The time was 11:31 a.m.
Oswald had exactly seventy-two hours to live! President Kennedy only had twenty-five hours!
A long line of wooden steps led from the front entrance up to the main lounge of Mr. Ruby’s club. Ascending the stairs, the Captain thought, it’s a good thing we’re not trying to sneak up on them. Each step they took was following by an array of squeaks and creaks emanating from the century old worn smooth, wooden plank steps. Arriving at the top, the two stepped into the dim light of the club’s lounge. Music blared an obnoxiously loud, tearful, country tune from a colorful lit, Wurlitzer over on the side of the room. Captain Scarburg tried to get his eyes to focus in the dim light of the room. If it had not been for the jukebox and the ‘Lone Star’ beer’s neon sign above the bar mirror off to their right, the place would have been totally absent of light. His eyes could not distinguish color making the room appear darker than it actually was. He could see two people sitting at the bar. Across the counter from those two was the bartender. About six feet and no more than 150 pounds, two days growth of scrubby beard and wearing a white, t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled up under the left sleeve. The bottom part of, what appeared to be a Navy anchor tattoo was visible on the upper part of his arm. The Captain could see this Navy veteran preferred Camels. He was leaning on the bar reading, probably the sports section of the Dallas morning newspaper. On the opposite end of the bar, a blonde waitress sat flipping the pages of a fashion magazine. Absorbing the look of the bartender the Captain thought, could have described him before I opened the door to this place.
The two of them remained at the entrance a moment or two longer allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness of the dreary interior of this ‘dive’ before entering.
The scent of the room engulfed them.
It was the smell of ‘old.’ Grandpa couldn’t describe it, but he knew it when he smelled it. Mixed in with the musty, old scent, was a main course smell of cigar, cigarette, stale beer and cheap cologne. There were other scents mingled in, but Grandpa thought it best not to dwell on their identity. The interior did not disappoint - this place was truly a dump.
Directly to their front was a stage built about a foot above the floor, backed with a gold glistening curtain and a small walkway protruding a few feet out among the tables. Of course, the obligatory, stainless steel dance pole was positioned in the middle.
“John, over thar in that corner, see them swangin’ doors? Uncle Jacks usually back thar.”
Practically hidden in the right rear corner was a pair of hinged swinging doors. They reminded Captain Scarburg of the doors to an old western saloon. Shiny brass push plates were attached to their fronts for the use of the waitresses when entering. Walking to the doors the Captain was able to see over the tops into the room. Behind those swinging doors was a small room with one large round table surrounded by, what Clem remembered as, red leather backed chairs. The Captain could easily see the booth, table and chairs, and knew those were cheap chrome and leatherette chairs. The only leather this place had ever seen was a trouser belt holding up some cowboy’s Levis or the boots he walked around in. The chairs were not important; however, the men occupying those chairs had the look of importance; actually ‘importance’ may not be the right word, ‘villainous’ would be more like it.
Before pushing on the swinging doors, the Captain had an idea. Next to the two ‘saloon’ doors was a cigarette vending machine. The price listed over the coin slot was thirty-five cents. Fishing change from his pocket he dropped a quarter and a dime into the money slot and pulled the handle on a pack of Winstons. The cigarette pack slid out into a stainless steel tray. Strange, the Captain did not smoke. He did in his younger days, but he had quit forty years ago way back in 1972, but it was now 1963 - was he to quit nine years in the future? There was a lot to time travel that the Captain had to figure out.
The Captain, with Clem nervously tagging closely behind, pushed open the doors, which immediately startled the assembled group of suits around the table. They all turned in one motion and glared at the uninvited intruders. A couple of men at the table stuck their right hand inside their suit coats. They were not reaching for their wallets, the Captain thought.
The table was illuminated with a single drop-down incandescent light fixture, barely putting out enough light to read by. The chairs crowded around the table were all occupied - one of the men, sitting with his back to the wall, sporting a grey fedora was - Jack Ruby, yes, Jack Ruby in person - the future killer of Lee Harvey Oswald.
