Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  “Now that’s”—Jay pointed his fork in the air—“the spirit Dallas is famous for the world over.”

  Dee grinned as she cut out the article. “They go on to outline the plans for protecting the president, stressing a heavy police presence and thoroughness of preparations.”

  “An open limo crawling through the downtown streets?” Sam’s voice oozed with derision. “Why don’t they paint a bull’s-eye on the car?”

  “They’re following the official procedures of this day and age. Regrettably, they’re underestimating the possible threat.” Bick slid a perfectly folded omelet onto a plate. Living as a bachelor had provided ample opportunity to hone his cooking skills. “Who’s next?”

  Dee mumbled a white lie about wanting dry toast in order to maintain her figure.

  “In that case, hope y’all don’t mind. I’m starving.” Quin grabbed the dish and began shoveling food into his mouth while continuing to speak. “Hey, I’ll take some toasht if you’re makin’ it. Anyway, thounds like those in charge are setting themselves up for a coloshal screwup.”

  Sera was forcibly reminded of feeding hour at the zoo. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about the motorcade right now.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that.” Jay propped his elbow on the table. “Sera’s correct. We can’t do anything today to further our cause. So I’m suggesting, I mean I don’t know if you feel we should or not, but how about we take the day off, considering?”

  “Fabulous!” Dee jumped up, clutching the news story to her chest. “I would love to see ’63 society firsthand—fashions, books, magazines, music. We could be like tourists of present-day Texas.” Her eyes shone with excitement.

  Iggy recalled her earlier speech admonishing them not to act like time-travel tourists, but decided her team deserved an exception to the rule. Besides, a break from the stress would be welcome. “I don’t see any harm in that proposition. Let’s have some fun.”

  Instead of the whoop they expected, Dee hunched her shoulders. “I have one caveat. In light of our grave mission, perhaps we should contemplate a detour before we revel in the blessings of our current good fortune.”

  “Good fortune?” Sam grimaced. “It’s not like you’ve been successful in your attempts to convince people we’re from the future.”

  “I think . . .” Dee faltered and then bravely pressed on “. . . we should attend religious services, bearing in mind what we are up against.” She looked beseechingly at her two best supporters. “Today is Sunday after all.”

  Bick and Jay both immediately agreed.

  Sera held her tired face in both hands. “Would I have to wear a hat?”

  Lowering her head, Dee nodded.

  Quin wiped stray ketchup off his mouth. “What kinda church?”

  “Blessed Sacrament is only three blocks from here on North Marsalis Ave. I walked by the other day and noticed they have a 9:30 mass. You know, Roman Catholic.”

  “Close enough.” Iggy smiled. “We owe ourselves an uplifting event. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day, and we’ve worked hard to get this far.”

  Sam gazed out the open window. “You know, it’s a good thing you folks came to see me back in California. No doubt the country will benefit in the end.”

  8:15 AM – CST

  Stiff and cold from hiding since early morning, the KGB cell leader crouched beneath the kitchen window outside the blue house on the corner of Tenth and Denver Streets, listening. Kennedy. Of course it all came back to Kennedy. He’d known all along this bunch would be trouble. For everyone’s sake, he hoped to hell they wouldn’t interfere with his plan.

  11:15 AM – CST

  Several hours later, Team Orbis was strolling along West Jefferson Boulevard, two blocks south of their temporary home. Buoyed by the hour’s dose of God’s word, Dee led them on a shopping trip through the retail district of Oak Cliff. The priest’s sermon had been especially poignant. He spoke of selfless acts of service in the name of the Almighty, particularly when those acts would remain anonymous. Dee felt his homily was meant for them.

  After meandering in and out of a bookshop, a women’s clothier, and a shoe store, they passed the Texas Theater, boasting a double feature. Dee mentioned that J.D. had worked there as a security guard a few years ago.

