Sparky and the Beard: Sparky Series, #2

By Dan Baldwin

Sparky and the Beard dips into those hazy, almost forgotten days of pre-Vietnam … the 1950s. The unlikely hero is Sparky from Chicago. Born Jacob Rubenstein, he is better known by his adopted name, Jack Ruby, the infamous killer of President Kennedy's alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald. Dan Baldwin takes historical facts and weaves a fast-paced novel of intrigue, deception and murder, framed around the overthrow of dictator Fulgencio Batista and Fidel Castro's revolution as he increases his communist stranglehold on the island paradise of Cuba. Under Baldwin's masterful storytelling, Sparky and the Beard is an enjoyable, nerve-wracking experience. Like Sparky, the reader doesn't know who to trust, who will live or how the protagonist will get out of Cuba. History has judged Jack Ruby harshly (though many consider his actions in Dallas in 1963 as justified.) Perhaps Dan's most significant accomplishment in Sparky is his ability to craft the character of Jack Ruby into a sympathetic, even heroic, individual and take the reader and Ruby through compelling twists and turns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Baldwin
• Release date: Nov 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393620884

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.

Book preview

Sparky and the Beard

A Novel By

Dan Baldwin

Sparky and the Beard is

a Four Knights Press publication.

Copyright © 2019 by Dan Baldwin

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved

Credits

Cover Design, Editing

& Formatting by Mary Baldwin

License Notes

All rights reserved.  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure there are no errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or inconsistencies herein, any slights to people, places, or organizations are unintentional.

To learn more about Dan’s short stories, novellas, and novels: www.fourknightspress.com, www.danbaldwin.com or contact Dan directly at [e-mail].

What People Are Saying

About Sparky and the Beard

It is a land in turmoil as shady forces jockey for power and fortunes. There will be change, but whose? The political winds are gathering debris, making it impossible to know which side is which. This is Cuba in the late 1950s. There seems to be only one man who can be trusted. Jack Ruby. 

Yes, that Jack Ruby.  Dan Baldwin blends history with plausible fiction against the rich background of the Cuban Revolution.  The firecracker pace moves the reader through cultural alleys and plazas seething with intrigue and ruse as the Beard – Fidel Castro – nears victory.  The puppet masters didn’t factor one important thing – Jack Ruby had other ideas.

~ George Sewell, Author: The Krismer Ashes, Urns and What Did You Say?; and A Turn at the Point

***

Dan Baldwin’s Sparky and the Beard is a fast-paced thriller in which light-hearted moments ride atop a deeply serious subject. I recommend this book to everyone who likes suspense, crisp repartee and a realistic treatment of political history.

~ Ed Harter, Author: Bad Dads

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Mary Baldwin, Micah Hackler, Ed Harter, George Sewell and Stuart Watkins for their support and encouragement.

Foreword

To a person born in 1950, World War I ended 32 years earlier, in 1918. To a child born in 2001, the Vietnam war ended 38 years earlier, in 1973. With a quarter of America’s population under 19-years-old and the median age at 38, it’s not surprising that the latter half of the 20th Century is drifting into the realm of historical, speculative fiction.

Dan Baldwin is no stranger to immersing the reader in historical fiction. He has penned over a half dozen novels based in the Arizona Territory of the 1800s. However, in Sparky and the Beard (sequel to Sparky and the King) Dan again dips into those hazy, almost forgotten days of pre-Vietnam . . . the 1950s. His unlikely hero is Sparky from Chicago. Born Jacob Rubenstein, he is better known by his adopted name, Jack Ruby, the infamous killer of President Kennedy’s alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald.

Jack Ruby owned and operated a strip club in Dallas and was constantly on the hunt for new talent. At the invitation of Lewis McWillie, supervisor of gambling at the mob-owned Tropicana Hotel/Casino, Ruby visited Havana, Cuba for eight days in 1959. (Warren Commission Investigation into the JFK Assassination, 1964)

Dan takes these known facts and weaves a fast-paced novel of intrigue, deception and murder, framed around the early days of the rebel overthrow of dictator Fulgencio Batista. The Cuban Revolution has not yet finished playing out.  Disparate factions of true patriots are still operating as Fidel Castro increases his communist stranglehold on the island paradise.

