The Kennedy Gambit

By C Gary Lopez

Who actually shot JFK and why was he shot? The Kennedy Gambit is a thrilling story of the oil company greed of the “Seven Sisters” and why Kennedy became a victim of the obsolete technology we know as the internal combustion engine and why the oil companies were determined to keep alive. The story follows Bradley Newton, an investigative reporter, who along with his two love interests, Amanda DeSouza and Kirstie Diaz, uncover the truth of who shot JFK and why. As the three of them uncover the mysteries of why a group of powerful men used their power to keep the world addicted to oil, they become determined to put the world back on the path that the 35th President of the United States had in mind for the country if he had been re-elected in 1964.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C Gary Lopez
• Release date: Mar 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9780996020435

C Gary Lopez

Gary Lopez grew up in the northern panhandle of West Virginia near the city of Wheeling. Gary attended West Liberty University outside of Wheeling for his undergraduate degree and later West Virginia University where he graduated with a Masters Degree in Safety Studies. Gary soon embarked on a successful business career with an international chemical company during which he had various assignments that took him around the world. A career that culminated with Gary being named a Fellow of the American Society of Safety Engineers. One Gary's assignments was a "two year" assignment in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Gary was only halfway through this assignment and knew he had found home. As an avid golfer and scuba diver, both of these recreations fit perfectly in the South Florida lifestyle. His other vice is snow skiing which he manages to do at least once a year. Gary always considered the art of writing as one of being a great storyteller. When his children were growing Gary would read them stories of Brer Rabbit and later the Count of Monte Cristo. Stories which he would always embellish for his children to make them more interesting. A voracious reader during his world travels Gary decided it was time to put pen to paper and write his own stories for others to enjoy.

Book preview

November 22nd, 1963

Dealey Plaza

Dallas Texas

The handsome young man looked up at the sky. It had turned out to be a nice day after all. He repositioned himself under the giant H of the Hertz sign. Dangling from a strap around his neck was a pair of Zeiss binoculars. He slowly raised them to his eyes and brought them into focus. On the street below he had a perfect view of the motorcade. The handsome 35th President of the United States was smiling and waving to the crowd lining the streets. He glanced at his watch. It was 12:26 p.m. The motorcade was here sooner than he had expected. It was approaching the slow turn from Houston to Elm. This was the firing zone. The awkwardness of the turn would slow the speed of the motorcade down to a near stop. It had been the crowning achievement of his Plan to have the motorcade re-routed to make this ponderous turn. There was actually no reason for it to go this way. The original route had it going down the entire length of Main Street. When it reached the end of Main traffic would be blocked to allow the motorcade to enter the Stemmons Freeway. The President would then speed on to his luncheon engagement at the Dallas Trade Mart. Unfortunately this route allowed for to many witnesses and no perfect area for slowing down the motorcade. In the end it had become necessary to get the route changed. The flimsy excuse used for this change was citing traffic safety as the rationale. The entry to the freeway from Main was a bit more precarious, but certainly not a threat to a presidential motorcade. The man shook his head as he thought of the route change. It is amazing how easy it is to change people’s thinking if you cite safety as an excuse.

Dropping the binoculars to his chest he let them dangle from the strap. He looked up and down the street to verify yet again that everything was in position. The shooter was on the sixth floor below him. Picking up the binoculars he focused on a fence located on a slightly elevated area of the plaza. After today it would be known as the grassy knoll. He could not see his backup man who was positioned there, but he knew he was in position. Turning back down the street he focused the binoculars on the beautiful first lady in her pink suit and pillbox hat. The man was not prone to sentimentality, but this was his only regret. Did this beautiful woman have to go through the additional trauma of watching her husband shot right before her eyes? Hadn’t she suffered enough with his endless philandering? He studied the beautiful face for a moment and then shifted to the target; John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States.

