Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

As they crossed over Main Street again, Sam began inspecting an identical concrete colonnade on the other side. Instead of a statue, a white obelisk stood in front. “What’s the deal with these structures? Is this the Pergola you were telling us about, Dee?”

  “No, no. The two on this side are smaller. The Pergola in question is on the north side of the plaza, with its twin on the south side. We’ll come to that soon. The entire park is engineered in a mirror image, with Main acting as the dividing line down the center. As you can see”—she pointed to the right and left like a tour guide—“there are these small Pergolas here on each side, with rectangular reflecting pools in front bordering Houston. Notice on the infield ahead there’s a Texas flag behind George and a US flag behind the obelisk.”

  Jay walked around one of the concrete pools while bending to peer in the water.

  Meanwhile, Dee ran through her words in an attempt to keep them moving forward. “All of these pavilions were built during the Great Depression under the WPA—Work Projects Administration—as a means of creating jobs for impoverished citizens. There is no particular purpose to these structures, other than adding aesthetic quality to the park. They were make-work.”

  Iggy noticed Jay still staring at the water basin. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s supposed to reflect into these pools.” He kept glancing from the water to the buildings across Houston Street.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Reflecting pools are meant for somber personal reflection.” Sam rested his chin on his fist and pondered his image.

  Iggy studied the surface of the water. “No, I think Jay is right. I remember visiting the Washington Monument in DC when I was a child. The shallow pool in front reflected the entire pillar.”

  Quin dipped his fingers into the water, rippling his Stetson-hatted likeness. “On the other hand, who cares?”

  Dee basked in Sam’s defeat. “Anyway.” She hurried them north along Houston in the direction of the Texas School Book Depository. The yellow billboard on the roof touted HERTZ Rent-a-Car in red next to a digital clock. Under the time display, the sign read Chevrolets, advertising the make of cars they rented. She made a sharp left onto Elm, and suddenly stopped short. “Oh.” A tingle of reverence mixed with revulsion traversed her body from head to toe.

  Iggy almost bumped into her. “What is it, Dee?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t expect to feel such a rush of emotion. It’s like we’re trespassing on sacred ground.”

  Bick put his arm around her in a friendly manner. “Dee, it hasn’t happened yet. And it’s not going to. We won’t let it.”

  “You’re right. I was caught off guard.”

  After Dee regained her composure, she continued down Elm, slowly spinning and absorbing the view. “I can’t believe how different this is from what I imagined. The whole plaza is smaller than I thought. The pictures somehow gave a false impression of it being a huge expanse. And the infield slopes downward toward the Triple Underpass. You couldn’t tell that from the aerial views at all. It seemed like a flat plain.” She clicked her camera in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree series.

  Halfway down that section of Elm, Dee halted and mutely pointed at the center of the road. Without exception, each understood that the assassination had occurred in this exact spot, and waited in silence for a few moments, out of respect.

  The team then followed Dee as she turned right and climbed a series of concrete steps. Although most of the plaza graded downward, the lawn here inclined sharply up to the main Pergola that featured prominently in the photos from the past. “This is it.” About one hundred feet long, the rounded concrete trellis had a semi-enclosed back and top with a latticework of gaping rectangles, while its front opened to the plaza. Anchored at either end of the half-moon shape was a square section with an angled roof forming a slight peak in the center. The copper surface of the roofs had oxidized over time to a pale green.

  Sera deflated in disbelief. “It’s just a big, ugly hunk of concrete.”

  The others gathered inside the Pergola and faced the scene of the crime, in the middle of the street. Old-fashioned cars and trucks whizzed past. Elm was a busy thoroughfare in 1963.

  Dee indicated the steps they had mounted. “These stairs serve as an exit where witnesses fled up the Grassy Knoll after the assassination. It was the quickest way out, and many people had parked in the rail yard behind that stockade fence.”

  Sam wandered over to the five-foot-high fence. The barrier ran perpendicular to Elm and then made a right turn at the Pergola to continue parallel to Elm all the way to the Triple Underpass. Huh. The KGB struck from out in the open when they could have hidden from view.

