“Open Up, FCC!” WHAMWHAMWHAM! Pounding fists on the door could clearly be heard over the mikes.

“Well, it sounds like we have visitors, Gabe, sorry to cut short the interview.”

“That’s all right,” Gabe’s cheery attitude was undiminished despite the scratchy connection, “I’ll call you back tomorrow if I’m still in here,”

“We’re all hoping you’ll be free by then,” I cut in, “So you listeners out there who care, call the mayor’s office and tell him to release Gabe Bolinas right now.”

“That’s right, feeding the homeless is not a crime,” said David in his smoothest radio voice. WHAMWHAMWHAM went the fists on the door.

“OPEN UP, Federal Agents!”

“Anything else you’d like to say before we go, Gabe?”

“Sure, I have some friends here to help me,” he called off the receiver, “What do we say?” A handful of rowdy voices shouted back,

“FOOD NOT BOMBS!”

“Thanks, Gabe, we’ll talk to you later,” I said.

"You've been listening to an interview with Gabe Bolinas, founding member of Food Not Bombs, live from the San Francisco City Jail. We'll be right back after a musical break...."

David potted the mikes down. I scurried into the back room while he walked slowly to the door, put the chain on and opened it a crack.

“Can I help you?” He asked innocently.

“We’re Federal agents, we’d like to come in. Open the door,” said an aggressive voice. I climbed onto the bed and peeked out the side window. Two suited young men were leaning toward the slit of light that shone into the dark stairwell. I grimaced and turned away, staring at the pile of half-packed boxes that filled most of the room. This was not a good time to get busted, I was leaving in three weeks. Coming back for a hearing it would be a gigantic pain in the ass, staying would be unbearable.

“Do you have a warrant?” I heard David ask. A moment of silence and then,

“No, but we can get one.”

“OK,” he said brightly, “You go get a warrant and I’ll see you later.” He shut the door and locked it. I watched apprehensively as they stood out there, looking irritated. Finally they shuffled off. Whew, for now…..

David came back into the bedroom. We both sat on the bed and looked at the boxes.

“I think I’ll leave sooner than planned,” I said. He shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

“I just can’t be caught up in a court case right now, you know?” I don’t know why I expected him to understand or forgive me, after eight years together I was the one giving up. Not only on us; on the whole world. I was sick of trying to save it. As far as I could see all my decades of protesting had failed. The human race was falling fast and I just wanted out.

“You know that new radio name you picked out for yourself?”

“Lotta Nerve?”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t use it. It doesn’t fit a quitter.”

“Fuck you.” I stood up and went over to an open box, into which I randomly crammed items from the desk drawer.

“I just don’t get how come you’re leaving out of the blue.” He said petulantly.

“David, it’s not out of the blue. I’ve been telling you for years that this isn’t working for me and you chose to ignore it rather than change. Well guess what? It didn’t work and I’m leaving.”

“Just like all those other times, huh? You’ll be back.” He stomped out of the room.

“Not this time,” I muttered, “this time I’m already gone.”

*******

September 1998 (Six months earlier): Erin and I rolled into Durango just as the sun was setting through salmon pink clouds. I kept my eyes on the rusted rear end of her pickup truck, following as closely as was safe. The drive over Red Mountain Pass had been nerve-wracking at best. Coming from sea level, I got dizzy at the worst times. Sheer thousand-foot drops were only a wheel waver away, while the oncoming drivers tended to swing into the outer lane, hoping to avoid falling rocks from above. I poured water over my head to stay focused. At one point, just past the summit, I had to pull over for a few minutes. Erin waited patiently while I gasped and tottered around the turn-out.

Erin grew up on a ranch in the Flattop mountains. She was one of eight tall, blond, big-boned children, with a mop of curly hair and a bottomless reservoir of energy. Her tolerance for high altitudes was bred in the bone. Heights, speed and edges, that was where Erin felt at home. Not me. I dry-heaved into the thistles and wondered if I had made the right decision.

Colorado had seemed like a good choice a the time. Land of wilderness, destination of hope, it called to me from a thousand miles away as I dragged through the grind of city life. Burnt out from working long hours at a pre-school, sick of my relationship with David and disheartened by my fruitless search for utopia, I dreamed of running away to live in the mountains. There I would settle down and finally write a book. It was a pipe dream, sure, but I clung to it like a life raft.

Then, one day, my wealthy father sent a $25,000 check, a complete surprise, a chance to escape. I would use the money to buy some land, get a loan, build a house, change careers, and put together another radio station. No longer Annie Voice, my radio name at SFLR, now I would be Lotta Nerve, and I would make it on my own... with a little help from my best friend. I had called Erin with the check still in my hand. "Erin, I'm rich! You wanna help me buy some land? Maybe build a house? We can both live there, come and go, you know?"

"Sure," she said, "why not?"

I pondered this as I retched into the weeds, finally running out of spasms and sitting down on a rock. “You OK?” asked Erin, stubbing out a cigarette.

“Yeah, I’ll live. Where are we?”

“About five miles north of Silverton. It’s probably another, oh… hour and a half to Durango. We’ll be there in no time.”

“Great,” I took a swallow of water from the bottle she offered and poured another dose on my head.

“Look behind us,” she said, pointing, “Now THAT is very cool.” I turned to see the road swooping down into a dark gorge between vertical red and gray cliffs below us. I nearly vomited again but awe overcame the nausea.

“Wow,” was all I could manage. Turning back, a narrow green valley lay ahead, lined with sharp, snow-covered ridges. A rainbow from the afternoon storm spread out across the sky, with one end coming down smack dab in the direction of our destination.

"That's a good sign!" Erin crowed.

"Like the eagles," I replied.

*******

October, 1984: I dream that a wise old Indian woman takes me by both hands, "Go. Seek the Eagle People, join them. There you will find your home," she says.

The next morning I told Erin about the dream.

"That's what you have to do," she said, dripping a ladle of honey into her tea.

"Where the hell am I going to find eagle people?" I asked. "all we have around here are pigeons and rats." We lived in a huge old house in Boston with Gabe and six other roommates.

"You'll just have to keep your eyes open," said Erin "Maybe they'll find you."

I had forgotten the dream until we were on the way to Durango, until I noticed the signs, they were everywhere; ‘Eagle Grocery,’ ‘Eagle Laundry,’ Eagle Pawn,’ as if a flock of eagles had moved in and started businesses in Southwest Colorado. And just then, as we stood overlooking the valley, a real eagle appeared, heading south from the flatlands below. Up through the gorge on the wind and over our heads it soared, not once looking down.

"I'm ready,” I said, “let’s go.”

*******

'Nature's Oasis,' announced the sign. Erin pulled into the parking lot and I followed. “This is where we can find our next step,” she said, "and some snacks." Sure enough, right at the entrance of the health food store stretched a long bulletin board, heavily dotted with colored posters. We picked opposite ends and scanned our way towards the middle, reading them like tea leaves, looking for direction.

“Got anything?” I asked as we met. She smiled and handed me a flier. “Positive Vibration Real Estate” it proclaimed; “Looking for a Realtor with integrity? Call Doug Raymond, good karma is our specialty.”

I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number. A friendly voice answered, “Positive Vibration, This is Doug.”

“Hi Doug,” I said, “I’m here with a friend and we’re looking for a piece of land.”

“Great! You called the right number. When would you like to meet?”

“Well, we’re only here for a week, so as soon as possible,” I said, as Erin nodded vigorously.

“How about now?”

“Now?” I asked, Erin nodded again, “Uh, sure. How do we get to your office?”

“It’s easy,” said Doug.

So we drove to Doug's home, an octagonal log house with a smaller, matching octagon garage/office. Doug, a mid-forties guy with a wide smile, met us at the door and waved us in. Three mountain bikes and a raft of skis stood in the garage in place of a car. We followed him through the sporting goods to his office in the back. There a half dozen guitars were displayed on the walls, a drum set stood in the corner and, almost an afterthought, a desk was plopped in the center of the room with a couple of folding chairs leaning against it. These Doug smoothly unfolded and offered to us. We sat carefully as he fired up the computer.

"Welcome to Durango," he said. "Congratulations on finding your way to Paradise. How was your trip?"

"A little rough, that last pass is a doozy," I said.

"It's not easy to get here, but it's harder to leave," Doug smiled. “So, what are you looking for?”

“Land,” I said, "something in the mountains."

“Something off the beaten path,” said Erin

“Beautiful, yet affordable,” I added.

“Secluded, but not too remote.”

“With water.”

“Aahh, water,” said Doug. “”I think I get the picture. What do you want to do with your land?”

The question we had pondered endlessly, the one for which we had so many answers.

"Theater, something outdoors, with giant puppets."

"A radio station."

"A refugee camp, yeah..." we both nodded vigorously. "A place where our friends can come when the cities fall apart.”

“A little Y2K?” he asked.

“Like that, but no guns," I said.

"Just love, peace and rock n' roll, y’know?” said Erin

“Gotcha.” Doug turned to the computer and started tapping in numbers. In a minute it was printing out a long list of potential properties. “Here,” he said, “check these places out and call me on Monday. I know we can find what you’re looking for.”

We did. Twelve miles east of town, at the back of a subdivision, steep and cheap, was the six acre lot we chose. We called Doug on Monday and I put a down payment on the property. Then Erin and I both drove West separately, she to L.A. and I back to San Francisco for one last winter.

*******

It was an ugly season. David was convinced that I was bluffing. The more I talked about leaving the more scornful he became. Even when I scheduled the movers and brought home the cardboard boxes, he insisted that I was kidding myself. We argued incessantly. Luckily, our surprise visit from the FCC was just the excuse I needed to bump up my departure. I rescheduled the movers, packed all week and said goodbye to my preschoolers.

On the last afternoon David finally understood. The house, empty of my belongings, contained only the radio equipment and a few pieces of furniture. He came in and stood for a moment, taking it in. “You’re going now?” he asked, looking confused.

“Yes. Now. Thanks for everything. Good luck.” I kissed him quickly on the cheek and zipped out to my heavily loaded car. He came to the door as I drove away, waving slowly, unsmilingly. I tried not to look TOO happy waving back.

*******

And so I moved to Durango. I rented a cabin in a trailer park and got a job at the local chocolate factory - one of the town’s larger employers. I also found a contractor, Karl Bergstrom. Karl had experience building alternative-type houses. He was not put off by my big dreams and small budget. I showed him the elaborate dome Erin and I had designed with a cheap computer program. He stared at it for a few minutes as we sat in the Steaming Bean, sipping coffee. I waited. The contractors I had called so far had blown me off instantly. "So what do you think?" I finally blurted.

“Well…. I don’t think we can build that, not for the price you want.... but we can build something,” he said.

"What?....... What can I build?"

Karl gazed into his cup. I craned my neck to see whatever he was envisioning, but there was only coffee. "I don't know," he said, "but I know someone who might."

Karl introduced me to an friend of his, George Noyes, an energetic environmental architect. As quiet at Karl could be, George was his opposite. He roamed his office as we brainstormed, building imaginary structures with his hands, pointing out minuscule details in the air.

Erin, George, Karl and I drew up a plan for a split-level straw bale home, with an indoor waterfall and a kiva fireplace that sported a large dragon. It was a lovely design. We started building it that summer. Erin oversaw most of the weekday construction while I worked at the chocolate factory and came out on weekends. I would rather have been framing and stacking bales, but with a loan to secure I needed a steady job, so I stacked bonbons instead.

*******

Carver's patio was cool enough for jackets. I kept mine on but Erin left hers in the car. "It's only September," she shrugged. We were out to celebrate: The foundation and driveway were in, the well dug, and the framing just underway. Erin, having exhausted her summer savings, planned to leave for L.A. in the morning.

Our waitress hurried out, plopped down pumpkin beer and nachos, and returned to the warm bar. As she walked through the door Erin waved at someone inside, a very tall, blade-thin man with long black hair and piercing eyes. He was just the type I would expect Erin to know; the most striking person in the room, He smiled and strolled out to our table. “Lou, this is Daine Duke," Kate said, "Daine, this is Lou Gardner.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lou,” He shook my hand warmly.

“Likewise. You seem familiar.”

“Everyone’s familiar here,” he said, “though you might have read my name in the paper last week.”

I had, now that he said it, the local weekly had printed a story about him being fired as a volunteer DJ from the college station. Apparently he had started his own promotional venture with the record companies that sent the station new music. He was also cited for bringing his dog and bicycle into the studio where his friends would join him for large parties that frequently involved expletives getting out over the air.

"No, I don't think so," I said. "Would you like to join us?"

"Of course," said Daine, "it's always a pleasure to make new friends." For the rest of the evening he waved people over to make introductions. Before the night was through I felt like I had met half the town and, may I say without being rude, it seemed like the seedier portion.

*******

Fall came. I worked overtime at the factory in preparation for the Christmas 'crunch.' A chocolate factory may seem like an attractive place to work, and it had its benefits, but mostly the days were long and strenuous; up before dawn, at the warehouse by six, work for at least ten hours and then home for a brief, restless night of sleep before starting again.

My co-workers were an interesting mix, ranging from new-age cowboys to ex-con bikers. We got on very well. We loaded our carts, packed our pallets and wheeled them onto the trucks. We often went out for a beer before driving home. I felt like a part of the gang. Right after Thanksgiving they offered me a full time job, with benefits, which I accepted, but then Dad called and changed my life again.

The phone jangled insistently. I tried to ignore it and fall back asleep but the answering machine was broken. After the tenth ring I lumbered out to the living room, pulling on a heavy bathrobe, cursing the cabin's substandard heating. I groped for the receiver and knocked it off the cradle onto the floor. "Hello?" it said as it bounced.

"Hello... Dad?" I retrieved the uncooperative machine and pressed its cold plastic to my ear.

“Hi Honey, how 're you doing? I hope I didn't wake you up."

"Uh..." it was midnight ...."Not really. What're you up to Dad?"

"Well, I had an idea for you. I was thinking maybe you could come and work for me for a while. I need some help writing a book. About Lee Oswald. You know how I’ve been looking into Oswald?”

“Uh, yeah, Oswald, sure… two Oswalds, right?” My sluggish brain raced to remember Dad’s current hobby. He had a long history of odd hobbies, something you can afford when you’re wealthy. At various times in his life he raced cars in Europe, ran a nightclub in Sicily, made fireworks, furniture, French lace embroidery, played the tuba, studied astronomy, earned a ham radio license and acquired a large collection of African art. Lately it was the JFK assassination. Dad was sure he had it solved.

“Yes, two Oswalds, John Armstrong’s theory. I found the second one. I want to prove it, but I’m not very good at writing and I don't really have the time to do it. I'd like to hire you. You could do the research and put it down on paper. We can say we both wrote it. You can come down here to Florida, get a little background information, then maybe I can send my books out there with you, rent an office, and use it for research when I come out to visit you.”

My mind went into a holding pattern. Two Oswalds, Florida, book….Two Oswalds, Florida, book....book... Write a book!

“Sure,” I said, “when should I come down?”

“How about January, right after New Years?”

“OK, I’ll be there.”

“Great! You can see the new house, stay for a couple of weeks and then take the files back to Durango. We’ll look forward to seeing you. I’m going to go now, the news is on.”

“OK Dad, and thanks.”

“You’re welcome Honey.”

“Are you crazy?” My sister asked when I told her. “You know Dad, he makes all kinds of promises and then forgets to pay you.” She had worked for him for a while in Las Vegas, when he was on his gambling streak. “Trust me, you’re better off at the chocolate factory.”

“But it’s writing,” I whined, “and besides, it won’t last too long, I’m just going to write this one book and get a real job again.”

“Sure,” she said. “Of course you are. Better you than me. And what kind of book is he writing?"

"It's a Kennedy expose. He's found the second Lee Oswald."

"Lou......"

"It won't take long," I repeated, "It's good practice. After this, maybe I can write a book of my own. And besides, he's paying me three times what I make at the factory. I need that money to build my house."

"It's your life... but if I were you I'd build a smaller house and keep the day job."

"Thanks, I'll bear that in mind."

'She's right,' I thought angrily, hanging up the phone. 'What the hell am I getting myself into here?' I stared at my shabby little cabin and said out loud, "a home, that's what I'm getting into. I'm going to take that job, I'm going to write a book and I'm going to build me a home!"

“You have GOT to be kidding,” I muttered, staring at the huge pink mansion in front of me. After rechecking the address three times, I parked under a coconut tree and walked stiffly to the front entrance, a gigantic white door with gold trim. The brass knocker was as big as a dinner plate. I tapped it gently.

“It's open, come in!” Came a distant shout. I pushed the door open a crack and slipped inside.

An overwhelmingly large living room loomed ahead, two stories high with a Disney-esque suspended walkway above, no doubt connecting the bedrooms on either wing. The entire West wall was a walloping window which looked out over a pool and the inland waterway beyond. On the other side of the waterway more mansions sat like fat despots, with an army of boats parked at their private docks.

“Lou?” A tentative voice, my stepmother was sitting at a table by the window, with papers spread out in front of her. She got up and came over to hug me.

“Hi Ann, it’s good to see you. You look great.” And she did, very healthy and still pretty in an intelligent kind of way; Silver hair in a bob, casual shorts and tank top, piercing eyes through large glasses.

"How was your drive?” She asked.

“Pretty good, long, I guess I could have flown, for all the trouble Y2K caused.”

“I think you were smart not to risk it, we’re just glad you made it safely.”

“Where’s Pop?”

“Outside, in the pool. Why don’t you go see him? We can take your bags in later.”

“Thanks, I will. See you in a minute.” She went back to her work, some kind of calculations it looked like. I wandered through the dining area out to the screened porch. Two large, fluffy Himalayan cats scooted over and pressed themselves to my ankles. “Hi Taffy, hi Eddy,” I stroked them fondly while they purred loudly.

“Lou?” My father called from outside. I went on through the other screen door, “Don’t let the cats out.” I pushed it quickly shut behind me.

He was standing in the swimming pool, washing his hair. Various personal care items were laid out on the marble rim; soap, washcloth, deodorant, his glasses. I walked over and squatted down. “Good to see you, Dad.”

“You too, honey. Hang on a second, I’ll be right out.” He ducked under the surface, leaving a ring of shampoo bubbles. I could see him swishing about underwater. After a second he surfaced and lumbered up the steps on the shallow end. We shared a damp hug.

“You’re washing your hair in the swimming pool?”

“What’s the point of having a pool if you can’t do what you want in it?”

“Doesn’t it turn your hair green?” He was larger than when I had last seen him, slower.

“Nah, we don’t use much chlorine. Anyway, I’m glad you could come down, I’ve got a lot to talk to you about this Oswald thing. I think it will be a great book. Did you get a chance to read John Armstrong’s work?”

Dad tucked a towel around his waist and dripped back into the house. I followed. “Yes, he’s the main guy with the ‘Two Oswalds’ theory, isn’t he?”

“He IS the main guy. So far. I have his complete writings upstairs, along with a couple of books I picked up for you to do some background research, you know, to get acquainted with the JFK assassination basics.”

“Thanks, I’ll start tonight.”

“Oh, no hurry, why don’t you get settled and maybe come out for a swim? Or go for a walk on the beach.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great, Ann will show you your room. ANNE,” he shouted.

“Yes Dear,” she called back.

“Show Lou her room, will you honey? I need to get online before the markets close.”

“Yes Dear.”

I got my bags from the jeep and followed Ann up the stairs and over the skywalk. Since I was the only visitor I was given the best guest room, with a private balcony facing the waterway. Ann went back downstairs and I got to work settling in. I pushed the twin beds together and made it up with large sheets. The only other items of furniture were a dresser, TV and a wooden chair, upon which was stacked an impressive pile of assassination books. I grabbed a book off the top of the pile, "JFK, The Photographic Evidence," by Ellis Morton, tossed it on the bed for later, and wandered out to the balcony.

Just below me lay the pool, hot tub and garden, filled with coconut palms and poinsettias. Beyond that was the dock, with a ‘picnic boat’ tied to a mooring. The inland waterway stretched off to the North and South. Occasionally large yachts motored by, many still strung with holiday lights. I took a minute to gawk in awe, then changed into shorts and went downstairs.

“Do you mind if I look around?” I asked Ann.

“Of course not, make yourself at home,” she said. As if. The rest of the place, for all it’s luxurious construction, was sparsely furnished. Dad wasn't much on interior decoration, and, apparently, neither was Ann. The furniture was a carbon copy of that in every other house or apartment Dad had owned; a large, white leather sectional sofa facing the largest-screen TV available on the market. An oversized leather easy chair, his personal chair. Books were always strewn on the coffee table, not for looks but because he was really reading them; physics, astronomy, history and, of course, politics. A large, wooden dining table was covered with more books, magazines loose papers and the laptop, which was never shut off. Another dining table and set of chairs stood by for meals. The rest of the house was either unfurnished, filled with partially unpacked boxes, or oddly graced with decorative items that must have come with the place. Fake flowers in pastel baskets and huge herons stood in the corners. They were perhaps intended to balance the scale of that outsized room, but the effect was more funhouse than feng shui.

I went out the back door and down to the dock. Looking out along the waterway I could have been on any wealthy boulevard in the country, except that there were no large walls and locked gates. Such security was unnecessary along the waterway, petty thieves don't own boats. I wandered back to the house, where Dad was sitting at his computer. He stood when I came in and shuffled through the rings of keys on the table. “Would you like to go for a drive?” He asked.

“Sure, where to?”

“Jack in the Box, I’m going to pick up some dinner.”

“Yummy, Jack in the Box.”

“Oh, I forgot, you’re a vegetarian, aren’t you?”

“Just for the past 20 years. I‘ll bet there's someplace near Jack's where I can get a meal too, if you don‘t mind making two stops.”

“Of course not. Ann?”

“Mmm?” She looked up from her accounts.

“We’re going to pick up some dinner, would you like something?”

“Did you say you were going someplace else besides Jack in the Box?” She asked me hopefully.

“Yes, what can I get you?”

“Ohhh… Chinese would be good.”

“Great,” said Dad, “We’ll go by that place in the mall, maybe I’ll get something there too.”

We drove inland in Dad's blue Rolls Royce convertible. It felt ostentatious until I noticed the other cars in the parking lot; Porsches, Ferraris, Jaguars, you name it, were lined up next to each other by the high-priced boutiques and gourmet food shops. Plopped on the outer edges of the parking lot were the franchise restaurants, no doubt meant for the store’s employees and the servants of the nearby houses. Dad picked up a bagful of heart-attack helper and we drove on to a Chinese restaurant where I ordered some vegetarian dishes, sweet and sour chicken for Ann and a carton of pork-fried rice, in case Dad wanted a midnight snack. Then we drove the scenic route back toward Ocean Boulevard, north for a few long blocks, then east into Delray Beach proper. “This is a cute little town,” Dad said.

You could call it that. The main street took us past neat little galleries and clothing shops. Pink and white stucco storefronts with palm trees and other tropical flora stretched down to the beach, where older, elegant hotels stood at attention to the sea. Tourists and locals, all dressed in bright summer outfits, strolled the sidewalks and chatted in outdoor cafes. On a pleasant day like today it looked like paradise. During a hurricane I bet it would suck. I kept my cynical observations to myself as Dad gaily pointed out his favorite places.

“The only thing this town is missing is a good cinema,” he sighed. “And a film festival.” Dad was an avid movie buff. “It’s too bad, I’d love to have a film festival in my own town. Does Durango have a film festival?”

“Uh, I don’t think so. We’ve got a Cowboy Festival, and a duck race, and something called Snowdown where everyone dresses up in theme costumes and competes in wacky events. I got thrown out of the Spam-carving contest last time.”

“Thrown out?”

“I carved something that I thought Spam was an appropriate medium for, you know, like email Spam; 'Grow your penis ten times!"… I guess it was a family event. That stuff is hard to manipulate, you know.”

“Mmm, Spam. Have you ever had a fried Spam and mayo sandwich?”

“Can you pull over? I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh, I forgot, well how about fried banana and mayo?”

“No…. But, that hazel nut spread and banana? Now that’s a great sandwich, especially on sprouted wheat.”

“You know, what if you put it on white bread instead and fried it? Yeah.” Dad swerved over to the curb. "There’s a gourmet shop over there. Would you mind running in and getting some of that hazel nut spread? And see if they have Spam.”

As we drove down South Ocean Boulevard, past the mansions and manicured gardens, Dad's train of thought made a return trip. “So, Durango doesn’t have a film festival. You could start one, you know.”

“I suppose I could.”

“You started some other groups that did pretty well.”

“Do you mean Food Not Bombs?”

“Food FOR Bombs,” he chuckled, trying to bait me.

“I’d say they’ve done pretty well, yes, but that’s due to Gabe, not me.”

“Anyway, about this film festival, I’ve been thinking…” I braced myself, “That if you started one in Durango I could fund it, you know? Just get it going, I mean, for the first year I could throw a few thousand your way.” Long pause. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think I can start a film festival right now, thanks for the offer, but tell you what; if someone else starts one I’ll help out, and maybe you could give them the money.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said, “Just make sure it’s got sensible people running it, not a bunch of those hippies.”

I wanted to remind him that it was a dozen hippies that started Food Not Bombs, now an international organization. Dad didn't care about that, but once they were mentioned on Fox News, whereupon they had gained a portion of his respect. Of course the report was not totally accurate, even slanted negatively against the group, but the fact remained Food Not Bombs made the national news, and thus at least one of my hair-brained projects had been a success.

"I wouldn't worry about it," I said, "Film festivals aren't the same as feeding the homeless. Besides, I haven't seen a single homeless person since I moved there."

"Any blacks?"

"My next door neighbor is the only one I've seen."

"Is there really only one black person in Durango?"

"That's all I've seen, " I said, grimacing. "But wait, there's Indians. Lots and lots of Indians, and Mexicans!" Dad frowned.

"Oh well, maybe I'll still move out there someday." He said. "Do you really live next door to the only black in town?"

"I don't KNOW if he's the only one," I said testily.

"Well, you should move out of there. Get that house finished and move into it."

"Thanks for your concern. What about mountain lions? There's mountain lions out where the house will be."

"Get a gun. They're good for everything."

*******

I spent the next few weeks leisurely reading by the pool. The JFK material was interesting yet unsurprising. I always believed his murder was a coup d’etat, so it was no big news that the CIA, the military, the police and even President Johnson may have been involved. They would all have had to cooperate to pull it off. Still, I duly took notes and tracked Oswald throughout, jotting down each date and location. There would have to be a chart and calendar, of course, with footnotes of every source and highlights on the discrepancies. It would take a while, the Warren Report alone would take months to go through. Plus there were seven boxes of FBI files that Dad had acquired through the Freedom of Information act. They must have cost a fortune. Several of the boxes had not even been opened. “I want you to read them,” Dad said when I called, “Just note down the interesting stuff for me.”

So I put the boxes in the ‘to move to Durango’ pile and, in my spare time, started reading page after page of barely legible FBI memos on Oswald and the Cuban Exile community. Most of it seemed to have nothing to do with Oswald at all, just the movements of a bunch of wacked-out would-be mercenaries around Miami and New Orleans. But somehow Oswald was connected to them. The memos were a mind-numbing descent into the world of CIA-backed dissidents; So-And-So wanted such-and-such or they would tell You-Know-Who you-know-what. Somebody’s girlfriend once fucked Castro so now she could be used as an assassin maybe. Somebody once said they wanted Kennedy dead. Somebody else was bragging they had been a part of the killing. It went on and on with no definite suspects. Finally I threw the boxes , the Warren Report and the stack of JFK starter books into my car and took them all back to Durango. This job was going to take a while, a year at least, maybe two.

*******

Erin came back for the summer. On a warm, June evening her truck wheezed to a halt in my driveway. “Gawd I am sick of traveling,” she exclaimed, flopping down on the sofa, “mind if I smoke?”

“Outside if it’s all the same to you.” We went into the postage stamp sized garden that I had wrenched out of the rocky soil and sat in plastic chairs, drinking icy beers.

“How’s your love life?” She asked almost immediately.

“Non-existent. Yours?”

“Well there was the young thing, very sweet, he was good for a couple of weeks, then I met Dana, Oh My God she is SO sexy, she runs a sanctuary for wolf hybrids, but she lives too far away,” (sigh) “Jarrod showed up in Boulder for a little while, we got back together but just for fun, and then there’s Amir….”

“Don’t you worry about AIDS?”

“Oh, sure, but I’m careful.” She reached inside her shirt and pulled out a fresh condom, “See? Ready for anything.”

"You’d make a great Girl Scout.”

“I was. Have you heard from Gabe lately?” We had all been friends together back when Food Not Bombs was starting, what was it, 20 years ago? That long?

We gabbed on until finally we ran out of news. Erin stretched back in her chair. “Look at that sky.” It had turned it’s brilliant collage of sunset pink clouds on a darkening purple background. “How’s your Oswald project coming along. Solved the mystery yet?”

“Nah. I’m only getting deeper into it. Did you see those boxes?

“How could I miss them? They’re taking up half the cabin.”

“I know. Remind me, tomorrow I have to rent an office in town.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow… tonight…”

“Yes, gosh, tonight,” I yawned and looked at my watch, “it’s just about time to….”

“Make the late show.” Erin finished. She popped up from her chair. “Come on, we can get to town in time if we hurry.”

I forget what movie it was, some obscure independent film that the Gaslight only showed at the end of the day. I was dozing slightly when the lights came up. Erin elbowed me. “Let’s get a drink.”

“I could use a coffee, hold on, someone’s going to make an announcement.” A young man had stepped up in front of the screen and was waving for everyone’s attention.

“Excuse me,” he called out, “I just wanted to say that, if you enjoyed this movie and you would like to see more independent films here in Durango, we are planning to start a film festival. We are looking for people who want to be a part of organizing our first one. If you love movies and have some time to help out, please contact me. My name is Edwin Ames of ‘Ames Film and Video’. Come up and speak to me if you are interested. Thank you.”

“Hey, a film festival, wanna join?” Erin grinned. “It would be a great way to meet people in your new hometown.”

“I think I have to,” I said. She gave me a curious look. “I’ll explain later, let’s go sign up.”

