Gunsight Politics: Blood in the Street

By Paul Michael Sturman

This is a fictionalized version of an event that changed
the world. It asks the question, what if the truth was not told
about that violent and tragic day in 1963? Within its pages lies
a second story of murder, intrigue and mystery that takes you
on a ride to meet unforgettable characters both good and evil
who lived their lives in a savage era. Step back in history then
to the violent days of the 1960s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465391308

Paul Michael Sturman

Iam a 66 year old father of 4 children and grand father of 6. I was born in Pocatello, Id and after seeing President Kennedy speak at my High School I became facinsted with the events of his murder. I have always been interested in creative writing and started my story about 30 years ago. During my lifeI worked in a cheese factory and married the woman who inspired me to finish my book. I enjoy deep sea fishing in Cabo, camping with my family and playing pool.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Paul Michael Sturman.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011960670

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-9129-2

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-9128-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-9130-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

EPILOGUE

FINAL CHAPTER

EPILOGUE

INTRODUCTION

Dear Readers,

This novel is largely a work of fiction, meant solely for the purpose of your entertainment. However the first chapter deals with a tragic and horrific event that was very real and may very well have changed the course of history. The truth about what actually happened on that fateful day may never be known in our lifetime because I believe as many others do that the evidence of that terrible crime have been altered, changed and conveniently lost. By now, you have probably guessed that I am talking about the murder of J.F.K. I cry conspiracy because the so called facts gathered by the Warren Commission just don’t add up. For more than four decades they have tried to convince us that one plus one equals five. And they are still trying to force feed us that lie. Just recently, a T.V. program was produced that was supposedly representing an unbiased investigation offering those of us gullible enough to buy into it the final solution to the mystery. It seems according to their investigation that the Warren Commission was right all along. But let me show you how they twisted and manipulated the facts to make them fit their conclusions. First, of all it is a known fact that Lee Oswald was discovered in the Texas Book Depository, calmly sipping on a soda pop, in the cafeteria, which if my memory serves me right was at least two floors below the supposed snipers nest. Tell me please how a man who just murdered the most powerful leader in the world could run down two flights of stairs, and calmly buy a soda then stand there without shedding a single drop of sweat and confront a uniformed policeman. How unlikely is that scenario? Yet the investigators would have you believe that is exactly what happened. I have to admit that they set out to prove their point in an admirable fashion. They found a man approximately Oswald’s height and weight pretend to fire three shots hide a rifle and run down two flights of stairs in the allotted time. They proved that it could be done, but the man to my observation was winded and anything but calm. I seriously doubt that he would have been steady enough to feed coins into a pop machine and then calmly face an interrogator without at least breathing hard. Their next point of investigation was the rifle itself. In their attempt to prove that this was the murder weapon I personally felt that they failed miserably. But they would have you believe that they proved their point. On their first attempt to fire three shots in rapid succession the rifle jammed. It was only on their third attempt that they got the rifle to fire properly. By their own admission the rifle was a highly unreliable weapon. Yet they would have us believe that for that one particular day it worked perfectly. If you believe that then I have a bridge I’d like to sell to you. Their next test with the rifle was to fire it from a tower approximately the height of a sixth floor window at a moving vehicle with two silhouettes cut I assume out of wood that were supposed to represent the President and the Texas Governor. The President’s silhouette was topped with a watermelon representing his head. First the shooter broke the watermelon and then put two more shots into the silhouettes proving that it could be done in the allotted amount of time. There are several things wrong with that test. First of all, everyone knows that the fatal shot was the last one taken, not the first. Second, anyone who would believe that a human head is as big as a watermelon seriously needs to see an eye doctor. Let’s see them try it again, only use a cantaloupe instead of a watermelon and make it the shot furthest away instead the closest one. They made every attempt to disprove any theory that does not support the Warren Commission’s findings. There is a theory that the fatal shot was fired from a storm sewer below street level. It has been proven that a man with a rifle can fit into this area. So to disprove this theory, they placed a man that I would guess to be well over six feet tall and probably weighing well over two hundred pounds into that hole and asked him what he could see. Guess what? All he could see was street. Well, Duh. The man was too big to get far enough into the hole. I say try it again with a smaller man. Say someone about five foot-eight and about a hundred and sixty pounds. I bet the result would be different. In their next attempt to prove the Warren Commission correct, in my opinion, they went fishing. None of the wounds on the President and Governor Connelly lined up. So in order to make everything line up, they came to the conclusion that the Governor was sitting several inches higher than the President. How was this possible when the President was the taller of the two men? Their answer to that problem was nothing short of genius. (The Governor had to be sitting in a jump seat.)

