JFK FYI

Preface

JFK FYI is a fact-based historical narrative novel that reads more like an adventure story than a history book. Still, a great deal of effort and research went into making sure everything is historically accurate so that readers can enjoy the highlights of a half-century of seemingly unrelated events and reactions. Some of those scenarios ultimately converge within a few short moments and change the course of humanity.

This novel is not an attempt to solve one of the most tragic and intricate mysteries in modern history. Nor do I have any desire to add more nonsense to all the Kennedy assassination conspiracy theories, which have been completely out of control since an hour or two after the shooting took place. I merely wish to share—summarize, really—what I have learned from many years of researching and reading about the reasons why anyone would want to assassinate one of America’s most popular presidents.

About forty years of research and reading led to the creation of JFK FYI. I estimate that I read and studied some two million words while writing this novel. While putting all the facts together, I eliminated all data sources written after the assassination, i.e., after the misinformation/disinformation became prevalent. I based this novel, except for the summary at the end, on the facts that were documented before the assassination.

For more notes and information, or to contact me, visit www.jfk.fyi

I hope you find this slice of history as enlightening as I do.

Thanks to…

The dedications found in many books have become one of my favorite things to read when enjoying someone else’s work. I find that it often provides a glimpse into the author’s mind and initiates the trust relationship that helps people connect and engage with the storyline. Now that I find myself privileged enough to owe a few debts of gratitude of my own, I feel that writing Thanks to… dedications is far more satisfying than reading them. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.

Thank you to all the people who helped me complete this novel. You know who you are. I cannot possibly list everyone who contributed in one way or another, but I would like to make an offer of genuine gratitude to a few people who played the biggest roles in helping me write JFK FYI.

I’d like to thank my two daughters and, more recently, my son, who were and are very tolerant of me spending too much time researching and writing. I was a single father for my girls back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and no doubt should have spent the time with them instead of writing, but, hindsight, right? My son is still young, but my daughters have long since grown and gone and have kids of their own, who are also perfect, so it looks like my daughters won’t get the opportunity to use all that experience they acquired practicing tolerance. Thank you, kids. Thank you for your tolerance and understanding. I love you.

My wife and I have been married for years now, and she is still my best friend. She also happens to be one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever known. She deserves far better than the likes of me, of course, but hopefully she won’t realize that for decades. She, too, has patiently tolerated too much time alone while allowing me to focus on and finish this project. She has also acted as a capable editor from time to time and always has a fresh perspective that accompanies the occasional reality check. Thank you, my Love! :*

Speaking of reality checks, my friend Janet Barfoot provided just that as well, in the form of invaluable feedback at key moments in the evolution of this manuscript. Few have read as much about this same subject as Janet, so I appreciate her insight, experience, and wisdom, even though she has never seen a single episode of Star Trek. Seriously. None of the TV series. None of the movies. Can you imagine? Shocking! But, thanks, Janet.

I wish I could somehow thank my ancient ancestors who passed on to me the drive it took to consistently work eighty to ninety hours per week. This is what has allowed me to work on projects such as this, others like it, and a couple of jobs, all at the same time. I suppose the best way to thank them is to pass on their genes to others, or maybe the best way to show my appreciation is to teach those close to me to relax. Not sure on this one.

And of course… Thanks, Mom. Just in case I’ve never said it before, or if I have not said it enough, thank you for giving me life. It has certainly been a good one!

Other Books by Gary B. Haley

The Attunist Trilogy:

What if you realized that you had the ability to truly make a difference? What if you developed the means to manipulate or kill some of the worst people society has to offer? And what if you knew that it would be impossible for anyone to prove you were responsible? How far would you go?

The Attunist Trilogy is about a man who becomes attuned to the fact that he has such abilities. As he embarks upon a crusade that closely resembles crime-fighting, drug dealers and weapons traffickers soon start turning up dead all over New York City. He seizes large sums of money from hardened criminals and uses it to take out gangs and illegal drug networks. Some of the risky and dangerous situations he gets himself into, however, do not leave him unscathed.

The Attunement

www.TheAttunement.com

The Attuned

www.TheAttuned.com

The Attunist

www.TheAttunist.com

1918, New Orleans

An eight-year-old boy with calloused hands and blistered feet stood at a candy counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked to see if anyone was watching. Alone, he loaded his pockets. Hard rock candy went into one, and boiled, salted peanuts in the other.

To justify his presence in the store, he continued to shop for an item within his means. After a moment of feigned indecision, he settled on a bottle of Coca-Cola.

He was too young to fully understand the subtleties of thievery, yet he already knew more than many seasoned criminals. The lesson plan of that moment was to avoid the attention that would prevent him from returning to that store.

As he approached the counter, drops of condensation fell from the ice-cold Coke bottle onto the wooden floor, turning patches of dust into tiny, splattered mud puddles. The old wooden floor creaked under his footfall as he realized that the only nickel to his name was at the bottom of the pocket filled with hard candy.

He stifled his panic, even though he was almost overcome with fear, but remained cool and collected. He struggled to find the nickel in the depths of the frayed pocket, which was sewn so roughly and unevenly that the nickel had become clutched in a nook in the fabric.