The timing had to be precise. Much had gone into arranging the route and setting the scene. It was like a ballet or a complicated Broadway play. The man who had set this up was an artist at his work. He watched as the ponderous turn was made. It was just as they had predicted in the planning. Due to the awkward turn onto Elm the motorcade was practically at a standstill. Now, fire now he thought. Yet there was silence. The motorcade moved on. It was now heading down Elm Street toward the Stemmons Freeway entry ramp. Less than a mile and the handsome president would be safe. The man could not believe it. All that planning and the opportunity missed. Had the idiot frozen at the crucial moment? Clearly the easy shot was gone. At the turn onto Elm the target had been mere yards away and more importantly facing the shooter head on. An easy shot that even an average marksman could make. Now as the motorcade moved on it was a more difficult deflection shot from the back. The vehicle was now moving away from you instead of toward you. They had covered this countless times. The man took the binoculars away from his eyes and let them drop to his chest. He moved down the roof to a position that would give him a clear view down Elm. Suddenly he heard a shot ring out. Settling into a new position he picked up his Zeiss binoculars and studied the motorcade. A clear miss. The man knew from Lee Harvey Oswald’s record that he was a poor shot under pressure. That was why they had worked so hard to set up the easy frontal shot. Once a screw up always a screw up he muttered to himself. On the other hand this simple statement of truth was in fact why Oswald was the perfect patsy for the plot.

He realized his backup shooter would have to fire. He cursed. This would ruin everything. The primary plan was to make it look like the act of a single deranged gunman. The backup was there just in case. It appeared the just in case was happening. He picked up the binoculars off his chest and looked at the limo. Trees blocked his view. Shit. This was why he had drilled Oswald repeatedly on taking the easy shot as the limo rounded the corner. The man had not expected Oswald to hit a moving target from a deflection shot moving through tree foliage. He knew his options were rapidly diminishing. Goddamn it here goes the ballgame. Looking down toward the street below he gave a windup signal with his arm, much like a man would give a plane preparing for launch on an aircraft carrier. The use of radios was not an option. Too many chances the transmissions could be picked up. On the street below a man looking up nodded and opened an umbrella. This was the signal that Plan B was in effect.

Standing behind the fence the backup shooter was surprised to see the umbrella signal. He was sure that he would not be necessary. Shaking his head he muttered, The boss is not going to be happy about this at all. Rapidly he assembled the rifle he had tucked into this jacket. He poked it through the fence with no more than a short portion of the barrel showing. Flipping off the safety of the rifle he focused his efforts as he acquired the President in his scope. He did not have the acquisition time he needed so his first shot was a snap shot. Luckily his shot was virtually simultaneous with Oswald’s second shot. Not looking at the result of his first shot he quickly reacquired the young president and fired again but this time a fraction of a second off Oswald’s third and final shot. Oswald’s third shot was another total miss. Oswald’s shot hit the pavement and sprayed debris on an onlooker. Debris that would be hard to explain later in the Warren Report findings. The man watched through the scope as his shot had an entirely different effect. The president’s head dissolved in a spray of blood, brain tissue and bone. For a moment he was stunned. Although an expert marksman he had never really shot anyone. He felt a moment of queasiness.

His shot had changed everything. The motorcade was now speeding up and Secret Service men were scrambling. Still looking through the scope of the rifle he saw the First Lady attempting to get out of the vehicle. What is she doing? he wondered. It was not until later that he would figure out that in shock she was trying to collect her husband’s shattered skull. He felt no satisfaction in his marksmanship. Quite to the contrary he was feeling revulsion. Suddenly his training kicked in. He glanced at his watch. It was 12:31 p.m. Rapidly he broke down the rifle and fit it into special pockets that had been sewn on the inside of his plain looking London Fog jacket. There was only one cartridge to pick up. He smoothed his coat. The rifle parts were virtually undetectable. He turned from the fence and made his way to his rental car which was parked across the lot on the street. He did not run. He walked at a slow pace and moved toward his parked car. He would be out of Texas tonight. The rifle parts would find their way to the bottom of the first river he crossed in the dark. As he drove out of town he began to feel sick. No matter how hard he tried he could not get the image of the President’s exploding head out of his mind. Finally he could take it no more and pulled over and threw up his breakfast. Wiping his mouth he stared back at the city. What have we started?

The young man on the roof watched the same scene through his binoculars. As he watched the now rapidly departing limo he compressed his lips in thought. He shook his head. Realizing he was daydreaming he moved quickly off the roof to a fire escape that would take him down the back of the building. He descended the seven floors of the building rapidly. He needed to get out of the building and mix in with the chaos that was going to be on the street below. As he reached the street he glanced at his wristwatch. It was 12:34. As he predicted all around him was chaos. He moved toward the grassy knoll in the plaza and stared at the fence. He was already analyzing the outcome. How are we going to explain that head snapping back on the fatal head shot? Police were already arriving, some heading for the Texas Book Depository building he had just exited. He scanned the crowd. Some people were in shock, lingering in Dealey Plaza as if it was all a bad nightmare. Suddenly he saw a man with a movie camera talking to someone. The young man studied him. Damn that is all I need. Someone catching this on film. We can explain away people’s memories being flawed. But not film….film doesn’t lie. The young man sighed and turned to go to his car. He was not used to his plans being such utter failures.

