Time Travel Twins (Book 1): Saving JFK

by W. Green

  “I’m not dealing with my nephew’s life.”

  Ferrie’s eyebrows raised into arches like two red-orange rainbows. “Yes you will. Because you won’t chase me away from young Patrick. Hell—it’s a long ride back on that little red motor scooter across the causeway to Covington. Maybe he’ll rest up and stay here over night. I can take care of him. I can make him real comfortable.” He smiled wickedly. “But I might leave him alone. If you and your entourage stay out of politics.”

  “I don’t care about politics.”

  “What about Chicago?”

  “That’s done. What do you want?”

  “What do I want? Well, I want you to move on to something else. I want you to stay out of other people’s business, and then maybe I’ll stay out of your business. Does that seem reasonable? And before you answer. Think about this.” Ferrie rubbed his chin. “I don’t like to be threatened Doctor. And worse than that for you, my friends don’t like threats.”

  “I really don’t care what you like outside of my nephew. I want you to call him tomorrow and tell him that you no longer need his services. And that’s that.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I will have you killed before the end of the month.”

  Ferrie’s incessant smile evaporated. He looked pained. His face tightened and turned red.

  Currant continued, “Are you willing to bet your friends with the C.I.A., the Cubans, or your mobster buddies will save you? Those people use guys like you. No matter what you think, you are on the outside looking in."

  Ferrie got into Currant’s face. “What do you know about me? I’m working for great causes. People like me will be saving this country, while academics like you will be parsing passages of history books wondering what happened to their basic freedoms. I’ll trust my friends ahead of your Pollyannaish view of a democratic society. You’re living in a world of illusion. You’re naïve Doctor Currant. You’re idealistic. You’re an intelligent fool.”

  “You think killing JFK is a basic freedom?"

  Ferrie laughed. “Do you think I’m out to kill Kennedy?”

  “That thought has crossed my mind. I’ve seen evidence of your hatred. I know your friends.”

  “Who? Banister...Martin? I can blow smoke too, Doc. Don’t make any assumptions my friend. I have a reputation to protect and appearances can be deceiving. These are delicate and dangerous times. Caesar and his senators would play like a comic book in comparison to today’s mix.”

  “You deny you want to eliminate him?”

  “I don’t need to confirm or deny anything for you. But I will present you with the idea that your interference might get JFK killed. His head is in the guillotine. They might let him pull it out—if changes are made.”

  “Like what?”

  Ferrie contemplated. “Fair question. His head will remain on his shoulders if Castro’s head is removed. Or if Castro is removed as head. Either way. Otherwise...” Ferrie made a slicing motion across his throat.”

  “And that would please you.”

  Ferrie chuckled. “That would please a whole lot of people who are about to be tossed out of the boat by JFK. Me—I like the man. He fills out a suit—he’s a real leader— and he’s a Catholic. The young people like him. His wife is pretty. Nice kids. I’m sure he and his brother are doing their best to resolve things. His brother’s a prick. But JFK’s a smart man. And he knows he’s a marked man. He doesn’t have much time. He has my sincere empathy. His balls are in a vice. But I can tell you, in all honesty, he would be better off if you stayed clear.”

  Ferrie’s had moved closer and closer as he talked. Now the two men stood face to face. Currant smelled the onions from Ferrie’s last meal. Tiny rivulets of sweat smeared the red eyebrow paint that rippled across his forehead. Inches away, Ferrie swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple rolled in his throat like he was taking down a young boy’s semen. He was a relatively big man, but Currant had no fear. He was as committed to Patrick as Ferrie was committed to his cause.

  Currant spoke softly in measured tones. “Obviously I am serious about this matter. Possibly you don’t care about your own life. You’ve made a mess of it. Maybe you don’t care about the lives of the young men you touch. But I do. I’m only requesting your cooperation in this one case. I’ll let the rest of the world take care it of itself. Leave Patrick Brennan alone.” He stopped and waited. “You will be saving his life and your own. Should you decide not to follow my instructions, he will still live but you will not. Do I make myself clear Mr. Ferrie?”

  Ferrie looked like he was about to do something physical, but then something turned inside of him. His face relaxed. He dropped back and sat down into the armchair. He smiled a peaceful smile.

