Bookmaker, The (17 page)

“We decided to head back to Walker Manor for a while, get away from the city and Shaw’s scheming and planning. Plus, I had a shooting range out near where the crops are now. I needed to hone my skills and teach Matador how to shoot.

“It was established that we would get weekly calls from Shaw
with status updates. He informed us that so far, everything was a go. Oswald either bought into that CIA fake-assassination story, or the $5,000 that Shaw promised him was enough to get him to do anything.

“We stayed clear of New Orleans—anonymity was crucial. We couldn’t be seen with
the men we were working with, and Oswald could never know we existed. In mid-September, Banister gave us the news—John and Jackie were going to Dallas on November 22. They’d be riding in a convertible limousine with Texas’s Governor Connelly and his wife.

“In October, we took a scouting mission to Texas. Matador and I met up with Ferrie, Shaw
, and Banister at Love Field where the Presidential entourage would arrive. We followed the route the motorcade planned on taking after they landed. For Bannister, Dealey Plaza was the obvious choice, plenty of perches and hiding places, and with Shaw’s pull, we had free reign to walk through any building overlooking the plaza. The Dal-Tex building looked good until we got to the Texas school book depository with its ideal vantage point. We checked out each floor and the view it gave and decided on the sixth floor, which was also conveniently filled with a maze of boxed books that created ideal hiding places.

“After I got a good look
, I told them it would be easy pickings hitting any slow moving target below. However, getting away would prove difficult. The shooter would be trapped. We decided this would be where Oswald would be. Shaw said he could pull some strings and get him a job a few weeks before so he’d have a legitimate reason for being there.

“With Oswald’s position set, we needed to find a spot for me and Matador, who insisted
on being by my side the whole time. We walked up and down Elm Street looking for an ideal spot to create a crossfire situation. Finally, Matador pointed out a dilapidated wooden fence near the pergola that stood about five feet tall. We walked up the grass hill, went around the fence, and leaned up against the planks and right away knew this was the place.

“As I walked up and down the fence line looking for the best spot
, the obvious occurred to me. ‘If Oswald gets apprehended and not killed in the ensuing melee afterward, what will keep him from fingering you three?’ I asked.

“They eyed each other with knowing grins. Shaw said, ‘We have that scenario covered. In no way will we be implicated by that simpleton. And as for yourself, he has no idea you exist and you have nothing to worry about.’

“‘Good to hear,’ I said, knowing he was right. The only way Matador and I could be caught was if any of those three were caught.

“‘No,’ Shaw added, ‘you just focus on a money shot and slipping away undetected and we’ll handle the rest
.’

“‘Not a problem,’ I said
, becoming aware that I wasn’t alone on this one. The first two were lone ventures and relied completely on me. It was nice to have some help, but even more so, it was nice to be a part of a team. Whether I liked these characters or not, we had the same goal in common and would all sink or swim together. And I had Matador—I wasn’t alone anymore.

“Shaw got our attention by grabbing a wooden plank and shaking it, presumably testing its strength. ‘All right, here’s what we’ll do. Next week
, I’m gonna get Oswald in at the depository building. I already gave him a $2,000 payment, and he’s drooling at the prospect of getting the other $3,000. That, and he feels like a big shot being involved with the CIA. That boy don’t have a clue. We hit the jackpot finding him. We can thank these two fine gentlemen right here for that,’ Shaw said, letting out a dry laugh and slapping the shoulders of both Ferrie and Banister, who gave no reaction. ‘Gentlemen, what do you say we go get a drink? I know a great little place downtown that just opened up.’

“‘Oh shit, let me guess, another one of your queer bars, Clay?’ Banister said
, disgusted at the prospect.

“‘Well of course, where’s your pioneer spirit
, Banister; you’ll be the first over-weight, middle-aged, straight white man to step foot in the place,’ Shaw chided.

“‘Screw you
, Clay, screw all you homos! How I got myself involved with you people is a mystery to me!’ Banister barked as we jaywalked across Elm.

“Shaw saw his opening
. ‘Well, maybe you gravitate toward us because you have some unresolved—’

“‘Fuck you
, Clay! Don’t even say it…I’m all man!’

“‘Yes
, you are, Guy. Yes, you are. Perhaps on your next assassination you can work with some God-fearing breeders, but until then, you’re stuck with us. Now let’s go get that drink.’”

