by W. Green
Ethan answered quickly. “Because he's a lone nut.” He chuckled.
“Oh. I see,” said Quinn, “that explains everything. A lone nut. You’re joking of course. How do you know he has weapons?”
“Because we saw a couple of men—they must be cops or Secret Service—enter his apartment today,” said Currant. “They searched it, and we overheard them say that Vallee has the weapons.”
“If that’s true, then why aren’t they arresting him?” Ethan interjected hotly. “The guy’s going to shoot JFK.”
Currant was about to respond, but Quinn interrupted him. “Settle down big boy. Let’s say they have no idea where the remaining two hit men are located. They have two guys in custody, but they’re not talking. Maybe the Feds figure that Vallee will lead them to the shooters on the loose. The mouse will lead them to the cheese. I have to believe they are holding off for a good reason.”
“That might make sense. Or maybe it’s something else,” said Ethan.
“What’s that?” asked Quinn.
“Maybe Vallee has a job to do. Maybe someone wants to set him up for a fall. I never bought the lone nut theory,” said Ethan.
“Well,” said Currant, “there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re certainly not going to call the Secret Service again. Thanks to you Ethan, they’ve been notified. If they don’t do something by tomorrow morning, we may have to.”
“Now you’re talking Doctor,” said Ethan.
Quinn spoke up. “Well junior reporters. This is a big—a very big story. And we’re going to all work together to get to the bottom of it. Right?”
They all agreed.
“But we’re reporters. Not newsmakers. Let’s get the facts. If someone is going to get hurt, and we can do something—we will. But otherwise, we act in a professional manner as reporters. You know. I got to live in this town after you and JFK are long gone.”
“Right?”
Again they agreed.
“OK. Let’s get going.” Quinn looked at his watch. “We’ve got about 19 hours before he arrives. Let’s break it down. Players—Vallee, Cain, Secret Service, CPD, FBI, four hit men, my contacts, your contacts. Anything else?”
“We’re running out of time. We have to do something,” said Ethan.
“I said we have about 19 hours. Let’s think clearly and use them wisely. OK?” said Quinn .
Emma thought his response to Ethan was just like something their father would say. She then remembered something obvious to them—not so obvious to Quinn. “We know where.” said Emma.
For the first time Quinn looked surprised. “You know where it’s going down?”
“Yes. Left turn at the top of the off ramp from the expressway onto Jackson Boulevard. On the bridge. Shots may be fired from the building where Vallee works.”
“You sure?” asked Quinn.
“100%,” Emma said flatly.
“What else do you junior detectives have going?”
They all looked at each other. Ethan spoke. “We’ve got a recording of Vallee on the phone talking to somebody at the Sheriff’s department—Special Investigations. Could be Richard Cain.”
“Recording,” said Quinn. “You got a warrant for that? You know that’s not legal. Where did you get it?”
Ethan shrugged his shoulders in a plea. “Sources,” he said.
“OK. But I want to hear it. I know Cain’s voice.” Quinn looked at his watch again. “All right. Here’s the plan of attack.”
Emma sensed he was now in his element. She was impressed how quickly he digested the information, and then took control. For the next ten minutes Quinn, the ex-Marine, barked out marching orders. When he was done, they synchronized their watches like soldiers on a mission ready for action.
“One more thing.” Tom Quinn looked at Emma. “You’re a pretty girl Emma and a smart cookie too. But I need to know. What’s your shoe size?”
Emma blushed. “What?”
“Your shoe size.”
She shrugged her shoulders and answered, “Eleven. But that not a question a gentleman would ask a lady.”
Quinn laughed. He downed the dregs of his drink and stood up. “Who ever said I was a gentleman?”
