Sparky and the King

By Dan Baldwin

Sparky and the King takes readers back to 1960. Fidel Castro has just taken over Cuba, Jack Kennedy is in the White House, and Elvis Presley is preparing a Louisiana Hayride comeback concert now that he’s out of the Army. Enter Jack Ruby, owner of the Carousel Club in Dallas. Ruby is being sent on a secret mission by the mob to stop the local Klan in Shreveport, Louisiana, and their hired killer, from assassinating Presley, who they perceive as a threat, not only to their families, but to the entire nation. Ruby’s real challenge, however, is finding a way to make it back to Dallas alive once his mission is accomplished.

Sparky and the King is full of sleazy, but memorable characters, as it takes readers back to a not-so-nice time in our nation’s past when not everyone was treated equally. It also offers some plausible scenarios about the real Jack Ruby, a man who even now, some forty years after his death, remains an enigma. Sparky and the King is a great read for Elvis fans, history buffs, and those who like a good crime story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Baldwin
• Release date: Nov 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311177308

Dan Baldwin

Dan Baldwin is the author of westerns, mysteries, thrillers, short story collections and books on the paranormal. He is the winner of numerous local, regional, and national awards for writing and directing film and video projects. He earned an Honorable Mention from the Society of Southwestern Authors writing competition for his short story Flat Busted and  a Finalist designation from the National Indie Excellence Awards for Trapp Canyon and Caldera III – A Man of Blood. Baldwin received a Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Sparky and the King. Bock’s Canyon earned the Winner designation in the 2017 Best Book Awards. Baldwin’s paranormal works are The Practical Pendulum – A Swinging Guide, Find Me as told to Dan Baldwin, They Are Not Yet Lost and How Find Me Lost Me – A Betrayal of Trust Told by the Psychic Who Didn’t See It Coming. They Are Not Yet Lost earned the Winner designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition. How Find Me Lost Me won the Winner designation in the Best Book Awards 2017 competition and the Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition.

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SPARKY and the KING

The Smashwords Edition

Dan Baldwin

Copyright © 2014 Dan Baldwin

A Four Knights Publication

All rights reserved.

Smashswords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you want to share it. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Sparky and the King takes readers back to 1960. Fidel Castro has just taken over Cuba, Jack Kennedy is in the White House, and Elvis Presley is preparing a Louisiana Hayride comeback concert now that he’s out of the Army. Enter Jack Ruby, owner of the Carousel Club in Dallas. Ruby is being sent on a secret mission by the mob to stop the local Klan in Shreveport, Louisiana, and their hired killer, from assassinating Presley, who they perceive as a threat, not only to their families, but to the entire nation. Ruby’s real challenge, however, is finding a way to make it back to Dallas alive once his mission is accomplished.

Sparky and the King is full of sleazy, but memorable characters, as it takes readers back to a not-so-nice time in our nation’s past when not everyone was treated equally. It also offers some plausible scenarios about the real Jack Ruby, a man who even now, some forty years after his death, remains an enigma.

Sparky and the King is a great read for Elvis fans, history buffs, and those who like a good crime story.

–Marina Martindale, author of The Deception

Elvis Presley. Jack Ruby. The Civil Rights movement. The KKK. Organized crime. Good Old Boys. Strippers. Hit men. Castro. The FBI. The CIA. Soul food. The birth of Rock and Roll. It all comes together in Shreveport, Louisiana, during the summer of 1960. In an amazing blend of fact and fiction, writer Dan Baldwin thoroughly captures the mood of the times as the Deep South struggles with the beginnings of the social revolutions that would dominate and define the most volatile and historically significant decade of the 20th Century.

Sparky and the King is an intricate story of favors owed and collected, promises made and betrayed, and risks/rewards weighed in terms of self preservation. The story is fast-paced and action-packed as it races toward an it's now or never conclusion....