* * * * *

Preston stopped there. “I’m getting tired and I’m really starting to hurt,” he grimaced and then glanced at his watch. “It’s almost 11:00pm, that’s late for me. Let’s pick this up tomorrow. You got half the story, the set up. I’ll give you the execution of the plan tomorrow, before the games. I’ll come to your place, early.”

I was disappointed he stopped. This was fascinating, a history lesson told to me by the man responsible for it.

I found the side story just as compelling. “Wow, so that’s how you met Matador?”

He stopped his arduous process of
rising to his feet and gave me a puzzled look. “After all I told you, all you want to talk about is Matador and how we met?”

“Well yeah, it’s more interesting if you know the people. I don’t know those other guys you worked with. I see Matador every day. And shit…that means you and Matador have been together for close to forty years.”

Preston made it all the way up and leaned on his cane. “Goddamn, has it been that long? Sometimes it seems a lot longer. But in all seriousness, and not to sound corny, we were meant for each other,” he said as he shuffled off to bed, letting the cane do most of the work.

Preston was true to his word—at 6:37
am the knocks were aggressive. I answered in just my boxers. He handed me a bag of bagels and went to the kitchen to make some coffee.

“Sorry so early, I know today’s a big day for you, so I figured we’d get it over with before your phone
started ringing.”

I didn’t mind, I was actually looking forward to hearing the conclusion to the story. I got dressed, he handed me a cup of coffee
, and I pushed record as we both settled into the couches.

* * * * *

“Now, as you know, the plan was in place. Everything went surprisingly smooth, and thanks to Banister’s connections in the Secret Service, we had the motorcade route timed down to the second. He even said that he would get the Secret Service men flanking the President’s car to back off as soon as they turned down Elm Street. How he did this, I have no idea, and I didn’t ask.

“At around 12:30
pm, the caravan would turn onto Elm Street through Dealey Plaza.

“
To make it easy, Oswald was told to fire his first shot from the sixth floor window at exactly 12:30pm. He’d then shoot a second shot as fast as his bolt action rifle could manage and then split. I believe Ferrie had promised to fly him to Mexico City if things got too hairy, but in reality, that was never gonna happen.

“As soon as Oswald fired his first shot, Matador and I would fire, creating a lethal triangular crossfire. Our spot on top of the grass hill behind the fence provided a perfect angle and nice coverage. The make-shift dirt parking lot directly behind it made for an easy escape.

“In attempts to prepare and nail down our timing, on two separate occasions we went across Lake Pontchartrain to Clanton, where Ferrie and Banister had a survival camp for anti-Castro Cubans training for a takeover. But once you got out there and saw the rag-tag group of under-fed and under-trained would-be revolutionaries, anyone could tell they’d never accomplish anything.

“A Napoleonic Ferrie was running the show. He had those sorry Cubans running the make-shift obstacle course, engaging in violent hand-to-hand combat with each other, and practicing their aim at a shooting range made up of hay bales and hand-drawn bulls-eyes.

“Matador and I came to shoot, and not to toot my own horn, but when Banister and Ferrie saw my shooting, they knew I wouldn’t miss. This pleased them greatly, they could plan until they were blue in the face, but if no one could hit the target, it was pointless. Matador was getting better. He’d be serviceable, we could use him. The Cubans, with their well-worn Soviet WWII rifles, made Matador look like an ace.

“On Friday, November 15, with only
one week before the President's arrival, Matador and I were holed up a half-mile from Dealey Plaza in a luxury suite in the Adolphus Hotel. Edgy and excited, we took daily walks to the plaza, scoping out the area, becoming familiar with our killing ground inch by inch, taking care not to stand out or draw attention to ourselves. The time was drawing near. The reality of what we were prepared to do grew heavier as we whiled away the hours and the days, watching westerns and chain smoking.”

“On Thursday, November 21, we met one last time with Shaw, Banister, and Ferrie once again at Sonny’s. The meeting felt rushed and unnecessary. No one at the table could hide their feelings. The nervous fear was palpable, and all involved would be relieved when it was over. Shaw informed us that Oswald had been working at the book depository for over a month, and he’d given him another grand to keep him interested. There were no chinks in the armor to speak of; everything was lined up to go off without a hitch. Now it was just the execution.

