It Was a Very Bad Year

SEVENTEEN

10.31 a.m., November 22, 1963

Even before I entered the lobby of the Sands I knew something was wrong. I had eaten my breakfast that day without benefit of the TV or radio, and driven directly to the casino. I still needed to work out where Jerry and I would meet Barney Irwin in order to squeeze the Abby Dalton photos out of him. We would need someplace quiet, just in case it became necessary for Jerry to break something.

As I entered the lobby, though, the climate was one of panic. People were running across the lobby, panicked, toward no apparent destination. One of the girls behind the counter was crying, and over by the pay phone a man was consoling another weeping woman. I looked around, expecting to see the cause of these reactions, but nothing was immediately evident. I scanned what was becoming a crowd in the lobby, looking for an employee I could ask, but finally had to walk to the front desk.

The hysterical girl was the same one who had given me Barney Irwin’s message. I still hadn’t found out her name.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked her.

‘You don’t know? Oh, Mr Gianelli — Eddie, it’s terrible.’

‘What is?’

‘The President,’ she said. ‘Somebody shot the President.’

‘The President.’ Just for a moment I thought, President of what? ‘Wait. . you mean. . JFK?’

She nodded, held a handkerchief to her nose and began to sob.

I knew I’d get nothing else coherent out of her, so I made for the elevators, figured I’d go somewhere I knew there’d be a television.

When I got to Entratter’s office I found his girl at her desk, in much the same condition as the girl at the front desk. She even neglected to sneer at me.

I entered Jack’s office, found him standing in front of a large color TV in his wall. Color TV’s were still not in everyone’s home at that time, but the appearance of The Wonderful World of Disney as a weekly series in 1961 sure sent a lot of people scurrying for them.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ I asked.

He looked at me over his shoulder, then back at the TV. He was standing with his back straight, his arms folded.

‘No word yet on his condition,’ he said. ‘We just know he was shot while in his motorcade.’

‘In the car? What about the first lady?’

‘Nobody said anything about her.’

I joined him in front of the TV.

‘Jesus,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s a madhouse downstairs.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t hear anything until I walked in.’

‘It’s all over the TV and radio.’

‘I didn’t turn either of them on this morning.’

It was all very surreal, the panic in the lobby, and the coverage on the TV. The usually stolid Walter Cronkite appeared shaken up. Cronkite was like everybody’s uncle. To see him upset just added to the unsettling feeling of it all.

We stood side by side for quite a while, just watching the reports. After the fact that Kennedy had been shot it was all supposition, but a lot of people were doing the supposing.

After a few minutes I asked, ‘Do we know where Frank is?’

Entratter let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it for a long time. ‘I think he’s home, in Palm Springs.’

‘He must be taking this hard.’

From the outer office we could hear the sound of Jack’s girl, blubbering.

‘Hold on,’ he said.

He walked out and I heard him tell the girl to go home, they weren’t going to get much work done that day. She didn’t argue. When he came back in he picked up his phone and called the hotel room service and ordered some coffee.

‘You want something to eat?’ he asked, before hanging up.

‘See if they can send some pastries with it.’

He told them to send whatever they had in the way of pastries or donuts, then hung up and rejoined me in front of the TV.

‘This is unreal,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

We were still standing there when a bellman carrying a tray appeared at the door.

‘Mr Entratter?’

‘Just put it on the desk.’

The young man did so, then looked at the TV.

‘Anything new?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Jack told him, ‘they still don’t know his condition. Or they’re not sayin’.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Jack nodded and the young man left.

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ Jack suggested.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I said.

We went to his desk and sat. Entratter was a good host, poured coffee for both of us, removed the covering from the plate of pastries.

‘Is Joey still in town?’ I asked.

‘Actually,’ Entratter said, ‘he left this morning. He probably heard the news on the plane.’

‘That’ll be a somber flight.’

‘Maybe we should call Frank?’ I asked. ‘See how he’s doing?’

‘No,’ Entratter said. ‘Let’s wait and see what else we can learn before we do that. He’s probably making a lot of calls of his own. He’s a lot more personally — ’ he groped for the word, finally came up with it — ‘invested in this than we are.’

‘I guess you’re right.’

‘So,’ Jack said, picking up his coffee.

‘So,’ I said, grabbing a pastry.

At 1.33 CST time — an hour and three minutes after he was shot — President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was pronounced dead at Parkland Hospital, in Dallas, Texas.