In rebuttal, let me just say this: If you take two different sheets of paper, and punch a hole in a different place in each paper, you can make those holes line up by moving the position of one sheet or the other, but that doesn’t prove that both holes were made at the same time by the same instrument.

Now let’s look at the car itself. The 1963 or 1964 Lincoln whichever it was, was a big old dinosaur built for luxury and power. To my recollection, it had full bench seats front and back. So it had plenty of room to seat three people comfortably in the front, (The driver and two passengers.) Also as I recall, the car came with a bullet proof glass bubble, which unfortunately was not used on that day. My question is: Why in the world would they want to remove part of the front seat and put in a jump seat? Would that not interfere with the use of the bubble if they had decided to use it? Next question: Why would you want the Governor to sit higher than the President? After all, which of the two men was more important? Also they knew that they were going to be traveling between tall buildings on both sides of the street. Why would they set the Governor on a perch like a sitting duck? They might just as well have put a sign around his neck saying shoot me. It makes more sense that they would not have altered the seat at all. Since the bubble was not being used, they would want as much of the car’s body to act as a shield as much as possible. That is just common sense.

Now here is the kicker: Their whole theory depends on their having been only three shots fired, because if more than three shots were fired, then there had to be more than one shooter. What they don’t take into account or choose to ignore completely is the fact that there were two misses. Three hits plus two misses does not add up to three shots no matter what math you use. They simply deny the fact that there were any misses at all, despite the fact that the survivors of the limo testified that the first shot struck the pavement beside the car. A shot originally assumed to be a fire cracker and causing both the President and the Governor to look out the side of the car to see where it had come from. A bystander was the victim of the second miss. The bullet chipped a piece of concrete from a bridge support and sent it flying toward the man’s face causing a cut across his cheek. Supporters of the lone gunman theory would have us believe that this never happened. Perhaps the man imagined the blood on his face and the gash across his cheek. How do you explain it away? Was there a mosquito with a switch blade buzzing around? What they chose to do was simply leave that part of the evidence out as if it never existed.

Let’s go back to the occupants of the limo for a moment, the words of one of the survivors was: My God, they’re going to kill us all! The key word here is: They. The occupants believed that they were caught in a cross fire, and in my opinion, they were. Look at the bullets. Oh that’s right, I guess there was only one bullet found. How strange was that? Or even more strange is the condition of the bullet: Other than a bit misshapen, it was nearly perfect. Now it seems to me, that if one bullet could have done all that damage and come out nearly perfect, then the other bullets must have done the same, since they were supposedly fired from the same gun. So where are the other bullets? Everyone knows that there was more than one bullet fired, no one will dispute that fact. I suppose that they would have us believe that they somehow, magically disappeared. Their lone gunman story is beginning to have a bit too much magic for my liking. I contend that the reason that there was only one bullet found is because it was planted at the scene after the fact. I believe that none of the actual bullets were recovered because they were fragmenting bullets that broke up into tiny fragments on impact. Or there could be one other explanation: The bullets were recovered but they didn’t match the planted bullet, so they were made to disappear. Again this is pure conjecture on my part, but give me a better answer.

Now let’s look at a piece of graphic film that the lone gunman theorists try to make us believe didn’t happen the way we saw it. They laugh at the movie where the prosecuting attorney states over and over again that upon receiving the fatal wound the President’s head jerks back and to the left. But that is exactly what the film evidence shows. They refuse to acknowledge the fact that one piece of evidence alone proves beyond any doubt that the fatal shot came from in front of the limo and not from behind. So in order to keep their theory alive they concocted a story that defies the very laws of nature. They say it is possible for a target to be pulled toward the impacting bullet. I have never heard of such a thing. A bullet slams into and pushes the target away it does not suck the target toward itself. The only thing that sucks here is the idea that this could happen. More magic, I presume but dont take my word for it, go out and target practice at a can. I’ll bet that can flies away from you and is not sucked towards you. Or try this test slam your fist into something and that target will move the direction that the blow is moving it will not under any circumstance be sucked towards you. Now imagine something traveling hundreds of times faster, which direction do you think that target is going to move? When struck from the right front it moves back and to the left therefore the shooter was in front of and to the right of the motorcade the very location of the grassy knoll.