“It was the aftermath we came to discuss. This would be the last time we would ever speak or be seen with each other. Ferrie was going to disappear for a while as he was the closest link to Oswald, and Shaw and Banister—the pillars of the community that they were—would carry on with business as usual. Matador and I would leave Dallas that night and never come back. We toasted to a successful tomorrow and went our separate ways—hoping to never see each other again.
”

“On Friday morning, November 22, I pulled back the curtains to welcome the most momentous day of my life, and it was raining. I was furious; the rain would ruin everything if it didn’t let up quick. No open convertible, hell, the parade would be canceled. Matador joined me at the window and we looked out on downtown Dallas, keeping vigil, hoping the rain would let up. By 9:00am, it did. In fact, the sun came on fast and bright, drying up a soaked downtown in an hour. The news on the TV said everything would go off as planned.

“Not speaking, our eyes met, knowing the day was too big for words. We both lit up a Lucky and started. We decided on suits to fit in with the downtown business men taking a lunch break to see the President and witness history. They had no idea the history they were about to be a part of. We showered
and then cleaned and checked our weapons one last time. Even with my experience, I was becoming quite nervous of the enormity of what we were about to do. The first two were bombs that ignited miles away; this was a rifle shot from twenty feet. I couldn’t imagine how Matador felt, but I could see the apprehension in his eyes and in his nervous gestures. The chain-smoking was a dead giveaway as well, one butt lighting up the next.

“We took our time getting ready and tidying up the room so there would be no record of our true identities. After an ample continental breakfast of pancakes, sausage
, and eggs, we checked out and loaded up the unregistered black ‘59 Buick with dealer plates that I had Vernon Carter buy for me a few weeks earlier up in Tupelo.”

“At 11:00am, we drove to Love Field and then followed the map we had of the Presidential motorcade through Dallas one last time. Thanks to Banister’s connections, we identified where the Secret Service would post their agents. And confirmed, for the last time, we couldn’t do any better than behind the wooden fence up on the grassy knoll. It was an ideal spot for shooting, hiding, and escaping. We glanced up at the corner window on the sixth floor of the book depository building. The window was already halfway open with boxes stacked for a rifle perch. We hoped Oswald’s carelessness wouldn’t ruin things for us; there was nothing we could do about it now, there’d be no turning back. We pulled into the parking lot behind the wooden fence and began to walk the plaza one last time.”

“By 11:45am we were moving through the rapidly crowding plaza, I had to give Matador one last chance to back out. After all, this was my fight not his. ‘You know, you can still get out of this, just walk away right now and no hard feelings. We can meet up back in Oxford, you still have a choice.’

“Matador looked at me half
-hurt, half-confused. ‘You don’t get it, do you? If it’s something you gotta do, it’s something I gotta do. I’m not gonna let you do this alone. If you get away, I want to be there; if you get caught, I want to be there. We’re together, there’s no half-assing that. So quit it with that shit. I’m in.’

“‘All right, you’re in.’
”

“At 12:15pm we saw twin flashes of light from a hand-held mirror were signals that everything was a go. Shaw and Banister were lost in the crowd somewhere, but their message was received. We headed back to the Buick, opened the trunk, and pulled out our rifles. Of course, I would use my Mauser K98k, while Matador grabbed his disassembled Pistol Mitralia. We concealed our weapons and casually walked up to the fence. I covered Matador as he put together his rifle and we placed both our weapons underneath camouflaged rags that mixed well with the fall foliage.”

“The crowd was really starting to thicken: kids on fathers
’ shoulders; businessmen in hats, smoking cigarettes; and secretaries in bright flowered dresses, hoping to catch the President’s eye. We made it a point to take special notice of the people with cameras, both still and moving—we had to stay out of their lenses. I spied a man standing on a concrete pedestal filming the scene with an 8mm home movie camera. I then realized what we were about to do would be caught on film. Blurry, sun-stained images of murder would be available for the entire world to see, to analyze and dissect. These images would be the most watched in history; that is, if the government allowed the public to ever see it.”

“At 12:20pm, with just ten minutes to go we looked to the upper left. On the roof of the book depository, there was a large digital clock above a Chevrolet advertisement. This was what we’d use as a synchronized countdown. Our line of fire was slightly obstructed by a Stemmons Freeway sign, but we could shoot around it. The crowd was buzzing with excitement; all the action was in front of us, not a soul was behind us in the dirt parking lot. We were hidden in plain sight.”