*******

The Durango Film Festival set up camp in my father's office. I volunteered it on his behalf. Conveniently located above Carvers, it had two large rooms, a kitchen area and a bathroom - with a shower! When the film festival needed a space I suggested they use the front room. Edwin and his wife/business partner, Kara, took charge of getting a phone line installed and setting up the festival headquarters. I moved research operations into the back room which, sparsely furnished as it was, was a good spot for festival meetings. On this particular night in September we were holding our first gathering of potential volunteers.

About 20 people showed up, an impressive attendance. Edwin and Kara were very pleased, as were the rest of us in the founding group. We sat in a large circle and divvied up tasks. Daine was there. Dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, with his hair pulled back in ponytail, he presented himself rather conservatively. He stayed pretty quiet during the discussions, just watching and listening. In the end, when we took on tasks, he volunteered to be the ‘Development Director’. His job, as he described it, would be to get local businesses and groups to participate with some form of donation. From what I had seen of Daine, it was perfect volunteer opportunity. No mention was made of his expulsion from the radio station. After the meeting formally ended he made his way over to me with a young man in tow.

“Lou, how nice to see you again. It looks like you’re doing well. This is a great office.”

“Thanks, but it's not really my office, it's my father's, I’m working for him… right now,” I added, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Of course,” Daine said easily, “I would do the same thing. Say, Lou, I’d like you to meet someone,” he pulled over a handsome young man in cowboy boots with longish blond hair, wide-open eyes and a friendly smile. “This is Dean, Dean Edgarson.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dean said, shaking my hand.

“We were wondering about your books,” said Daine, “Are you doing some kind of work on JFK?”

“Actually, yes, my father wants to write a book on Lee Harvey Oswald,” I replied. Daine smiled.

“Dean and I know someone else who’s writing a book about the Kennedy assassination.”

“Here in Durango? Well this IS a small town. What’s his interest?”

“He was one of the shooters,” said Daine, without batting an eye.

“No, his father was,” said Dean, “He’s writing a book about his father and the other guys that did it."

"Really?!" I asked incredulously.

"I know it sounds crazy,” Dean shrugged.

“No more crazy than my father's book. No more crazy, I’m sure, than the truth. Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I think so, but I don’t know, really. He just always tells the same story and he seems so sure of it.”

“He’s a got a lot of other people working on his book too,” chimed in Daine. "You might want to meet him, I bet you two could help each other out with research and such.”

“Um, OK, sure.”

“Great, I’ll let you know next time he’s in town,” said Dean, “I bet he would want to meet you too.”

At that moment Eleanor, my partner on the marketing team, walked by. Dean watched her cross the room and lost his train of thought. He excused himself and wandered off in her direction. Daine waved over another man, older, with curly grey hair and a sort of froggy face, not unattractive; round eyes, wide mouth, rather boyish-looking. “Lou Gardner, meet Ben Pusser. You volunteered to do marketing too, didn’t you Ben?”

“Marketing consulting,” replied Ben. He reached out and took my hand. “Lou... I haven’t seen you around, are you new in town?”

“Sort of, I’ve been here over a year. But I’ve been traveling a lot and…” I waved around at the books on the shelves, “I have a lot of reading to do. I don’t go out very much.”

“So I see,” he said, but he barely glanced at the books. “Well, we should meet sometime to talk about this marketing thing. I’m sure I can give you a few ideas. Why don’t we trade phone numbers and arrange something?”

“Excellent idea,” said Daine, with a touch of satisfaction in his voice. Ben and I exchanged numbers and he moved off to circulate the crowd, getting warm greetings from all he approached. Apparently Ben got around. I noticed Daine watching him carefully, but only for a moment.

“Say, Daine, “ I asked, “Was this guy's father really one of the assassins?”

“Hmm? Oh… well that’s what he says… he’s very convincing… You’ll see.”

“How come he’s not on the news? You know, famous? How come he’s even still alive? A lot of people died to shut that murder up.”

“I guess because his book isn’t out yet; people don’t know. I bet when it does though, he’s going to be a very famous guy.”

“Or a very dead guy,” I mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing. I look forward to meeting him.”

“Good,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to these people over here.” He traveled on to a lively group. I stared at the books. So many different stories, angles, lies and baloney. What kind of a crazy tale would this man tell? Whatever it was, it couldn't be much crazier than the Warren Report. I scowled at the set of blue and gold books on the shelf and turned away to mingle with my new associates, hoping to make some friends.

*******

I was going to need friends. As the house came together my relationship with Erin fell apart. She spent the summer building, hanging out with Karl and the construction crew, developing a happy camaraderie, while I sat alone in the office and read for eight hours a day, then came ‘home’ each night to see what they had accomplished. I felt more and more like a stranger. This was not what I had imagined. I thought I was going to help build my own house, but all I got to do at the end of the day was clean up.

I was jealous, oh yes. At the same time I sank deeper into debt while Erin didn't spend a dime of her own money. Her sole contribution to 'our' house was her labor. She worked hard, but she was having fun, damn it, and I was not. We had a verbal agreement to share the place, a deal between friends made without much thought. The more resentful I became, the more I thought about it. At the end of August I spent a week writing up a proposal for Erin, with three options for future ownership of the house. At the core of each of them was a valuation of her labor into dollars, to go into either part ownership or rent, depending on her choice. The finished house would be assessed and if she wanted half, she would have to pay for it.

This did not go over well with Erin “All you think about is MONEY!” She shouted.

“Yes! I’m thinking about money! I’m thinking about it all the time. I’m in debt for the rest of my life. Your name isn’t on those loan papers.”

“What about your father?”

“Am I supposed to just ask him pay for it? Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?”

“What seems wrong to me,” said Erin, “Is how you could lie to me and get me to work on your house for free.”

“I never… what? Listen,” I was steaming now, “You write me an invoice and, if we both agree it’s fair, I’ll pay you for every minute.”

“Fine. Goodbye. And fuck you.”

She was gone by the time I got back from work the next day. She had taken absolutely everything she owned, including a table on the back porch. All the items that had stood upon it were in exactly the same position on the floor. She didn’t leave a note.

Fall came blowing in. I worked. Every day I sat in the office, smelling coffee brewing and muffins baking, forcing myself to focus. I tried to break it up by varying the content; nine to noon - FBI files, noon to two - Warren Report, two to four - JFK books. It was a very dull life, but things were about to change.

One night in mid-November, after a festival meeting, Daine got a call on his cell phone. As soon as he hung up he hurried over to me. “Lou, remember that guy I told you about who’s writing a JFK book? He’s down at the Bean right now. Would you like to meet him?”

“Sure.”

“OK, you go on, I‘ll call and tell him you're coming.”

“Aren’t you coming too?”

“No, I need to stay and talk to some people. I have an idea, why don’t you give me the key and I’ll lock up the office? That way you don’t have to come back afterwards.”

“Great,” I handed him the key, “Thanks.”

The Steaming Bean coffee shop, on Main Avenue between 8th and 9th, is one of Durango‘s heavily populated java joints. Featuring the usual array of hot beverages and baked treats, the Bean is also an excellent hangout. Comfy armchairs and heavy wooden tables stand by the windows, through which you can watch passers-by as you sip and chat, or read the magazines that hang on a rack by the display case.

Business at the Bean was slow that night. A lone counter girl leaned on her elbows, staring at the ski poster across the room, no doubt dreaming of fresh powder. I looked around the room. Of the half-dozen patrons present, there was only one who looked like he was waiting for someone. It had to be Joshua; he sat straight up in his chair, looking inquisitively at me. He appeared to be about my age, a little on the chubby side, with short, brownish-red hair, a smooth face and round glasses. “Joshua?” I asked. He stood and held out his hand.

“You must be Lou. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” I pulled off my jacket and sat across from him. He was not as I had imagined. I pictured a man who was hard, a liar and con man, someone who had tricked the locals into believing he knew who killed Kennedy. On the contrary, Joshua seemed soft-edged, friendly, a little nervous.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“Yes please, regular coffee with milk.”

“Is that all? They have some fine mochas here, if you want.”

“OK, that would be nice, I’ll have a mocha.”

“Whipped cream?”

“Sure.”

Joshua went up to the counter and ordered two mochas. He tipped the counter girl generously, I could tell by the look of surprise on her face. She ladled a mountain of whipped cream onto each drink, so much that Joshua had a difficult time getting them back to the table, but he managed.

“Well,” he said, once settled again, “I guess you’ve heard about my book.”

“Somewhat. Daine and Dean told me you were writing about the JFK assassination and that you had an inside story.”

“I do." He looked at me steadily for a moment, then said, "my father was involved.”

So Dean was not kidding. This man really believed his father was one of the assassins. “May I ask how?”

“You may, and I’ll be happy to tell you. But before I do, I wonder if you could tell me what you think happened, and who you think did it? I mean, we’ve just met and you must admit this subject can be dangerous if discussed with the wrong person. I’m just being careful, you know?”

“Of course, that's fair,” I said. “Well... in a nutshell.... I think Kennedy was killed by a group of wealthy right-wing fanatics. They were pissed about his policies on Cuba, Viet Nam, the CIA, the Federal Reserve, Civil Rights and atomic testing. They wanted to show the world that that they were the ones who called the shots, not that upstart president. They could never claim the glory of their deed, but deep in their hearts (and wallets) they were rewarded for saving their version of a free world... That’s what I think.”

Joshua looked at me carefully, with growing enthusiasm on his face. “And one more thing,“ I added, “I think Mind Control projects played some kind of part, but I don‘t have much evidence… yet.” Joshua sat back. He looked like a hungry bear that had just been given a picnic basket.

“Tell me more about the mind control,” he said, “What do you think was going on with that?”

Delighted to have someone ask about my favorite subject, I launched into my theory: “Well... as an informant and provocateur, Lee Oswald was being subjected to some of the MK Ultra experiments the CIA was doing back then to create... sort of ‘super-agents.’ Lee was not the loser, ne'er-do-well he was made out to be. He talked about being a spy when he was a young boy. He joined the Marines and worked in a high-security radar facility. He had a long history of covert intelligence-type activity that focused on swinging back and forth from the right to the left wing: US Marine who defects to Communist Russia... and back, dirt poor yet hangs out with wealthy people, offers military training to right-wing Cuban exiles while publicly supporting Fidel Castro, the list goes on. When he was in New Orleans he expressed a great deal of interest in the CIA’s LSD experiments. All those factors make me think Lee was somehow involved in mind control. It was very big at the time.”

I shrugged and spooned in a mouthful of whipped cream. It was a casual gesture but really I was looking closely at Joshua, wondering what he thought of me now. He nodded.

“I think you’re right,” he said.

We sipped our mochas for a minute. I noticed the counter girl was leaning towards us with an ear our way. I wondered for a moment what she thought of my theory. Joshua wiped his mouth and leaned forward. In a quiet voice he said, “My father and his friends killed him. I was twelve then. Daddy took me with him to some of the meetings. There were a lot of people involved. I knew Lee Oswald, Jack Ruby and the Paines, they were all part of it, and there were others, people you don’t know but you sure guessed right. They were in the Air Force, the oil industry, the weapons industry, the CIA and the Mafia.”

If the counter girl leaned any closer she was going to knock over the sugar tray. Joshua saw me watching her and turned. Embarrassed, she stood up quickly and pretended to be inspecting the scones. “It’s all right,” Joshua assured her, “I know it’s a wild story. People listen all the time.” She turned beet red but held her ground.

“Did your father really kill Kennedy?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“No shit!” She was visibly impressed. Joshua sat up straighter. I imagined he was pulling in his stomach.

“Yeah, him and his friends. They got away with it too.”

“Wow,” She moved closer down the counter, “I wasn’t born then but I remember my parents talking about it. Your father shot JFK?!” Fortunately she kept her voice low, “How did he do it?”

“With a Remington 30.06.”

“Not a Mannlicher Carcano?” I asked.

“No way,” he said, “It was a Remington. Nice new one. Daddy loved that gun. He took me out to watch him shoot it. Afterwards he used to let his friends have their pictures taken with it on hunting trips. My family still has some of those photos. I know there’s one of Granddad with the gun, taken not too far from here.”

As I sat there, watching the girl absorb this, I wondered if Joshua told his story to everyone he met? Both Dean and Daine had known. The counter girl nodded her head, as if promising secrecy, and then turned away to help some customers who had just come in.

“That’s quite a story, Joshua, how many people know it?” I asked

“Just a few, the writers, the lawyers, the investors. And my family of course, and the families of the other men involved. And a couple of people here in Durango,“ He added, glancing at the counter girl, who was talking quietly with one of her co-workers at the other end of the café. We sipped in silence for a moment. “Here’s the thing,” he said suddenly, plunking his empty cup on the table, “I need to get backers; people who really care about what happened to Kennedy. I heard your father was interested in the assassination…” Red flags began to wave in my mind. Here it comes, I thought, the pitch.

“I don’t know if he’ll be interested. My father’s book has more to do with Lee Oswald.” I parried.

“That’s OK, maybe I can help him out. I knew Lee.”

I must have looked skeptical because he instantly added. “I know you think I’m trying to trick you, but I’m not. I can prove it.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Joshua, but if you want my father to even think about investing in your book, you’re going to have to prove it. He’s not a sucker.”

“OK,” he replied, “just let me get a refill. Can I get you another?”

After he returned with two more mochas I asked, “How is it you know all this? You were a child back then.”

“I was 12,” he said, “and older than my years. As the eldest son I was being groomed to take over the family legacy. Daddy took me to a lot of places that a grownup won’t usually take a child. He took me along for meetings and trips when I wasn’t in school. He introduced me to his friends and business associates. There was a lot that I didn’t see, of course. Some of his friends refused to have a child included in their business. Often they insisted that I leave the room. Then I would go and sit outside somewhere, or be taken care of by some servant while the grownups had their meeting.

Every time we went to see Sam Giancana, for instance, he had one of his flunkies baby-sit me in the outer room. He especially did not like to mix children and work, but Daddy was stubborn about that. So they compromised. I always sat in the outer office with this guy, I think his name was Martin, and he would give me Orange Crush and play cards with me until Daddy and Sam were through.” I imagined a boy, probably in shorts on a hot Dallas day, legs dangling from a barstool, concentrating on his cards.

“Is that where you met Jack Ruby?” I asked.

“No. I talked to him on the telephone mostly. Jack would call the house a lot, especially right before the assassination. I used to take messages from him. He and Daddy would meet at the Dobbs House restaurant, I remember that. Daddy always had their matchbooks in his pockets, which he emptied out at the end of the day. Jack was a nervous kind of guy. Whenever he called he talked really quickly…“This is Jack, tell Maxwell to call me as soon as he can. You got that? Goodbye.” I would write the message down and make sure Daddy got it as soon as he got home, but sometimes he would just shrug it off and not call back for days. Then Jack would get even more anxious. But Daddy was like that.”

“Who else did your father know?”

‘We knew Michael and Ruth Paine. Michael was a nice guy. He was nice enough to disagree with what they were doing. That’s why he left Ruth. He didn’t want to be involved in the killing. Ruth was solid though. she stuck it through all the way. Daddy had a tremendous amount of respect for her. ‘She’s a real soldier,’ he used to say.”

"So your father met Michael at Texas Instruments?" I asked, checking to see if Joshua would slip up.

"No, Michael worked at Bell, Bell Helicopter" (no mistakes there), "but Dad went around to all the companies. He was a salesman primarily. He worked for this guy in California, they were friends too, Harry Quinlan. Harry had several businesses going, one of them was chemical milling, it’s a process in making and maintaining missiles. Harry wanted to open a plant in Dallas, what with all the weapons manufacturers there, and he sent my father out to get things started. Unfortunately something happened and that company never got off the ground, but they founded a different one and my father was the president. He set up deals with other companies in Dallas to maintain and clean the components of their missiles. It was really just a cover, I mean, they did maintain missiles but the primary purpose of the business was as a CIA front company.”

I sat there for a moment, contemplating his story. "Do you think your father might be interested?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I am. Perhaps you could show me some of that proof? If you have anything solid I might pass it on to him.”

“I don’t have it with me, and honestly, there’s not a lot. They were very careful not to write anything down, but I know I can convince you if you give me a chance.”

The counter girl, done with serving her customers, was staring again with eyes like saucers. Her co-worker was shooting us glances from the far end of the counter. “OK, but maybe we should meet again in a more private location next time.”

“Sure. I’m in town for a couple of days. How about tomorrow morning?”

“All right. At my office, say 10:00?”

“Fine.”

I gave him directions, we finished our drinks and parted. I drove home along the twisting road, barely paying attention. My mind rolled along with the curves, trying to comprehend the enormity of the situation. If Joshua’s story was true it was huge. If a con, it was a very good one so far. Whatever the case, it was worth looking into. It shouldn't take too long to find out, not long at all.

*******

The sun rose on the other side of the mountain, providing light but little warmth. I crawled out of bed and headed for the wood stove. Light the fire. Start the coffee, pour the coffee, check the fire and finally... sit. The house was almost done. It was perfect, better than I had even imagined, than WE had even imagined, but it had a slightly bittersweet feel. NOT that I was sorry, OR that I missed her, but losing Errin’s friendship was like losing an anchor at sea. I clung to the surface with routines, like this one, the morning agenda. I pulled out my journal to write about last night’s dream.

November 16th, 2000: I dreamt of ghosts surrounding a house. They were everywhere, peeking in windows, hanging from the ceiling fan, looking back at me from the mirrors. I was not afraid. They were strangely comforting. It was nice to have company. There was a second of peace then, just me and the ghosts in the snow. What did they want? The ghosts wanted me. They were longing to have me join them. All I had to do was to slip out the top of my head and fly away with them. But not now, not yet.

I sipped my coffee and stared out the window at the swirling snow. 'Enough of dreams' I thought, 'this is the real world and you have a very real mortgage to pay.’ “Velcro!” I called to the ceiling.

A few muffled thumps replied from upstairs. Velcro, my new old dog, came slowly down from the bedroom and pressed himself against my legs. He was still waking up. Karl got him for me. His owner left town and Karl, who knew that I had a brand new house and empty spot where my best friend used to be, asked me if I wouldn’t adopt Velcro. Wouldn’t I? Oh yes indeed! I fell in love with him instantly. Something unhappy must have happened to Velcro in his puppy-hood, he was overly sensitive and scared of almost everything. On the other hand he could be radiantly exuberant on a hike or drive in the car. He loved anyone who had a kind word for him. Sometimes he reminded me painfully of myself.

I had a cat too, Lotta Nerve, a little black and white tuxedo kitty with an attitude. The name suited her better than me. She marched over to Velcro's bowl and started eating his food. He stared at me morosely. “It's all right, Velly, you’re gonna be OK.” I gave him a pat and went upstairs to get dressed.

When I arrived at the office, Joshua was standing inside with Daine, perusing the Kennedy books on the shelves.

“Hi Lou,” Daine greeted me a little groggily. He looked like he might have slept over. “Joshua and I were just admiring your library.”

“This is quite a collection,” Joshua said, “Are these your father’s?” I nodded. “Look, he’s even got the hardbound Warren Report. This is worth a lot of money.”

“Minus volumes 17, 18 and 20. I’m going to have to find those somewhere when I get to them. I’m still half-way through 14.”

“Are you reading the whole thing?”

“Skimming it. I’m just looking for the parts about Lee Oswald.” I shook off my coat and hung it over a chair, trying not to drip on any of the papers spread out on the floor.

“What do you do when you find them?”

“I read them carefully, writing down exactly where Lee Oswald was supposed to be, according to whom, and I mark the page and volume. Then I put all the dates on a big calendar and look for discrepancies.”

“Have you found any?”
“Oh yeah, mostly around a few specific incidents or issues, like his height, his whereabouts at certain times in Dallas, and his trip to Mexico right before the assassination.” I picked up a large wall calendar of September, 1963 and pointed out the dates. Joshua nodded thoughtfully.

“I think he was meeting my father down there,” he said. “Daddy went to Mexico City several times about then. He was down there the same time Lee was, in late September."

“What was were they meeting about?” I put the calendar back in its place and sat in a nearby chair. Joshua sat too.

“I don’t really know. He was meeting with Harry and some other men. Things got real busy after that and he didn’t talk to me as much about it. He was out a lot, the phone was ringing all the time, and when he was home he was returning calls."

Note: Lee Harvey Oswald’s trip to Mexico has always been an intrigue to researchers. For some reason Lee Oswald left New Orleans in late September of 1963, supposedly on a bus, and stayed for a week in Mexico City. While there, he went to both the Cuban and Soviet embassies, trying to get travel documents to either country. At the Cuban consulate, when they told him it would take months to get the documents, he had a very dramatic fit, saying things that sounded like he knew they were being recorded. Then he went over to the Soviet Embassy and did the same thing. The Soviets turned him down too. They said later that he was too unstable. The photos released, taken by surveillance cameras at each embassy, showed a man who looked nothing like Lee Harvey Oswald.

Having failed in his mission to get into Cuba or Russia, ‘Lee’ spent the rest of his week in Mexico City supposedly touring the town alone and returning to his hotel late each night. After his week was up he returned to Texas, allegedly on the bus again. Reliable records of this return bus trip have yet to be found. A lot of the Mexican witnesses got run through the ringer after the assassination. The woman Lee Oswald spoke to at the Cuban Consulate was tortured for days by the police before she got her story straight. After that she didn’t want to talk about it.

Lee Oswald was clearly an undercover cop, clear to me anyway. Most people involved in progressive activism have plenty of experience with infiltrators. They’re easy to spot; too obvious, too involved, too rabid, and always likely to start a fight. That was exactly how Lee Oswald was behaving in those last months before the assassination. Nowadays you wouldn’t think twice about him being a snitch. Not a very good one, either. He was up to something in Mexico. He wasn’t spending his days at the bullfights, not alone anyway. I wondered if he had been sitting there with Joshua’s dad, talking logistics, making plans.

“Joshua, can you prove your story is true?”

“It IS true.”

“Documents, pieces of paper, photographs, what do you have of those?”

“Most of my belongings are in storage in Las Cruces. I have some photos, not many documents, certainly nothing to do with the assassination. They didn’t leave any trail, you know? They were very careful about that.”

I glanced at Daine, to see what he was making of this. He appeared to be listening politely, as one would to any conversation, but his eyes were glazed and his nostrils flared at the smell of fresh-brewed coffee floating up from Carver's.

"I'm going to let you two talk in private," he said, "I'll be downstairs, please join me when you're done." He picked up his large satchel from the chair (in which I know I saw a toothbrush), grabbed his coat off the back of the door and exited, no doubt heading directly for a donut.

“Do you suppose your father would like to invest in my book?” Joshua asked after the door shut.

“What kind of investment are you thinking about?” Uncomfortable, I stood and busied myself with tidying up from the festival meeting.

“A hundred thousand would be very helpful.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?" I almost dropped a chair on my foot. "I don’t think so. Dad’s got money, but not that kind of money.”

“This is the chance of a lifetime,” Joshua held out his hands imploringly. “This book is worth hundreds of millions of dollars! I can make him a very rich man. You could be rich too.”

“Right. What do you need a hundred thousand dollars for?”

“We need to pay travel and investigation expenses, we need to pay a lawyer…” He began ticking off the items on his fingers… “we need to pay a writer…”

“I thought you were writing the book.”

“It’s my story but I’m no writer. We need a real writer to tell this. Somebody with a reputation, someone who is known and respected in the publishing industry We've got someone in mind, but he needs to be paid.”

“I bet you could find an author who'll do it for free," I said. "Any writer would jump at the chance. You don’t have to pay them, just tell them the story, give them the proof to base it on and cut them a share of the profits.”

“Well … You see... The thing is, there are a lot of people invested in this story already, and we can’t have a writer who is going to want a really big share of the money. We need a writer we can pay a set amount to. Because there’s going to be a lot of money, what with the movie rights, and that money is going to go to investors only, like your father… and maybe you?”

“Joshua, I can’t promise that my father will want to invest in this. But I CAN promise you one thing," He looked hopeful, “I will not be putting any money into your book project. Sorry, I just don’t have any to spare.” He looked disappointed but recovered quickly.

“I know your father will be interested. We have all kinds of investors. I have the best attorney in New Mexico backing this book. Ellis Morton is the writer we have in mind, you’ve heard of him, haven‘t you?”

Affirmative. Ellis Morton had a long history with the Kennedy investigation. Dad would had all his books. “Ok Joshua, if you really have Ellis Morton involved in this project, I think my father might be interested. How far along is the book now?” I grabbed a stack of papers off the printer and glanced at them. Heart-stopping pornography leapt off the pages, color photos of women in positions I had never dreamt possible.

“We’re getting the outline together to send to publishers. Ellis isn’t the only co-writer, I have another writer too, a woman, I forget her name, she wrote a book about living in the Sangre De Christo Mountains, or something like that.”

“What does that have to do with the assassination?” I stuffed the lurid pages under a stack of programs and struggled to focus on Joshua's words

“Nothing, but she’s very enthusiastic and she won’t charge so much money. All we need is to get the outline written, then we can get an advance from the publisher and get someone really famous…. Tell you what, we’re having a meeting in three weeks, with Ellis, the other writer, the attorney and some of the investors. Why don’t you come down to Albuquerque and meet them? Tell your father. Give him a chance to be a part of history.”

I thought about it. A chance to meet Ellis Morton, a chance to be a part of history, a chance to get out of this little town that was already seeming too small ….

“OK, I’ll try and make it. I’ll let Dad know. It'll be up to him if he wants to come." Joshua jotted down his number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.

“Have him give me a call. I’ll talk to him. He won’t be sorry. Can I buy you breakfast?”

"Umm OK, let me just put a few things away and I'll meet you down there." As soon as Joshua left I pulled out the porn and tacked it to the festival bulleting board. 'Did anyone leave this on the printer?' I wrote over the top in red sharpie, though I already had a suspect.

Though it was still early, Carver's was full. “Lou, Joshua!” Daine called over the sound of low-key conversation and clinking cutlery. He was sitting with a half dozen people at one of the larger tables in the back. Joshua and I squeezed through the coat-laden chairs to join the group. Daine introduced everyone. Most of them were students at Fort Lewis, half Daine’s age but nonetheless enjoying his company.

I watched Joshua carefully during the meal, trying to decipher from the way he held his fork and chewed his eggs if he was trustworthy. He ate his gourmet omelet with gusto, topping it off with a huge cup of coffee and whipped cream. He certainly had the tastes of someone raised in wealth. Here was a man who, if his story was true, could open the can of worms that would destroy lives, careers and bank accounts of mobsters and powerful politicians. What was he doing here blithely eating breakfast? How did he manage to live this long when so many others had been killed? And, if his story was true and I got involved in his project, would I be killed too?

The threat, real or imagined, hadn’t affected Joshua’s appetite. If he was so relaxed then either the danger was past or he had no idea what he was up against. I would need to be careful. I chewed my bagel slowly and composed an email in my mind: 'Hi Dad, I met someone you might want to talk to. His name is Joshua Stevens. He says his father killed Kennedy....'

The blizzard hit just south of Farmington. First a few flakes, then a few more, then a total whiteout. I drove with hands tight on the wheel, staring ahead at the dark road disappearing under snow.

We had a rental car, Velcro and I, a shiny red late-model SUV. My own aging Jeep wasn’t reliable enough for long trips. Velcro snoozed in the back seat, his chin on his paws, as we crept into Albuquerque at 35 miles per hour. I headed for the Doubletree downtown, where Joshua had rented a block of rooms for the weekend.

“Almost there Velcro.” He raised his eyelids and pounded the tip of his tail against the seat. Thump thump; Velcro could wag the last six inches of his tail without moving any other body parts.

We finally arrived at the hotel and parked at the back of the lot. The Doubletree didn't take dogs so Velcro would be sleeping in the car. That was OK, he liked the car. It was small, safe and he knew I’d be back. I filled his water bowl, laid out his blanket and gave him a rawhide chew, which he happily set to work on. “See you in a little bit Buddy,” Thump thump. I left him cheerfully gnawing, wagging and shedding on the back seat. So much for the pet deposit.

“Welcome Meteorologists Convention” a sign at the entrance announced. The lobby was full of people, all jovial, all conservatively dressed. In the midst of this festive atmosphere Joshua sat alone, upright, in a chair that looked far too comfortable for his position. He stood promptly when I approached and reached for my hand. “Hello Lou. How was your trip?”

“Not too bad, the snow lightened up outside of Cuba. And you?”

“I’ve been here for a few days, getting things arranged. It’s coming along well, we have quite a few people showing up. Can I take your bag?" Gratefully I slid the case towards him. "When is your father getting in?”

“His flight arrives at five. I’ll pick him up at the airport. Did everyone else get here ok?”

“So far yes." We walked towards the elevators. "Tom and Ellis are over at the bar, Rex lives in town, Maureen and Herb are driving in from Taos - so they may be late. Dave and Dean are around somewhere. How long can you stay?

“Til Sunday afternoon. How have you been?” Joshua looked a little haggard.

“Not that well Lou, but now that you’re here and we’re getting this book going I feel a lot better. Why don’t you get settled?” He handed me a key, “Let’s try to meet about 6:30 in the conference room. It’s on the same floor, across from the elevator.”

“Thanks. See you then.”

We were all on the 14th floor. Exiting the elevator, I dragged my bag down the long hall of identical doors, lit by monotonous sconces and decorated with unremarkable paintings. My room, like the hall, was charm-less yet luxurious, with a large, white-quilted bed and a big TV. I pulled back the curtains and stared out at the scene below.

The storm had partially broken, leaving a landscape of blinding white under brilliant blue skies, just now turning purple at their eastern edge. Shadows of buildings flickered as the city lights came on. I put my bag on the bed and began to unpack.

Ten minutes later the phone rang.

“Lou?”

“Joshua?”

“How’s it going?”

“Fine, I’m just getting settled. What’s up?

“There’s some people I want you to meet Lou, we’re having a drink at the bar. Would you like to join us?”

“Uh…Sure. I’ll be down in about ten minutes.”

“Great. See you then.”

I would rather have taken a shower, but Joshua had an insistent tone that was hard to refuse. I cleaned up as expediently as possible, changed into a fresh shirt, and rode the elevator down to the basement.

