by W. Green
Zak flashed a sign that the waiter was returning with their food. For the rest of their time at the restaurant they simply enjoyed their meals with no further mention of the “big event” Zak silently announced to all that the Monte Cristo was a better sandwich than the book.
When they arrived back at their hotel, they were greeted at the front desk by the hotelman who recognized them immediately, and who quickly commented. “Dr. Currant. You had a caller, but I told him you were out.”
Currant was startled. “Someone called for me?” Asked for me by name?”
The man behind the counter answered in a controlled voice, which also revealed some apprehension, “Well not exactly. He gave me your physical description, and talked about your young people. You know the ‘junior reporters’.” He looked over to the Twins and Zak. “So I knew it was you.”
“What did he want?”
“Of course I do not know sir. But he said he would soon be in touch with you. I hope everything is alright…”
“No problem. What did this man look like?”
The man behind the counter thought for a moment. “Square jaw. Big smile. Dark hair. Black framed glasses. Not too tall.”
A.C. looked at the Twins and Zak. He hoped his concern would not reveal itself. This was not good. “No problem. Thanks for the information,” he told the hotelman. “Goodnight.”
Few words were exchanged on the way to A.C. and Zak’s room. Once there, they played the Vallee recording several times. It was clearly a threat to embarrass JFK if nothing else. By bedtime, A.C. knew that no one had been fooled by his casual attitude. No doubt Zak picked up his nervous vibes and had told the Twins. With Zak’s ESP, it's tough to sell a convincing poker face, he thought.
LOG of Zak Newman
November 1, 1963: 6:26 (Day 4 of time travel)
Early to rise today—writing this in bed. The first light of the day is brushing up against our window. Chicago's people and machines are beginning to rustle and bump in the streets below. I can’t sleep anymore—too much excitement. On the other hand, Dr. Currant appears to be unruffled. He’s in the bed next to me sleeping like a baby—a very noisy baby—a snoring baby. But I think he had trouble falling asleep. I sense he was more disturbed than he admitted last night after he heard about the inquiring visitor. This guy knows about our hotel and our cover story. What brings him to us? Possibly he’s a mysterious friend of “Mr. Six”—or maybe Ethan’s telephone call to the Secret Service brought him out—or maybe it’s just our presence here in 1963. As much as we think we blend into the temporal background, it is just as possible, even with all our precautions and plans, we stand out like aliens from another planet. I sense people we meet have an uneasiness about us. It’s probably a feeling that doesn't come to them directly, but rather gnaws at their thought patterns like termites attacking wood, creating a mental void, and quietly saying something is strange. Those kids from out East and their professor chaperon are different— this is what I sense at times. Mr. Quinn, the reporter, for sure felt this. Of course, he is trained to detect inconsistencies. He spotted something about us that didn’t register correctly. Something in our dress, our demeanor, the way we talk. I can’t say—but Quinn’s not buying us. He has what they would call 'street smarts' in the 1960’s. And at the moment, the whispers of those thoughts may be creeping into his subconscious. Just a little checking by a trained reporter like Quinn would poke big holes in our “cub reporter” cover story. I have mentioned these vibrations to my friends. We've agreed to be careful when dealing with Quinn.
It is also possible last night’s visitor is not from this moment. He could be a time cop from 2028. I hope not. This would be much worse than someone from 1963. I don’t think we’ve done anything yet to change the course of history, but I’m no expert on time travel. Nor do I know the detection capabilities of MOM. Dr. Currant said they're able to sense changes in the electrical matrix. But these short-lived electrical field disruptions are a fleeting precursor of time tampering—not likely to provide evidence of ‘who’ and ‘where’—only indicating a ‘when’ possibility. We can only hope he is correct in his assumption. He is a genius—a little weird—but smart. So I'll assume he is right. We need not fear the future, unless we change the past. That could happen. I have the feeling—only a feeling—that Ethan’s dream of saving JFK will come true. I am good with feelings— I was built that way.
