BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 19 & 20. KKK bombings are known to J. Edgar Hoover (he suppresses evidence), JFK hit is set in motion, just as Rudy quits his job (he's Seattle bound to track down Sarah).

https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1980/02/19/hoover-withheld-data-in-klan-case/da823b7d-ab9b-49e2-bec1-3663d240aa2c/

CHAPTER NINETEEN

September 14, 1963

The night was quiet except for the clicking of crickets out past the screen door. FBI undercover agent Rowe’s superior in the KKK, Robert Chambliss, was hard at work assembling the dynamite sticks and connecting then in the order necessary for good detonation. He heard the light footsteps of his eight-year-old niece, Betty Jo, and turned to her as she approached, full of curiosity.

“Wait until Sunday, and they’ll beg to be segregated,” said Chambliss, sweat dripping from his face to his hands. “Now you run along, little gal, and let old uncle finish up here.”

In front of Chambliss was a large pile of explosives, enough firepower to eradicate a three-story building. Rowe made the call directly to Hoover before twelve midnight, like he had promised.

“Got a big one for you tomorrow. King’s church on 16th. Going up in the morning.”

Hoover had heard about the other twenty-one bombings in Birmingham since he’d infiltrated the KKK back in the late 1950’s, and figured that after the three since September first, and maybe this one, things would finally break, and begin the reversing of integration. Yeah. Keep up the pounding and people will finally get some sense in their dull heads. If the darkies weren’t so stupid they would have certainly backed off by now. Hoover had laughed when he heard the term “Bombingham.” That’s right.

Working late that Saturday night, finishing up early Sunday, a team of four KKK members, Robert E. Chambliss, Bobby Frank Cherry, Herman Frank Cash, and Thomas E. Blanton installed the twenty-four sticks of high-grade dynamite under the stairwell of the 16th Street Baptist Church. The names of the perpetrators were filed with the FBI on May 13, 1965, stating that these four individuals had gone to the church that night to plant the explosives.

FBI agents Rowe’s written testimony, backed by the facts and sworn testimony, was suppressed in 1965 when Hoover blocked the prosecution of the KKK members, rejecting recommendations from the Birmingham chapter of the FBI that testimony regarding the bombing be forwarded to the prosecutors currently handling the case. In 1968 Hoover closed down the investigation. Rowe would later confess to the Senate Select Committee that the FBI had known of and had condoned his illegal KKK activities.

Indiana, 1911.

***

September 15, 1963

Sarah was sitting home in front of the TV that evening when the news and devastating images of the bombing hit the screen. The broadcast related that it was Young Day at the church and that four hundred Negroes, including eighty children, were there for the festivities. The scene looked like something out of a World War II newsreel. The church was completely destroyed, dead bodies everywhere. The injured cried out, sirens wailed, gun shots could be heard far off in the distance. There were youths throwing rocks, police shooting back. The report said that among the dead were four young Black girls, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, Cynthia Wesley, and Addie Mae Collins. Sarah hugged her little boys closer to her and shuddered.

Across town, in a mostly white Birmingham suburb, thirteen- year-old Virgil Ware was riding his bike, unmindful of the events at the downtown Baptist Church. CRACK went a firearm and Ware went down, his bicycle smashing into the pavement and sliding into and partially under a 1960 Plymouth sedan parked two doors down from his house. He died later that night. Another Black teenager, Johnny Robinson, sixteen, was shot to death by a Birmingham policeman as he fled down an alley, too scared to stop on command.

President Kennedy looked down at the wire he held in his hands from Roy Wilkins, Executive Secretary of the NAACP, and started reading.

“Unless United States government offers more than picayune and piecemeal aid against this type of bestiality, Negroes will employ such methods as our desperation may dictate in defense of the lives of our people.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

November 20, 1963

The meetings had gone well, with Ferrie getting commitments from the shooters one by one, and reporting the success back to Jimmy at the motel. He was four for four, probably because of the big money involved. Hardly anyone could afford to turn down $75,000 for ten minutes of work. He had just one more man left to meet, code- named Mr. D.

The noise in the crowded downtown New Orleans clam bar would be loud enough to cover his and D’s exchange. Ferrie felt relaxed as he eased himself into a captain’s chair about half-way toward the stripper’s cage, ordered a whiskey-up, and looked at his wrist watch -- about ten minutes to go. Yessir, he’d pulled the whole deal together and soon he’d have his gambling debts erased and a fat little bundle of cash to boot. Fifty G’s. Enough cash to buy a motel or a ranch in Arizona, Nevada, maybe even in Vegas, where he could get a woman or a man for under fifty bucks, to give him those “full-body massages.”

By his second drink he felt the tinge of flushed corpuscles in the top of his head and repositioned his wig. It had probably been centered properly, but somehow the liquor always brought up that little element of doubt. Just as he finished his primping, Mr. D took a seat opposite him in the small booth. With a quick nod it was on to business. Ferrie layed it out.

“You got my message,” said Ferrie, in his usual high-pitched whine. “Twenty-five is in this envelope, another fifty afterwards. You know the target and the time, but I’ll refresh, OK?”

Mr. D just sat there listening, saying nothing. To Ferrie he looked to be in his late twenties, perhaps once athletic, but with a jowl-line already developing he looked a little out of shape. D’s stubby hands were wrapped around a whiskey glass and he rattled the ice cubes once before taking another drink. He had a hard stare for such light blue eyes.