The restaurant was, like the rest of the hotel, elegant in a franchised sort of style. Everything looked familiar even on this first visit; the large brass and marble fountain, the heavy faux wood tables, the Mex-American décor. The only things that seemed out of place were the customers; mostly white people in suits. I found Joshua and his group at a large table by the fireplace.

“Lou, thanks for coming,” he said. “I’d like you to meet some of the other people working on the project.” He waved at each and they rose as he introduced them. I reached out and shook hands, trying to memorize names without moving my lips.

“This is Rex Harter, attorney with Harter, Bergson and Hill, the biggest firm in the southwest. He’s been a huge help in getting this book off the ground." Rex, a tall man with a dark mustache, wore a tailored cowboy shirt tucked into clean slacks, accessorized with a large silver and turquoise belt buckle, a lawyer of the wild west.

"This is Tom Ardleman; he helps with fund raising and marketing." Tom, a shorter, slightly built man, wore a no-nonsense suit and tie. He had a big smile but his movements were tight and quick. He shook my hand vigorously, just once.

"This is Ellis Morton…” -The Ellis Morton- I thought to myself. He was a pleasant-looking gentleman, open-faced and attentive, younger than I had expected.

“Mr. Morton, I’ve read several of your books. It‘s an honor to meet you.”

“Oh no. The pleasure is truly mine.”

Ellis took my hand and held it warmly. I was impressed with his down-to-earth friendliness for such a famous person. Joshua pointed towards an attractive young woman, “This is Jill Malone, my assistant.” Jill looked like she could be all of 18.

“This is Maureen and Herb Winokur. Maureen will be writing most of the book,” a mid-aged, healthy looking couple. Maureen, wiry, flannel-shirted, with thick silver hair pulled into a ponytail, looked like just the type of woman who would write about life in the mountains.

“This is Dave Cerritos,” Dave appeared to be in his early 30’s, with mid-length brown hair, in worn jeans and a work shirt. When we shook hands I felt the rough spots that belied his trade, “Dave’s a carpenter,” said Joshua, “and a good friend.” Dave smiled genially. ‘Nice guy,’ I thought.

“And you know Dean.” I was glad to see Dean’s familiar face among so many new ones. He pulled out a chair for me and we all sat down.

The waitress brought a pitcher of beer and a basket of chips with salsa. "So you made it from Taos,” I said to the Winokurs, “How was the drive?”

“A total whiteout at times,” Herb replied. ‘We just went very slowly.”

“And left early,” added Maureen. “I heard you live in Durango, that has got to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. What do you do there?”

I answered as artfully as possible without letting on that I didn‘t know. “Well, I just built a house and now I’m getting back to work. My father hired me last year to help him research his JFK project. Before that I mostly taught preschool.”

“That’s an odd transition; preschool to assassination.” Ellis remarked.

“Not as much as you’d think.” There was a polite chuckle around the table. I prepared to change the subject, but Joshua jumped in.

“So Ellis, how is your latest book selling?”

Ellis took a longish sip of his beer and smiled winningly. “Very well, for the market these days. Have you seen it?”

“Of course,” Joshua replied, “Who hasn’t?” Fortunately I had because I could sense an awkward silence setting in.

“I was very impressed with it.” I piped up. Ellis beamed, “You have the most comprehensive collection of photos existing. Anyone who wants to know the story has read your books.”

“You sound like an educated person.” He said, “I’d love to speak with you about your research sometime.”

“There'll be lots of chances to talk,” Joshua cut in, “Lou’s father is coming and you can speak with him directly.” Ellis shot Joshua a tight little smile and poured himself another beer. “Oh good, here’s Dee.” Joshua stood and waved to the newest member of our party, who tromped towards us in soggy galoshes.

Dee; mid-fifties, graying hair, had a face with the lines of many a sunburn and smile. He wore faded jeans, a hunting jacket and a well-worn cowboy hat. He had a friendly smile and a damp handshake for each of us. "Dee's from Durango too," Joshua said, "did you find that part for your truck, Dee?"

"Yes I did," he smiled, "that's the good thing about coming to the big city." While Joshua made another round of introductions Dean leaned over and said, quietly,

"They met at the Diamond Belle. Joshua told him the story and Dee offered to back him on the spot. He's already put in fifty thousand."

"That much? He doesn't look rich.

"Old Durango family, lots of land, ranching money. There's plenty of people in town who don't look as rich as they are," Dean said as he reached for the pitcher.

We drank beer and ate nachos, for another hour or so. The conversation never touched business for long. We talked about sports, the film festival, the rustic furniture that Dave made in his shop in Mancos, Rex Harter’s last trip to the art museum, Maureen and Herb’s cabin-building project, Jill’s college courses and Tom’s passion for skiing, which most of us shared.

Throughout the chitchat I scrutinized everyone as casually as possible. From the powerful attorney and famous writer to the college student, the cowboy, the carpenter and, of course, myself, the ex-preschool teacher, radio pirate and puppeteer. We were all invested, one way or another, in seeing this book get published. Some wanted to make money, others to make history. With a little luck we would all make both. Without it, we could get killed.

“So Joshua,” Dave called from the opposite end of the table, “I hear they have some good music spots in Albuquerque…”

“Yeah Dave. There’s a couple of clubs not too far from here.”

“What do you say we go visit some of them after the meeting? Anyone else want to?”

“You’ll come, right?” Joshua asked me.

“Sure.” I wasn’t expecting a night out at the clubs, but it seemed the best way to take advantage of the big city trip. A tentative plan for club hopping was set up for later in the evening. I stood to leave, “I should get going to the airport to pick up Dad. I’ll see you all at the meeting."

“Allow me.” Ellis whirled over and held my jacket.

“Uh, Thank you.” I donned it as gracefully as possible, feeling a little self-conscious. "Stay warm out there," he said. With my face reddening I waved a quick goodbye and turned away, zipping my jacket up to my chin.

*******

Dad was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Albuquerque ‘Sunport’ when I arrived. Despite the weather his flight had arrived on time. He looked distinctly cold in his Floridian jacket. I pulled over and jumped out to hug him and help with his bags. “Hey Pop, how you doin’?”

“Fine honey. How about you?”

“Fine too. Let me get that for you.” He was leaning on a cane. I took his laptop and laid it carefully in the back as he clambered uneasily into the car. "Hip bothering you again?"

"I'm having it replaced next week," he grumbled, "it sucks to get old."

We headed back on I-25 to the hotel. “So what do you think of this whole thing?" He asked as we pulled off the highway.

“I still don’t know what to think about Joshua, but his story is very possible. If it’s true then it will be a hell of a book.” Dad nodded slightly.

“He said he met Oswald?”

“Several times, and Marina, the Paines, Jack Ruby, Sam Giancana.”

“I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“Me too. Everyone involved is sworn to secrecy but you know how these things get out." I told him about the waitress at the Steaming Bean. "The quicker this book is finished the better, that doesn't leave much time for investigation. I think Joshua may be a little ahead of himself."

"Mmm," Dad said.

We pulled into the hotel parking lot. Dad went up to his room while I walked Velcro around the block and gave him his supper. I put his blanket on the floor of the passenger’s side, the smallest possible hole that he could squeeze into. He licked my hand gratefully from his nest. I kissed his head, "Goodnight buddy, you stay cozy now, you hear?" He laid his chin on his paws and sighed. I blew him another kiss and went inside for a quick shower before the meeting.

*******

The conference room took up an entire corner suite. Windows stretched over two walls, with thickly-stuffed sofas and armchairs lined underneath. We helped ourselves from a sideboard of coffee, tea and cookies.

Another storm was rolling in. Puffs of white moved rapidly against dark grey. Occasional cracks shot beams of sunlight earthward. It was the kind of skyscape you expect to see a pair of praying hands materialize out of. I picked a chair with a good view. Once we were all settled Joshua stood and welcomed us:

“I’m very glad to see everyone here," he said. "Thank you for coming, some of you from long distances through bad weather. I hope that, when this book is published, you will all be well rewarded for your efforts. Tonight I want to present to you a synopsis of where the project is so far and where we need to go. I will tell you the story, those of you who have not heard this before, as briefly as possible. Tom will present our financial and marketing plan, Maureen and Ellis will update us on their work, and then we can discuss any of your questions.”

Joshua glanced at Dad. He nodded off-handedly. Joshua continued, “Before we start, Tom has some statements I need signed by some of you. These are non-disclosure statements, basically a legal promise to keep this project confidential.”

Dave raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. I wondered how many times he had heard Joshua spill his sorry tale in El Rancho or the Diamond Belle. Dee too looked slightly surprised, but they both came forward and signed the paper that Tom handed them. I got one for myself and one for Dad, who had sunken deep into his chair. He signed it on the arm, with his ballpoint pen piercing the paper and leaving a mark on the faux leather. He scratched that out, signed again and handed the mangled document back to me. I returned it with my own.

“Thank you,” said Joshua. He took a deep breathe, sat back in his chair, and began:

“Everyone here knows the premise of this book, It's an expose of the JFK assassination plot. As the son of one of the conspirators, I intend to tell the world what my father and his friends did, and in that way lay to rest the secret my family has had to live with for almost 40 years."

Joshua paused and looked at us searchingly. Many heads nodded encouragement. He continued, "My father, Maxwell Stevens, worked for a man named Harry Quinlan. They had met in Southern California, where we lived back in the late 1950’s. Harry had a contract with the US government to clean the atolls in the South Pacific after they were done with their nuclear tests. Harry had a big boat and an exclusive deal, so he made out very well. When he met my father they hit it off right away. He hired Dad to help him start a new branch of his company, Commercial Milling, in Texas.

My family moved to Dallas in 1959. Dad and Harry got the new company set up and then, just before they were supposed to open, the plane carrying all their employees out to New Mexico crashed. Everyone aboard was killed. We went to a lot of funerals that year.

Harry and Dad started another company, Sonic Restoration Inc. SRI was overtly in the business of cleaning and maintaining missile components, but they had a dual purpose as a CIA front. At first it was just one of a number of CIA operations in Dallas, but eventually it became the headquarters for assassination meetings .”

“I was there one day in October, 1962, when they decided to do it. Dad, Harry, and a number of Dad’s friends went to SRI to hear this general from Strategic Air Command, General Harley Rand. We had all just lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis. Kennedy had been told to push the button on Cuba and he refused. This was when the General and his military cronies understood that the president was not under their control.

The general was furious. He slammed his fist on the table and shouted ‘Kennedy has to die!’ Then he told my father I had to leave the room, so I did. I knew who the president was, and I knew it was some kind of treason for my father to talk about killing him, so I kept my mouth shut. Mom knew about it. My brothers and sisters knew something but not like I did. Whenever Dad or his friends mentioned JFK I listened closely, but never discussed what I heard. It was one of those things you understand without being told.”

“About a year later I was watching television with my brothers and sisters when my mother called me out of the room. “There’s someone here your father wants you to meet," she said. We went into the living room and my father was sitting there with a young couple. The woman had a baby in her arms. My father introduced them as Lee and Marina Oswald. I shook their hands and sat down. My father spoke with Lee for about a half hour, about life in the Soviet Union. Lee and his wife had just come from there. Marina spoke mostly Russian and some broken English. Lee would translate things for her occasionally. He seemed to be very intelligent, reserved and polite. After they left my father told me to remember that meeting. Somehow Lee was going to be very important in the future.”

“I saw Lee often at SRI. He was a part of their group, though I could not figure out what he was doing. He had another job, at a photography lab not far away. He came over on his lunch hour. He didn’t ever seem to be doing anything, just hanging around, but my father always treated him respectfully.”

“That summer my father came home with a new rifle, which he took great care to show me. It was a Remington 30.06, top of the line with a high-tech scope. He took me with him to practice shooting it, down at the river bottom. Sometimes he and Lee would go together. Dad was an excellent shot. He had been hunting all his life. We used to go up to Durango every fall for elk season and he always got plenty of game. Anyway, that was the rifle he took with him a couple of days before the assassination."

"I remember when he left. The night before I found my mother in the bedroom, making alterations in a policeman’s uniform. I asked her why and she said it was for my father. ‘Halloween’s over Mommy,’ I said, but she didn’t explain. It was a Dallas uniform. Dad took it with him when he left the next day. He told me to take care of the family, he kissed my mother longer than usual and he walked out the back door. That was the last I saw of him until after President Kennedy and Lee were both dead.”

“On the day of the assassination I was in school, waiting for the lunch bell to ring, when the loudspeaker came on and told us that Kennedy had been shot. I was happy. I knew my father and his friends really wanted the president to be dead. I knew they had been working hard to make it happen. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped to my feet and cheered, right in front of the whole class. My teacher was shocked, as were my classmates. One little girl started crying. I was confused. I thought everyone wanted Kennedy dead. I sat back down and shut up. For the rest of the school day, which ended early, of course, I was continually surprised by how sad and upset everyone was. It shook me because I knew my father had done it. I knew it absolutely.”

“When I got home the house was full of my parent’s friends and their families. They had congregated there as a kind of support group. Everyone was realizing the enormity of what had just happened, and the huge secret they would have to carry for the rest of their lives. Not long after I arrived one of the wives, Jennifer Lawrence, came busting into the kitchen. She was completely hysterical. ‘They did it! Oh my God! They really did it!’ She was shouting. The room got real quiet. My mother went over to her and led her off to the bedroom. They were gone a while. When they returned, Jennifer had settled down. She didn’t mention anything about anyone having ‘done it’ again.”

“The next day my mother packed a suitcase of my father’s clothes and we drove to the side of the interstate. My father was there, with my godfather, Bob Teller, who had also been a part of the plans. Mom gave Dad the suitcase and we got in the car with them. I sat in the back. There was a blanket on the seat. When I sat on it I noticed something hard underneath. I pulled back the blanket and saw that it was the Remington. I covered it back up again and listened to my parents talking. Dad told Mom he and Bob had to go away for a long time. He couldn’t say where but he would be in touch. He told me again to look after her and the rest of the family. Then Mom and I got out and they drove away, south, while we headed north to the next exit.”

Joshua paused. He stared southwards out the window. The room was absolutely still. “That’s just the first chapter," he said quietly, then, louder, "Tom will tell us about the marketing plan now. Tom?”

Tom, a wiry, athletic type, leapt to his feet and began a presentation on where, who and especially how much would be involved in the publication and marketing of the book. It was to be self-published, for the sake of literary freedom and increased profits. They would make millions. The real money was in the movie, which would come out soon after the book.

It was a highly optimistic plan. I saw heads nodding around the room. Dad looked like he might be nodding off. Tom shot him a glance and wrapped up his speech with a curt smile at Dee, who smiled broadly back. Dee was clearly interested in the part about making millions.

Maureen spoke next. She expressed enthusiasm over the book's potential and described her progress with the text she had distilled from Joshua's manuscript - the one he carried about in the back of his truck. It had already been worked on by a couple of different authors. Joshua had encountered problems with each one of them eventually, and taken his story elsewhere. As a result, there were several different potential outlines, which Maureen was tasked with putting together.

"Oh, I found another one," Joshua said as she concluded. He handed her a ragged stack of paper from his briefcase, which she accepted with a slightly weary smile. I didn't envy her. Sometimes writing could be a pain in the ass.

"Before we continue,” Joshua said, "I’d like to talk for a minute about Mind Control.” Under the half-closed lids I could see Dad rolling his eyeballs. “I was subjected to mind control treatments at the Rosewood hospital outside Houston, about ten years after the assassination," Joshua continued. “My parents committed me against my will. I was kidnapped and incarcerated in Rosewood. There they gave me electroshock treatments and all kinds of drugs for six weeks. A doctor named Richard Moser saw me daily, along with another doctor, Dr. Mendoza.

"How does this relate to the assassination?" Dad interrupted.

“After the treatments each day Dr. Moser would ask me if I knew why I was in the hospital and what could I remember?" Joshua replied. "My mind was so screwed up after a while I really didn’t have any idea. That was when they sent me home. For months after the hospital I stayed with my parents. I was on drugs the whole time. I slept a lot. My father would ask me questions now and then to test my memory of the assassination.

'Remember when we were at the Dobbs House that time with Jack?' he'd ask.

'No,' I always answered, 'what happened?'

'Nothing,' he'd say.

'Jack who?'

'Nobody,' he'd say, and he'd change the subject. But he watched me real close. To this day I'm not sure he believed me."

"He took me out to Lee’s grave once. It’s in a cemetery near their house. He never mentioned Lee’s name. He said we were going to see his parent’s graves, which were in a nearby graveyard. We stood there for a minute and then he walked away. I followed him up the hill to this other grave, nothing much, just a stone flat in the ground that says ‘Oswald’. He looked at it for a moment and then he looked very directly at me, for a long time. He was trying to see if I recognized the name, if it brought anything back for me. I didn’t say a word. We left and never spoke of Oswald, but I remembered.”

Joshua turned to me. "I don’t know if they were doing mind control on Lee, but it sure happened to me, and I am positive it was because of what I knew about the assassination. Lou, I’d like you to talk with Maureen about MKUltra, maybe loan her some of the books you have in that fine collection.”

I glanced at Dad. He was staring out the window. “Those are mostly my father’s books.” Dad turned back to the action.

“Go ahead, borrow anything. I think the mind control books are hers.” They were his, but I wasn’t going to argue. I agreed to get some books to Maureen. Joshua moved on with his check-in.

“How’s it coming along, Ellis?”

Ellis leaned back leisurely and put his fingertips together. “Fine. I have been getting a lot of research done, I have a good collection of photographs, and the chapter synopsis is almost finished.”

“Have you brought anything to show us?”

“Actually… here.” Ellis leaned over to his briefcase and pulled out a folder. He showed the group the photographs within, pointing out historical figures from the assassination, Sam Giancana, Jack Ruby, the Paines, the Oswalds and many others. I did not see anyone from Joshua’s story, though Joshua expressed recognition at almost all the people in the photos.

After Ellis' update, Joshua declared the meeting over. "Any questions?" He asked. No one had any questions. Joshua looked searchingly at his hoped-for investors. Dee was nodding thoughtfully, he would probably be good for another few thousand. Dad was less easy to read. I knew what he was thinking though. It was time for the evening news. He stood up first.

“Well, that’s been very interesting Joshua. I’ll give it some thought. See you at breakfast.” He hobbled out the door. Joshua looked at me. I shrugged.

“He’s had a long day, traveling and all that. So what’s the first stop on the music tour?” Dave perked up.

"Might I recommend The Blues Club on Nob Hill?” He asked, stretching. He looked like he might have been catching a little shuteye towards the end of the meeting.

“After dinner,” Joshua replied, putting his hand on his stomach. "I know a nice place right near there." We agreed to meet in the lobby in 15 minutes and then dispersed, all eager to leave behind a world of murder and lies, all ready to forget and have a good time.

*******

Coconut crusted jumbo shrimp sat atop a sculpture of seafood and rice, sporting a nasturtium crown. Our waitress, a plump young woman with spiked purple hair (also doffed with a flower), looked strikingly like my dinner. “Nice restaurant, Joshua,” I enthused, taking a deep whiff of the cilantro-garlic spiked steam rising from my shrimp.

“I come here whenever I can. Everything’s good so far.” He eyed my plate.

“Want to try one?” I slid it towards him. He picked off the top shrimp, putting the flower carefully aside, and popped it entirely into his mouth, then he pulled out the tail bits slowly and dropped them into the ashtray. He sliced off a bit of his steak and offered it in return.

“No thanks, I’m a sort of a fish eating vegetarian, but I will try some of that fried green thing, it MUST be a vegetable, huh?

“Oh yes,”,” Joshua said, spearing a piece with his knife. Dave was picking away at his meal with chopsticks, trying to deconstruct it enough to get a bite in his mouth. The neon light under the Plexiglas tabletop didn’t help his depth perception. He finally dropped the chopsticks and pulled it apart by hand as neatly as possible. The waitress returned with a tray of luridly colored drinks, one of which was on fire. I was having a fine time, Durango had nothing like this.

As it happened, just the three of us were out that night. In those 15 minutes after the meeting Ellis, Dean and Dee had settled in at the hotel bar. When it came time to leave they declined, being surrounded by comfort, warmth and several tipsy meteorologists, all predicting snow. They were right, but you didn’t have to be a weatherman to see it falling in the light outside the glass doors.

“Your father sure left the meeting quickly,” Joshua said as he sliced off another piece of steak.

“Don't take it personally, it was time for the news."

“I thought he might have some questions.”

“If he does, trust me, he’ll ask them.”

“Do you think he believes my story?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you?”

I paused, a shrimp mid-way to my mouth. Dave and Joshua both looked at me searchingly. I looked at the shrimp, as if I could see the truth in its coconut crust. “I think so. Don’t be offended, it’s just so wild to hear you say that your father was … well, it would be nice to see some tangible evidence; letters, photos, business records, phone records … Something on paper that can tie your family in to the assassination.” I dropped my voice on the last word. “Have you got anything like that?”

“As I said, they didn’t leave any written evidence so there’s nothing to find. My sisters have some family photos and such, maybe old Christmas cards from some of Dad's friends.”

“It's better than nothing. Can you get it?”

“I don’t think so. They hardly talk to me any more. I spoke to Sarah a couple of years ago. The others ...... much longer." Joshua frowned at his plate.

“So what were they up to the last you heard?” Dave asked casually.

“Well,” Joshua’s eyebrows knit together in concentration. “Sarah ended up marrying a doctor. She lives outside Houston, does charity work … she had a breakdown about ten years back. It was the secret. Keeping it has hurt all of us in one way or another.”

“How is she now?”

“Ok, but she doesn’t want to talk about it, not at all. Her husband doesn’t want her to either, but he’s spoken with me. He knows what happened. He keeps his mouth shut too. Wouldn’t you?” Joshua seemed defensive and rightfully so. If my father had wiped out the most popular president of the century I would probably be touchy on the topic too.

"Oh yes indeed, given the consequences," I assured him. “What about your other siblings?”

“Dolores, my second oldest sister, took over a lot of Dad's business. She fit well in the corporate world. She’s an executive in his oil company.”

“Obviously she has a lot to lose. Would she want to help you anyway?”

“I can ask her … but it’s been a while …” Joshua turned his attention back to his meal. It didn't feel right to press him for answers but how many chances would I get? I poked at my rice and pondered how to proceed.

“Have you taken any good bike rides here yet?” Dave brightly changed the subject. In a way he was Joshua’s emotional bodyguard, I was discovering. Dean was his paid assistant and companion. Dave, on the other hand, was just a pal.

“Nah. The bike’s in the back of the truck. I haven’t really had a chance to get out, maybe this weekend. Did you bring yours?”

“No, unfortunately. My car’s been acting up so I left it at Dee’s and rode down with him. I couldn’t really ask him to bring the dogs and a bike.”

“You brought dogs?” I asked.

“You bet. They’re in Dee’s truck.”

“I brought a dog too. Maybe we can take them out for a little hike tomorrow, if there’s time.”

“That’s a great idea Lou,” Joshua perked up. “Let’s go out to that park by the cable-car. Maybe I can go for a ride while you two walk your dogs. I need a break from this stuff.”

We finished our dinner and headed on to the club. As we hustled through the chilly night, I noticed that the street had two distinct paces. One was of the cars and the hurrying pedestrians, out for a good time. The other was the slow and watchful movement of the street people, the ones who were not going anywhere. They stood in small groups or slouched in doorways, shifting from foot to foot, cold. Some of them were only moving to stay alive. We hurried by, from our obscenely elaborate meal to a hot music spot, where we would be warm and comfortable, where we would listen to jazz, rocking with the beat, not just for the heat.

The Club was housed in a plain white stucco building on Central Street with a neon sign over the front door, flashing a blue musical note. Stepping inside we entered another dimension. The desolate sound of wind and traffic was replaced with a joyous wall of music and voices. We pulled off our jackets, warmed by the heat of the crowd. My eyes were drawn to a bright corner stage at the far end of the room, where a quartet wailed away on horns and keyboards. We paid our cover charge, found a table by the bar and made ourselves at home. The music was great, it filled the air to bursting. We listened. Between sets we discussed the songs, nothing more.

Joshua's truck was ransacked in our absence When we arrived back at it we saw that the boxes had been torn open and his belongings and papers were scattered around on the street and underneath the vehicle. Granted that leaving a packed pickup truck on a side street in Albuquerque is 'asking for it,' we were still shocked. We picked up the remains and sorted them back into their crates. “Something's missing!” Joshua fretted, but he couldn't think what it was.

Before pulling out, we sat for a minute while he tried to remember. Across the street, in front of a pizza place that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in years, a group of young men were hanging out. One of them left the pack and walked slowly towards the truck. He came right up to the window and smiled at us. He winked directly at Joshua. Dave and I stared in disbelief. “He’s the one that did it,” Joshua said flatly. “He wants me to know that they’re watching me. This happens all the goddamn time.” He turned the key and drove away sharply, tires squealing. Dave and I gave each other a look but said nothing. I didn’t know what to think, it was just too odd. No one who has ripped me off has ever come back to say hi. This wasn’t Durango, strangers don’t wave and wink at you for no reason. I shook off the creeping paranoia, it was just a coincidence and Joshua was crazy to think otherwise.

By morning the storm had passed. Upon rising, I opened the thick curtains to a brilliant blue sky - threads of smoke climbed from the buildings below. Snow sparkled on the streets and sidewalks. It was the kind of morning that gives you hope, that makes you want to save the world, as perfect a place as it is. After a hot shower, I joined Dad for breakfast in his room.

He had been there less than 24 hours yet it was already a shambles. Clothing and linens lay on the floor, the contents of his suitcase were spread on every available surface, wrappers from the mini-bar snacks lay on the bed, where he had no doubt slept with them. Dad, in his bathrobe and socks, was parked in an armchair, watching the news, with the morning paper draped over his legs.

"Good morning Dad."

"Good morning to you... say, call room service, will you, honey? I’ll have the Western Omelet, coffee and OJ. Order whatever you want.”

“How you doin’, Dad?

“Fine Honey. You?”

“Fine.”

We watched TV together until breakfast arrived. The weatherman was out sick. When the food came Dad turned the volume down.

"How was your evening last night?” he asked. I told him about the incident with the truck theft. He was skeptical of any organized plan to harass Joshua. “Those Blacks, they’ll steal anything.”

“How do you know he was black?”

“Mexican, Indian, whatever.”

I stuffed a croissant into my mouth. Chewing hard I stared at my father in frustration. We had started this conversation many times before. It always ended in an argument. I wasn’t going to open my day with a fight, even though Dad was ready and willing. I gestured to the window. “Nice white morning out there.”

“Yeah. I’m not going to the meeting, not feeling well. Asthma’s kicking up a bit.” He pulled out his inhaler and huffed deeply for emphasis. He was withdrawing swiftly. Dad used to be the life of the party, when I was a child. He had become increasingly anti-social as he aged. He once had many friends. Now he mostly avoided strangers. Having sat through one meeting he had decided that was enough. I knew right then that he probably wouldn’t leave his room until I took him to the airport on Sunday.

Joshua was visibly peeved when I told him. “He’s watching TV?”

“Yep. He said he didn’t feel like going to any meetings and he was going to watch something on the history channel.” Pause.

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so. He does what he does. He said to go ahead and have the meeting without him.”

“There’s no point in having the meeting without him,” Tom said, “I’ll talk to him later. Why don’t we just cancel it? Dee and I have already made some arrangements. I’ll get in touch with your father later this morning, he may be having jet lag.” Behind his easy attitude Tom was determined to get something in writing. I wondered how he would fare with my father, whose resistance to pressure was legendary.

“Good luck,“ I said as he left the room.

“Well,” Ellis announced brightly, “Now that we’re free of that, I know some good record stores in town. What do you say we go for a drive, maybe a little shopping trip? And for lunch there’s this excellent sushi place on the East Side.”

“We were thinking of a hike, Lou and Dave need to walk their dogs,” Joshua replied.

“A hike,” Ellis smiled, “what a good idea. It will help us walk off lunch.”

*******

We started with the used record shops, where Ellis busily flipped through the old albums, looking for treasures. He was a collector of music as well as photos and documents. He bore a slight resemblance to a raccoon, pawing through jazz of the fifties, sniffling out the tasty rare cuts. I glanced at him occasionally from the new releases section, trying to get a grasp on his character. Ellis was not at all how I had imagined him. Here he was, the famous author. He was very charming and outgoing but he was much more … well, nerdy, than the accomplished expert I had expected. It was also becoming clear that Ellis, as Joshua dryly observed, never turned down a free meal.

The sushi restaurant was obviously pricey. Ellis ordered the most expensive items, downed a healthy helping of saki and then looked towards Joshua when the check arrived. Joshua paid without more than an irritated look. When I tried to contribute he refused.

“Ladies should never have to pay when there are gentlemen” (another pointed look at Ellis) … “around.”

“Absolutely” Ellis chimed. “I’d love to pitch in, but things are really tight right now.”

Low on tact but high on curiosity, I could not understand why Ellis was hurting for cash.

“Excuse me, but how is that?” I asked, “I just bought your new book. I had to special order it because the store was sold out.” His face took on a basset hound sadness.

“I’ve had a little trouble with women in my life. So far most of the ones I have been with have really screwed me out of a lot of money. I lost my house to the last one. I have yet to find that one, perfect love.” He stared in my eyes soulfully.

“What about that 17 year-old you’re living with?” Joshua asked innocently.

“You mean Cathy? Oh, she’s my roommate. Rent money is hard to get together these days.”

I nodded sympathetically. Joshua reached for his jacket.

“Let’s go for a drive.”

“Love to.” Ellis popped the remaining salmon roll into his mouth and wiped it daintily.

“All I’ve really seen of this place is the road to the airport,” I said.

“Well we’ll have to give you the tour. The main thing about this town,” Joshua said as he stood, “is that it’s full of spooks.”

“Haunted?” I said in disbelief, “Albuquerque? Never heard of it.”

