by W. Green
A.C. cupped his hand over his listening ear. He heard the sound of a phone ringing then a voice that was low, firm and modulated. “Who’s this?”
“Six,” replied Vallee. “Something happened.”
“Go on.”
“I had a visit tonight from a guy named Reynard who says he’s from the Veteran’s Administration. He was asking a lot of questions. Checkin’ up on my disability pay. So he says.”
“Doesn’t sound right,” the voice became more intense. “Did you get a phone number, address, whatever?”
Vallee stumbled. “I got a card. Wait. A minute.” Currant could hear him digging in his pocket.“The card just has his name: John Reynard. Veteran’s Administration. No address. No phone. But when he left, he said I was OK”
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing much. He was in and out pretty quick. But he asked about weapons. I didn’t tell him anything. I think he thought I might commit suicide or something.”
“Did he say he was coming back?”
“No. I don’t think he will.”
“Alright. You were smart to call. This guy sounds bogus. But, we’ll check it out. If you see him again call me and keep him busy for a while. Tell him you have to call your landlord and then just say: ‘I put the rent check in the mail’ and hang up. You detain him and I’ll send someone over. We'll take care of it.”
“Got it.”
“You ready for the ‘big even’t?”
Vallee stammered and he emitted his little nervous humming sound. “Ready.”
“Make sure you make that purchase we talked about before we meet.”
“Right. 300. There’s a Sears store just down the street. I’ll pick them up on my way in. We’re meeting at 11:30 Saturday—right?”
“In the parking lot behind the building. Don’t come early. Don’t come late. 11:30. I’ll have the banner for you. It’s a big one, but you can handle it. 'JFK FREE CUBA'. Big, bold letters. You like that. Correct?”
“I do,” said Vallee.
“You’re going to be part of history my friend. Things are going to be put on the right track once we embarrass that Commie-lover. Correct?”
“I’ll do my part. It’s time. I’ll see you then.”
“Good. Remember. Call me if you see that Reynard character again.”
There was a click that ended the call. Currant listened for few more minutes, but heard nothing of interest. In the background, Vallee clicked on the television—Ozzie and Harriet time. Pots and pan sounds—Vallee was making dinner. A.C. decided to give it up. He focused again on the diner. The place was filled with workers ending their day. The counterman shouted orders to the grille man. Burgers sizzled. The air was filled with the tantalizing aroma of fresh cut French fries bubbling in animal fat. The milk shake beaters buzzed in the background. A.C. was tempted to indulge himself with an authentic 60’s fast-food meal, but decided instead to minimize his presence. He got up and set the empty mug on the counter.
The counterman glanced at him. “Thanks. Come again.”
Currant gave him a nod, but it went unnoticed.
LOG of Zak Newman
October 31, 1963: 18:07 (Day 3 of time travel)
We're waiting for A.C. Currant to return from his meeting with the assassin, Thomas Arthur Vallee. I like to write Vallee’s name just like The History does it—John Wilkes Booth, James Earl Ray, Mark David Chapman (long live John Lennon), Louis Madman Mortay. This last fellow really didn’t have the middle name 'Madman' but it was a name given to him by the public. Madman Mortay—another “lone nut”—put the frosting on the cake of the ‘Great Fiasco’—the 2016 presidential election, by rolling an Army-issue hand grenade between the feet of the newly elected President Swindell as he walked along the Inaugural path of victory in Washington. About two weeks later, Swindell died footless and fanny free. With him, died another part of America. This act, on top of years of documented vote fraud starting in 2000 and 2004, and vast voter apathy effectively ended the national election process in America. The seat of government was quickly moved to the Groom Lake area of Nevada. A whole new isolated, hardened Capitol complex arose, or should I say, sunk into grounds surrounding the former Area 51. Except for certain diplomatic meetings held in one of the underground structures of Denver’s airport, all the executive functions of the national government are now maintained in what has become known as the ‘Mother Bunker’. There is no longer a single chief executive, but rather a committee of directors, selected from the ‘best and brightest’ of corporate and financial entities in the country. And every six years, they in turn, select an executive team of three people to run things. Each one is in charge of a branch of the government—executive, legislative, and judicial. Of course the judges still exist, as do the senators and congress people, but they have no real power and are of little consequence. These shameless shills delight in the close proximity of “New Washington”, as it’s called, to Las Vegas—devouring the Sin Capital’s non-stop gambling, sex, and corruption. Everything has been simplified. The smoke and mirrors of the old system have been removed. There are few citizens who find fault with this hybrid corporate-socialist-totalitarian system. The weak and poor survive. The rich thrive. And the power-hungry enjoy omnipotence. Almost everyone agrees that the old system wasn’t working—or as some cynics would say, the reality of the old system became too obvious and that fiction could not be maintained. Whatever. In a way, many look upon Madman Mortay as some kind of accidental hero for putting an end to the painful pretense. But happily, local politics still exist and the activities of those fools provide great amusement for all. What the heck—some are even honest and hard working. So I would say, on the whole, that democracy, on the local level, still exists.
