Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  Mrs. Paine’s voice boomed out in Russian.

  J.D. heard a mad scramble as Dmitriy and Viktor exploded out of the meeting room and ran toward the unexpected diversion.

  Holding his breath, J.D. waited until the last possible moment. As the two approached, with Dmitriy in the lead, J.D. gave the restroom door a mighty heave, knocking the beefy KGB into his counterpart. Viktor landed spread-eagle on the floor, while Dmitriy staggered from the impact.

  The officer cocked his arm back and drove his fist into Dmitriy’s jaw, destroying the last of his equilibrium. Dmitriy hit the ground with a resounding thump.

  Tippit aimed his weapon at the spies and ordered them to freeze. Then he relieved them of their pistols.

  Shockingly, the fight was over in less than a minute, though J.D.’s body still vibrated from adrenaline. He looked up in amazement to see Mrs. Paine trip lightly around the prostrate Soviets to free the time travelers. That lady was one cool Quaker.

  Fifteen minutes later, the KGB were securely bound and muzzled with the same ropes and gags they had used on the team. Iggy, Sera, Quin, and Sam congratulated their saviors on the daring rescue, while a surly Ruby threatened to kill the commies who had done this to him.

  Mrs. Paine examined each of the former captives. She politely refrained from mentioning the putrid smell of garbage emanating from them. Everyone checked out except Iggy, who had a streak of dried blood in her blonde hair. She’d been injured during their capture, but the wound had congealed. She was okay.

  The Americans collapsed into chairs to recap the evening’s adventures.

  Sam explained how the Russians had outfoxed them. Hiding in the men’s room, the KGB had left a shortwave radio broadcasting a public frequency. When the voices lured the team and Ruby, the Russians had ambushed them.

  Grateful that no one had gotten seriously hurt, J.D. relaxed. But he still had a burning question. “Mrs. Paine, what did you say in Russian?”

  “I quoted Kennedy.” She chuckled. “I said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.’”

  NOVEMBER 22, 1963 DAYBREAK

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  7:15 AM – CST

  At 2439 West Fifth Street in Irving, Buell Wesley Frazier was eating breakfast at the home of his sister, Mrs. Linnie Mae Randle, where he lived with her and her family. Wearing a blue and white striped, collared shirt, the clean-shaven nineteen-year-old talked to his little nieces as they watched them cartoons on TV. As he finished his coffee, his mother—who was staying with them for a spell—happened to glance up, and saw a man looking in the window.

  “Who is that?”

  “That is Lee.” Wesley saw Lee Harvey Oswald disappear in the direction of the carport. Oswald had spent the night at the Paine house half a block away. “I have to go.” He got up right quick to brush his teeth.

  He had met Oswald a month ago at Texas School Books where they both worked. At that time, Wesley hadn’t lived in Dallas very long and wanted to make friends with everybody he could. Friendship was something you couldn’t buy with money, and you always needed friends, so he went up and introduced himself and said, “We are glad to have you.” They talked back and forth, and he come to find out Oswald’s wife was staying in Irving, and Oswald didn’t have a car. Wesley offered him a ride to work anytime he wanted. Oswald asked Wesley if he could ride home with him, say, like Friday afternoon on weekends, and come back on Monday morning. Wesley thought that would be just fine.

  They had done that until last weekend, when Oswald didn’t come to Irving. Oswald said he was working on his driver’s license, and he was going to go take a driving test. Wesley assumed Oswald could drive a car, being as old as he was. Because most everybody in the state of Texas, by the time you were his age, if you couldn’t drive a car something was wrong with you. To be frank, Wesley figured Oswald had taken the test and passed. Most men did. They usually worked at it, studied good enough so they didn’t flunk out. Or there wasn’t any use going down there if you didn’t know the rules because you were not wasting any time but your own. Wesley had no way of knowing Oswald had lied.

  Wesley picked up the sack lunch his sister had made for him and walked out to meet his coworker. Oswald was wearing a blue zippered jacket on top of a brown button-down shirt. As they got into Wesley’s 1954 Chevrolet, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed a two-foot-long parcel wrapped in brown paper splayed across the back seat. It probably measured six to eight inches wide. “What’s the package, Lee?”