LOG of Zak Newman
November 1, 1963: 17.17 (Day 4 of time travel)
I’m the little piggy that stayed home. Since I can’t talk to anyone, I’ve been sent back to the hotel to think. Quinn is going to set up a meeting with Richard Cain, but he first wants to listen to the voice recording taken at Vallee’s apartment. He thinks he can judge if the voice on the other side is Cain’s. Quinn also wants to meet with the American’s ace reporter, Jack Montana, who apparently has very close ties to Cain. The Twins and Quinn agree, that maybe if Cain’s role is exposed (whatever that is), it can be turned to our favor.
The Twins are busy trying to make a copy of the “wire tap” recording as Quinn called it. Fortunately, the recording of Vallee talking to someone at the Sheriff’s Department is of excellent quality, captured by some of the finest technology available in the year 2028. Unfortunately, it can only be played back on one of the combo ear bud/speakers that we have in our possession. Obviously, showing anyone such a device would raise more questions than any time traveler from 2028 would like to answer. We’re trying to blend in. This was supposed to be a low-key historical fact-finding expedition. So much for that pipe dream. Now we’re trying to stop the assassination. We’ve uncovered a plot. Possibly we’re battling the plotters. They have tried to kill us once. And there’s still plenty of time for us to get into trouble.
Watching television on the hotel’s 17” black and white receiver has been interesting. In addition to lots of puppet-filled kiddie shows, old movies and inane situation comedies, I can watch history in the making as shown on local news broadcasts. JFK’s scheduled visit here tomorrow is big news. Mayor Daley, in a live interview said that tomorrow would be “a great day for the fine people of the City of Chicago”. School children interviewed promised to give the president a most joyful Chicago welcome. And the big question that had everyone wondering was which football team would the president be cheering to victory? Obviously, there was no mention of four or five gunmen roaming the city laying in wait to kill the president. Newsreel footage of JFK was shown from one of his press conferences. In the close-ups, I can see now why this man had such a cult following, and why he caused so many people to dislike him. For one, he doesn’t look like a politician. Mayor Daley looks like a politician—kind of rumpled, oratorical-challenged, beanbag wearing the face of neighborhood butcher instead of a big city mayor. On the other hand, Kennedy looks like a film star of the period. Sun-tanned face, sculpted features and a sharp dresser, he is—very good looking; highly articulate, young, humorous, and intelligent. Lots of power, money and a beautiful wife. What’s not to like or hate. I can attest to the issue of being too good looking. I was designed to be handsome. But the simple configuration of my skin and bones causes more issues than benefits. Guys don’t like me because I’m the embodiment of competition as far as girls are concerned. In effect they’re jealous. Girls are often put off because they view me as just a pretty boy—or a boy toy—a man with good looks, but without brains. I know this is just a stereotype, but it ends up being taken as fact. In that sense, I understand one of the burdens that JFK carried. I don’t think even his detractors would suggest he is brainless. But they would find him too pretty. They would be jealous. They would be concerned his popularity would carry him through another election, which would give him more power. And after that election, his brother the Attorney General, Bobby Kennedy could take a couple of turns at the wheel. And then, who knows, even brother Edward, or Teddy as they call him, could have a shot at it. Speaking of shots. It’s never going to happen if “shots ring out” tomorrow. There will be other dynasties like the Bush family, but the Kennedy’s quest for White House control will be over tomorrow morning. Maybe. We’ll see.
END 11-01-63
-Chapter 11-
<
br /> Technological Trouble
Like Quinn, Jack Montana was a World War II vet. They were both reporters at the same newspaper, Chicago’s American, but that was where the similarities ended. Montana was an award-winning, star reporter who wrote a daily byline column. He was well known by almost everyone in the city. He rubbed shoulders with politicians, celebrities, sports figures, mobsters, and other newsmakers. A few years back, after a successful stint with a competing afternoon paper, he joined the American. Even Quinn, who had more seniority than Montana, gave in to Montana’s star power. But, he was never certain about Jack Montana’s relationship with Richard Cain. Everyone knew that Cain should be considered a bit suspect. Everyone, in the know, knew that he was the Outfit’s man in the Sheriff’s office. He was dedicated to insuring the control of vice and rackets in the city by using the office to snuff out competition for his masters and to deflect any attempt to arrest any of his friends. As he was about to meet with Montana, Tom Quinn thought about this idea that “everyone knew”. What did that mean? It meant that all such suppositions were totally off-the-record, unreported and not common knowledge—outside of those in the underworld and those, like him, who chronicled their wormy dealings. From Jack Montana’s viewpoint, he used Richard Cain as a source of inside information. And Richard Cain used him as a publicity tool. It was a marriage made in Chicago—“the city that works”. It was late. All the tool and die makers, plumbers, painters, school teachers and businessmen were at home eating dinner, looking forward to a night nestled in front of the television. But Montana was still working, and so was Quinn.
