by Shawn Inmon
“Yep. Just like the guy that sang the ‘put flowers in your hair’ song in the sixties. You can bet your ass my buddies gave me some shit about that.”
“I’ll bet,” Joe said. “Probably doesn’t happen so much anymore, does it? He hasn’t had a hit in a long time.”
“That’s one of those songs that seems to stick in people’s minds, though, for some reason. Woulda been a lot cooler if my name was Jim Morrison or something.”
“Good point.”
Scott examined Joe Hart up close. He decided his first impression was right.
Young. Innocent. Out of his element. What’s his game? He doesn’t look like he’s on the same mission to me. Is he some time traveling tourist, showing up to watch John Lennon get killed?
“Well, nice talking with ya. See ya around,” Joe said, and set off across the park.
“See ya around, buddy,” Scott said and headed off in a different direction.
It almost feels like I should double back and make sure he gets wherever he’s going. It’s the middle of the day, though. He’ll be all right. He’s a big enough kid. He can take care of himself. I think I’ll head back and make sure the weirdo doesn’t get up to anything. He’s not supposed to start anything until tomorrow night, but maybe an opportunity will present itself to take him out before then and I can get out of the city and be on my way.
Scott jogged his way back to the Dakota and took up a post he thought was far enough away to not be the target of a conversational diatribe, but close enough to keep an eye on him. The pudgy man in the pea coat and blue watch cap was deep in conversation with two young women, though, and paid Scott no attention whatsoever.
They all held their positions until an hour or two after darkness fell. Finally, the man and the two women seemed to give up on seeing a Beatle today and left the entryway. They turned left and walked along the sidewalk past Scott. He let them go until they were half a block ahead of him.
He followed a safe distance behind for a few blocks, but they stepped into a diner.
I can either wait here in the rain and cold and follow them all over the city, or I can pick up the trail tomorrow and stop him in the act.
Scott’s eyes traveled down the block and he saw a warm pool of light emanating from a place that had a yellow neon sign that read “Steinman’s Delicatessen.” His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since before sun up, which was a long time ago.
He took one last look at the pudgy man with the gun no doubt in his pocket. The two women he was with were laughing, and he was looking through the plate glass window, directly at Scott.
Definitely time to be moving along.
Scott walked to Steinman’s, ordered a corned beef sandwich and a coffee to go. He took the same route through the park he had the day before, but today it was clear sailing all the way back to the YMCA.
He shut himself in his small closet of a room, ate as much of the huge sandwich as he could manage, and dropped off to sleep. Tomorrow was a big day, complicated by the arrival of Joe Hart, since he didn’t know what role he intended to play in the drama.
Chapter Forty-Four
Scott’s notes on the John Lennon assassination were more complete than virtually any of the other crimes he was trying to stop. Killing one of the world’s most famous people in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world brings a lot of attention.
Oddly enough, he didn’t have an exact time for the killings. Only that the killing took place late in the evening on this day, December 8, 1980. Since Scott knew he was going to be at the Dakota until the whole thing was over, he wasn’t in much of a hurry to get there early. Even so, it was still dark outside when he woke up. He spent a few hours walking around New York. When it got late enough for businesses to open, Scott stopped at a used bookstore and was pleasantly surprised to find that those are essentially the same no matter where you are. As soon as he opened the door, the familiar aroma filled his nostrils and he relaxed.
He spent the next few hours happily browsing the stacks. In the end, he limited himself to two books—The Wanderers by James Michener, and a collection of the year’s best short stories. He had made a big loop around midtown, and so was only a few blocks away from his home base. He stopped back at the YMCA, put the books in his room and locked it up tight.
If everything went to plan, he wouldn’t be sleeping there tonight, but he didn’t want to haul his bag and jo around with him all day. Specifically, he didn’t want to have the karambit on him, in case he had to explain himself to a police officer. He could probably explain away the collapsible baton as sensible self-defense, but the wicked-looking knife was another matter. So, he paid for another night at the “Y,” but had everything packed and ready for a quick getaway should one be needed.
He put the baton in the back pocket of his jeans, then put on his old army jacket, the one that still had “McKenzie” etched above the pocket. It was long enough that it easily covered that weapon.
By the time Scott got to the Dakota, it was almost 2:30 in the afternoon. He immediately found the man he was looking for. No watch cap today, but the same chilling expression on his face—a jack-o’-lantern grin that masked violent thoughts. He also saw Joe Hart, standing not far away, but just out of the conversational arc of the gunman and a couple of other men.
The interesting thing is, this guy seems undeniably creepy to me. And, to Joe Hart. But, to everyone else, they seem to accept him as normal. Normal, that is, if there is such a standard for those who wait outside the Dakota for a glimpse at fame.
Scott was slightly surprised to see Joe Hart give up his post. He walked down the sidewalk in the same direction the man and the two women had walked the night before.
Scott stood where he was and focused on the man who he knew had a .38 pistol tucked into the front pocket of his coat, along with a copy of JD Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.
Before long, Scott saw that Joe had returned, this time with food. A few minutes later, Joe walked up to Scott.
“Hey, man. I got a sandwich at the deli and could only eat half of it. You want the other half?”
