by W. Green
Buford was easy to find. He hung out with all the other cab drivers, at least for lunch, in a narrow Greek restaurant sandwiched between two old loft buildings. The roof of the one story eatery exhaled a cloud of greasy kitchen exhaust that slid down the storefront and filled the sidewalk air below with the pleasant odors of burning sheep and pigs. However, the tasty animal aromas only rankled Costas. He had lost his appetite months ago. Now such smells quickly brought him to the edge of nausea. He ducked into the joint and ordered a glass of seltzer water, drank half a glass quickly, and then quietly belched. He surveyed the dining area and spotted his man. The big black man, his arm in a shiny white plaster cast, stood out like a tethered advertising balloon.
“Mr. Buford?”
The man looked up from his meal, “Who’s askin’?”
“Name’s Art Lucas. Federal Life and Casualty.” Costas handed him a card. “I’m following up on that little bump up you had on North Lake Shore Drive a couple of weeks back.” He sat down opposite the cab driver.
Buford checked out the card. “Humph. Insurance investigator—anything in it for me?” He lifted his heavily wrapped arm as a demonstration of need.
“Just might be,” said Costas. “Things like this go that way often enough.”
“Well as you can see brother, I got busted up. Of course I’m lucky to be here at all.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough. Damn car rammed into us. Sent us into the pond. Right to the bottom. Shit. I thought I was a goner.”
“So the other car went out of control?”
Buford laughed. “Oh no. That sonabitch was in control. He wanted us to take a dive.”
“Why?”
“Dunno’ know man—say where you from? Not from here are ya?”
Costas smiled. “You have a good ear. Harlem. New York.”
“Thought as much. Anyway, the only thing I can think of is that they were after my fare.”
“Who’s that?”
“Older guy with a teen-age boy. Kid never talked. Older guy was a gabber. They were from out of town. Said he was a teacher, I think. Out east some place. Visitors like you. But I owe the kid.” Buford kept eating his lunch. His frozen arm hindered normal hand to mouth movement. His burger made it in, but not without a struggle. A spot of mayo hung on his jowl. Costas spotted it and pointed to his own cheek. Buford looked puzzled and continued eating.
Costas moved on. ‘How’s that?”
The cabbie swallowed a mouthful before answering. “Saved my life. Strongest sonagun I ever met. Didn’t look like much. Pretty boy. But jeezz he had to be Atlas to get me out. I was drown'n. Trapped underwater. But the kid swam down. Opened the damn door and got me out. I don’t know how, but he did it. All I got was this busted wing.”
“Lucky for you man—names?”
“No names. No nothing. By the time I came back to the livin’ they was gone and I woke up in the back of a meat wagon. Too bad, I owe the kid.” Buford's napkin finally caught up with the mayo.
Costas nodded—another successful intervention—a little less tension in his world—the stray mayo was a meaningless little anomaly but it had annoyed him. His stars were aligned again and he continued. “You know there’s no record of these two guys. Funny isn’t?”
“Not that funny. I don’t card ‘em on the way in. I just drive ‘em where they goin’.”
“Gotcha. But you know their destination right?”
“That I do brother—Plaza House.”
“Where did you pick them up?” Just then, Costas grimaced. He bent over slightly and groaned. The pain was intense.
Buford looked at him sympathetically. “What’s the matter with you man? You got problems?”
Costas recomposed himself. Stay professional, stay focused, he thought to himself. Ignore it. “Stomach. Something I ate. Biting me back. No big deal.” Beads of sweat welled up on his forehead.
“You sure man? You looking mighty white for a black man.”
“I’m fine. Thanks." Costas forced the words out of his mouth. They came like meat through a grinder—slowly dribbling hunks squeezing through his clenched teeth. "So what about it? Where did they flag down your hack?”
“Up north. Near the L tracks at Wilson.”
“What did these guys look like?” The pain in his gut subsided.