Quinn poked his head through the door. “Jack. Need your help. Got a minute?” Without waiting for an answer, he entered Montana’s office and closed the door behind him. Montana looked up from his typewriter.
“Tomorrow’s column?”
“Right. No rest for the wicked. Busy. Busy. What can I do for you Tom?”
Quinn ignored Montana’s impatience and sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and lit a cigarette. “It’s about this JFK visit.”
Montana waved his hand in the air. “More publicity for the mayor and JFK. Political visit. I’m not too interested in that Tom.”
“It’s more than that. It’s about Richard Cain. “
Montana’s blasé Ivy-league look swung quickly from a half-smile to a frown. Quinn knew he hated to talk about Cain. Defending his relationship with the kinky cop was not high on Montana’s list of fun activities. Quinn brought him up to date on everything. Montana was unaware that two potential assassins were in police custody and two others were on the loose. He didn’t know about Thomas Arthur Vallee—in short—he knew nothing.
Montana now leaned forward hanging on Quinn’s every word. “Assassins—damn. You should have come to me sooner, Tom. This is hot stuff. You could use my help.” His voice was a mixture of mock displeasure and subtle salesmanship.
This fish is on the hook, thought Quinn.
“Jack, I’d like to share your byline column on this one in addition to my own stories. OK?”
“No problem,” said Montana. “One column shared out of hundreds is a small price to pay for collegial cooperation.”
B.S., thought Quinn. But who cares? “Right. We’re all on the same team.”
“Who knows about this?”
Quinn thought for a moment. “I got the hit men story from my contact at the Bureau. And I talked to one of our finest, but he didn’t have any details.”
“Kowalski?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t trust him,” said Montana.
“Why?”
“I hear he has his fingers everywhere. Loose lips too. Anyway, what does Cain have to do with this?”
“Some people I know recorded a call from someone from the Sheriff’s Office setting up a meeting with this guy Vallee—11:30 a.m. Saturday, behind the building Vallee works at on Jackson.”
“So?”
“So they’re talking about dropping some banners or something like that. Some kind of anti-Castro jingo to hang out a window when JFK gets off the expressway and heads into the Loop.”
“Sounds relatively harmless. A bit impolite, but harmless,” said Montana.
“I agree. But this guy Vallee is known to dislike JFK’s policies. He has two rifles and thousands of rounds of ammo. And the building he works in is located right on the motorcade route. It’s an easy shot down onto the street. He’s an ex-Marine so you know he’s a good shot.”
“Semper fi…” Montana nodded. “You think Cain is the person on the phone?”
“Could be. I haven’t heard the recording.”
“Can we get it?”
Quinn rubbed his chin. “It’s coming. If it is Cain, I’d like to confront him with it tonight. Can you make that happen?”
Montana looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. But I’ll try him at his office. If he’s there, I may have to buy him dinner and he’s an expensive date. I’ll give him a call.” Montana dialed, and Quinn waited expectantly. He wondered about the Twins and Currant. They should have come back with the recording by now.