At the behest of Louisiana’s mob boss, Ruby makes the trip to Havana. Unsure of exactly why he’s there, Jack immediately finds himself wrapped up in a hornet’s nest of mobsters, revolutionaries and spies. Unsure who he can trust, Sparky eventually allies himself with a hotel clerk, a cabaret dancer and a mysterious character known as the Americano.

Twist and turns ensue. The mob, the rebel factions and Castro all have their own agendas ... as does the CIA. Sparky must step lightly to avoid crossing the Mob, ending up in prison or possibly facing a firing squad.

Under Dan Baldwin’s masterful storytelling, Sparky and the Beard is an enjoyable, nerve-wracking experience. Like Sparky, the reader doesn’t know who to trust, who will live or how the protagonist will get out of Cuba. History has judged Jack Ruby harshly (though many consider his actions in Dallas in 1963 as justified.) Perhaps Dan’s most significant accomplishment in Sparky is his ability to craft the character of Jack Ruby into a sympathetic, even heroic, individual.

~ Micah S. Hackler

Author: The Sheriff Lansing Mysteries

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Appendix

1

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Jack! Angel popped her G-string! Connie Terrell stood breathless outside the small, cluttered office where Jack Ruby ran his strip club, his on and off pipe dreams of fame and fortune and his mouth. He was short, but stout, and well-built from regular exercise at a nearby gym. His hair was black, thinning and slicked-back. His cologne was just noticeable. The notepad on his desk was covered in an intricate doodle that resembled a maze. Jack threw down his fountain pen.

Terrell said, The guys on sniffers row are going nuts.

Jack closed his eyes, clenched his fists and lowered his head.

The two strippers sitting on the edge of his desk leaned away from the now red-faced man sitting at that desk. Each girl moved slowly as if a water moccasin had slithered up from the Dallas drainage system to coil for a strike. Terrell, The Torso, held her breath. Diana The Diva, Cassells and Lorrie the Little Lady with the Big Surprise Bascome, as if linked by invisible wires, half closed their eyes, sucked in a quick gasp of air and held their breaths.

The human explosion they expected and feared didn’t happen. Ruby clenched and unclenched his fists before dragging them across the table toward his chest. His face flushed a brighter red and his upper teeth assaulted his lower lip, forming, but not saying, an all too familiar four-letter exclamation of supreme frustration.

Terrell said, Larry cut the lights so nobody saw anything. Much.

Cassells and Bascome eased off the desk and became fascinated with the small bowls of popcorn in their hands. Neither looked up.

Terrell pulled back so that only her head showed at the door. The band kicked in real quick like. There’s lots of hootin’ and hollerin’ still.

Jack’s lisp sometimes made him sound effeminate. At the moment it only exaggerated his rage. Where is she?

Back in the dressing room, boss. Laughing her ass off.

Ruby stood up and ran his hands over his well-oiled hair. He opened a desk drawer and looked at the brass knuckles.

Cassels glanced down. AGVA*, Jack. They’re already on your ass.

(*American Guild of Variety Artists)

He slammed shut the drawer. Them and now the damn vice squad.

Vice is in the front row, but ...

But what?

They’re the ones doing most of the hootin’ and hollerin.’

Bascome said, You better straighten out Angel before you see Dallas’ finest.

Cassells said, They’ll arrest the both of you.

Damn! Son of a bitch! Whore! He kicked his desk. That’s it. That’s the last time. He stepped away from his desk as the women scattered back like frightened pigeons at the park. Jack walked down the hall. The corridor, dim and smelling of stale cigarettes and fresh popcorn, led to the small dressing room.

Jackie The Angel Candido leaned against the lockers, her legs slightly apart as if expecting to spar a few rounds with her boss. A half-grin/half-sneer dominated her face. Bring it on, Jack.

Get out. Get the hell out of my club. Get out of my town.