  They crossed Jefferson Boulevard at Bishop Street, heading to a music shop. A bright yellow box sign over the storefront said Top Ten Records, with a black phonograph record underlying the first two words. Neon letters in the picture window spelled out Latest Hits, Rock ‘N’ Roll, Folk, Motown, Jazz. Upon entering, they heard the harmonious love song “Hey Paula,” by Paul & Paula, being broadcast on the local pop radio station.

  Bick introduced himself to owner Dub Stark, and they started discussing the current music scene. In typical male fashion, Jay, Sam, and Quin joined them in the lively conversation about the best contemporary singers and bands. The colleagues purchased several LP records, including the one by Paul & Paula, and another hit by Little Stevie Wonder.

  While Dee snapped photos, Sera admired a large RCA Victor clock made to resemble a black vinyl record. The center included the iconic logo of fox terrier Nipper listening to a gramophone. Numerous statues of the same canine dotted the interior. Thousands of albums were jammed into bins around the tiny space, and the walls and shelves displayed various branded swag. An old-fashioned black rotary phone was mounted to the side of the cash register counter. Thinking aloud, Sera turned to Iggy. “It’s amazing. None of these cultural items survived into our era. Antiques like these simply don’t exist.” She narrowed her eyes. “Which reminds me, what book did you buy earlier?”

  “A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle.”

  Sera raised her brows.

  “It’s a book that won the Newbery Medal for outstanding children’s literature in 1963. I adored it as a kid, but it’s out-of-print where we’re from.”

  “Please tell me it’s not about time travel.” Sera benignly tapped her foot.

  “Well, the main theme involves the classic struggle of good against evil. A trio of angelic beings helps some children rescue their father from an insidious dark cloud known as The Black Thing.” Iggy blushed. “However, they move through the galaxy by means of a tesseract, a fifth dimensional phenomenon that shortens the distance between two points by folding the fabric of space and time. Like a wrinkle.”

  Sera laughed. “I don’t know which is more ironic. That it’s about time travel or that it’s about the battle between good and evil.”

  1:00 PM – CST

  In her cramped kitchen that contained not only a stove and refrigerator, but also a washing machine and ironing board, Mrs. Paine finished rinsing the lunch dishes while her boarder pressed clean laundry.

  Chores complete, the Russian housemate tugged at her curly brunette ponytail. “Let’s call Papa,” she requested in her native tongue.

  Mrs. Paine pursed her lips and nodded. She understood that Marina wished to speak to her husband, but couldn’t place the call due to the language barrier. Contrary to his usual habit, he had not visited this weekend. Marina had asked him not to come because of a Paine-family birthday party.

  Ruth Paine referenced her address book and dialed the number for 1026 North Beckley Avenue. “Is Lee Oswald there?”

  A man replied, “There is no Lee Oswald living here.”

  “Is this a rooming house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have I reached WH3-8993?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Paine hung up and addressed the young wife and mother. “They don’t know of a Lee Oswald at that number.”

  Marina’s eyes widened in surprise. She knew this was the address and phone number Lee had provided. Frustrated and upset, she asked her confidante where her husband was and what he was doing.

  Mrs. Paine had no answers.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1963

  2:00 PM – CST


  Driving into the parking lot, the time travelers were greeted by a white wooden sign depicting a cowboy on a bucking bronco next to the words, Howdy! Welcome to Mesquite Championship Rodeo. Dee grinned over the southern hospitality.

  The group wandered the grounds, soaking in the multitude of colorful characters. The unseasonably warm weather brought a glut of fans outfitted in authentic western wear. The men sported plaid shirts, faded Wranglers, pointy boots, and cowboy hats. Many women also wore jeans, but the majority donned denim or patterned prairie skirts. Their button-down shirts flaunted fancy white piping, and they coordinated their ensembles with leather boots and felt hats. Clad in jeans, Team Orbis blended right in.

  A gray-whiskered ranch hand with a nametag identifying him as “Hampy” directed the seven men and women toward an office building that doubled as a ticket booth. A placard on the front gate warned, No Firearms on Premises. Dee raised her eyebrows at Bick.