Now it depended on things going his way in the ensuing investigation. As he drove down the Stemmons Freeway he pounded the steering wheel. All that carefully structured planning and now they would need a lot of luck to get away with it. He hated to depend on variables in a plan such as luck. He liked only sure things. Why else go through all the planning? But he knew when Oswald was selected in the role of patsy that the chances of a screw-up somewhere in the timeline were very high. The man’s whole life had been one endless string of fuck-ups. Look up loser in the dictionary and there was his picture. He cursed again. Damn how I hate to depend on luck. He should not have worried. Luck would smile on him. The Warren Commission after an exhaustive investigation would come to the conclusion that Lee Harvey Oswald, a deranged lone gunman had pulled off the crime of the century. They were dead wrong.

Chapter 1

Death Sentence

April 1st, 2013

Atlanta, Georgia

The old man walked out of the doctor’s office. He held a manila envelope in his left hand. It was a file with instructions for the prescribed treatments he would have to take in the coming months. It was also his death sentence. As he neared a trash can on the sidewalk he looked at the envelope, shrugged and dropped it into the can. Looking up at the clear blue sky he mumbled, The price for my past sins. He glanced back at the doctor’s office. It is April Fool’s Day….maybe this is a joke? But he knew better. He had spent his entire life dealing with facts and reality. Not fantasy. Now was not the time to start living in a world of fantasy.

He turned in the direction of his car. It was an expensive top of the line BMW. He stopped and stared at the car. He had complained about the price when he purchased it. But he had always admired German engineering and paid the outrageous sum for the car. As he stared at the car he shook his head and laughed. Well it doesn’t look like I will be needing the extended warranty after all does it? He pressed his key fob and heard the clear chirp that indicated his door was now unlocked. Opening the door he climbed behind the wheel. As he started the engine he sat staring straight ahead. Now where shall we go? Putting the car in gear he drove to his favorite spot; the Chattahoochee River Park walking paths. Locals called the river The Hooch. The park was a walking and running trail situated right along the river. It was a peaceful place in the middle of the busy city of Atlanta. The old man thought of it as his little slice of Eden in the big city. He pulled into the restricted parking area. He had a special parking pass that allowed him to do so. Getting out of the car he took in the serenity of the place. Runners were stretching getting ready to run the trail. Two young women were walking off the end of the trail chatting to each other animatedly despite the fact that they both had ear buds in their ears. The buds were plugged into iPhones attached to their hips in fancy cases. Each had a small dog on a leash. As the old man observed them he smiled. It was not clear if they were walking the dogs or it was the other way around. He cocked his head looking at them and wondered if they were having a conversation while they were listening to their music. He shifted his gaze to the dogs. A bizarre thought struck him. I never owned a dog. Well too late now. For that and many other regrets. He turned his head and looked at his car. Maybe I should get a dog and leave him this expensive hunk of metal. The thought amused him. He shook his head chuckling and walked down the path to his favorite bench lost in thought.

The doctor’s diagnosis today had been a mere formality. He knew what he had and through the miracle of the internet was aware of how long he had left to wrap up his final affairs, as it is so politely put. He reached his bench and sat down with a sigh. He loved to come here to eat his lunch, feed the squirrels and let his mind wander. No one else was on the bench. He was glad. For some absurd reason he had always viewed this particular bench as his personal perch for thinking things through in privacy. And if ever there was a time when he needed some privacy it was now. He did not want someone sitting next to him commenting on what a nice day it was or on the beauty of the setting. He had things to think through. Serious things.