Ralph Buford rubbed the top of his head with his good hand. His big black mitt slowly rippled over the bumps and valleys. “Older one maybe five ten—six feet. Dark hair. Looked like late forties. Young one was a good six feet. Black hair. All slicked back. Not much muscle for a kid so strong. Good lookin’ kid though. Like a pictcha show actor. Ya know what I mean? I don’t know. Honkies. All look the same to me.” He laughed loudly and looked around the room. He looked back at Costas. “Say I didn’t mean to offend nobody.”
Costas assumed the driver was talking about white people and he jumped back in. “Don’t bother me none. Things seem pretty quiet here in Chicago. Every day is getting a bit rougher out East where I live.”
“Shit. Don’t let it fool ya. This town will blow up soon enough. Colored folk are getting’ tired climbin’ the same shit pile every day.” He shook his head and made a face. "The youngin’s startin’ to carry now. Right out in the open. People getting’ high but feelin’ real low. How ‘bout you? New York getting’ itchy?”
“Not that bad yet.”
“Well you lucky. Got yourself a good inside job.” Buford pushed out his lips and nodded slowly. “Just help a brother and get me some green—OK? I’m busted up and I have a hellava time drivin’. You try drivin' with one arm sometime. It ain't easy. Anyway, I need a rest. Send some’n my way.”
Costas stood. “Do my best Ralph. Thanks for the info.” He walked away knowing he had lied all over the man, and he felt badly about it at least until he got out onto the sidewalk.
LOG of Zak Newman
November 10, 1963: 22:58 (Day 13 of time travel)
Back again. Big gap in the log. Let me talk about this town. New Orleans—in 2028— is Energy City, USA. It’s an active, thriving international metropolis. The biggest oil reserves in the world are under the Gulf of Mexico. And the nearby bayous and backwaters provide the largest and most productive algae energy farms in the country. But in 1963, the Crescent City is just a sleepy little southern town filled with slow-walkers, slow-talkers, and slow-thinkers. Maybe I’m a bit harsh. It’s a good place to relax and take a breather.
I guess we did well in Chicago. The MAN—JFK is alive. And I guess it could be the result of our little visit. That’s exciting and frightening at the same time. Exciting to change history—hopefully for the better—frightening because MOM doesn’t want anyone messing with the past, present or future for that matter. She loves control. So now, we time travelers speculate about our fate. Are we targets? Hope not. Everyone back in our time should have a new perspective now. President John F. Kennedy—Mr. JFK—is not dead. He’s doing whatever he was intending to do before the Chicago trip. I’m not really certain what that is, but I would guess that it involves campaigning. Seems like that’s all these presidents do. Campaign to get in office—then campaign to get reelected—then if you win, help your buddies get elected—then retire after two terms and—what? Put your brother Bobby in office?
Well, whatever, it worked for these folks in 1963. They apparently liked the system however flawed it was. At least they had the ability to make a difference, or at least believe that they could make a difference. The voting system here in pre-Post Democratic America is fairly oblique—one vote means nothing in itself—a block of popular votes may mean your guy wins your state. That’s good. Then a separate group of people called electrons or electors or something like that has the final say in the whole thing. Get a majority of those guys to vote for your guy, and he wins. This is like trying to have sex wearing a full body wetsuit—“I think I had an orgasm—didn’t I? Was it good for you?” But the people must have enjoyed the process. Millions took it very seriously.
I suppose that part is better than our current system. The president here is the big boss man. Not everyone is going to like the guy, but he’s in charge and after the election, life goes on.
Although their system is different, it may be no better nor worse than the one in 2028. Even though they voted their legislators and political leaders into office, it seems like ‘the fix’ was always in. And nobody questioned the selection process for those Supreme Court Justices back in ’63. The elite handpicked them just like we now select the entire national government for the Mother Bunker suite. All in all, I think we’ve just given up any pretense in 2028. We’re a more honest, controlled flock now (are you listening MOM?). Of course nobody can exercise the right to have vote sex or even slightly, seditious or suggestive political sex talk in 2028—unless you want to have your proverbial political penis nipped off. It’s a good way to get a free trip to the nearest mind massage seminary—to get one those “rewire jobs”. I think I would rather have a hand job. But I digress.
