01 March 2019, Part II

“[Jimmy Hoffa’s] mention of legal problems in New Orleans translated into his insistence that Carlos Marcello arrange another meeting with Partin, despite my warning that dealing with Partin was fruitless and dangerous.”

“He wanted me to get cracking on the interview with Partin. In June, Carlos sent word that a meeting with Partin was imminent and I should come to New Orleans. As [my wife] watched me pack in the bedroom of our Coral Gables home, she began crying, imploring me not to see Partin. She feared that it was a trap and that I would be murdered or arrested.”

Frank Ragano, J.D., attorney for Jimmy Hoffa, Carlos Marcello, and Santos Trafacante Jr., in “Lawyer for the Mob,” 1994

Tim stood in the door, glancing around. He hand’t changed enough to notice, other than a bit of pudge around his usual portly belly; it’s not flab, his form is shaped by genetics like my smile is shaped my grandfather’s cheeks. In pre-Ranger physical testing, his reviewer counted the bare minimum of 70 setups in two minutes; to this day, Tim sounds like that same 23 year old kid insecure about his belly, and reminds me I told him that if I were his reviewer, I would have given him fifty, at most, and he would have failed. It doesn’t matter that I ended up never going to Ranger school and Tim was one fewer than 5,000 candidates to not only graduate, but to do so in only eight weeks without being recycled for injuries.

He still had close-cropped hair (all of it, I noticed with probably the same self-consciousness he carried about his belly, and it had no grey at all, that little jerk), and with his posture, he looked like either someone in the military or someone who had spent a lot of time in the military. He was still wearing the same gold Rolex SubMariner, though at least he had swapped the shiny gold metal band, and stopped wearing that gaudy ring with it – that made him stick out like a white man’s thumb tip on Muhammed Ali’s left hand – and it now sported a old-school, black corrugated rubber one with a clasp, like mine. He was tanned; he had been focused on Latin America for at least five years, which was the last time I had seen him; he was focused on Southeast Asia then, and I hadn’t chatted with him about my trip to India yet.

He quickly noticed me – I was the only other caucasian in the restaurant – and he smiled broadly. I stood straight up, and unsuccessfully tried to tame my smile; my cheeks quivered with the sheer ridiculousness of having friends for thirty years and meeting one of them in a Havana bar for no reason other than it was fun.Tim strolled up and paused a few feet away, and said: “Dude, you’ve aged.”

“Fuck you,” I said. I scratched my grey beard and heard the crinkle above my tinitus, and I think I felt how Tim felt when I pointed out his belly.

“I’ll shave before diving,” I added.

Our bodies relaxed, our arms spread, and we each took a step forward. I was the first to speak.

“It’s good to see you, man,” I said.

“You too, brother,” he said.

We gave manly pats on the back and stepped back. I sat on a barstool with my left foot twisted under me and most of my weight on my straight right leg. Tim plopped in the seat and rested his feet on the footrest.

“Dude,” I said, nodding towards the bartender. “This guy’s a maestro with mojitos.”

Tim raised his hand and the bartender approached and Tim ordered two house mojitos. They arrived quickly, and we raised our glasses, caught eye contact (to not do so was seven years of bad sex), he tapped his on the table, and we sipped.

He said, “I still can’t get used to you drinking.”

I shrugged. “A lot of my friends do. It became a problem, but hiking the Himalayas got me back on track.”

He sipped and shook his head and said, “I still don’t understand how you got invited by the Dali Lama. How is he, by the way? The last time I saw him, his hip was fucked and we had to help him up and down.”

“He’s the same. He even wrote about it in a book recently. I didn’t meet him, though. The Tibetan University chancellor invited me last-minute.”

Tim shook his head and said he didn’t know how I did it. I stroked my beard and told him it was because I looked more mature and stately than he did.

“Well,” he said. “What’d you learn.”