Time is not on our side however. Today is November 1, 1963. According to The History, tomorrow at 12:03 pm, John Fitzgerald Kennedy will be shot and killed by Thomas Arthur Vallee. Feelings aside, I believe also that history is a systematic amassing of the destinies of millions of people. Everyone has his destiny. Each member of our time travel team has a destiny, as does JFK. We shall all soon confront our destinies.
End 11-01-63
-Chapter 8-
The Brothers
The time travelers found a comfortable place to eat not far from their hotel. A.C. instructed Zak to walk about a hundred paces behind to make sure no one followed them. No one did. They sat in a booth clad in red vinyl and trimmed in chrome. Hot coffee steamed in heavy china mugs. Small plastic tumblers were filled with fresh pulpy orange juice. An array of egg dishes, that would bring tears to the eyes of a chicken, was spread before them on the Formica topped table. As she set down a platter of sausage and bacon, the waitress asked if they needed anything else. Sure, thought Ethan, she had to be kidding—they could never eat like this back in the future—meals that were delightfully tasty, incredibly large, and non-synthetic. The people of 1963 really enjoyed their food. The time travelers dug into the breakfast. Somewhere a radio played. Ethan's mind drifted while he ate. Bob Dylan’s nasal voice pushed out the “The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.” Ethan wondered about the answer. His quest for truth about the JFK murder had first caused him to seek answers, then to hope the answers would change his world, then to try to stop the tragedy from happening. Now, he sat almost transfixed by the words of the song—Blowin’ in the Wind. Why was one man’s death so important to him? Millions had died in scores of confrontations over the past couple of centuries. Even Jack’s own brothers Bobby and Ted evidenced little interest in playing detective after their sibling’s death. Surely many were better people than JFK. The attractive leader’s weaknesses for pretty women and the fast life had been extensively documented, even in The History. It was almost as if the controllers of the facts had decided to focus on JFK’s fondness for the flesh as a justification for his violent death. The History seemed to imply that he deserved it. “How many deaths will it take till he knows? That too many people have died?” Dylan continued to wail.
Ethan? Are you here? Emma asked. Her bright eyes danced as she tapped him on the shoulder.
He snapped out of his daze and replied, “You knock yourself out on old movies, and I get lost in old songs.”
A.C. Currant looked around as if to find the source of the music. “I always thought Dylan needed singing lessons. Good ideas—bad execution. Well let’s get down to business. Time is running out.”
Sitting next to him, Zak nodded in affirmation.
Currant dug vigorously into his omelet, and tore into a piece of hot buttered rye toast. He talked while he chewed which brought a frown to Emma’s face. “We need to break up into teams for efficiency.” He swallowed. “You two can work on the phone number. Maybe check back with your reporter friend, Quinn. And Zak and I will hang around Mr. V’s place. I have a feeling things will start popping there soon.”
Ethan smiled at Dr. Currant. “Emma and I are way ahead of you Doc. We figured out the phone number, and she already called it.”
“And…?” A.C. stopped eating and focused on Emma.
“And,” said Emma, “the number belongs to the Cook Country Sheriff’s Department. Special Investigations Unit.”
“Any idea who Vallee called?”
“No. But I did ask operator who was in charge. Richard Cain
. He’s the head of the SIU as they call it. But I didn’t ask for him.”
Ethan nodded. His sister was sharp. No point in arousing anyone’s attention. Her call could have been from anyone seeking information. “Good work Emma. You played the role of a routine caller perfectly.” Her face lit up with Ethan’s compliment. “Anyway, this is important news. Do you remember who shot our Mr. V friend?”
Zak signed quickly and Emma translated, “A sheriff.”
“Right Zak,” said Ethan. “An off-duty sheriff who just happened to be in the area. After Vallee had done the evil deed, he left his rifle on the roof. He made his exit down the back stairs of the printer building. Headed for his car parked out back. And…”
“And he showed a revolver, and was gunned down by a Cook County sheriff. His name, as every school kid knows, was John G. Milner. The man who killed JFK’s killer,” Emma rebounded.
“Right. A bit strange that Milner just happened to be in the right place at the right time to eliminate the assassin. No escape, chase and capture. No news interviews with the killer. No trial.”
