by W. Green
LOG of Zak Newman
November 1, 1963: 13:20 (Day 4 of time travel)
Now we know we have dangerous foes. Someone tried to kill the doctor and me. They didn’t succeed, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Now, we’re back at the hotel. A.C. is still shaken by the whole near-death experience. It certainly was a reality check. Neither of us was hurt badly, but the cab driver was rushed to the hospital by ambulance. His arm is probably broken, but I think he’ll be OK. Also, I think Dr. Currant is worried about the police. He’s afraid of exposure. They asked a lot of questions, but A.C. explained that I couldn’t talk (there are times when this is good), and he was so flustered, that the cops just let us go after getting our local address.
Dr. Currant is back in the water—the tub. As soon as we got back to our room, he popped down one of his little single-serving bottles of scotch, and jumped into a hot bath. I think he was still in shock. Me. I’m OK. I cleaned up, changed clothes, and I’m back in action.
So who was the mean, little man in the blue car? Our best guess is that he is a friend of Vallee—maybe somehow connected to Richard Cain. The Twins updated us on their conversations with Tom Quinn, the reporter, and we’re thinking this whole thing could extend to ‘The Outfit’ as they’re known here in Chicago—organized criminals. Organized enough, that they identified two very unassuming guys just sitting at bus stop as troublemakers—who needed to be eliminated. We must have looked like bi-generational criminologists. But I’m jumping ahead. We really don’t know anything, except that someone tried to kill us. And, of course, we know The History says that Vallee will kill JFK tomorrow—unless something happens.
I’m guessing those two guys who broke into Vallee’s apartment were cops, or some variety of Feds. But why didn’t they grab all the guns and the ammo? And why didn’t they stick around to grab Vallee? Maybe they’ve already got him. They could easily find out where he works and arrest him. But for what? Just because some mystery man, my buddy Ethan, calls the Secret Service and says Vallee is a bad guy. And the guns? This town, and this country for that matter, is an armed camp. There are guns everywhere. Today’s newspaper has a local sporting goods firm named Klein advertising war surplus rifles for less than $15. I have no idea how may exos that equates to, but it sounds pretty cheap—less than the price of one night in this hotel—rifles, handguns, probably even war surplus hand-grenades are everywhere. It’s the Wild Mid-West here in Chicago in 1963. Mobsters, crooked cops, good cops, and law-abiding citizens—they’ve all got guns.
But you can’t tell the players without a scorecard, and the only guideline we have is The History, which I’m sorry to say is woefully inadequate to describe the reality of these times. Unfortunately, it reads like a resort guidebook. Everything is clean and neat and fun. Even the bad guys in history are simple cardboard characters—easy to understand with simple motives like revenge, hatred, greed, lust for power, or that old favorite—insanity. And with few exceptions, like the World War II Nazis, the Mafia, and the money-grubbing businessmen of the late 19th century, the folks that do the dirty deeds in the official history always seem to be acting on their own. Never in a conspiracy. Never planning or cooperating together—just an assemblage of nutty people, over time doing nutty, greedy or malicious things that often lead to significant historic events. If you believe The History, everything is pretty much an accident of person, time and place. Of course, anyone with full faculties could never believe that. They know how they operate on a daily basis—constantly working together, scheming and planning, in an attempt to ahead. Is it possible to believe that this conspiracy to create change is not being done by rich and powerful people on all levels? I don’t think so. The big money boys are in secure, powerful positions, and are tied together by governmental, corporate, fraternal, and familial networks developed over decades, lifetimes and even centuries. But it makes for easy reading in The History and allows for few questions and even fewer real answers. The real truth is that the U.S. is like a cancer patient in denial. The corruption has spread throughout the system. It is never publicly recognized, because it is too horrible to even contemplate.
END 11-01-63
-Chapter 10-
The Reporter Reports
The four time travelers sat in their hotel lobby, an ornate turn-of-the-century decorative masterpiece
“Less than 22 hours remain before JFK dies,” said Emma. “Where do we stand?”
