”

Jackie noticed that Dolores, in her acerbic way, sited Jack’s job as the thing most in risk, not his marriage.

“I saw something in one of those gossip rags at the supermarket,” Dolores went on. “The President and the Star” was the title, I think. But they make up that stuff every day, so I certainly didn’t believe a word of it.” Dolores actually did believe a bit more than she let on, but kept those thoughts well-hidden.

Jackie, shifted her seat a bit until she was in partial shade from the oleander tree off the side of the porch. She had heard some rumors linking Marilyn to her husband and had fumed again when reviewing coverage of his last birthday party, with newspaper clippings showing the movie star in a skin-tight sequin gown singing a breathy “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” at about the speed of a turtle. For a sex goddess, thought the First Lady, Marilyn looked a bit overstuffed. But beyond the initial disgust she felt watching the actress vamp her way through the song, Jackie had to wonder if there had been more to Marilyn’s birthday present than just the song. As best they could, Jackie’s friends had avoided discussing “Jack and women,” but she still needed some reassurance that the rumors were untrue.

“At Jack’s party...her singing! Jackie continued. It was hideous the way she went on and on with it, dragging out every word. And that dress! She looked like a reptile, all tight and slithery. I know it was supposedly all Peter’s doing, but still...” Taking another drink, Jackie looked a little frazzled and flushed.

“I guess I’ve got to give up being so jealous of a dead woman.”

“Honey, Jack’s a good looking man with a lot of charm...and power. You say your relationship has been going great lately, that he’s more attentive than ever after little Patrick died. Why not just let it go. Just relax.” Delores’ mouth opened wide in a big yawn. “If he’s banging every broad from here to Vegas there’s probably nothing you could do to stop it anyway. And Marilyn’s gone, so just let sleeping dogs lie...so to speak.”

Proud of her word choice, Dolores smiled and reached down and took another drink. “You just can’t chase him around, acting like his mother.”

Jackie didn’t answer. She let the sound of the ocean waves fill in silence for a while. Dolores picked up the signal that her friend had hit the quiet patch, as she almost always did after venting about “Jack’s chicks.” People interpreted Jackie’s silence as shyness, but Dolores knew better. Jackie’s brain was digesting the information, running its gears, checking and re-checking every connection, every part for answers.———-

(Chapter 17-B next)