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“I sort of like Kennedy,” Lee said, as if embarrassed to admit it. “In spite of the Bay of Pigs. That
was Eisenhower’s plan, you know.”
“Most of the GSA likes President Kennedy. Do you know what I mean by the GSA? I can assure
you that the rabid she-weasel who wrote Atlas Shrugged knows. Great Stupid America, that’s what I
mean. The citizens of the USA will live happy and die content if they have a refrigerator that makes
ice, two cars in their garage, and 77 Sunset Strip on their boob tubes. Great Stupid America loves
Kennedy’s smile. Oh yes. Yes indeed. He has a wonderful smile, I admit it. But did not Shakespeare
say a man can smile, and smile, and be a villain? Do you know that Kennedy has okayed a CIA plan to
assassinate Castro? Yes! They’ve already tried—and failed, thank God—three or four times. I have this
from my oil contacts in Haiti and the DR, Lee, and it’s good information.”
Lee expressed dismay.
“But Fidel has a strong friend in Russia,” de Mohrenschildt went on, still pacing. “It isn’t the
Russia of Lenin’s dreams—or yours, or mine—but they may have their own reasons for standing with
Fidel if America tries another invasion. And mark my words: Kennedy is apt to try it, and soon. He’ll
listen to LeMay. He’ll listen to Dulles and Angleton of the CIA. All he needs is the right pretext and
then he’ll go in, just to show the world he’s got balls.”
They went on talking about Cuba. When the Cadillac returned, the rear seat was full of groceries—
enough for a month, it looked like.
“Shit,” Lee said. “They’re back.”
“And we are glad to see them,” de Mohrenschildt said pleasantly.
“Stay for dinner,” Lee said. “Rina’s not much of a cook, but—”
“I must go. My wife is waiting anxiously for my report, and I’ll give her a good one! I’ll bring her
next time, shall I?”
“Yeah, sure.”
They went to the door. Marina was talking with Bouhe and Orlov as the two men lifted cartons of
canned goods from the trunk. But she wasn’t just talking; she was flirting a little, too. Bouhe looked
ready to fall on his knees.
On the porch, Lee said something about the FBI. De Mohrenschildt asked him how many times.
Lee held up three fingers. “One agent called Fain. He came twice. Another named Hosty.”
“Look them right in the eye and answer their questions!” de Mohrenschildt said. “You have
nothing to fear, Lee, not just because you are innocent, but because you are in the right!”
The others were looking at him now . . . and not just them. The jump-rope girls had appeared,
standing in the rut that served as a sidewalk on our block of Mercedes Street. De Mohrenschildt had
an audience, and was declaiming to it.
“You are ideologically dedicated, young Mr. Oswald, so of course they come. The Hoover Gang!
For all we know, they’re watching now, perhaps from down the block, perhaps from that house right
across the street!”
De Mohrenschildt stabbed his finger at my drawn drapes. Lee turned to look. I stood still in the
shadows, glad I’d put down the sound-enhancing Tupperware bowl, even though it was now coated
with black tape.
“I know who they are. Haven’t they and their CIA first cousins been to visit me on many occasions,
trying to browbeat me into informing on my Russian and South American friends? After the war,
didn’t they call me a closet Nazi? Haven’t they claimed I hired the tonton macoute to beat and torture
my competitors for oil leases in Haiti? Didn’t they accuse me of bribing Papa Doc and paying for the
Trujillo assassination? Yes, yes, all of that and more!”
The jump-rope girls were staring at him with their mouths open. So was Marina. Once he got
going, George de Mohrenschildt swept everything before him.