Gus Wales

Advertising Executive

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Cover art by Dave Ivey

Formatted by Debora Lewis arenapublishing.org

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This work could not have been completed without the help and support of Mary Baldwin, Marina Martindale, Judy Slack, Harvey Stanbrough, Hugh Starkey, and Gus Wales whose hard work, comments and criticism were invaluable.

Dave Ivey’s cover illustration is another outstanding work from an extremely talented fine artist.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Fer Chrissakes, Jack, you’re getting blood on the customers!

Jack Ruby’s grasp on the drunk’s collar tightened as his target struggled to get off the carpeted floor of the night club. The victim’s heels kicked and slipped and he reached back to support himself for the inevitable next blow. Jack, straddling his prey, struck his customer once more in the face, letting go of his grip at the same time. The back of the guy’s head hit the floor with the sound of a watermelon striking pavement. Jack backed away and started to straighten his hair, stopping in mid-motion because of the blood on his hands.

Harwood, a dark-haired young man just slightly wider than his thin black tie tugged on his boss’s jacket and eased him back toward the stage. The stripper a few feet above and behind them had stopped her gyrations. The small band had stopped playing. The customers had stopped drinking and were gawking at the incident. Why’d you hit him in front of the customers, Jack?

Jack sneered. To show the son of a bitch Jews have guts.

The stripper on stage, Jaylene Joy, backed away from the corner of the stage and raised her gown carefully to avoid the blood spots that had splattered her forward dancing area. She shook her head and snorted at the condition of the man who was gaining an unwanted and intimate knowledge of the spilled beer and cigarette butts littering the floor. She stepped past the emcee, who did his own eclectic dance to the microphone.

He grinned, waved his arms and imitated a circus clown clapping his hands. All part of the show folks, all part of the show. He snapped his fingers toward the bartender and the room went dark except for the stage. He snapped again and the five-piece band broke into an ill-rehearsed version of Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, a Top 40 hit from a year or so back.

Jaylene backed through the curtains as Jack wiped the blood off his brass knuckles. A man and a woman at a nearby table stood up and backed away. Two men at another table eased their chairs back, but did not get up. The smiles on their faces showed anticipation of more of the show.

The man with the bloody face turned over and grabbed the wide center pole that supported his table. He tried to pull himself up, but Jack kicked him in the butt, the grabbed him by the belt and dragged him to the front door. Harwood tried to help, but Jack just shoved him aside.

The drummer crafted a five second roll on his snare and finished with a rim shot. As the crowd looked from Jack to the stage, the emcee grinned more broadly. Like I said, folks, it’s all part of the show at Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club. And as a special welcome and a friendly hello from the management of Dallas’ premier burlesque club, one shot of whatever you’re having is on the house!

Jack cursed beneath at the cheers of the audience. They were mostly working folk, hack lawyers, bored salesmen and a few regulars. All were happy to ignore the violence for a shot of Jack’s cheap booze. They would notice him only briefly, if at all, as he dragged his half-conscious victim across the floor. The regulars smiled and shook their heads as if seeing a repeat performance of an earlier event. The way most of the others were either shouting drink orders or ogling Jaylene as she sashayed back onto the stage showed they didn’t give a rat’s ass about Jack’s victim.

Harwood moved behind the bar to help with the sudden influx of orders. The band kicked in with a bouncy tune and Jaylene, even more bouncy, stepped back into her spotlight.

The poor dumb sap in Jack’s grasp had fallen prey to his own vanity and had made two mistakes. His first was an attempt to show off by buying one of the B-Girls a couple of bottles of exorbitantly priced cheap champagne. His second was getting drunk. His drinking partner, Raynelle, didn’t, and that only made him drink harder to prove that he was a drinkin’ man. He never saw her dumping most of her booze into the white towel covering the ice bucket containing each bottle. Raynelle was a pro. She didn’t get drunk because she didn’t drink heavily with the customers.