It’s called “The P,” said Ferrie, looking for recognition, but Mr. D gave none.

“You know what “P” stands for, right?”
“Kennedy,” Mr. D answered flatly.
“Right...right,” said Ferrie, ready to spew out the plan as he knew it. “And your position will be on the overpass...right here...lift the lid and put your feet on the ladder, your angle clear, just use your arm...it can rest on... I marked it up so you could...”

Mr. D took the map and studied it for a few seconds. “These other circles...are other sticks?”

“Yes...that’s right. Four sticks plus you...all set to blow when the car hits here,” Ferrie pointed at the map, to a stretch of Dealy Plaza roadway that took a left turn at the Book Depository. Ferrie’s finger had a bit of a shake to it, so he tried to calm it down by pinching his thumb and index finger together.

Touching the map with the tips of his fingers so there’d be no mistake, he added, “Right here...at this point, everyone will let loose and he can’t be missed. We have a few birds up on this building, right here in the windows.”

“OK,” said Mr. D, holding out his hand. Ferrie knew it wasn’t there to shake. He reached into his coat pocket and scrambled around for a second before his fingers could separate the side of the envelope from the slick lining, another moment of nervousness he hardly needed. Finally he gripped the folded paper, felt the last envelope stuffed with cash. These guys were real fun to be around. Heavyweights. Who needed them as drinking buddies?

“It’s all there...I counted it again this morning,” said Ferrie, relieved to know his job was done. He watched as Mr. D walked away from the table and through the saloon doors, the Ray Charles’ song It’s All Right blaring out of the jukebox.

***

November 21, 1963

The one perk that went with the gas station job was talking to pretty girls, thought Rudy as he walked from the small heated office out into the cool afternoon and asked the blond at the pump what she needed.

“Just five dollars worth, please, and could you check the oil?” She was an attractive young woman, flashing half a smile in his direction while the Bay Area sun reflected off the shiny white top of her 1958 Plymouth.

“Sure, you got it,” said Rudy, smiling back as he circumvented the front right fender. It always gave him a buzz to check oil, look over the engine on a pretty girl’s car. When he popped and raised he hood it felt like he was lifting up her dress, peeking into the forbidden zone. And whenever they needed oil, as was the case this time, he had the added pleasure of displaying the oily dipstick, all twelve inches of hot metal, its tip dripping with the dark, viscous fluid.

“Looks like you’re down a quart,” said Rudy, presenting the findings at the driver’s window. “Know your brand?”

“Brand? Oh, it’s on the tag somewhere,” said the young woman, unlatching the door and letting it slowly swing open. “Can you read it?”

Rudy tried not to stare at her shapely calves as he hunkered down and read “Pennzoil 30” off the sticker on the doorjam. His head was so close to her body that with the smallest left rotation of his head he could have touched his nose to the fabric of her little red skirt, which at that point was draped daintily across her lap, just above the knees. Yes, he mused, he could have stuck his nose in her business, but resisted the temptation. She continued to smile in his direction, as if somehow able to read his thoughts. And he knew she knew exactly what was going through his mind. A woman could always tell when she had a man’s attention, had hooked him, and knew she could increase the allure with the smallest affectation; the subtle gesture of placing her hand on her leg, or arching her back to expand her bosom against the cloth of her blouse.

Rudy went to the garage for a can of oil and as he returned to his pretty customer he thought of Sarah and how all attractive women seemed to bring her to mind. And whenever he saw President Kennedy’s face in a magazine, or on TV, he thought of Sarah as well. He pictured her driving into the station one day and being utterly surprised to see him standing there, ready to help at the pumps. How would the conversation have gone?

Why, you look awfully familiar. Have we ever met? Sarah would say. And he would have tilted his head back and laughed.

Ever reveal something super-personal to a complete stranger?

He had rehearsed his speech often, trying to affect the greatest irony through its tone and rhythm.

Do you realize no one has believed me about you and Kennedy? Was it really true? I hope so, because it ruined my marriage, got me fired from my job, screwed up my entire life.

Back at the car he drained the can into the hole in the valve cover, replaced the cap and twisted it tight, and firmly closed the hood. Then, with a few squirts from his bottle of soapy water, he proceeded to wash the young woman’s windows, glancing past the cloth and down onto the face, breasts and lap of his customer. She seemed to watch his activity with particular interest as well, smiling to herself as his hands swooshed back and forth across the glass, first soaping and obscuring, then swiping clear with a few well-controlled strokes of his squeegie.

After she drove away he threw his dirty oil rag down on the oil drum just inside the lube station and made a decision then and there to quit his job and head up to Seattle. Sarah Land. Space Needle...land of constant rain. It was time to pop the balloon, clear up the mystery once and for all.

At 5PM, when the service station manager Dick returned to count up receipts, Rudy asked for his pay and was handed $125. He then explained he was quitting. Dick took the news as a personal slight, which was precisely what Rudy expected him to do, knowing the guy’s anal-retentiveness and Napoleonic outbursts.

“Just don’t try to come back Monday after the money runs out,” said Dick in a sour tone. “Cause I won’t be interested.”

————

(Chapter 21 next)