  Iggy stood facing the street, her back against a concrete abutment jutting out from the Pergola’s right-hand side. Placing the heels of her palms on the ledge behind her, she hoisted up her butt, and carefully rose to a standing position. “I can see why that Zapruder fellow filmed from here. Nice panorama.”

  “I was wondering about that. About the motorcade, I mean.” Dee clambered up onto the perch next to Iggy. “After we stop the KGB, do you think we can stay in ’63 until November 22 so we can see the president and Mrs. Kennedy?” She clasped her hands together. “I would love to see Jack and Jackie in person.”

  Iggy scanned the peaceful square. It was difficult to imagine a crime occurring here, much less the unspeakable murder of the president’s wife. “I don’t see why not.”

  12:00 PM – CST

  Lyndon Baines Johnson stared at the portrait of Sam Houston—former president of the Republic of Texas, as well as subsequent senator and governor of the state—hanging over the mantle in the Small Parlor of the Governor’s Mansion in Austin. Elaborately furnished, with bright yellow walls and expensive draperies, the room reinforced the impression that the residence was more opulent than the vice president’s. Meanwhile, the First Lady had redecorated the already superior White House, making it a showcase museum. It wasn’t fair.

  John Connally Jr. ran a hand over his well-groomed, salt-and-pepper hair. “Did you hear me, Lyndon? I don’t think it’s a good idea for JFK to tour Dallas.” The Democratic governor’s usual attire—a dark pressed suit—lacked only his trademark white cowboy hat when indoors.

  In contrast, Johnson’s suit hung off his gangly frame in typical disarray. “Of course I heard you. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. I wasn’t even consulted on these plans.”

  “You need to get involved. There’s a lot of hatred toward Kennedy in Dallas. Your ticket may have won Texas in ’60, but you lost resoundingly in Dallas.”

  “I’m well aware of the poll results, John.” LBJ measured out his words.

  “Between you and me, the people of Dallas cannot be controlled. Remember Adlai Stevenson?” At his reception the previous month, the US Ambassador to the United Nations had been heckled and booed by anti-UN protesters. “When he tried to leave the auditorium, the picketers swarmed around and jostled him.” Connally’s eyebrows lifted in horror. “A woman smacked him in the head with a sign and a man even spit on him. Animals!”

  “The same thing happened to me and Lady Bird when we campaigned in Dallas for the last election. The mob poked signs at us and yelled obscenities. They spit at us, too. Naturally, my wife was upset, but we survived unscathed.”

  “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Lyndon. JFK is planning on a motorcade route.”

  “Sure. It’s the traditional route. Roosevelt’s motorcade followed the same path in ’36. The goal is to maximize the president’s exposure to citizens.”

  “But he’ll be in an open limousine,” Connally continued in an exaggerated whisper. “There could be an incident.”

  “Everything will work out fine, John. You’ll see.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Vice President.” Although he considered the VP a friend, the governor was beginning to get testy. “You won’t be riding in the same car with him.”

 
2:00 PM – CST

  Iggy, Sera, Jay, and Dee returned by taxi to their new home base in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. Jay had located the residence, a miracle find, in a classified ad. They couldn’t believe their luck when they had checked it out. A furnished, two-family house on the corner of East Tenth and Denver, the separate apartments on each floor were vacant and available for rental. Jay had signed the lease for 429 East Tenth Street immediately.

  They unloaded luggage from the cab and started hauling it into the ramshackle powder blue house with peeling white trim. For safety, Jay insisted that the women occupy the upper floor, while the men reside on the lower—a symbolic demarcation, as porches ran across the front on both stories with an outside stairway leading to the top one, making both levels easily accessible.

  As Sera was dragging a heavy suitcase inside, she heard the beep beep of a horn approaching. She plunked down the baggage. “The guys must be back with the cars.”

  Dee grabbed her camera, and the four of them hastened outside to the porch. Jay gripped the railing and vaulted himself onto the scrubby lawn. Meanwhile, Iggy, Sera, and Dee stood riveted on the stoop, mouths agape.

  Quin drove up in a violently turquoise Chevy, tapping the horn in a staccato beat. Freshly polished, the sleek, angular auto glittered in the sun. Behind him, Sam pulled up in a two-tone pink and black Ford with a smoother, curvier appearance. Shiny chrome trim accented both vehicles.