Jack knew the guy, a loser named Griffen. His application for work had been shot down a few years earlier by the Dallas Police Department, an organization not known for discriminating recruitment policies. Since half the cops in Dallas hung out at the Carousel, the bum felt he was due special privileges as a brother in arms. Griffen worked as a night watchman at some currently-unwatched building down the street. Only a few cops considered him a brother in arms, and then only when he was drunk enough to buy a round or two.

Griffen pushed his luck when he pushed Raynelle for a little action. When his voice had drawn attention from Jaylene’s performance, Jack had stepped in. His manicured fingers dug into Griffen’s shoulder. He spoke quietly, but his eyes were those of a bird of prey. Why don’t you go on home and pile up some Zs? I’ll call you a cab.

Raynelle backed up in her chair.

Jack was short and appeared to be pudgy, a misleading image. He worked out regularly at an athletic club and was far stronger than he looked–far meaner, too.

The drunk night watchman pointed his index finger at Raynelle. This bitch of yours is soaking me, Ruby.

Sir, we do not have bitches and we do not soak our clientele. Jack’s jaw tightened. Bitch got caught soaking another sucker. She’s history.

Three bottles of champagne I bought her.

We appreciate your patronage.

An’ she don’t come around.

The Carousel is a class act, Sir. Nobody ‘comes around.’

Class my ass. He giggled and straightened out his face. I know all about you and your damn kosher nostra, Ruby. You’d sell out your mamma for a couple of bucks. He stuck out his jaw. The drunk meant it as a challenge. Jack saw it as an opportunity.

If Griffen had really known his host he would have known about the man’s temper. Raynelle backed farther away and by the time she stood up Jack was using his brass knuckles to relocate Griffen’s nose. Jack was powerful and fast, and the fight, such as it was, never left the table until he dragged away the instigator of the brawl. That had been less than a minute earlier and now the guy was halfway out the door.

Jack kicked him in the butt and the man crawled into the stairwell. Jack kicked again and Griffen rolled down to the first floor. As Jack followed him he smelled the iron-rich blood on his fists. It mingled with the aromas from the first floor delicatessen. He took a deep breath and licked his lips. All his senses were active and alive.

Griffen’s roll down the stairs had created a few new cuts and scrapes. Blood from his head wounds dripped on the concrete sidewalk as he crawled onto Commerce Street and gazed at the lights from the fashionable Hotel Adolphus across the street. Jack often said being so close to a Dallas landmark gave his club class. No one was on the street. Only a few cars were moving and they were a couple of blocks away. No more, Ruby... please.

Kosher Nostra, eh? Jack bent over and punched the man in the mouth. Maybe when you get your new teeth I’ll take you on as a comic.

No. Jack, I won’t–

Jack helped him to his feet. Know what a punch line is, prick? Jack rammed his fist into Griffen’s gut, dropping him again. The man rolled over and puked Jack’s cheap booze, then followed it with a blood chaser. He got up on all fours only to be dropped again by a powerful kick to the kidneys. Jack put his foot on the man’s neck, rubbing his face in his own blood and vomit.

Griffen looked up Commerce Street and the shredded flesh that had been his lips formed a half-smile as a Dallas PD patrol car came around the corner. The vehicle slowed and stopped in front of the Carousel. Two policemen stepped out.

The driver spoke with a broad grin on his face. Got a little trouble there, Jack?

Nothing I can’t handle.

Well, handle it inside, okay?

The other cop grinned and scratched his crotch. He spit on the sidewalk and had to wipe the spittle off his jaw. He moved next to his partner and stared at the man on the ground. Is he anybody?

Jack shook his head. The man struggling to get up wasn’t a cop, an agent, an ex-cop, a city or county official or a well-known businessman. Griffen. You probably heard of him. A wannabe cop.

Griffen pushed himself into a sitting position and pointed weakly in Ruby’s direction. That son of a bitch beat me! For no goddam reason!