  “Curtain rods.”

  “Oh yes, you told me you was going to bring some today.” Wesley remembered that was the main reason Oswald had gone to Irving yesterday afternoon instead of waiting until the weekend—to get the rods to hang curtains in his apartment.

  Wesley gave him a once-over while he backed out of the carport. Oswald usually carried a sack lunch. “Where’s your lunch?”

  “I’m going to buy lunch today.”

  After a month of commuting together, Wesley had learned a lot about Oswald. He had seen a lot of guys who liked to talk and some who didn’t. Oswald was one of those types that just didn’t talk. He would say a few words, and then he would cut off. To be frank, Oswald never offered to pay for gas. He never did.

  They rode the rest of the way to the warehouse in silence.

  7:30 AM – CST

  Dark blue, with bold white print stating Dallas Police on each side, squad car number 10 pulled out of the Oak Cliff substation on the 4200 block of West Illinois Street. Officer J.D. Tippit drove south toward his assigned district—number 78—five miles from downtown. He was working solo as per standard procedure. Rain drizzled across his windshield, but the informants from the future had assured the patrolman that the skies would clear.

  J.D. yawned while giving thanks that his wife had slept through his late-night absence. Despite being tired, he felt there was ample reason for optimism. The time travelers currently held the KGB captive; the First Lady should be safe. Tippit would rather have been at the Carousel helping them guard the Russians, but he couldn’t in good conscience abandon his duties. Today it seemed more vital than ever to serve and protect the citizens.

  Upstanding citizens like Mrs. Paine. Although she professed to being an advocate of peace, she wasn’t afraid to put herself in harm’s way. He shook his head in amazement at the bravery and conviction of the spunky housewife.

  7:45 AM – CST

  8:45 AM – EST

  Dee simmered on the sumptuous leather sofa in the customized DC-3, trying to find an outlet for her frustration. The constant drone of the engines sawed across her nerves. “I can’t believe the arrogance of this guy making us wait again. He’s wielding his power like a knife in front of our throats.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit dramatic, Dee?” Jay opened his mouth wide to pop his eardrums. “I reckon he’s in a meeting, is all.”

  “But we have important information!”

  “It can hold off a few minutes until we’ve reached cruising altitude.” Bick surreptitiously rolled his eyes. “Besides, we’ll be back in Dallas soon.”

  Jay gazed around the cabin. “You know, it’s funny. I had no clue Washington bureaucrats traveled in such opulence. I mean, striped wallpaper in an aircraft? Recessed lighting? I bet this cost more to decorate than Air Force One. And it’s so roomy. Without these couches, this section of the plane could easily fit twenty people.”

  As Jay was taking a deep breath to plow on, the door partitioning the two sections banged open. Clyde Tolson emerged, resembling a character from the ’30s in a double-breasted suit. “J. Edgar will see you now.”

  Dee swung toward him, her red curls whipping over her shoulder. “So we’re finally being granted an audience with his director-ship?”

  Tolson scowled at her as the three of them unbuckled their seatbelts and traipsed to the back. The rear of the plane was even more luxurious than the front. Lustrous wood paneling
lined the flat sides of the fuselage and lush wall-to-wall carpeting covered the floor.

  Hoover sat at a polished cherry conference table with both a US and an FBI flag framing him from behind. The room resembled his office, except it lacked the enormous desk. The corner housed a communications console with radio and telephone equipment.

  Jay and Bick politely sat down.

  Dee plopped into a chair across from Hoover. “It’s all over. Our friends called us this morning at the hotel. They’ve captured the KGB at a downtown club.”

  “They what?” Hoover slammed his palms on the glassy surface. “How?”

  “Apparently they had quite an adventure.” Jay leaned forward, oblivious to the metaphoric sparks flying. “The Russians caught them first, actually, with a surprise ambush. It’s a long story, but later on the tables turned and now the KGB are prisoners. You see, it all started when—”

  “Will you shut up for one second? Are you telling me your friends decided to foolishly step forward to capture lethal foreign agents on their own?”