“Not ghosts, spooks. You know, intelligence agents. There’s agencies all over this city.” I peered suspiciously at the other diners. They all looked normal enough. We pulled on our jackets as we wound through the tables.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Because they don’t put up signs. Ever noticed how many big buildings are in the downtown area, which have no signs on them? They don’t want you to know they’re here. I’ll point them out.” Joshua held the door open for me as we left. He let it go so that Ellis had to catch it on his way out, which he did with a pleasant smile and a wink at me.

We went back to the hotel to pick up Dean and Dave. We found Tom in the lobby, looking annoyed. He declined our invitation to hike in the hope that Dad would answer his telephone message soon. He remained at the bar, with cell phone and briefcase at hand, as we left. Ellis opted to stay and keep him company. Despite our large lunch he did not feel the need to exercise. “Hiking isn’t really my cup of tea,” he said, “how about we meet for dinner?”

*******

On our way to the park Joshua pointed out all the unmarked government buildings and told us which agencies worked out of which. Across the plaza from the hotel was a tallish white one with a top floor of grey windows. “See those windows?” Joshua asked. “Those are fake. There are no windows on that floor, but they didn’t want it to be obvious, so they put the grey glass right over the wall.”

“How do you know about all this?” I asked.

“I used to work for the DEA.”

“The DEA? You were a government agent?”

“Yeah, back in the 80’s. I needed a job after Dad disinherited me. They were right there, asking me if I wanted to join. You see, my family was well connected in the intelligence community. They probably thought that, as an agent, I would be too busy to try and publish any books. Or maybe they hoped the work would kill me.”

I took a while to digest this fact. I thought the government had been out to silence Joshua, not employ him. What did it mean that he had been a DEA agent? Was he still? I looked around to see if anyone else looked surprised. Nope. They either didn’t care or they already knew and did not think it remarkable. Joshua must have heard my unspoken question. “I don’t work for them anymore. I know it seems weird, but you have to understand that this was the world I lived in. It was no more unusual for me to associate with intelligence agents and police than it would be for Dean to hang out with criminals... or Christians.”

“Hey,” Dean retorted from the back seat, “I don’t hang with Christians.”

“I know, but your family does.”

“Yeah well, that’s them. I have higher standards.”

“Standards!” Joshua snorted. “You spend plenty of time with your family. You’re a regular pea in a pod.”

The edge in Joshua’s voice hung in the air for a brief moment, then Dave said, “I spend lots of time with my family.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But it’s different for Dean. Dean talks to this family, don’t you Dean?”

“That’s not a bad thing,” I said, thinking of my monosyllabic conversations with Dad.

“It depends on what you say,” Joshua replied, staring hard at Dean. Dean leaned back in his seat and gazed silently out the window.

We arrived at the park and clambered out of the car, pulling on jackets and hats. Fresh snow sparkled and twirled in the wind. We walked uphill on the marked path, through a sea of frosted sagebrush. The dogs were in Heaven, appearing and disappearing above the scrub in joyful leaps. Up the gradual slope we climbed towards the mountain. When we could climb no further we just stood and gazed up at the clouds as they raced past its icy peak. The wind bit hard. We stayed for only a moment and then turned back, talking casually for a while, then lapsing into personal silences, each listening to the sound of the winter desert.

As we neared the parking lot, Joshua came up to me and asked again if I believed him? “You’re very sincere,” I answered. “I believe you believe it. You just don’t seem like a liar to me. Of course you were a child at the time so maybe you misunderstood what was going on. Maybe your dad and his friends really wanted Kennedy to die, maybe they talked about it a lot, so when it happened you were convinced that they did it, even if they didn’t.”

“They did it,” he said evenly. “They absolutely, positively did it. I was not just a child, I was twelve.”

“That’s a child, by most people’s standards.”

“Remember when you were twelve?” He turned to look directly at me. “How easily were you fooled? How clearly did you see the world around you?”

I thought back. Twelve years old... 1969, my freshman year in Junior High. Thanks to Dad’s fortune, Mom enrolled my sister and me in a fancy private school near Harvard Square. As the Viet Nam war escalated, so did the student protests. One morning in the spring, a field trip was planned for the senior class to attend a demonstration, chaperoned by a few of the more progressive teachers. When they gathered on the front lawn I slipped into the group, hoping to join them. I knew what the Viet Nam war was like. I saw it in a picture in the paper, a naked girl my age, running, crying, burning... I wanted to protest that. I wanted it absolutely.

The principal was giving a little speech about civil rights and how these seniors were entering a world of politics, how they must educate themselves to make informed choices and how they must stand up for those choices once they made them. “And stay in Harvard Square, please, don’t go downtown,” she said to the chaperones as they moved towards the gate. I moved along with them. “MISS Gardner,” the principal trilled, just when I thought I had made it. Everyone stopped and looked at me. I shrunk three inches. “Where do you think you are going?”

“I’m uh... going to Harvard Square?” I said lamely. They all laughed. One of the teachers took my elbow and led me back toward the school.

“Maybe someday,” said the principal. “You need to form your political opinions first, and that requires an education. I believe your science class is starting just about now.” The seniors laughed again and turned away. Humiliated, I slouched towards the science building... up the drive, onto the porch, past the door, off the porch, behind the building, over the fence and on into Harvard Square.

The place was jumping, people with signs milled around the common, waiting for the protest to begin. Wary of being spotted (and ridiculed again) by the seniors, I hopped on the subway downtown. ‘That’s where the action is,’ I thought. ‘That’s the place for me.’

The Red Line squealed into Park Street Station ten minutes later. My car, packed with young people, spewed its passengers onto the platform into a wall of noise. Even from there, two levels underground, we could hear the roar of a huge crowd. Squalling megaphones interspersed the waves of cheers, which echoed off the old stone walls of the station. My fellow passengers yelled in return and ran up the stairs, sweeping me along with them.

When we emerged we flowed uphill, to the State Capital. The crowd got denser as we got closer. I was small enough to squeeze all the way through to the front. Only when I made it to the steps did I turn and look back.

You know those moments in life when you see something and it changes you forever? This was that moment. Thousands and thousands of people filled the entire Commons, spilled over into the Public Garden and all the surrounding streets. They - we - were there for one reason, to save that burning little girl and all the children like her. The next time the crowd roared, I roared too.

A young man, wearing a T-shirt with a fist on it, climbed to the center of the steps and shouted over a megaphone, “Those people in there don’t CARE what we think,” he pointed at the State House. “We need to tell the people who are REALLY behind this war, the people who work over THERE!” He waved downhill towards the financial district.

The crowd screamed approval and began to slowly, inexorably flow into Park Street, shutting it down, and then into every side street leading east. I flowed along too, chanting “ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, WE DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING WAR!” In there, between the buildings, the sound was almost deafening. There was no end of people in sight. We became, for a brief time, the ones who called the shots. All the bankers and bloody war barons were trapped in their buildings, filling the windows with shocked looks on their faces. The police, vastly outnumbered, were nowhere to be seen.

A chant began to grow, “Shut them DOWN! Shut them DOWN!” We moved in around the banks and offices, where panicked security guards hurriedly locked doors. Those unfortunate enough to be in traffic just shut off their engines and tried to look friendly as the mob swirled around them. One arrogant Boston driver (amazingly only one) began to honk his horn and slowly drive through the crowd. Bad idea. With a few shouts to communicate their plan, the people closest to the car simply tipped it onto its roof, its wheels spun angrily as we passed.

We moved on, bolder, louder, through the streets. We spread like fire into the Combat Zone, the Back Bay and South Boston. We blocked all the roads. When the subway trains emerged from the ground we blocked the tracks, pulled their overhead wires loose and spray-painted the windows, ‘NO WAR!’, right over the faces of the gawking passengers.

As with all bursts of energy, we eventually ran out of steam. By the time we marched back up Beacon Street the crowd had thinned to only a few thousand. The police, who had been waiting for fewer numbers, attacked just short of the Commons, careening out of side streets on motorcycles, waving batons. They moved through us, indiscriminately hitting anyone within reach. That was another life-changing moment. Only a moment though, because I had to run.

Squad cars squealed forward in unison, parking across all the alleys and both ends of a five block stretch, penning us in. Whether or not it was their intent, the police thus started a riot. Most of the remaining marchers were hardcore protesters, not starry-eyed twelve year-olds. They picked up rocks, bricks and bottles and began to fight back. Trapped by the squad cars, ducking debris and batons, I skittered around the street, looking for a place to hide.

“In here,” a voice behind me said. A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me into a building, shutting the door quickly. I turned to see a young man (not as young as me) with a curly beard. He let go of my arm and gestured for me to follow him down the hall. At the end, by the elevator, a handful of people huddled over a girl who appeared to be injured. One man removed his shirt and was using it to dab blood from a wound on her scalp. “I’ll be OK,” she said, “just give me a little time.”

We stayed in that hall until the sirens and screams outside had died away. Then we emerged in ones and twos, taking care to leave all spray cans, signs and rocks in a pile by the elevator. I left with the bearded young man, my rescuer. We pretended to be a couple, holding hands and chatting innocently as we walked past the remaining roadblocks. Once clear we said goodbye and went our separate ways.

“How old are you?” he asked as we parted.

“Sixteen,” I lied.

“Right,” he smiled. “Well don’t give up the fight, Miss Sixteen.” He kissed my hand and melted into memory.

I went back to school, hoping no one had noticed my absence. As it turns out, they had. “So Miss Gardner, what did you learn today when you should have been in class?” the principal asked, fixing me in her owlish gaze as I stood in front of her desk. Her eyes dropped to a smear of spray-paint on my arm.

“I learned that, if you really want something, you’re going to have to fight for it. Sometimes you’re going to get hurt, but you’ll never be sorry.” I replied enthusiastically. She looked at me for a moment then turned to check the clock. I think she was smiling.

“You’d better get to the auditorium, your music class is starting.”

“You’re right,” I said to Joshua as we climbed into the car, “a twelve year-old can see more clearly than most.” He smiled and patted my arm.

“Let’s get some ice cream. Anyone game?”

*******

As we entered the hotel, Tom and Ellis, still seated at the lobby bar, waved us over to join them. “So Tom, any luck?” Joshua asked hopefully. Tom turned and raised his glass,

“One Hundred Thousand,” he cheered, but not too loudly. Joshua pumped his offered hand gratefully and turned to me.

“Your father’s going to come in!”

“Glad to hear it. I guess you finally got through to him, huh?” I asked Tom.

“Yes indeed. I had to go to his room and knock on the door, but he did let me in and, with a little persuasion, has tentatively agreed to invest.”

“Tentatively?” asked Joshua.

“For now,” replied Tom, waving at the bartender who had disappeared in a sea of meteorologists. It was really hopping now, a wedding party had arrived and the meteorologists were steadily blowing in from the north. They were partly to mostly cloudy at this point. I recognized one from the local TV station. He was demonstrating how to knock back a flaming shot of something blue … Mental note: Watch the early forecast tomorrow.

The light on my phone was flashing when I got to my room. It was Dad, asking me to call. I took a few moments to relax first; brewed a pot of coffee, found an innovative radio station and stared out the window, munching on chips from the vending machine. The lights of the city spread out into the distance, ending in a purple horizon.

I tried to imagine how this book project was going to develop. It seemed pretty unlikely so far, except for the money behind it and Joshua’s conviction that his story was true. The fact that Ellis was involved had been reassuring at first, now I was not so sure. Tom was in it for the money, Maureen was well-intentioned but not exactly the best choice for a Kennedy expose, Rex Harter was an attorney - successful and seemingly friendly - but still an attorney, his true motivation remained unclear. How was this haphazard group going to produce such an important book? Any book? Who was going to believe the admittedly questionable memories of Joshua Stevens? There had better be some damn good proof. So far I hadn’t seen any.

I finished my chips, poured a cup of coffee and dialed Dad’s room. “Hey Pop, it’s me. I just got in. How was your afternoon?”

“Oh, it was OK, except that Tom guy was a pain. He came up here, I hate that, when people show up unannounced. He wouldn’t let it go. I finally told him I’d consider giving a hundred thou, just to get him off me.”

“Well, he’s very excited about it. I just saw him down at the bar with the others. Would you like to come down for dinner?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m just going to order something from room service. How about breakfast tomorrow morning?”

“Sure, call me when you’re up. G’night.

“Night honey.”

Maureen and Herb were at the bar when I returned. The group had moved to a table and ordered a large supply of Nachos. Their mood was celebratory, thanks to Dad’s generous potential investment. I decided not to mention that he had offered it mainly as a diversionary tactic to get Tom out of his room. Nor did I mention that Dad had, in the past, made promises he didn’t keep.

The next morning I was up early to drive him to the airport. He didn’t say goodbye to Joshua or Tom but they didn't care. They thought Dad was in for a hundred grand. I left them in their merry mood. Joshua promised to call as soon as anything developed. I knew he'd be calling sooner than that, as soon as he realized that his check was not in the mail.

"How about this: A mystery unfolds for seventeen year-old Laura as she explores her family's past in the attic of their summer home?" Judy asked. Ben shook his head.

"Or this: A summer vacation at the family estate turns out more revealing than relaxing for Laura, as she unravels the secret origins of her father's wealth?" I suggested. Ben pursed his lips and thought for a moment. Judy and I waited, our pens hovering over notepads.

"No. You've got to grab them on the first words, like: "Incest hides in a trunk in the attic. Beautiful young Laura finds more than she bargained for in Daddy's old house." He nodded with satisfaction while Judy and I scribbled. "Now you can put in the details. They'll be hungry for them. It's like serving an appetizer, hmm?"

With the film festival two months away, we were in the midst of sending out a mountain of press releases. Judy and I did the grunt work, Ben gave suggestions and made corrections. He looked up from his marketing masterpiece at his girlfriend, Tina, who had joined our team. She smiled wanly at him. Ben looked at his watch. "Uh oh, time for my lunch meeting, you ladies carry on." He swept out of the room, barely stopping to peck Tina's cheek.

"I think I liked it better the other way," Judy said, rereading the release. "I don't think we have to say 'incest,' do you?"

"Nope," I replied, putting a line through Ben's expert sentence. Tina nodded. We huddled over our pads and concentrated on improving our boffo opening line.

The office door swung open wide. Daine breezed in on a rush of cold air. "I have fan-freaking-TASTIC news!" he announced.

"What?" Five voices asked in unison. Edwin and Kara, the founders and primary organizers of the festival (also husband and wife) came in from the front room wearing skeptical expressions. Daine looked at them dismissively and proclaimed to the rest of us, "I got The Nations to play our awards ceremony!"

"Ooooh, The Nations!" Judy was up on the local music scene.

"Who are they?" I asked.

"Only the hottest band in the Four Corners. Tell 'em, Judy," he said.

"They play Celtic rock and Reggae," she enthused. "They were headliners at the Pagosa Folk Festival and the Telluride Blues and Brews last summer. They really brought down the house. I danced for hours!" She cried. Daine smiled smugly.

"How much?" Edwin asked.

"Hmm?" Daine raised his eyebrows.

"How much did you say you would pay them?"

"Oh not much," Daine shrugged, "just gas money and expenses. They love the idea of a film festival and... well, they're kind of friends.... just five hundred."

"Five hundred dollars?!" Kara squealed. "We don't have five hundred dollars!"

"We'll make it at the door, easy," Daine assured her. She did not look convinced.

"Daine," Edwin said slowly, "we've talked about this before. These kind of decisions have to be made as a group."

"They needed an answer right away. They had other gigs," Daine parried.

"We haven't GOT five hundred dollars and we're already in debt. You'll have to cancel it," Kara said firmly. She and Edwin gazed steadily at Daine. He glared at them and turned to me.

"Would you like to meet me downstairs for a cup of coffee? The air in here is a little stuffy." He marched out. I weighed my options; follow him and choose sides, or wait until the others left and then go down. Luckily, my telephone rang and saved me from having to make that choice. I excused myself to answer it.

"Lou? It's Gabe," said a familiar voice.

“Oh my God! How long has it been?” I took the cordless phone into the back hall.

“A while, huh?”

“Are you still in San Francisco?”

“Nope, I left a year ago. I live in Kansas City now.”

‘Kansas City? Excuse me, but that’s one of the last places I could ever imagine you in. What are you up to these days?”

“I’m working with the Committee to Free Leonard Peltier. I got a job on the staff out here. It’s closer to Leavenworth so we can visit Leonard. I make a decent living, oh, and I met this wonderful woman, we’re completely in love.”

"Wow, that's great!"

We talked on for a while about Gabe's new life and then came the inevitable question, "So what are you doing these days?”

“Well…. I’m volunteering for a film festival,” I stalled.

“That’s nice.”

“And… I’m working for my father, doing some research about Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“Really? What’s his interest?”

“He thinks there were two of them, two Lee Oswalds.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“But the big news is that I met a guy, here in Durango, who says his father was in on the assassination. He’s writing a book and he asked me to help. I’m pretty excited about that.”

“Great!” Gabe was eternally supportive of any creative endeavor. I could have said that I was shoveling horse shit and his response would have been the same.

“And the bad news is that I had a falling out with Erin She left mad. We're not going to share the house.”

“She called and told me about it. That's a shame. I hope you can work it out.”

“Me too, but I don’t think it will be soon. She was really mad and I’m not sorry so I can’t apologize.” Silence. “Not yet, anyway, not that I have anything TO apologize for.”

“Well… I'm sure you’ll patch it up.”

“Thanks, Gabe, ever the optimist.”

"You know," he said, "There's an excellent movie out about Leonard. I just saw it last week. Maybe you could show it at your festival...." Gabe always had good ideas and here was another. Why not use then festival as a venue for social justice? I jotted down the name of the movie and promised to look it up on the net.

After saying goodbye I stuck the phone in my pocket and went downstairs to find Daine. He was sitting in the back of the restaurant, uncharacteristically alone, glowering into a coffee cup. "I can't believe they would turn this down," he complained. "The Nations! It's humiliating for one thing. Everyone wants them to play their gig. Nobody EVER turns them away, except for the small-minded imbeciles that are running this festival. For a piddling five hundred dollars we could have the best party this town has ever seen." He sucked his coffee down and waved the waitress over. "Whiskey please, Jameson."

"Listen, Daine," I said after she left, "If it's just the money I think I can help." He looked up from his funk.

"Really?"

"My father said he was going to donate some money to the festival, quite a bit actually. In fact, I know he mailed a check yesterday. Why don't I front you the five hundred, and when the check comes in the group can repay me from that? I mean, if this band is as good as you say, we can make the money back in cover charges."

"EXACTLY!" He said, sitting straight up and smiling broadly. "You're not going to regret this. As soon as you can get me a check I'll give them a call."

"How about now?" I asked, pulling out my checkbook.

"No time like the present," he replied, pulling out his phone.

*******

March, 2001: The awards ceremony took place in the old theater in the Strater Hotel. After much discussion we had agreed to give out aspen leaves embedded in little plastic frames as prizes, “The Silver Aspen.” We sat at little round tables with red-checkered cloths and applauded heartily for the winners. In the back of the theater, larger tables were loaded with food, much of which Daine had arranged for. I found him back there by the punchbowl, pouring and handing out champagne mimosas. “Nice party,” I said.

“Thank you, I’m happy with it. Mimosa?”

“Yes please. I'm looking forward to the band."

"Everyone is...almost everyone," he said with a nod toward Edwin and Kara. They watched us from the bar. Edwin whispered something to Kara and she nodded grimly.

"Are they still mad about the money?"

"Can you believe it? Look at this crowd, it's got nothing to do with money. It's 'the principal of the thing' - we made a decision without them. You'd think they would have gotten over it by now." They didn't look like they had gotten over it.

"So you think we'll do it again next year?”

“Oh there’ll be a festival next year, ask Sandra.”

Sandra was one of the movers and shakers of the group. She had come in strong, taken on lots of responsibility and was now indispensable. Sandra was in the group that hated Daine. She glared at us from across the room. Daine smiled and waved. Sandra returned a tight little nod and turned away. "She's so cheap, look at this.”

He pushed back the white table cloth to show me several cardboard boxes. “Those are leftover programs. Remember how she wanted to sell them for $5 each? And I wanted to give them away? Well now here we have boxes of them absolutely useless, whereas they could have each been in the hands of a different person who would share them with friends and then next year we would have twice as many people. But Noooooo, Sandra insisted we charge all that money for them and now here they sit, garbage.” He said bitterly.

“It’s not too late to give them away,” I suggested, “there’s a bunch of people here.”

“Yeah! Good idea!” He swept a handful of programs out of the nearest box and placed them in the middle of the table. “Free program?” He asked, holding one out to a passerby.

“Thank you, I wanted one of these.” She said gratefully. “Can I get a couple for my friends over there?”

“Oh yes, yes indeed, take all the programs you want.” He pulled the box out and pushed aside the appetizer plates to make room for it on the table. “Free program?” He asked the next passer. I could see Sandra hurriedly making her way in our direction.

“”Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, Daine, I think you did an excellent job as Development Director. I’m going to move on now, have a great evening.”

“You too,” he said, smiling, but he was looking directly at Sandra.

I hustled out to the lobby, squeezing through the crowd. Dean was sitting in the old-fashioned ticket booth by the front doors. Since everyone was already inside he was not too busy. “How’s life treating you, Dean?” I asked, perching on a nearby stool.

“Pretty good, though I’ll be glad when this is over.” He looked a little worn. As logistics manager he had been running non-stop since the festival began.

“Me too. I never realized how much work it is to throw a film festival.”

“Yeah. I have to get a real job, this volunteering is OK for a little while but it’s not paying the bills.”

“I thought you worked for Joshua.”

“Not lately. I haven’t heard from him since Albuquerque.”

“Really? Do you know if he’s OK?”

“Yeah, Dave spoke to him a couple of weeks ago. He’s been in Denver a lot, working on the fundraising with Tom.” A handful of late-comers bustled in the door, filmmakers by the looks of them, all dressed in black, with dramatic accessories and dark eye-liner - including the guys. Dean checked their passes and waved them on in.

“What do you think of Tom?” I asked when they had passed.

“I don’t know, he’s sort of…. I can’t think of a nice way to put it.”

“Do you trust him?”

“No. I don’t think he cares much about the book." Dean dropped his voice to a whisper, "I think he does a lot of cocaine.”

“Really? Come to think of it, he is a pretty fast-talker, isn’t he?”

“That he is.” More celebrants arrived. Dean took their money and counted out tickets. I took my leave, promising to ask around if anyone needed a hired hand.

Back inside, the Nations had just begun to play. They were instantly terrific. People rushed to the front of the room to dance. Soon almost everyone was crowded by the stage, writhing. I saw the black-eyed filmmakers gyrating wildly in the center. At the food table, Daine was smiling contentedly. I worked my way across the floor to him. "Congratulations, your band is a ninety-nine percent smash," I said.

"Dance?" He offered his arm. We took to the floor and flailed away with the others, forgetting everything, ignoring the critics, just moving to the beat. It was the best time I'd had in ages. When the band took a break we flopped down on the stage steps, panting. "Heads up," Daine muttered, "here comes trouble." Edwin was heading our way. "I'm going to get a drink," Daine said, and he was gone into the throng.

"Lou," Edwin smiled genially at me. "I haven't had a chance to thank you for the check your father sent. That money really saved the festival.... and you've done a great job with the marketing too," he said, almost as an afterthought.

"Thanks Edwin, for the marketing compliment, I didn't have much to do with the check. He just likes movies."

"Please thank him for us. Oh..." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a check, "here's the five hundred for the band..."

"Thanks," Over Edwin's shoulder I saw Daine. He raised his glass to me and winked. At a nearby table Sandra and Kara whispered to each other, glancing back and forth from Daine to me. I pocketed the check and joined Daine at the bar, where we laughed loudly at each other's jokes for the rest of the evening.

*******

Two weeks after the festival ended I got an early morning call from Ben. “Want to go skiing?” he asked.

“Sure," a new snow had fallen the night before. I decided to forgo my shoveling plans and take a day off.

“Fresh powder for the early birds. Meet me at my house, don’t dawdle.”

We drove to the mountain in his SUV. The parking lot was almost full when we arrived. In between the cars people hurried to strap on their ski boots, then clomped off as quickly as possible to get to the lifts, all hoping to be the first one to blaze a new set of tracks. I hurried too, mostly to keep up with Ben.

Powder skiing is not my bag, the stuff just bogs me down. I pretended to be enthusiastic about it nonetheless. We rode to the top of the first peak and skied to the back side of the mountain, where a smaller, more rickety chair took us to the black diamond trails.

Note: I am NOT a great skier. Before moving to Durango I hadn’t skied downhill for 25 years. Fortunately I am a pretty good actor, so I did it the actor's way; pretend you know what you’re doing and fake it. I copied people, skiing well behind them so as not to be discovered, mimicking every move. I pretended to think like a skier. When I saw an intimidating slope I said to myself; “Wow! Great! I can’t wait to go flying down this hill and leap off the tops of all those moguls, it’ll be so FUN!” Finally I did it, falling less and less as the months wore on.

So I followed Ben down the black diamond trails. On my third wipe-out he stopped and suggested a break. “That’s an interesting technique you’ve got. Where did you learn that?” He asked, handing me a mitten.

“Oh, here and there,” I said casually, “have you seen the other one?”

“I think it’s by that tree." After I had put myself back together and shaken off the excess snow, Ben said, "We had a meeting last night, to plan the next film festival."

“How come nobody invited me?” I was hurt.

“We thought it best that you weren’t there, since you’re a friend of Daine’s. We decided not to have him back.”

“Because….”

“He doesn’t really… work well in groups. You know what I mean. He made a lot of decisions on his own that should have been made by the committee. He made a lot of promises that we all had to pay for, money for bands and such.”

“He brought in a lot money too.”

“Nevertheless, there were people in the core group who felt they just could not work with him anymore.”

“How about you? I thought you were his friend.”

“I am, but I’m also realistic. If we want this film festival to continue we are going to have to be selective.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t.

“We still want you to be a part of it. I hope you’ll come to the next meeting.”

“Thanks, I’ll think about it. Who’s going to tell Daine?”

“I will. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at diplomacy. So how about we finish this run and get some hot chocolate? You look like you could use some time to dry out.” We skied down to the lodge slowly. About half way there Ben turned onto a blue trail and we stayed on the blues for the rest of the day.

*******

Thus Daine was booted out of the film festival. He took it graciously, he had already moved on to other projects. I let him use the office as much as he wanted. Whenever I showed up he was always there, typing away on the computer or talking on the telephone. He chipped in for phone and internet bills, and he always cleared out when I arrived, so I didn’t mind at all.

Daine repaid me in his own way; through connections, introductions, and casual get-togethers with people he 'thought I should meet.' I appreciated the company and the activity, since the rest of my life was spent alone in the woods, charting the last months of Lee Oswald's existence.

I had gotten through May of 1963 when Daine called to throw a monkey wrench into my quiet life. “What are you doing right now? Can you come down to Carvers? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Working. Yes. I’ll be there in a half hour.” Any excuse was a good one to get away from the tedium of the Warren Report. I pushed the books aside and went to the bedroom to change.

When I arrived, Carvers was crowded with happy hour celebrants. Daine sat at a table by the door with a tall, black-haired man. They laughed and talked with great animation. The tall, dark stranger smiled up at me as Daine turned around. “Lou, great to see you again. I’d like you to meet Antonio, an old friend who used to live here, he’s back for a visit. Antonio …” But Antonio was already up and taking my hand, looking intently into my eyes and saying something.

I was lost the minute I met him. Maybe it was his voice, deep, a little raspy, melodious, a good radio voice. “I hear you’re a DJ,” He was saying, “I used to do a show up at the college station.”

“You have a…a good voice for it.” I stuttered. “What kind of music do you like?”

“I like everything,” he said. “What do YOU like?”

“Oh, world music mostly, new music, rock and roll.”

“Ah, rock and roll. How about opera? That’s the music of my soul.”

“Really?” I squeaked.

“How about local bands?” Daine asked. “I know some fantastic groups right here in town.”

“Here?” Antonio’s voice had a slightly scornful edge. “What good bands?”

“The Nations, The Hot Strings, Rambling Rose…“ Daine ticked them off on his fingers, “and actually, I’m putting together a reggae concert next month at the Smiley Theater. I’ve got Zion Lion and the Shakers.”

Antonio was visibly impressed. “The Shakers? How did you get them to play here?”

“I have my connections” Daine smiled. As if to emphasize the point he waved at a group of people who had just walked in. “I’ll be right back, I just have to say hello.”

He squeezed away between tables towards the bar. Antonio turned back to me and leaned forward on his elbows, closing the distance between us.

What do you like to DO? Just for fun, I mean.” He asked.

“Well, lots of things," I said, struggling to think of a single one. "I uh... like to write.”

“How creative. Have you published anything?”

“No, not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“What are you writing?”

“A book on the JFK assassination.”

“Really? How interesting. Daine says you’re a DJ too. What station?

“A very small one, very local,” I dodged.

“Where? I may have heard of it”

“It was in my living room. Free Radio San Francisco.”

“You’re a pirate.” Antonio smiled broadly. “I like you already.” The room was getting hot. I unbuttoned my sweater. Antonio’s smile deepened.

“So what do YOU do for fun?” I asked, pretending to be interested in a pretzel.

Antonio stretched back in his chair and held his arms out wide, almost knocking a beer off a neighboring table. “Everything, race cars, spear-fishing, skiing… I’m a fencing master and a black belt in karate. I’m also an excellent cook. Why don’t you come over and try out my frittatas?” He plucked a business card smoothly from his front shirt pocket and slid it across the table to me. 'Antonio Avanti - Little Star Engineering,' it read.

“Is this your company?” I tucked the card in my pocket.

“It used to be. I sold it, but that’s another story.” A shadow crossed Antonio’s face briefly. He took a long drink.

“What’s a frittata?”

“You’ll just have to come over and try one out. Why don’t you come with me right now and we’ll have some for breakfast.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Life is short.” He looked at me closely, about to say something else but just then Daine returned. He had a tray of snacks, a fresh beer, and a sour-looking young woman following him.

“My friend, Cary, is working the kitchen tonight, so these are compliments of the chef.” He announced, “And this is Angela, Angela, this is Lou and Antonio.” She shook my hand politely. At Antonio’s she hesitated for a second.