Currant looked about the grand space vacantly.
“Doctor? Are you with us?” Emma was getting impatient. Their leader seemed dazed. She suspected he was still feeling the effects of his near drowning.
A.C. Currant snapped his head back and mumbled, “Sorry—I was just thinking. Zak and I are lucky to be sitting here. Forget about saving JFK—we may need to save ourselves. We’re in an alien world. We may think we’re part of it, but we’re not. We’re just visitors. We’re not police. We’re not officials. We’re not part of this society. And if we’re eliminated, we won’t be missed. At least not by anyone in this world.”
Ethan stirred. “What do you mean? Do you want to go back? Are you afraid?”
Currant focused on his charges one by one. His voice was very quiet. “Me? No. I’m old gray goose with nothing to lose. But I fear that I have brought the three of you to a very dangerous place. You’ve got your entire lives ahead of you...”
Emma stopped his monologue. “Forget those thoughts Doctor. ‘Tomorrow is promised to no one’. Not even JFK.”
“Clint Eastwood,” said Ethan. “Right?”
“Pretty sharp brother. Absolute Power—good movie. Anyway, you get the point. We knew what we were getting into. Our father thought it important that we do this and so did we. What say you fellow crime-stoppers?” She looked at Zak and Ethan.
Zak signed. “I’m in.”
“Zak’s in. Emma’s in. I’m in,” said Ethan. “We’re all in this together Doctor.”
Currant sipped from his coffee before speaking. “But we must be careful. Obviously, we’re being watched. And we're not just dealing with a “lone nut”. This morning’s little swimming exercise means others are involved. They’re deadly serious, and they won’t tolerate any disruption of their plans.” He smiled. “I just want to bring you people back in one piece. This is dangerous business. If not for Zak, I’d still be at the bottom of the lake. Thanks Zak.” He raised his coffee cup as a toast to the young man.
Zak smiled weakly and nodded.
Emma looked at her friend and laughed. “Hey Doctor. Cut it out. You’re embarrassing the poor boy”. Then she dropped the smile. “If you ask me, I think we’re here to make our world a better place. We know that something happened to America in November 1963, which changed the future for the worse. Look around you. This world isn’t perfect, but it’s very different than ours. People here inhale the fresh air of freedom. They walk, talk and think without fear of alienating MOM. They don’t regularly rat out each other to the federal government. They seem to have high hopes for a better future. They’re not burned out, running scared, or afraid of their own shadows. They are part of a growth process. They’re players in the game of life. They have future. I’m not sure we can say that about our world in 2028.”
“Right,” said Ethan. “Maybe there can be a better future. If we only find a way to nudge the dice.”
Emma looked at Currant. He seemed to be brightening. He was always a bit strange, she thought, but never without energy. The car crash had sapped the life out of him. But that life appeared to be coming back.
“Dr. Currant...” Their eyes met, and Emma saw his concern. “Don’t worry about us. Focus on our challenge. OK?”
Currant straightened. He took his time to reply. They waited. Then he cleared his throat and spoke. “Let’s do it. We’re in this far. Let’s save JFK, and the future.”
“To the future.” Emma raised her Coke bottle.
They clicked bottles and coffee cup and proclaimed in unison—“To the future...�
�
On their way to the offices of The American, the time travelers waltzed their way through crowds of downtown shoppers and workers. They said little as they walked, and Emma’s thoughts drifted. Earlier today, when Zak and Currant were fighting for their lives, she answered a call from Tom Quinn. He told her he had important news that he was willing to share, if they would reciprocate, and tell everything that they knew. Trying to sound like a real reporter, she told him that she knew how the reporting business worked. She promised information. They set a time meet this afternoon. She looked at her watch.
“My watch has stopped. Anyone know the time?”
Zak pointed to an electronic sign hanging off the corner of a nearby bank building—‘3:14’.
“I hope Quinn is still there. Let’s hurry. We’re running late.”
