Mickey Cohen had invited his guests to lunch at a high-end Chicago restaurant, for he wanted to know more about a rumour he’d heard involving a man they said was a Communist. He’d reached out to two journalists and two powerful business men, hoping they could shed some light on the subject. Businessmen, if you could call them that – arms dealers is what they were, who exported wherever they pleased, when there was a war in Vietnam, when they could get rich off the backs of American soldiers dying for their country, when it was time to push for conflict at the highest levels of power so they could keep selling arms. Somewhat oblivious, his blond wife sipped from her glass of white wine, her hair tied up in a neat bun as the waiter cleared away the shrimp tails from the table. She didn’t understand a word of whatever they were prattling on about; all she thought of was getting back to Vegas where she could gamble, feel alive and important, and be looked at as she ought. Here in Chicago she was just Mickey Cohen’s wife; a side act, a trophy. The meal wasn’t over, but Mickey Cohen’s bodyguard paid the bill, and signalled to Cohen’s wife not to react. The conversation was flowing, and the ambiance cheerful.
Mickey Cohen was a legend in Chicago. Though he’d been hauled before the courts for murders he’d never committed, everybody knew what really went on. He’d been sentenced to ten years in prison in San Francisco during Prohibition, but had been released for health reasons. Only his wife understood him, he said. He’d been accused of corruption, running hookers, organising illegal networks, associating with known felons, and money laundering – a licentious existence indeed. Cohen held everyone around him accountable for their actions, demanding explanations at will, but considered himself to be above explaining his actions to anyone, no matter who they were.
“Why did you invite us here?” one of the businessmen demanded.
“I want to know more about this guy from New Orleans,” Mickey Cohen said, politely.
“He’s just another Commie. He was handing out fliers supporting the Castro regime. The secret service knew about him. He’d been arrested a bunch of times.”
“So why not lock him up for good?” demanded Cohen. “That ain’t right...Communist papers handed out in the streets, right here in America! After the Cuba crisis Castro’s not going to risk attacking American soil. And the Soviets don’t want a war...so what’s this guy doing in New Orleans?” Cohen wondered.
“According to the Secret Service he goes by several names,” one of the journalists answered. “We don’t really know what he did, or what he was plotting with those pamphlets...just that he’s a Communist. That much we can be sure of.”
“I want a name,” Cohen said.
“His name’s Lee Harvey Oswald. At least, that’s what he calls himself now,” explained one of the businessmen.
“And Oswald is a known Communist, but I don’t think the Secret Service want to arrest him. They want to let him keep on doing his thing,” one of the journalists continued.
“Doing what thing?” Cohen demanded.
“We don’t really know, but I’ve heard it suggested could be used as a shooter for a major assassination.”
“Are you talking about Kennedy?” asked Cohen.
“We don’t know...”
“Who could assassinate the President of the USA?” Cohen went on. “You’re telling me you think this Oswald guy could do it?”
Alan Alfredo Geday