There is one other piece of evidence that the so-called investigators claim proves that Lee Oswald killed police officer Tippet. All that it proved, however, is that it was possible for him to have been on the scene. They interviewed two witnesses who saw a man approach the area where the policeman was killed. The problem they had was that the witnesses saw the man approach from a different direction. So they threw out the one that didn’t fit their theory. That witness was obviously mistaken or maybe just confused after all of these years. How convenient. I say in rebuttal: What if the one that they chose to believe is the one who was confused or mistaken? Or here is another possibility: What if they both were right?

How is this possible you may say? Everyone knows that one man can’t move in two directions at the same time. That is exactly my point. I say that each witness saw a different man and that there were two men on the scene not just one. There were witnesses who claim to have seen two men on the scene. But they were dismissed as crackpots or people who were obviously mistaken. How many crackpots were in Dallas that day? A magical number no doubt. But draw your own, conclusions; I certainly am not an expert. All I ask is that you keep an open mind.

I have one more thing to touch on before I wrap up this introduction: Let’s take one last look at the only man officially accused of the crime. A man, that I might add, never got a fair trial. Obviously, he was not the crazed lunatic that they would have us believe that he was. A lunatic would have jumped at the chance to claim credit for the most sensational crime of the decade. He would have proclaimed himself a hero who rid the world of a tyrant. He would have shouted Freedom for Cuba or words to that effect. Instead, whenever he was asked the question, he calmly responded, No sir. I didn’t kill anyone. He proclaimed his innocence unto his death. No amount of interrogation could break his story. And here is another strange response for a guilty man: When asked by a reporter: What do you think about Kennedy? Oswald responded: He was no better or no worse than any other President that we have ever had. He also said that he admired the First Lady and felt sorry that her children lost their father. Now I ask you: Does this sound to you like a man full of hatred for our country’s leader? I don’t think so. To my way of thinking, he just doesn’t fit the proper profile. I also question whether he even possessed the skill required to pull off the crime. It would take a marksman of above average ability to do what he was accused of doing. There is no evidence to prove that he was anything more than an average shot at best. Where are the marksmanship medals? Where are the trophies to attest to his skill yet on that one day, he was an expert marksman? You have to believe in magic to accept that story.

So now I have set the stage to take you into the dark world of conspiracy. It is a world that I have completely made up, or is it? At any rate, the characters that you are about to meet were concocted in my own mind and do not represent anyone living or dead. Such resemblance in name or character is purely coincidental.

With that in mind, step back in time into the violent days of the 1960’s. A world of violent men and violent deeds. It is a world of shadow governments and murder for hire, but it is also a story of ordinary people who somehow find a way to become heroes. I hope that you enjoy my story and I hope also that it makes you think, because I believe that there is more to our world than meets the eye.