The driver looked at the bleeding man and shook his head. Shut up. He turned to Jack. No reason?

The prick was hassling Raynelle.

Both policemen squatted down for a closer look at Griffen.

Griffen struggled to maintain his balance. He looked at the cops with half-crossed eyes. You bastards gonna do something about this!

Griffen tried to get up, but one of the cops straightened one finger and pushed him back. He looked at his partner with mock seriousness. What do you think?

Seems there might have been a crime committed hereabouts.

Think so?

Yeah. He rubbed the toe of his shoe in the blood. Seems like some kind’a violence.

Griffen tried to smile. Bust that Jewboy.

The tall cop shook his head. We’d better investigate, eh?

Yes, Sir. An investigation is certainly called for. He chuckled.

They stood up. The younger cop helped Griffen off the concrete. The driver turned to Jack. My partner thinks there might have been a crime around here somewhere, Jack. We gotta’ take this man in for questioning. I’d say about 24 hours in the tank ought to do it.

Griffen spit blood. You sons’a bitches can’t do that!

Probably 48 hours, the cop said.

Jack was breathing heavily, more from rage than from the fight. Yeah, sure. He wiped the blood off his hands with a handkerchief and ran his fingers through his thinning hair, then straightened his tie and shook his shoulders. Drop in after your shift. I’ll tell Raynelle you’re coming.

Nah, the old ball and chain–

Is in Oak Cliff. Raynelle’s in there. Jack jerked one thumb over his shoulder, then grinned and patted the cop on his shoulder.

The cops shoved Griffen into the back of the patrol car and drove off.

Jack looked up and down Commerce Street. Twelve joints in six blocks. No wonder I get the dregs. He ran his fingers through his hair again and glanced at Abe Weinstein’s Colony Club, his number one competitor. Son of a bitch. Two couples stepped out. They were dressed better than anyone in the Carousel. They’re just as drunk, though. He smiled. They smiled back until they saw the mess on the sidewalk and the blood smears on his hands. The men hustled their women across the street to the Adolphus.

Jack turned back to his club. A backlit sign advertised Carousel Burlesque and another promoted the dancers for the evening: Jaylene Joy, Cathy Colt and her .45s, and Kitten Kaboodle. The door was covered with black and white photos of his stars and some of the other girls, visual treasures available for viewing for only a measly two-dollar cover. Winded from the fight, as he climbed the stairs he used the banister mounted on the left wall. Jack paused a second at the door to straighten his hair again and stepped inside. He breathed it all in: stale cigarettes, cheap booze, and cheaper perfume. The band was loud. The crowd was appreciative and rowdy. Booze was flowing and all was well within the kingdom.

The Carousel Club was like a barn with tables and a stage about the size of a boxing ring. A gold curtain matched the color of the horseshoe-shaped bar. The focal point, other than the stage, was a 3-D painting of a golden stallion. Jack told people that the piece of art alone set his club above the other clubs on Commerce Street. He had hounded the artist until the poor man got the painting exactly right. I saw this horse rearing up like it owned the world down there in Cuba in the Montmarte Casino, he had bragged. The painting turned a joint into a club. Forget the floor, sticky with booze and sometimes blood. Forget the occasional smell of burnt pizza or backed-up toilet. Jack had a horse in his club. He had class. As he stepped onto the thick red carpet a couple of young sailors waved him over. They had their own bottle and were drinking from the club’s overpriced set ups: some Cokes, glasses and a small bucket of ice.

Jack!

"Jonesy… from Waco, right?

Yeah, I want you to meet my buddy, Hebert from New Orleans.

Hebert punched his friend in the arm, a friendly gesture. That’s Ay-Bear, not hee-bert, Mr. Ruby. Glad to meet you. His eyes were glassy and his words slurred.

Just right for spending a few more bucks, Jack thought. He nodded at the young man, but his attention was focused on the stage. The emcee was revving up the audience for Kitten Kaboodle.