Did I mention I am on my fourth Mimosa? I think the combination of that Jerry Lewis movie we saw a couple of days ago on top of all this rich food is getting to me. I feel like a Po’ boy. My pants are stuffed with crawfish and smoked sausage covered in mayo. Eat me. Po’boys are very rich. That is funny. Sorry digressing again.
OK. Back to business. Emma and Ethan are tucked in their beds. A.C. Currant is out like a light. I can tell by the intensity of his snores. I’d swear he’s pushing a hundred decibels. I get a sense he’s having some pretty nasty dreams lately. He’s disturbed about something. And me I am the Night Owl of N’owlins. Who? Who? Zak Who? God bless you.
I give up.
END 11-10-10
-Chapter 15-
Cite’ Masque
Currant never explained where he had gone the day of their arrival. Very secretive thought Emma. He has another agenda. A combination of her intuition and Zak’s special mental abilities convinced her that saving JFK was only part of the reason for their visit to New Orleans. Something else was going on with the good doctor, but she didn't know what, when or where. Like a rogue card shark in a typical RKO western, A.C. Currant liked to play his cards close to his chest. She fantasized about buying him one of those 10-gallon hats and a vest so he could better look the part. Next thought—Currant was so eccentric he might just wear such an outfit to publicly embarrass her—bad idea. He does that quite well without a costume, she decided.
Last night, he gave them a peek at his cards. He promised a meeting with some New Orleans players who are into the Cuban rebel scene. Kind of a Cajun version of Vallee—training rebel recruits to fight Castro on Cuban soil. He laid out the histories of these people who might be the New Orleans equivalent of Cain and his friends. In fact, A.C. was of the opinion that Cain had direct involvement with anti-Castro Cubans in addition to his mobster and government connections. The time travelers were beginning to see a pattern emerging—Cuba, anti-Castro rebels, mobsters, corrupt government officials, with JFK a target of all their frustrations and hatred. At A.C.'s suggestion, they decided on a plan to confront the New Orleans contingent of potential plotters. It began with her walking from the hotel to the nearby rebel headquarters. She had no idea how Currant knew of these people. Of course this was his turf and he seemed pretty darned confident about his sources. By now, she no longer had any doubts that Cowboy Currant had many cards up his sleeve. She only hoped no bad guys would push over the card table—call him a cheat—and shoot him.
As she walked along Canal Street, she thought about today’s big assignment. A.C. Currant had set forth a plan of attack for the young time travelers based on information that only he possessed. And from Emma’s viewpoint, it was a plan that only made sense to Currant. It involved Zak, Ethan and her in a scheme to capture the hearts and minds of some pretty strange people. Currant explained that his offbeat scheme would defuse the situation. If they approached the plotters head-on they might be in danger. For this reason, they would need to sharpen their acting skills. They were, or they were supposed to be, journalism students on leave from high school learning their future craft on the road. Such was the story, thought Emma, the same story that played out in Chicago, but this time it would be done with a flourish appropriate to the location. New Orleans in 1963 was a red-blooded human gumbo—an ethnic mixture of the Old South—whites, blacks and combinations, French-speaking, Caribbean Hispanics and Indians blended into a Catholic/voodoo belief sauce, and spiced up with hot jazz and sexual kumquats of all sizes and shapes. It was a small, but intense city, steaming with raw energy at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain—full of societal combustibles threatening to burst into flames at any moment—anti-Castro Cubans, right-wing extremists, violent mobsters, crooked politicians, and a slowly awakening population of disenfranchised blacks.