Remarkably the first thoughts that popped into his head were ones of regret. For no explicable reason his thoughts went back to his youth. He suddenly wished that he had taken more advantage of his youth. His had been a youth spent doing serious things. There was no wild partying and other thoughtless acts that men should do in their ill spent youth. He barked out a laugh. I grew up in the middle of the sexual revolution and missed the whole thing he said to no one in particular. He knew it was an inane thought. He had never been the playboy type. Oh there had been women. Plenty of women. But none had been serious relationships. There was no love or caring. They were fucks he had used either to satisfy his temporary lust or as a means to an end. Sex had always been a tool to him. It was just not something he had ever been obsessed with like many of his male counterparts of the time. As he sat staring at the river flowing by he let out a laugh. Let me count my losses. I did not partake in drugs, rock concerts, muscle cars, platform shoes or bellbottom jeans. Just what the fuck did I do with my youth? His mind shifted to his past. It was like the 70’s and the 80’s had not existed for him. He had spent his whole life as a bachelor but suddenly realized he had never once dated a woman in a serious relationship. He had not burned the candle at both ends in anyplace but his career path. None of that had seemed important to him at the time, yet here he was nearing the end of his life and he felt that somehow he had missed something. A lot of something’s. He shook his head. A squirrel approached him and stood on its hind legs. Talking out loud to the squirrel he said, I should be more concerned that I am not leaving any heirs behind. No children to mourn me or carry on my name. He continued to chat with the curious squirrel. I’ll bet you didn’t make that mistake did you my little friend. A woman walking past the bench with her children gave him a suspicious glare and hurried her children along the path. He looked at her retreating down the path. Shaking his head he got a rueful smile on his face. Actually I don’t believe I will have anyone mourning me.

He said it just loud enough to catch the woman’s attention. As the woman walked away she was still looking over her shoulder at him with a disapproving look. The old man smiled at her, but his thoughts did not match his smile. Yes you have a right to stare at me like that; I have done some terrible things. I helped shatter America’s virginity. Breaking his smile he turned his gaze back to the gently flowing river. He refocused his thoughts away from the inane toward more serious matters.

His mind worked through his dilemma. How do I tell my story? He realized how difficult it was going to be to tell his story. His thoughts then shifted down another path. Or does the story need to be told? Are the sheep happy in the pasture? Do they really want to hear the truth? What would they do with the truth? Would the truth right the wrongs of my past? He laughed out loud at his perceived brilliance. All good questions he shouted to no one but the curious squirrel who was obviously waiting for a meal. The old man looked at the squirrel. He shook his head. One more little bastard looking for a meal ticket out of me. He looked over his shoulder at the parking lot. Would you like me to leave you a spanking new BMW? You can buy a shitload of nuts with the wholesale value of that thing. He laughed at his joke.

He lit a cigarette and studied the river. Looking at the cigarette he chuckled when he thought of what the expression on his doctor’s face would be if he walked by now. Looking down on the bench he noticed a paper someone had left behind. It was the Atlanta Journal and Constitution. As he leafed through the paper he noticed a story that had been passed over the wire about Cuban politicians in South Florida using the Castro angle to keep themselves in office. The old man chuckled. How fitting. The story had originated in the Sun Sentinel, a Ft. Lauderdale newspaper. He looked at who the reporter was who had written the original story. Pulling out his iPad mini he looked up the entire story. As he scanned the internet with his new toy he could not help but think "I might be old but I do so love this new technology. Oh if only we had some of these toys in my day."

He read the entire story. It was an expose on South Florida Cuban-American politicians keeping the Castro mistreating his people mantra going so that they would be re-elected to office and collect money off those anxiously awaiting the overthrow of the old dictator. The reporting was brilliant. It pointed out that most of the young Cuban-Americans had blended into the South Florida landscape and had no attachment to the island. As for their parents, even they for the most would not be returning if Castro were deposed. They had mostly been born in America and had built their lives in Florida. This left only the original generation that escaped the tyranny of the Castro government. Most of them were dying off. The few that remained were more concerned about if they could get their old lands and property back. In even the most optimistic scenario this was not going to happen. The conclusion was that at this point the whole embargo thing was a drum to beat to stir up people of Cuban heritage simply to win votes. People who cared about what was going on in Cuba about as much as what was happening on the dark side of the moon.

The old man laughed as he read the story. It was well written. He liked a well written story. The reporter had done his homework. The old man more than anyone knew how important homework was in a project of any importance. But what really caught his interest was that here was another of those investigative reporters that was not afraid to take on the status quo. That he was not afraid to question the establishment. Looking at the name the old man opened up the note pad section of his iPad. He typed in Bradley J. Newton. The old man chuckled. Bradley J. Newton, you don’t know it yet, but I am about to make you the most famous investigative reporter in America.

