The Day Jack Kennedy Killed Me

Sure… I remember that day. I’ll never forget it. It ain’t every day you get to see the President of the United States die in the scope of your rifle.

Now, to be fair, I didn’t shoot that fucker. I don’t think it was no Lee Harvey Oswald neither. I think it was that Halderman fella. But it don’t matter. That man was destined to die that day. That much I can promise ya. If that so-called magic bullet hadn’t got him, mine woulda done the trick.

I don’t miss.

And I had my own reasons for wanting the man dead.

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It all started a few years before that—when he was still a senator from Massachusetts, and I was getting paid good money to be a lady of the night.

Jack liked his ladies. And Jack liked his heroin.

It was late in 1958 when I first met him. I was nineteen, working high-class hotels in Dallas, taking cash from men with soft hands and whiskey breath. He was gearing up for a presidential run, but nobody gave two shits about him in Texas. We was all for LBJ.

But he came here anyhow. I guess he had to.

I’d met plenty of politicians. I knew how they worked. Some wanted to talk, pretend they was better than they were. Some wanted you to laugh at their jokes. Some wanted you real quiet, like a doll. But Jack? Jack was different.