The Secret of the Century
by
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Lyndon ate, breathed and slept politics. Armed with a phone in each hand, cartons of cigarettes and cases of Cutty Sark, he was a whirlwind of activity. Wheedling, cajoling, entreating, Lyndon was a horse trader nonpareil. Politics was his mistress and Lyndon would smear his oversized body with oil and roll around naked on the Senate floor with her, immersing and consuming this passionate lady through every pore in his being. Lyndon loved the Senate, loved every little thing about it. Except for The Boy. The Boy stuck in his craw. The Boy had an easy grace about him that Lyndon, with all his furious energy, could never match. The Boy got laid. Regularly. With different women. Scores of them. The Boy was a nonentity, but somehow, he managed to stay above the fray. The Boy was usually absent, and when he was there, he might as well not have been. Lyndon didn't understand why The Boy existed, and much less, what he was doing in the Senate. The Boy had national aspirations, or at least his father did, and Lyndon decided that The Boy must be a test of God's will on earth for him. Yes, indeed, that must be why The Boy existed, and Ole Landslide was never one to walk away from a challenge. But Lyndon was no match for The Boy's charm or his daddy's money, and slowed by a heart attack, Johnson was forced to concede ignominious defeat at the 1960 convention. Things looked pretty bleak for Lyndon, what with The Boy ascending and all, and his own future uncertain. It wasn't that The Boy didn't like Lyndon; it was just that the two were totally different and The Boy had never had any need for him. Until now. In a strange twist of fate, The Boy had decided that Ole Lyndon would be the perfect man to balance the ticket, philosophically and geographically. Despite knowing his ancient fellow Texan, John Nance Garner's maxim, that the vice presidency wasn't worth "a warm pitcher of spit," Lyndon said he would consider the offer; he just needed time to think about it. After three or four minutes, longer than the introspective Johnson usually took on such matters, he accepted. Lyndon figured that one in every four presidents had died in office, and even though The Boy was only 43, you never knew. He'd take the odds. The deal was done. Lyndon sat in his hotel outside the convention and relaxed, for the first time in ages. He loosened his tie, took off his shoes, put his feet up on the table and sipped his Cutty Sark. No phone was attached to his ear. Perhaps there was something to this acceptance of fate, after all. Lyndon had started slipping into a blissful dream when he heard a loud rapping at the door. What could this rude interruption be at such a moment of peace? He got up, slowly walked across the room, and opened the door a crack. There he was. The Boy's little brother. The Infant. The Infant was full of fury as he pushed his way into the room. Who did this impudent little bastard think he was?
The Infant paced back and forth and without warning blurted out, "My brother wants you off the ticket, now!" Lyndon could hardly believe his gargantuan ears. Wasn't it less than twenty-four hours ago that The Boy had asked him on to the ticket, invited him of his own free will? No, this would not do. The Infant just did not compute. The Infant demanded, The Infant bellowed, The Infant threatened, The Infant was inconsolable. Lyndon watched in amazement, and though repulsed by him, decided that The Infant was more of a kindred soul than The Boy would ever be. But Lyndon had not gotten to be where he was by being bullied by petty tyrants or their self-appointed emissaries. If The Boy wanted him off the ticket, then The Boy would have to tell him himself. Lyndon made this quite clear to The Infant as the latter stomped out of the room. The call never came. And so it was that Lyndon, The Boy and The Infant joined forces in the summer of 1960 for a bumpy voyage that would change the course of history.
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About the Book
Thirteen-year-old Jacob Zuckerman accompanies his grandfather, Abraham, to Dealey Plaza, Dallas, on the morning of November 22nd, 1963, to see President Kennedy’s motorcade. While the elder Zuckerman is absorbed in filming his now historic clip, Jake turns to his right and sees a man with a rifle, standing behind the picket fence atop the grassy knoll. Jake raises his camera and captures for eternity, a picture of the man as he takes the shot that explodes the President’s head. Was it a conspiracy? You bet it was. Hatched by the New Orleans Mafia and executed by their Corsican hit men. And, by the way, including the very real compliance of Lyndon Johnson and J. Edgar Hoover, as well as the confusing entanglement of the hopeless patsy (Lee Harvey Oswald) and the hapless accessory (Jack Ruby). John F. Kennedy is killed by a man named Lucien Sartee. And Jake’s pursuit of Sartee and his cohorts halfway around the world, will help turn The Crime of the Century into The Secret of Century. This story, meticulously researched, demanded to be written. The Secret Of The Century flows out like a symphony with mind-boggling twists and unexpected connections in a delicious mixture of historical fiction, fantasy and intrigue.
About the Author
Roger Levine is a 51-year-old Boston based attorney. A long time history buff with a comedic flair, his other works include a Portnoy-esque novel, In Search of the Golden Shiksa and a travelogue featuring a pilgrimage to each American presidential gravesite (In Search of the Dead Presidents). He lives in Canton, Massachusetts, with his wife, two sons, and two cats.