by Shawn Inmon
“Ma’am? Would you like a cookie?”
“Those aren’t one of those cookies made with marijuana, are they?”
Joe laughed. “No, ma’am. My landlady made them for me. I’m sure they’ve just got the regular ingredients in them.”
“Well, I’ll have to pass, then,” she said, with a crinkly smile.
Gotta remember not to judge a book by its cover.
Joe spent the rest of the flight lost in Vonnegut’s story of Malachi Constant, Winston Niles Rumfoord, and the Church of God the Utterly Indifferent.
He changed planes in Chicago and boarded his second plane already feeling like a more-seasoned traveler. He sat at his gate in O’Hare, people-watching and ruminating.
An entire lifetime spent as a virtual hermit, and this travel stuff isn’t all that hard. I missed out on everything, too afraid to take the first step out of my door.
Joe landed at JFK, and managed to find his way to baggage claim without too much difficulty. Once he had his suitcase, he asked a man pushing a cart piled high with luggage what the best way to get to New York was. The man was an old black gentleman dressed in a gray uniform. He laughed at the question.
“You’re in New York, son. What part of New York are you trying to get to?”
“The Empire Hotel. I think it’s close to Central park.”
“Yessir, it is. You’ve got two choices. You can catch the subway into town, get off and catch a quick cab ride over to the Empire, or you can just find a cab here. The subway and cab ride will be cheaper, but catching a cab from here will be easier. What do you prefer?”
Joe leaned in, conspiratorially, and said, “You probably can’t tell, but I’m a tourist, and I’ve never been to New York before.”
The man roared with laughter and said, “No sir, you’re right, I couldn’t tell. If you’ve got the funds, I think we’ll do better to get you a cab straight from here.”
“I do.” Joe had two hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills in his pocket. He had another thousand dollars in American Express Traveler’s Checks in his wallet, and a hundred dollar bill folded up and stuck in his shoe, just in case he lost the rest. He had seen the movie The Out-of-Towners just before he left, and he was aware of the way the city swallowed the unwary.
“Come with me, young sir, and I will help you find someone who will take care of you.”
The man led Joe out of the airport and into the cold night air. He approached another man, also wearing a uniform—this one tan with gold accents.
“Frank,” the first man said, “This young man is an innocent abroad. Will you help him find a good, safe ride to his hotel? He’s heading for the Empire.”
Frank looked Joe up and down, smiled, and said, “Sure will, Charles.”
Charles smiled, patted Joe on the shoulder, and turned away.
“Wait,” Joe said, digging in his pocket. He came out with his roll of twenties, took one off the roll and handed it to Charles.
“Oh, no, son, that’s way too much. A buck would be a little too much, but a twenty is out of the question, unless your last name is Rockefeller.”
“It’s all I have.”
“Let me give you a couple of tips instead, then,” Charles said. “One, don’t flash that wad around, or someone will want it more than you do, and try to take it from you. Two, buy a pack of gum as soon as you can, and keep a pocketful of singles. That’s all you need.”
Charles turned and hurried back into the airport.
Joe turned back to the man Charles had called Frank and saw that he had summoned a cab to the curb.
As Joe climbed in, Frank said, “You be careful out there in the city. Not everyone is as kind as Charles is. You’ll need to watch out for yourself.” He winked at Joe and lifted his suitcase in after him. He leaned his head in and said, “Empire, please, and take the direct route,” then closed the door.
I am a babe in the woods, and everyone around me can see it. I’ve gotta wise up.
Joe rode through what felt like endless lanes of traffic while rain fell so heavily the cab’s wipers could barely keep up. After what felt like an exceptionally long trip that nearly lulled him asleep, they pulled into a small driveway in front of a hotel with a red neon sign over it that read, “Empire.”
“Fifteen-fifteen,” the cabbie said. Those were the first words he had spoken since Joe had climbed in the cab.
Joe handed him the same twenty he had tried to give to Charles back at the airport. He said, “Keep the change,” and slid out of the cab, carrying his backpack and suitcase. Inside, the Empire was nice, if not opulent. In his imagination, he had expected a huge lobby with glittery chandeliers, but instead found a quieter environment and very little wasted space.
It was nearly midnight by the time he arrived at the hotel, so there was no line to check in. He was able to sign the register and catch the elevator up to his room in less than ten minutes. The hallways of the Empire had thick, red carpeting with a gold pattern worked through. He turned the key, stepped inside his room and closed the door behind him. He felt like he could breathe easy for the first time since he had stepped off the plane.
The room was small. If he hadn’t lived in a studio apartment, Joe might even have judged it as tiny. A twin bed, a small nightstand, and a dresser with a television on it were the only furnishings, and still the room felt cramped. He lifted his suitcase onto the bed, then pushed open the door to the bathroom. If the room was tiny, the bathroom was miniscule.
Good thing there’s only me, because two people would never fit in here, I don’t think.
A window looked out of his room, directly onto another building that wasn’t more than a few feet away. He went to pull the curtains shut and noticed that his window looked directly into another apartment building no more than twenty feet away. A large woman sat in her underwear in front of the television. She glanced at Joe, then turned her attention back to the TV.