CHAPTER I

It was a normal autumn day in the Deep South, not too warm or too cold. And it would have been a day of beauty and hope except that a feeling of grief hung over the free world like a black cloud. One short week before, people had believed in magic and the hope for a bright future. Then in one bloody moment Camelot came crashing down. It was November 29, 1963. The Rolls Royce Silver Ghost looked completely out of place in this part of town. But no more so than the tall well dressed man who exited the driver’s side of the elegant car. He was a man of fine muscular structure and his powerful face would have been handsome except for the cruel line of his mouth. He removed his black leather driving gloves and stashed them neatly into the side pocket of his pin stripped suit coat. Turning to his right, he looked up at the name attached to a cast iron hinge that was attached to the brick wall directly in front of him. The sign read: Gates of Hell Lounge. An arrow at the bottom of the sign pointed down to a dimly lit stairwell. He began his decent. At the bottom of the stairs, he found a red wooden door with the words: Gates of Hell printed in gold relief at the top. His hand reached for the brass door knob and he pulled the door open. Upon entering the room, he was confronted by thick bluish gray clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. The black vinyl covered bar stood out in contrast to the red wallpaper and carpet. Various illustrations of laughing demons grinned down fiendishly from the walls. He cast hawkish looks about the room with pale gray eyes that made the sparsely populated crowd turn away. Vainly he stroked the hairs of his iron gray temples into place and cast a quick glance into the bar mirror to make sure that his course black hair was perfectly combed. He spotted the people that he was seeking seated around a table in a dimly lit corner. Slowly and deliberately, he approached the table and placed his black leather brief case on its top. At his approach, the three men rose, bowed slightly and shook his hand. Gentlemen. He said It’s good to see you. Let me congratulate you on a job well done. But before we get down to business, how about a drink? Waitress! Would you please attend to our table? Yes sir. Came the reply from the auburn haired beauty as she swivel-hipped her way towards them. Her approach brought admiring glances from all four men and deservedly so for the GATES OF HELL attired their waitresses (all redheads, ranging from strawberry blonde to deep auburn) in miniskirt red dresses with plunging necklines, displaying enough breast to solicit large tips from the predominately male customers. The costumes were finished off with black fishnet stockings adorned with a red garter and high heeled red shoes. It was said that the establishment hired the most beautiful women in Atlanta. She came along side the well dressed man. What would you like, sir? she asked. The lusty looks of the three other men showed that they had other things on their minds besides drinks, but they held their composure in the presents of their employer. The sullen faced Mr. Summers ordered a draft beer. Mr. Wood nervously drummed the left sleeve of his tan suede jacket with the fingers of his right hand before ordering a Margarita. Mr. Snow, wearing a long sleeved white shirt rolled at the elbows, tan slacks, and brown rough out boots, ordered scotch he was a man of muscular build, only slightly taller than the other two and much shorter than Mr. Grey. The close cropped blonde hair gave him a hard military look. His eyes showed hardness like two disks of light brown granite. Mr. Grey ordered Kentucky bourbon on the rocks. Kind of a plain drink for a rich bastard like you ain’t it? The comment came from Mr. Summers. What came from Mr. Grey could only be described as a blur of diamond ring and diamond cufflink and Mr. Summers landed in a tangle of broken wood and shattered pride. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and started to rise. I’ve killed men for less than-. Mr. Summers comment was cut short by the vicious stare from Mr. Grey’s pale gray almost white eyes. Mr. Summers continued to rise, much slower now than he had begun the ascent. Standing upright now, with a shocked expression on his face, Mr. Summers continued to speak. I’m sorry sir; I lost my head for a moment.

Kindly find another chair and rejoin the group, Mr. Summers. said Mr. Grey. And from now on, unless you have something intelligent to say, kindly refrain from speaking.

The bartender, who had heard the ruckus, started toward them. But the icy stare from Mr. Grey stopped him in his tracks. He shook off the cold chill that suddenly ran down his spine and retraced his steps back to the bar.

Mr. Grey continued to speak. You will find $600,000 in this briefcase. $200,000 apiece as agreed to. I’d like you gentlemen out of the country by midnight tonight. Oh, and Mr. Snow, in the future when we are meeting in public, please wear gloves. That cobra tattoo on your right hand is too easily identified. Mr. Snow’s cold stare held that of Mr. Grey.

That’d be a little conspicuous wouldn’t it? He asked.

Well then, perhaps a bandage. Neither man blinked, nor pulled his eyes from those of the other.

Very well Mr. Grey. Snow responded as he reluctantly removed his stare from the malevolent eyes of Mr. Grey.

Mr. Grey rose slowly and placing the brief case on the table, he spoke: It’s been a pleasure doing business with you uh gentlemen. The three men rose to show a measure of respect as Mr. Grey departed. He stopped at the bar and offered the bartender $50 for damages.

But sir, the bartender began. We get those chairs for $15 a piece.

Well then, said Mr. Grey, Keep the change for your inconvenience."

Thank you sir, and have a good evening. the bartender responded.

Outside the Gates of Hell, Mr. Grey pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves and climbed behind the wheel of the classic Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. The drumming purr of the engine was music to his ears as he rapidly accelerated away from the curb.

In the meantime, back inside the bar, the three companions resumed their conversation. Mr. Summers spoke first.

That son-of-a-bitch has the meanest eyes I’ve ever seen. It gives me the creeps. I thought your eyes were cold Con, I mean Mr. Snow. But you look real friendly next to him.