Currant sipped his coffee in silence. “Hum…” he muttered. “Maybe he’s the one who spoke with Mr. V. Maybe he met with Vallee at 11:30 just like they discussed in the call. Maybe Vallee went up to the roof. But instead of unrolling his anti-Castro banner, maybe Vallee decided to kill the president. And he opened up with his M1.”
“Milner knocked off Vallee. Someone else was there. A Chicago cop right?” asked Ethan.
“It was a Chicago cop," said Emma. “He’s the man who heard Vallee’s dying words: ‘Long live Fidel’. That’s what I read in The History. That’s what he said. That's what fired up the American public. Remember.”
Ethan shook his head. “Yep. That was it. According to the book, the people demanded blood. And they got it. We crashed the beaches at seven different locations and freed Cuba. Months later the official report said Vallee was a lone nut. Not a Castro supporter. But by that time, it was too late. The Big C, his brother, and his henchmen were all killed during the invasion.”
Currant agreed. “Right. The good old U.S.A. cleaned out the Communists. Captured thousands of Russians. Sent them back to Moscow. Destroyed hidden missile installations aimed at the U.S. And Cuba became a tourist paradise. Sandy beaches, palm trees, hotels, gambling.”
Zak signed: “All because one cop heard those famous dying words from Vallee.”
“And his name is lost to history…” said Ethan.
Emma smiled and spoke softly, “Not quite my dear brother. Don’t laugh at my movie-fetish. Stanley Kowalski. Streetcar Named Desire. Marlon Brando. Vivien Leigh.”
“What?”
“Kowalski. He’s the Chicago cop that heard Vallee’s magic words.”
“Stanley Kowalski?” asked Ethan.
“Don’t know about the Stanley part. But you can bank on ‘Kowalski’. The dying words that launched a thousand ships.”
“Ain’t she something,” said Dr. Currant. “What a memory.”
"And very pretty," said Zak silently with a smile.
No one translated. Emma turned red. Ethan laughed. Currant looked bewildered.
Tom Quinn seemed pleased to get their telephone call. Ethan began to ask questions about Richard Cain, but Quinn cut him short and suggested they stop by his office for a visit. Earlier Ethan had reviewed all the Chicago newspapers—the Tribune and Sun-Times in the morning and the American and Daily News in the afternoon. He was impressed. News coverage in the Chicago papers was extensive and detailed. All four papers had covered the upcoming Kennedy visit. They identified the motorcade route and the game details. Kennedy was a Navy man so he would be an impartial guest. He planned to sit on the Army side of Soldier Field for the first half of the game, and the Air Force side for the second half. There was little mention in the papers about Cuba. Such news had died down after the October crisis in 1962. The little island, 90 miles off the coast of Florida sat quietly, now almost unnoticed by the press. Vietnam was making the news though. The U.S. backed puppet government run by the Diem brothers was losing its grip on the country. Over the past few months, headlines and news coverage spoke of Buddhist dissenters, protest marches and monks igniting themselves in flames in public places. Life in Vietnam in early November 1963 was volatile and dangerous. Of course Ethan knew from reading The History, that the public would have deaths of leaders in two countries to contemplate in tomorrow’s newspapers—JFK and the Diem brothers. The Diems however would suffer a fate similar to the little town of Peshtigo, Wisconsin in terms of historical reference. Peshtigo, a town of 1700 residents, caught fire on the same day as the Great Chicago Fire in 1871. The Wisconsin fire would later be recorded as the most deadly of any fire in the history of the United States, but the Great Chicago Fire always overshadowed the event. So it was with the Diem brothers, thought Ethan. Their deaths by assassins as part of a military coup, occurring just a few hours before the murder of JFK, fell into the cracks of history relegated to a single page in the epic history book of the Vietnam War. Had JFK stayed in Washington that day, if nothing else, to show respect for his fallen Vietnamese allies, he would have survived. But he chose to attend the football game in Chicago and he died.