Joe pulled the curtains shut. I am not in Middle Falls anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Joe opened the curtains the next morning to find the same slate-gray sky he had flown through the night before. The curtains were still pulled wide in the apartment across from him, but the woman was gone.
Joe realized that, aside from Claire’s cookies and a single airline meal on the way to Chicago, he hadn’t had a bite to eat since he had left home. He was famished.
He tucked his traveler’s checks into the dresser drawer next to his bed and folded all but forty dollars once again into the arch of his foot, then put his socks and shoes on.
When did we start using debit cards for everything? Not until at least the 90s, right? I’ve gotta get used to carrying cash around, I guess.
Joe rode the old-fashioned elevator down to the lobby and stepped outside. He was immediately pelted with cold rain.
And, I need to find an umbrella somewhere.
First, he found a cozy diner on the corner and ordered steak and eggs. While he waited for his food, he spread out a map of the city he had gotten through the mail before he left. He had drawn an “X” where the Empire was, and he situated the map on the table so it ran north and south. He traced a finger along the map, tracing the route to The Dakota.
Joe turned left out of the coffee shop and walked through the misting rain, collar pulled up. He passed a store that had men’s suits and hats in the display window. In one corner of the window was a black umbrella stand, with half a dozen different umbrellas sticking out of it.
“Bingo,” Joe said to himself, and ducked inside, shaking the water off him as he did.
The inside of the store was sedate, separate from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. Classical music played quietly and a well turned-out man who quickly approached Joe. “May I help you?”
I’d like to ask if you have any Grey Poupon, but I don’t think that would tickle your funny bone.
“Just looking for an umbrella. Can you show me what you have?”
The man l
ooked at Joe’s work shoes, Levi’s, flannel shirt and leather jacket dubiously, but said, “Right this way.” He led Joe to a long bar that had different kinds of umbrellas hanging on them. “What style are you looking for?”
“The style that keeps me dry,” Joe said. The man didn’t flinch, crack a smile, or move. “Can I see that one?” Joe asked, pointing to a plain black one.
“Certainly. We prefer you not open it in the store.”
“I understand. I just want to see how much it—oh my God! Does this price tag say $110?”
“Yes, sir. That model’s on closeout, so it’s marked down.”
“I think I am in the wrong store,” Joe said, handing the umbrella back as though it had turned into a snake.
“Yes, sir. I think the bumbershoot you are looking for may be a block down, in the drug store. You can’t miss it.”
Joe fled. He did find the drug store he was looking for, and it did indeed have exactly the kind of umbrella he wanted, priced at $7.99.
Still a little more than I wanted to spend, but I don’t want to drown.
Outside, on the sidewalk that ran alongside Central Park West, he opened the umbrella, turned left once again and counted the streets as he worked his way toward West 72nd St.
When he was still a block away, he recognized The Dakota. Even in a city filled with spectacular buildings, the Dakota stood out. It’s fantastically peaked gables and profusion of dormers gave it an odd, gothic vibe in the midst of a very modern city.
Joe approached in quiet awe. After reading about it and seeing pictures of it for decades in his previous life, it felt like he had stepped into the pages of a picture book. He moved along to the main entrance, where a small crowd of thirty or so people milled about. There were small knots of people talking and laughing, a few couples leaning in close, and a handful of individuals.
Nothing in particular seemed to be happening. Everyone was milling around, waiting. Joe saw a man in a uniform standing to the left of the main entrance, where the large vestibule led to the inner sanctum of The Dakota Apartments. It wasn’t the uniform of a police officer, but that of a doorman.
Joe walked up to the man and stood next to him, waiting for him to turn his attention. He didn’t.
After a full minute of being ignored, Joe said, “Excuse me?”
The doorman didn’t move his eyes from the street in front of him. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “Yeah?”
“Why are all these people standing here? Is something about to happen?”
The man finally turned and looked at Joe. He took in his very non-New York appearance, then landed on the birthmark. His eyes softened. “Lotsa famous people live here, kid. These crowds are here every day, rain or shine, hoping to see somebody famous. Maybe grab an autograph.”
“And it’s okay for them to just stand here like this? It’s not dangerous?”
The doorman returned his eyes front. “It’s a free country, kid. You can join ‘em, if you’d like.”
Joe wandered along, trying to get a feel for who was here. Most of the people were young. A little older than Joe looked, maybe, but still young. They all seemed to be laughing and enjoying themselves, in spite of the weather. It was like a party, but a party where a celebrity might drop in, unannounced, at any moment.
Joe heard a small commotion behind him and turned to see what caused it. The crowd, which had been spread along the sidewalk on both sides of the vestibule, tightened. A man and woman in dark glasses emerged, covered by an umbrella that looked like it may have come from the store Joe couldn’t afford to shop in.
Almost instantly, the crowd gauged them for who they were—someone wealthy, someone who lived at the Dakota, but no one famous. The crowd once again loosened and spread out.