It was hard to believe, but there he was - in the flesh and blood. No sir this wasn’t a picture this was the real deal. Today Ruby was just an ordinary man in a cheap hundred dollar suit sitting in a bar talking with some truly extraordinary business acquaintances; however, they wore handmade Italian suits. Suits with names like Gucci, Brioni and Borelli. A hundred dollars would not even buy the handkerchiefs tucked into the breast pockets of those ‘business men’s’ coats.
As the Captain and Clem approaching the table, Ruby looked up and exclaimed, “Why Clem... is that you? It’s you ain’t it...? It’s been a while Clem what in the heck are you doing here? Has something happened to Penelope? Is everything okay back in Celina?” Before Clem could answer he added, “Who’s this feller?”
“Naw, Uncle Jack everthin’ is fine as frog hair... this here’s John Doess. His truck broke down, and I brung him into town to git some parts to fix hit. John this here’s my Uncle Jack Ruby; Uncle Jack meet John Doess.”
Extending his hand across the table, Jack Ruby, shook Captain Scarburg’s hand, “Nice to meet you Mr. Doess. Any friend of Clems is a friend of mine. Y’all go back outside and pull y’all up a chair at an empty table,” Mr. Ruby said pointing with his finger toward the swinging doors, “and rest a spell. Clem I’ll talk with you when I finish up my business. What about something to eat or drink Mr. Doess?”
The Captain answered politely, “Thank you Mr. Ruby we’re fine, but maybe a drink and a smoke would be okay.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out the red pack of Winstons. Shook a cigarette part way out and placed the pack to his mouth, and extracted the cigarette with his lips, using one hand. The other hand he used to take out his Iphone. Using an exaggerated feigning motion he pretended to be using the phone as a cigarette lighter. Obviously it wasn’t producing a flame for his Winston, but it was, in fact, taking a photo after photo of the group around the table.
One of the men took notice of the Iphone, but thinking it was one of the newer lighters on the market remarked, “That’s some fancy Ronson cigarette lighter... don’t seem to be working to good tho’, here...”, he said reaching across the table, flipping open the lid of a chrome Zippo and with the snap of his thumb on the lighter fired up the Captain’s cigarette.
“Thanks,” the Captain managed to say taking a draw from the cigarette as he walked back through the swinging doors to an empty table. At the same time, the Captain was holding his breath trying not to cough. He had stopped smoking a long time ago, and had forgotten how choking those first few draws of smoke could clog and sear his lungs. He did not forget one thing though - Ruby did not introduce his friends to them.
Back in the lounge both Clem and the Captain’s eyes had now become accustomed to the dim light, they could see much better than when they first arrived.
“Excuse me for a moment fellows,” Ruby said to the men at his table as he got up and followed Clem and the Captain through the swinging doors a minute or two later. He motioned to the platinum blond waitress sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. Once he had gained her attention he pointed to the Captain and Clem and returned to his ‘guests’ at the table. Picking up her order pad she nonchalantly walked over to their table.
Placed her pen to her pad, without looking up said, “Yeah?”
“Just a Ginger Ale for me. What about you Clem?”
“Do you have them Nehi Orange drinks? You do? Okay, gimme one of’em.”
Th
e cute, young, waitress left the table and returned to the bar to get their drinks. The Captain inched his chair over closer to Clem. Speaking in a quiet voice that was almost a whisper he asked, “Clem did you know those fellows talking with your Uncle Jack?”
“Naw, John like I said, me and Uncle Jack ain’t real close. My Aunt Janie, Uncle Jack’s sister done told me, ‘You don’t want to know his friends.’ Fer as she could tell, most of the crowd Jack runs with “were no-goods.” I don’t know Jack’s pals, but from the looks of them duds them fellers wuz wearin’ I’d say bein’ a ‘no-good’ pays purty well. Thems some fine threads.”
“Sure wish I knew who they are,” ‘John’ said softly. Inwardly, he was grinning. Don’t know who they are but I sure got some good pictures of them, he thought.
“John, our waitress is know’d as Kandy... shes from up Celina way... I’ve know’d her most all her life, her real name is Linda Lou Dearmann. I bet ya John she knows who them fellas are.”
