by Shawn Inmon
There was no way to know if events were going to unfold the same way they had in his first life until it happened, though, so Joe stayed vigilant. He watched the two men talking on the sidewalk and noticed that the second man had a professional-looking camera around his neck.
Bingo. That’s gotta be the guy who took the photo of John signing the copy of Double Fantasy with the crazy gunman in the background, smiling that simpering, stupid smile. One of the creepiest photos ever taken. Can’t remember the photographer’s name, though.
Joe did his best to blend into the woodwork and watch events unfold. At 12:30, a van pulled up in front of The Dakota and unloaded a small crew and a few boxes of equipment onto the sidewalk. As they walked by Joe, he saw, “Property of KRKO” written on the side.
By the time 2:30 rolled around, nothing of any note had happened in several hours. The photographer who had been talking to the man Joe was sure had a gun tucked into his pocket had managed to extricate himself and was talking with another group of people. All was quiet at the Dakota.
The steak and eggs Joe had eaten for breakfast seemed like a long-distant dream, and he was feeling a more and more urgent call of nature. He momentarily abandoned his post and jogged down the street to a small delicatessen he had seen the day before. He ordered a corned beef sandwich, which turned out to be as big as his head, and used their rest room. He passed on getting anything to drink. He had no idea when he would have another chance to escape to use the bathroom.
He carried his brown bag back to the Dakota. The entire scene was just as he left it. He picked a strategic spot and sat down cross-legged on the sidewalk. He unwrapped the sandwich from its wax paper and tucked into it. He managed to get through half of it before he had to admit defeat.
He noticed that the crowd of people the photographer had been talking to had drifted away, and he was now standing, waiting patiently, by himself. A few feet away, Joe also noticed the man he had talked to in the park the day before.
What was his name, again? Scott Mckenzie, like the singer, that’s right.
Joe approached Mckenzie and said, “Hey, man. I just got a sandwich down at the deli and could only eat half of it. You want the other half?”
The man looked at Joe with suspicion, then noticed his birthmark and remembered him. “Oh, hey. Whatsamatter, you don’t want it?”
“I did my best, but I could only get through half of it. I don’t have anywhere to store it, so I’m either gonna have to give it away or throw it away. I hate to throw a good sandwich away.”
“I’m not turning down a free sandwich. Where’d you get it? Steinman’s?”
“Yeah, that was the name of the place. Just down the street there.”
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what kind?”
“Corned beef.”
“Oh, man, brother. I had one of their corned beefs last week. I had the same problem—couldn’t eat the whole thing. I ended up giving half to some homeless guy sleeping on newspapers on a park bench.”
Joe looked at Mckenzie more closely. Unkempt hair, wrinkled pants, same green army jacket he’d had on the day before. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that you might be a homeless guy yourself, is it? Which is all the more reason why I’m happy to give you half of this sandwich.
Joe handed over the brown bag and Scott accepted it like an extra present on Christmas morning. Five minutes later, the sandwich was gone and Scott had smoothed out both the waxed paper and the paper bag, folded them several times, and stuck them in the deep pocket of his jacket.
This guy could be carrying, too. It’s so weird to think that famous people are walking in and out of here every day, absolutely anybody can just come and hang out, and there’s no security at all.
“Hey, if it’s rude to ask, just tell me to shut up, but what’s your story, Scott? What are you doing hanging out here in front of the Dakota for two days in December.”
“Not rude at all. What’s my story? A full telling of that probably requires more time than we have here, even if we stay several more days. The truncated version is that I grew up in Evansville, Indiana, and got unlucky when my birthday was the first number pulled for the draft. I took a tour of exotic Asian locations on Uncle Sam’s dollar. After I got my ass shot off in Kompong Speu, they shipped what was left of me home and put Humpty Dumpty back together again. If you look close, you can still see the cracks.”
Joe started to look for the cracks, but realized he was speaking metaphorically.
“Since I’ve been back, I’ve just been wandering. I get disability checks sent to my sister back in Indiana, and she deposits them for me. I live pretty simply. When I want to go somewhere, I stick out my thumb and off I go.”
“And you decided to come to New York City in December.”
“I never told you I was smart. I could have enrolled in college and maybe found a deferment, too, but I never did. I think I might get on a bus and head south for the winter after today.”
“How long have you been living like that?”
“I got wounded in ‘70. Spent a year in the hospital, and it’s 1980. So, nine years, I guess, depending on how you calculate time. And so, Joe Hart, turnabout is fair play. What’s your story?”
Yeah, I’m gonna have to give you the ‘truncated’ version, too. And, what do you mean by ‘depending on how you calculate time?’
“Not nearly as exciting as yours. My parents are both dead, I live by myself, and I decided to take a trip to the Big Apple.”
“Also, I might point out,” Scott said, “in December.”
“As you say, I’ve never claimed to be smart.”
A murmur rippled through the small crowd of a dozen or so people and Joe and Scott turned to see the cause. It was rapidly getting dark, and he had to squint a bit to see what caused the excitement. A long white limousine had pulled up to the curb and Yoko Ono hurried through the gathering crowd and into the open back door. Strolling behind her, big as life, was John Lennon.
