BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 25. Judith Campbell questions Sam Giancana about death of JFK. And Leon and Sarah almost come to blows--his table manners aren't good enough for her "Kennedy sons."

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Judith Campbell met Sam Giancana three weeks after the assassination she couldn’t help bringing the late President up in conversation, angling her words so that maybe a twitch or a blink from Giancana might explain what, if anything, he knew.

“Sam, honey. I just can’t get over Jack’s death,” she began, scrutinizing his eyes closely for any sign. Seeing nothing, she continued.

“He was so young...and really didn’t do anything but have some fun in the White House...nothing to deserve getting shot.” Giancana nodded but did not speak. Campbell tried a more direct approach.

“Well, did he do something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” said Giancana, finally. He brought his cocktail glass to his lips and sipped his whiskey until the ice cubes made his teeth uncomfortably cold. “He did some good things...and some bad.”

“You two were friends. I carried envelopes between you guys more than ten times. You must have been so sad when you heard about Dallas?”

“Yes, of course I was,” Giancana answered. Then, with a short laugh, he added, “Makes me glad I don’t live in Texas!”

Campbell raised her eyebrows at him over her drink.

“Hell, it could happen to anyone down there,” he added. “It was probably just some kook...that Oswald guy...who resented Kennedy having all the money, girls, and pretty wife to come home to.”

Now it was Giancana’s turn to scope out Campbell, watch her face for traces of guilt for having been one of Jack’s mistresses. If she had any remorse at being one of the other women she certainly didn’t show it. She’s just like me, he thought. When we want something bad enough we just go over and take it. It doesn’t matter who gets hurt. And Jack Kennedy was no different. What did he care if people went to jail, died, their families suffering.

In spite of everything, Giancana knew that the Kennedys, including dear old Jack, had initiated a national campaign to wipe out crime families like his. They had sent out an army of federal agents to harass them, tail their cars, wiretap phones, follow him and others right out onto the golf links. Millions had been spent to bring him down. And the order had come, without a doubt, from that old son of a bitch himself, Joe Kennedy, a bastard too cheap to pay his marker. Giancana had a special skill for evaluating the inconsistencies of both his friends and enemies. He applied his test to the dead Kennedy.

Yes, Jack was a friend, so why had he and his brother launched their “war on crime,” made him, Giancana, a prime target? Two possibilities. One, they were covering for their dealings with criminals, trying to look good so when they finally got caught fraternizing with mob people they’d have their legal defense in place. Or two, they could have been responding to pressures from somewhere else, like Joe Kennedy for instance, who seemed to believe he could welch on the costs of Giancana’s boys stuffing voting ballots in Illinois. Where was reciprocation from the White House? Where was the loyalty?

He almost told Campbell about how he’d saved Joe Kennedy from a hit back in the ‘30’s, got it called off, but at the last minute, as he emptied his glass, he didn't feel like bothering. Besides, there were better ways of entertaining his captive audience. He grabbed Campbell and planted a firm kiss on her lips. She kissed him back before they headed off to the bedroom.

An hour later, as Giancana enjoyed the massage-action spray of hot water drumming on his shoulders, he got an inspiration. He decided then and there to kill Bobby Kennedy, Teddy, and all the rest of them. He’d just go down the line and knock off every one of the Kennedy clan, just like they had planned for him and his people. But the special touch, what he’d relish right down to his Sicilian gonads, would be to make sure that Joe Kennedy had a front row seat, got to watch as one by one his kids disappeared.

***

January 28, 1964

Nobody could get the car to start. Willy Joe had tried to jump it with cables and the motor had spun around all right, making its metallic song, the expected cadence so familiar to any service station mechanic. Hurramp, hurramp, hurramp. Yet, no combustion. Where was the spark? Finally Leon, himself, limped his way out from of the office, over to the ailing Chevy. It was a ‘53, which meant that he needed only a four or five step process to hunt down the problem.

Number one – was the coil hooked up (yes) and did it test out for a spark? (Willy Joe said, yes).

Number two – was the distributor hooked properly to the coil and were sparks snapping between the points and the plugs? (Yes again, according to Willy Joe).

Number three – were the plugs OK, good gaps and clean? Willy Joe said he’d pulled all the plugs, gapped them, and cleaned them off. OK. So maybe it was cables.

Number four – had each cable been checked? Well...maybe not as carefully as they should be, said Willy Joe. He usually believed in cables. So Leon, the expert Leon, watched as Willy Joe pulled cables as ordered, and checked each one with an electrical load, pulling and replacing each spark plug cable, the cable to the starter, the ground wire to the distributor. Everything checked out. The sparks to the plugs were real, but it just didn’t matter. The gasoline refused to ignite.