“Antonio, Antonio ….”

“Avanti.” He stood and pulled over a chair for her.

“Antonio Avanti, you’re the guy that Laura told me about.”

“Laura … I don’t seem to remember her.” Antonio scratched his head as if it would help him recall. The gesture was a little exaggerated, slightly comical.

“She remembers you.”

“Oh? In a good way, I hope.”

Angela frowned. “Not really.”

Antonio looked at his watch in the same mime-like manner. “Oh, look at the time. Daine, I think we have a gallery opening to get to.” He swallowed the last of his beer and stood to pull on his jacket.

“No rush,” Daine countered, reaching for a small sandwich and popping it into his mouth, “we can be a little late.”

“My friend, timing is everything.” Daine shrugged and grabbed his coat. “You ladies enjoy the evening. And you,” Antonio leaned closer to me, almost enveloping me in my chair, “I hope you’ll come to brunch at my house on Sunday, I’ll make you the best frittata you have ever had.”

“How about I call you?”

“Good. Tomorrow. We’ll make a plan.” He winked at me and smiled at Angela, who nodded curtly in return, then he swept out of the room, a full head higher than most of the people he passed.

“He likes you,” Daine said to me before following him. “Watch out.”

As soon as they left Angela told me everything she knew about Antonio. None of it was good. But then Angela herself was not happy about anything we discussed. I decided that she was just a bitter person who had a humbug attitude about life in general. So Antonio had dated a lot of women in Durango, broken a couple of hearts and at least one marriage. So what? I had no intention of getting deeply involved with him, he was only in town for a couple of weeks. I made an excuse to Angela and left, looking in gallery windows on the way back to my car.

*******

Antonio lived south of town, along the mesa and then a drop down into the Animas river valley. A 'for sale' sign planted at the end of the driveway announced Antonio's transient status. Beyond it stood a log home with a barn and several out-buildings. Antonio waved from the deck. “Welcome to my humble home,” he said as he took my hand. There was nothing humble about the place, or Antonio, as I would quickly discover. “Let me show you around."

Antonio showed off his collection of paintings. He explained the art of flower arranging and Feng Shui. He told me about his flower shop in Boca Raton, where he had won many awards for floral design. He pointed out his fencing foils, skis, high-end cookware, chess sets and antique books. He put on a tape of himself doing his radio show. He laughed at all my jokes.

After the 'perfect' frittata - and a complimentary cooking lesson - Antonio took me out for a ride in his greatest treasure, a white Porsche Boxster with a spotless red leather interior and a vanity plate with his name on it.

We pulled out of his driveway and slowly up to the top of the mesa. There, once well off the main road, Antonio put the top down and opened her up. We sped along the straight stretches of County Road 118, past the hay barns, the fields and the unimpressed livestock. Antonio kept both hands on the wheel and leaned back, smiling with pleasure at the speed. He asked me to pick a CD and put it on, which I did. The music floated up from the speakers at our knees and whirled away into the wind above our heads.

“We’re at 100!” he cried joyfully. I put my arms up and hooted as we rounded turns. Death would not hurt at that speed. If we crashed it would be just like taking off and flying. We would only slow down when we reached the other side.

This elation lasted as long as it took for us to get stuck behind a manure truck. Every time Antonio tried to pass, the driver angrily pushed his pedal to the floor. No smart ass in a fancy car was going to get by him, no siree. Flakes of dried excrement wafted back over us as the truck ahead rattled dangerously at it’s maximum speed. Antonio rolled his eyes as he pressed on the brakes.

“Another dirt-dumb loser,” he sneered, “that’s why I hate this town. I can’t wait to get out of here.” I must have frowned, because he hastily added, “Except for you. I wish I had met you sooner.”

“Really?” I tried not to look skeptical.

“Oh yes.” He was driving slowly now. Antonio leaned over. He took his eyes off the road long enough to look into mine and smile warmly. “Things would have been different if I had met you sooner. Sadly, I didn’t. But we can still enjoy the time we have.”

Oh yes, I thought to myself, we can certainly do that.

As soon as we returned to Antonio’s house we went straight to the bedroom and didn’t emerge for several hours. Eventually I went home to take care of Velcro and Lotta, but returned the following morning with Velcro in tow and Lotta well-stocked with food.

We soaked in the hot tub, cooked gourmet meals, drank fine wines and had plenty of energetic sex. Towards dawn we fell asleep, Antonio with his head leaned backward over the pillow so it appeared he was sticking his chest out like a rooster, mouth open as if to crow, but only a slight snore emerging. I moved as close as I could without disturbing him, until my back was pressed against his warm skin, and dozed off.

The next day Antonio announced that he was going on a catamaran cruise around the Bahamas... with a girlfriend. “I promised her months ago,” he said, as if it were an excuse, “I didn’t know you then. Besides, we can’t be together, I’m leaving."

“I knew that.” I said.

“No, you don‘t know,” he reached out for my shoulder as I turned away, “I’m really leaving. I’m dying.”

“Say what?”

“I’m dying Baby, I have Melanoma, skin cancer. What, do you think I’ve always had this girlish figure?” He struck a pose. I had to smile, naked, Antonio looked like a vertical line with a few horizontal ribs. He chuckled. “It’s all right, I’ve lived twenty men’s lives. I’ve died twice already. This time I’m looking forward to it, almost.” I just stared at him. “We can still have some fun. Cheer up. You go on home and I’ll be back in ten days. Then there’s two whole weeks before I leave town.”

“Yeah, well, thanks Antonio. Have a good time.” I picked up my bag and headed for the door, cursing my stupidity and the ache in my chest.

“You know I will.” I looked back at him. He was smiling, leaning back against the mantle of the fireplace. He lifted his coffee towards me as I walked out. “Here’s to life.”

Ten days later he called: “Hi Baby, boy, did I miss you.” I could have told him he was full of shit and hung up but I didn’t.

“How was your trip?”

“Oh it had its ups and downs. The boat was fantastic, the captain is an incredible man, my buddy, Robert, is wonderful as usual, but the rest of the company was a little tedious.” Did he include his girlfriend in that group?

“Weren’t you with uh… uh… what’s-her-name?” He chuckled.

“What IS her name?” I can’t remember…..” a fairly long pause and then, “It doesn’t matter, I broke up with her. It’s been a long time coming, and besides, I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” It’s amazing how quickly we believe the things we want to hear.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a hotel in Tampa, I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you come over and have dinner with me?

You can guess the answer. I went. We spent his remaining two weeks in Durango together. He loved my house. He feng-shuied the living room before he left, filling it with artwork from his storage space - on loan of course. We went on picnics, out to dinners, to parties where I met dozens of new people…. We whirled through those two weeks and when Antonio was gone I was completely and totally hooked.

Not long after Antonio left, Joshua and Dee paid me a surprise visit. They dropped by the office just as I was closing up. Joshua held out a thick manila envelope. "Here it is, the proposal so far." I opened it and skimmed through the pages, mostly lists of numbers.

"Is the outline in here?"

"Not yet."

"I thought you already had at least three."

"They're not good enough."

"What about Maureen's?"

"I don't think that's going to work." I opened my mouth with another question but Joshua was already heading for the door. "Let's discuss this over dinner, my treat. Dee?" Dee nodded agreeably. I locked the door and followed them down to the street.

The Diamond Belle Saloon still had a couple of tables, since the train had not yet returned from Silverton. We chose a central one and ordered dinner. The DB is one of Durango's prime tourist traps. Located in the old Strater Hotel, it offers the 1880's saloon experience, complete with piano man and whores. Of course, they're not really prostitutes, they just dress like them. After our 'waitress' left Joshua filled me in on the project's news.

"There's been some major developments since Albuquerque. We have an agent, Marshall King, he's very well-established, has represented some famous writers. He's thrilled to have our book. All we have to do is get together an outline and he'll find a publisher. He said it would be easy, because of the story. He said," Joshua paused for effect, "that this book will make 'hundreds of millions of dollars!'” Dee smiled happily and took a large bite of his steak.

"Is Ellis going to write the book himself?"

"God no, we'll get another writer. Marshall said he could find one as soon as the outline was done."

"So who's going to put together the outline?" I asked.

"Well... I was thinking maybe you."

I poked at my salad, wondering how to respond. Did I want to join the list of ex-outline-writers? "I'm sure you can do it. You know the story pretty well by now, much better than me trying to explain it to someone new. Just think about it," Joshua said encouragingly. "We don't have to make any decisions for a month or two. What we really need right now are backers. Dee's in for a hundred thousand. We just need your father to send his check along."

"He hasn't sent it yet?" I asked innocently.

"No, but he's a careful man and he's not as familiar with the project as Dee is, right Dee?"

"You can trust these boys," Dee replied on cue, "They're straight shooters." The analogy was perhaps more apt than he intended. I nodded slowly.

"Could you please speak to your father? Get him the proposal? I'm sure when he sees it he'll be eager to invest."

"OK, Joshua, tell you what, I'm going to go visit him in a couple of weeks. I'll take the proposal with me and give it to him myself. What he decides will be up to him, but I can at least do that."

"Great! Oh waitress," Joshua waved our server over, "A round of drinks please. We have some celebrating to do."

*******

The taxi let me off in downtown Castine. "Ninety-two dollars?!" I choked, but it was an honest price, the Bangor airport was over an hour away. I counted out the fare and a tip into the cabby's hand. "At least I don't have to break a hundred."

"That's looking on the bright side," said my driver, "enjoy your stay in Maine." She pulled away and left me facing a stack of lobster traps and rusted engine parts, which leaned against the low wooden footings of the town dock. "Dennet's Wharf," read the flaking paint on the side of a weathered boathouse. Beyond it the harbor was full of yachts but I didn't see Dad's. I called him on my cell phone.

"I'm here, Pop, standing by the drug store, where are you?"

"We're right in front of you," he said, "just walk through the restaurant."

"The Oyster Bar?"

"That's the one, on the pier. Go all the way to the back. We'll see you in a minute." He rang off.

I picked up my bag and walked into Dennet's Restaurant and Oyster Bar. A lone bartender looked up from the glass he was wiping dry. "Good afternoon, can I get you a menu?" he asked.

"No thanks, I'm... uh... meeting someone on the uh... deck." I said, feeling a little silly. He glanced towards the back.

"No one's there right now," he said in that lilting Maine accent, "but I'm sure they'll be here soon."

"Thanks." I continued on past the empty booths to the rear door. The deck was deserted. I pondered whether to call Dad again.

"Lou!" It sounded like he was in the water. Confused, I walked to the railing and looked down. There, bobbing on the low tide, was the Firebird. At 90 feet she stretched the length of the wharf. A single walkway descended steeply to her deck, from which Dad waved. "Careful on the steps!" he called.

Clutching the rope railing in one hand and my bags in the other, I crept downwards. Luckily one of the ship's crew saw me and hurried to my aid. She took my luggage and carried it easily back to the boat. I tottered after her, clutching the rope with both hands now.

Dad hoisted himself up from his seat and gave me a hug. "It's great to see you again, honey... ANN, JO'S HERE!" he shouted. Ann emerged from the salon and gave me another hug.

"We're so glad you could come! Make yourself at home dear, you're in the cabin on the right. Don't worry about your bags, Janet will bring them for you." The able-bodied girl immediately swept up my suitcases and took them below. A handsome young man, deeply tanned, then came out and asked me if I wanted a drink or a snack.

"How was your trip?" Ann asked.

"Mostly good. The cab at the end was a little steep."

"We could have sent Janet to pick you up."

"No," Dad corrected, "Janet was running an errand for the captain, the boat needed something or other. How much was the fare?" I told him. He pulled out his wallet and handed me a crisp hundred dollar bill.

"Oh, I can't take that," I protested, but I did.

We sat there and chatted about this and that. The tide rose, slowly bringing the Firebird level with the restaurant deck, now crowded with summer diners. They ate their seafood and gazed at the ocean and, consequently, us. I suspected this was the reason Dad had paid so much to park his boat there, that and the convenience.

When an offshore breeze carried the smell of fried clams our way he put down his book and asked "Who wants dinner?" Without waiting for a response he waved towards the restaurant and a waiter came hurrying across the now-level gangplank, bearing menus and table settings. He poured water in our glasses while we chose our dinners, then scooted back to the deck. A couple at the bar shook their heads in disbelief. Had I been on their stools I would have done the same.

"I got a call from that guy in Albuquerque," Dad said.

"Guy?"

"The one with the book."

"Tom... or Joshua?" I asked

"Not the little, annoying one - the one who's writing it."

"Joshua. Oh, he asked me to bring you this." I reached into my handbag and pulled out the manila envelope. "It's most of his proposal."

"That's OK, I don't need it. I sent him a check."

"You did?" Ann asked.

"Not for the whole hundred, just thirty."

"Oh... that's not much."

"You sent him thirty thousand dollars?" I asked.

"Yep. Mostly for the movie rights. He was a little disappointed but he got over it. At least now the annoying one will stop calling. I made that a condition to giving them anything." Dad had long been a proponent of throwing money at problems to make them go away. Hopefully it would work with Tom. I tucked the envelope back in my bag and a napkin into my collar as our waiter returned.

Ah, the world of the wealthy, a seductive yet isolated place. We sailed every afternoon. I lay on the front deck in a bikini, reading novels, tanning. Every hour one of the ship's crew sought me out to inquire if I wanted a drink or a snack. The cook made custom meals for the vegetarian. If I even attempted to make my bunk I would find it re-made, perfectly, when I went to bed at night.

After a week of this; being waited on, pampered and enviously watched by the tourists in the restaurant, I was ready to go home. You see, I know what's on the other side. I have served the meals, made the beds and scrubbed the dishes. I recognize the slight eyebrow tilt of disdain, the tight lips of scorn. In a world out of balance the poor hate the rich and they have every good reason to do so. I was relieved to slip back into the crowd at the Bangor airport with nothing to mark me as the enemy but a crisp hundred dollar bill.

*******

September 11th, 2001: The telephone was ringing. I pushed one hand out from under the blanket and fumbled for the receiver. "Lou, it's Daine."

“S’early for you ...Whazzup?”

“Not up. Down. Have you heard the news?”

“No. You just woke me.”

“The World Trade Center has collapsed. It’s gone.”

“Good, not a moment too soon.”

“I’m not kidding. It got hit by two planes, one in each tower, and it fell down. It’s a big pile of rubble. And the Pentagon got hit too …”

“Excellent. Did they get the CIA?”

“Lou! I am NOT bullshitting you. Turn on the radio.” I reached for the button but froze. Daine’s voice had a pitch of panic. If this was true … I didn’t want to know. Just one more second of hope, please... because if this was true then all my work, all those years of organizing, all my dreams for a better world were shot to hell. There would never be peace in my lifetime, not a chance. “Did you turn it on yet?” he asked. I pushed the button.

*******

September 16th: It took Antonio three days to get to Durango from Tampa. When he arrived he was skinnier than ever, and pissed. “They took my nostril trimmers! Can you believe it?! I asked them how you could kill someone with nostril trimmers? And you know what he said? ‘This is not a time for joking.’ ‘I’m not joking,’ I said, ‘what are you going to do, trim them to death? Give them a fatal nick?’

“I’m amazed you made it here as quickly as you did,” I said, as we unloaded his suitcases from the rental car.

“I got an upgrade to first class,” he grinned, “I sat between two absolutely GORgeous women."

We climbed the front steps to his house. He unlocked the door with a sigh. It had finally sold. He had two weeks to get all his stuff out. He flipped on the lights, plopped onto his leather couch, pulled out a cigarette and lit it, coughing on the first puff.

“When did you start smoking?” I asked.

“Oh…. A while ago. What have I got to lose?”

“Nothing but time,” I turned to bring in a suitcase.

He laughed, “I don’t want any more time. I just want to get this over with.”

“Moving, you mean?” I asked hopefully.

“That too.” He took a long, deep drag, then sent up a couple of slow smoke rings. “Did I ever show you any pictures of my daughter?”

“Nope.”

“Remind to do that before I leave."

Over the next week I helped Antonio pack up his house. We went out every evening and slept together every night, even though I knew he had a girlfriend in Tampa. Sometimes he was violently ill. Then he would lie down on the sofa and I would continue packing. Whenever he came across them, Antonio showed me photos of his beautiful daughter, lost in a custody battle and taken far away. His face softened in those moments, I loved him then.

The movers came on a rainy day in early October. They loaded everything into their truck and hauled it off to a storage unit. There we unloaded and packed it all tightly in, the leather sofa, the dozens of skis, the carefully wrapped artwork, the clothes he would probably never wear again. After the movers drove off Antonio sat on the pavement and wept.

"That's my whole life in there," he sobbed. "I never thought I'd have to pack it up and walk away." In his arms was the one item he was taking back to Florida, a large, leather photo album, which held the treasured pictures of his daughter.

"It's not your whole life, " I tried to comfort him, "it's just stuff. You gave it a good home and now it's time to move on. Your daughter will appreciate it someday."

"Yeah," he sniffed, "if her fucking cunt mother doesn't steal it."

Once Antonio composed himself we drove back to his house to get his suitcases. We were just at the canyon's edge when Joshua called. Antonio stopped and I got out to patrol the rim for a decent signal.

“Lou! I need you to come to Dallas. Dean and I are on our way there. We’re going to meet with Ellis and get the outline together. Can you come down and help me write it?”

“When?”

“Friday. We're in Tennessee, we’ll get there by then. Can you fly down?” I thought about it. The notice was short but it was a great excuse to get away and not sit here in Durango missing Antonio. He was going back to his Florida girlfriend, I may never see him again.

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll call you later on, make your travel plans and let me know when you’ll arrive.” The signal started to break up as I walked back to the car. “I’ll be ….. And then …..”

“Joshua, I’m losing you, I’ll talk to you later.”

I clicked the phone off and climbed back into the Porsche, where loud music blasted and Antonio rocked to the rhythm, eyes closed.

“Who was that?”

“Joshua, the guy who’s writing that JFK book. I have some work, I’m going to Dallas on Friday.”

“That asshole? Get a contract. He’s not going to pay you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. I could use a little getaway.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he said sharply, “The world is full of assholes who love to use little naive do-gooders like you. You’re a magnet for manipulators, baby.”

A poignant pause followed as I pondered how Antonio fit into his own definition and if I should point this irony out? No, he would only get angrier. I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to move on. “Just use this guy for practice, get your writing skills honed and then you can go after some real clients.”

“What if his story is true? This book could change the course of history.”

“Oh please, first of all, he’s an asshole and a liar. Secondly, and I wish you would get this, no one cares who killed Kennedy. It’s over. It’s ancient history. It’s boring. Get with the program, baby, you should write a book about sex. Everyone likes sex. I could use some right about now.”

I opened my mouth to reply but then shut it. I didn't want to argue on our last night together. He was flying out of Farmington in the morning. "God I hope this trip is better than the last one." he sighed. We drove on down the hill to get his bags and say goodbye.

I tried to look calm as our aging McDonnell-Douglas bucked along through the storm. America was on it’s first code-orange travel alert but tornadoes, not terrorists, were to blame for this hellish ride. Lightning flashed outside. I started to pray; “Please God, get us safely on the ground, I have so much left to do here, I want to finish just one book before I die, please, please, please…” BUMP, prayer answered.

We all cheered. We, who had started our journey in fear of humans, had ended it in sheer terror of Mother Nature. We, who had been eying each other suspiciously throughout the flight, now staggered into the airport, our pale faces looking for nothing else but the exit.

Once out on the street I called Joshua. His voice mail answered. “I’m in Dallas Joshua, I’m going to find a hotel for the night. Call me tomorrow morning.” Then I tried to call Antonio, but his phone was shut off.

I sat for a moment on the bench, watching rain drip off the overhang. It was just as well that Antonio didn't answer. He would have asked if I had been paid yet and, while Joshua had agreed to a price in advance, he had not actually fronted me any money. He had promised to cover all expenses and pay for my time at the end of the trip. I believed him because I wanted to.

“Is that your suitcase?” A nervous-looking man pointed to my bag on the sidewalk, three feet away. In poor humor, I checked the tag and thought for a second.

“Um, yes.” I smiled up at the un-reassured traveler, who stared at me in disbelief and hurried off. 'You need to be more careful,' I chastised myself, 'these are very unfunny times. That man could be reporting you to security right now.' I quickly picked up my bag and went off to find a shuttle, trying to walk in an inconspicuous yet innocent way without seeming self-conscious or bulky. It was a brave new world, new skills would be needed to maneuver through a sea of watchful eyes and frightened minds.

Once settled in a cheap motel I shut my phone off and flopped down on the bed. This was lucky because there was a message left at 2:15am. It was barely comprehensible: Dean’s voice shouting over loud Mariachi music, “Lou, we’ll be there tomorrow morning, sorry to call you so late, we hope you had a good trip down to Dallas.” Then Joshua’s voice in the background,

“See you soon, Lou, thanks for coming.” I was a little concerned they would be late, but I needn’t have been. By the time I checked out they were already at their hotel. We agreed to meet at Starbucks. I found them in a booth, hunched over their coffees like cavemen over a fire. They were looking a little pale.

"Hi Joshua, Hi Dean, Late night?"

"And a long drive," Joshua replied, standing to pull a chair out for me.

"Hi Lou, can I get you anything?" Dean asked as he pushed himself to his feet. Of the two of them he looked the worse off.

"That's OK, I ordered at the counter. How are you guys?"

"A little tired," said Dean, plopping back down in his chair.

"Dean has to pay the piper this morning, don't you Dean?" Joshua asked. Dean didn't answer. He pulled his cup to his lips and kept it there. Joshua turned to me, "You'll have to excuse him, we've been on the road since July."

"Wow, that's a long trip. Where have you been?"

"All over the country. We've been meeting with potential investors and collaborators. We went to LA, met some movie people who might be interested, then we drove to New York..."

"You drove all the way to New York? Why not fly?"

"I hate flying. Anyway, we were there on the tenth, we had lunch right across from the twin towers. We were going to stay the night but for some reason we decided to leave that afternoon."

“That was lucky,” I said.

“You’re telling me. We heard about it when we were driving the next morning. I think this book is meant to be written, it’s a sign.”

“Or a warning,” Dean said.

“It’s a sign,” Joshua said firmly. He glanced at his watch. "Where the hell is Ellis? He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. I knew this would happen. Lou, you don’t know what a nightmare it has been working with him.”

“Really?”

“He still hasn’t finished his chapter or even the synopsis. The only thing that man has written is his bio. He wants me to pay him $10,000 up front, just to use his name. I spoke to Stephen about it and he said that we really needed Ellis’ name on this book, but it’s up to me to pay him. 'We’ll see how this trip goes,' that’s what I told Ellis. And now …”

As if he could hear his name being spat out, Ellis breezed up to the table and squeezed into the booth next to Dean and me, even though there was plenty of room on Joshua’s side.

“Hey kids, hope you haven’t been waiting long. How are you?” This last question to me directly.

“I’m OK Ellis,” I eked out a smile that was as far from flirtatious as I could manage.

“Good. You look a little … ill though.”

“Rough flight last night.”

“Sorry to hear it, I hope you feel better soon," he smiled warmly. "And how are you two? Just made it out of New York on time I hear."

"That whole thing was horrifying,” Dean declared, “I still can’t believe it.”

“I can,” said Joshua morosely, “It’s all part of the plan. Look,” he picked up a newspaper lying on the seat next to him. On the front page was news of the largest ever military contract for new warplanes from Lockheed Martin.

“So how do you want to plan this trip?' I asked, trying to herd the conversation in a useful direction. "Do you want to get settled in some place and start writing?”

“Oh we’ll do that Lou, don’t worry. I want you to see Dallas. You’ve never been here before, right?”

“I've managed to avoid it so far.”

“So you need to see the places we’ll be writing about. First we'll go to Dealey Plaza. That’s OK with you, right Ellis?”

“Sure, I'll meet you there. I need to check in with Mike, see how business is going.”

“You have a business in Dealey Plaza?" I asked. I had always thought Ellis made his living as a writer.

"Just a little hobby enterprise, something in my spare time. You'll see it soon."

"And maybe," Joshua interjected, "after dinner you can give us the Assassination tour?”

“You bet, it’s my specialty,” Ellis replied. Then, to me, "Let me show you the scene of the crime.”

"Uh... sure. That would be great," I said..

"Excellent, we have a plan," Joshua drained the last of his coffee and set the cup down with a snap. "Let's get a move on. Dean?" Dean's head jerked up from where it hovered, inches above his cup. "Why don't you go clean out the back seat, Lou's going to ride in the front." Dean got up with a nod and shuffled out to the street. "He's a little tired," Joshua explained, "too much tequila last night, plus he did all the driving."

*******

Dealey Plaza was smaller than I expected, yet strikingly familiar. The grassy knoll, the fence, the tree, the book depository, the railroad tower and overpass, here they all were in uptime, looking much the same as they did in the old photographs. The little monument was sporting graffiti, the fence behind the knoll was in disrepair and the tree that blocked Lee’s view from the book depository 38 years ago had grown almost double it's size, but it all seemed diminutive. Perhaps because the rest of Dallas had grown so much taller. Enormous glass skyscrapers stood just beyond the periphery of the Plaza, shining like gold in the late morning sun.

We found Ellis near the little Greek-style monument, by a card table. It was covered with his books and some ‘Special Edition’ pamphlets of his photos, which he was selling as souvenirs to passing tourists.

"That's his 'business'," Joshua said. We watched Ellis for a while as he went about his work. The shift started with a speech in which he pointed out the plaza's landmarks and described their significance. He held up copies of the several books he had authored and co-authored and offered to autograph them, at which point several people stepped forward to buy.

A large, black man ambled up to us. “Hi Mike” Dean greeted him. “Lou, This is Mike, he works for Ellis. Mike was here on the day of the assassination. He was a witness."

"Really?" I asked. He nodded. "So what do you think, Mike? Was it really just one man shooting from that window?" I pointed to the upper floor of the Depository. Mike chuckled.

"No, there were a lot of shots... a lot. They came from all around, from there and there and there..." he pointed around the plaza. "They had their bases covered." Ellis waved Mike to come over. "I'd better get to work. It was nice meeting you."

"Mike runs the table for Ellis," Dean explained as Mike walked off. "He gets a share of the profits. It's not much, but Mike lives on the street most of the time, he doesn't have a lot of expenses."

“I don’t get it,” Joshua muttered. “Ellis could be making so much money but he wastes all his time and energy here, selling pamphlets off a card table! He’s got a small mind, you know? He doesn’t think big. He wants that $10,000 so he can print more pamphlets.”

“What happened to all the money he must have gotten for his books? The guy is famous; he consults to filmmakers, he’s still on talk shows, his books are best-sellers, where did all that money go?”

“Women. He was telling the truth about losing it all to ex-lovers. There’s one now,” Joshua pointed to a large, frowzy blond in a black trench coat. She was standing at another card table on the corner. Her table was bigger. It was covered with Ellis’ pamphlets. Her eyeliner was so heavy I could see it from across the street.

“That’s Dinah,” Dean offered. "She was living with Ellis. She took him to court when they broke up and, even though they weren't married, she got his house, and those are his pamphlets she’s selling, she got them in the settlement too.”

“She looks a little unbalanced,” I said.

“She’s C.I.A,” Joshua replied matter-of-factly.

“Really? OK, she’s got the coat but I thought the agency leaned towards anonymous-looking employees, you know, people who blend in?”

“She’s effective. Look what she did to Ellis. And here she is just to screw up his business. She doesn’t need to be selling books on a corner; she’s got plenty of money. She only shows up when he’s here.”

"I need to get a closer look," I said, "I'll be right back."

I crossed the street and walked down the sidewalk a ways, then turned around and strolled up to Dinah's table, pretending to be a passer-by. I browsed through the pamphlets casually. Dinah didn't say a word. She wasn’t paying a lot of attention to Ellis or anything else. She acted like she was on tranquilizers; dazed, vacant … lights on, nobody home.

I walked on to the end of the block, crossed the street and returned to the monument. Joshua and Dean had joined Ellis at his table “Did she say anything to you?” Ellis asked.

“No, I don’t think she knew I was with you. She’s a little … strange, isn’t she?”

“Strange? No, she’s just a bitch.”

“She’s an agent,” Joshua corrected.

“Whatever. She’s already got my pamphlets and my house, let’s not let her ruin such a lovely afternoon. Why don’t I show you the museum, and then we can go to lunch?” Ellis suggested. Mike took over the table and we strolled off towards the depository. As we left I noticed Ellis discreetly glancing at Dinah. She looked our way once, then turned back to her table.

The Texas School Book Depository now housed a slick Assassination Museum, complete with a gift shop. "What do they sell in there, magic bullets?" I asked.

"Mostly books," Ellis replied, "mine included." Up on the sixth floor, the corner where the “sniper’s nest’ was located had been left in its supposed original condition, with worn wooden floors, cracked brick walls and carefully placed evidence. The cardboard boxes were neatly stacked and the empty rifle shells were lined up in a row, just as they had been on assassination day. The corner was walled off with Plexiglas to discourage any further investigation. As far as the museum was concerned, this case was closed.

I walked slowly around the floor, looking more at the building than the exhibits. Many of it’s features were well known to me; the service elevator that would not wait for Lee so he had to go down the stairs, the view of the parade route, the tree, the place where the Stemmons Freeway sign used to be until November 23rd, 1963, when it (and all the bullet holes that were probably in it) disappeared. It was obvious from here, looking out the nearby windows, that the angle of the shot was all wrong. .

Joshua came over and stared out the window with me. “It’s frustrating," he said, "There is so much evidence to prove that this story,” he gestured towards the sealed snipers nest with disgust, “is totally false, faked autopsy photos, missing frames from films, murdered suspect, murdered witnesses …”

“Yeah, they cleaned his jacket and lost his brain. We’ve heard it so many times it’s like an old legend. Then we shrug and move on... and now we have a war that’s never going to end," I sighed. "Remember 'Operation North Woods’, back in the early 60's?" Joshua shook his head. "The CIA wanted to discredit Castro so they came up with a plan to create their own 'terrorist' events. They have memos proposing to shoot down airplanes with US citizens on them and to blame Cuba. Thus the American public would agree to a war. The memos were in one of those boxes my father got. On September 11th I got out of bed, went to the box and dug out those memos. I'm not so sure we didn't bomb our own buildings," I whispered, "But if I say that too loud right now, some 'patriot' will beat me up."

