By Frederick Turner
A pale newspaperman downs a double Maker's Mark and contemplates existence as a "ham-and-egger," a hack. Then sooner or later he reveals the inside track of an entire life in a Chicago basement: diaries belonging to the notorious Judith Campbell Exner. correct, that Judy, the sport woman who waltzed into the midst of America's strongest politicians, entertainers, and criminals as they conspired to rule the US.
When Frank Sinatra flew Judy to Hawaii for a weekend of partying, she may well hardly ever have imagined the place it's going to lead her: directly to the White condominium and the ready palms of Jack Kennedy. after which got here the day that JFK and his brother Bobby requested her to hold a black bag to Chicago, the place she used to be handy it off to the boss of bosses, Sam Giancana. As our Narrator items the notebooks right into a coherent tale, he unearths mob connections, rigged primaries, assassination plots, and trysts—and starts to determine past the tabloid fare to a true lady, adrift and defenseless in a perilous international the place the fates of countries are at stake. As one after the other the boys Judy enjoyed betrayed her and disappeared, and because the FBI pursued her right into a dwelling hell, her diary entries fall apart in addition to the gorgeous, tricky, candy girl the Narrator has come to understand. Who was once Exner, in the end? only a gangster's moll? Or a bighearted girl who believed the sky-high supplies of the recent Frontier—and paid the cost?
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Extra resources for The Go-Between: A Novel of the Kennedy Years
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.