The Captain felt around in his pocket - he only had eighteen dollars on him. Why didn’t I bring some more money? I guess I was figuring Pegasus might have landed back in the Dark Ages. Grinning, he said to Clem, “You suppose there is an ATM in here?”
“What? What’s a ATM? John, you sometimes talk crazy.”
Without an answer, he thought, Clem’s right, what am I thinking... an ATM... for goodness sake! They haven’t even been invented yet!
Handing a ten dollar bill to Clem he quietly said, “Clem slip this ten spot to... to... Kandy and see if she will give you the names of those fellows in back at Jack’s table.”
Leroy, the bartender slid the Ginger Ale and Nehi Orange across the bar to Kandy. She brought their drinks and turned to go back to the stool at the end of the bar when Clem reached out and grabbed her arm. Turning she angrily said, “Hey, watch them hands mister!”
“I’m sorrie Linda – its me, Clem... Clem Ruby.”
“Oh, it’s you Clem, sorry, I didn’t recognize you in this dim light. How you been doin’?”
“Good... good Linda Lou. I wanted to give you a tip, here it tis,” he said slipping the money into her hand. “Sit fer a spell, I need to pick yer brain about somethin’.” Straightening her apron and skirt with her hand she slipped into the chair near Clem.
“What do you need to know Clem?”
“Nothin’ much... who’s them fellers back there with Uncle Jack? Do you know them?”
“Yeah, but Clem don’t get messed up with that bunch. They’re not our type of people. Those guys are connected.”
“Connected... connected? I never seed them connected to nothin’?” Clem asked.
Before Clem could respond ‘John’ answered, “Gangsters’ Clem! They are connected to gangsters!”
“Mister,” she said to the Captain, “these guys are not just gangsters they are part of ‘the mob’ I would advise y’all not mess with them if you can help it.”
“The ‘mob’ shucks Linda you talk as crazy as John. What’s ‘the mob’?”
“By ‘the mob’ Linda, you mean organized crime like the ‘Cosa Nostra’, Captain Scarburg asked?
“Yeah, that’s them, but I’ll deny it if you said I told you.”
“Don’t worry Linda, we’re not going to tell. Do you know their names?”
“Yeah, they been comin’ in here for the past five or six months. Usually one or two at a time – today’s the first time I’ve seen’em all together at once.”
“Could you give me their names Linda?”
“The one sitting on Jack’s right is Sam Giordino. They call him “Sam Silver,” he’s from Chicago. Next to Sam is Johnny Russolli out of Las Vegas, and I believe he has something to do with the mob in Hollywood. Next, the guy smoking the cigar is Carlos Mancini. I believe I have heard he’s from New Orleans. And the guy wearing the sunglasses is Angelo Marino from somewhere up north, Philadelphia I think. Next is Santo Riccocante from Tampa, Florida. I’ve heard them call him “Joe.” Next to Riccocante, and to the left of Jack is a new man, and sitting beside him is a slim build man. Slim is the one wearing the hat. I have never seen either of them before – the new guy looks to clean cut to be part of that bunch, and his name doesn’t end with a vowel either. If you want my opinion, that slim guy looks kind of shifty though. He definitely fits in with that crowd.”
“You get the new guy’s name Linda?”
“Kind’of, one of them called him ‘the handler’ and another called him Donald or David Pherson. He had a middle name like Atwood, Atlay or something... it started with an ‘A’, but that’s about all I got.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard his name.” The Captain responded. “It’s David Atlay Pherson. Pherson worked undercover for the CIA in Cuba in ’59 and 1960, he returned to the U.S. in 1960 and was involved in organizing the Bay of Pigs fiasco. During this period, he worked with J. Howard Huntley in attempts to have Fidel Castro murdered. I remember reading where he said there were four reasons why the Bay of Pigs invasion failed: first, was the place of the landing was wrong, and secondly, Ambassador Adlai Stevenson was embarrassed by having to deny to the Cuban Foreign Minister that the CIA had nothing to do with the pre-invasion air strikes, when, in fact, they were being flown by CIA pilots, and third he thought the Pentagon should manage the invasion openly and not by a secret army. But last and most importantly, the decision by President Kennedy to cancel air cover at the last minute was the key to the whole disaster. I’ve read a lot about him but never put a face to his name.”