Emma thought about Currant’s scheme and smiled. He wanted them to perform in a building at 531 Lafayette, which housed the offices of Guy Banister, a private detective and retired F.B.I. Special Agent. Currant let out that Tom Quinn, the reporter, had known Banister when he was the head of the Chicago office of the F.B.I. in the mid-Fifties. The aging former cop had also been the Assistant Superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department. Apparently, Quinn’s information led Currant to focus on this man and this building in New Orleans. But Emma sensed that Currant was not giving them the complete story. His tale included the fact that Banister’s building also being used as a headquarters for anti-Castro activities. And he mentioned a person named David Ferrie. Later Zak revealed that Dr. Currant’s emotional intensity rose to boil-over status when he talked about this man Ferrie—a very important person in Currant’s world of feelings. Emma had no idea why Zak would get such an emotional read, but she trusted his take 100%. Zak was the master intuitive and A.C. was the great director. He set the wacky week into motion.
The corner of Lafayette and Camp provided the setting for the ungainly three story stone and stucco conglomeration that wore two addresses: 531 Lafayette Street and 544 Camp Street. The entry on Lafayette beckoned Emma, but Currant had told her the Camp Street side of the building formerly provided offices for a Cuban rebel organization. A lot of action for a small building, she thought. Emma walked up the stairs alone, armed only with her memorized script. By the time she reached the offices of the Banister Detective Agency, she was sweating. New Orleans, even in mid-November was hot and muggy. She eased open the door and peered into the Southern Sherlock’s headquarters. Not much, she thought—disorganized, disjointed, and dilapidated like most of the other1963 offices she had visited, but this one had an added feature—it reeked of mold, cigars, cheap perfume, and spent booze. One whiff, blindfolded, first guess, would be a saloon. On the other side of the door, a good-looking older woman greeted her with a smile.
“Hello Sweetie,” she said in the ever-present drawl that was no longer a novelty to Emma. “What can we do for you?”
“Hello,” said Emma catching her breath. She brushed down the flaring sides of the new mint green dress she had purchased just for this occasion. “I’m sorry. It’s a healthy walk up those stairs.”
“Three times a day for me, Honey. Do tell.”
Emma glanced at the little sign on the top of the woman’s desk—Delphine Roberts. “Once is enough for me Miz Roberts. My name is Emma Callan-Wright, and I am here to make an appointment with Mr. Banister.”
“On what business. If I may ask, Miss Wright?”
“Certainly,” said Emma in a rising voice. “I—I should say we received Mr. Banister’s name from an old friend of his from Chicago. Mr. Thomas Quinn. It was our pleasure to meet with Mr. Quinn who is a fine reporter for Chicago’s American as part of our educational tour of America.”
Delphine Roberts offered a side chair to Emma. She accepted the invitation and slid into it with a rustle of satin and crinoline. “I must say you are a sweet little treasure.”
Emma felt herself blushing for real. “Thank you.”
“Now who is ‘we’?”
“I’m sorry…”
“You said that ‘we’ received Mr. Banister’s name.”
“Oh, yes. We are journalism students from Springfield Heights out East. My brother Ethan. Our school mate Zak Newman. And our teacher Doctor Currant. It’s our summer break, but we are on a special tour across the country to understand the reality of the newspaper business. Mr. Quinn was most helpful in that regard.”
“Very nice,” said Roberts sweetly. “And how can we be helpful?”
“We would like to present a gift to Mr. Banister from our school. A plaque commemorating his life’s work.”
Roberts flushed. “Oh. My. That is wonderful. And he is a man so deserving.”
“That is what we thought too. Can I make an appointment? We’re leaving by the end of the week. So—do you think he possibly might have some time?”
The woman looked through a folder on the desk. After a few moments of study she spoke. “Mr. Banister is out of town until Wednesday. Could you make an appointment for Thursday at say—four?”
Emma beamed. “Oh yes. That would be fine. Will that work with Mr. Banister?”
“I’m sure he would be delighted.”
Carefully Emma pulled a cardboard-framed photo from her purse. It was one of the documents they had created before they left Mystic Heights. The original was a yearbook photo from the 1962 class of a nearby high school that they had found in a second-hand shop. After some photo work to switch out heads by Emma, who was most proficient with such equipment, the new photo showed the Twins and Zak hard at work in the high school print shop. The title note read: Girl Reporter Prepares for Her New Career in Journalism. It was autographed by all three.