  Paying admission allowed them the dubious privilege of passing the smelly livestock pens on their way to the bleachers. Dee hurried by, grateful for the open-air stadium, while Bick paused to pat the horses’ noses. They found the front row and sat down with anticipation. Having printed their own currency, they could afford the best seats in the house.

  Dee consulted her program. The festivities commenced with the Grand Entry—a parade of performers and patrons riding on horseback around the dirt field to strident marching music. The entire populace stood, removed their hats, and faced the Stars and Stripes billowing in the breeze. Raspy notes of the national anthem squawked from loudspeakers as the crowd joined in. Dee heard Iggy’s voice projecting proudly as she paid tribute to the flag. The announcer caught the team off guard as he asked the audience to bow their heads. Bick glanced sideways at Dee in surprise, but she simply shrugged. The emcee intoned a heartfelt prayer to Jesus, asking Him to bless and protect the men in the military as they defended America’s freedom. He then prayed for the security and safety of the cowboys and cowgirls who would be competing.

  Dee pulled out her camera as the real fun began. The events started with Cowgirl Barrel Racing. Young women sprinted their American Quarter Horses in a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels with their long hair whipping out from under their Stetsons. The racers’ determined expressions revealed the fierce rivalry to achieve the fastest time.

  In Steer Wrestling, two riders on horseback chased a neutered male bovine. The Hazer kept it running in a straight line to allow the Bulldogger to catch it by the horns. He leapt off the horse and wrestled the steer to the ground, using leverage rather than force to flip the animal. Dee winced as the creatures’ necks were twisted in unnatural angles.

  Spectators were invited to participate in Cowboy Poker, a bout of insanity involving four volunteers who each bet twenty-five bucks to play an imaginary poker hand at a card table in the middle of the arena. Bick and Sam needed to physically restrain Quin from entering this macho exercise. Sera voted to let him go. The operators released a bull into the ring to measure the steadfastness of the bettors. Rodeo clowns egged on the ferocious quadruped, enticing him to charge the foolhardy contestants. The last poker face left sitting won the whole pot, plus bragging rights. Quin sulkily maintained he would have reigned victorious. The crew admonished him for wanting to risk serious bodily harm for such a meager reward. Dee giggled and continued snapping photos.

  Bareback Riding followed, with the cowboys’ knees pumping up and down as they spurred their mustangs’ withers. They strove to maintain control of their bucking charges until the eight-second buzzer sounded. Far more dangerous than it looked, many riders were pitched off after a few seconds. The height of their horses made for a hard landing.

  During a short intermission, the team roamed around the perimeter buying snacks and beers, forgetting their mission and enjoying the carnival atmosphere. Dee even cajoled the others into taking pictures on the shoulders of a cheesy fake bull with its hindquarters in the air. Stoic Sera lost herself in the moment, laughing with her head thrown back and Quin’s ten-gallon hat in her free hand. Sam, however, flatly refused to participate, claiming they were behaving like infants. But he said it with a smile and offered to take a shot of Dee and Bick together on a make-believe ride.

  Then came the most ludicrous game of all. Misguided parents encouraged their small children to race sheep across the field in Mutton Bustin’. A strict weight limit was enforced, with no tot over fifty-five pounds permitted to enter. Placed on the woolen backs, the kids clung to the animals’ necks, trying to hang on until they reached the opposite side. Unlike the adults, the youngsters wore helmets to prevent their tiny skulls from crushing when they fell. All except one tumbled off the sheep within a few yards of the gate. A five-year-old girl won first prize by heroically gripping her charge as they dashed to the finish. The organizers rewarded her with a fuzzy stuffed lamb. As the crowd roared its approval, Jay deemed it a form of child abuse.