I sipped my mojito and gave a smile and nod to the bartender, who was watching the level of our glasses in his periphery. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” I said. “First of all, it took me twice as long to hike the Annapurna trail as I had planned. I should have multiplied my time by pi.”

“At least you did it!” Tim said. He was right. It’s pretty hard.

“I got really sick in a small village at around 16,000 feet,” I said. “My asthma kicked into overdrive. It was during the elections, so there was no space to stay, and those Chinese-armed twats kept their machine guns pointed on us. A guy I met in Khatmandhu was there and let me stay with his family. They got me back going uphill in a week or so, but I was weezing all the way to the top, and went so slow I spent a few nights at an emergency hut shivering and wheezing. I ran out of water and had to get going.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “You’ll appreciate this.”

Tim stopped sipping and set his drink down and raised his eyebrows.

“At the summit, I was batshit delirious, but a lady that shouldn’t have been there had bad altitude sickness, and their group had been abandoned by a guide with a satellite phone while he tried to call rescue. I helped stabilizer her and shot the shit with their group – Germans and a Swiss, I think – and when the guide returned Air Assault popped into my mind!”

Tim didn’t get it.

“I remembered everything!” I said. “I scraped away snow, set up the LZ, and told the guide the angle and wind while he talked with the helicopter.”

“A helicopter that high?”

“Exactly! That’s what I thought you’d appreciate. It was a private ‘copter, about the size of a Huey, and the pilot was an old SAS dude.”

“No shit,” Tim said. “There?”

“Exactly! He landed as hard as you’d expect at 20,000 feet, but kept his cool. He had enough room for the three people and their guide, and it took a while to load them up. We were moving through molasses, and I couldn’t stop weezing.”

“But here’s the thing,” I said. “Do you remember Tanzi?

Tim’s face lit up and he said of course.

“The SAS dude told me he opened a cafe on the downhill side of the trail.”

“No shit!”

“No shit! They took off, and I mustered the strength to keep walking. About a week later I ran into him. Same dude. He took his money and bought some land and still makes that curry.”

“How’s he doing?” Tim asked.

“Like you’d expect,” I said. “But business took a hit when they built that road. Most hikers take the fast route and skip his cafe. It’s low and out of the snow, so I parked there for a week and caught my breath. Man! He can cook!”

We sipped our mojitos silently, both tasting curry from long ago. The bartender came over and offered to replenish our empty glasses, and Tim ordered another round of the same, saying it was on him.

“He still had that Gurkha,” I said. “His father’s.”

Our drinks arrived and we repeated our toast. A thought popped in my mind, and I burst into laugher and put a hand to my nose to stop mojito from flying out.

“Dude!” I said. “A buddy back in San Diego is one of the funniest people you’ve ever met. A sniper. I told him about seven years of bad sex,” I said, holding up the glass in my right hand, “and he did this:” I rotated my head and used my left hand to block my sight from anyone’s eyes. I looked back at Tim and he cocked his head, not getting it yet; he wouldn’t.

“He said, ‘since having kids, we’re not having sex at all: seven years of bad sex sounds better!”

We guffawed and Tim pulled out his phone.

“Here’s who I’m seeing now,” he said, handing me the phone.

She was a gorgeous Latina. I looked up and made a questioning look and spread my fingers apart. He nodded and I zoomed in. She had a subtle Adam’s apple; his taste hadn’t changed. Tim fucked any willing thing with a pulse and nowhere to be for a few minutes. If I every recounted all of his tales, about half of America’s senators would  probably have him killed for what he did to their daughters, a couple of sons, and a few that were ambiguous. Given the opportunity, he probably would have mounted Scruffy the White House pet.

I handed the phone back and cocked my head a bit to show I’d listen.

“I like her,” he said. “I’ll miss her when I leave.”

“When’s that?” I asked.

“In a few weeks. Your trip’s good timing.”