They walked rapidly for another ten minutes dodging cars and people. By the time they reached the newspaper building, Currant was tired. Emma noticed he had a slight limp now. No doubt an outcome of the accident. Standing in front they waited, giving the older man time to catch his breath.
“OK. I’m good now,” said Currant.
A few minutes later, Quinn greeted them at the top of the stairs. “Saw you coming from the window. Follow me,” he said directing them to another office down the corridor. He unlocked the door. The black painted letters on the frosted glass read 'Private'.
Entering, Emma took in the space. A single room with blind-slated windows overlooking the river, it was furnished with over-stuffed black leather sofas and chairs surrounding a heavy wood coffee table. An attractive oriental carpet lay upon the travertine-tiled floor.
“Close the door,” Quinn directed. Zak closed it. “And flip the lock,” Quinn grimaced, “I don’t want any interruptions.”
Tom Quinn opened a wall cabinet. “You want a drink Dr. Currant?”
Currant looked at him quizzically. “You know who I am?”
“Two plus two,” said Quinn. “I take good notes. Drink?”
“Scotch. Johnny Walker Black. If you have it.”
“No sweat, Doc. We have everything here. This is our decompression chamber and good booze is the best medicine for overwork and underpay.” Quinn poured drinks for Currant and himself, and soft drinks for the others. Then he flopped down into the big chair in front of the window.
Emma noticed he had given himself the control position in the room with the sunlight behind him. He could clearly read their faces while their view of him, and any of his telltale facial expressions, would be limited by the glare of the window. “So who goes first?” she asked innocently.
Tom Quinn swizzled the cubes in his drink. He unzipped his Zippo and lit a Lucky. Sunlight shot through the windows highlighting the smoke swirling about his head. “You do,” he said with a restrained gruffness. “Tell me what's happening.”
Currant jumped in. “Mr. Quinn. We haven’t had the opportunity to talk before. But my students have spoken highly of you.”
Quinn laughed. “I’ll bet.”
“Anyway, I have—I should say we have been busy looking into this fellow Thomas Vallee since we have arrived. We were concerned that he might do something to back up his opinions about the president.”
“And how did you come to know his opinions, Doctor?”
Currant wiggled about the slippery leather sofa switching one leg over the other. “I’m afraid we can’t tell you that—but it came to us with the greatest authority.”
Quinn nodded. “And have you done any recreational swimming during your visit?”
Currant rolled his eyes. Speaking slowly he said: “I see you are a man who is able to connect the dots, Mr. Quinn.”
“Dot connection is my business Doc. So what about the dunking? My sources say that a cab with two passengers, who coincidently are staying at your hotel, went into the drink in Diversey Harbor this morning. And according to the driver, an unknown person forced them off the road intentionally. The cab driver and a distinguished looking man were saved by a strong, very good-looking young man. That would be you Zak?”
Zak lifted his glass in acknowledgment.
“So, I’m thinking these dots connect to more dots. Like maybe Richard Cain. Maybe JFK. Maybe your Mr. Vallee?”
“I wish I knew for sure, Mr. Quinn. I can tell you that I visited Vallee last night. And this morning, Zak and I spent some time outside his apartment. Someone was watching us too.”
“Let me guess. The guy that ran you off the road.”
Currant nodded.
Quinn set his drink carefully on a cork coaster. “Well that’s quite a tale. A fish tale with a fishy ending.” He chuckled. “So let’s get this straight. You and your students are here in Chicago to discover the city and meet the press to enlighten you about the journalism business. And—then you decide to dig into one of the biggest stories this town has ever seen because you heard somehow that Mr. Vallee doesn’t like the president’s politics. Then, you do a little poking around and you almost get killed.” The reporter sucked on his cigarette and blew out the smoke like a steam locomotive whistle. He gazed at all of them slowly, one at a time. “Is that it?”
They nodded.
“Well, I’m not buying it.”
The travelers remained quiet.