The other sailor spoke up, his words also slurred. Treat him right, Jack. His dad’s a sheriff or something over in them swamps.

Jack turned his attention back to the sailors, smiling broadly at Hebert. Louisiana sheriffs were kings. Proud to have you boys in the Carousel, damn proud. I’m sending over a bottle of champagne, on the house. The good stuff, too.

You’re aces, Jack, but, uh... I was wondering… Hebert here ain’t dipped his wick yet... ever.

Hebert’s face flushed red with anger, not embarrassment. Shut up! I have too.

His friend hiccupped and spoke in a near-whisper, The only sex this kid’s ever had was in the bathroom with the bra ads in one of his mama’s magazines.

Jack said, See what I can do. He patted them on the back and made a beeline for the hallway to his office.

The sailors laughed like kids who had just gotten a direct phone call from Santa Claus. They waved toward the bar for more drinks. Jonesy shouted, Champagne, my good man, champagne.

Raynelle was waiting outside the door to Jack’s office. Jack, I’m sorry about that. I thought I had him under control.

Pack up, Raynelle. You’re fired.

No! Jack, I–

Jack put his hand just below her throat and shoved her against the wall. Out!

She turned and ran to the dressing room. He entered his office and sat on the edge of his metal desk. A few minutes later Cathy Colt stuck her head in the door.

What the hell did you say to Raynelle?

You’re fired, that’s what I said.

She stepped into the office. Her hand-crafted costume was light blue and made of cloth that caught the light in thousands of sparkles. It was vaguely reminiscent of the movie costumes barmaids wore in a lot of Western movies but it was also see-through. As with all the girls’ costumes, it had cost her a small fortune.

She put her hands on her hips. You son of a bitch.

You want to look for another job too?

She pointed toward the door. You want to tell that audience there won’t be no Cathy Colt tonight? She softened her features. The sound of the emcee prepping the audience for her dance filtered into the room. Raynelle’s mom just died, Jack. She can’t even afford to go back to the funeral.

I got a mom that died. It happens. He stroked his Adam’s apple and then put his middle finger against his thumb and thumped a well-worn pencil across his desk. He kept his eyes on the pencil.

Cathy leaned on the desk. Me and the other girls will take up the slack. You know that.

I said–

Those boys out there are getting a bit antsy. She shook her shoulders and adopted a cheesecake pose. Think about all they’ll be missing. I bet they’ll be pissed. They might even walk out and go over to Abe’s place.

All right, damn it.

She bent forward and kissed him on the cheek.

He tried to wave her off. Bitch.

She kissed him again. Bastard.

She blew him another kiss when she walked away. A second later she stuck her head back in the door. Jack, your hair’s all mussed up. She ducked out quickly and headed for the stage.

Jack grabbed the pencil and threw it across the room. She was gone before it bounced off the wall near the door. He jumped up and marched to his mirror where he combed his hair with a dozen more strokes than necessary. He checked his fingernails and combed his hair again. He admired the results. Class.

Jack stepped into the hallway and walked to the small kitchen where a couple of the girls were cooking pizza on a hotplate. Some of the sauce had fallen on the hot plate and burned. The small room was slightly smoky and smelled like a dingy corner of Hell. They smiled, but their hearts weren’t in it and they didn’t speak. Raynelle sagged in the corner, wiping tears from her eyes. He stepped across the room and stood beside her.

Tough about your mom, Jack said.

She nodded.

He stepped closer. Mine went nuts. Thought she had a fishbone stuck in her neck for years.

Jaylene nodded again. How do you respond to a statement like that?

He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and handed her six fifties, two weeks’ wages. Go take care of business. Your locker will be here when you get back. Raynelle jumped up and hugged him. Oh, thank you, Jack!

The other two dancers joined the party. One kissed his cheek, purposefully leaving a broad smear of lipstick. I knew you’d come through, you son of a bitch.

They mussed up his hair and