In this random manner, Brad Newton had been selected to get the scoop of the century. The story behind who really shot John Fitzgerald Kennedy and more importantly why he had been assassinated.

Chapter 2

Pandora’s Box

May 10th, 2012

Bahia Mar Marina

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

Brad Newton squinted into the glare off of the water. The water was calm. "A good start", he thought. He was preparing his new 60 foot sailboat Brad’s Revenge for an extended trip into the Florida Keys. The boat was now his home. After a messy divorce he had sold all of his possessions except for his car, his clothes and his golf clubs. He then made the life altering decision that he was going to live on the boat. It was his golf buddy Dave who had given him the inspiration for the name of the boat. Shortly after Brad bought the boat Dave had stopped by to inspect his friend’s new home. As Dave took in the boat from the dock a big smile broke out on his face. Walking up the gangplank the first words out of his mouth were classic Dave. Good god you are going to get some serious pussy with this thing. Do you have any idea how easy it is going to be to get women to jump in your bed with this kind of boat? They will be on their knees sucking your cock before you have a chance to say welcome aboard. It is going to be your ultimate revenge on women. Dave felt Brad needed some revenge. Brad had been in what he thought was a happy marriage before he came home early from a business trip and caught his wife in bed with another man. Her excuse had been that she needed a little variety. Brad decided to give her all the variety she needed. He divorced her.

Brad loved Dave. They were old frat brothers. But Dave had a peculiar view of women. He had shared his theory with Brad several times. The way he expressed it varied, but the main thrust of Dave’s viewpoint was always the same. It was best summed up in Dave’s last discourse on the topic at the 19th Hole after their last round of golf. You see Brad, women are not the weaker sex. How can they be? They have a monopoly on the most sought after commodity on the planet; pussy. And the bitches know it. Now unless you plan on living without said pussy your options are limited. It all comes down to a commodity exchange. What have you got to trade for the pussy? If men and women kept it that simple all of life would be grand. But no man thinks logically when it comes to pussy. Especially good looking and talented pussy. Our thought processes break down. We lose sight of the commodity exchange. That’s when things go to hell in a hand basket.

Brad had laughed off his friend’s caveman philosophy. But after an ugly divorce during which he gave up nearly everything he had just so he could break free of the marital contract, he began to wonder if he was the crazy one and not his Neanderthal golf buddy. Brad was still not sure of the validity of Dave’s theory but if nothing else he had given him an idea for naming the boat. The next day he painted "Brad’s Revenge" on the fantail.

Brad had not moved the boat since he bought it. He was looking forward to this first trip. As he was going over his list of supplies to make sure he had bought everything he would need for an extended trip he heard movement behind him. It was his dock neighbor Burt. Burt was an old guy that had been living on the water since his wife of 65 years passed on five years ago. After she died Burt had sold the home they lived and raised their children in. Burt said the house had too many memories lurking about for him to remain there until his time was up. So he had sold the house and decided to live out a lifelong fantasy of living on a boat. He went out the day the sale of his house closed and bought his boat to live on the water. Burt was the first of the odd collection of water neighbors Brad had met. He liked Burt. He was very down to earth and the kind of guy that would listen to your problems without giving you endless advice. That was certainly a switch from Brad’s other friends. Brad was not certain of Burt’s age. He estimated that Burt had to be in his late 80’s or early 90’s but for some reason he just seemed younger. Burt always had a pipe in his mouth. Sometimes it was lit, more often it was not. He was always dressed in the same outfit with only the colors alternating. Panama hat, old faded cargo shorts, well-worn dock shoes and a camp shirt. Brad had never seen him in anything else. He wondered if the man even owned any other clothes. Burt once told Brad he had been a real Beau Brummel but that time was long past. He needed no such accoutrements cluttering his life now.