“At 12:25pm, we could see movement in the sixth-story corner window.
Don’t fuck it up Oswald…
I could hear my adrenaline coursing through my system. Feeling the blood pumping through my veins, I willed myself to another plane of existence, a transcendent state—my way of coping with the stress.”

“At 12:26pm, I glanced over at Matador. He had an obvious shake and was trying to hide it by holding onto the top of the picket fence with both hands—he didn’t have a coping mechanism. I told him to relax; it’s just a turkey shoot.”

“At 12:27pm, the buzz was spreading amongst the crowd, they were close. No loud voices anymore—just a loud hum of hushed conversations and impatience. I felt like I was gonna throw up.”

“At 12:28pm, Matador did throw up, all over his shoes. He cleaned them with some leaves, happy to have something to take his mind off what he was about to do. We both finished our last cigarette and flicked them to the ground.”

“At 12:29pm, we could see the cloud of activity of the motorcade coming down Houston Street about two hundred yards away. When the open blue limousine turned onto Elm, everyone stopped what they were doing and perked up like prairie dogs sensing fear in an open plain. All attention was focused on the curiously slow-moving motorcade.

“Matador and I pulled out our rifles, rested them between wood planks, took aim
, and waited for Oswald’s shot. A Secret Service agent motioned for his men to stand down and the three men flanking the limousine stopped walking as the motorcade continued on, vulnerably exposed. Banister did it! I looked at Matador, he was shaking and muttering, ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…!’”

“The Chevrolet clock turned to 12:30pm—I could have sworn I heard it change. Everything went silent and we both froze with anticipation. The motorcade was passing right under the book depository. We stared up at Oswald,
‘Shoot, goddamnit! Shoot!’
The limousine moved just past the open sixth-floor window. I could see him up there ready to fire. The grinning and waving unsuspecting President was in his sights and ours.
‘Now! Shoot now!’

“The little bastard did it. His first shot ripped through the President’s neck and
passed through his chest into Governor Connelly’s back. The crowd let out a collective gasp in response to the shot and hit the ground. Matador fired and I could hear the bullet ricochet off the street, he missed. Another shot by Oswald—this boy was quick, I thought. His second shot missed badly, hitting the overpass in front of the motorcade.

“It was my turn. In slow motion
, the convertible kept coming right at me. I took aim, got his head in the cross hairs, Audrey and my father passed through my mind as I lightly squeezed the trigger. Pop, direct hit, right in the head! I could see the flap of skull expose his shattered brain, gory pieces splattering onto the asphalt. I got him! The motorcade sped forward. I grabbed Matador by the back of his jacket, shook him out of his daze, and said, ‘I got him. Now act natural, don’t panic, and pack up slowly, let’s get the fuck out of here.’ Matador didn’t say a word and did exactly as I said.

“The scene was pandemonium, everyone running this way and that, screaming and crying! Just walking away couldn’t have been easier. We made it to the Buick, got in
, and I slowly drove off. The car could’ve been on fire and no one would have noticed; all hell was breaking loose and here were two nicely dressed gentlemen leisurely driving away from the scene.”

“I drove the speed limit all the way back to Oxford. Our silence was interrupted by the car radio that kept us abreast of the breaking news. By 1:30
pm, we heard Kennedy was officially dead. This left me surprisingly void of feeling, gone was the joy from the first two jobs. Maybe the passage of time quelled my anger some, or more likely the brutal act I just committed weighed on me more than I thought it would.

“By 2:00
pm, halfway through the movie
War is Hell,
Oswald was arrested for killing officer Tippet and suspected of killing Kennedy. It was going according to plan. Oswald self-destructed. It was surreal hearing all this on the radio when we were so closely involved. By the time we got home, we were almost convinced Oswald
had
acted alone. We listened on to see if Oswald turned on anyone, nothing yet.

“At around 8:00 that evening, we pulled into the driveway at Walker Manor and were met by Vernon and Celeste with tears in their eyes
, and fifteen-year-old Delotta said, ‘Our President is dead! He did so much for our people and now they killed him, them sonsa bitches.’ It was everything I could do not to banish them from Walker Manor forever. But I couldn’t draw attention, so Matador and I just put our heads down and went to bed. We were still a little worried that Oswald would rat out Banister and Ferrie, thus getting us involved, but that all ended on Sunday morning with Jack Ruby. I never met Ruby or even heard the name before, but I knew it had Shaw written all over it. And with that it was over, we were home free.