  “Damn,” he said. “I wish I had an uncle like you when I was young. Who knows? Maybe things would have turned out differently. Hell. I’ll bet you would give it a shot. Not that I care. I’m a dead man anyway you look at it. But everyone has his dream. Everyone has an axe to grind. I’m just a lone woodman trying to clear out the deadwood and vines choking the American dream. I don’t want to build a cross for JFK—nor you—nor your nephew.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s simple Doc’. You agree to stay out of politics, and I’ll agree to stay away from your nephew. Agreed?”

  Currant looked down on the man. He was a bag of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams. He almost felt a tinge of sympathy. “I’m going David. Make your call tomorrow. And make it a permanent separation. I’ll be watching.”

  Ferrie looked up. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “You got it Doc. I’ll get rid of him. But don’t forget. I can always renew my acquaintance with young Patrick. You know he loves to be hypnotized. I’m sure he could be great fun. Remember—I’ll be watching too. You should move on to something else. This is out of your hands and my hands.” Ferrie stood and looked out the front window. He saw the waiting cab below. “Your chariot awaits Don Quixote. Pax Vosbisum.”

  Later that evening in the hotel, at the predetermined time, Currant made the call to Tom Quinn.

  “Quinn here.”

  “Tom. This A.C. Currant”

  “Well you caught me just in time. I’m in Miami. I’ve got news. I followed JFK the entire day. There was another motorcade. In Tampa. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “There was something going on in the background just like Chicago. I spoke with an old friend of mine down here—Chief Mullins. He was a busy man today. That was one hell of a long caravan. Same kind of dangerous route as the one planned for Chicago. I got to hand it to the president. He was cool and calm the whole time. But he had to be on edge. He just didn’t show it”

  Currant sensed that Quinn was very excited. “Tom. Settle down. Did something happen?”

  “No. He made it through OK. But something was going down. The Chief said there were three people that made threats. They got one of the guys in a cell now. Trust me, Mullins and his crew had this thing locked down. All the underpasses were guarded by cops or military. They had all the roof tops cleared. He had Secret Service men standing on the back bumper the whole trip, and motorcycle cops running with the limo at the four corners. Along the way somebody tossed a candy bar that landed on the hood of the Secret Service follow up car. They thought it was a stick of dynamite. Damn Currant. This was an exciting day.”

  “Do you think the danger is over?”

  There was a pause.

  “I think the only reason nothing happened today is because they tightened the screws. He was lucky. But if they ever loosen security, I’m afraid they will move in for the kill.”

  “Who?”

  “Who knows? Someone is going to get him. There was another hard left turn on this route. Just like the Chicago plan. This one was in front of a big hotel. 19 stories. Tallest in Florida. Motorcade had to slow to a crawl there. I was crossing my fingers. That would have been it. Place was loaded with windows. Anyone with a decent rifle could have picked him off.”

  “So what a
bout Miami?”

  “Miami. Right. He had a dinner speech tonight and then he went home. He used a helicopter. They got smart. No motorcade. So nothing happened here. Thank God. But it’s not over.

  “But what?”

  “But he’s headed for Texas next. Thursday and Friday. Five cities. You know that state is like a shooting galley. I think he’s in real trouble.”

  Currant thought. “I agree. This is like he is running the gauntlet. Somewhere, someplace someone is going to slip up. Intentionally or otherwise. What cities?” He could hear Quinn fumbling with his notes.

  “He’s going to San Antonio, Houston…uh…Fort Worth, Dallas and Austin. That’s a lot of real estate to cover. On the 21st and 22nd. You still in New Orleans?”

  “We are.”

  “You going to Texas?”

  “I have a purchase to make, but we’ll make it. Texas is only a long day’s drive from here. We’ll get some wheels and then head out as soon as possible. Leave word at your office how to reach you. I’ll call you back and tell you what’s happening.”

  “Currant…”

  “What?”

  “How will you know where to go? You can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “I don’t know but we have to try. My friends would be very disappointed if we gave up the fight.”

  “Semper fi, my friend. Give my best to your cub reporters.”

  LOG of Zak Newman

  November 18, 1963: 10:58 (Day 21 of time travel)

  A few days remain before we have to go back to the future. A.C. said 28 days maximum. Today is Day 21. Quinn’s telephone call to A.C. put more pressure on the timeline. JFK is still in trouble. The man is like a cat, or so it seems. He survived Chicago, Tampa and Miami. But his goose could be cooked in any one of five cities in the great state of Texas. We have no idea where. Why does he keep campaigning for votes? I wonder if he has a death wish. The people who want to kill him have more than a wish—they are determined.

