Only the FBI let him down. The man who should have been the attorney general’s staunchest ally in the fight, J. Edgar Hoover, stood aloof, claiming there was no such thing as the Mafia, perhaps—George now knew—because the Mob was blackmailing him over his homosexuality.

Bobby’s crusade, like so much that the Kennedy administration did, was disdained in Texas. Illegal gambling, prostitution, and drug use were popular among many leading citizens. The Dallas Morning News had attacked Bobby for making the federal government too powerful, and argued that crime should remain the responsibility of local law enforcement authorities—who were mostly incompetent or corrupt, as everyone knew.

The meeting was interrupted when Bobby’s wife, Ethel, brought out lunch: tuna sandwiches and chowder. George looked at her with admiration. She was a slim, attractive woman of thirty-five, and it was hard to believe that four months ago she had given birth to their eighth child. She was dressed with the understated chic that George now recognized as the trademark of the Kennedy women.

A phone beside the pool rang and Ethel picked it up. “Yes,” she said, and she carried the phone on its long lead to Bobby. “It’s J. Edgar Hoover,” she said.

George was startled. Was it possible that Hoover knew they were discussing organized crime without him, and was calling to reprimand them? Could he have bugged Bobby’s patio?

Bobby took the phone from Ethel. “Hello?”

Across the grass, George noticed one of the house painters behaving oddly. He picked up his portable radio, spun around, and started running toward Bobby and the group on the patio.

George looked again at the attorney general. A look of horror came over Bobby’s face, and suddenly George felt scared. Bobby turned away from the group and clasped his hand over his mouth. George thought, What is that bastard Hoover saying to him?

Then Bobby turned back to the group eating lunch and cried: “Jack’s been shot! It might be fatal!”

George’s thoughts moved with underwater slowness. Jack. That means the president. He’s been shot. Shot in Dallas, it must be. It might be fatal. He might be dead.

The president might be dead.

Ethel ran to Bobby. All the men jumped to their feet. The painter arrived at the poolside, holding up his radio, unable to speak.

Then everyone began talking at the same time.

George still felt submerged. He thought of the important people in his life. Verena was in Atlanta, and she would hear the news on the radio. His mother was at work, in the University Women’s Club; she would hear in minutes. Congress was in session, and Greg would be there. Maria—

Maria Summers. Her secret lover had been shot. She would be grief-stricken—and she would have no one to comfort her.

George had to go to her.

He ran across the lawn and through the house to the parking lot in front, jumped into his open Mercedes, and drove off at top speed.

• • •