I can relate.
“What’s the matter, you don’t want it?”
“I did my best, but I could only get through half of it. I don’t have anywhere to store it, so I’m either gonna have to give it away or throw it away. I hate to throw a good sandwich away.”
“I’m not turning down a free sandwich, and not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what kind?”
“Corned beef.”
“Oh, man, brother. I had one of their corned beefs last night. I had the same problem—couldn’t eat the whole thing.”
But that was last night and this is now. I could use something to get me through the night.
Joe gave Scott the sandwich. Scott said, “Thank you very much,” in a terrible Elvis imitation. He was able to make short work of it. Scott smoothed out both the waxed paper and the paper bag, folded them, and stuck them in the deep pocket of his jacket.
Scott noticed that Joe was looking at him with sudden interest. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Yes?”
“Hey, if it’s rude to ask, just tell me to shut up, but what’s your story, Scott? What are you doing hanging out here in front of the Dakota for two days in December?”
“That’s not rude at all. Stories are a good way to pass the time. What’s mine? A full telling of that requires more time than we have here, even if we stand here several more days. The truncated version is that I grew up in Evansville, Indiana, and got unlucky when my birthday was the first number pulled for the draft. I took a tour of exotic Asian locations on Uncle Sam’s dollar. After I got my ass shot off in Kompong Speu, they shipped what was left of me home and put Humpty Dumpty back together again. If you look close, you can still see the cracks.”
Joe nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Since I’ve been back, I’ve been wandering. I get disability checks sent to my sister back in Indiana, and she d
eposits them for me. I live pretty simply. When I want to go somewhere, I stick out my thumb and off I go.”
“And you decided to come to New York City in December.”
“I never told you I was smart. I could have enrolled in college and maybe found a deferment, too, but I never did. I think I might get on a bus and head south for the winter after today. And so, Joe Hart, turnabout is fair play. What’s your story?”
And I’d be willing to bet, you’re going to have to leave as much out of your story as I did mine.
“Not nearly as exciting as yours. My parents are both dead, I live by myself, and I decided to take a trip to the Big Apple.”
“Also, I might point out,” Scott said, “in December.”
“As you say, I’ve never claimed to be smart.”
Just then, they heard a ripple of excitement in the crowd behind them. Scott looked over his shoulder and saw that a white limo had pulled to the curb behind them. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but dusk was settling in. Scott saw a small Asian woman approaching, wearing a full-length fur coat. He smiled and nodded at her, and stepped out of her way.
Strolling along behind her, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, was John Lennon.
Scott nudged Joe, whose mouth was slightly agape at the sight of Lennon. “We may have chosen a crappy time of year to visit New York, but where else are you gonna be standing around and see a Beatle?”
The man with the gun hidden in his pocket approached John Lennon. Joe tensed and took a step further, which further confirmed what Scott had come to believe—that he was on a journey similar to Scott’s own. Scott didn’t tense. He had now seen many people right before they committed acts of violence, and he had learned the clues. This man was showing none of them. In fact, he appeared so nervous and tongue-tied being near to Lennon that Scott thought he was likely incapable of doing anything at that moment.
Scott stood far enough back that he couldn’t hear what John Lennon was saying, but the other man held out his copy of Double Fantasy, which Lennon signed.
A man with a camera—the same man whom the pudgy man had been talking to all afternoon, took picture after picture in the fading light.
Lennon looked around, saw that no one else was waiting to see him and stepped to the limousine. As he approached, he gave a little wave at Scott.
Man, there really is something about that guy. I make eye contact with him for a few seconds and I feel butterflies. What’s it like to live your whole life like that?
Chapter Forty-Five
The crowd in front of the Dakota moved to the edge of the sidewalk and watched the limousine disappear down Central Park West.
“That’s it, folks,” the doorman on duty said. “They won’t be coming back tonight. Might as well go somewhere warm.”
Most of the crowd broke up into groups of three or four and drifted away.
Scott turned around and found himself face to face with a lanky black man who was dressed remarkably similar to Scott, right down to the green army jacket.
“Hey, brother,” Scott said. “What’s up?”
“Hello, Scott,” the man said, making the same quotation mark gesture with his fingers that Joey Ramone had.
“Ah, you must be with Joey Ramone.”
The black man laughed. “Oh, man, don’t tell me he tried all that BS with you?”
Scott flushed a little. “It’s all BS, then?”
The other man shrugged. “Not for me to say. You’re not gonna catch me calling him Joey Ramone, though, that’s for sure.” He held his hand out to Scott. “I’m Freddy. And if you say, ‘Freddy Mercury?’ I might have to punch you. It’s just Freddy, okay?”
Scott smiled and laughed a little. “I admit, that all sounded a little fishy to me.”
“So,” Freddy said, “you’re here on the case?”
“Yep,” Scott said, nodding toward the gunman-to-be. “I’m on the case.”
“I’m supposed to be here for this, too, but I’ve got a girl waiting for me, if you know what I mean. If you’ve got a handle on this, I’m going to let you take care of it.”
Scott lifted his chin toward Joe Hart. “He’s here for it, too.”