“We may have chosen a crappy time of year to visit New York, but where else are you gonna be standing around and see a Beatle?” Scott asked.
The man with the gun approached the man with the fame. Joe tensed and moved closer, ready to throw himself into the scene if there was the slightest hint of trouble. Instead, Lennon turned to face the man, who didn’t speak, but simply held out the Double Fantasy album.
“Do you want me to sign that?” John asked in his steady Liverpudlian accent.
The man didn’t answer, and after his earlier brush with Lennon, Joe understood why. He was star-struck and unable to speak. The man just nodded.
“Do you have a pen, then?”
The man with the camera moved closer and twisted the lens, bringing Lennon into focus.
The man reached inside his jacket to his shirt and Joe once again moved closer. He brought out a pen and handed it over. John Lennon carefully autographed it, dated it, and handed the album and pen back.
The photographer snapped half a dozen shots.
“Anything else, then?”
Still mute, the man simply shook his head.
Lennon turned toward the limo and offered Scott and Joe a little wave as he walked by.
In an instant, he was gone.
Joe knew exactly what one of the photos on that roll of film would look like when it was developed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When the limousine pulled away, all the air seemed to have left the party. The photographer walked over to the doorman and asked if he knew where they had gone.
“The recording studio. They’ll probably be gone all night. It’s not unusual for them to come back around sun up.”
Except they won’t this night. For whatever reason, they’ll wrap up the session early and be home before 11:00. This place will be quiet, essentially deserted. A perfect setup for an assassination, especially when the target has no reason to see it coming.
The news passed through the small crowd that John
Lennon had likely made his last appearance at the Dakota for the day. Most everyone drifted away to home, hotel rooms, or restaurants, for a hot meal and maybe a fire. It had been warm for a New York December day, but once the sun went down, the temperatures dropped quickly.
“Well, is that it for you, then?” Scott asked. “You came, you saw a Beatle, and now you can head back to Oregon?”
Joe shook his head. He looked intently at Scott, sizing him up. “You see the guy over there?” Joe said with an almost imperceptible nod.
“The guy reading the book that wanted to be your best friend yesterday?” Scott answered, without moving his head.
Joe nodded. “I’ve got a bad feeling about him. I think he’s up to something bad. I heard him muttering some weird stuff to himself a while ago. I also think the doorman said they’d be gone all night so everyone would leave. I know it sounds crazy, but I want to be here in case something happens.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Honestly? I have no real idea, but I want to stay close.”
“Well, I was going to head back to my room at the ‘Y’, but I guess I’ll hang around for a while and see what’s up.”
“Nah, you don’t have to man, I’m sure I’m just being crazy. The wind’s starting to blow, and it’s gonna get cold soon.”
“Have you ever stayed at the ‘Y’?”
Joe shook his head.
“Well, if I say, ‘spartan conditions,” a certain image might come into your head. Whatever image that is, the reality is worse. It’s only sixteen bucks a night, but it’s not much more than a cot in a closet.”
Suddenly, my cozy little room at the Empire sounds pretty good.
“So what I’m saying is, given a choice between hanging out with you in the cold for a few hours, or laying on that uncomfortable cot, this doesn’t seem so bad. Even so, what sounds good to me, is a cup of hot coffee. How ‘bout you? You drink the stuff?”
“Sure, of course.”
“The deli makes great coffee. I’ll run down and get us some to go. Black okay?”
“Yes, that’s great.” He dug into his front pocket and pulled out a bill. “If you go get it, at least let me buy.”
“Nah, I got it. Back in a flash.”
Fifteen minutes later, Scott reappeared with two Styrofoam cups of steaming hot coffee. He handed one to Joe.
“Salud,” Joe said, “and thanks.”
They killed time over the next few hours by telling more of their life stories.
Scott had dreamed of being a cop, but he was drafted before he had a chance. He was so physically damaged when he got home that a career in law enforcement was out of the question. He didn’t have much family left, either, mostly just his sister, her husband, and their kids.
“She loves me, and would do anything for me, I know, but who needs the semi-crazy Vietnam vet hanging around their nice, normal family all the time? I won’t do that to them. So, I keep moving.”
Like Rambo or Jack Reacher, without the massive muscles.
Joe told him about his most recent narrow escape from the Mt. St. Helens blast, which seemed to fascinate Scott.
“I’d have loved to see that,” Scott said. “Imagine the power! I’d probably have been one of those shit for brains guys that got caught too close to the mountain when it blew. How many did it kill, anyway?”
“Forty-nine,” Joe said.
Which, I guess, is the original fifty-five who died, minus JD and Bobby, Merlin and Sapphire, and their kids. It took me two tries, but I got it done.
“Pretty amazing that it blew that big and only killed that many.”
“It happened on a Sunday morning, or it would have gotten a lot more. During the week, there were loggers all over those hills, clear-cutting.”
Neither of them had much—or any—love life to mention, so after a couple of hours, they lapsed into silence.