  We did find some info on “Oswald”. Last August, a man named Oswald was arrested in New Orleans after a scuffle with some anti-Castro people. He passed out pamphlets promoting something called the “Fair Play For Cuba Committee”. Turns out he’s an ex-Marine just like Vallee. He lived in Russia for a while. So he doesn’t look like someone who would go drinking with Banister and his friends. But who knows? In their world “black” is “white” and “left” is “right”. Oswald’s first name is “Lee”. The person who tipped off the Feds about the Chicago attempt was named “Lee”. Coincidence? Why would “the Rabbit Oswald”, a good friend of Banister, be running a pro-Castro committee?

  I’m convinced that whomever is behind this didn’t draw it up on a napkin. The Chicago hit teams had long guns with scopes, four shooters and a pliable patsy in Thomas Vallee. And I suspect, it had local insiders like Richard Cain to grease the wheels. According to Quinn, the only thing that kept JFK alive in Tampa was the tight security provided by the local police. I wonder how good the security will be in Texas? Lots of guns in the Lone Star state. The killers can use the Chicago scenario—long rifles and multiple shooters in several locations to get the job done. Firing simultaneous shots will reduce the number of apparent shots making the “lone nut” theory more believable. In the end, one person will do it, or will appear to do it. It will probably involve shooting from the adjacent buildings, and may employ a difficult slowdown turn just like the one in Chicago. The trick will be to blame the whole thing on one boobala. Otherwise it will smell like what it is, an organized effort to topple the Kennedys. That wouldn’t work well for anyone. Let’s see what happens in the next few days. Who knows? Maybe we can save him again.

  I can speculate the on the “Why?” Today Jack—tomorrow Bobby—the day after tomorrow Teddy—two days after tomorrow comes John-John. Looks like all Kennedys—all day—all night. So I guess it’s now or never for “them”. But who are they? Cain looks like the Outfit, the Mob, the Syndicate, what have you. Since Bobby, the Attorney General, has been JFK’s legal pit bull, he’s been attacking these guys. I imagine the good fellows are sick of the brothers Kennedy. Our quick research showed that in 1961 Bobby had the head mobster of New Orleans, Carlos Marcello, kidnapped. He was left for dead in the middle of some Latin American jungle. Currant thinks Ferrie piloted the plane that returned Marcello to the States. The crime boss was pissed, no doubt. Some say, Jack’s father Joe was wired into the Mob and asked for their help to elect his son. The Outfit helped squeeze out a victory in Illinois for JFK in the tight presidential race against Nixon. Afterward the Kennedys turned their back on the Mob. So, in addition to losing its Cuban hangout to Castro, the guy they helped elect president and his brother were screwing them. Maybe ‘Old Joe’ forgot to tell his boys that they owed the boys, big time.

  But the Kennedys just seem to go bump, bump, bump into the night. The Cuban freedom fighters hate them for the Bay of Pigs failure. And the C.I.A. can’t be too pleased about that or the fact that the top guys in their organization were fired. And Big Oil is always hot about JFK. The potential of tampering with their holy law—the Depletion Allowance—rankles them. The far Right Wing people are certain JFK is soft on Commies and hate him. Vice-President Johnson has his problems too with the Billy Sol Estes/Bobby Baker situation. Newspapers here say he’s gone for the election in ’64. Someone is going to hang for all that criminal activity. Without a change, LBJ is in line for a jail cell. And the aging head of the American Federal Police, J. Edgar Hoover will be losing his job soon. His boss, Bobby Kennedy, wants to get rid of him. I’m sure he’d love to say “good bye” to the K boys.