Another round of mojitos arrived. We toasted and chatted. My words were beginning to slur. We turned to old times, and old friends. My jaw tightened and my frown quivered. Tim and I avoided gazes and found something interesting in the bottom of our almost empty glasses. He raised his glass and spoke first.

“To Mike,” he said.

“To Mike,” I said; but instead of toasting, the glass hit the counter and I looked down and sobbed. Tim put his hand on my shoulder and waited.

“I’m sorry,” I slurred. I looked up and held up the glass and apologized: “Alcohol’s a depressant,” I said.

Tim practiced his Miranda rights. I held his gaze and said, “I tried Tim. I went and saw him and I tried.”

Tim squeezed my shoulder.

“I even got drunk with him. He kept going on about Blackhawk Down and the Ranger’s creed.”

I looked down and took a few breaths. The bar was spinning; I had drank too much. I looked back up and saw that the bartender was watching us, perplexed. I smiled and he came over. I asked for a round of pulpo papilla, and waters. Tim ordered another mojito. We toasted, and to keep my head straight I checked out his watch. I never got into Rolexes; I have one that I inherited from my Uncle Bob, and when that thought popped in my mind I thought about Wendy again: talking about Mike had gotten me thinking.

“He was on to something,” I said, sipping my water. “About ‘leave no man behind.’ He kept saying no one knew what that meant. Hollywood did more harm than good. A lot of anger.”

“There was nothing he could have done,” Time said.

I shook my head no. “That’s not the point,” I said. “It was big picture. He and I talked a lot about my trip to India. What it means to have a self – or not to. If we’re all a collected conscious or God’s children, then no man left behind meant, ‘what is it that made us human?'”

I took a deep breath and stared into Tim’s eyes and said, “Who do we help?”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I felt the point more than understood what he meant. If we’re all born the same, what makes one person worth saving and another not worth saving.” I paused for effect and said, “Or killing.”

Tim was about to say something, but I held up my hand. It wasn’t the right moment.

He changed his mind and said, “He’s right. We know that. We’re lucky. That’s what we learned from you.”

I cocked my head. I didn’t know if I was being slow from booze, or I had heard Tim say he learned something from me.

“What do you mean?” I asked

“Dude,” Tim said. “We all had it easy. Your story. Your grandfather. Iraq. That girl. You never stopped smiling.”

Tim rushed his speech. “I tell the young guys in training about you,” he said. “Not by name, but that you stuck to your guns. Rank and orders never matter.”

“I’m still and asshole,” I said. “That’s my definition of an entrepreneur: someone who never wants a boss.”

The pulpo arrived and the bartender filled our waters. We dived in, and a bowl of chips and salsa magically appeared when we were almost done.

“I told Mike I was thinking about using SERE school as a vessel to tell my grandfather’s story. And to blend it with magic. Survival is easy, knowing my dad; so’s evasion. For Resistance, I’d talk about my wrestling coach,” I said.  I paused for the punchline, and said, “and as for escape, I would play it off as nothing for someone who read books by Houdini and learned from The Amazing Randi, and who’s grandfather taught him how to break out of jails.”

Tim made a face as if he had bitten dipped a chip in the salsa and pulled out a bug. He shook his head and told me that sounded lame.

“I know,” I said. “But I need a sandwich to carry the ketchup. I thought military stuff would interest people, and I could make side comments to explain discrepancies in media.”

“For example,” I said (I was still drunk and rambling a bit). “The bit about the watch. When Big Daddy was in the marines. Hoffa said he stole it, Walter said he punched a commanding officer.”

“Ok,” Tim said. “But that’s just a record.”

“That’s my point. It’s nowhere to be found. Even his court marshal was purged; that’s why no one could find it and verity the difference. And the stories I know connect the dots – a linchpin between Hoffa’s camp and Bobby’s. I remember the story: he punched his commanding officer, then pulled the watch off his unconscious body.”

“So?” Tim asked as a friend: that’s the way he says he doesn’t see it.

