Back in sixty-two, before the drugs and the booze and the wives had taken everything he had to offer the world, the Kennedys had been his private guests, staying with him at his compound on the Island - Jackie had found him tres amusant and at dinner Jack had finished off his last bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild (vintage 1933 - before everything went to hell), but when he died last week at the age of ninety-five, he rated just three lines on page fifty-six of The Times, a death notice not an obituary - written, no doubt, by someone who had never heard of him, and read, no doubt, by folks who thought he had died long ago.