We walked slowly past the exhibits, glancing at the photos on the wall. "I honestly don’t know who started it this time," Joshua said, "But I do know we’re going to war, and someone's going to make a LOT of money." By now we had made a complete circuit around the floor and were standing again in front of the sniper's nest. We stared cynically through the Plexiglas, looking back in time at a bad day. How many more bad days lay ahead?

“There you are," Ellis strolled over to join us. "What do you say to lunch?”

“I wouldn’t mind getting a burger,” Joshua said.

"Maybe a salad..." I said uncertainly, could they really be hungry so soon after breakfast?

“There’s a couple of good steakhouses near here,” Ellis offered, “I could go with a nice sirloin.” He patted his stomach and smiled disarmingly.

“I’m sure,” Joshua replied. He patted his wallet, as if he knew that it soon would be losing weight.

*******

After a brief stroll through the red brick restaurant district, we chose one owned by a famous football coach. Looking at the menu (and the other diners) I could see that 'diet' was a four-letter word around here. Even the salad was ostentatious, topped with a mountain of buttery croûtons and grated cheese. Luckily I had asked for the pint of dressing on the side.

“So, Dean..." Joshua said as he flapped open his napkin, "I spoke to your dad on the phone this morning. He called looking for you. He sounded a little worried. You should call him.”

“How come you didn’t tell me this morning?” Dean asked, with a touch of apprehension.

“I was thinking about some things he said to me.” Joshua spread his napkin neatly in his lap and looked directly at Dean for an overlong moment.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he told me he was really concerned about your safety in helping me write this book. He knew a lot about the project. He mentioned Quinlan and Rand by name. I asked how he knew them and he said you told him.” Dean was silent. He looked at his salmon as if he would like to trade places with it. Joshua turned his comments to Ellis and me.

“Dean has a problem with drinking. Every time he has a few drinks he opens his big mouth and tells everything he knows. Right Dean?” Dean gave a quick, embarrassed nod, his face reddening to a shade slightly pinker than his dinner. The atmosphere thickened with anger. “Do you know what you’re doing Dean? You’re putting us all in danger. I think you owe everyone here an apology.” Ellis, who had been steadily chewing a dinner roll, stopped eating for a moment to come to Dean's aid.

“It was his father, Joshua. He can trust his own father.”

“Oh no he can’t!" A couple nearby looked up at us. Joshua lowered his voice, "His father’s got a big mouth. They’ve lived in Durango a long time; they know a lot of people there. He’ll tell the whole town, if he hasn’t already.”

I felt badly for Dean, it didn't seem fair. I too had told a couple of friends about the project. And Joshua.... well, it was not a good time to bring up his own indiscretions. I wondered how much confidentiality he was expecting.

“I had to tell them something about where I was going,” Dean said weakly. “I’m sorry Lou, I’m sorry Ellis.” He looked whupped.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said but Joshua shook his head emphatically.

“I want him to worry about it. I’m worried about it. Especially down here,” he glanced around the restaurant apprehensively. I doubted any of the other patrons were packing more than a few extra pounds. “I’ve been getting death threats,” he whispered. Ellis put his roll down abruptly.

“When?” he asked.

“A couple of days ago on my cell phone.”

“What did they say?”

“The man said if I came to Dallas I’d be dead.”

“Any idea who it was?” I asked, trying not to spit out a mouthful of lettuce that suddenly tasted like cardboard.

“Maybe....I can’t really say.” Joshua, now casual, took a large bite of his burger. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he shrugged, “I don’t think he was serious. He was just trying to scare me.” He reached for the ketchup and poured a river of red onto his mountain of fries and proceeded to eat them with gusto. The rest of us picked at our food. By the time we left even Ellis had a take-out container.

*******

After lunch we decided to go to the hotel and work on the outline for a while. Ellis would join us there with his chapter and, when we had put together the book proposal, we would go out for dinner and the assassination tour. Back in the suite, I set up my laptop, Joshua made himself comfortable and began dictating. The book was to be mostly chronological, with flashes back and forth in time.

“Back before the Civil War, the Stevens family had a plantation in Mississippi," he began. "When the war came most of the men were killed in battle. With the Yankees advancing, the Stevens women and their one remaining boy, my great-grandfather - an infant at the time - abandoned the plantation and headed west to settle in east Texas, near Fort Worth. They have been here ever since."

"My father was a teenager during the depression. He hated being poor. He promised himself that someday he would have everything he wanted. During World War Two he enlisted and went to Africa, where he got malaria. He was sent to a hospital in Italy to recover. He stayed there for the next 18 months and developed a deep affection for the Italian people and some serious Mafia connections. They knew all about how to get rich and Dad wanted to learn from the masters."

"After the war he went to Iowa, where he met and married my mother, Maureen. Dad went into the lumber business with his father-in-law for a while and then my parents sold their share and moved to Southern California, where Dad met Harry Quinlan and began a new career in the aerospace industry. Harry hired my father to be his representative at Commercial Milling, brokering contracts in the weapons and space business. Comm-Mill had developed some new and highly technical manufacturing processes which made their products top of the line. It was a very successful company, Dad was finally rich. He loved it, the luxury, the prestige, the power, he took it all in big gulps. We lived comfortably by the Ocean, it was a happy time. Then, in 1959, Harry built a new manufacturing facility in Fort Worth and talked Daddy into moving here to oversee it....” The doorbell rang, it was Ellis.

“How’s the outline coming?” He asked curiously, sidling next to me on the sofa.

“Pretty good," said Joshua.

"We're just getting started," I added, hoping that we would continue, but Joshua was already up off the sofa.

"How’s your section coming along?” He asked.

“I brought it with me.” Ellis replied. He produced a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. Joshua looked surprised. He scanned the first page, muttering the words to himself, then the ensuing pages, picking up speed as he went. He zipped through the last one and looked directly at the author.

“Where’s your chapter? This is just your bio and the contract. I see ...” Joshua flipped back though the papers, “that you made some changes in the contract.”

“Yes, well there were a few things that needed altering, not much.”

“Lou, would you excuse us for a while? I need to speak with Ellis.”

I was only too glad to leave, a storm was brewing and I had had enough of rough weather. I put the laptop away and went to find Dean. He was at the pool, laying in the October sun in his cut-offs, his cowboy hat over his face and a half-finished longneck next to the deck chair. I dragged another chair over and flopped into it. Dean lifted his hat with one finger and smiled at me. He seemed to be recovering expediently from his ass-chewing. “Hey Lou, can I get you a beer?” He asked.

“Yes, thanks.” He sauntered off and returned with two cold bottles. I sipped as Dean took a long swig and settled back comfortably.

“How’s the writing coming?”

“We didn't get much done. Ellis is in there now. I think Joshua is giving him some constructive criticism about his chapter.”

“Good, I’m glad it’s someone else’s turn.”

“Does Joshua often speak to you like he did at lunch? That was pretty harsh.”

“Oh, I don’t let it bother me much. He’s under a lot of stress to get this book done.”

“Did you know about the death threats?”

“Yeah, I was there when he got the calls.” He picked off a leaf that had settled on his hat and blew it into the pool, where it spun slowly, sending ripples out across the steaming water.

“Any idea who it could be?”

“Nope. I think Joshua knows but he won’t tell me. I don’t think we’re in any danger... right now.”

"That's reassuring," I said dismally. "I thought those guys were all dead."

"They have children," said Dean.

The afternoon sun sank below the roof, dropping the temperature sharply. Dean pulled his flannel shirt back on and we went to the bar. Neither of us was in a rush to return to the room. We sat in armchairs and watched the TV news, where Fort Worth’s own Lockheed Martin Aeronautics Co. was being awarded an $18,981,928,201.00 cost-plus-award-fee contract for a Joint Strike Fighter Air System Engineering and Manufacturing Development Program. 66% of the work was to be done right there in Fort Worth. The local newscasters crowed over the jobs and opportunities coming to town. A table of boozy businessmen nearby raised their glasses and cheered.

“You know, Dean, I’ve been increasingly depressed about this war thing.” I said.

“Yeah. It sucks.”

“I worked my whole life for peace. I always hoped that it could happen, with enough people and time and effort. But, over time, fewer and fewer people cared. The less they cared the less I hoped. Now all I want is to hang onto what I've got, to keep my house, to be cozy in my own little world. Sometimes I think the big world can go to hell."

“It's going,” Dean said. We watched the news with grim faces while the businessmen laughed and toasted their good fortune.

A few minutes later Joshua and Ellis walked in, Joshua looking exasperated, Ellis, cheery as usual. “Let’s go for a drive, kiddos,” he said, “I’ll give you the V.I.P. tour first, since we're running late,” (this with a pointed look at Joshua) and then we can stop in Irving for dinner. I know the perfect place, you'll love it."

We all got into Joshua’s truck and drove to Oak Cliff, Lee and Marina’s old stomping grounds. There we turned first onto South Zang Blvd.

"On your right is the Texas Theater, the place where, you will recall, Lee Oswald was arrested almost immediately after the assassination. It is widely believed that he went there to meet someone and, only upon his arrest, did he realize he was slated to be a patsy." Ellis narrated. The theater had not changed much from the old pictures. We then turned left on Neely Street.

"We are now passing the apartment where the Oswalds lived for a month and a half in the spring of 1963. Stop here a minute." Joshua stopped the truck. We climbed out and peeked through the slats of the backyard fence. "This is the place where Lee Oswald supposedly posed with that shotgun and copies of ‘The Militant.’" A small, hand-written sign requested that no pictures be taken without the resident’s permission (and the payment of a small fee, Ellis added).

We drove one block and onto Elsbeth Street. "The Oswalds lived in this apartment from November 1962 to April 1963. Turn here." We turned on West Davis and drove another block to North Beckley Street. "This is where Lee spent the last six weeks of his life living in a rooming house that stood right here. And right over there was the Dobbs House restaurant, frequented by Lee Oswald, Jack Ruby, Officer Tippet..."

"And my father," Joshua added.

“When I read the Warren Report I never understood how close all these places are to each other," I remarked. "Lee moved around a lot but he never left this little neighborhood the whole time he was in Dallas.”

“Guess who lived over here?” Ellis pointed at a small block of flats on South Marsalis, “Jack Ruby.”

"We used to come here all the time," said Joshua, "for meetings."

“Did you ever see Jack and Lee together?” Ellis asked Joshua.

“Not that I recall, mostly I sat in the car, but I'm sure they knew each other.”

“A lot of the people that associated with Jack and/or Lee knew each other,” Ellis said, “Oak Cliff was a busy place. Did you know that Oswald’s landlady at North Beckley Street, Earlene Roberts, met with Ruby at his nightclub four days before the assassination? Jack's business associate, Bertha Cheek, was Earlene’s sister. Officer Tippit, who was supposedly shot by Lee Oswald, was seen in the Dobbs House at the same time as Lee just a couple of days before the assassination.”

"Lee had to know most of his neighbors," I said. "I've been in Durango almost the same length of time that he was here and I already know, well... more people than I want to... sometimes." Dean nodded sympathetically.

We drove on to Irving for a quick pass by Ruth Paine’s house. “Daddy and I came here once. We had lunch with Ruth and Michael. Lee, Marina and Junie were here. We sat in the back yard, at a picnic table,” Joshua reminisced. "That was a very nice day." I glanced at Ellis, checking for a skeptical expression, but he appeared to be listening intently, murmuring,

"Mm hmm?" and "really?" However the only question he asked when Joshua stopped speaking was, "Who's ready for dinner?"

Ellis guided us to a nearby strip mall, where two stone lions marked the entrance to a Korean restaurant. We sat at a long grill - it stretched the length of the bar - upon which a chef prepared each entrée before it’s recipient’s appreciative eyes. He twirled and juggled his ingredients, flipping eggs into the air and cracking them with the side of his spatula as they came down. The shell remained clinging to the utensil while the raw egg fell neatly to the grill. He tossed the shell aside and whipped the egg into the sizzling tofu and veggies, along with a myriad of unknown sauces. The process was completed in minutes. He moved on to the next customer, leaving me to stare in wonder at my plate.

“The show is almost as good as the food,” Ellis said. He waved at the chef, who was spinning an egg prior to liftoff. “Could we have some extra condiments please?” The chef nodded curtly and shouted in Korean back to the kitchen. A small yet equally speedy waitress shot out of the swinging bamboo doors with a tray of sauces which she set down next to Ellis. “How are you tonight Leeann?” She giggled and ducked her head as she retreated.

“You come here often?” I asked.

“As often as possible,” Ellis nodded happily as he mixed sauces on the side of his plate. Beyond him, Joshua poured tamari on his meal, inhaling deeply of the steam. He scooped up a bite and sat back slowly, closing his eyes. Dean had not yet touched his plate, he was still staring at the chef, who was whipping up another egg down the bar.

"So Lou... " Joshua said, opening his eyes and zooming in for another bite, "After Dallas we’re going back to Durango. Dean needs to see his family and I need a break. Then I’m going to Denver to meet with Tom and some of the other backers. Would you like to come?”

“Thanks but..." I assessed quickly what a trip to Denver with Joshua might be like, meeting with Tom, talking about money, fielding requests that I ask my father to give more... "I need to do some work on the house. Maybe we can meet in Durango while you’re in town.”

“Definitely,” he said. "We should be there by Halloween."

After dinner the guys decided to get dessert at a nearby ice cream store that Ellis just happened to know of. He and Joshua ordered gigantic sundaes. Dean had a frappe and I got a scoop of butter crunch, which I always pick when there are too many choices. I patted my pants to check my hip size. Still small enough, but I needed to watch it. We had spent more time eating than writing. If this kept up for the rest of the weekend, well … I pushed my spoon into the remaining ice cream and tossed it in the trash can behind me.

“No good?” asked Joshua, “Would you like something else?”

“Oh it was great, I’m just full.” I might as well have been speaking Italian. Joshua and Ellis looked at me quizzically, murmured “Mmm,” and returned to their desserts. Dean shot me a wink.

Sated at last, we called it a night. "See you for breakfast," Ellis called as he drove away.

Tiny muffins, nesting a pile of mini croissants and Danish, lay on a tray at the start of the breakfast buffet. Still groggy from a restless night (made more so by unknown Korean spices mixed with butter-crunch,) I tried to focus on the doughy mound, but kept thinking of that dream, kept feeling myself falling..

The dining room was filling up with traveling business-people, wearing their weekend clothes; Gap jeans, alligator shirts, Dockers and Nikes. Out of this sea of sportswear Joshua appeared, carefully balancing a paper plate of pastries. He waved me towards a table that Dean was saving and we all sat down.

“So... do you think any of these folks are here on weapons business? Maybe a little Joint Strike Fighter Air System Design? ” I asked Joshua.

“Here?” He chuckled, “I don’t think so. Those salesmen go to the good hotels. Daddy always stayed at the Adolphus." He sighed, looking around the room at the middle-management clientèle, "I wish I could put us up in a better place, but right now Ellis is getting all my money and the only thing he’s written is his bio.” Joshua ripped open three sugar packets and dumped them into his Styrofoam coffee cup, stirring clumsily with a tiny plastic stick.

“I’m sure he’ll write something soon. I mean, he’s written at least three books…” Dean said.

“Co-written.” Joshua put the pastries in the center of the table. “Help yourselves, please.” Dean started to reach out, then stopped and looked at me expectantly. I wasn’t hungry but I took a muffin. He then picked out the Danish he had been eying.

“It’s his name that your book needs,” I said, “to get people to pick it up and read it. Once the story gets out it will have it’s own momentum. Other writers, more … diligent types will take up the investigation, it’s just a matter of time … and work. Speaking of which, I’m leaving tomorrow morning, maybe we should try and finish that outline.”

“We can do that later,” Joshua picked apart a croissant and chewed thoughtfully. “We should try and make the most out of our time here in Dallas. I thought we could go and find SRI today. I pretty much remember where it was."

Well, perhaps we could just do a little bit of writing while we’re waiting for Ellis....” I suggested. I was starting to feel a little desperate about accomplishing anything at all.

“I’d like to Lou, I see how much you want to get this written, but frankly, it’s very draining to talk about it. It’s like going back into the past again, and that was a painful time.”

“Ok, never mind.” I could see that this outline was not going to get finished during my trip to Dallas. In Albuquerque people had been talking about publishing the book before the next election, which was three years away but suddenly rushing closer.

“So where is SRI?”

“On the north side of town, not far, a couple of miles. I’ll have to find it by memory, which isn’t so great, but I think I could recognize it. There’s some other places I want to show you as well. So...." he looked at his watch, "we’re just waiting for Ellis … as usual.”

“He’ll be here soon,” Dean said through a mouthful of Danish, “I told him they stopped serving breakfast at ten.”

At 9:55 Ellis arrived. "Am I late?" he asked, looking at the buffet. The tables were still laden with food. He smiled and began to pull off his jacket.

“Don’t bother, we were just finishing," Joshua pushed back his chair.

"Hang on a second, I'll be right there." Ellis made a quick trip to the sideboard, picked a pastry for each hand and proceeded to wrap them in napkins, which he pocketed subtly on the way out.

We all piled into the gold pickup truck and rolled north on the freeway in the Sunday sun. Behind us glittering skyscrapers hovered like a lineup of giant phalluses, the Hunt tower most prominent among them. Not far from downtown the buildings lost their erections and diminished into single story warehouses , shops and shacks.

We rolled along Turtle Creek Boulevard, turning on side streets, cruising slowly up and down. Joshua stared intently at each building we passed, searching for memories. SRI had been somewhere at the end of a street, next to a grassy bank along the Robert E. Lee Park. One little flat building after another crept by until, suddenly, Joshua shouted, “That’s it! I remember it, right there!”

I suppose, if you wanted a place for secret meetings, you would pick one like the building Joshua was excitedly pointing out, an unremarkable rectangle at the end of North Hall Street. He swerved into the lot and stopped.

We climbed out and looked on as Joshua hurried up to the entrance, describing details of the structure that had changed in the past 40 years. “They’ve taken away the little roof that was here, but the stairs are the same. I remember these railings, the sign used to be there,” he pointed to a spot over the door that actually had a faded outline where a sign might once have been. “I wonder if anyone is in.”

Joshua rang the bell. We waited a few moments then he knocked loudly and rang again. We waited a minute... two...just as we were about to leave, slow footsteps approached. The knob turned, then the door opened a crack. An old man peeked out at us, probably wondering what anyone would want at his door on a Sunday morning.

“Hi,” Joshua greeted him, “I hope we’re not bothering you, I just wanted to look at this building. You see, my father used to work here long ago. I was visiting the neighborhood with my friends....” he gestured towards us, we nodded politely and murmured hellos, “... and I recognized this place. Would you mind if we come in for a minute?”

It was a crazy thing to ask but it worked. The old man looked us over and then opened the door wide.

Joshua kept up his patter as we went into the foyer. “What kind of company is in here now?”

“Sewing machine repairs, some clothing manufacture, not much,” our host replied.

“Do you own the company?”

“Mercy, no, I’m just in here to clean up a little before Monday.”

“Have you worked here a long time? Do you remember what was in here before this business?”

“About forty years and no, I don’t. It was something that used big machines though, they used to be right there,” he led us into a large room with skylights.

“Yes,” Joshua swept over the center of the room, staring at the concrete floor. “We had a lot of machines back when my father was working in this place. See?” He pointed at faded outlines and nicks in the floor, “There was a belt right here, and the machines were setup was over here…”

“Machines?” I asked.

“Yes. There were machines and a lot of women wearing white coats and hairnets. The missile components were brought in in crates, run through the machines and then put them back in the crates to be returned. The conference room was back here. May I?”

The old man shrugged and we went into an adjoining room. A few desks dotted the space. Sewing machines were set against the wall, tools and parts spread out in some kind of order on a side table. “It was much newer back then, there was a long table here,” he waved down the length of the room, “with a little speaker’s stand kind of thing at this end.”

I tried to imagine the room filled with well-heeled men, in uniforms and business suits, smoking and drinking coffee or liquor. General Rand would be at the podium, slamming his hand for emphasis, shouting “We have to kill that son-of-a-bitch!” I imagined a 12 year old boy sitting stone-faced by the wall. Joshua had grown silent, perhaps remembering a similar scene. The old man looked at us curiously. “Is there anything else you would like to see?” he asked.

“Um... No... thanks," said Joshua. “You‘ve been very kind to let us in.” We headed back to the entrance. "I don’t remember much else,” he said, looking back from the front door, “It was very different then of course, but I’m sure this was the place, I’m sure of it.”

We thanked our host and he shut the door, clicking the lock before his footsteps trailed away. “So what do you think?” Joshua asked.

“Well,” Ellis replied thoughtfully, “It’s a start.”

“Maybe we can find someone in the neighborhood who lived here back then.”

We drove around a few blocks. Most of the other structures seemed to be business, all shut down for the weekend. There was one house, obviously quite old, with a lot of junk and a couple of chickens in the yard. Joshua went up and rang the bell, but besides a barking dog there was no response. “Never mind,” he said upon returning to the truck, “let’s go see my parents.”

“Aren’t they... uh, dead?” Dean asked.

“Of course! Do you think I’m crazy?” Joshua snapped. Dean opened his mouth as if to reply and shut it again. From the corner of my eye I saw him give a very tiny nod.

*******

We drove to the Greenwood Memorial Park. Its entrance was graced by four giant bronze horses, fiery steeds, packed with muscles, straining forward though there didn’t seem to be anything holding them back. They were the kind of horses a general would ride into battle, they would be pulling the chariot of Alexander the Great. “Those are cool,” I said.

“Yes,” Joshua replied. “I think that’s why my father chose this cemetery. He loved horses, especially the spirited ones. He liked to break them”

“Did you have a horse when you were a young?” I asked.

“Yeah, one or two. I stopped riding one day, when Daddy got drunk and chased me down the road in his car. My horse slipped and fell, she broke her leg. Daddy got out and shot her.”

“That sucks,” Dean said.

“She had a broken leg, she had to be killed.”

"Yeah, but still..." Dean shook his head. Joshua busied himself with watching the passing tombstones.

“How about you? Did you break anything?” I asked.

“Nothing that couldn’t be patched up,” he said.

'Not on the outside,' I thought.

Joshua pulled over. "Here we are." He parked along the main strip of the cemetery next to a group plot with a rather angry-looking angel monument. Two large, black granite rectangles towered over the other tombstones; one for Maxwell Stevens and the other for Maureen. They bore names and dates but nothing more. Joshua probably had a spot reserved there, though I couldn’t imagine he would want it. I was a little surprised that he didn’t spit on Maxwell’ grave or give it a kick. I suppressed the urge to do it for him.

We stood there for a few moments. Eventually Ellis backed subtly away from the graves. The rest of us took his cue and headed for the car, Joshua trailing slightly.

"One more stop," he said, then drove us about five miles to another cemetery, the Rose Hill Memorial Park. We cruised to the back corner where the stones were all just flat markers, flush with the grass. He parked the truck and led us to one stone with a single word, 'Oswald'. There were no signs or any indication that this was a historic grave, the assassin of a president. You wouldn’t even have known it was there, you could have walked right over it and thought it nothing more than a paving stone.

“This is where my father took me after Rosewood, to see if I remembered Lee,” Joshua said. "He would have sent me back to the hospital if he thought I did ... or killed me."

"Do you really think your father would have you killed?" I asked.

"He told me he would do it himself if he had to, to protect the rest of the family. That was when I took a shot at him.”

"You two had some issues."

"I wasn't going to kill him, just wanted to make a point."

"Nothing says 'I'm angry' like a bullet," Dean remarked sincerely. I got the impression he was speaking from experience.

“Oh, look at the time,” Ellis said. “There’s a steak house out on the highway not far from here, they have some great specials on Sunday … all you can eat …” Joshua snapped out of his reverie.

“Oh yes, that sounds good. What do you say Lou? Dean?”

"Mmm, steak," we both replied, only one of us seriously.

Ellis directed us to a neon-lit nouveau wild-west saloon by the side of the highway. We sat in an overstuffed booth, suggestive of how I would feel in a couple of hours, and ordered another huge meal. The waitress was a sexy cowgirl. She wiggled her tight-chapped behind through the Sunday crowd to bring us a block of Swiss cheese that must have weighed twenty pounds and a bucket of warm sourdough bread. "Here's your appehtizahs, y'all," she said as she handed us each a cheese slicer.

"This place is great!" Joshua said enthusiastically as he ripped off a chunk of bread.

"I like it," Ellis replied, pulling the cheese within easy reach.

"So Joshua, do you mind if I ask how it was you took a shot at your father?" I said, half expecting him to beg off from another stressful memory, but he surprised me.

"Daddy and I never really got along after the assassination," he replied, laying a thick slice of cheese onto his bread, "maybe we never did at all. I spent a lot of my youth trying to piss him off. That's why I joined the Army. He was furious."

"He didn't want you to serve your country? I thought he was a patriot" I said.

"Oh yes, but he had other plans for me. Dying for your country is something the lower classes do, not the wealthy. Surely you know that?"

"Yeah, it was a silly question. So what happened?"

"He tried to get me out. General Rand even came to see me in Basic Training. We had a private meeting and he offered to get me reassigned, as a favor to my father. The minute he left I was called into the captain’s office and grilled on 'why was a general visiting a private?' I didn’t say, of course. I told the captain that he was just a family friend stopping by. They told me they knew who he was and why he was there. We left it at that.

Daddy came to see me soon after. He told me the General was being considered for a high position in the Nixon administration, and that it would ruin his career if I accepted his offer. He let me know that his friend's career was worth more than his son's life, so I kept my mouth shut and went to Viet Nam. I half-hoped I would die there, just to make Daddy feel bad."

“Where were you stationed?” Ellis asked.

“Outside Tay Ninh, where the Ho Chi Minh trail runs in from Cambodia, in the First Cavalry... a ‘death card’ assignment. Most of the guys in my unit were killed. I was there about five months then got off the front line by reenlisting. I finished my tour in the rear."

"When I finally went back to the states I had to be escorted through a demonstration. I was in my uniform, of course, and all these kids were screaming at me and calling me a baby killer. That was my welcome."
"Not long after that Daddy arranged to buy me out of the service. I think he was proud of me, in his way. I got an honorable discharge and so did the captain that set it up.

One night, soon after coming home, I walked in on my father and his friends. They were celebrating a big arms deal with General Pinochet in Chile. The US had banned weapons sales to him, but that was just for show. He was still a top customer. They had just arranged a shipment of F-105 warplanes and they were thrilled about all the money they were going to make. Rand, Colonel Peters, and Quinlan were all there, standing by the fireplace, toasting each other with these little glasses of cognac or something. To see them there like that, after all I had been through in Viet Nam...I lost it. I told them I was going to tell the FBI about the assassination. They got real quiet and I left. I wanted to go back and apologize once I was out of the house, but I was still angry. I figured I could do it later."

"That night Colonel Peters came to my apartment. 'You wouldn't really tell anyone, would you?' he asked me. 'Oh yes,' I said. 'But you could get yourself killed,' he said. 'And who would kill me?' I asked, 'You?' He shook his head. 'General Rand? Harry?' he looked at the floor. 'My father?' His head shot up. For a second he looked me in the eye, then he turned away and left. I wasn't sorry anymore, apologizing was the last thing on my mind."

"The next day I went to visit Daddy. I brought along the Remington 30.06 he had given me for Christmas after the assassination. I walked in and fired one bullet above his head. 'How does it feel to be afraid of your own son?' I asked.

'I wasn't afraid,' he replied, 'I knew you wouldn't kill me.'

'And do I know that about you?' I asked. He didn't say anything. I put the gun on his desk and walked out."

Joshua paused and reached for another roll. We all chewed our bread silently, digesting the tale, "It seems awfully quiet in here," said Dean. He was right, the once lively buzz of conversation around us had dimmed to the hissing of whispers. A family sat down at the table next to us. The women wore head scarves. Dozens of eyes stole glances at our neighbors. One or two glared openly, but the family ignored everyone and picked up their menus.

"Look at her pin," Joshua mouthed, pointing to his shoulder. I saw that the daughter’s scarf was held with a small button that said, in English, “Jihad”. Luckily nobody else in the restaurant appeared to have seen the offending accessory. Our neighbors had some nerve, boy, I wondered if they would make it home safely.

After dinner we dropped Ellis off at his car. As he pulled away Joshua announced “I need to get another writer, one who will actually produce something. Do you know anyone Lou? Someone who could just write the proposal for the publishers so we can get started? How about you?"

"I think you need a professional, Joshua, I can help with the outline, but the query letter, that's got to be perfect."

"Do you know anyone who can do that?" He sounded a little desperate. I thought. One unlikely candidate came to mind.

"Well... there's this guy in Durango who was our marketing consultant on the film festival. He's done a lot of press releases. He writes a good opening line."

"Let's give him a call."

"Now?" He looked at me expectantly. "OK." I called Ben. He was a little skeptical but agreed to meet Joshua two weeks later in Durango. Relieved to feel that we were moving forward, we all had a celebratory ice cream before going back to the hotel.

*******

The next morning Joshua and Dean dropped me at the airport. “I wish you’d stay, just another day, Lou,” Joshua pleaded, “We’re going to go look for the Burtons today. I’m pretty sure I remember where they lived, them and a couple of my family’s other friends."

“I know it will be interesting, but I do have to get back home. So you’re coming back to Durango in two weeks?”

“Sooner, I hope, but we need to make a couple of stops. I’ll call you when we’re getting close.”

“OK, good luck, see you later Dean.”

“See you back home, Lou.”

There was a wistful note in his voice. I wondered how Joshua would treat his friend and bodyguard once they were alone together. I felt bad for Dean, it was going to be a long road trip for him. I gave him a thumbs up after Joshua had turned away. He returned it with his easy-going smile.