  “Well, somebody had to.” Bick could hear his worn-out patience feeding into his tone. “We couldn’t have these assassins running amok around Texas.” He continued in a half-murmur, “After the Department of Justice failed to check their backgrounds and released them, that is.”

  Hoover’s jaw muscles clenched. Then he deliberately relaxed his posture from head to toe and clasped his hands on the table. “Listen to me. I realize you folks have the best intentions. However, you have no idea who you are dealing with. This situation is way too dangerous for a bunch of zealous civilians. I’m asking you to let official channels take the lead. Our job is to get down there and put the proper measures in place.” The chief G-man’s eyes bored into his second-in-command, who nodded in response. “Clyde, please show them back to their seats.”

  9:10 AM – CST

  Mrs. Paine gripped the edge of the couch cushion beneath her knees as she watched live television coverage of JFK’s visit to Fort Worth. She listened to a reporter stall with trivia about previous presidential appearances, and then Jack Kennedy finally came to the podium of the Texas Hotel to deliver his breakfast speech to the Chamber of Commerce. He greeted his political colleagues and gave his opening statement. “Two years ago, I introduced myself in Paris by saying that I was the man who had accompanied Mrs. Kennedy to Paris. I am getting somewhat that same sensation as I travel around Texas. Nobody wonders what Lyndon and I wear.”

  The spectators tittered in appreciation. Thank goodness the Commander in Chief appeared to be chipper and carefree, with a poised and well-groomed Jackie at his side. As he continued, Mrs. Paine checked her spiky, living room wall clock and realized she was running behind. She needed to ferry daughter Lynn to a dentist appointment. In hindsight, she would have preferred to reschedule, but now it was too late.

  Mrs. Paine left the TV on as she prepared to depart. Although the English-language broadcast would be lost on Marina, she knew her boarder would enjoy the footage when she got out of bed.

  11:10 AM – CST

  Sera tossed the crunched-up pack of Lucky Strikes into the air with her left hand and served overhand with her right. The projectile lobbed over the bound and gagged KGB as it hurtled toward Quin. He set up for a spike, fumbled, and the facsimile volleyball bounced to the floor.

  “Score!” Sera raised her fists in triumph.

  “Dammit! Will you two cut that out?” Ruby voiced his annoyance; he was trying to listen to the news. “Enough is enough.” He had scrounged up an AM radio from his office to keep tabs on the president. According to the Associated Press, JFK had finished his second speech of the day in the parking lot of the Texas Hotel and was moments away from flying to Dallas. The trip would take twenty minutes.

  “That’s a wrap.” Quin snapped an imaginary movie clapboard with his forearms. “We’re outta here.”

  Iggy raised her brows. “I don’t think so. Someone has to stay and watch this scum.”

  “Oh, come on!” Quin spread his arms in a beseeching manner. “We wanna see the prez. You know, be where the action is.”

  “This is my club. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make sure their commie hides don’t move.” Ruby patted the pistol in his pocket.

  Sera leapt up. “Great! Let’s go.”

  “No, no. We need somebody else.” Iggy pursed her lips. “We have to leave at least two people guarding them, just in case.”

  “She’s prob’ly right. These jugheads pose a deadly threat to Jackie K.” Quin snatched a box of Carousel stick matches Dmitriy had left on the table. “We’ll draw straws. Short straw has to hang around.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll stay. Go on. Get out of here.” Sam waved them toward the door.

  Iggy and Sera’s expressions lit up.

  “Thanks, man. I owe you one.” Quin shook Sam’s hand.

  “Wait.” Remembering her wound, Iggy ran her fingers through her blonde hair. “Sera, can you see the blood?”

  “Um, yeah. Kind of conspicuous.”

  “Does anyone have a hat?”

  “Only Ruby. Except I don’t think a fedora suits you.” Sera grinned. “But I have an idea.” She dashed off to the ladies’ room and grabbed a scarf a dancer had left behind. She returned and showed it to Iggy. “Will this work?”

  Iggy enthusiastically accepted the light blue, patterned scarf. “I’ll make a babushka, just like Mrs. Paine.” She folded the cloth into a triangle, placed it over her head, and tied it under her chin. “Yes, this will do nicely.” She picked up her brown overcoat and followed Sera and Quin to the exit.