“Well, it tells a lot about my grandfather at 17,” I said. “He and my uncle Doug got arrested for stealing all the guns in Woodville. Big Daddy ripped open hole in the roof of Sears and Robuck, tied a rope around Doug’s waist – he was 12 – and lowered him down. He’d walk around like a crawfish on a fishing line and collect all the hunting rifles, shotguns, and pistols. Big Daddy pulled him up, fist over fist,”

I mimicked pulling a 12 year old kid with both arms filled with guns up, fist over fist.

“When they were done, they sold the guns to Marcello’s men in New Orleans and bought a couple of motorcycles.”

I grinned and made a motion like gunning a motorcycle. “Doug said it was the best time of his life! Riding around with his big brother, finally happy after Grandpa Grady left them. When they were caught by the Woodville sheriff, Doug was let free but Big Daddy was given a choice of go to jail or join the Marines. It was the middle of World War II, and they needed men. Big Daddy read the contract,”

I leaned forward and said, “and this is important: he instantly saw a plan. He joined, and two weeks later punched out his commanding officer, knowing he’d be dishonorably discharged.”

Tim stared and shrugged.

“He signed a contract saying he had to join the marines, not stay in,” I said. “At 17 he saw loopholes like the were items on a menu. He joined, was discharged, and returned to Woodville with more street cred than ever.”

“He began negotiating contracts for workers at the sawmill. They all looked up to him – in more ways than one. They remembered what a deadbeat Grandpa was, and admired someone who stood up and took care of his family, not matter how he did it. He came home: none of the fathers who left did.”

“By the time he raped that girl, no one in town would testify. Doug says one juror blatantly said: ‘Ain’t no white man need to go to jail for anything he did to a black girl.”(Doug used another word for black.) 

That’s when he took over the truckers who were hauling lumber from the sawmill. A few years later, he was running both unions, getting paid when they Brough in trees, again when they cut them, and again when they hauled away lumber. When the trucking manager wanted to hire cheaper labor from local African Americans – this wasn’t long after slavery, by the way – he and Doug and a bunch of guys cut down a tree  so it blocked their trucks. When they stopped, they killed all the truckers and left the trucks there. A few days later, Big Daddy strolled into the trucker manager’s office and said he heard there were job openings for his guys. By the time he got to Baton Rouge Hoffa had already heard of him. The rest is history.”

“So?”

I sighed. I didn’t have anything to say.

“Anyway,” I said. “Mike didn’t get it either. But it got him on killing vs. murder again.”

“Achmed was right,” Tim said. “It’s all about definitions and who teaches you.”

“Exactly. No man left behind. The Buddha said it well, there’s no sin, only ignorance. Cause and effect.”

“It’s not that easy,” Tim said.

“How does your mom feel about that?” I asked.

“Dude,” Tim said. “Sometimes you have to clear a room.”

“You know that’s not true, Tim.” I held my gaze. The room wasn’t spinning, my tentitus was silent, and a flood of memories poured from my eyes. Tim dropped his gaze.

The bartender approached and I made the universal gesture for “check, please.” He nodded, tapped the table, and was about to begin calculating when someone ordered from the bar. Tim looked up and glanced at his watch and nodded that it was a good time to go home, but without a sense of urgency. The bartender was busy, but at least we were beginning the process. Only a few years ago, we would have seen the sun rise without glancing at our watches. We were older, and I still wanted to stay up late, but the alcohol had made me sleepy. As Shakespeare said, drink provokes the desire, but takes away from the performance.

“Hey Tim,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me with my Spanish.”

“Of course,” he said, “Anything specific?”

“I want to make a pun,” I said. “Hold on…”

I shifted my hips, reached in my pocket, and pulled out a thumb tip with a small ed silk handkerchief crammed inside.

“Holy shit!” Tim said. “You still carry those?”

I grinned and nodded vigorously.