At home the car repair seemed to have meaning to Leon beyond the garage. Sarah had been cold and distant, their lovemaking sparks also refusing to fire. The only time he saw her happy or interested in something was when she was pasting or writing things into her journal. For the twins, was how she described all those activities. There was hardly anything for Leon anymore.

Back at home that evening Bela was serving dinner. There sat Sarah, her journal handy by her plate, and the twins busily trying to cover their faces with applesauce. Leon took his seat at the head of the table and forked the last two pork chops over to his plate, along with a couple of rolls, some collard greens and his own little dollop of applesauce. He was surprisingly hungry. Eagerly cutting into the chops he dipped meat in applesauce and forked it to his mouth. A couple of quick chews and down went the delicious mouthful. About halfway through the first chop, Sarah interrupted his happy feasting.

“Leon, honey, please eat slower. You’re setting a bad example for the twins.”

Startled, Leon looked up from his meal. With his mouth still full he could only glare at her. He felt he had to say something, and tried, but his words were hardly decipherable. His first response sounded like, “Whataryuhtokinbut.” A few chews and a swallow later it came out more slowly and clearly.

“What yuh talking ‘bout?”

“The twins are reaching an impressionable age and I don’t want them seeing their Daddy stuffing his face and thinking they can get away with bad manners,” explained Sarah, in a tone that aggravated Leon more than the actual words he heard. Even Bela was taken aback by her grand-daughter’s over-bearing attitude.

“Sarah!” Bela scolded, “now you’d better be nicer to this old man o’ yours. For heaven’s sake, child, he’s the one done paid fo’ dem chops!”

But nothing could deter Sarah. She knew better, that a well- bred Kennedy would never have put so much meat into his mouth, all at once. Not the Kennedy’s she’d read about and had seen photographed at fancy dinner parties, the same parties she imagined her sons would someday be attending. No, she would not tolerate them absorbing such bad habits this early in the game. She knew it was up to her, and her alone, to prepare her twins for better things.

“John and Jackson are at a very impressionable age. I read that in my books.

“They copy the people around them. And so I will continue to say something if I see bad behavior,” Sarah insisted. But she might as well have been phoning in her message from Mars.

Leon continued chewing his meat, right through the aggravation, then took a big gulp of beer. He could feel his temper rising to new heights.

“Looky here Sar,” he declared, no sweetness or humor left in his voice. “I work all day and I’ll be damned if anybody’s goin’ t’tell me how to eat my supper!” Leon then took the last big bite out of the first chop and over-stuffed his mouth in defiance. His mouth was so full he could barely find room to start the chewing process.

By the time he finally managed to swallow, Sarah had wiped off Jackson’s face and carried him over to the living room rug, returning with napkin in hand to repeat the process with John. On her face there was a look of righteous determination. She wasn’t going to tolerate anything or anyone that could adversely affect her special sons. Just as she was done settling John next to a pillow on the floor, she felt a strong hand on her arm. Leon was standing over her, eyes ablaze. Bela could be heard in the background, trying to stop the inevitable showdown.

“Now Leon, don’t yuh do nuttin’ yo be sorra fo. Just let’er go, and we’ll talk bout it. Please Lee...”

With a swing of his large arm he managed to move Sarah’s small frame over to one side, giving him room to grab John and scoop him up in his arms. With a couple of steps he carried the child back to the table, firmly installed him back into his high chair, safety strap and all.

Sarah was crying and screaming now, clutching Jackson and trying to shield him from Leon. “NO!” she shouted at Leon’s menacing face. “You can’t be allowed to teach my Kennedys bad manners!”

“What the hell yuh talkin’ ’bout...” said a stunned Leon, too confused to finish his sentence.

“These here boys are the sons of President Kennedy, not you,” exclaimed Sarah, loudly, “and that’s why I have to teach ‘em good manners!”

Bela quickly put a napkin against her lips, as a kind of protection from the strange and evil words Sarah had just spoken. Her poor girl had slipped off into some kind of fantasy world for sure, gone off the deep end...because of the recent emotional problems. Bela felt she had to say something. “Looky here, dear...” was as far as she got.

Sarah continued to clutch Jackson tighter as he started to cry. Over at the table, John had turned his head around to watch the disruption, also now beginning to cry. Bela unbelted John and lifted him out of his high chair, pulling the twin to her bosom before addressing the couple.

“Lee, honey,” Bela pleaded, “We best be gettin’ the kiddies ta bed befo we talk mo about this here stuff.”

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(Chapter 26 next)