  At last came the show they were most excited to see. Bull Riding. The rodeo achieved new heights of lunacy as grown men straddled the animals and strapped their left hands to ropes tied around the bulls’ chests. When the chutes opened, the cowboys endeavored to remain seated for eight seconds as the enraged, two-thousand-pound beasts bucked and snorted beneath them. One got close enough that Dee saw snot spewing out of the brute’s flared nostrils. Earth kicked up from its hooves splattered her jeans. At least she hoped it was dirt. All of the contestants wore cowboy hats; however, none wore a stitch of protective gear. She feared for a rider’s life as he was tossed to the ground and nearly trampled. She held her hands over her eyes, but couldn’t resist peeking. A patron next to her chided her to “Cowboy up.” Meanwhile, Sam jokingly rooted for the massive bulls. In the most hazardous occupation, rodeo clowns distracted the pawing animals after each performance while the glory seekers ran like hell.

  Dee couldn’t remember when she’d had this much fun. Tomorrow would be a different story.

  7:00 PM – CST

  8:00 PM – EST

  The nation’s chief law enforcer, J. Edgar Hoover, and his number one lackey, Clyde Tolson, sat in the formal dining room of Hoover’s residence located at 4936 Thirtieth Place Northwest, in Washington DC. In customary fashion, the coworkers shared a Sunday meal while discussing the Bureau.

  Tolson possessed startling news, but dreaded how his hot-tempered boss would react. He wisely waited until a couple of top-shelf cocktails and gourmet appetizers had been ingested before broaching the subject in his whiny voice. “We’ve got it, J. Edgar. The proof.” He took a gulp of gin and tonic.

  “Your point, Clyde?” Hoover crunched on an ice cube from his tumbler.

  “The listening devices. In the Oval Office? The president and attorney general want you out.”

  Hoover remained calm. “Hardly surprising. Go on.”

  Tolson regained his aplomb and spoke rapidly. “Bobby is gunning for your dismissal. He thinks you’re not aggressive enough in pursuing organized crime. Their only hesitancy is JFK’s fear of your”—he cleared his throat—“alleged secret dossiers.”

  “He should be afraid. Kennedy is not invincible.”

  Tolson leaned forward. “So what’s the plan? What are we going to do about it?”

  The FBI director dabbed his lips with a cloth napkin. “Not to worry. Soon I will be best friends with the president of the United States.”

  11:00 PM – CST

  Sam Morales silently seethed in the darkened bedroom of their home base on Tenth Street. After the others had crashed into bed, he had reached into his clandestine hiding spot to feel for the Locklier H2 2011. The gun would be his insurance policy for their upcoming encounter with the KGB.

  It was missing.

  With shocking clarity, he realized a member of Team Orbis must have snatched it in compliance with the myopic rules about bringing technology to the past. Bastards!

  Whoever had done it had demonstrated unmitigated gall in invading Sam’s personal effects and stea
ling his most valuable asset. He fought the urge to run into the general quarters, screaming a demand that the weapon be returned. No, he would play their game. He needed to exercise patience and wait until he could search a vacant house.

  It had to be stashed on the property.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1963

  4:00 PM – CST

  On Monday afternoon, Mrs. Paine watched as Marina Oswald slammed down the kitchen phone, clearly upset and angry. She led her boarder into the living room.

  Marina slumped onto the couch and held her face in her hands.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” Mrs. Paine addressed her in Russian.

  Marina shook her head. “Lee shouted at me and told me he was angry. But I’m the one who should be angry. He is furious because we called his rooming house yesterday.”

  “He’s your husband. You have every right to call him.” Although Mrs. Paine expressed indignation, she felt relieved that Lee hadn’t skipped town. He had two children to provide for, but he had never been very responsible, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he had done something rash. “If we had the correct phone number, why on earth did the man tell me Lee didn’t live there?”

  “He rented the room under a fake name—Mr. O.H. Lee. He even bragged about it as if this is a good thing. He doesn’t want his landlady to know his real name because she might read in the newspapers that he lived in the Soviet Union and has been questioned in the US. I ask you, who is going to put his name in the paper?”

  Mrs. Paine patted her arm.

  “He also doesn’t want the FBI to know where he lives because he says their visits have been unpleasant. He thinks he has lost jobs because the FBI tracked him down at work. He believes he is a top priority for the US government, but he is nothing to them. He acts like he is different from other men, except the only difference is in his imagination, his fantasy.”