“I want to leave a tip,” I said. I smirked and said, “Just the tip.” That got a chuckle.

I said, “And have them get the joke. ‘Thumb’ doesn’t work; is there any slang you can think of that would get the point across?”

He nodded his head no, and said he couldn’t think of anything. I asked if it would matter if I dropped the tip into their palm, if that was a play on words. I held out my palm as if I wanted him to, and he mimicked me. I dropped the tip on it and it looked like a small penis tip. Tim made a joke about that, but it was nothing I could use in Spanish to help loosen lips when I talked with people: I was looking for a classic, clean joke that the person could take home and teach his kid, a tip that kept on giving.

Nothing.

As asked if a plopping sound was something colloquial that I could work with. I took his other hand by the wrist and plopped it on top of the tip, seeing if the sound would trigger his funny bone. Nothing again. I picked up the tip and put it back in my pocket and said it was worth a shot.

The bartender came over and told us the tab was covered. I smiled and thanked him; Tim complained and made me promise to let him pay next time.

“When’s that going to be?” He asked.

“I’d like a few days to recover,” I said. “Can I text you in about two?”

He said of course, we hugged, I gathered my bags, and we walked out and parted ways.

I limped down the street, trying not to. It wasn’t just the alcohol – it had been a long two days, and I was fatigued.

I met the casa particulars family, and they were delightful. The room was better than expected: bright and airy, with double doors like my French doors, but that opened into a small courtyard, more like the Spanish style of homes. I turned off all my electronics, took a hot shower, and used the second towel as a yoga mat. Unfortunately, I had gone too long vertical or sitting, and my spine had compressed and the nerves were screaming at me. I laid down and tried to relax while my discs soaked up nutrients and puffed up again. Each day it took a bit longer, less elasticity and more placidity, and my mind went there. The Buddha was right: old age and sickness are inevitable. So’s death.

Killing is a choice, I said to myself. 

To pass time, I reflected on memories of Tim. He didn’t seem impressed with my story, but he would soon. When I was moving his hands around, I stole his watch. It was on the nightstand next to mine. When the mind’s distracted, it doesn’t notice things you’d think were blatantly obvious.

I saw the metaphor a long time ago, and I kept thinking about setting up Tim next time. That’s what kept my mind off my back. And Mike. And Wendy. It’s a useful trick.

Go to The Table of Contents

Use this later:

504 9th N.E.
Springhill, LA 71075
Aug. 17, 1996

My dear children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren,

I don’t know how to begin this. I should have written this when you were small, while it was fresh on my mind, also while your daddy was living. After someone dies, you seem to forget all the bad things and remember only the good in them. That is the way it is with my memories of Ed.

He was so charming when I met him. As Jimmy Hoffa wrote in his book, “Ed Partin could charm a snake off a rock.” It was Aug. 1949 and I was living with my sister, Mildred and her husband, Percy Cobb in Natchez, Mississippi. International Paper Company was building a mill and Percy was superintendent of construction. Ed was steward over the Teamsters, Union (I.B.T.C. and W.). He came to the house one afternoon to talk to Percy concerning the Teamsters, and that is how I met him. I was 18 years old and he was 26. I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He had blond hair, blue eyes and teeth like pearls. Keith, he looked just like you, except he was 6’2”. He didn’t smoke or drink, not even beer, and I believed every word he said. He loved to come over to Mildred’s when I babysat James Paul. I thought he would make a good father. After six weeks we were married in Fayette, Mississippi, Sept. 27, 1949.

Cynthia, I guess it was good thing I waited three years for you. Ed had not told me about his debts. He owed for three cars and we didn’t even have one. He had sold them before we married, spent the money but had not paid for the cars. He also had to spend three months in jail in Woodville, Mississippi, from October 10, 1949 until January 1, 1950. He wouldn’t tell me why; just that he was innocent. I wrote the judge a letter and he let him out. It was not until March 1964 that I found out why he was in jail.