Candido laughed – an insult. She turned pulled a pair of panties and a pair of slacks from the locker and began dressing. She didn’t even look him in the eye. That, too, was an insult.

Jack grabbed her arm. You’re through in Dallas.

She shook him off and leaned forward. I’m the only dancer bringing in that mob you call customers out there. And, guess what. They’re going to follow me down the street. Yeah. I’ll be dancing at the Celebrity Lounge within an hour.

Over my dead body.

You think that can’t be arranged?

You’re through.

Through? Hell, I ain’t started yet. Candido slipped on her shoes and slammed shut the locker door. You better go out there and say goodbye to your customers, Jack. They ain’t going to be around here long. She walked out and down the corridor. She paused in front of Jack’s office and looked in. Soak ‘em while you can girls.

Jack didn’t follow.

A moment later Terrell stepped cautiously into the dressing room. Jack?

Yeah. He sat in a pink plastic chair, his face to the floor and his shoulders slumped.

You okay, boss?

He lifted his head and exposed a worried look. She’s right. The bitch’s right.

Terrell started to speak, but was interrupted by the house floor manager and chief flunky, Larry Hall. Uh, boss. Cops to see you. It’s West.

Damn. Show him to my office.

Already there, boss.

Double damn. Jack stood up. Terrell backed away and Hall disappeared quickly. Jack combed his hair and marched to his office. He paused, took in a deep breath, forced a smile and stepped in.

Officers West and Stroud looked up. West sat in Jack’s chair. Stroud stood between the two strippers. West said, You know why we’re here, Jack.

Stroud, half apologetically, said, It ain’t us, Jack. It’s the law.

She’s fired. Out of here as of right now.

Sure, but, you know, you can’t have your girls showing their privates like that. Again. He tapped the tip of his forefinger on the desk. The sound was like the ticking of a clock. We don’t mind, Jack. Hell, man, me ‘n Stroud love a good show. But Angel, she makes you look bad. If we don’t do something, we look bad.

I told you. It’s handled.

You sure? He grinned.

Jack’s body relaxed. He finished their brief non-verbal conversation with a smile of his own and a nod of his head. He looked to his strippers. Diana. Lorrie. After your sets why don’t you two and these officers ...

The women nodded. Cassells bumped her hips against Stroud. Bascome crossed the small room and put her hands on West’s shoulders.

Jack said, Okay?

West said, Okay. This time. But you gotta’ control your girls.

Cassells said, Are you sure about that, hon?

Jack forced a laugh and stepped over to his desk. West got the message. He stood up and motioned for Stroud to follow. Jack looked to Cassells. Champagne on the house for these boys.

The four eased out of the office. West and Stroud stood outside the door and watched the strippers as they swished and swayed their way backstage.

Jack Ruby sat down with the look of a defeated man. He reached back and pulled open a file cabinet marked TALENT. He pulled out a handful of manila folders and spread them across the top of his desk. Terrell stepped back in. He looked up.  The bitch is right. Those jerks will follow that ass right down to the Celebrity.

None of us girls liked her.

Well that makes me feel a hell of a lot better! He slammed his palm against the desk top.

Jack!

What!

Get a grip.

I need a featured dancer.

Then get one.

Where? The classy broads in this town... hell, there aren’t any classy broads in this town.

Terrell leaned against the door and dropped her head. As she intended, he caught the movement. Oh, hell, Connie, you know what I mean.

Sure. We all know what you mean.

Damn it. I’m sorry.

Terrell stepped into the office.  You need more than just a headliner. You gotta’ get something special. She paused and grinned as they made eye contact. You need something big.

A puzzled look crossed his face, a movement broken by realization. Where is she these days?

New Orleans. A friend of mine down there says she’s in town. Why don’t you go on a little scavenger hunt down in the French Quarter?

Jack picked up the folders on his desk and placed them back in the drawer. Are you sure she’s down there?

LaFitte’s Sho Bar.

That’s on Bourbon Street.

What ain’t?

Jack grinned. I ain’t. But that’s about to change. Maybe my luck, too.