Brad noticed that Burt also wore a bracelet on his right wrist. It drew Brad’s attention because men of Burt’s generation rarely wore much jewelry let alone a bracelet. At first Brad thought it was a medical ID. It had the same shape and a logo on it that looked at first glance like a medical caduceus. But upon closer inspection Brad discovered that it was a propeller going through wings. Brad remembered that it was the old Army Air Corps symbol from World War II that had long since been replaced by the more modern logo of the jet age Air Force. The bracelet was silver and Burt always had it shined like it was new. Brad finally asked Burt about it. He just shrugged. It’s my crash bracelet from the war. You couldn’t depend on just dog tags when they were putting together the pieces from a plane crash. It was sort of my backup ID. After the war I figured it had been lucky for me so I kept it on. Brad grinned. Did it work? Burt tapped his pipe on a piling and gave Brad a serious look. I had a beautiful wife, two great kids and a life that no man could ask more of. Yeah I’d say it worked pretty well. Brad just nodded. That was classic Burt. He summed up a good life not in the fortunes you made or the position you occupied in society. In Burt’s world a good life was defined by family and love. The man had his priorities straight. Brad looked at Burt and wondered if he would ever be that lucky.

Brad had his supplies stacked all over the dock. Burt looked at them as he stuffed tobacco into his pipe. Looks like you’re taking her out for quite a trip. Brad nodded. At least two weeks. More if it gets interesting. Burt nodded at Brad. What would make it interesting? No sooner had the words come out of Burt’s mouth than a Mustang convertible with the radio blaring pulled into the parking lot. Out of the convertible sprang a veritable beauty. She moved to the trunk of the car and immediately began struggling with what was obviously a heavy piece of luggage crammed into the small trunk area. After several healthy tugs she finally succeeded in pulling an oversized tote free from the trunk of the car. Putting her hand over her eyes to block the sun she began to survey the dock area. Seeing Brad, a big smile broke out on her face and she began waving at him like he might miss her if she didn’t draw his attention. Waving back Brad watched her begin her trek toward the boat. She was clip clopping down the dock in spiked heels. Burt looked on in disbelief. Burt took his pipe out of his mouth and knocked it on a piling even though he had just stuffed it with tobacco. He looked at Brad. Your crew? Brad nodded. Burt turned back to the spectacle walking down the dock and mumbled. I have a feeling it’s going to take more than two weeks.

The spectacle walking down the dock was 22 year old Amanda DeSouza. A young lady who Brad had met several months ago and who was single handedly changing his view of women, and for that matter, the world on a daily basis. It had taken Brad two years of battle to break himself free of what he called Legalized Slavery, or as it is more commonly known; marriage. Like many a man before him Brad was shocked at the complications of obtaining ones freedom from the marital contract as opposed to how easy it was to enter into said contract. Brad now had a whole new appreciation for the guy who had dreamed up the pre-nuptial agreement. Also like many men after a divorce Brad swore he would never fall in love again. He decided to adopt his buddy Dave’s viewpoint on the usefulness and limitations of the fairer sex. Dave had wrapped this up in another of his famous diatribes. Brad when it comes to women my boy you always lease…..never buy. The depreciation on them is worse than on your new boat.

Brad often wondered how Dave ever got a date with his archaic views on women. But he seemed to have an endless stream of gorgeous women on his arm every time Brad saw him. Brad began to wonder if there was a method to his madness. Relenting he decided he had to try Dave’s approach to women and gratuitous sex. He was astonished to find that Dave was right. There seemed to be an endless supply of women looking for love in all the wrong places. Brad found his major problem was keeping their names straight during those intimate, and for that matter not so intimate moments. Ever the resourceful one Dave even gave him a solution for this problem. When Brad confessed he had uttered the wrong woman’s name in the throes of passion the previous night Dave just laughed. Rookie mistake. In the future call them all ‘Baby’ no matter what their names. Works like a charm. Brad stared at his friend astonished. Seriously? Dave nodded with a solemn expression on his face. Men can only be expected to store so much information in our brains. Women’s names are Category B information. Brad laughed. What’s Category A? Dave looked at Brad like he was the village idiot. Important high priority info, like this week’s tee time and kickoff time for the Dolphins game. Dave got his evil smirk, God do I have to teach you everything? Brad chuckled. Yes my shallow friend you are going to have me as your burden in life until I get all the rules straight.

Brad did find that under Dave’s tutelage his love life was prospering. But it was a string of relationships that left him with an empty feeling. It seemed to Brad that every woman out there had suffered some type of battle damage from past relationships. Combined with his own personal wounds he carried from his divorce he had about reached the conclusion that the rest of his life would be an endless cycle of temporary relationships before moving on to the next body. Brad was reaching that point where he considered all women as disposable. Or as his friend Dave put it. All of them have an expiration date. The timer starts ticking on the first date. All of that changed suddenly when Brad met 22 year old Amanda DeSouza. She was unlike any female he had ever met.