  In the old History (before our involvement) everyone came out smelling like a rose—every one except JFK and the man who was framed for the crime, Tom Vallee. Cuba went back under the control of the big corporations and the Mob. Marcello won his deportation case, and eventually retired to the Cayman Islands. Big Oil stayed big, and the rugged Texan independent oilmen went to sleep every night under red, white and blue American Flag sheets. Johnson, of course, became president and although he had his troubles in Vietnam and was later impeached and convicted for more corruption, he was never tried for treason or anything nasty like that. Even Allen Dulles and his cronies got their old jobs back at the C.I.A. And they finally got their war with the Commies in Vietnam. That helped the Military-Industrial Complex eliminate its feelings of inferiority. And Hoover remained on the job as the Director and slept comfortably the remainder of his life in his ladies underwear. All these things happened because someone shot JFK in Chicago. Best of all for the conspirators, nobody ever questioned anything related to the assassination. It was a done deal—like so many other “lone nut” crimes. One man with a giant hard-on. Who can defend against that? Who could see it coming? Maybe the Secret Service? The F.B.I.? Military Intelligence? Nope.

  So now what’s going to happen? Maybe JFK will be saved again and then he’ll some kick butt. Or maybe he’ll see the light and make peace with all these folks that hate him—I doubt it, but who knows? I guess the point is that this whole thing is a powder keg, which almost blew up with the Cuban Bay of Pigs—then the fuse was lit again and burned down to the nub in October of 1962 with the Cuban Missile Crisis—then last summer Bobby killed off the training of Cuban rebels ending their dream—and now JFK may be making nice-nice with Castro while still planning a Cuban coup. JFK is a marked man. Highly motivated, hate-filled people—mobsters—anti-Castro Cubans—pissed off spooks—are all waiting in the wings to rush in and kill him. The people pulling the strings only have to invite these hotheads onto the stage. That proverbial short fuse is definitely lit again. Close your eyes and hold your ears because something bad is coming—the sum of all hopes and fears—a trip to Texas.

  END 11-18-63

  -Chapter 19-

  A Rose by Any Other Name

  The red and white ‘55 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible chased the sinking sun down a lonely two-lane highway. Top down, radio up, a foxtail tied its antenna—A.C.
drove. Ethan rode shotgun. Emma and Zak sat in the back.

  Dr. Currant was sharing the lead with Frankie Valli as the radio played Walk Like a Man. The old man can still hit the high notes thought Ethan. He watched the wind twist Currant’s hair into a madcap. “This is the life. No more trains. We’ve got our own wheels. You can’t beat that, Dr. Currant.”

  A.C. jumped out of his falsetto, turned down the radio volume, glanced over to Ethan and replied. “Best car ever made. Ever. It is a thing of beauty and it’s all mine.”

  “For now,” replied Ethan.

  “Forever,” said Currant. “Forever.”

  Ethan shook his head. Earlier today, Currant bought this car in New Orleans. For a day and a half the four adventurers had doggedly hunted from one car dealer to the next, from one classified ad seller to another, until A.C. found his dream car. A young man named Chuck from Metairie was about to enter the Army. He wanted to find a good home for his pride and joy. He and A.C. bonded in a second, and Chuck was left happily holding $550 cash knowing he had found just the right person for his beautiful Bel Air. Ethan had to admit the car was a great choice for a road trip into the unknown. Riding comfortably nestled in the smooth, two-tone leather seat, his elbow hanging over the door, the warm wind beating on his face, Ethan felt something he had never felt before—the absolute freedom of youth. For the moment, he had no cares, no pain, no future, no past. He was a seventeen year old in 1963. He glanced at this sister and Zak in the back seat. They too wore looks of wonderment. The waning light of a rich orange sun ball, now low on the dark horizon, caught his eye. Its rays reflected off the marshy swamp waters lining the road. Hordes of restless water bugs expanded upward en masse in a dance of death, feeding a squadron of darting bats circling above. Curious sounds filled the air. Night creatures of all kinds slithered and skittered about preparing for the evening’s battle. A.C. drove the convertible at a leisurely pace. He seemed to be absorbing the entire scene. To Ethan, homeboy Currant looked totally at peace as the sights, sounds and smells of the Louisiana backcountry washed over him. As Currant continued making music with the Valli from New Jersey, Ethan was reminded of the Vallee from Chicago. He wondered what happened to him. There were no news stories about the Chicago attempt on JFK’s life. It was as if it never happened. What do you do with an unused patsy? Ethan’s mind burped—if that Vallee takes up singing as a hobby he’ll be a walking like a man very quickly—a dead man. But Vallee was gone now—soon to be a forgotten man—from a long time ago in Chicago. He dropped that thought. Now they were headed for the home state of the favorite son, Vice-President Lyndon Johnson—to save JFK—again.