Part One
THE MAGIC BULLET
We’ve come to know it as the "magic bullet" theory.
The magic bullet enters the President’s back, headed downward.at an angle of 17 degrees.
It then moves upwards to leave Kennedy's body from the front of his neck – wound number two - where it waits 1.6 seconds, presumably in midair, where it turns right, then left, right, then left .and continues into Connally's body at the rear of his right armpit – wound number three.
The bullet then heads downward at an angle of 27 degrees, shattering Connally’s fifth rib and exiting from the right side of his chest – wound number four.
The bullet then turns right and reenters Connally's body at his right wrist – wound number five.
Shattering the radius bone, the bullet then exits Connally’s wrist – wound number six - .makes a dramatic U-turn and buries itself into Connally's left thigh – wound number seven -from which it later falls out and is found in almost pristine condition on a stretcher in a corridor of Parkland Hospital. .
That’s some bullet.
--- From the movie JFK
I met Nikki Reynolds for lunch on a summer afternoon in New York City.
We were sitting at an outdoor table of a restaurant called Gotham City, on Park Avenue South in the East 20s. The pasta she ordered cost $33. My hamburger was $26.50. The prices weren’t on the menu though. It was the kind of place where if you had to ask the price, you didn’t belong there. Me, I didn’t care how much the lunch cost. Nikki Reynolds was paying.
Reynolds was a New York literary agent. In another lifetime, when I’d needed a literary agent, she’d been mine. But I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. So I was surprised when she called me up out of the blue and invited me to this lunch.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to talk to you today,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
I always like to ask the tough questions first.
“I have an author with a new book – a nonfiction blockbuster about the John F. Kennedy assassination – that’s going to make big news,” she told me. “It’s very timely too, coming right after all the attention everyone paid to the 50th anniversary of the JFK killing.”
“Timely,” I said.
“The basic concept of the book is that more than a half century later, we still haven’t solved the greatest crime in our history. It’s called The Kennedy Connection. Catchy title, huh?
“Catchy,” I agreed.
“The book will reveal shocking new information about what really happened that day in Dallas and afterward.”
“Wait a minute, let me guess,” I said. “Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t really do it, JFK really isn’t dead and both of them are living secretly somewhere right now with Jim Morrison and Elvis.”
Reynolds sighed. “You know, everyone told me – ‘don’t take this to Gil Malloy. He’s a smart ass, he’s an arrogant, sarcastic son of a bitch - hell, he’s pretty much of an all-around-pain in the ass.’ I keep trying to defend you, Gil. But that’s getting harder and harder to do.”
“Some days I guess I just wake up kind of cranky,” I shrugged.
Nikki Reynolds was somewhere in her 50s, but plastic surgery and botox had taken about 10 years of that off of her face. Blonde, pixyish hair and a tight, trim body from lots of workouts at the health club. She was wearing a navy blue pinstriped pants suit; a pink silk blouse open at the collar; and a pair of oversized sunglasses that probably cost even more than the meal we were eating. The Manhattan power broker look. She looked like she belonged at Gotham City.
I had on a pair of blue jeans, a white T-shirt that I’d washed specially for the occasion and a New York Mets baseball cap. No one else in the restaurant was wearing blue jeans. Or a T-shirt or a baseball cap. When I’d walked in, someone at one of the tables had mistaken me for a busboy. I had a feeling – call it a crazy hunch – that I might be a tad underdressed for this place.
“Who’s the author?” I asked.
“Lee Harvey Oswald.”
I smiled.
“Right.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Lee Harvey Oswald is alive and a client of yours?”
“Lee Harvey Oswald Jr.”
“He had a son?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that for a second.
“I don’t remember anything about Lee Harvey Oswald having a son. Didn’t he have a baby daughter or something with that Russian woman he married?”
“Oswald had two daughters with Marina, who he married while he was living in the Soviet Union. One of them there before he returned to the U.S. Another baby girl that Marina gave birth to just a few weeks before the assassination in Dallas. There’s never been any mention of a son. Until now.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Lee Harvey Oswald had an affair. In New Orleans where he lived in the months before he went to Dallas.”
“So you’re saying ol’ Lee Harvey was as much of a horndog as JFK, huh?” I laughed.