He made about $75.00 every two weeks, which was pretty good in 1950. We moved to Pascagoula, Mississippi in the spring of 1950. The Electricians went on a strike the first week we were there. Ed drew his unemployment, $20.00 a week. We paid $8.00 per week for our rented room and shared a kitchen. It was nice, we had no responsibilities so we would go to the beach everyday and cook hotdogs or hamburgers. We started going to church and were baptized June 17, 1950. The strike lasted three months. By that time, International Paper Company, had started an addition to the mill in Natchez and we moved back there, to the Pharsalia Apartments, which were brand new and real nice, two bedrooms, kitchen, living room and bath, no air conditioning in those days. That is when we bought furniture, the old mahogany bedroom suite, sofa, chairs and tables for the living room and a red Formica top, chrome kitchen table and chairs. By this time Ed had let me start handling the money and I had him out of debt by the time you cam, Cynthia. You were the answer to my prayers. Ed was real disappointed that you were a girl. Your grandmas Foster always said she was so glad you were a girl because “Son,” (that’s what all his family called him) didn’t get his way for the first time in his life. You were so pretty and you soon won his heart because you cried after him every time he went to work.

Janice came a year later. I didn’t mind because Maurice was pregnant with Susan and we had the best time together. You and Susan were a week apart. I was going to help Maurice when she came from the hospital and then she was going to help me with Janice. I was not due until the first of August, but you came early so we had to call Mildred to come to our rescue. She was always so good to come stay with me when the first three of you were born. She stayed two weeks the next year when I had Edward. Ed was real good to go to church, he even went to Men’s training class when we lived in Natchez.

The construction ended with I.P. Company so we moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, September 1, 1953. He got a job with a construction company driving a truck, and then in March 1954, he was elected business agent and Secretary and Treasurer for the Teamsters of Local #5. He made $75.00 a week.

Baton Rouge was booming. Houses to rent were scarce. We rented a small two bedroom, kitchen, bath and living room on Ellerslie Drive, behind Memorial Stadium. By this time I was pregnant with Edward.

We were doing better financially. We bought a brand new 1954 Ford. Edward was born July 1, 1954, finally a boy. You were so precious. You had the most beautiful brown eyes and dark brown hair.

Ed began to find excuses not to go to church with us. He had union meetings on Sunday morning, so sometimes he would have them at the house and he would keep Edward while we went.

He organized Louisiana Creamery, Holsum and Sunbean Bakeries, and the Refineries that were being built between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I really think he was honest during this time.

We bought a lot on Prescott Road and in 1956 we built a house. I drew the plans and selected everything in it. Ed was very cooperative. It was just what I wanted, 2,586 square feet and a double carport. We moved in December 15, 1956. By this time we had two cars. The Teamsters had bought our 1954 Ford for Ed and we bought me a 1955 red and white Oldsmobile. I suppose that was the happiest time of my life. I really wanted another baby, now that I had this big, pretty house with two bathrooms. I was thrilled when I had you, Teresa. Especially to have one with blue eyes.

Ed bought a truck stop and restaurant on Airline Highway, in April 1959, called the J and L Truck Stop. He also bought and old house with fifty acres out in the country close to Greensburg, Louisiana. He made a garden and mad repairs on the old house. He wanted us to move in it an sell the one on Prescott. I wouldn’t agree to it. I’m sure glad I didn’t. This is when our problems started. He was gone most of the time. Always Union Business or at the Truck Stop Restaurant. Mildred Kelly was a waitress there. I began to have suspicions of her and Ed having an affair. It would make him mad and deny it when I confronted him about it.