Ironically, the Dallas airport has a large population of middle-eastern employees. My baggage was inspected by two men in turbans before they let me get on the plane. The weather was much more agreeable, thank God. I leaned the seat back and closed my eyes. It wasn't until halfway through the flight that I realized I had left without getting paid.

The world was slipping away from me. I ran as hard as I could, arms stretched out, reaching for her, but she was too fast. "Help! Save me!" she shrieked. She ducked around the corner and headed down Mass Ave., smack into the crowd gathered at the subway entrance.

"I've got you now!" I yelled. Through tiny eyeholes in the cardboard, I saw her trying to squeeze by the mass of commuters, a difficult task even without the three foot wide costume she wore. In my narrow tube I could surely reach her. I hurried in for the kill.

"Save me!" she cried, spinning helplessly, looking for a way out. I rushed forward to grab her and... WHAM! Something hit me from behind, knocking me off my feet.

"I'll save the world!" a bold voice shouted. People started to laugh. I scrambled upright, not easy in the rigid bomb costume, and turned in circles to see where Erin had gone. A half block away I spotted her darting through the entrance to Harvard Yard.

"Curses!" I yelled dramatically, waving my fist and stamping my foot. The crowd howled. I ran after Erin, a lone bomb looking for a world to destroy.

Once through the wrought-iron gate, I turned sharply to follow the interior of the red brick wall. In our pre-arranged meeting place, behind a lump of shrubbery, Erin lay stretched out on the grass, next to a slightly dented paper-mache globe. I peeled out of my bomb and fell on the ground beside her. "I get to be the earth this time," I panted.

"Are you all right? That guy really nailed you."

"Just a couple of scrapes. They'll have to hit harder than that if they want to save the world." We giggled hysterically for a few minutes, then switched costumes and ran back out on the street; two puppeteers with a wacky plan for global salvation.

"It didn't work though, did it?" Antonio's sharp observation brought me back to the present.

"No," I sighed, "apparently not."

"She's just as crazy as you. We should try a three-way. Is she hot?"

"I'm not gay," I said.

"That's OK, I'll be happy enough for the three of us."

"Well, Antonio... thanks for listening. I'd better get on with my chores," I said, draining the last of my now-cold coffee.

"I'm not done. This is the part where I give you advice," he replied. "Now... as soon as we hang up you are going to give her a call. You are going to say 'Hello, Karen,"

"Erin," I corrected.

"Whatever. You are going to say "I know we had our differences, but your friendship means more to me than whatever it was that we fought about. I hope you will still be my friend.' OK, got it? Tell me you got it."

"Yes Antonio, I got it."

"Good. I have to go now. Next time we talk I want to know what she said. Goodnight Baby, I love you." Click.

I shuffled into the kitchen and plunked my cup in the sink. The sky was purple. I could get a load of wood in before dark, then walk Velcro, then, if I could find her most recent number, I would give Erin a call.

*******

Halloween weekend arrived and with it came Joshua. I invited him to stay at my house, hoping that its remote location would help us to get some work done. Of course, we would have to take a break on Saturday night, but the rest of the time could be really productive if we stayed focused on the outline. I bought a car load of tasty food, with which I planned to stave off restaurant runs.

Just as I was carrying in the groceries Joshua pulled up the driveway. "Hi Lou, Wow, that's really a cool house!" He said as he disembarked from his truck "Let me help you with those."

"Thanks," I handed him a bag. "Do you have any suitcases?"

"Just a duffel, most of the stuff can stay in the truck. There are a couple of things though... I was hoping you would let me leave them here."

"Sure. Whatcha got?"

"The book... so far."

"That's not a big deal, what is it, a couple of binders?"

"A little more than that."

After depositing the groceries in the kitchen we returned to the truck, where Joshua pulled three large, plastic storage tubs out of the back. "I don't want to carry this stuff around if I can help it, not after what happened in Albuquerque. Do you have a place we can hide it?"

"I don't think you'll need to hide it," I assured him. "No one comes up here but me. We're at the end of the road, you know."

"Oh, they won't come up the road, if they come. They'll come right down over the mountains," He waved towards the steep peaks behind the house. "If they want to sneak up on you, they'll do it." I looked at the mountains, which had always seemed so friendly before now.

"Um, do you really think that would happen?"

"Probably not, but you can't be too careful."

As it turns out, I did have a good hiding place, the secret closet - designed to hide radio equipment in. Since the pirate station had taken a seat way in the back of my life, I pushed the transmitter and antenna to the rear of the closet and we shoved Joshua's tubs in front of them. Then I put out a plate of cookies, handed him a cup of coffee (with sugar and whipped cream) and pointed him to a comfy chair by the fire.

“So where would you like to start?” I asked, turning on my laptop. He looked a little surprised.

"Well... I really wasn't planning on starting right away. I was thinking maybe we could go in town for a bite...."

"Actually, Joshua," I cut in, "I bought you a nice sirloin steak, which I'll be happy to throw on the grill as soon as we get some work done."

"Sirloin?" he asked. I nodded toward the patio, where the grill was warming up. A covered platter sat on the table nearby. "It's marinating, "I said, "in a little soy sauce, garlic and olive oil. The baked potatoes should be done in about 45 minutes. Have a cookie." I offered the plate to him. He looked at me steadily for a moment before plucking one off and dunking it in his coffee.

"All right then...Rosewood. It’s an uncomfortable subject, but it has to be in the book. Let's get it over.”

“Rosewood," I started typing, "How did you end up there?"

“Let me give you a little background.... When I came back from Viet Nam I was pretty depressed. I saw a lot of people die. There was this one guy that I knew, he used to read me the letters he got from his wife. He showed me photos of his family and friends. I got to know them all pretty well. Then, in a battle one night, his brains were blown right in my face."

He leaned over and poked the fire, a burst of flames sprang from the embers. "When I was discharged this General came and offered me a medal of honor. I turned it down. There was no honor in that war, only heartbreak. I just wanted to get out.”

" But when I finally got home, America was a very different place than the one I left, and I was a different person. I had war dreams every night, I felt frightened and alone. Not only had the battles left scars; because of the assassination I knew things about this country that most people had no idea of. Freedom, democracy, they were empty words. War was a business, even presidents were expendable."

“Dad tried to build a new life for me. He bought me a car, a beautiful red convertible Grand Prix, and a condo. That was where I met Dennis Holton. He lived in the condo across from mine. Dennis was a protester, an anti-war organizer. He had been with the SDS at Kent State when those students were shot. He’d been through a different war than me, but we were both veterans of a country gone bad. We became friends."

Joshua looked up from his reverie. "Do you remember those protests against the Viet Nam war?"

"As a matter of fact I do."

“Dennis asked me if I would speak at some of them. He thought it would be very effective to have a veteran stand up against the war. I was only too happy to oblige. I knew it made Dad angry, which was fine with me."

"One day I wore his old WWII uniform jacket, with the shoulder patches ripped off, to a protest. That was too much. Dad called Dennis and threatened him to stay away from me. I retaliated by telling Dad I would expose the assassination group if he ever did that again. He became very cold and quiet. Things got worse and worse between us, and finally I took that shot at him, the one I told you about."

"I remember."

"A couple of days after the shooting incident I walked into my living room to find two men in suits and three large goons in white coats. They jabbed a needle in my side. When I woke up I was in an ambulance, in a straitjacket, strapped on a gurney. I asked where we were and they told me that we were going to Rosewood. I didn‘t know where that was but I remember thinking 'Rosewood, that sounds nice,' then they gave me another shot and I passed out. "

" The next morning I woke up in a hospital bed, un-strapped, but locked in the room. Some nurses brought me food. Then Dr. Moser then came in, Dr. Richard Moser. He didn't look to be much older than me, tall, sort of handsome, with dark hair and eyes, wearing a hounds-tooth sport coat. He didn’t say much, just introduced himself and his intern and asked me if I knew why I was there? I said I didn’t. He nodded and left the room."

"They gave me some pills that knocked me out for a long time. I don't know what day it was when Dr. Moser came back, asking the same question: “Do you know why you are here?”

“No,” I said again. But by then I had figured it out. Dennis had told me about MK Ultra and the secret mind control experiments our government was conducting on citizens. I'll admit I was scared. It was like being back in Viet Nam, except this time I was a prisoner of war."

"Moser was very polite, soft-spoken yet extremely controlling. He asked me if I would try to run away they let me out of my room. I said no and that same afternoon I was allowed out onto the ward floor. I talked to many of the other patients, trying to get information without raising suspicion. I didn't learn much though, only that most of them were in for drug or alcohol problems, and they came from middle or upper class backgrounds, like me."

"Dr. Moser began running tests. My physical exam lasted two days. Every scar and mark on my body was noted. Even my teeth impressions were taken. I got all the usual psych tests, the blocks and pegs and colors, then puzzles, getting gradually more complex, and finally written tests."

"As we went through all this together, Dr. Moser would chat with me. He asked me all about myself; what I liked in music and art, what I thought about my family, what I thought my ‘problems’ were… by the end of the tests he treated me as if I were his good friend. I played along. I needed a friend. I knew he was acting, yet there were still times when I trusted him because I wanted so badly to trust someone.” He frowned and gave the fire another poke.

“Did your parents ever come to visit you?”

“Yes, almost right away, while we were just starting the tests. It turns out they had been there since I arrived, talking to Dr. Moser and Dr. Mendoza. Dr. Mendoza was my other psychiatrist. I didn't see him as much, I think he was Moser's supervisor. Anyway, my parents didn’t seem too concerned about me when we met, it was almost like they thought it was funny."

"One day we all went outside and a photographer took our picture with Dr. Moser and Dr. Mendoza. We all had our picture taken in front of this plaque that was dedicated to the M.D. Anderson Foundation. Have you ever heard of them?”

“No, can’t say I have. What does M.D. Anderson do?”

“A lot of cancer work, but they also were involved in some CIA research.”

“Really? I’ll have to look into that.”

“Yes, they have quite a history, but I honestly don’t know the details.... How are those potatoes coming along, do you think?"

I looked at my watch. "They've got at least another half hour to go. So what happened next?" He sipped his coffee and stared into the fire for a moment, then,

"At the end of the testing period, which lasted about three weeks, I was given a detailed IQ test, on which I scored 182. That was enough proof for me that I was not insane, but I didn’t know what lay ahead. Right after the IQ test I was transferred to the inner ward."

"Inner ward? Like inner sanctum?"

"Kind of. The two wards were separated by a set of locked doors. Over the time I had been there, I had seen patients taken in, but never out."

"A day after my IQ test I was strapped on a gurney and wheeled through those doors. They took me to a large, padded room. It had one light recessed into the ceiling and one small, unbreakable window, placed out of reach behind padded bars. Through it I could see the walled-in courtyard that ran between the two wings of the hospital. Besides the gurney there was no furniture."

"I was there about 10 minutes, still strapped down, when Dr. Moser came in with some nurses and orderlies. One of them pushed a rolling cart with hypodermic needles, swabs, alcohol and small bottles labeled “Pfizer."

"Dr. Moser told me not to worry, yet he and the nurses seemed pretty tense. He gave me a shot from one of the Pfizer bottles and I began hallucinating almost immediately. He asked me questions about things I remembered; my childhood, my family, my life outside of Rosewood? I tried not to reveal anything, but the drugs made that difficult. As he asked me questions, he gave me shots of different medicines, almost like he was tuning a piano. I’m sure I let on much more than I wanted to. I can’t even remember what my answers were."

"After the drugs came the electroshock therapy. They had this really old, science-fiction looking machine. They would hook me up to it and... " he fell silent.

I noticed Velcro had snuck his way up to Joshua and placed his head strategically on one knee. Joshua was patting him steadily, long, heavy pats that ran from Velcro’s nose to behind his ears. He stared blankly out the window as he spoke. If he paused in the petting, Velcro would gently poke his nose under Joshua’s hand and toss it back over his head, whereupon Joshua would continue stroking him.

“Do you want to take a break?” I asked.

“No, let’s finish.... I was given the shock treatments daily for about six weeks. That's how long it took to erase my memories, or so the Doctors thought. They weren’t really gone though, they just got screwed up. After all those weeks of being drugged, shocked, asked what I remembered, and was I sure? By the end of that time I wasn’t sure of anything."

"Dr. Mendoza released me from Rosewood and the next phase of treatment began. My parents took me home and sedated me for six months. Most of that time I was asleep. I didn't know it then, but later I learned about experiments where they made people sleep a lot and, as a result, they forgot who they were, how to walk, stuff like that."

"Yeah, there was a doctor up in Canada who was famous for that," I said. "He screwed up a couple of people real good, got sued for it too. One woman he treated forget everything, including how to walk and use the toilet."

"I guess that's what my parents were trying to do to me," Joshua sighed. "Not quite so extreme, but they wanted me to 'sleep off' my memories of the assassination. And I have to say, I obliged them. I was so confused, all I wanted to do was to make them happy. So I took the pills, ate and slept."

"I might have forgotten everything, if it weren't for Dennis. One night, he and some other friends came to my window. They convinced me not to take the drugs anymore. The next day I didn't swallow the pills, I flushed them down the toilet. That night, when my friends returned I went out the window and left with them."

“Did Dennis or any of your other friends know about the assassination?”

“No, I never told anyone. They would have been killed if my father thought they knew. Mind if I put some more wood on?" I shook my head. Joshua pulled a large log out from under the kiva bench and placed it carefully into the flames.

"I went back to making speeches and protesting for a few months, then I was kidnapped again, off of the street this time, and sent back to Rosewood. I decided to escape as soon as possible. A few days later I was out in the courtyard with an orderly. I convinced him to get me a cigarette. As soon as he was ten feet away from me I ran for the fence and climbed over and kept running. I got to a pay phone and called my friends. They came and got me."

"My friends were lifesavers. They invited me into their homes and helped me get back on my feet. They didn’t think I was crazy, I told them my father was a bastard and they believed me."

“He caught me one more time. He got one of my younger brothers, Mark, to come over talk to me. Mark told me all kinds of things about my father being sorry and wanting to make up with me. I really wanted to believe it. Like a fool, I went to the meeting place and there was my father along with a group of Dallas police officers. Mark was surprised. Dad had tricked him too. He apologized to me as I was being apprehended."

“They took me back to Rosewood, where I was scheduled for a lobotomy. My older sister, Sally, rescued me just a day before the operation.. She had somehow convinced my parents that sending me to Rosewood was not going to help anything. She got me discharged and took me to her house, where I stayed for a couple of weeks until I felt stable enough to return to my own home."

"After that my father and I reached sort of a truce. Besides, with all the ‘treatments’ I had received, I didn’t remember much of anything. My head was really scrambled. In that respect my father had been successful. He seemed satisfied, anyway, with the results."

"But, in time, my brain cells began to regenerate and the memories started to return. Then I really thought I WAS crazy. I can’t tell you what a terrible feeling that was. I never knew when I was suddenly going to get a memory back."

"People still talked about Kennedy. There were still stories in the paper about it now and then. Nothing new, just the same old rehash, but they gave me flashbacks, like the ones about Viet Nam; I would see my father in a police uniform, or remember a moment of being with Lee or Jack or Ruth. My family never mentioned any of them, but I remembered having picnics in the Paine’s yard with Lee and Marina and the children, meeting Jack at the diner with my father... you can’t just erase people from your mind, I KNEW that I knew them. I also felt deeply that there was something wrong about remembering. If I told anyone I would be punished by the shocks, so I kept it all to myself for weeks as I slid deeper into self-doubt. I got very depressed, very quiet."

"Soon after Dad took me to Lee's grave, I went back to the cemetery alone, at night, to try and find it again. I hoped that seeing it would bring help me remember. I wandered about for a long time. That was when I really felt the craziest, walking around a cemetery at night, looking for a grave. I did eventually find it, but nothing happened."

"Finally I asked my mother. I told her about the memories and asked her if I was crazy? When I told her about wandering around the graveyard she started to cry. She whispered that I was not crazy, that it really had happened as I remembered, but that I had to keep it secret, especially from Dad."

"I can't tell you what a relief it was to hear that. Thanks to Mom I regained my sense of sanity. The memories were coming back too, now that I wasn’t fighting them. I welcomed them, as disturbing as they were. Lee, Jack, Ruth and Michael, Marina and the kids. I had known them. They were real people to me, not just the characters in the news. Every time a story came out I remembered more. I didn’t tell Dad anything. I quietly began looking for clues that connected him to the assassination...."

The oven timer rang, startling us both. "That’s enough for now," he said, rubbing his temples and stretching. Velcro, deprived of his petting, laid a paw on Joshua's knee. Joshua leaned down and gave him a hug. “What a great dog. A little hairy," he brushed off the circle of silky black fuzz that clung to his pant leg. "So... how about that steak?"

*******

After dinner we drove to town to meet Ben. Durango was in its usual Friday happy hour swing; everyone cheering in the weekend at all the watering holes, the cowboys square-dancing at the Diamond Belle, the students at the Summit, the realtors and bankers at Steamworks, The singles at Joel's and the ne’er-do-wells at a number of other establishments that I will leave unnamed. You can find them for yourself if you ever come to Durango.

At Ben's suggestion we met at the Palace. Located next to the train station, the Palace served more expensive fare to tourists and Durango's wealthier residents. We settled in the lounge, with its wood paneling and comfortable leather chairs, and ordered drinks. Just as they arrived Ben strolled over to join us.

"Ben Pusser - Joshua Stevens," I said. Joshua held his hand.

"Glad to meet you Ben. Lou says you can help us get this book off the ground.”

“I’m curious to hear more about it,“ Ben said as he sat, “but first, how are you, Lou?” And so we discussed social trivialities. Joshua was clearly chafing to get to the point, but Ben would not be rushed. After he had ordered, received and consumed over half of his beer, while chatting casually about mutual friends, he finally leaned forward and said, "It's been a couple of weeks and my old brain just doesn't retain information like it used to, so please tell me again, what is your book about?"

Joshua looked surprised. "You forgot?"

"Mm hmm. What was it? Some kind of political mystery or something I think..."

“My book is about the men who murdered John Kennedy. My father was one of them.”

“Oh,” Ben was visibly unimpressed. “So how do you want to pitch it?”

“It’s about the assassination. It’s the true story. What kind of a pitch do I need?”

“Something to sell it. I don’t know,” Ben tossed a hand as if throwing out a used Kleenex, “First of all, very few people will actually believe it, and secondly, it’s all been written about ad infinitum. What’s going to make your Kennedy book any different from the hundreds of others?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well, that’s going to be a tough sell. Can you prove it?”

“Not easily," Joshua sighed. "They didn’t leave any evidence. Nothing was written down. No records were kept. It was understood that anyone who talked would be killed.”

Ben's eyes narrowed. “So why do you want to write this book? Won’t you be killed as well?

“I don’t think so. Most of the assassins are dead, the others are too old to do much damage, except for maybe Harry Quinlan.” I shook my head at Joshua ever so slightly. If Ben thought there was any risk involved he would never accept the job. Better to let him think Joshua was crazy then to imagine that his story, and the consequences of telling it, were real.

“Joshua has a very well-known assassination expert as a co-author,” I interjected. “Do you know Ellis Morton?” Ben shrugged.

“Never heard of him, I don’t read much of that stuff. I DO know how to pitch a story though, and regardless of the truth of this one, I can write you a query letter.”

“How soon?” Joshua asked.

“Well,” Ben reached into his bag, a stylish leather case, and pulled out his calendar book. He flipped through a few pages, thought for another moment and then said, “Three weeks.”

“That long? It only has to be a page or two.”

“I’ve got some other projects ahead of it, plus I’m going on a river trip next week.”

“Maybe you could take it with you and do it on the trip?” I suggested.

“No.” Ben replied flatly. “I’m going on vacation. I don’t work during playtime.”

An awkward pause followed. Joshua frowned and looked around the restaurant, as if there were some other writer out there, sipping Chablis or nibbling hors d'oeuvre s, who would like to have the job. Ben calmly drank his beer and waved at some friends across the room.

“I’m stuck here, Ben," Joshua pleaded. "I need a writer and I need to get this letter out to publishers as fast as possible.”

“What about your co-author, the famous one?”

“He’s … busy.”

“Well, so am I. But I can get you something in three weeks, if you’re interested.” Ben glanced at his watch rather blatantly. “Lou has my number. Why don’t you think about it and let me know. I’ll be in town until Wednesday.” He turned to me and flashed a charming smile. “maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night. You ARE going out for Halloween?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, “wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. Joshua,” Ben stood and held out his hand again, “it was nice to meet you. I’ll look forward to your decision. In the meantime, have a nice weekend.” Joshua shook his hand limply, deflated. To Ben, Joshua's earth-shattering expose was obviously just another job, and it could take it’s place in line for his attention or it could go find another writer. He walked over to join his friends across the room, leaving his empty glass and three dollars on the table.

“Is that the only writer you know?”

“In this town, yes.”

“He doesn’t seem to care much about the story.”

“No, he’s not political.”

“You don’t have to be political to care about your president being killed.”

“I know. Don’t take it personally, Ben keeps a cool distance from everything. You don’t have to hire him.”

“There isn't much of a choice right now.”

“Sure there is. There’s plenty of good writers who would jump at the chance. You just have to reach out to them. How about tomorrow we look up some on the internet, maybe make a few calls?”

Joshua looked across at Ben, who was laughing with his friends, maybe about us. One of them glanced our way, subtly. Joshua scowled back at him. “OK, let’s keep looking.” We threw a few more dollars on the table and walked out.

_______________________

Morning dawned chilly. The dried thistles and sunflowers that still hunched on the hillside sparkled with frost. A cold draft blew in from under the guest room door, Joshua apparently liked to sleep with the window open. I scuffed past in my slippers and went downstairs to make coffee.

Velcro slowly shuffled after me, pausing on the landing to smile and wag his tail. “Hello, Mr. Beautiful, how’s my pal?” I asked. He wagged harder, his tail ringing the metal railings as he passed.

At the back door Lotta sat waiting. I opened it and they slipped through. From the window I watched them. Velcro went to the most dense patch of frost and lay down, sliding his nose in first and then, gradually, his whole body, until he was rolling luxuriantly in the icy grass. He stood carefully, shook himself and wandered off to see what the neighbors were up to. Lotta watched him go from her perch on a railing, then marched off along the side of the house, where the stone facing topped off in a perfect catwalk.

I had finished washing the dishes and making coffee by the time Joshua came down. “What a beautiful day!” he exclaimed, stretching his arms out at the bay window. “Let’s go for a bike ride, the weather is perfect.”

“Don’t you want to…” I started to say, but he was right. It was one of those bright fall days that should never be wasted indoors. The aspen trees were brilliant yellow, the scrub oak red and purple. Who knew how long until winter? I decided to compromise.

“OK, we could go to Lemon Lake. How about we have breakfast and find a writer first? Tonight I want to go to town for the Halloween parties, so we’re not going to get much done unless we do it early.”

Joshua frowned. He was, perhaps, rethinking his choice to stay at my house. I handed him a cup of coffee. He took it into the living room and sat on the sofa, looking longingly out the window. "Just think how much better you'll feel if we get a good writer," I prompted.

"Oh.... All right," he sighed, "But let's finish by ten so we can get a good ride in. I really need one, talking about Rosewood makes me blue." I nodded. If that was my story I'd be sad too.

After breakfast we searched the Internet for a writer. It took a couple of hours, but I finally got one on the phone, an investigative journalist who had recently published a JFK conspiracy book. He was gracious enough to hear me out as I explained Joshua's story.

"So, may I speak with your witness?" he asked.

"Of course," I said enthusiastically. But, when I held out the phone, Joshua backed away and shook his head. I clapped my hand over the receiver and hissed, “Joshua, Talk To Him!”

“I can’t!” He whispered

“Why not?”

“I can’t, I don’t know him, what if he… I just can’t, I’m sorry.” And with that Joshua turned tail and hurried down into the living room. I was left with the phone and my weak excuses. After hanging up I found him on the patio.

“Ok," I said, trying to remain calm, "what’s up? We just wasted two hours and a chance that we won’t get again, not from that guy anyway. Can you please tell me why you wouldn’t talk to him?”

Joshua shrugged pathetically. “I wanted to, I suddenly got scared. It was out-of-control. I just couldn’t.”

“You talk to Ellis. You talked to Ben. How come you can talk to them but not another writer?”

“Maybe it’s the telephone, because I couldn’t see his face. How do I know he won’t sabotage the story, or worse? He’s already famous, what if he wants a major share of the profits? There’s too many unknowns. He could set me up for real trouble if he talks about it. He hasn’t signed the non-disclosure statement. He could just go and tell someone and I could be killed.”

“I thought you said the assassins were dead.”

“Most of them. They have children you know, children with a lot to lose. Ellis or Ben ... they're not powerful people. Ellis sells leaflets from a card table and Ben's just a small town snob. He doesn’t even believe me. If he tells anyone he’ll say that I’m crazy. There’s no danger in talking to people like him.”

“Apparently that’s who you're stuck with then,” I said. He sighed.

“Yes, I guess so. I’ll hire Ben to write the query letter, you do the outline, and Ellis will put his name on the cover. I’ll find a writer. Just… not now, I need a break. Let’s go for a ride.” Clearly, Joshua was not going to be persuaded into any more work, so I let it go. We loaded the bikes and Velcro into his truck and drove to Lemon Lake.

*******

Lacy clouds raced high above us in a dark blue sky. The aspen leaves, just past their peak, were starting to fade and tumble. Occasional late bloomers dotted the mountainside with bright splashes of yellow, doubled by reflection in the still water.

At its north end the lake narrowed into a lively river, fresh out of the mountains, which spread across a long meadow. The cows that wandered here in summer had been moved to winter pastures. A handful of horses stood in the corral of the C Bar D Ranch - saddled and tethered - waiting for hunters to rent them.

We started our ride at the dam. As we coasted down towards the picnic area, the sun topped the peaks of the eastern mountains. The air temperature rose dramatically as the direct light hit us. We peeled off our sweatshirts and pedaled rapidly over the hard dirt road.

We didn't chat, Joshua was all talked out and I was saving my oxygen. Being asthmatic doesn't mix well with mountain biking. Joshua was hard to keep up with, for a rather zaftig fellow he could really put the pedal down. He looked back at me, flagging along behind him.

“Why don’t I ride on ahead and come back to you?”

“That’s …. a good … idea … meetcha …… later.”

He zipped away down the road. I stopped and lay my bike on the gravel shoulder, just for a little while, just to catch my breathe. As I stood there, hunched with hands on knees, gasping, the sun hit the lake with a brilliant flash. Out of the light an eagle flew, a baldy. It soared quietly just above the water, patient, focused, fishing. At the edge of the lake it swooped upwards and circled away above the ridge top.

If wishes were eagles dreamers would fly. Deep in my chest I swooped along too. Imagine what those mountains would look like from above; wrinkles of rock and golden leaves, growing ever more ragged and icy. As I crested the summit they would try to catch me, needle-sharp fingers, pinching upwards. But I would simply tilt my wings and ride the wind over. If I were an eagle I would stop in Silverton Valley and fish in the rivers that run shallow along the bottoms of the canyons. Then I would sail on over Red Mountain Pass and swoop down to Ouray, nestled in steep rock cliffs on the north side of the range. After Ouray the plains would open up before me and I would have smooth sailing all the way to Grand Junction…

My mental flight was interrupted by Joshua, hurtling back up the hill with Velcro hot on his trail, drooling, panting and smiling. Joshua pulled up next to me. “What an incredible day!” he exclaimed. He seemed to be ten pounds lighter, not in size so much as attitude.

“Yeah, great day for a ride. You do this a lot?”

“Whenever I can. I bring my bike everywhere. What kind of a bike is that?” He eyed mine curiously.

“I got it at a yard sale.”

“Really? Would you like a new one?”

“Why? You think I need a new bike?”

“I could get you something much, much better. Maybe as a trade for some of that writing work?”

“No thanks, I don’t really need a new bike, I need money.”

“Oh, sure, sure I’ll pay you too, but think of it as a bonus. There’s a bike at Dave’s house, I’ll get it to you before I leave. It’s one that I put together a couple of years ago. You’ll like it. You’ll be able to go much faster.”

I seized the opportunity to ask a difficult question; "And speaking of money, when can you pay me? I have an invoice for the time so far.”

“Um, yeah, I’ll get you some money on Monday. How much do I owe?”

“About $600.”

“Ok. Come with me to the bank Monday morning. I'll take care of the current bill and pay you for future work as it occurs, like maybe in a couple of weeks you can come to Albuquerque and we can finish the outline there. Then I can send it with the letter that what’s-his-name…”

“Ben.”

“Ben’s going to write.”

“You want me to come to Albuquerque?”

“Just one more time. I’ll be back there around Thanksgiving. Are you free that weekend?”

“Thanksgiving?”

“This valley has an echo," Joshua said, “Yes. Can you come to Albuquerque and help me finish this book proposal?”

“Are we really going to finish it this time or are we going to drive around town eating a lot?”

He thought for a moment. “Both. I have to finish the outline. By the time you get to Albuquerque I'll have the basics down, then we just have to type it and send it out...” I must have looked skeptical... “I’ll pay you half in advance, plus traveling expenses of course,” he nodded ardently to emphasize this final point. I pondered....

“Ok, I can drive down Friday morning.”

“It would be better if you could come Thursday.”

“I'm going to a party on Thanksgiving, but I’ll get there by noon or so on Friday.”

“All right. I’ll get a suite at the Doubletree. Bring your laptop.”

We finished the ride in relative silence. Joshua again pulled ahead faster and circled back. Velcro, finally tired, trotted next to me. The sun was well above us now, warm despite the brisk breeze that was making it’s way down into the valley. Yellow leaf storms erupted with each passing gust, a promise of winter fast approaching. The eagle did not return.

*******

“Are you sure you want to wear that?” Joshua asked when I came downstairs.

“Of course, Halloween is supposed to be scary.”

“It’s in rather bad taste.”

“I lost the fairy princess costumes when I was eight.” I said, admiring my outfit in the hall mirror. To commemorate the post 9/11 anthrax attacks, I had made a replica of postal worker’s uniform, accessorized with a bag of flour-filled envelopes. I held one out to Joshua, white powder spilling out in a small cloud. “Letter for you.” He smiled despite himself.

