Quin spun a banquet chair around and straddled it backward. “Yup. Dee said something about a meeting room in the back. Guess they arranged for private screenings with the, uh, talent.”
Sam rigidly remained standing. “I will investigate. The rest rooms are back there, so I’ll go alone so as not to arouse suspicion. Keep a low profile.”
“Don’t catch any germs in there, pal,” Quin called out after him.
“Shut up and order me a scotch.”
Sam pushed through a swinging door in the center of the back wall and entered a short hallway. As he passed the ladies’ room on the left, a paunchy, balding man burst out of a door on the right, almost bumping into him. The man muttered a curse, but Sam ignored it and nonchalantly continued. When the man had departed the hallway, Sam doubled back to explore the room just vacated. It was a barren office with a utilitarian, metal desk and a squat, gray safe in the corner. Half empty bottles of booze nestled among littered papers. Framed photos of cavorting strippers and variety acts adorned the walls. Typical. The owner probably fancied himself a showbiz mogul rather than a raunchy club operator.
Resuming his tour, he passed the men’s room on the left, and then the corridor turned a right corner. The passage revealed an exit on the left and another door on the right. Sam lightly touched the handle and opened the door. The unoccupied room housed oak chairs and a table with an overflowing ashtray as a centerpiece. Cases of beer and champagne were haphazardly stacked around the perimeter. This must be the infamous KGB meeting room, doubling as a storeroom.
Satisfied, he tried the rear door. It opened easily, but on a close examination he determined it would remain locked from the outside. Made sense considering the extortionate admission charge. He crossed over into the men’s room and scrubbed his hands of doorknob filth while automatically vetting his appearance in a mirror above the sink. Not bad. He smoothed his hair and straightened his narrow sixties tie. Next to the mirror was a large window with access to a fire escape down to the alley below. Sam also saw a staircase leading up to the locked back entrance. Interesting. He filed this information for his report to the team.
In the main showroom, Sera and Quin had yet to be served. More patrons were gradually traipsing in, but the joint seemed lacking in service.
Quin laced his fingers together and folded them backward, loudly cracking all knuckles at once. “I’ve had it. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink at the bar.”
As Sera reluctantly rose, Quin put a palm on the small of her back in a guiding fashion. She flinched at this uncharacteristic act from a man with an ego the size of the planet. “What do you think you’re doing?” She elbowed him in the gut.
A paunchy bartender with a receding hairline greeted them. “Welcome to the Carousel. I’m your host, Jack Ruby. What can I get you folks?”
“A couple of beers and a scotch.”
“No hard liquor. Just the set-ups.” Noting Quin’s stupefied expression, Ruby elaborated. “Beer and champagne only. You want the hard stuff, you bring it yourself. We sell you the set-up.”
Quin settled for three drafts, while “My Boyfriend’s Back” by the Angels bounced its clapping singsong melody over the loudspeakers.
As Ruby poured their drinks, he shamelessly critiqued Sera from head to toe, taking in her slim, athletic build. “Hey, doll. Need a job? We’ve got openings for dames like you.”
“I have a job.”
“What about nights and weekends? Extra cash? We’re always on the lookout for new talent. Want to be a star?” Ruby stared at her breasts. “You could be a headliner at the Carousel.”
Sera couldn’t believe the audacity of this lecherous middle-ager. “If you think for one minute that . . .”
Quin jabbed her with his elbow. “She means, ‘No thanks.’”
She clamped her lips and turned to him in murderous rage. “Cut it out!” she hissed.
“You’ve got yourself a real pistol there, fella.” Ruby chuckled. “Well, if you’re too shy to be a dancer, why not start as a cocktail waitress? You could work your way up. We need the help.”
As Sera opened her mouth to deliver a scathing reply, Quin kicked the side of her shoe and looked at her pointedly. Suddenly, she saw the whole scene fade into a vision of the broader picture. Of course. Working here would afford an ideal opportunity to monitor the KGB. She abruptly reversed course and offered a bright, fake smile. “I’d be delighted to work here as a cocktail waitress.”
“Great! You can start tomorrow. I’ve got the perfect uniform for you to show off your . . .” Ruby narrowed his eyes. “. . . assets.”
11:30 PM – CST
Sam leaned out of his bedroom door at 429 East Tenth Street and eavesdropped to confirm that the team was watching a rerun of The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Or a live broadcast, now that he thought about it. He closed the door and returned to his suitcase. He unzipped an inside pocket and, reaching in, felt his hand close around smooth, cold metal. He pulled out a Locklier H2 2011. With its frozen hydrogen projectile, it was the most advanced weapon available in his time. He gripped the lustrous gun and aimed it at the bureau. Excellent. The tracking mechanism had not been adversely affected by time travel. He carefully slid it into the compartment and stashed the bag in the closet.
Earlier in the day, Iggy and Bick had gone downtown to purchase a few legitimate 1960s revolvers. For self-defense purposes, they quickly added. But what good was some meager defense when you might need some serious offense?
Only Sam had possessed the foresight to do what was necessary.
CHAPTER FORTY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1963
10:25 AM – CST
Bick motored the pink and black Ford through the Oak Cliff section of Dallas using an extra key from the copies they’d had made. Jockeying the coupe into a parking space off Ledbetter Drive, he inhaled through the open window. “Definitely what you’d call a greasy spoon. The neighborhood smells like fried eggs and bacon.”
Dee sprang out and snapped photos. “This is where my granddad stopped on morning break. I’ve never seen it before, not even in pictures. In our era the building has been demolished.”
Jay took in the establishment. Blue and red neon letters on the roof stated Rebel Drive-In. Plate glass windows across the front revealed a counter with bolted stools and several tables inside. A small, half-open window on the left had a shelf jutting out below. “What the heck is this place?”
“It’s a drive-up diner with counter service inside and carhops outside.” Noticing Jay’s blank expression, Dee elaborated, “A carhop is a waiter or waitress who takes the order and delivers it right to your car. See that girl over there on roller skates?”
Jay stared at the skater in disbelief.
“Drive-ins were the precursors to drive-through fast food. That’s why the seating area is limited. Most people ate in their cars.”
“Roller skates?” Bick observed the fetching teen almost lose her tray as she negotiated a downslope. “Not too practical for serving food. Must be a novelty to attract attention.”
“All right, all right. Enough sightseeing.” Iggy ushered the others to the front door.
In spite of the drive-in’s name, Dee was flabbergasted to see a Confederate flag tacked up behind the register. They ordered beverages at the counter, Dee settling for a regular Coke, and sat down at a booth in the otherwise vacant eatery. Hank Williams’s lilting cowboy twang warbled from the jukebox. Ironically, the tune was “Let’s Turn Back the Years.”
At 10:30 am, a police officer entered the restaurant. He carried his muscular build with dignity, but his dark eyes sparkled with affability in a handsome, suntanned face. A patrolman’s cap covered most of his shiny black hair.
Iggy, Bick, and Jay looked questioningly at Dee, and she nodded. Her grandfather. In her excitement to see him again, she’d forgotten how much she missed his presence in her life. His senior years had been rewarding; he’d lived long enough to dote on each of his grandkids, Dee incl
uded. But in her timeline, Granddad had been gone for ten years. Now she sat ten paces from him, a man exuding vitality with the same playful twinkle she adored. In 1963, he would be, what? Thirty-nine? Only fourteen years older than her current age. That plus five decades. She knew all along he wouldn’t recognize her. However, to see him in the flesh and realize she counted as a complete stranger . . . Dee gave an involuntary sniff.
Jay awkwardly pawed her arm.
Dee rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. She sipped her Coke and watched her grandfather order tea. “I’m okay. This is too important for me to fall apart. I have to talk to him and gain his trust.”
She steeled her resolve and approached the uniformed man. “Officer Tippit, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dee Doherty, and my friends and I need to discuss an urgent matter with you.”
Puzzled, the policeman nevertheless doffed his hat in deference to the earnest kid. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dee.” Her appearance and mannerisms seemed familiar, but he didn’t recall the name. Clutching his glass of tea, he followed her to the table.
“Officer Tippit, I would like you to meet my associates, Iggy Mikos, Bickford Haycock, and Jay Harding.”
Her young grandfather graciously shook hands and began memorizing faces and names. Over a decade on the force had taught him to be constantly on alert, using his observational skills to evaluate each encounter. Although Iggy hadn’t spoken, she was clearly an authoritative figure, and probably the leader. Bickford’s precise movements and perfect posture hinted at a military career. And Jay. Obviously a poindexter or perhaps just a bookworm. You could tell for sure he’d been beat up on the playground. As a whole, the group appeared mostly harmless. “Nice to meet you folks. Call me J.D.” He sat down, leaning forward expectantly.
Wanting to keep her flood of memories at bay, Dee jumped right to the point. “We have a lead on an unlawful act that’s going to be committed here in Dallas.”
J.D. hadn’t counted on this sudden twist. In his experience, people tipped off the police for only two reasons—either they were crazy, or they were involved. His first impressions might have missed the mark. He chose his next words carefully. “Now, what would you nice citizens know about a criminal offense?”
Failing to notice the officer’s skepticism, Bick spoke like a co-conspirator. “If we could tell you”—he swiveled from side to side, confirming that nobody else was listening—“the time and place where a crime is going to occur, could you prevent it? Could you arrest the perpetrator?”
“Well, it’s possible.” J.D. gazed above their heads as if speculating. “But how could anyone know about a crime in advance unless they were somehow mixed up in it?”
“Oh gosh, no. Of course not. Nothing like that. I mean we couldn’t . . .” Jay knocked over his soda and grabbed a bunch of napkins to sop it up. “We, we wouldn’t even be capable of such a thing.”
J.D.’s eyes widened at the stranger’s nervousness.
Iggy felt the plan tumbling down around her. How could they be so careless with their historic meeting? She cast about wildly, thinking of a plausible scenario. “It’s not us. We have a reliable source.”
“Reliable source?” J.D. parroted. “Then I would very much like to meet your informant.”
“You can’t.” Dee landed on familiar ground. “I’m a reporter and I am not at liberty to reveal my sources.”
“Is that so?” The officer slid a notebook and pen from his breast pocket. “Which news organization do you work for?”
He had her. Dee couldn’t produce credentials. No one spoke.
“I thought so.” The patrolman sat back and folded his arms. “You people apparently have something to say to me, or you wouldn’t have tracked me down. Now I have a job to do. A job I take seriously, so I’m giving you exactly one minute to tell me what’s going on.” He checked his watch. “Make sure it’s the truth.”
“The truth? You want the truth?” Dee’s voice shrilled with raw emotion.
“No!” Jay implored.
Dee’s desire to appease her grandfather impelled her forward. “We’re time travelers from the future. Fifty years to be exact.” She slapped her palms on the table. “We’re from 2013.”
Incredulity washed over J.D., replaced by disappointment. “I can’t help you if you’re not going to level with me.” He stood up to leave.
“No wait! I have proof.” Dee pulled a photograph from her purse and thrust it at him. “I know you’ll help us. You’ve got to. It’s part of your nature.”
Something about her demeanor gave him pause. What was it? Desperation? No, faith. J.D. snatched the picture. “What is this?”
“Christmas. 1965.”
Officer Tippit studied the faded print. He recognized a living room similar to his own, decorated for the holiday. Surrounding the tree, three children gaily opened presents. His children—Allan, Brenda, and Curtis. But somehow they were different. Taller maybe, with slimmer faces. In the background, his wife Marie lounged on the settee, hands clasped over an expectant midriff, smiling serenely at the camera.
Dee, Jay, Bick, and Iggy scarcely breathed while they waited for a reaction.
J.D.’s palms started to perspire. The intuitive part of his mind acknowledged this to be his family. But rationally, it was not possible. Sanity returned. It was one thing to try to fool a lawman. It was another to involve his wife and kids.
He tossed the picture onto the table. “What kind of parlor trick is this? This is a fake photograph. You’ve obviously superimposed my family’s faces over someone else’s.”
“No, we really are from the future, and this is your family.” Dee gripped his sleeve. “You’re going to have another child. A baby girl.” She omitted that the infant would grow up to become her mother.
“Leave my family out of it.” J.D. shook her off. “I suggest you pay a visit to Parkland Memorial Hospital. They have a special ward for people like you.”
“Please, J.D.” Iggy tried appealing to his sense of duty. “A murder is going to be committed, and we have to stop it.”
The police officer strode out, letting the door bang shut behind him.
3:15 PM – CST
Afterward, Dee spent a glum couple of hours contemplating their failed meeting with J.D. Tippit. She mentally rehashed the entire conversation, including everything she’d said and hadn’t said. Sensing her palpable frustration, the rest of the team left her alone. But Dee could mope for only so long. Eventually, her normal state of optimism returned, and she decided all they had to do was try again. And again. No matter what it took, she would convince her grandfather of their sincerity.
In the meantime, she devoted her energy to helping Sera get ready for her new career.
“Are you done yet?” Sera despised sitting impassively like a porcelain doll. “You’ve been grooming me for a half an hour already.” Worst of all, she couldn’t see the progress. Her back to the mirrored bureau in their bedroom, she faced Dee perched on the edge of the opposite twin bed. Sera’s view consisted of their hideous floral bedspreads.
“Almost.” Dee patted a powder puff over Sera’s cheeks and dusted off the excess with a soft brush. “There.”
Sera turned to the mirror and examined her reflection, tilting her head from side to side. Unbelievable. If the image weren’t moving, she’d swear it was a portrait of someone else. Swept back from her forehead, her hair cascaded down in wavy curls framing a radiant complexion. The muted shadows and subtle make-up hues made her eyes seem larger and her contours softer, less angular. She missed her severe black eyeliner already, but the overall effect was, perhaps, pretty. However, she objected on principle. “I still don’t see why I need to be primped and painted to serve drinks to perverts.”
“You’re welcome.” Dee grinned. “Go ahead and put on your uniform. Doesn’t your shift start at four o’clock?”
“Yeah, four to eleven. Ruby overlaps it with the crew from seven until two. Closing tim
e. At least I get home at a decent hour.” Sera was pulling on black stockings when an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. “You don’t think anyone is around right now, do you? I don’t want to be ogled in this outfit.”
“Nah.” Dee decided a white lie was in order. “I think everyone’s out except Quin. He offered to drive you to work.”
Sera felt herself flush.
Five minutes later, they descended the staircase to the lower floor of the two-story house. To Sera’s dismay, the entire team was sprawled around the living room watching her humiliating debut. Thank goodness nobody said anything. But as she got closer, she realized the men were sitting riveted to the sagging couch, mouths hanging open at the sight of her black dress that closely resembled a French maid costume. She instinctively yanked at the hem of her skirt, willing it to lengthen.
Sam whistled wolfishly.
“Feeling a bit of a breeze there, Sera?” Quin raised his eyebrows and admired her lean thighs.
Mesmerized by her metamorphosis, Jay touched the side of his cheek. “Your face is so different. Well, I mean, uh, you look beautiful.” He hastily continued, “Of course, not that you don’t usually.” He clamped his lips shut before he could inflict any more damage.
“What?” Sera wanted to wring his neck. “Dee did it.”
Iggy could practically feel the enraged impotence emanating from her protégé. “Well done, Sera. You can definitely pass for a cocktail waitress in that disguise. No one will ever know you’re a spy. On behalf of the team, I want to commend you for volunteering for this assignment.”
“Yes, we’re grateful.” Bick made an attempt to keep the banter away from the Junior High level. “Hey, that was a stroke of luck you got a job at the Carousel. How did you manage it?”
Sera shrugged. “Well, Ruby just offered it. I didn’t ask for an application or anything.”
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 19