  After they’d left, Sam sat next to Ruby and pulled out his antique revolver. He hefted it from one palm to the other, studying the pitted barrel. Imagine. Igniting combustible nitrates to project a metal slug. What a primitive technology.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  11:30 AM – CST

  Richard M. Nixon shifted his weight from side to side as he stood on the tarmac at the east end of Love Field in Dallas. Why did it take an eternity to board a plane? It’s not difficult; you walk up the stairs and sit down. And boy did he need to sit. His head pounded and his ears buzzed from the aftereffects of last night’s whiskey. At least they had served a top-shelf brand or he’d have felt very sick indeed.

  The former vice president glimpsed the north end of the terminal where the press and public had converged, eagerly anticipating the arrival of that glory hound, Kennedy. He couldn’t understand it. They fawned over his ass, captivated by predictable rhetoric and sophomoric jokes.

  Finally, the line in front of him began to inch forward. He was grateful to get the hell out of Dodge before the reporters even noticed his presence. That would have been a sticky situation.

  Today especially, Nixon could live without the liberal media that had savagely undermined his political career. He mentally rolled back the clock to his successful midterm election run for the Senate in 1950. His opponent, Helen Gahagan Douglas, was a former actress turned House Representative known for her communist-leaning agenda. Nixon had capitalized on her reputation as a Left Wing sympathizer with the comic reference, “pink right down to her underwear.” Douglas had responded by bestowing him with the moniker, “Tricky Dick.” The pundits lapped it up. Years later, the unfortunate nickname kept dogging him, while Douglas herself had faded from the limelight.

  Fast forward to the presidential debate against JFK in 1960. Although Nixon had outmaneuvered his rival by every measure of content and articulation, the news agencies had slaughtered his performance based solely on physical appearance. Of course he’d looked tired and pale after having campaigned vigorously. And being hospitalized for two weeks due to a pernicious knee infection. It was Washington, not Hollywood. Men should be judged on their character, not the amount of makeup they wore. In the end Nixon had clearly won the debate—ask anyone who’d listened on the radio. But the media declared Kennedy the victor.

&
nbsp; Then, as he’d been painfully reminded at his Pepsi client’s reception, there was the recent fiasco of the California gubernatorial election. A reluctant contender, he’d been goaded by national Republican leaders to enter the race. As usual, the journalists blatantly favored the Democratic incumbent, Pat Brown. Angered by the liberal bias, Nixon had lashed out during his concession speech by uttering the off-the-cuff line, “You won’t have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore, because, gentlemen, this is my last press conference.” Naturally he didn’t mean a word of it. But maybe the citizens would take heed and start to question the spin of the nightly news.

  He entered the cool air-conditioning of the commercial jetliner and handed his ticket to a pretty young stewardess. She called him by name and directed him to a first class seat. Now that was better. Nixon couldn’t wait to escape from the backward south and land in the civilization of Queens, New York. Mercifully, only a few hours remained until he would disembark at Idlewild Airport.

  11:40 AM – CST

  Bick strode alongside Dee as they followed Tolson down the taxiway around the south end of Love Field. As expected, the clouds had dispersed, letting the sun dry up the puddles. It would be a beautiful day.

  As Bick and Dee hurried to keep pace, Tolson began to speak, but the incoming roar of a descending Boeing 707 drowned out his voice.

  Bick stopped to rubberneck the aircraft. The side was emblazoned in capital letters: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. “He’s here. Kennedy is landing.”

  “Ooh!” Dee clapped her hands together. “Let’s go look. I want to take pictures of Jack and Jackie.”

  Tolson whirled around to face them. “Are you off your nut? We have work to do.” He studied Dee. “Would you rather shoot them with your camera, or see about the guys who will to shoot them with a gun?”

  Dee didn’t allow herself to be lured in by the taunt.

  Tolson straightened the lapels of his tailored suit. “As I was saying, we can’t let any civilians know about the KGB plot.” To illustrate, he pointed at the mob in the distance clustering to greet Air Force One. “We have to keep a tight leash on this intelligence or we could cause the very war you are trying to prevent. We have told only those who need to know.”