  Jay lost his footing after the jump, but adroitly recovered and jogged out to the street. “Hey, man, awesome cars!”

  Quin sprang out. “Isn’t it a beaut? A ’58 Chevy Impala, two-door hardtop coupe. The factory name for this color is Tropical Turquoise. Cool, huh?” Both men walked around the car, kicking the chrome-hubcapped whitewalls in misguided macho fashion. “Check out the way the body extends halfway over the rear wheels. Those are called fender skirts, you know.”

  Jay peered through the window and admired the three-tone interior—turquoise, silver, and black stripes on the seats with turquoise trim. Then he stepped back to take in the entire machine. “This thing looks like it can really fly.”

  “You know it. Get a load of the engine.” Quin popped the hood. “It’s a big block 348-cubic-inch V8 with a four-barrel carburetor. That’s 280 horsepower. Not bad. Plus it’s an automatic. Even the girls can drive it.”

  Iggy marched across the grass and placed her hands on her hips. “What the hell is this?”

  Quin manufactured his most innocent, boyish face. “Cars.” He opened his eyes wide. “You told us to buy some used cars.”

  “Are you joking?” Sera drew alongside Iggy, distinctly unimpressed with Quin’s act.

  Not to be upstaged, Sam climbed out. “This”—he swept his arm dramatically—“is a 1950 Ford. A two-door Club Coupe, expertly customized by the former owner.” The other men flocked around him to ogle the vehicle. The nose was painted black, with the color swooping low and continuing to the rear. The roof and the rest of the body were a pale coral. A chrome strip separated the two colors.

  “The owner also extended the rear bumper and added a spare tire housing. He used what’s known as a Continental Kit to create it.” Mimicking Quin and Jay, Sam kicked the tires as he continued around. “Here we also have whitewalls with fender skirts on the rear. But these tires have chrome hubcaps with flippers, meaning a style featuring spoke-like bars that reflect light when the vehicle is in motion.” Sam smiled knowingly, as if he were an expert on antique cars. “And now for the pièce de résistance. See the tiny traffic light hanging in the rear window? The green light goes on when you hit the gas, red for the brake and amber for coasting.”

  Caught up in the enthusiasm, Dee swiveled her head between the two hot rods. “This one’s nice, but I think I like the turquoise one better.”

  “Preference is not the issue here.” Iggy shook her fist in the air.

  Sam pretended not to hear as he opened the hood. “The carburetor was sticking a little, so I thought I’d diagnose the problem. Not the factory engine, mind you. This is from a 1956 T-Bird with 312 horsepower. That guy made a lot of special modifications. Varoom!”

  Iggy reached into the Ford and leaned on the horn—“BWAAAH!”—scaring the daylights out of Sam, Quin, and Jay, who jumped back in alarm. “Where did you get these cars?”

  Sam winced as he rubbed his ears. “We bought them from a local used-car dealer named Edmund Roy. All aboveboard, I assure you. The man painstakingly restored the Chevy after a major fender bender. And the Ford. Well, he custom-built this car to take his wife, Patti, on their honeymoon to Niagara Falls in ’55. It’s where all the newlyweds went in the fifties.”

  “He’s right, you know.” Dee nodded emphatically. “It was considered a very romantic spot.”

  “What part of the word inconspicuous don’t you understand?” Iggy gestured meaningfully at the used vehicles.

  “But just look at them.” Quin stroked the chrome bumper on the Chevy. “They’re gorgeous!”

  “And they don’t make them like this anymore. Listen.” Sam knocked on the Ford’s fender, making a loud clunk. “See how solid? Like a tank!”

  Sera folded her arms. “You’re simply going to have to return them. I’m sure this Mr. Roy will understand if you explain how you screwed up royally.”

  “Absolutely,” Iggy agreed. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, remember?”

  “Too late, ladies.” Quin pointed to the license plate on the Chevy. “Already registered ‘em and got tags.” He noticed Dee pulling out her camera, so he plastered a grin on his face and stood in front of the Impala.

  Dee shot some pictures of both men and cars. “By the way, where’s Bick?”