Amanda was everything a 33 year old divorced investigative reporter, or for that matter any man, could ask for in his wildest dreams. She was one of those South Florida beauties of indiscriminate mixed nationality. Long tan legs with muscular calves, narrow waist, large surgically enhanced breasts and the face of a fashion model. She had high cheekbones and plush pouty lips above which sat a dark mop of curly black hair that bounced as she walked even though she kept it cut fashionably short. The dark hair accented her sea green eyes making them seem even greener. To Brad it was like staring at a real life Betty Boop.

Although the physical attributes of Ms. DeSouza were considerable it was her mental attributes that fascinated Brad. Amanda DeSouza had a keen mind and an even keener sense of humor. Utterly guileless she was completely open and unscarred as yet by the world. To Brad she was a breath of fresh air. Naturally this spilled over into how Amanda DeSouza used that perfect body. She had few if any sexual inhibitions and a sex drive that would not quit. But in Brad’s view Amanda’s most important asset was that for a 22 year old she had a better grasp on life then most women twice her age. Brad was hooked. All the other women quickly faded into the background.

Brad had met Amanda doing background work for a potential story on the corruption of the Miss Universe contest. She was one of the girls trying to be the next Miss Florida. Unfortunately she did not even make it through the first screening process. Amanda quickly found that being beautiful and open to a fault was not always a good combination. It was not her looks that did her in. It was her lack of judgement in how to display those looks. Like many of the girls her age who prowled the clubs of South Beach, Amanda had no filters regarding proper dress and decorum. Amanda showed up at her initial interview in what is known as clubwear amongst her peers. As a point of reference clubwear is clothing that reveals as much as is legally allowed in the State of Florida. And Amanda had plenty to reveal.

In the old days of male only screening committees there is no doubt Amanda DeSouza would have been the next Miss Florida. However times had changed. Half of the screening committee was now composed of women. Women who could not be awed by a mere perfect body. Her dress got her immediately rejected by a unanimous vote of the females on the screening committee. It had quite the opposite effect on Brad. One look at Amanda DeSouza and Brad forgot all about winning the next Pulitzer. The moment Brad saw her leaving the interview process he walked up to her and flashed his press credentials. As Amanda studied his credentials Brad began his pitch. I would like to do a story on the pageant and use you as one of my key characters. Amanda’s eyes narrowed as she studied Brad. Brad looked around and saw a cafeteria. Can we talk? Shrugging her shoulders Amanda DeSouza followed Brad to a table.

As Brad interviewed her over coffee, he made a casual comment. You have a really nice tan. Amanda shrugged. Thank you, I don’t like tan lines so I tan at Haulover Beach. Brad knew from Dave, who was a regular at Haulover Beach, that it was a nude beach. As his friend had explained to him there is no better place to pick up a woman with an open mind than at a nude beach. Dave called it one of his Happy Hunting Grounds. Brad had to smile at Amanda. She has an unfiltered brain. How refreshing. Brad chuckled. I don’t think a potential Miss Florida should be bragging about frequenting a nude beach. Amanda shrugged again. I don’t think I have to worry about being the next Miss Florida. Not that it breaks my heart. I did this because I lost a bet with my best friend. Brad chuckled. You tried to become Miss Florida because you lost a bet? Amanda nodded. Yeah, it’s a long story. Brad leaped at the opening. Great I would like to hear it. In record time Brad had her address and phone number for a further in depth interview over dinner the next night.

A night later Brad found himself with Amanda at the Hard Rock Resort in Hollywood. Brad had planned for a quiet dinner at the Council Oak restaurant. Pricey, but good food and Brad figured it would impress young Amanda DeSouza. Brad wanted to wow Ms. DeSouza. His theory was that at her tender age her average date took her to TGI Fridays and thought of it as gourmet dining. But upon arrival at the resort his plans were immediately altered when a poised Amanda DeSouza quickly rejected the quiet dinner idea and made it clear she wanted to dance. In this manner the quiet seductive dinner Brad had in mind turned into the loud techno disco of Club Gryphon. Brad was frowning the minute they entered the club. It was nowhere close to the quiet atmosphere he had planned on for the seduction of Ms. DeSouza. He doubted she would be able to hear