When it did, Joe saw him. He was staking out a spot, just inside the arched public entrance. He was average height and pudgy, with a double chin. His eyes were covered in oversized, brown sunglasses. He clutched a copy of a record album in his right hand. Joe took a few steps closer to him and he could see that it was Double Fantasy, the new John Lennon/Yoko Ono album that had just been released. The man wore a long dark pea coat and black watch cap against the December temperatures. He had a completely blank expression, as though someone had run a vacuum cleaner across his face and sucked off any emotion.
It was a forgettable face in every way, except one. Joe had seen that face so many times, it was burned into his memory forever.
This was the man who was lying in wait to kill John Lennon.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Instinctively, Joe took another quick step toward the man, but stopped himself and just watched him. The man was leaning back against the inside of the vestibule, one foot braced against the stone. The collar of his coat was pulled up high and he seemed to be trying to disappear down into it.
Come on, come on! Don’t come all this way, then lose your cool. This is a Sunday. It’s only December 7th. He must be doing just what I’m doing, staking the place out, getting the lay of the land. He’s not going to do anything until tomorrow. Assuming, of course, that things play out exactly the same as they did in my first life. Things close to me change and evolve, but something so far away and unrelated to me, I think will be the same.
Joe glanced around. Everyone else was continuing to chatter and have a festive time. Joe’s stomach felt like it was in his shoes.
Casually, Joe moved toward the vestibule entrance and walked to the side opposite the man in the pea coat. Joe acted as relaxed as he could. He glanced in toward the main doors, then up, then back out at the street. He tried to avoid looking at the man across from him. After a few minutes, he did glance over and was met with an unsettling sight.
The man was staring at Joe with a laser focus. His eyes were searching Joe, taking in the way he dressed, the backpack he carried, his birthmark, everything. Joe felt like he was being catalogued for later reference.
It was difficult, but Joe gave what he hoped was a friendly nod of his head. The other man did not look away. He stared at Joe in a way that would make an exhibitionist uncomfortable. Finally, the man spoke across the vestibule.
“You a Beatles fan?”
The voice chilled Joe. Softer than he had expected, a Southern accent that wasn’t pronounced, but still noticeable.
“Of course,” Joe said. “Isn’t everyone?”
The man shook his head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Greatest band ever, but some people don’t recognize that.”
“How’s the new album?” Joe asked, nodding at Double Fantasy.
“Don’t know. Just bought it. I want to get John to autograph it, then I’ll put this one up in a frame and buy another one to listen to.”
Joe nodded. How in the hell did I end up in a conversation with this guy? Joe looked at the large pocket of the coat. Wonder if he’s got the gun in there right now. Of course he does.
“What’s your favorite Beatles album?”
“For me, it’s always Abbey Road. Those harmonies, the inventiveness.” Joe caught himself and shut up. I’m not going to have a music-fan conversation with John Lennon’s killer.
“I like Meet the Beatles. I didn’t always love some of that later stuff.”
Joe simply nodded and turned to move out of the vestibule. I gotta get away from this guy. He is weirding me out.
“Hey, where are you going? I’ve been here since yesterday, waiting for John to come out. I know all the doormen, but they won’t ever tell me when he’s coming. It gets kind of lonely, waiting by myself.”
That’s it then, killer? If you’d had a friend, you wouldn’t have drawn a gun and snuffed out one of the brightest creative minds of the century? Whatever.
“I’m from Hawaii. I came here once before and waited. That’s when I got to know all the doormen. I never got to see him that time, so I had to fly home, but now I’m back.”
Joe continued to edge toward the entrance.
“Hey, where you going?”
Joe looked over his shoulder and said, “Gotta run. See ya,” then hustled away. He could hear the man’s voice, soft, yet insistent, calling after him.
Joe crossed Central Park West and into Central Park proper. He just wanted to get away. He walked into the park and to the area that he thought was the area that had been called Strawberry Fields in his first life. It was impossible for him to tell, of course, because there was nothing like that in this life, and he had only seen pictures of it many years before.
Strawberry Fields will be here again, if I don’t find a way to stop that guy. I’m sure it was a beautiful memorial, but it should be built when John passes away from natural causes.
“That guy’s a bit much, isn’t he?”
Joe was startled out of his reverie and realized that the question was addressed to him. He turned and saw a man in his late-twenties or early-thirties looking at him. He had longish, straight black hair that ran over his collar and onto his shoulders. He had a droopy black moustache and was wearing a green canvas army jacket. The name stamped over the left pocket was “Mckenzie.”
“Sorry?” Joe said, not certain who he was, or why the man was talking to him.
“That dude back there that wanted to be your new best buddy. He’s a little too intense. He did the same thing to me a couple of hours ago. He makes me nervous.”
Joe raised his chin—a gesture of agreement. Hard to argue with that, but who are you? My mama told me not to speak to strangers, especially in the big city.
“Anyway, didn’t mean to disturb you,” the man said. “Just wanted to let you know I noticed it too. There’s something off about that guy.”
More than you know.
“I appreciate it,” Joe said. On impulse, he reached his right hand out. “Joe. Joe Hart.”
The man shook his hand. “Scott Mckenzie.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “Scott ... Mckenzie?”
