Hambrick / Wallace Memphis

Rock DJ Uncovers Conspiracy Behind MLK Jr. Assassination
1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 979-8-9872954-2-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 464 Seiten

When Matt Harrison arrives in Memphis in 1966 to advance his broadcast career as a radio DJ, he finds himself inadvertently caught up in a web of intrigue involving the conspiracy to assassinate Martin Luther King, Jr. Set against the backdrop of the civil rights movement and the rich musical history of the Mississippi Delta, 'Memphis' is a gripping political thriller torn from the headlines of the 1960's when America found itself on the precipice.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hambrick, Mike

Wallace, Max

Leseproben

Prologue | February 2007 NORTHERN VIRGINIA I was heading west out of D.C. on Highway 50 into Virginia coming into Upperville. As directed, I stopped at Hunter’s Head restaurant, where I had been told the bartender would provide further directions. I knew the place. It catered to the horse people in Northern Virginia. The food was good, but expensive. The bar was stocked with a great selection of single malts. “My name is Matthew Harrison,” I said to the bartender. “I believe you have something for me.” He reached under the bar and brought out a white envelope. He handed it to me and moved down to the next customer without saying a word. I had been directed to drive back east nine miles to Middleburg and look for Sam Fred Road. I almost missed the left turn onto Sam Fred. The third mailbox on the right was a mile and half down. Inside the box was a folded sheet of paper. So far, so good. Following the instructions typed on the single piece of plain white paper, I was instructed to make my way towards Route 50. The wintry mix of sleet and rain continued to fall. It was a tricky deal back to the east. A steep hill was right on top of me. As I was about to pull back out onto 50 headed west, my cell phone vibrated. It was a New York number. Familiar. It took me a beat or two before I put the number with a name. It was Ahmet Ertegun’s line. Ahmet died in December. I first met him when I was only 19. We stayed in contact, and I saw him often during the intervening years. Ahmet Ertegun was a giant in the music business. He had founded Atlantic Records on borrowed money and a hope and a prayer. That was in the late 1940’s. Atlantic grew to become one of the most successful and respected record labels in the world. As he was to so many, Ahmet was my friend and mentor. His passing saddened me deeply. This was likely Mica, Ahmet’s wife. I had heard that a memorial gathering was in the works. It would bring together a who’s who of powerful players. The music and entertainment industry would be well represented, of course, but also titans of industry, politicians and their power brokers, diplomats and even a crown prince or two, no doubt. Ahmet Ertegun was not your ordinary record executive. This call from Mica tells me I will be there as well. I made a mental note to call her back. I pulled out on Route 50 and turned back to the west again towards Middleburg. On both sides of the road sat some of the most expensive and exclusive real estate in America. Old money resides here. Names like Mellon, Scaife, Du Pont, and Rockefeller were not on any of the roadside mailboxes. But they were all here, safely tucked away in their turn-of-the-century mansions. I kept my speed at 25 mph through the village. In three miles, I followed the detailed directions and turned left onto Rokeby Road. I went five miles as directed. At the curve, I took a right. I went down the farm road for a mile and a quarter through an open gate, then past a stand of trees, and finally to the old barn with a faded red metal roof. I reached into the pocket of my overcoat for a flashlight. I wished my source had picked a more convenient location. Why not the basement of a D.C. parking garage? Hell, it was good enough for Deep Throat. Tom Percy had insisted the meeting take place outside the District of Columbia. He was firm about that in his phone call two days earlier. Tom was a man accustomed to dictating terms. But there was also fear in his voice. It was that fear that convinced me to meet. In politics, fear is a validation. Tom Percy and I had a history. It goes all the way back to my time in Memphis when I was first starting out. The Percy’s were a prominent political family from the Mississippi Delta. Tom’s great grandfather had been a U.S. Senator, as was his father before him. If you read the history of the 1927 Mississippi Flood, you’ll find that the Percy’s have a lot of death, destruction, and displacement for which to atone. Tom’s manic efforts to whitewash the family guilt had been a source of trouble for him before. I had a feeling this time he might be in over his head. I turned the flashlight in the direction of a noise just in time to see a black cat dart through a half-open door. Not what I would call a good omen. The white light of my halogen beam suddenly flickered and died. I knocked it against the palm of my hand hoping to revive the dead battery. It didn’t work. I was left totally in the dark. From beyond the doorway, the flash of a match provided enough light for me to see somebody lighting a lantern. “Come in, Mr. Harrison.” I recognized the voice. Tom Percy pulled a chair back from a small table in the center of the room and sat down. I think he referred to me as Mr. Harrison as a half assed effort to separate our past from the present. That didn’t work either. I stuffed the dead flashlight back in my pocket and walked through the door. “Please sit down, Mr. Harrison.” Percy motioned me to the other chair. The yellow glow of the lantern cast shadows on rows of faded blue and red ribbons covering an entire wall. They were legacies of equestrian champions from another era. The smell of rotted wood, mice feces and dust filled my nostrils. Percy leaned back from the table and crossed his legs. He assumed his usual power demeanor. A bit out of context, I thought, considering the surroundings. “I apologize for the accommodations,” Percy said. “I am afraid they are not what either of us are accustomed to.” I moved the chair out from the table and sat down. “I’ve been in a barn before,” I said. “Ah yes, of course. The cowboy from the hardscrabble plains of Texas transformed into an erudite and worldly TV news anchorman. I seem to have forgotten that.” I was having none of it. “Yeah, well let’s cut the crap, Tom. We’re in a barn now, at your suggestion I might add. You’ve been mysteriously off the radar for three weeks. In Washington, that’s a lifetime. I hope you’re here to tell me why.” “Always the newsman, Mr. Harrison, just the facts.” I had had enough. “Look Tom, we both know how this works. You called me because you’re in trouble and you need me. I’m here because I want a story.” He twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “So, let’s stop the foreplay and get to it.” He reached down for a briefcase and pulled out several files stuffed with paper. He gently placed the files on the table between us. “You could have put it on a thumb drive, Tom,” I said with equal amounts of sarcasm and scorn. “I could have,” he said. “But as you know, I’m a tad old-fashioned. Besides, then the information would be on a computer and hackable. That would not serve me well.” Even in the dim light of the lantern, I knew what the files contained. I had seen and read it all many times before. The paper trail of damning information on someone who had abused his position of power and was now vulnerable. The phone records, travel receipts, or phone transcripts that could kill a career or a marriage. All part of the Jekyll-and-Hyde stage play that seems to have a never-ending Washington run. On rare occasions, those secrets make their way onto the front pages of newspapers or the lead stories of the nightly news. But not often enough for my liking. Tom Percy knew that I was hungry, and yet I sensed that he needed me more than I needed him. Percy was a man in his early 50’s. That night he appeared much older. His demeanor changed dramatically. “Alright Matthew, what I have here will bring down some of the most powerful men in Washington.” I remained stonefaced. “You know Tom, if they hate you enough, they will find legal grounds to screw you.” Tom took a couple of beats. “With these people, it’s not a courtroom I worry about.” I knew it was time to play my role. From the tone of Tom’s voice, the stakes couldn’t be higher. But as I waited for him to reveal whatever secrets were in those files, I wasn’t thinking of what that might mean for America. I was too busy contemplating what it might do for me. Fame, fortune, and above all the network news anchor chair that I had coveted since I broke into broadcasting, which had so far eluded me. “Okay Tom, I’m listening.” _______________________ As soon as I was back on hard pavement, I hit redial on Ahmed’s number. Mica answered. “Mica, it’s Matthew Harrison. I saw that...