“So he works for the government, huh?” said Linda.
“Yeah Pherson is CIA, but what about Mr. Slim? Ever seen him before?
“Nah,” she replied, “I believe this is the first time he has been in here too. He don’t say much neither, kind of quiet. Never got a good look at him neither kept his hat on and his head down. He talks so quiet I can’t understand whats he saying.”
Linda gave Clem the names, and as she did so the Captain was writing them down on a piece of a light rose-colored napkin imprinted with the name of the Carousel Club. When she finished naming the ‘guests’, he handed the paper to Clem, “Put this in your pocket. Something might happen to me tomorrow. If I can get home, I will need these names. If I don’t get back, you tear this list up and burn the pieces!”
“Wait a minute – as I was leaving the table one of them called Slim by the name Dan or maybe it was Danny, I’m really not sure.”
“Okay thanks Linda, do you know what the ‘gentlemen’ are talking about?”
“No, I really don’t, I just get bits and pieces when I carry food and drinks to their table but whatever it is I believe it’s something big. I knew something was up when all five of those guys showed up here this morning. Usually they only come in one or two at a time. Since they are all here at once, I got the feeling whatever it is will happen tomorrow. And another thing... one of them said something I couldn’t hear but the one smoking the cigar, Carlos, answered.”
“Did you hear his answer?”
“Yes, some of it, but not all. I caught the part when he said something... “Was the Justification For Killing”, and he mentioned someone’s name, but I didn’t catch it. It could have been just initials, and not a name, I’m sorry I really wasn’t too interested. But as I sat his drink on the table I did notice something written on a napkin.”
“What Linda, what did you read?”
“I dunno, it just said MK-ULTRA.”
“Thanks Linda.” Captain Scarburg said. Then he thought, MK-ULTRA, what in the devil do you suppose that means? I have never heard of it. “Linda, could the initials you heard have been JFK?”
“Hmmm... you know, now that you mention it, I believe it was. But another thing, that funny name, it was written on one of our pink napkins. He saw me glance at it, so he wadded it up and stuck it in his pocket.”
The Captain thought, they are at this exact moment, putting the final plans in place to kill President Kennedy. “Thanks, thank you very much,” he replied to Li
nda.
She started back to her stool at the bar to resume looking at her Teen Screen magazine, but she slowed a step or two to look at the ten-dollar bill before folding it and putting it in her apron pocket. “Hey!’ She said, walking back to Clem and Captain Scarburg’s table. “What you trying to pull Clemson Ruby? This ten spot you give me is counterfeit!!” Holding the bill up so Clem and Grandpa could see. “Look at this thing! This ain’t even a good copy! Look at the head, it’s way too big, and the color is all wrong.” The Captain had forgotten the eighteen dollars he had in his pocket were perfectly good 2012 money, but it surely was different from the ‘green-backs’ of the 1960s.
“I’m sorry Linda,” he said retrieving the bill. “That is ‘play’ money from one of my kid’s board games. In this dark light, I did not recognize it. Sorry. I must have put the game money in my pocket by mistake.”
“Ah heck fellers. That’s okay - you don’t need to give me no tip. I’ve been waitressing here during the day, and I have a dance act at night, “Miss Kandy Barr”, so I make good money. I figure this is just temporary, maybe I’ll be discovered one day, but thanks anyway. Oh, Clem don’t tell Mr. Ruby you know me, I told him I was from Las Vegas.”
“Shore, Linda Lou mums the word.”
Linda was back thumbing through the pages of her magazine when the group of men in the back room with Ruby got up to leave. One of the men threw Linda some tip money on the table. Then as if in the military, the seven of them walked single file toward the exit at the top of the stairs. The last in line touched the brim of his hat and nodded in a gentlemanly manner as he passed Linda at the bar. With the other hand, he slipped her some folded money. Glancing down she saw it was a C-Note, a hundred dollar bill! He watched for her response - albeit, he was older, but a devilishly handsome Italian man, he got the response he was looking for, she gave him a sexy grin and winked.
The time was 2:15 p.m.
Justification For Killing Page 14