“Man, tourists are getting thicker every day.” He looked Scott up and down. “I’m gonna leave you to it, then. Have a good night, man.”
“See ya, Freddy.”
Scott watched as the man hustled away. Wherever he was going, he seemed to be in a hurry.
. Scott walked back to where Joe was standing. “Well, is that it for you, then? You came, you saw a Beatle, and now you can head back to Oregon?”
Joe shook his head. He stared at Scott for a long moment. It was obvious he was debating with himself about something. Finally, he decided. “You see the guy over there?” He gave a slight nod toward the man Scott had come to take out.
“The guy reading the book that wanted to be your best friend yesterday?”
Joe nodded. “I’ve got a bad feeling about him. I think he’s up to something bad. I heard him muttering some weird stuff to himself a while ago. I also think the doorman said they’d be gone all night so everyone would leave. I know it sounds crazy, but I want to be here in case something happens.”
“What are you going to do, if he does try to do something bad? How are you going to stop him?”
“Honestly? I have no real idea, but I want to stay close.”
“Well, I was going to head back to my room at the ‘Y’, but I guess I’ll hang around for a while and see what’s up.”
Scott had never intended to head back. Nothing short of being arrested and thrown into the back of a cop car could have dragged him away at that moment. But, he didn’t want to let Joe know what his real story was. At least, not yet.
“Nah, you don’t have to. I’m sure I’m just being crazy. The wind’s starting to blow, and it’s gonna get cold soon.”
“Have you ever stayed at the ‘Y’?”
Joe shook his head.
“Well, if I say, ‘spartan conditions,’ a certain image might come into your head. Whatever image that is, the reality is worse. It’s only sixteen bucks a night, but it’s not much more than a cot in a closet.”
Joe smiled and nodded.
“So what I’m saying is, given a choice between hanging out with you in the cold for a few hours, or lying on that uncomfortable cot, this doesn’t seem so bad. Even so, what sounds good to me, is a cup of hot coffee. How ‘bout you? You drink the stuff?”
“Sure, of course.”
“The deli makes great coffee. I’ll run and get us some to go. Black okay?”
“Yes, that’s great.”
Joe dug some bills out of his pocket and tried to give them to Scott.
“Nah, I got it. I’m not gonna let you buy lunch and coffee both. I’ll be back in a flash.”
Scott enjoyed being on the move again. Even after all these years, and all the stretching exercises he did every day, he still stiffened up when he stood in one place too long. He grabbed two large coffees at Steinman’s and hurried back to the Dakota with the coffee still hot.
Joe accepted the coffee, lifted it toward Scott in a small salute. “Salud, and thanks.”
They killed time over the next few hours by telling more stories of their lives.
Joe told Scott an almost-unbelievable story of escaping death the day Mt. St. Helens blew.
Scott decided to tease Joe a little. “It’s almost like you knew exactly when the mountain was going to blow, the way you timed it.”
Joe shrugged that off. “Yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “Almost.”
At 10:00, Joe looked at his watch. He said, “The problem with coffee is, you don’t buy it, you only borrow it. I gotta run to the deli and use the can. You want another cup?”
Scott shook his head. “No, same problem with me. I’m going to have to go after you get back. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Catcher in the Rye while you’re gone.”
Joe looked relieved. “Thanks,
man, that’s great.”
And, I’m going to hope this all goes down while you’re gone, so you don’t have to be at risk. You’re a good kid, Joe, but you’re over your head.
It didn’t happen that way, though. Ten minutes later, Joe ran back, huffing and puffing, but all was quiet at the Dakota.
Damnit. I wasn’t kidding about having to go myself. It’s gotta be getting close to the time when John and Yoko are going to get back. But, if I stand here too much longer, I’m going to bust a kidney. The best thing I can do is hustle there and back and get it over with.
Scott leaned into Joe and said, “I’ve got the same problem you did. I’ll be back in a few.”
Scott did hustle. He took the two blocks at a steady jog, bordering on a sprint. He burst into Steinman’s, saw the sign that read, “Restrooms are for customers only,” and had to stand in line to grab a pack of gum. Every second that passed, Scott’s gut twisted a little tighter. He ran into the bathroom, did his business, and ran back toward the Dakota.
His heart sank as he saw the same white limousine that he had seen earlier in the day. It had already dropped off its occupants and was pulling away from the curb.
Scott sprinted forward and grabbed his baton out of his pocket as he ran. He flipped it open in one smooth, downward motion and ran like a sprinter at the first leg of a relay race.
When he was closing in on the Dakota, he heard two loud gun blasts.
Too late! I’m too late!
Scott was forced to slow as he approached the opening or he would have skidded right past it. When he turned, he saw a scene he never would have expected. John Lennon was picking himself up off the ground and still had his back turned to the action. Joe Hart was lying on the ground in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. The killer was scrambling to his feet. He had the .38 in his hands and had settled into a shooter’s stance—legs wide, arms extended in front of him. The gun was pointed at John Lennon.
Chapter Forty-Six
Scott leaped forward, whipping his right arm in a complete circle. The steel baton slammed down on the shooter’s right arm. In the eerie quiet of the moment, he actually heard the bones in the man’s arm break.