Why don’t we knock off this Mr. Snow, Mr. Wood bullshit. said Mr. Wood. There’s nobody here who knows us.

Are you sure of that, Mr. Wood? asked Mr. Snow. We can’t afford to take chances like Mr. Stone. Not unless we want to spend a lot of time in jail too.

You’ve got to admit, said Mr. Summers. It was an unusual hit. Who’d have thought he’d do it on national television?

Shut up you trouble making bastard. replied Mr. Wood. Mr. Snow’s heavy hand prevented Mr. Summers from rising.

Both of you shut up. said Mr. Snow. We’ve drawn too much attention to ourselves already. But in the back of his mind, Mr. Snow remembered the incident involving Mr. Stone.

The three assassins had met Lee Oswald at a cheap Dallas strip joint owned by Jack Ruby a small time thug with mafia connections. They had struck up an immediate friendship with the smallish timid man. Buddy in particular had found Oswald to be quite likable and was uncomfortable about making Lee the scapegoat. Still they had set the plan in motion by borrowing Lee’s rifle claiming that they could fix its inaccuracy. Lee was immediately apprehensive stating that weapons were not allowed at his work so how could they return it? It was Mr. Snow’s idea to have Lee bring curtain rods to work wrapped in brown paper. The rods would be left where they could be exchanged for the rifle wrapped in the same kind of paper. Lee bought into it which proved to be his undoing. In the basement of the Dallas Court House and in the midst of reporters, policemen and T.V. cameras, Jack Ruby, alias Mr. Stone, shot down Lee Harvey Oswald, accused murderer of President Kennedy. Ruby had been assigned to take out the scapegoat in the conspiracy at his own discretion before Oswald could possibly convince anyone of his innocents. It had been a bold move but perhaps Jack thought he could escape in the confusion. Or perhaps thought Mr. Snow, Jack wanted to pull off a hit as spectacular as the one the three of us accomplished. The one the world will never know the truth about. Mr. Snow’s train of thought was broken by Mr. Summer’s voice: You can let go of my arm now, Bud. I got the message.

Oh, sorry George.

Mr. Snow, you’re breaking your own rules. said Mr. Wood.

Huh? Oh, sorry uh, Mr. Wood, I forgot where we were for a moment.

Oh, it’s alright I guess none of us will ever forget. answered Mr. Wood. The three of us pulled off the biggest hit of the century.

They had trapped the Presidential motorcade in a triangular crossfire. There would be no escape. Buddy had taken up a position across the street from Con’s position on the grassy knoll. He watched from a third floor window as the motorcade came into view. At the sound of George’s first shot, Buddy squeezed off three shots of his own in rapid succession. The first was a clean miss that struck a concrete bridge support and sent a chip of concrete across the cheek of an onlooker. The next two struck Governor Connelly, and buddy quickly took the rifle apart and stuffed the pieces into a duffle bag. He reached the ground floor and quietly slipped out the back door as people began to point at the grassy knoll. He didn’t wait to see what happened next. He removed a .45 automatic and clip from the duffle bag. Then he tossed the bag rifle and all into a nearby dumpster.

Only a short period of time had elapsed since the President was killed and Lee Oswald had fled the Texas Book Depository in panic. Bud had run down the Texas Street, with a drawn 45 automatic in his right hand. He was challenged by a police officer waiting at the curb in a patrol car. The officer’s challenge was answered by gunfire and officer Tippet died in the patrol car where he was struck down. Witnesses swore that it was Lee Oswald who killed the officer and the lid was nailed down on the scapegoat. Quickly Bud had run down an alley and donned a raincoat and wide brimmed hat he had hidden earlier in a garbage can. He had waited in the ally way shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. His knees had trembled and he had been unable to move. Don’t panic, he told himself. Just walk away slowly. Bud had slipped quietly down the alley until he had come to the side street where he had parked the car. He walked swiftly and deliberately to the vehicle, climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine. He had purchased the 1956 Ford two door under an assumed name right there in Dallas, the day before the killing. He had pointed the sky blue and white Ford in the direction of Austin and headed for the freeway. He had snapped the radio on and had heard an excited reporter’s recount of the capture of Lee Harvey Oswald at a Dallas movie theater. Bud had smiled to himself. Perfect. he thought, Just perfect. It had been a quiet boring drive to Austin and he had driven nonstop until he was eventually rewarded by the road sign that marked his entry into the Austin city limits. He had abandoned the car at the Austin airport, taking with him, the temporary registration and driving permit. He removed the driving gloves, put them in his coat pocket and approached the ticket desk. One way to Atlanta, Georgia, please. Bud’s mind returned to the present. He finished the last of his drink, and looked up at the smiling waitress. Bring us another round. He said thoughtfully.