Walking up slowly, he took his place in line behind the only other patron in the store, a large-framed woman in her fifties buying bandages and other first-aid supplies. Long before he had found the elusive coin, the woman hurried away, taking with her his cover and an obvious story of her own.

Unconcerned about the woman and her woes, the boy, now in full view of the man behind the counter, continued to dig through the candy. A few pieces had become sticky from sweat on his palm.

The search for the nickel became a heart-pounding pivotal point in his shoplifting career. For the first time in this new way of life, he debated whether he was cut out for this edgy lifestyle. But he somehow found the courage to force his fearful feet to move forward and fill the void left by the woman.

Uncertain, and reconsidering his initial plan of simply bolting from the store, the boy set the Coke on the counter, doing his best to appear as nonchalant as a shoplifting kid could appear. He heard the muffled rattling of the candy as he groped through the depths of his pocket and wondered if the man behind the counter could also hear it. His young mind raced.

Might as well be a rattlesnake in there drawing attention to itself.

He suppressed his growing fears, knowing that if he could hear the telltale sound of the shoplifted goods, the big, burly man behind the counter could surely hear it as well. Time slowed. His heart rate scrambled.

My face is as hot as it gets when I’m out working in fields of crops.

Looking at him with something approaching impatience laced with aggravation, the man tilted his head, pursed his lips slightly, and raised his eyebrows in a silent, Well?

Finally, he found the nickel and labored to separate the sticky candy from his sweating palm. He slapped the shiny new 1918 Indian Head down on the counter, buffalo side up. He smiled his most convincing smile.

With one big finger, the storekeeper attempted to slide the nickel off the counter into his other hand, but the sticky coin hung from his finger. He wiped the nickel and his finger briskly against his overalls and dropped it into the cash register.

The boy grabbed his Coke and headed for the door. Before he could step through to freedom, he heard the man boom with the remnants of an Italian accent, That was-uh your first, your last, and your ONLY chance, boy. Do not forget about this-uh break you’re getting from me today! No?

The man’s narrowed gaze was an obvious threat. Fear welled up within the young thief again. Yet as he stepped out of the store into the bright sunshine, the budding young con man experienced exhilaration. He made his way through the dusty streets of Little Italy as fast as his blistered feet allowed him. Despite getting caught, he knew he had gotten away with stealing a couple of handfuls of goodies and elatedly thought, I know I can do it again!

Meanwhile, the son-in-law of the store owner parted with his own fifteen cents, his estimation of the worth of what he thought the boy had stolen, and paid for the merchandise.

He slammed the coins in the proper sections of the cash register tray, mumbling, A child that young ought not to have calluses on his hands and blisters on his feet.

The moment the kid had walked into the store, he had recognized the slight, blister-induced limp from his own childhood experiences as an immigrant farmer’s son, laboring every day on the plantations along the banks of the Mighty Mississippi. He stood behind the register for a long while, lost in the harsh memories of his youth.

Outside, the little hoodlum moved briskly up St. Louis St. without a care in the world. He tossed peanuts into the air and caught many of them in his mouth. Still just a child, he thought, it’s funny how the name of the street has ‘St’ at both the beginning and the end of the street sign.

As he crossed Bourbon Street on his way back to his family’s home in Metairie, he pelted a dog with a peanut.

Just over a year later, the boy walked back into the old country store, only this time he wasn’t limping, and he wasn’t there to return the kindness that the man behind the counter had shown him. Recently turned ten, the boy already had the sharpened and honed skills of a professional shoplifter.

Smoothly palming a small knife with one hand while using jerking, swiveling motions as a practiced distraction tactic with the other, he pretended to shop for hand tools. He reached out with one hand to replace one tool and pick up another while stealthily using his other hand to slip the small knife into his back pocket.

The big, burly man still worked in the store and recognized the boy as soon as he came through the door. The shopkeeper pretended to be busy dusting and straightening things behind the counter, but he was watching the boy through various distorted reflections in tins and glass containers. He had been in the merchant business long enough to recognize the distraction tactics the boy was using, and shook his head in sorrow and disgust as he watched the shoplifter slide the knife into his back pocket.

As the boy continued shopping, the shopkeeper moved stealthily out from behind the counter and sneaked up behind the known thief in the next aisle, avoiding all the particularly creaky boards in the floor. Quickly standing up, he reached over the shelving and grabbed the boy roughly by the back of the collar. The boy dropped the contents of his hands, raised both arms, and slipped completely out of his shirt. Before the man could peer over the row of shelves to figure out what had happened, the boy was almost to the door.

Thirteen months later, the little thief, determined to steal something from this man without being caught, incorporated the help of other younger Italian-heritage kids from the very area he was targeting. The boy was not only successful with this new plan, but also still found his victories rewarding, not caring a bit that each victory was someone else’s loss.

One of his favorite plans, copied from a rival gang, involved three of his adolescent followers entering a store, where two of them immediately staged a fight. During the distraction, the boy snatched things up on his way out, yelling for a nonexistent mother or father who would not answer or come running. The boy would then run all the way to a predetermined location, usually somewhere along muddy, slow-rolling waters, to meet the leader of their gang, where they both waited until the other two showed up.

On this day, a nine-year-old with bushy eyebrows ran up under a huge magnolia tree, shouting, "Calogero! Calogero! Lookee what I got!"

Calogero Minacore jumped off