Quinn continued. I made a few calls to your hometown. Good old Springfield Heights. By the way, did you know there are dozens of Springfield towns out East. There are lots of high schools, all with student newspapers. But, nobody seems to know about any extra-curricular student travel to Chicago. Of course I couldn’t confirm your registration in the school. But I could check on Dr. Currant. Not employed as a teacher or anything else at any high school. Had someone check the local phone directories too. No Currant. No Callan-Wright. Most likely no Zak ‘Valentino’ either.” He sucked on the Lucky again and blew out his next question. “So who are you?”
This question seemed to stun the time travelers. Currant looked at the Twins and Zak and then back at Quinn. “Mr. Quinn. You may never really know who we are. It is true that I am an advisor to these charming students. We are from the East Coast. You may not be able to verify that, but it is true. But you are correct in your assumption that we are not here in Chicago to learn the journalism business.”
Quinn smiled. Emma thought to herself—you think you know something Tom Quinn, but you know nothing.
“That’s good. I never bought that line. So what are you up to?”
Currant measured his words, “We’re here because history is being made. You are part of that history. John Kennedy is coming to Chicago tomorrow, and there are forces in place that wish to remove him. We cannot tell you our sources. As a newspaperman, I’m sure you appreciate that. Just as you cannot reveal your sources. But that is why we’re here. We sought your help because you know the territory and the players. Thomas Arthur Vallee is a serious threat. We have tried to warn the Secret Service. Maybe they’re taking an interest—maybe not. But I can tell you if something is not done, you may have a front row seat for one of the worst events in the history of this country.”
“So you’re not going to tell me your sources, but you want my help. Why not just go to the police?”
Currant chuckled. “Think about it. You don’t like our story. They won’t either. They might toss us in jail. Same thing with the Federal police. Or for that matter half the cops may be dirty. This town isn’t exactly squeaky clean…”
Emma interjected. “Mr. Quinn. It’s important that you take this seriously. You’re a good reporter. I have to believe you’ve checked with your sources. Right?”
Quinn nodded. “You’re story checks out. I don’t know about this Vallee guy, but I know there is a big story here and I want it.”
“Now we’re getting someplace,” said Emma. “So what do you know?”
Quinn leaned back in his chair. “First this is strictly confidential.” He paused to read their eyes. “My sources with the Feds tell me there are four professional assassins in town armed w
ith sniper rifles. Two of these guys are now in police custody. The whereabouts of the other two are unknown.”
“What?” said Ethan. “Are you talking about Vallee?”
“No,” said Quinn. “I am not. What I’m saying is that there is a team of killers in town who intend to shoot JFK as he comes in on the Northwest Expressway. Maybe from an overpass. The FBI got a tip from one of their informants. Somebody named ‘Lee’. And they passed it on to the Secret Service here in Chicago.”
“How did they catch the two guys?” asked Ethan.
“Mostly luck. All four guys took rooms in a place up North. The landlady spotted the long guns and called the cops. The cops called the Feds, and they grabbed two of them this morning. From what I know, those two are not talking at all. And nobody has seen the other two shooters. My sources aren’t talking to me anymore. There’s a blanket over this whole thing now. And nobody I know knows anything about your buddy Vallee.”
“We can tell you all about Vallee,” said Emma.
With their almost encyclopedic knowledge of the JFK crime, they spent the next half-hour reviewing Vallee’s entire life from the beginning. Emma detailed his service in the Marines, his severe injuries leading to disability, his mental instability, his tour of duty in Japan, and the fact that he has two rifles and plenty of ammunition in his apartment. A.C. tossed in that he drove a 1962 white Ford Falcon. Emma finished with the fact that somehow he had succeeded getting a job as a printer in a warehouse building, which overlooked tomorrow’s motorcade route. JFK would drive right by his building on Jackson Boulevard. Emma spared The History’s version of events, which would make JFK a dead man as he approached that building.
Quinn listened carefully obviously enthralled with the amount of information the time travelers were providing, and then he asked one question. “And why is this Vallee, the honorably discharged Marine with two tours of duty, about to kill JFK?”