The presses were just beginning to roll when they arrived. Ethan and Emma bounded up the terrazzo stairs to the newspaper’s offices. Tom Quinn was waiting. He escorted them to a conference room. They sat at a modest oak conference table that wore the visible badge of years of journalistic hard labor—dents, scratches, and cigarette burns blended into a patina of dirt and grease. It told a story of late night meetings, deadline parties, and leaking cartons of Chinese take-out. Ethan looked at Quinn. He wore a different face today—no condescending attitude this time—all-business.
“So what’s this about Richard Cain?” asked Quinn as he lit yet another cigarette. Emma winced when he accidentally blew smoke in her direction. “Sorry young lady.”
“Emma,” she said.
“Right. Emma. What’s your interest in Cain?”
“We believe he, or someone in his office is, involved with Thomas Arthur Vallee,” she uttered quickly.
“Ah. Mr. Vallee again,” muttered Quinn. He got up and walked around the small room huffing and puffing like a steam train. “You seem fixated on that man. How does this involve him?”
“Vallee was talking with Cain or someone from his office yesterday about something which may happen tomorrow," said Ethan. “They talked about something called the ‘big event’. Remember—Vallee was bad-mouthing President Kennedy. Tomorrow Kennedy is arriving in Chicago and…”
“And what?” asked Quinn. He stopped pacing and sat down across from the Twins.
“And we—we want to know if this fellow Cain has any issues that might concern the safety of the president,” said Emma.
Quinn’s face reddened. “You should talk the Secret Service. I’m just a reporter.”
“We tried,” she said. “We called them. But we can’t get too involved.” She stumbled. “We’re—after all we’re just some concerned kids. But you are a distinguished reporter for this fine newspaper. You would certainly be able to get their attention.”
Quinn smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere Emma. Now you're learning the business.” He stubbed out his cigarette into a white ceramic ashtray, which had a hand-painted hula dancer growing out the back of it.
“Nice dish,” said Ethan almost exposing his inability to say the name of a common 1963 object.
“What? Oh yeah. She’s a cutie. Brought her back from the Pacific. She’s a survivor.” He laughed. “So you want to know about Richard Cain? Well I can tell you a few things. Cain was a Chicago cop for a number of years. I’ve met him. Our most notable reporter Jack Montana uses him as a reliable source. He helped put a crooked judge in jail.”
“Sounds like he’s ok then,” said Ethan.
Quinn grimaced. “Well not quite. He did get a fair amount of good publicity when that happened, and he move
d up in rank on the force. But—he was a bit ‘hinky’ in his police work. Lot’s of accusations that he used his office improperly. People said he stole money. Said he roughed-up a few people.”
“Sounds like a cop to me,” said Ethan.
“You’ve got a point. Anyway…” Quinn continued his chain smoking. “Anyway. Things got a little hot for him. He left the force after doing some outside work for a politician here in town. He got caught installing some illegal cameras to spy on one of Daley’s people—not good. They made him resign from the force and he went private.”
“Private detective?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know. I guess so. I heard he was doing work for the Feds. Then I heard he went to Mexico. Then, he was deported from Mexico.”
“Busy guy,” said Ethan.
“You might say that. As I said, he’s at least a little ‘hinky’.”
“What’s ‘hinky’?” asked Emma.
“You know. Not Kosher. A little bent.”
“Bent like crooked?” she asked.
“Possibly. There are rumors that he’s tight with the ‘boys’—the ‘Outfit’.” Quinn looked at Emma who was obviously tripping on his words. “Mobsters. Organized criminals. Now I’m not saying that’s the case. Cuz’ that wouldn’t be smart for one thing. But I’ve heard rumors. Anyway, now he’s legit again. He got that job with the State’s Attorney office as an investigator. And now he’s the boss man with Ogilvie.”
“Who’s Ogilvie?”
“He is—my lady—the sheriff in this town. And Cain is his right hand man.”
“Is Ogilvie a little ‘hinky’?” asked Ethan.
Quinn laughed lightly. “Far be it from me to know about him. He’s a lawyer. Drove a tank in my war. Worked in the organized crime division of the Attorney General. He's on his way up my friends. And Cain is his buddy. If I were you, I would be careful not to make him nervous.”