Emma, Ethan and Currant, retrieved the ear bud device at the hotel and left Zak behind. They walked quickly to State Street and then south toward a seedier section of the Loop. On their earlier exploration, Ethan had spotted a game arcade, which he remembered as having some kind of recording machine. He looked around—dubious looking stores, strip tease joints, and run-down bars. In the middle of the block, they found the “Empress Emporium” and entered. The place matched its neighbors in dilapidation. As they entered, the few die-hard dregs of society who were playing pinball games didn’t bother to look up. Ethan spotted the recording device. It looked like a phone booth. Its curved front canopy had the words: Automatic Recording Studio written boldly, and the side read: Make Your Own Record - Only 35 Cents. Another sign read: Like Talking on the Phone—But a Thousand Times More Thrilling!
No one was in the booth. They opened the door and looked inside. A black phone handset hung neatly on the wall. Below was a coin slot.
Emma and Ethan put their heads into the booth, but Currant nuzzled them aside so he could see the recording device. “This is it?”
“This is it,” answered Ethan. “Unless you have a better technology source. I think they use magnetized plastic tapes to record now, but the town is shut down. We couldn’t find another recording machine even if we were willing to pay the price. This one’s 35 cents. What a bargain.”
“There’s no free lunch when it comes to technology,” said Currant.
“Well let’s do it,” said Emma impatiently. “We promised Mr. Quinn we’d be back soon with the recording.”
“Doctor, you better handle this. You're the science expert.” Ethan backed away from the machine. “You have enough change?”
Currant dug out some coins from his pockets and fingered them in his hand. “I’ve got three quarters, three nickels and a dime. Let me in.” A.C. entered the box and closed the doors while the Twins stood sentry outside. A rock and roll tune played loudly in the background. Currant studied the instruction sheet for a good minute. Then he opened the doors and shoved his head out. “Let’s do a test. I want to check out the voice quality. Come on in here.”
“All of us?” asked Emma.
Currant nodded.
They squeezed in. It was already hot in the booth. Currant sucked in his stomach and loaded a dime and a quarter into the slide device and pushed it inward. The coins dropped and a whirring sound was emitted from the machine. A red light came on. Currant grabbed the phone off the hook and began talking.
“This is Doctor A.C. Currant speaking from the south Loop area of Chicago in 1963...” He rambled on about the heat, the recording booth, and the archaic technology. “And I am here with Emma and Ethan Callan-Wright who will speak to you now.” He handed the phone to Emma.
She stammered, “This is Emma. This is our third day on this trip. We are having a good time. The weather is not
too bad for November…” a yellow signal light appeared meaning that less than 30 seconds remained.
Ethan grabbed the phone: “This is Ethan Callan-Wright—time traveler, explorer, and truth seeker. We traveled here from the year 2028 using Doctor Currant’s TimeTravelle. We're here to make history and to save JFK. Tonight we will force the plotters to give up their plot. We'll make them …”
There was a clunk and a blue light came on. The 90 second recording time was over. Ethan handed the phone to A.C. as a playback of their recording began. Currant listened intently. He frowned and then reset the phone on the wall. In a few seconds, a record slid silently into a slot below. Ethan pulled it out. It was a bright red disk, which read: VOICE-O-GRAPH—Caution Inflammable!
“Well?” asked Ethan.
Currant looked flustered. “Please give me air.”
The Twins moved out of the box leaving the old man with his machine.
“Thank you,” he said. “Well it’s over-modulated, weak-volumed and scratchy.”
“But will it work?”
“Do we have a choice? Hang on to this.” He handed Ethan the test record. “Do me a favor. Close the doors and see if you can get someone to turn down the sound system.”
They closed the doors. Emma sought help, and Ethan watched Currant through the window as he removed the ear bud device and held it about an inch away from the microphone. A.C. Currant reloaded the machine and went through the drill. Ethan couldn’t hear anything, but things appeared to be proceeding smoothly. Midway, he noticed the rock and roll music was quieter. Emma solved that problem. Currant finished recording and listened to the replay. He grabbed the second record as it popped out and worked his way out of the booth. Ethan noticed record mailing envelopes for sale. He bought two for a nickel a piece. The recording session was over.