He looked across the table at. Mr. Summers, who was lost in his own day dream.

My God, he’s right. thought Mr. Summers. We’ve just committed the crime of the century. He and his partners had borrowed Lee Oswald’s rifle from his garage where he kept it. Then they had taken it and a box of ammunition to a private shooting range where they had fired three shots into a bale of hay. George Madison (alias Mr. Summers) pocketed the three spent shells. Then, taking out a pocket knife he walked over to the bale and removed one of the bullets. Holding the almost pristine bullet up to the others, he said You never know when something like this will come in handy." The night before the shooting, under cover of darkness and disguised as a night watchmen, they had snuck the rifle into the Texas Book Depository where they hid it behind a packing crate on the sixth floor. Carefully they scattered the spent shells about the floor in front of the window overlooking Deale Plaza, and opened the window. The stage had been set, and the patsy’s neck was practically in the noose.

The day of the murder, George had waited in the shadows inside the unlit room in the building across the street from the Texas Book Depository. When he heard the sounds of the approaching motorcade, He crept silently to the open window and aimed his 30-06 loaded with fragmenting bullets at the street. He could feel the cold sweat run down his side as he adjusted the variable scope. He was still fooling with the scope when the Presidential limo pulled into view. He took two deep breaths bit his lower lip and touched off the first shot. It was a clean miss and he swore under his breath as the bullet struck the pavement beside the black Lincoln. He raised his aim and fired again. He knew at once that both shots had not gone where he wanted them to. The second shot struck the President high in the back. His partners had begun to shoot almost at the same time, the sound of one shot over lapping another so that two shots sounded like one and four like two. No wonder witnesses were confused, had they heard two shots or three four shots or five? In truth there had been seven. George had fired two shots and had begun to disassemble the rifle when the fatal shot was fired. He quickly removed the scope from the mount and stuffed it in his coat pocket. The barrel of the rifle was disassembled and along with the stock, was placed in a small suitcase. With suitcase in hand he donned a wide brimmed hat and headed for the exit slipped into the darkened hall. He could feel the cold sweat run down his sides and the palms of his hands became calmly. The hallway was still deserted so he headed quickly to the back stairs. With his mind in a whirl he was on the ground floor almost before he realized it. Have to be calm. He kept telling himself, I must be calm. No one was at the back of the building, but many people were still milling around out in the street. He saw a uniformed policeman and men in suits,(presumably detectives) they began to search the Book Depository, he made his way down an alley where among the strong fumes of decaying wet garbage he finally regained his composure. Half way down a side street, he spotted the hoped for taxicab. We walked swiftly and deliberately toward it and hailed the driver, opening the back door and shoving the small suit case in ahead of him, he said Dallas Airport, please.

Say mister the cab driver said you wouldn’t happen to know what is going on over by Deale Plaza would you, hell of a ruckus over there and the damn two-way ain’t workin.

I couldn’t say. I’m a stranger here on a business trip. Would you mind? I would hate to miss that plane.

Oh sure; anything important I’m bound to hear about later. The cab pulled away from the curb and the driver kept toying with the two-way. Where are you from mister?

Georgia. I am a salesman,

that right? What do you sell?

I deal in office equipment.

What brings you all the way to Texas? The cabbie continued to query. George began to get irritated, but kept his cool.

An important client of the company lives here.

That seemed to satisfy the cabbie for he was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke again. Sorry about all the questions, Mister. But I don’t get many fares and I enjoy the company. By the way, what’s your name?

Joe Cade. George lied.

I’m Jake Wilson. the cabbie answered. Two blocks from the airport, the two-way began to crackle. The cabbie spoke again: That can’t be right. I must ‘a heard wrong. I thought he said that someone killed the President of the United States."