At 10:00, Joe knew he wasn’t going to be able to last. He had to make a run to the bathroom. He turned to Scott and said, “Problem with coffee is, you don’t really buy it, you just borrow it. I gotta run to the deli and use the can. You want another cup?”
Scott shook his head. “No, same problem with me. I’ll probably have to go after you get back. I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Catcher in the Rye, over there, while you’re gone.”
“Thanks, man, that’s great.”
Joe jogged as quickly as his cold feet and sloshing kidneys would allow him. The deli had a large sign that read “Restrooms for customers only,” so Joe bought a couple of candy bars. He relieved himself, then went to the payphone just outside the deli.
Are 9-1-1 calls free from a payphone? I have no idea.
Joe got a quarter out of his pocket, dropped it into the payphone, and dialed.
“Emergency Services, how can I help you?” A woman’s voice, crisp and authoritative.
“My name is Joe Hart. I am at a payphone just down from the Dakota, 72nd and Central Park West.”
Focus, focus. She probably knows where the Dakota is.
“There’s a guy in a long black coat inside the vestibule of the Dakota. He’s got a gun, and he’s waving it around and talking to himself. He keeps saying he’s going to kill John Lennon. He keeps mumbling, ‘Do it, do it, do it,’ over and over.
“Sir, can you see this man now?”
“No, I’m at a payphone a couple of blocks down from the Dakota.”
“Can you describe this man?”
“He’s overweight, wearing glasses and carrying a red book. He’s also talking to himself. He was inside the vestibule when I left to make this call.”
“I’ll dispatch a unit to the scene. “ The line clicked dead.
Joe stared at the receiver. Is that it? Is that enough? Will they come and talk to him and let him go, or will they search him to see if he’s got a gun? And even if they do, is that enough? What happens then? A few weeks or months in the nuthouse, then they put him back on the street?
Joe ran back to the Dakota out of breath, but found the scene unchanged. He looked up and down the street, hoping to see the flashing lights of a police car.
No way they’d get there this fast. Gotta be patient. Damn, I hope I didn’t blow it. What if they come and scare him away tonight, then he shows up again tomorrow or next week? I’ll have lost the advantage of knowing what was supposed to happen and when.
Scott looked at Joe and said, “I’ve got the same problem you did. I’ll be back in a few.”
Joe’s stomach clenched in knots.
I can’t remember exactly what time it all went down. I was on the west coast, watching the Monday Night Football game on a delay when they ran a crawl across the bottom of the screen. It can’t be too much longer.
Joe glanced down the sidewalk, expecting to see Scott coming back, but the area had become eerily deserted. A chill wind blew in from the park. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the man with the gun was sitting on the cold concrete inside the vestibule. Gas lamps were lit all around the Dakota, and he was directly under one, reading the same book.
Almost silently, a white limousine glided into a spot right in front.
Chapter Thirty
Goddamnit, I waited too long to call the cops.
Before the limo driver could get out and open the door, the back passenger door opened and Yoko Ono stepped out, bundled in a fur coat against the chilly evening. She didn’t look left or right, but kept her eyes straight ahead as she hurried through the vestibule and right past the man with the gun.
Joe glanced at where the doorman typically stood, but there was no one there.
The man reading the book stood straight up, slipping The Catcher and the Rye into his left pocket. His blank expression was gone. Glee seemed to suffuse his face. He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket as Yoko walked by.
John exited the limo. He looked tired and drawn.
The three of them—Joe Hart, John Lennon, and the man with the gun, perfectly diagrammed the three points o
f a triangle.
John passed by Joe, who was no longer star struck, but felt as paralyzed by a fear of inevitability as he had been as a child stuck in a nightmare.
The third man stood off to the side, waiting for Lennon to pass so he could shoot him in the back. He wanted celebrity, but he didn’t have the guts to look it in the face as he tried to kill it.
Joe launched himself forward, catching up to Lennon and pushing him forward as he walked by. Lennon stumbled forward and fell onto the concrete with a curse.
Joe veered toward the third man, who was fumbling in his pocket. Just before Joe could close on him, he pulled a .38 revolver out and pointed it. The gun was aimed at Joe, not at John Lennon.
Joe Hart’s world slowed. He saw the barrel of the gun waiver, then point straight at his chest as the man slipped his finger onto the trigger.
Joe made an evasive dive to the right as the gun barked once, twice.
The first bullet went past Joe’s ear. The second slammed into the fleshy part of his bicep, tearing a hole all the way through. His momentum spun Joe into the shooter, his right shoulder hitting him in his solar plexus.
An explosion of stars and pain blinded Joe, and he crumpled, useless, to the ground. As his vision cleared, he could see that he had knocked both the gunman and his weapon to the ground.
Joe tried to roll over, to get up, to move, but the explosion of pain in his left arm made movement impossible.
The gunman crawled on his hands and knees to where the gun had skittered away. His fingers closed on the handle and he rolled over, this time pointing the gun at John Lennon.
Can’t believe I did all this and still blew it.
The man once again slipped his finger onto the trigger and fell into a shooter’s stance. Now the gun was aimed at Lennon, facing away, trying to regain his feet.
Joe closed his eyes.
I will not watch this happen.