THE MAGIC BULLET
We’ve come to know it as the "magic bullet" theory.
The magic bullet enters the President’s back, headed downward.at an angle of 17 degrees.
It then moves upwards to leave Kennedy's body from the front of his neck – wound number two - where it waits 1.6 seconds, presumably in midair, where it turns right, then left, right, then left .and continues into Connally's body at the rear of his right armpit – wound number three.
The bullet then heads downward at an angle of 27 degrees, shattering Connally’s fifth rib and exiting from the right side of his chest – wound number four.
The bullet then turns right and reenters Connally's body at his right wrist – wound number five.
Shattering the radius bone, the bullet then exits Connally’s wrist – wound number six - .makes a dramatic U-turn and buries itself into Connally's left thigh – wound number seven -from which it later falls out and is found in almost pristine condition on a stretcher in a corridor of Parkland Hospital. .
That’s some bullet.
--- From the movie JFK
I met Nikki Reynolds for lunch on a summer afternoon in New York City.
We were sitting at an outdoor table of a restaurant called Gotham City, on Park Avenue South in the East 20s. The pasta she ordered cost $33. My hamburger was $26.50. The prices weren’t on the menu though. It was the kind of place where if you had to ask the price, you didn’t belong there. Me, I didn’t care how much the lunch cost. Nikki Reynolds was paying.
Reynolds was a New York literary agent. In another lifetime, when I’d needed a literary agent, she’d been mine. But I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. So I was surprised when she called me up out of the blue and invited me to this lunch.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to talk to you today,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
I always like to ask the tough questions first.
“I have an author with a new book – a nonfiction blockbuster about the John F. Kennedy assassination – that’s going to make big news,” she told me. “It’s very timely too, coming right after all the attention everyone paid to the 50th anniversary of the JFK killing.”
“Timely,” I said.
“The basic concept of the book is that more than a half century later, we still haven’t solved the greatest crime in our history. It’s called The Kennedy Connection. Catchy title, huh?
“Catchy,” I agreed.
“The book will reveal shocking new information about what really happened that day in Dallas and afterward.”
“Wait a minute, let me guess,” I said. “Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t really do it, JFK really isn’t dead and both of them are living secretly somewhere right now with Jim Morrison and Elvis.”
Reynolds sighed. “You know, everyone told me – ‘don’t take this to Gil Malloy. He’s a smart ass, he’s an arrogant, sarcastic son of a bitch - hell, he’s pretty much of an all-around-pain in the ass.’ I keep trying to defend you, Gil. But that’s getting harder and harder to do.”
“Some days I guess I just wake up kind of cranky,” I shrugged.
Nikki Reynolds was somewhere in her 50s, but plastic surgery and botox had taken about 10 years of that off of her face. Blonde, pixyish hair and a tight, trim body from lots of workouts at the health club. She was wearing a navy blue pinstriped pants suit; a pink silk blouse open at the collar; and a pair of oversized sunglasses that probably cost even more than the meal we were eating. The Manhattan power broker look. She looked like she belonged at Gotham City.
I had on a pair of blue jeans, a white T-shirt that I’d washed specially for the occasion and a New York Mets baseball cap. No one else in the restaurant was wearing blue jeans. Or a T-shirt or a baseball cap. When I’d walked in, someone at one of the tables had mistaken me for a busboy. I had a feeling – call it a crazy hunch – that I might be a tad underdressed for this place.
“Who’s the author?” I asked.
“Lee Harvey Oswald.”
I smiled.
“Right.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Lee Harvey Oswald is alive and a client of yours?”
“Lee Harvey Oswald Jr.”
“He had a son?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that for a second.
“I don’t remember anything about Lee Harvey Oswald having a son. Didn’t he have a baby daughter or something with that Russian woman he married?”
“Oswald had two daughters with Marina, who he married while he was living in the Soviet Union. One of them there before he returned to the U.S. Another baby girl that Marina gave birth to just a few weeks before the assassination in Dallas. There’s never been any mention of a son. Until now.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Lee Harvey Oswald had an affair. In New Orleans where he lived in the months before he went to Dallas.”
“So you’re saying ol’ Lee Harvey was as much of a horndog as JFK, huh?” I laughed.
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