Chicago in 1963—Mayor Daley and local politics are alive and well. He controls the City Council of Chicago like a great Machiavellian maestro, making beautiful political music for the dancing pleasure of the good people of the City of Chicago. In that sense, nothing has changed in the past 65 years. But maybe something will change if we can alter events in the Windy City. Tonight, our little troika—Emma, Ethan and I await the Currant news report. Hopefully he has found something that can help us turn the tide of events and save JFK.
END 10-31-63
-Chapter 7-
Friend or Foe
At this time of the day, the City Room of Chicago’s American was a dark, dense forest of round tree-like columns supporting a concrete canopy above. A single desk lamp illuminated a corner of this petrified forest casting its harsh yellow light upon the pockmarked, bristled face of Tom Quinn. He sat silently, alone, staring at his typewriter. A cup of old coffee stood idle on his desk, and a half-smoked cigarette smoldered lazily in a green glass ashtray. The presses were quiet now. He was thinking about his day—he covered a police press conference about slowing the growing rate of homicide—he did a phone follow-up story on the gallows that stand ready, should the 1920’s escaped cop-killer, Terrible Tommy O’Connor ever be recaptured—he wrote a quick update on JFK’s upcoming football game visit and motorcade through the city—and he handled a half-dozen other tasks which he neither remembered or cared about. He checked his watch: 7:12. He glanced at the photo of his wife and two kids in front of him. He knew his kids wanted him home to see their Halloween costumes. It was time to type “30” on the blank sheet in his typewriter and end his workday, his habit since his days as a cub reporter at the Daily News. He leaned back in his chair and used his thumbs to stretch out and pop his suspenders. “Enough,” he said softly to himself. He tossed his pencil down, punched in the final characters on his Remington, snuffed out his cigarette, and switched off his desk lamp. It was a “30” he thought to himself—the end of a long day. He’d get a beer, burger and fries at the spoon down the street and head home. Chicago could live without him until tomorrow.
But as he arose, his thoughts drifted to the three students who had visited him earlier. He dumped back down into the chair, flipped
on the light again, and popped a Lucky into his mouth—lighting it, dragging deep, and exhaling the smoke—he created cloud of questions. Who were these kids really? His gut told him something was fishy about them—somehow strange—the good-looking kid who couldn’t talk, the football player with enormous feet who didn’t really seem to understand the game, and his sister the tall beatnik gal. He remembered her feet also. They were too big. She should have been a size six. Thinking back, she had to be a ten at least. He wondered about their feet, and he wondered about their comment regarding this guy Vallee—Thomas Arthur Vallee. Like he was some kind of playwright. He picked up the phone, and dialed a number by memory. It took a couple of drags from his cigarette before he was connected.
“Detective Kowalski.”
“Jack. This is Tom Quinn. How’s it hanging?”
“Ready for action Tom. As always. In the holster—but I’m ready to draw my weapon whenever necessary.”
Quinn chuckled. “I’ll warn all the girls here.” He heard a laugh-cough on the other end. “Anyway. I want to bounce something off of you. We had some kids come in here today. In town from somewhere out East so they say. Cub reporters for their school newspaper.”
“Le' me guess. They wanted the big time reporter Tom Quinn to show 'em the ropes.”
“Maybe, but something bugged me after they left. They were asking about a guy named Thomas Vallee. They called him ‘Thomas Arthur Vallee’. Said a teacher friend of theirs had talked with this Vallee and he had some bad things to say about the president.”
“Well that’s no crime Tom. For Cri’ sakes, people are always blowin' off steam.”
“Right. Right. But they also said they had called the Secret Service. I guess to warn them about this guy.”
“Secret Service?”
“Yeah. To me that’s weird. I don’t even talk to them.” Quinn inhaled again. Smoke billowed out of his mouth as he continued. “You know JFK is coming into town on Saturday…”
“We know. There’s a buzz in the department.”
“Anything outside the norm?”
“Well. Strange that you should bring it up.” He paused.
“Jack?”
“I’m here. Just thinkin’... I’ll tell you this. Something is going on.”
“What?”
“Can’t say just yet, but I'd say something is buggin' somebody. We had a briefing today. Big push about the safety of the president. Vigilance. No B.S. Do your job. Et-cet-ra. I dunno, but somehow this time is different than before. Much more heat.”
“Is that it?” asked Quinn.
“That’s all I can say. You know the Secret Service—they want to run everything. They want us to stay out of the way. Call me back tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have something else. Say, what else about these kid reporters?”
“They said they were staying at the Plaza House.”
“Right. Anything else?”
Quinn slid his chair closer in to his desk. He thought for a moment. “Big feet.”
“What?”
“Never mind Jack. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and starred at it blankly. The little hairs on the back of his neck perked up. Something's up, he thought. He was energized. The burger could wait. He searched the drawer of his desk and pulled out a yellowed dog-eared card. He verified it—Special Agent Carl Smith. F.B.I. Chicago. He dialed the number. It was late. He doubted Smith would answer, but he did on the second ring.
“Carl—Tom Quinn over at the American.”
“Busy now Tom.”
“Busy? It’s after 7. I didn’t think you Feds worked at night.”