I am so thankful you all don’t remember how abusive he was to me. Cynthia, you probably remember some. I might could have tolerated his “other women,” if he had been good to me, but the only good thing about him was his generosity with is money. He thought money could buy anything. He never cared how much money I spent and he never objected of us going to church. He wouldn’t go with us but he was good to help me get you all dress. I am thankful for that. He was continuously buying me things what I called “a peace offering.” He bought me a 1959 Impala Chevrolet and the transmission went out on it with only 80 miles on it. He wanted to have it fixed but I told him I didn’t want it, that I would keep my Oldsmobile. I later found out he had given it to Mildred Kelly. He also started my silver with a place setting and all the serving pieces. He could never save money. He thought it was made to spend. He lavished you all with toys. Edward you had a gun and that lovely knife by the time you were five years old. I guess it’s a good thing I was conservative and learned how to handle money, because by the time we separated I knew how far a dollar would go.

He seemed to blame me for everything, even the fusses you all would have. He insisted I get a maid so I hired Olivia, remember her? She worked for me until we separated.

It was in January 1960 that I knew he was having the affair with Mildred Kelly. He had to go to Washington, DC on union business. He had driven and called me on his way back to tell me he was snow bound right outside of Atlanta, Georgia and would be home when he could. I knew she was with him but when he came home he denied it. I guess he thought if I had another baby that I wouldn’t leave him, so Keith, you were on the way soon after this.

By the summer of 1960, I knew Ed was doing things that were dishonest. He had to go to Atlanta and while he was gone, C.J. Brown, a Baton Rouge realtor, called and told me that the grass needed cutting at the house we had rented on Sevenoaks Drive. I quickly asked what was the house number and he told me. This was a shock to me, so that night I went over there. Ed came to the door but he turned out all the lights and wouldn’t let me in. The next day he told me that he was hiding dynamite for Jimmy Hoffa in that house. He also told me he was on some kind of drugs. I had called your Aunt Mil to come help me decide what to do. She came and I went home with her to Pine Bluff. Ed called everyday, begging me to come home. I was gone about two weeks, but we did go back. When I got home, I realized there was something wrong with him. He tried to keep it from me, but he finally showed me where he had been stabbed, the lowest part of his stomach, a horizontal cut about six inches long. It was always a mystery as to who did it. It needed stitches but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. He had been stabbed on his shoulder about four or five months before this. He wouldn’t tell me who did it either, but wouldn’t go to the doctor. When he left in January, the cut on his stomach had still not healed. In later years, Mrs. Rankin, one of my lawyers, said he probably was bringing in some kind of drugs in the wound. It sounded horrible to me, but I never knew.

Keith, I didn’t think you would ever get here. All the rest of you had been three or four weeks early, so by November 1, I was ready, but you didn’t get here until November the 17th. I worried about you while I was in the hospital, not knowing if Ed would be home, but I had Olivia and she took real good care of you.

Keith was nine days old when Ed told me he had to go to Havana, Cuba to see Fidel Castro. I didn’t believe him, but he gave me a number at the Havana Cabana Hotel for me to call. I called and talked to him, so he was there. This was another mystery. I never knew why he went. When President Kennedy was assassinated, and Lee Harvey Oswald arrested, I really thought Ed was going to be involved, but I don’t suppose there was any connection. When he got back from Cuba, there was some argument we had every day. Marge and Orlan were so good to me, helping me decide what to do. He advised me for one and a half years to stay with him. He would talk with Ed and Ed making promises not to see Mildred Kelly anymore, but finally said that she was blackmailing him. I tried to believe him, but there was always something disturbing and a mystery.

One nite I was giving Keith a bottle. Ed was asleep. I looked down, there under the bed were his shoes with a lot of money in them. I counted it quickly, I would guess about $20,000. I put it in the drawer and the next a.m. he asked where it was. I asked him where he got it. He said it wasn’t his, that he was to pass it on to someone that was to meet him at the Palms Motel. I never knew.

He had made several trips to Chicago, he said, and then

<That’s where Mamma Jean ended her letter. She never finished her story. She passed away from breast cancer a few years later. – Love, Janice>

Footnotes: