“Yes, one might even say it was”—Quin entwined his fingers together and placed them behind his head—“serendipity.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1963
9:30 PM - CST
Jay scrutinized the building as they arrived at 2321 West Illinois Avenue, on their second drive-in restaurant visit in Oak Cliff on the same day. He paused to absorb the cheesy facade. Vertical red and white slats lined the front, while white Y-shaped struts supported a wooden awning across the length. A neon sign on top bore the name Austin’s in white script followed by BAR-B-CUE in bold yellow. A smaller font beneath boasted Tender as ol’ Austin’s Heart. As they entered, Jay gave an exaggerated sniff. “At least it smells better than that Rebel place. More like barbecue sauce than refried grease.”
Iggy glanced around the dimly lit, shoebox interior. “It’s filling up. Let’s find a spot to wait.” Groups of teenagers and young adults entered in successive waves.
After fifteen minutes, Dee motioned toward the door. “There he is.” In walked a now-familiar, comely police officer in uniform. Although crowded, the establishment had limited capacity, so J.D. must have noticed them. But he made no immediate acknowledgment.
Bick spoke up to be heard over the rising buzz of conversations. “What’s the story? He’s got a part-time job?”
“Two, actually. In addition to working full-time on the force, J.D. moonlights here Friday and Saturday nights from ten until two.” Dee deliberately used her grandfather’s first name as practice. “He’s also a security guard at the Stevens Theater on Sunday afternoons.”
“The man’s not afraid to work hard to take care of his family, is he?”
Dee proudly nodded at Bick’s approving assessment.
A group of high school students were engaging the officer in an animated exchange. While still commanding respect, J.D. interacted easily, swapping jokes and countering their friendly insults with pithy rejoinders.
“J.D. has always been able to relate to the younger generation.” Dee fondly recalled her own childhood. “He’s really popular with kids. It’s why he’s so successful as a security guard. In fact, the owner, Austin Cook, always told Granddad his mere presence here discouraged fights. They just love him so.”
Nearby, J.D. kept an eye on Dee’s entourage while maintaining an ongoing dialogue with the teens. However, the more he considered the quartet, the more he admired their persistence. As his anger faded, his curiosity intensified.
The team loitered until the fans surrounding the veteran law enforcement official had dissipated and he was left alone.
Although nervous, Dee arranged her face in a reporter’s look—meant to convey intellectual objectivity—as she approached him. “Good evening, Officer Tippit. Sorry to bother you while you’re working.”
“Oh, it’s you again. The people from the future.” J.D. grinned good-naturedly. “How did the head examinations go?”
Oblivious to his jokey tone, Iggy straightened her spine. “I assure you, Officer, we are perfectly sane.”
“Of course you are.” J.D. feigned seriousness. “Fifty years from now, right? Tell me, how does the space race turn out? Does a man ever set foot on the moon?”
“You bet he does!” Jay began ticking off his fingers. “First there was Project Mercury, which launched men into space. But, hold on, it’s 1963, so you would know all about that. Then we had the two-man Gemini teams, which were delayed for a few years because of the war. They accomplished long-duration flights and EVAs, which were necessary for lunar distances. Finally, the Apollo series. On the eleventh mission, we landed men on the moon. Talk about a momentous occasion. Many say it was the greatest achievement in human history. The date was July twentieth, nineteen—”
“Jay!” Iggy poked her elbow into his ribs. “You’re not helping us.”
“What? I haven’t even gotten to the space forts yet.” Jay opened his mouth to elaborate.
J.D. stifled a laugh.
“Settle down, son.” Bick shot Jay a warning look. “Why don’t we let Dee explain things to the patrolman so we don’t waste his time?”
Dee took a breath and forged ahead. “I realize you don’t believe we’re from the future. But I know important details about your life any random stranger wouldn’t.”
“Go ahead. Impress me. I’m listening.” He folded his arms.
“Okay, in 1956, you and your partner, Dale Hankins, conducted a routine check for intoxicated drivers at Club 80 on West Commerce Street. A visibly drunk patron defied your order to cooperate. The crazed man drew a semi-automatic pistol, aimed it at you, and pulled the trigger. Luckily, in his impaired condition he had forgotten the safety. You and Dale simultaneously shot the man, killing him instantly, thus protecting all the innocent bystanders. You received a Certificate of Merit Award for outstanding judgment and quick thinking. You’re a hero.”
“Well, Miss, hero is a noble word. But it’s not easy to live with killing a man, even in self-defense. Regardless, did you expect me to be dazzled by your detective work? That account is a matter of record. And if you really are a reporter, as you say”—J.D. didn’t conceal the irony in his voice—“then isn’t it your job to dig up information on people?”
“I am a reporter!” Dee barked, and then hung her head, deflated.
Jay nudged her. “What about that other thing? You know, the secret.”
Dee snapped her head up with fierce determination. “I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but you leave me no choice. We are from 2013, and I can prove it. I know something very private. Something you haven’t told anyone else. Yet.”
“And what would that be?”
“You married your high school sweetheart, Marie Gasway, shortly after your honorable discharge from World War II, in which you earned a Bronze Star for combat duty.”
J.D. rolled his hand forward at the wrist in a get-on-with-it gesture.
“Before the engagement, you didn’t have the means to get her the kind of ring you thought she deserved.”
Surprised, the officer stopped motioning with his hand.
Dee dealt her final trump card, enunciating clearly. “You have a surprise for your wife on layaway at Sterling Jewelers. A diamond ring.”
J.D. took an involuntary step back, and replied in a hoarse croak, “No one knows about that. Not anyone. How could you possibly know?”
“My granddad told me.” Dee answered honestly.
“You have my attention now.” J.D. shrewdly appraised her. “Who’s your grandfather?”
Dee waved dismissively. “You haven’t met him yet. That won’t happen for years and years.”
“Fine, if you want to play it that way, don’t tell me. But of all the cops in Dallas, why me?”
“Because I know from my granddad that you are a good and honest man we can trust.” Dee felt a surge of hope. At least she had piqued his interest.
“Well, obviously I’m not buying the bull about time travel, but you have gone to extremes to convince me to help you. You mentioned a murder.” J.D. sized up each member of the group. “For now, I’m banking on the fact that none of you are involved. If someone might get hurt, I can’t live with that on my conscience. So, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”
10:00 PM – CST
“Excuse me. Excuse me!” Sera pushed her way through the throng of chattering dancers in the ladies’ room at the Carousel Club. Unfortunately, the bathroom doubled as a dressing room. Suitcases of make-up cluttered the sinks, scarves twisted lazily over the mirrors, costumes hung from the stall doors, and stilettos formed an obstacle course on the floor. The cramped quarters reeked of cheap perfume and body odor.
Sera finally freed herself from the confines of the lavatory. This was the worst job ever. Her first day, and she’d already been groped up the thigh and slapped on the ass twice. How could Dee call the sixties a more civilized decade? These men were misogynistic cavemen, for crying out loud.
She returned to the bar to collect another round of colas for Sam and Quin. She loathed serving the two of them, but it afforded the opportunity to talk discreetly.
Sera thumped the drinks on their table. “See anything yet?”
Sam alternated between watching the movie and the front entrance, barely able to see through the swirling cigarette smoke. Most of the ambient light came from the flickering screen. Motion Picture Night at the Carousel was a unique form of entertainment. While various strippers silently gyrated on three runways, a reel of Cleopatra projected behind them. Not the classy Liz Taylor version shown in theaters earlier in 1963, but a steamier version directed by Cecil B. DeMille in 1934, starring Claudette Colbert.
“No. Still no sign of the KGB. However, Cleo is making lots of friends.” Sam dragged his eyes away from the actress. “Anyway, there’s no guarantee they’ll be here on any given night.”
“Wanna make a bet?” Quin lifted his chin toward the door. “Here they come. Dmitriy Sokolov and Viktor Vladimirsky. I recognize them from Dee’s photo library.”
Sera squinted through the haze. “Yeah, you’re right. But who is that behind them? He’s certainly not Ivan Grekovich.”
They watched as the third man stopped the two known Soviets from heading to the bar, gesticulating angrily. Then he led the way to the back hallway while the others obediently followed.
“Ivan was short and fat. But this guy is any man,” Sam speculated out loud. “What, five-foot-ten? Brown hair? Unremarkable features? He’s the perfect spy.”
Before opening the door, the mystery man halted and gazed around the burlesque. His scan flitted past Sera and company, paused, and then rested briefly on them again.
Taken aback, Quin racked his brain trying to figure out what had caused the guy’s second glance. They were sitting unobtrusively, being served by a cocktail waitress—Sera. She stood with one hand on her miniskirted hip, the other balancing a tray, and a shapely leg jutting out. Of course. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer there, Sera.”
“I’ve got a virtual fan club in this sleaze pit. Care to join? Ten bucks will buy you a membership and a free miniposter.”
Quin pretended to go for his wallet while Sera gave him a withering glare.
“Cut it out, kids.” Sam shifted his chair to better observe the KGB disappear through the swinging door. “The important question is, where the hell is Ivan? And who is Mr. Espionage Agent Du Jour?”
“Maybe we screwed up. Changed the timeline or something.” Quin slurped the dregs of his drink and chomped on an ice cube. “Didn’t Iggy drone on about that?”
“That’s asinine.” Sera swiped his nearly empty glass off the table. “We’ve been in Dallas for three days and have hardly interacted with anyone. I fail to see how we could have altered the course of history.”
“Maybe I bought the Chevy Ivan was meant to buy, and he has no way to get here. Ever think of that?”
“She’s right,” Sam interjected, as Sera rolled her eyes. “We’ve only been here a short time. Perhaps Ivan comes into the picture later. We’ll have to stay vigilant and see what develops.”
10:15 PM – CST
While J.D. had kept tabs on the boisterous clientele at Austin’s Barbecue, Dee, Jay, Iggy and Bick had briefed him on the upcoming crime. Wanting to maintain order, the officer had interrupted the conversation on several occasions to curtail rowdy behavior.
Now, he reviewed the facts. “So, y’all are telling me an innocent housewife is going to be kidnapped and killed on November 18, here in Dallas. I can’t arrest the perpetrators because you have no concrete evidence.” J.D. sucked air through his teeth. “Except for your knowledge of the future.”
“That pretty much sums it up.” Jay sighed.
Out of respect, Iggy volleyed it back to the lawman. “What do you think, J.D.?”
“Well, ma’am, if we simply prevent the incident from occurring, the criminals may keep trying until they succeed. The trick is to thwart the homicide, but almost let it happen. That way I can arrest the killers for attempted murder. And kidnapping.”
“Not an easy task.” Bick felt a kinship with J.D. This cop was the real deal.
“Exactly right, but we have a plan.” Dee nodded eagerly. “And you’ll know we’re telling the truth when the events play out exactly as we predict.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.” These folks sounded mental, but they seemed sincere. And J.D. found it difficult to believe they’d be involved in manslaughter. Best to go along with them for now and see what developed.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1963
10:45 PM – CST
Jack Ruby held up a hand to halt his conversation with the nincompoop at the bar while he filled a drink order for the fledgling waitress. He congratulated himself on discovering Sera. Several regulars had already asked how soon the pretty new gal would strip. Ruby had ruefully shaken his head and made the excuse that she was a trainee. No harm in implying her status might change. Wishful thinking, the expectation of seeing her dance, would keep them coming. Quick as a whip, the recent hire had even provided advice on supply-ordering procedures after she’d noticed they were out of stock on key items. All on her first shift.
“Are you brewing them? I haven’t got all day, Ruby.” Sera grabbed the beers and handed in another ticket. “I’ll be right back for those, so make it snappy.”
He chuckled. If only she wasn’t such a wisenheimer. The customers didn’t seem to mind, though. He’d seen them flirt, tease, pinch, grab—anything to get a rise out of her. She also wasted time yammering with her two friends parked near the main stage. But, hey, no one went thirsty, so who cared?
The patron he’d been talking to waved both arms to attract Ruby’s attention. The club owner snarled at him to be silent as he surveyed his kingdom. The Cleopatra movie credits had rolled, but in typical Friday-night fashion, the Carousel was packed. In rotating order, all three runways were in use as each girl performed a solo number to the cheers of the crowd. Satisfied, he reluctantly turned to the half-wit. “What?”
“Listen up, Jack, this is serious, important stuff. I was saying, it is readily foreseeable that a coming economic, political, or military crisis, internal or external, will bring about the final destruction of the capitalist system. Assuming this, we can see how preparation in a special party could safeguard an independent course of action after the debacle.” Lee Harvey Oswald gave him a supercilious smile.
“Special party?” Ruby eyed him with disdain. “What are you, a commie?” The guy sounded like he was reading from a script.
“I’m a Marxist. I have studied Marxist philosophy and also other philosophers.” Oswald gazed confidently at the barkeep. “Yes, I will very definitely say that I am a Marxist, that is correct. But that does not mean, however, that I am a communist.”
“What the devil is the difference?” Ruby reminded himself that he could always beat the crap out of this pesky fly. Again.
“The difference is primarily the difference between a country like Guinea, Ghana, Yugoslavia, China, or Russia. Very, very great differences. Differences which we appreciate by giving aid, let’s say to Yugoslavia, in the sum of a hundred million or so dollars a year.”
“Irregardless, what’s the difference?” Ruby unconsciously tightened his fists as he envisioned the man on the floor, writhing in agony.
“The difference is, as I have said, a very great difference. Many parties, many countries are based on Marxism. Many countries, such as Great Britain, display very socialistic aspects or characteristics. I might point to the socialized medicine in Britain.”
“And I might point to my boot connecting with your ass, sending you sailing toward the door.” Ruby decided to preach a lesson to the skinny twerp. “You commies are all the same.”
Oswald opened his mouth to object, but the strip joint mogul cut him off.
“Communists, Marxists, Socialists. Doesn’t matter. You’re all
a sorry bunch of whiners who cling to the idea of a pie-in-the-sky society. In the real world, those societies are excuses to make slaves of your everyday working stiff.”
“It’s not supposed to be like that.” Oswald clenched his jaw.
“What’s wrong with good old democracy? Here in the USA, we choose our own leaders. Hell, I voted for Kennedy. He’s a legendary president who’s making significant progress. He’s reforming taxes, promoting civil rights, and fighting communism. He’s even going to put a man on the moon. And his wife, Jackie, is one classy broad. Get a load of how she jazzed up the White House. Whaddaya call ‘em? Oh yeah, the King and Queen of Camelot. You’ll see. JFK is just what our country needs. In the future, people will look up Kennedy in the history books and say, ‘Well, this man was ahead of his time.’ You’re lucky you were born here.”
Oswald snorted.
“Listen to me, you fool. With American Capitalism we’re free. Anyone can make it if they work hard. Take me, for example, a schmuck from Chicago and I own two nightclubs.”
Sera returned to the bar as Ruby was calling himself a schmuck. She arched her eyebrows at him.
Lee Harvey Oswald straightened his shoulders and drew up one side of his upper lip. “Freedom is an illusion. It’s like Karl Marx said. A lie told often enough becomes the truth.”
“You idiot.” Sera whipped around toward the pompous little twit. “Marx didn’t say that, Lenin did.”
Behind Sera, Viktor Vladimirsky stopped his approach with his left foot in mid-air. He put his foot down and abruptly retreated.
10:55 PM – CST
Waiting in a booth with a brooding Dmitriy, Kon idly watched ventriloquist Bill Demar perform. While the hayseeds around him cracked up at the lame routine, the KGB cell leader failed to comprehend what was so humorous about a lecherous dummy. These hackneyed jokes may have been funny at one time, but Kon barely broke a smile. He could see the operator’s lips move as the doll spoke. Pathetic.
Kon’s thoughts were disrupted when his dour, blond underling precipitously returned to the table empty-handed. “Hey, Lurch. Where’s my beer?”
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 20