  As if in answer to her question, a loud rumbling emanated from down the block. Iggy and Sera eyed each other in exasperation as Bick rode along Tenth Street on a gleaming chrome and black motorcycle. He leaned into the curve as he turned onto the driveway.

  “Oh no, not another one.” Iggy smacked her forehead.

  Bick hopped off the bike and yanked off his helmet, beaming. “Check it out. It’s a ’58 Harley-Davidson DuoGlide. Classic!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1963

  4:00 PM – CST

  Later that afternoon, Sera tugged at the waistband of her dress and clumped along in her heels, lagging behind Quin and Sam as they walked along Commerce Street. Dee had better buy pants for Sera on her next shopping trip, or she’d be sorry.

  Sam consulted a scrap of paper. “That must be it up ahead. Dee said it was across from the Adolphus hotel.”

  Sera caught up with the guys as they stopped in front of 1312 ½ Commerce, five blocks east of Dealey Plaza. Above the door, a white marquis with black lettering shrieked Carousel Burlesque – Girls! Girls! Girls! On the left, another proclaimed New for November – Tammi True and Kathy Kay. Below it, pictures of strutting performers wallpapered the facade. “I am utterly stunned we have to scope out a nudie bar. This is so undignified. And why is it always girls, girls, girls? Doesn’t one girls suffice?”

  Quin held out his hands in mock helplessness. “We gotta do what we gotta do. It’s for the good of the mission, right?” He opened the door, only to be met with a staircase leading up, obviously the reason for the one-half in the street number. He gestured in a chivalrous manner for Sera to go first. Then he tried to look up her skirt as she climbed ahead. Her flattering dress hugged her hips and flared out above the knees. Dang, this gal should show off her legs more often.

  “You realize this isn’t the same as strip clubs as we know them from 2013, right?” Sam joined them on the small landing and fished a cotton handkerchief from his pocket. He shook it out, covered the knob, and twisted it. “It’s a burlesque. More about entertainment than sex.”

  Sera grinned maniacally at his contradictory behavior. Turning her head to avoid getting caught, she noticed Quin beaming crookedly in return. “You were saying, Sam?”

  He started to enter. �
�Well, in addition to dancers, they have comedians, musicians, ventriloquists, and even movie nights. In fact, women patronize these establishments, too.”

  “Ventriloquists?” Quin halted. “I don’t want to see some clown playing with a doll. I want to see naked chicks.”

  Sera grunted and pushed him into the club. The twin stenches of stale cigarettes and musty alcohol overwhelmed her as she scanned the layout. Since the stairs and entrance took up some space in the middle, the front wall receded behind them. A bar occupied the front wall to her left, while a curtained stage traversed the far left side. A smattering of scuffed wooden tables and chairs cluttered the audience section across the floor, and a row of tacky vinyl booths lined the extreme right. Already dark in the venue, the booths in the recessed area to the right of the steps lurked in shadows. From unseen speakers, Bobby Vinton crooned his melancholy ballad “Blue Velvet.” Dee had mentioned his hit song in her pop culture lessons. What did they call him again? Oh yeah, The Polish Prince.

  After absorbing the coarse ambiance, they had begun to saunter forward when an old man sitting on a barstool demanded they fork over a cover charge. Quin sputtered that they shouldn’t have to pay if there was no entertainment, but the man wouldn’t budge. “No exceptions. Two dollars each. Gents and ladies.”

  Sam glared as he peeled off six bills. “It must be too early for performers.” He glanced around the nearly empty club. “And don’t get your hopes up, Quin. The dancers don’t technically get naked. They wear skimpy costumes, kind of like a bikini on the bottom and tassels on the top.”

  “Groovy! Can they twirl ‘em in opposite directions?” Quin demonstrated by helicoptering his index fingers in front of his chest.

  “Stop it, you pig.” Sera slapped his mitts away. “Sit down and don’t make a spectacle of yourself.” She slumped into a chair at a table near the stage. From this vantage, she observed three runways jutting into the room. A carousel horse on a floor-to-ceiling pole dominated the center runway, ostensibly for the striptease acts. Nice. Cutting-edge strippers inventing pole dancing for the world. Maybe they had pioneered the lap dance as well. Stellar contributions to the human race. “Professional KGB assassins met at this sleaze parlor on a regular basis?”