“Just spending your tax dollars my friend. What’s up?”
Quinn related the cub reporter story again and Smith, on the other end, grunted in acknowledgment at each segment of the tale. Quinn could tell he was interested.
“What about it Carl? Anything going on with this visit? Anything you can tell me?” Smith was silent. Quinn waited.
“Tell you what. Buy me dinner at that burger joint by you and we’ll talk. Fifteen minutes?”
“You got it. See you there. It’ll be a quick one. Got to see my kids dressed up for Halloween.” Quinn hung up. There's shit in the air. I can smell it.
After his visit with the assassin, A.C. Currant called the hotel and left message for his young friends to meet him at a nearby restaurant located on the Chicago River. Currant sat near a window with a water view. He sipped his scotch-rocks letting the chemicals do their work to relieve the built-up tension of the day. It’s not often one gets to interview a presidential assassin particularly before the deed is done. He watched a bright red fireboat bearing the name “Joseph Medill” as it cut through green waters on its way to its berth upriver. Currant remembered other riverboats he had watched for hours at a time, as a youth in New Orleans. He thought about the opportunity to return to his childhood home in Louisiana. He had to do it. He had to go home and make things right. There might never be another chance. His musings were disrupted when the Twins, Zak and the waiter all appeared before him. The other time travelers quickly sat down and when the waiter left, they unleashed their questions.
“So what happened? You met him. Was he frightening?” asked Emma excitedly.
A.C. tilted his glass again savoring the historical moment before answering. He smiled. “Well, my little chickadees, I have met one of the most infamous men of the Twentieth century.”
“And…” said Ethan.
Current screwed up his face. “And, I must say it was a disappointment. Mr. Vallee appears to be a very nice young man. A bit disturbed possibly, but all and all, I think he was more frightened of me than I was of him.”
“Was he threatening?” asked Emma.
Just then the waiter returned. They placed their orders. Emma ordered for Zak going through a sign language translation. The old waiter was patient while the silent decision-process transpired. She directed him to bring Zak a Monte Cristo sandwich. When the man left, Emma told the group that this would be a Zak first. He had no idea what it was, but he liked the book so he thought he might like the sandwich. Zak smiled broadly at Emma’s disclosure, and they all had a good laugh.
Currant dived into the conversation again. “Threats?” he paused. “No, there was no mention of JFK. There were no threats. He was mostly concerned about keeping his disability pay.”
“Did you try to draw him out?” asked Ethan.
“You bet. I even asked him if he had a gun at home. He was very cool about it. I would guess there are guns in the apartment. He was upset while I was there. Maybe even to the point of tears as far as I could tell. But to be honest, he didn’t appear dangerous.”
“Programmed assassin?” asked Zak hand gesturing below table height to avoid drawing the attention of the nearby patrons. Emma tossed the question to Currant.
“Who knows? That might explain his attitude. But somehow I actually took a liking to the young man. Maybe he was a bit pitiful, but he was not what I expected.”
“Great,” said Ethan. “Less than 48 hours to go, and we’re taking sides with the designated killer. Are you saying there was nothing suspicious going on?”
“Lower your voice please…” cautioned Currant as he looked around the restaurant. No one appeared to be paying attention. “I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact, I recorded a phone call he made to someone not five minutes after my departure. I’ll play it for you at the hotel. It’s interesting. Our friend was really concerned about me. And whomever he contacted knew him as ‘Six’.”
“That’s something big, Doctor,” said Emma. “Sounds like a spy code or something.”
“I thought so too. And the party on the other side talked to our friend about the ‘big event’ that would happen on Saturday. He also said something about giving Vallee a banner.”
“Banner? There’s nothing about a banner in The History,” said Emma.
“I think they are planning to hang a banner somewhere that says ‘JFK FREE CUBA
’. Maybe on a bridge over the expressway when he passes. Or maybe from a building window. I don’t know. They didn’t say. But Mr. X is going to give it to Mr. V. on Saturday morning.
“Hey, this may not be a giant conspiracy, but two people are plotting something. Sounds like they're going to show up JFK,” said Ethan. “Definitely a conspiracy. Nothing like this in The History. They say he was simply a crazed murderer.” Ethan leaned into the table and quietly posed his next question to Currant. “Who's the guy on the other end?”
“I don’t know. His name never came up. He never hinted as to his position or person. The only thing I know is that they are planning to meet Saturday at 11:30 in the morning. In the parking lot. Behind the building. That’s where Vallee was shot to death according to The History. Also, he is supposed to bring ‘300’ of something on the day when the ‘big event’ will be taking place.”
Emma spurted, “We know about the ‘big event’. We have seen the ‘big event’. We must stop it.”
Currant again cautioned them to stay calm. “I have his phone number on the recording. It’s very clear. We just have to count the clicks.”
“Did you call?”
“Not yet. We must be careful,” he said in a soft voice. “The man on Vallee’s phone said he was going ‘check me out’. If somehow he identifies me, I’m afraid we may all be in danger.” He took a big drink of his scotch. “Dangerous people. Killers. We're not just correcting history now. We may be caught in the middle of a conspiracy to kill the most important man in the United States.”
