Free Bookmaker, The by Chris Fraser Page B

then.”
    He took a sip of his scotch and began with the words: “The first killing was by far the easiest. Hell, it probably would have happened without my intervention, but just to be on the safe side, I pulled the pin.”
    As he told me the story of Joe Kennedy Jr., his cadence remained swift, yet the tone was a somber one. He told his tale without a hint of regret or of boasting. He matter-of-factly told me how he planned and executed the murder of Joseph Kennedy Jr., the oldest and most revered of the Kennedy brood. His attention to detail was remarkable, but I sensed some embellishments throughout the story. And it was a good story, he definitely had my attention. I kept a straight face and tried to act as professional as I could. But this man I had basically just met was admitting to murder—sure, some fifty years after the fact—but a murder all the same. And even I knew that there wasn’t a statute of limitations on murder.
    But to be honest , I didn’t think much less of Preston once he told me, partly because I didn’t know the person killed—hell, I never even knew there was a Joe Kennedy Jr., I thought JFK was the oldest—but even more so because I thought he was full of shit.
    “I’ll have that drink now,” I said , trying to convince myself I was beginning to get a taste for scotch.
    “I hope this isn’t going to be too much for you. This is just the first quarter , son, I got plenty more to tell you,” Preston said, pointing to the bar.
    “No, no I’m fine, it’s just that a little nip might take the edge off is all,” I answered, getting up to make my own drink, the hierarchy established.
    “Now, I am perfectly aware that you could come to despise me for what I tell you, and I’m fine with that, but what I will need is big ears and a small mouth. There will be no judgment here, and trust me , by the time I tell you why I did what I did, you’ll wish you were driving the getaway car.”
    “Of course , Mr. Walker, strictly professional. I’m in no position to judge anyone for anything.”
    He pulled a joint out of his front -shirt pocket—this one fatter than the day before’s—and proceeded to light it up and take a hit, and then he handed it to me. I knew better than to turn him down and gently pried it from his shaking hand.
    “We still friends?” he asked.
    “Of course,” I said. “Of course.”
    When Preston turned on Sports Center, I knew we were done working for the day. I, however, still had some questions. “So you knew Joe Kennedy Jr.? He got you the job on the air force base?”
    “It wasn’t a job,” he said, looking at me like I was stupid. “He got me the assignment; I was only sixteen and at least two years younger than anyone else at the base. And hell yeah, I knew all of them Kennedys—practically grew up with them sons’a bitches.”
    Th at left me with a million questions, and as I began the barrage, he stopped me and said calmly, “We’ll go ahead and get to that tomorrow, patience my boy, patience.”
    Frustrated and confused , I sat back on the couch, took another hit, and tried to hold my tongue. This was getting interesting.
     
     
    After dinner , I went out to the back porch to have a smoke and process all I had heard. The heat was still suffocating, but the night air and singing crickets made it appear cooler—another little trick the mind plays to make our lives more palatable. This was a darkness I’d never experienced before—complete, both eerie and serene. I stared out into the pitch and felt the blackness crawling nearer, ready to engulf me, when Corynne came up from behind and startled me.
    “Didn’t eat much tonight…I think you hurt Delotta’s feelings . Didn’t say much either. Everything okay?” she asked, joining me at the railing.
    “Yeah , I’m good, just a little worn out trying to keep up with your Papa,” I said, lighting her cigarette.
    “You sure, you seem a little distant? Did Papa start in about the Kennedys?”