Philip Kerr - The Shot

‘Well, I’ll be on my way now, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.’

As Murphy went out of the bedroom, George looked down into the street. Kennedy’s apartment was on the third floor, immediately above a barber’s shop. The Senator had kept the apartment for about the same length of time he had retained George.

‘Cold day outside, Senator,’ said George. ‘But there’s quite a crowd out there already. Must be almost five hundred people.’

Kennedy sipped his coffee, and grimaced. ‘Don’t I know it. They kept me awake for most of the damn night. And I’d forgotten how soft this bed is. My back aches like the devil’s blue balls. Thank Christ we’re back at the Carlyle tonight and I can get some fucking sleep.’

O’Donnell, who had a little bit of a headache after several drinks with six Secret Service agents at the Old Brattle Tavern the night before, read the headline in that morning’s Globe , and then handed his boss the newspaper. ‘President-elect Comes Back Home for a Day. Shivering Crowd Cheers Kennedy.’

‘Shivering is right,’ said McNally. ‘It’s freezing out there this morning. Real Boston weather.’

Kennedy glanced over the front page and picked out another story. With a wry smile, he said, ‘President-elect urged to tell public about Soviet danger.’ Now he laughed. ‘What the hell do they think I’ve been doing, for Christ’s sake? Whistling Dixie? Jesus.’ He tossed aside the newspaper, ate one of the eggs, some toast, and then drained his coffee cup with little evident pleasure. ‘I hope Mrs Murphy’s going to get better,’ he said, and got out of bed wearing just his undershorts. ‘I wouldn’t like too many breakfasts like that one.’

While Kennedy showered and shaved, George opened a black, brassbound navy foot locker and removed the light-blue shirt his employer would be wearing. Beside it he placed a dark two-button blue suit — as opposed to the three buttons most American males favoured —, a navy-blue woollen tie, black socks, and black lace-up shoes.

‘How did it go with the judge last night?’ asked O’Donnell.

‘Frank Morrissey? I thought he’d never fucking leave. Boy, can that guy drink. About tonight’s speech, Kenny. How does this sound? For those to whom much is given, much is required. It doesn’t sound too much as if it’s out of Poor Richard’s Almanac, does it?’

‘What happened to the city on a hill?’ asked O’Donnell. ‘I liked that.’ Among the staff O’Donnell’s word was law. If he didn’t like something, even Kennedy was inclined to think twice about it.

‘Still in there, but that’s John Winthrop, not me. I thought I’d try to work it in somewhere. For those to whom much is given, much is required,’ Kennedy repeated, performing now. ‘And when at some future date the high court of history sits in judgement on each one of us — recording whether in our brief span of service we fulfilled our responsibilities to the state — and all that jazz. What do you think?’

McNally nodded. ‘Sounds good, sir.’

‘Thank God, I only have to speak for fifteen minutes. I think I’m getting a cold.’

When Kennedy had finished dressing, he sat down to discuss his day’s timetable with O’Donnell, McNally, and Dave Powers — another presidential aide, who was also Boston Irish. There were some who thought Powers and O’Donnell looked not unalike, the two ugly mick sisters to Jack’s Cinderella.

‘The cars come at ten,’ explained O’Donnell. ‘There are four. You’ll be in the third. We’ll get to Harvard at around ten thirty. I’ve spoken with Devereaux Josephs, president of the Board of Overseers, and he doesn’t think that part of the meeting will last longer than about an hour and a quarter.’

‘Is he an academic? I’ve forgotten.’

‘No sir, he’s an insurance executive, I believe.’

‘A Harvard man who sells insurance,’ mused Kennedy. ‘I could use some myself after that flight last night. Did you see the wingtips when we landed? They were covered in ice.’

‘At around noon, you’ll leave University Hall and walk across Harvard Yard to have lunch at the new Loeb Drama Center.’

‘Place looks like a goddamned aquarium,’ complained Kennedy. ‘And I hate drama almost as much as I hate baseball.’

‘At about two o’clock the cars will take us to Arthur Schlesinger’s home on Irving Street. By the way, all these times are contingent on how much traffic you generate. At approximately three o’clock, we’ll go to MIT.’

‘This is to hear the report from my task force on taxation, right?’

‘That’s correct, sir. After which, you have a meeting with the president of MIT, Doctor Julius Stratton, at four forty-five. Five twenty-five we get back to Beacon Hill and the State House, where you’ll be met under the archway by Ed McLaughlin. From there, we’ll proceed to the governor’s office where Volpe and an assortment of representatives and senators will greet you.’

Kennedy sighed wearily. ‘That’s it?’ He grinned.

‘Yes sir. Incidentally, according to the Globe you’ll be the first President or President-elect to address the Massachusetts Legislature since Taft, in nineteen twelve.’

‘Taft?’ Kennedy looked displeased. ‘Worst president of the century.’

‘Yes sir,’ grinned O’Donnell. ‘Seven o’clock, we fly back to New York.’

‘And not a moment too soon, by the sound of it. We’ll need some fun after a day like today, eh Dave?’

‘Yes sir. You’ve got your work cut out today. Just like being back on the campaign trail.’

‘We survived that, didn’t we? We’ll survive this, I guess.’

At nine fifty the Secret Service rang up from the vestibule to say that the cars from Boston Ford were outside.

George Thomas looked at his boss and asked him if he’d like a topcoat and a hat. ‘The crowd’s the only warm thing out there this morning,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget you’ll be walking some, too.’

‘George,’ said Kennedy. ‘When have you ever seen me wearing a hat? Besides, who needs a coat when you have the Secret Service to keep the chill off?’

In the tiny elevator on the way down to the only slightly larger vestibule, Kennedy said to O’Donnell, ‘Remind me once again, Kenny. That old bat who’s my neighbour. The one who shook my hand last night. I’ve been trying to remember her name.’

O’Donnell flicked through some pages that were attached to his clipboard. ‘Mary Jenkins,’ he said, at last. ‘She’s a schoolteacher.’

‘And the guy who cooked my breakfast again?’

‘Joe Murphy.’

Both Murphy and Mary Jenkins were in the vestibule, waiting to see him off, as Kennedy had known they would be, along with Police Commissioner Leo Sullivan, his secretary Charlie Hoare, the Middlesex County Sheriff Howard Fitzpatrick, and a phalanx of Secret Service agents. Kennedy shook a few hands and, flanked by agents, walked out of the front door to greet the cheering crowd. He waved and smiled, before being hustled into the waiting car.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, as the door closed. ‘George was right. It’s fucking cold today. I think I’ve been too long in Palm Beach, Dave. That’s what it is. I’m not properly acclimatised.’

The four-car motorcade headed down Joy Street along Cambridge Street to Storrow Drive — a route that was heavily guarded by Boston MDC and, after they crossed Longfellow Bridge, by Cambridge police too. At Harvard, the motorcade entered the campus through the Widener main gate on Massachusetts Avenue, and travelled through the Yard’s east quadrangle, which was already full of students eager to get a look at the university’s most famous alumnus.

‘This is almost embarrassing,’ Kennedy said with a chuckle. ‘I was not a very good student at Harvard. Swimming was my best subject.’