That’s terrible! Do you think it’s true?" asked George.

Na, I must ‘a heard it wrong. We’re here, buddy. Nice talking to ya. George paid the fair and advanced on to the ticket station.

One way to Atlanta, Georgia, please.

George was brought back to the present by Bud’s loud voice: I said, your turn to buy, Mr. Summers.

Huh? Okay. Hey, honey, another round if you will.

Yes sir, came the reply from the sexy red-haired waitress. Two minutes later, she returned with the drinks. She stood between Mr. Summers and Mr. Snow waiting for Mr. Summers to pay the tab. Suddenly she felt Mr. Snow’s hand creep up the back of her left thigh until it rested on her left buttock. He gave her a gentle pat and spoke out of the corner of his mouth: How about a little action tonight, baby?

You couldn’t afford it. she said coldly.

How much? he returned just as coldly.

Five hundred bucks. she replied angrily. I told you I’m too rich for your blood.

You’ve got it, sweetheart. he said. His response took her by surprise.

Well uh, she started. He took a hand full of $100 bills from his wallet and flashed them under her nose. Her response was, still not interested, I’m married.

I don’t care if you are married, was Con’s response. He doesn’t have to know.

No way in hell that works for me, she replied.

Two of the other girls were listening in on the conversation and came to the table. One of them leaned across the table and said "we’ll take some of that action, I get off at two.

No good. was Con’s reply. We’ve got to be on a plane by midnight.

What time is it now? she asked.

He looked down at his plain nondescript digital watch. Its 8:30. he responded.

I’ll see if someone will cover for me. she said. I can arrange it. But it will cost you.

How much?

Her eyes became nervous. $500 for each of us and $200 more as a bonus to me for setting it up. I want $500 in advance.

Angrily he counted out the money in her hand. Slowly she bent down and kissed him full on the parted lips. He darted his tongue in and out of her mouth and she pulled away quickly, nervously aware that the other two men had been staring down her neckline all the while. She gave them all a nervous smile then made a hasty retreat.

Damned expensive piece of ass, Mr. Snow. said Mr. Summers.

Yes, but it might be worth it. responded Mr. Snow.

Well, why not? said Mr. Wood. We’re not exactly poor anymore and we can afford it. Our services are in demand. Yes, thought Mr. Snow, as he began to recall his own part in the execution.

He had waited patiently behind the white painted fence on the grassy knoll overlooking the route that the Presidential motorcade would use. No one had noticed or even suspected his presents there. He could see the Texas Book Depository where Lee Oswald was and the building across the street where his partner George Madison waited. He was calm and unemotional. He was here to do a job and nothing more. Soon the police escort entered the street at Deale Plaza followed by the black Lincoln convertible in which rode Texas Governor John Connelly and his wife. The back seat was occupied by President and Mrs. Kennedy. He waited for the first shots to be fired then raised the scoped 30-06 to his shoulder and carefully placed the cross-hairs on the President’s head. Carefully and deliberately he squeezed the trigger. Continuing to watch through the scope, he saw the impact that turned part of the President’s head into a pink cloud of flying blood and brain matter. He saw Mrs. Kennedy reach back half crawling out of the car trying to retrieve a section of the President’s skull. He quickly took the rifle down smiling to himself. One perfect shot. But then I don’t get paid to miss. He dismantled the scope and put it in his coat pocket, separated the stock from the barrel, strapped the barrel beneath the left leg of his loose fitting trousers, strapped the stock inside his coat under his right arm pit, donned the wide brimmed hat that kept most of his face in shadow, plus a pair of dark glasses, retrieved his cane and hobbled down the street. People were pointing at the grassy knoll and some had started that way but Con Hardiman, knew that they would find nothing. For, he had retrieved the spent shell with a handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket just as he knew that his partner’s would do with their spent shells. He continued to hobble down the street until he was well out of sight of the place of excitement. Passersby paid little or no attention to him, for he looked for the world like just another crippled up old man on his way to nowhere in particular. Walking with a rolling bent over gate and using his cane to assist each step, he came to the nearest down town bus stop. When the bus arrived, he climbed aboard with the help of the driver, paid the token and said in a shaky voice, Thank you Sonny. Mind if I stand? Stiff knee, Arthritis you know."

The bus driver