Officer West wrapped his knuckles against the door. Jack looked up to see the cop holding something stretched between the forefinger of his right hand and the thumb and forefinger of his left. West grinned, said, I think this is yours, and tossed Angel’s G-string. It hit Jack Ruby square on his nose.

2

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The poster outside the Bourbon Street club featured a life-size photograph of Ricki Corvette discretely, but just barely, covered by a towel as if she was just stepping out of the shower.

RICKI COVETTE

A True Glamazon

The World’s Tallest Exotic – 6’ 8"

There’s No Body Like Hers

This Week Only – Lafitte’s Sho Bar (1)

She held a telephone in hand and had that Oh, do come on over, darling look on her face. A beautiful smile set off her coiffed blonde hair as she leaned against a wall that was a measuring stick highlighting her size.

Bourbon Street was crowded, but the night was just turning on and the crowd would soon grow into a shuffling, gawking mob of locals, sailors from the Port of New Orleans and thousands of tourists down for a look at if not a taste of sin. The street featured all manner of entertainment, food and beverage, but the real draw was the strip clubs on Bourbon Street.

Some were pure sleaze and catered to the lowest of the low. Others were classier and served even the needs of middle-class men and women out for an evening guaranteed to keep the neighbors back home entertained for many a backyard barbecue. They breathed in a rich, earthy and overwhelming odor of hops from the Jackson Brewery, known locally as the Jax Brewery located by the Mississippi River on the other side of Jackson Square.

Unlike Commerce Street back in Dallas, this ancient boulevard was alive. It was alive with people spending money and a lot of that money was spent looking at sexy women taking off their clothes. The contrast between these clubs and his own was stark. To enter his place, patrons had to walk up a set of stairs to bypass the pit bar-b-que restaurant on the first floor.

Jack stood back, hands on hips. He imagined seeing that poster on the front of his club. That and the look on his Commerce Street competitors’ faces when they saw it. He mumbled. Top that, you bastards.

Who you callin’ a basserd, Yank? A drunk put his hand on Jack’s chest and pushed. The man’s accent was British. He wore khaki’s and a faded work shirt and had the look of a man who made his living on the sea.

No offense, sailor.

Too late for that, mate. He drew his right arm back.

Jack Ruby’s right fist moved like a snake striking from the tall grass and the Brit fell down and grabbed his solar plexus. Jack grabbed the man by his shirt and struck him in the face three times before the sailor could react. His first punch broke the man’s nose. The other two merely rearranged the damage. Jack reached back for another strike when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

That’s enough, Jack.

Wha? Jack backed away, his fist still balled up. A couple of men appeared as if by some magic summons from the dark doorway and dragged the beaten man off. Tourists moved into the street to avoid the bloody scene. Some of the locals stopped long enough to watch, shake their shoulders and move on. Jack grabbed the hand on his shoulder, flipped it away and turned to see a familiar face.

Butch?

It’s been a while.

Jack took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his hand. He pulled a comb from his pants pocket and combed his straight black hair. He looked down the street to see the two men kick the sailor once each before stumbling into another club.

Jack said, Is this your place now?

I bought it. Sort of.

The Little Man?

His money. My club. We split the profits as per usual. Neither man said a word for an awkward half moment. Butch said, Come on inside. We’ll catch up on old times.

Butch stepped into the dark entry way as a barker stepped out and started his evening spiel. Before stepping in, Jack turned to look up the street. The Brit sailor, deserted by his friends, was on all-fours vomiting in the gutter.

Lafitte’s Sho Bar was typical of the joints catering to tourists. The rectangular dance floor was rounded at the curved edges which were extended and recessed to allow the sniffer’s row customers to place their drinks in front of them. A dozen or so high-seat chairs ringed the dance floor. Most of these were filled with men in working clothes. Rows of small tables formed an L-shape behind them. The people here were clearly tourists in for a weekend of look-but-don’t-touch experience of naughtiness. They were, for the most part, middle-aged married men and women. The women pretended slight offense, but they studied the dancers like art students gaping at their first nude model. The men giggled,