“Just don’t act like you know me if someone tries to beat you up.”

“Deal.”

We started our rounds at Carvers, where I won a jug of ale in the beer-bobbing for apples contest. After dabbing my head dry with paper towels and reapplying flour (which made a sort of beer batter rather than powder), we went on to the train station.

Ben was there with Tina. They made an odd couple; she in her everyday clothes, slouched in a corner, frowning. Ben, on the other hand, was standing in the center of the room, laughing loudly with a group of friends. He was dressed as Captain Hook, with a full wig and rental costume.

“You want some powder for your hair?” I asked, sidling up to him.

“I can’t believe you wore that.” He sniffed. Over his shoulder I could see the myriad disapproving stares of his friends. I waved a letter at them, spewing flour over myself and Ben.

“Boo!” They backed away as a group, shaking their heads. “Joshua wants you to write the query,” I told Ben quietly. “He’s over there at the food table. You two should talk.”

“I don’t discuss business at parties. Have him call me.” Even in full pirate regalia, Ben carried his business cards. He handed me one and began to turn away.

“Maybe he should write you a letter,” I shook another cloud towards him. “Ben, this could be the most important thing you ever write. You could make history here.”

“History is full of liars,“ he retorted, “Don’t be a fool, Lou, he’s crazy. I don’t believe him for a minute. If he wants to pay me to write his query, I’ll do it like any other job, and I'll do it when I feel like it. Have a nice evening.” Ben’s curls flounced as he returned to his date, who was picking at her plate and listening to some wag in a Scottish piper’s costume. They both shot me a nasty look as I turned away.

"No one in this town has a sense of humor," I complained, joining Joshua at the buffet.

"They just don't have one like yours," he explained, popping a cheese cube into his mouth. I was about to agree but, at that moment....

“Nice costume!” A young couple approached with glasses raised in a toast. "What a great idea!”

“Thanks," I said gratefully. "I'm Lou, and you are?"

“Road Kill,” the man announced, pointing out the tire tracks on his shirt, “and she’s the Angel of Death.”

“Nice to meet you.” The woman was dressed in a black shroud. Both of them had bloodlike spatters all over their costumes, and thin trails of red coming down from their eyes and lips. “Would you like a letter?”

“Thank you,” the man took it quickly and shook it so the flour flew out in a cloud. Several dour looks from the bar flashed our way. “Happy Halloween!” They chimed.

“And to you too,” I raised my glass in return. "You see?" I smirked as they walked away, "Death thinks I'm funny."

"Death thinks everyone's funny," Joshua replied.

We moved on to Steamworks, a brew-pub on 2nd Ave. Already a popular watering hole, the place was packed. Karl and Judy were there, she in a seductive gypsy outfit, he in his usual clothes with only a retainer of sorts in his mouth. It was really the best costume though, because it changed the shape of his jaw so subtly that even old friends looked twice to recognize him. He wore it every Halloween.

I ordered a beer at the bar, trying to out-shout scantily-clad women of both genders. This was a night for Durango's latent homosexuals to safely strut their stuff. Come to think of it, Ben had really seemed to enjoy his wig and ruffles. I decided not to tell Antonio about the pirate suit. He always insisted Ben was a 'closet queer.' He would surely gloat about being right again.

Antonio was a poor winner. I wondered who he was out with tonight? What kind of costume was she wearing?… Oh stop it! I took a long swig of my beer, which had finally arrived.

Through the bottom of the glass I saw the sexiest costume of the night walk in the door. Many a head turned to watch as Dr. Frankenfurter (from "The Rocky Horror Picture Show") entered the bar. If you've seen the film you can imagine Tim Curry in his corset, satin undies and fishnet stockings. Daine had topped his costume off with a full-length purple velvet cape and a pink, ostrich feather boa. His six-foot frame, enhanced by three inch heels, towered over the crowd as he swayed in our direction.

"Lou! Joshua! How nice to see you!" He planted a kiss on each of us, leaving bright scarlet lip prints. As soon as Joshua saw mine he scrubbed at his own cheek with a napkin.

"Hey Daine, you look mmmahvelous!" I said.

"You too, I LOVE your costume."

"That makes you one of the very few," Joshua said.

"What?" Daine looked around the room. Sure enough, a number of patrons were staring our way, frowning and shaking their heads. "Some people," Daine said loudly, "pretend to love America. They PRETEND to be patriots and they wave their little flags like a wind-up monkey on a drum. But then they go home and cheat on their taxes and cheat on their wives and go to church on Sunday and pray to Jesus to kill their enemies..." At this point a nearby reveler, dressed as Uncle Sam and carrying a rather large flag, began to elbow his way in our direction.

"This would be a really good time to leave," Joshua said.

"What for?" Daine retorted. "You have a right to be here just like anyone else, even the really stupid, brain-dead pseudo-patriots who can't take a joke even on Hallow..."

Uncle Sam was picking up speed. It was about to become an ugly evening when, luckily, the cavalry arrived. Or, to be exact, a couple of cowgirls rode their horses into the bar.

"OK, let's go," I said. "It's getting crowded in here." No longer the focus of anyone's attention, we slipped out the back. A trail of flour followed us to the door.

*******

On Monday morning Joshua and Dean left town. First we went to the bank, where Joshua withdrew $600 and finally paid me. We said our farewells and they drove off to Las Cruces, home of Joshua’s storage space. “That bike I mentioned is down there. I’ll bring it to Albuquerque for you,” he promised. We agreed to meet at the downtown Doubletree Hotel in Albuquerque on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Then I went home to continue tracking Lee Oswald’s last months.

My house seemed very quiet after all the company and activity of the weekend . I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, split a few logs for the fire and took a long bath in the green claw-foot tub. I thought about solitude: Outside of his marriage, Lee Oswald had been a notorious loner. Even Marina said that he kept to himself. I could relate, being alone was becoming increasingly comfortable.

Would I turn out like Dad; shutting myself into a room and shunning the world? Nah, I couldn't afford my father's isolation, sooner or later I would have to get a real job. Dad's reputation for paying his employees, especially family members, was shaky. It was only a matter of time before his interest in Lee Oswald faded, and then.... I shook off these worries and took my spot at the computer to chart the end of Lee Oswald's life.

*******

Over the following weeks I finished the timeline. By Thanksgiving I knew not only his final years but every recorded detail of Lee Oswald's life - from birth to his death at age 23. A very short span when you think of it. Ex-Marine, married, two children, no drinking, no drugs, no prior criminal record, no history of mental illness. What information did the FBI have that made them so sure Lee Oswald could kill a president? What WAS his relationship to the FBI and the CIA?

I'll tell you what I think; Lee Oswald was a professional infiltrator . Despite calling himself a Patsy, everything about Lee screamed 'Snitch.' It was his specialty, right up to the end.

*******

May, 1998: The first band was warming up when we pulled into the lot at Golden Gate Park. Dozens of cars and vans already filled the spots closest to the stage. "I knew we should have left earlier," David grumbled as we circled around for a second look.

"Well someone forgot to charge the batteries," I sniped. "You can't get any interviews without a tape recorder." He scowled.

"I would think that person should be the one who used the tape recorder last."

"I didn't use it last. You were the one who... look!" A Volkswagen van was pulling out in the next lane over. David stepped on the gas and we scooted to the spot just as two other cars approached. He squeezed the camper in. It was such a tight fit we had to climb over our seats and unload out the back door.

The annual Food Not Bombs 'Soupstock' Concert was going to be well-attended this year. Six local groups - all with large followings - were scheduled and our headlining group was the Risers, whose latest album was climbing the charts faster than Greenpeace can get a banner up a building. David and I were doing a live broadcast.

"I'll get the transmitter, you put up the antenna," he directed. Tired of arguing, I grabbed a length of PVC pipe and climbed to the camper's roof. From there I could see the size of the crowd. "There's a LOT of people here!" I shouted to David.

"So hurry up!" he shouted back. I stuck out my tongue but he didn't see, having never looked up in the first place. I slipped the antenna into the pipe and set it in it's base, which was permanently attached to the roof of the camper. After tightening the support wires and connecting the coaxial cable, I sat for a minute to take a break. David could hurry if he wanted to, after all, it was his fault we were late.

It was a perfect day for a concert. The fog had lifted early, leaving us in rare sunlight this close to the ocean. The nearby museums were doing a brisk business, roller-skaters in the plaza danced to disco music, toy boats sailed in the lake and the park's large homeless population lay on benches in the sun, soaking up warmth as if it could last them through all the cold nights to come.

"Lou!" A hand waved energetically from the mob that swirled by the stage.

"Gabe!" I shouted, waving back. I climbed off the roof and headed in his direction.

"Don't go far, I need you to do a mike check," David called after me.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be back."

Gabe was laying out literature at the Food Not Bombs table. He put each stack of pamphlets neatly in place and weighted them down with smooth rocks that he collected just for this purpose. "Nice day for a show," I said. He smiled up from his work.

"Nice day for everything. How are you, Lou?" He put down the pamphlets and gave me a hug.

"Oh... I'm hanging in there. And you?"

"I'm doing great!" he said. "Can you believe we got the Risers playing for Food Not Bombs? This place is going to be packed!"

"Yeah, well Food Not Bombs has gotten really popular."

"Especially since the FBI put us on their Terrorist Watch list," Gabe chuckled. "Our membership has tripled."

"Go FBI!" I said. We exchanged a high-five.

"So how DID you get the Risers to play?" I asked, reaching into a box for a handful of leaflets.

"The usual; friend of a friend, they liked our message. But it's not all roses, the infiltrators are stirring up trouble."

"Infiltrators... I don't know that band."

"No; IN-filtrators, you know, in Food Not Bombs."

"Oh. How can they make trouble over a band?"

"They don't like the process," he sighed. "We didn't make a group decision. The Risers offered to play and I accepted. Done deal. I never brought it up for discussion at a meeting."

"Those darn infiltrators. They can't seem to grasp the concept of anarchy."

"I DO like to make group decisions, but you don't need a group to figure out something like this," he gestured at the crowd, which had swelled considerably in the past half hour. People were already sweeping past the table, picking up brochures and buttons, dropping donations in the jar. "Uh oh, speak of a devil," he said quietly to me as an irate-looking woman hurried our way.

She was about our age, dressed in nondescript jeans and Che Guevara T-shirt with three Food Not Bombs buttons pinned on the front. She marched around the table and stood next to Gabe, glaring at him." Who put that banner up there?!" she demanded, pointing at the large FNB banner that hung over the stage. Gabe returned her gaze with the same friendly expression he gave everyone.

`"I did. Well... I had some help. Jenny and Robert and Wayne...."

"Who decided it was going to hang there?" she interrupted.

"I did. I mean, it's a Food Not Bombs concert and that's a Food Not Bombs banner."

"You can't just make those decisions on your own!" she squealed. "This is an organization! We make decisions together!

Gabe looked at her steadily for a moment, then flashed a bright smile and put his arm on my shoulder. "Veronica, have you met Lou? No? This is Lou Gardner. She's a co-founder of Food Not Bombs. She likes the banner there too, don't you Lou?"

"Love it," I gave a thumbs-up. Veronica shot me a grimace and turned back on Gabe, raising her voice enough to turn a few nearby heads.

"This group isn't run by consensus, this is a dictatorship! You're a dictator! You just make a choice on your own and everyone else does what you say! The great Gabe Bolinas, leader of Food Not Bombs..."

"When did we start having leaders?" I asked Gabe.

"Never. I don't think Veronica's read the leaflet yet." He picked a pamphlet off the table and held it out to her. She ignored him.

"This isn't a grassroots organization, it's a CULT!" she shouted. A good-sized audience had gathered by now, drawn by Veronica's hysterics.

"If it bothers you we can make a group decision right now," Gabe said. "Who wants the Risers to play?"

"YEAH!" the crowd shouted.

"Who wants the banner to hang there?" he pointed at the stage.

"YEAH!" they cheered.

"Is that better?" Gabe asked Veronica. Red-faced with rage she spat, "You wait 'til the next meeting!" She pushed her way through the laughing group and stormed off.

"They don't ever change, do they?" Gabe asked as he straightened out a pile of books. "There goes our next meeting."

"Cheer up, maybe she'll bring some friends and vote you out of the group. Then you can take a vacation."

"That would be nice," he said. "Too bad Anarchists don't vote."

There were other infiltrators over the years. They fell primarily into three categories; Ingrids, Pauls and Jerrys.

Ingrid was a disrupter; a destroyer of organizations. She joined the Boston Area Alliance Against the Draft and - because she didn't have a job - quickly became its most active member; running the meetings, making key decisions and thwarting the members actions. One of her key decisions was to purge Gabe from the group. This did not go over well and the organization then split in two. Gabe, myself and others went on to start a new ‘direct-action’ coalition against the draft. Ingrid and a handful of her friends kept the office, the mailing list and the name, BAARD. The rest of us had to start all over again, which we did.

Paul was an informer. He joined a small street theater group that Erin and I had started along with a gal from Greenpeace and a guy from the Labor Party. We planned to resurrect the old ‘Living Newspaper’ tradition, writing and performing skits from the daily news. Paul came to all our meetings and rehearsals. He didn’t say much, he mostly sat back and smoked a pipe. He was a terrible actor, which should have given him away; every genuine actor I know is compelled to tell the truth, it’s the nature of the art, but Paul was only interested in stealing it. One day he disappeared with all our scripts and the files from the Nuclear Freeze office, in which we rehearsed. Then we heard that he had joined a number of progressive groups in the area and all of them were missing their rolodexes after he left.

Jerry was the worst kind of infiltrator, the instigator. He joined our affinity group at Seabrook. He was young, handsome and charming. He lived in our group house and made love to several of our female members (not me). Gabe, Brian and I were sitting with him one afternoon on Mass Ave., by the old Orson Welles theater. We were watching construction of a new bank across the street, where once had stood one of our favorite restaurants.

“We could get them back, you know,” Jerry said, “we could stop that bank dead in its tracks.”

“How do you suppose we could do that?” asked Brian, looking at Jerry through hooded eyes.

“We could blow it up. I know where we could get some dynamite,” Jerry dropped his voice and glanced casually behind him. After determining our privacy he leaned forward and pointed at a small trailer on the construction site. “We could plant a few sticks under the trailer, wait for the workers to gather there and then… Boom, no bank.” Brian and Gabe exchanged glances, I only stared at Jerry in horror.

“You would kill people?!” I stammered. He shrugged.

“You can’t have a revolution without breaking some eggs,” he replied.

“Uh, no Jerry, we would never do that,” Brian said clearly, a little louder than necessary, as if speaking into an invisible microphone. “We’re non-violent.”

“And we don’t eat eggs,” added Gabe solemnly. Jerry was gone by the end of the week, along with several of his lovers address books. We never saw him again.

So you see, if you’ve ever known any infiltrators, Lee Oswald’s antics will have a familiar ring. He may never has gotten as far as Dorothy or Paul; he never took over an entire organization or made off with anyone’s files, but he sure got into the discrediting and the violence. In the end, as it always does, the violence took him down.

"Red or white?" Ben asked, displaying a bottle in each hand. "We have a Pinot Noir from Sonoma, dry with a touch of smoke, or perhaps you would prefer a classic Ferrari-Carano Sauvignon Blanc, '98. I got a case at 15% off."

"Um... white," I said. "Where do you want the cheese twists?"

"Appetizers go on the sideboard." He waved the Pinot Noir hand towards an antique table-thingy, already covered with bowls and platters. I squeezed my basket of pastries in among the others and took the glass Ben offered. "Excellent choice. There's plenty more in the kitchen. Coats go in the guest room. Oh, there's Ron. Make yourself at home... Ron! Red or white?"

Ben, official greeter and wine steward for the Orphan's Thanksgiving, walked off to welcome the next guest. I sipped my wine, hoping to detect whatever magic ingredient had driven him to buy a whole case, but the subtle nuances eluded me. "Pretentious," I muttered, swirling the glass. "Bourgeois, yet a bargain... Mmm...” I took another sip and sucked my lips, “Nouveau Riche.”

“Are you talking to yourself again?” Startled, I spilled a dash of Ferrari-Carrano '98 onto my sweater and turned to find a large man smiling down at me. Tall and wide - not fat - with shoulder length brown hair and twinkling eyes.

"Good thing I chose the white... Hey Will! How have you been?" Will was a friend from the film festival, an artist. He drew political cartoons and created odd yet intriguing sculptures. He had a smile and a kind word for everyone. His animal soul was definitely a bear.

“What do you think of this stuff?” I held the glass toward him.

“Wouldn’t touch it, not when there’s beer,” he replied. “So where have you been? I haven’t seen you since March. You are helping with the next festival, I hope.”

“Yeah, I’m doing some marketing again. Not so much as last year. Gotta make money, you know?”

“I know, it’s always a challenge in this town,” he said.

“Apparently not for everyone,” I waved around at the room we stood in. Barry, Ben’s friend who was hosting the party, had a gorgeous, huge log home out in the Animas Valley, draped with artwork and Navajo rugs. A chimney of river rock rose two stories up the living room wall, exiting amongst hand-hewn beams. Unlike the orphans we so readily imagine, many of the well-dressed guests to this affair were far from starving.

“How do you leave Durango with a million dollars?” Will asked.

“Come with two!” I retorted. We laughed at that hackneyed joke as if we had never heard it before.

“Speaking of not making money, how would you like an excellent volunteer opportunity?” Will asked as we walked to the guest room to deposit my coat..

“What kind of opportunity?”

“I heard you make giant puppets.”

“That’s true, though it’s been a few years, I don’t have the materials anymore.... I left my clay in San Francisco.....” I sang, but my excuses fell on deaf ears.

"None of that will be a problem," Will said. I hung my jacket on a bed post and we returned to the living room. “I have this friend, Martin, he works up at the college in the holistic studies center. Martin wants to lead some workshops on puppet-making, specifically for protests. You know we’re going to war over this 9/11 thing, don’t you?”

Thanksgiving celebrants filled the elegant room, laughing, chatting, tasting hors d'oeuvre s At that moment a war seemed so very far away, and yet...

“Yeah, it’s just a matter of time I’m sure.”

“It’s just around the corner,” Will replied. He picked a cheese twist from the basket and took a bite. "Mmmm, these are the best appetizers!"

"You saw me put them there," I said, "but thanks anyway." We strolled out to the deck, which overlooked a small lake and the mountains beyond. November was warm that year, very dry. We didn't need jackets or hats.

"So about this war," Will continued, “we’re planning a big protest for the first day, then every Friday after that until it’s over.”

“You think you’re going to live that long?” I asked.

“Maybe not. But these college kids are younger than you or me, no offense.”

“It’s true,” I shrugged. “So your friend wants to teach them how to make puppets for street demonstrations?”

“Indeed,” Will smiled broadly. “I hope you don’t mind. I told him you would be glad to teach a couple of workshops.” I took a slow sip of wine. Busy yet lost, with just a hint of despair.

“OK, sure, I’ll call him on Monday.”

Will scribbled a number on a napkin and handed it to me. “Thanks, Lou. You know, the sooner we fight back, the better we’ll feel.”

“You’re right. Who knows? Maybe we’ll win this time.” We clinked glasses and moved on to the dining room, where Thanksgiving dinner was just being served.

Originally, the Orphan’s Thanksgiving had been a party for people who could not be with their families on the holidays. Over the years it had evolved into a social affair that many people chose to attend rather than be with their families. Let’s face it, who would spend the money and time to travel back to their home town and sit through a meal with their difficult clan, when they could stay in beautiful Durango, go to a deluxe party, and ski on the weekend? We were optional orphans all.

The dining room table was loaded with food. I filled a plate with the usual vegetarian choices; sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, green beans with crispy onions, and the not so traditional fare; baked salmon in creamy horseradish sauce, eggplant Parmesan, paella. This teetering feast I carefully carried to a spot by the hearth and sat to dig in.

Only a couple of mouthfuls into my meal, Ben wandered over and sat next to me. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be with your family, but I do hope you enjoy a second-best holiday here,” he said.

“I’m not sorry, this is better, trust me,” I mumbled through a large bite of eggplant.

“You don’t have to sit alone, you know.”

“I know. It’s pleasant here by the fire.”

“No date?”

“I didn’t see any on the table,” I said, confused.

“No... date, boyfriend.”

“Oh... no.” I shoveled in some green beans. “These are really good. Do you know who brought them? I have to get the recipe.”

“Lou, there’s plenty of single men at this party. Why don’t you sit at the dining table? Look, I see three bachelors on the east end, all very nice guys.”

“Thanks Ben. Don’t get me wrong, but I’m not looking for a nice guy right now.”

“So I hear,” he leaned closer. “You’ve been seen a few times with Antonio Avanti. What’s up with that?”

“You know Antonio?” I asked, putting my plate down on a nearby coffee table.

“I’ve been here fifteen years, Lou, I know everyone. As far as Antonio goes, he is definitely not a nice guy.”

“We’re just friends,” I could feel my face reddening. Ben looked at me for a moment and stood up.

“That’s good, but watch out for him, Lou, you could ask any of the women at this party and they’ll tell you a sad tale about Antonio.”

“He’s dying,” I replied. “That’s pretty sad.”

“No, actually, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Ben said as he walked away.

*******

Velcro and I pulled into Albuquerque just as winter arrived. The Jeep's heater kept us warm but outside a cold north wind pinched everyone it touched. I passed an underdressed teenage girl, shivering as she tried to light a cigarette. An old woman pulling a heavy cart of laundry down the sidewalk leaned into the gale. Velcro pressed his nose against the glass and smiled at her as we passed. Two young boys ran, twirling like leaves, into the open plaza by the hotel. We pulled into the parking lot and emerged for a brisk stroll around the square.

The streets were practically empty, even on this first day of the Christmas shopping season. That was fine by me, recluse that I was becoming. People held less and less appeal. Parties, like the one yesterday, left a sour taste in my mouth lately. Everyone was gracious and chatty yet none of my conversations lasted more than ten minutes. Except for Will no one discussed world affairs. We talked about everything but 9/11. People laughed loudly and often. I went home feeling depressed.

Joshua was sitting in the lobby. “Hi Lou, I’ve been waiting for you. It’s been a while since you called,” he said as he stood to greet me.

"Yeah, I lost cell service south of Cuba." I plunked my suitcase down and sat heavily. "It’s been a long drive."

"I'm glad you could make it, thanks," Joshua pulled a key out of his pocket and handed it to me. ""Your room is on the ninth floor. Why don’t you get unpacked and I’ll meet you in the restaurant when you’re ready?”

“OK. Give me 20 minutes.”

The hotel seemed much quieter than last time. No business travelers, no conventions, almost everyone was home with their families. The employees on duty worked silently, no doubt thinking of loved ones they would rather be with. When I got down to the restaurant, Joshua was the only customer. The staff were back in the kitchen, laughing and talking to each other in Spanish.

“Hey Joshua, happy Day After Thanksgiving!“ I said.

“Same to you, Lou,“ he smiled. The kitchen door swung briefly ajar as I scraped my chair away from the table. An elderly waitress came out and brought us menus and water, asked for our drink orders and disappeared back into the kitchen. "How was your party?”

“Uh… it was OK. Did you do anything?”

“I went to Dorr’s.”

“The buffet place?”

“It’s a very good deal, especially on holidays.” I imagined him sitting there alone, with his tray of food, and felt a pang of sadness.

“Do you ever get together with any of your family?”

“No.”

“Because of the book?”

“Yes.”

The waitress reappeared with our drinks. Joshua ordered a full dinner and urged me to do so as well. “Just some tortilla soup please,” I said, closing my menu. She nodded curtly and left. “I don’t concentrate well on a full stomach. We are working tonight, right?"

“Yes, of course. I’ll order some coffee and we can probably get a couple of hours in. After that we can go out for a snack,” he said brightly. “I know we can finish the outline this weekend, we’re almost done.”

“How about the query letter? Did Ben send it?” I asked. Joshua’s smile dimmed.

“I have it upstairs.”

“What do you think? Will it do?”

“I don’t want to be mean, he’s your friend.”

“Go ahead, what did you really think?”

“It won’t do. You can read it yourself.”

Joshua was right, it wouldn’t do. When I read the letter after dinner I was disappointed to see that it was simplistic and sensational. It read like a pitch for a TV sitcom, opening with young Joshua being introduced to the Oswalds and closing with the lingering question; was this story for real?

“He never believed me,” Joshua said flatly, “no one else who reads that will believe me either.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry for suggesting him, I hope you didn’t lose a lot of money on this.”

“Only the half up front.”

“You aren’t going to pay him the rest?”

“Not for that. Would you?”

“No, I guess not.” I could imagine what Ben would say when he found out. Still, he had asked for a lot of money, and these few pages were not worth anywhere near his price. I tossed them back on the desk and pulled out my laptop. “Let’s get started, we can write a query letter when we’re done with the outline.”

Joshua lay back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “Where did we leave off last time?” he asked. I checked my notes,

“You had just heard from your mother that you were not crazy; and that your father HAD been involved in the assassination. You decided to pretend that you didn’t remember, but really you were determined to find out the truth.”

“Yes,” he sighed, “I was pretty screwed up from the treatments at Rosewood. My memories were scrambled and great chunks were missing altogether. I wanted to get them back but I also wanted a new life, a normal one; to get married, have children, all of that. I tried but my marriage wasn't working out."

“Those were very dark days. The Kennedy murder was being investigated again, this time by the House Committee on Assassinations. Not only that; Jim Garrett, the DA in New Orleans, was also holding hearings, and he was getting pretty close to some of Dad’s associates."

"As the investigations gained momentum, potential witnesses began to die. People we knew were being murdered. Some cases were meant to be a message to the rest of us, shot in the mouth, stuff like that. After a decade and a half of keeping the secret, many of the conspirators were losing their will. They were depressed and scared. Some had turned to religion to try and save their souls, but it wouldn’t save their lives."

"Dad was obsessed with surviving. Despite his worries he lived through the investigations, while so many others were not so lucky. Sam Giancana, George DeMohrenschildt, Johnny Rosselli... Theirs were the obvious murders, but there were also a lot of quiet kills. They had a drug that made death look like a heart attack, and that was given to the people who were not public figures. They were killed as subtly and expediently as possible, so as not to arouse suspicion. Ed Burton died that way. My godfather, Bob Teller, just disappeared. We assumed he was dead but nobody knows what happened to him."

“Who was killing everyone?”

“Dad never said. It might have been Quinlan, he had gotten very powerful. He and Dad continued to be business and personal friends all the way up until Dad’s death. For the rest of his life Dad continued to work as a weapons broker for the military, setting up contracts for individual companies and getting paid very handsomely for it.”

"In the early 80’s Dad asked me to take over his business empire. He was starting a new company. He wanted me to oversee construction of the offices and, after that, probably gain responsibilities until I could take over the entire operation. It was a great opportunity, but I was so caught up in my problems - I was going through a divorce and custody battle - that I turned him down."

"You had children?" I asked, trying not to sound too surprised. Joshua had never mentioned them before.

"Two daughters. I thought if I could win custody I would be much happier than my father ever was, but I lost the case. Lisa took the girls back to her home town. I don’t talk about them much anymore. I miss them. I wish things had turned out differently.” He stared morosely at his fingers "So... where were we?" I looked at my notes.

"You turned down your father's offer."

"Yes, well, the next night, when I was visiting, a group of young men showed up, all dressed in suits. They knelt at my father’s feet and kissed his ring when they greeted him. I knew what was going on; he was showing me that I was to be replaced as his heir. Honestly, after all we had been through, I wasn’t sad to walk away from his legacy. For all his high-style living he never seemed happy."

" Dad had cancer by the late 80‘s. It was a fast-moving one. The last time I saw him alive he said he knew why I turned him down. He begged me not to tell about the assassination, because he didn’t want his friends to get hurt.

"Imagine, here was my father, who had been willing to kill or maim me to shut me up, asking me to please be considerate of his friends. His concern for them only left me cold. I didn’t answer him. I decided I would wait until he and my mother were dead. Then I would tell. I didn’t care about the others. Even looking at his yellowed, fading face, I wondered why I cared about him? The kindest thing I could think was ‘at least he didn’t kill me.’

"Dad died before I saw him again and Mom died five years later. Right after Mom's funeral I put aside the bike business and began to focus on writing this book. My first step was to visit Harry Quinlan in California. I was going to tell him about my plan."

"When I got there I went to his company, International Industries. It was a giant office park surrounded by restaurants and shops. He rented office space to all the big corporations, lots of folks from the aerospace industry whom he had worked with over the years, and other companies as well. He was happy to see me. We went to lunch in one of the nice restaurants there, then we went back to his office.”

“He dismissed the secretary and said, “Joshua, what’s on your mind?” I told him I was going to write a book about the Kennedy Assassination. At that point he got very serious. He pushed a button and his secretary came and closed the door so we were completely alone. He warned me not to write it. He didn’t say it in so many words, probably because he had his own office bugged, but he was very clear that my life would be in danger if I wrote anything on that subject."

"He scared me a little so, even though it was a lie, I told him I was sorry and that I had changed my mind, I wouldn’t write anything. After that he cheered up and asked me to visit him again sometime. He ushered me out of his office with good wishes. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Why would you want to tell him about the book?” I asked incredulously, “It doesn’t seem like a very good idea.”

“You don’t understand; he was like a father to me when I was younger.” Joshua walked over to the window and looked out at the dark mountains. After a moment he said, quietly, “I wanted his blessing I guess. After Mom and Dad died I wanted someone to say it was ok to tell the truth. But I was wrong about Harry. He still had a lot to lose, you see.”

“Did you speak to any of the other conspirators?”

“Not many were still alive, Colonel Barnes is living in Oklahoma somewhere. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times, even taped it.“

“You taped him?“ I asked. “Did he say anything that could be used as evidence?”

“Maybe.... he talked a lot, he was just glad someone was listening to him.”

“Where are the tapes?”

“They’re in a box at Dave’s house.”

"Can you get them and find out if he said anything?" My pulse began to trot. If Barnes had said anything on tape....

"Oh, sure. I'll tell Dave you can pick them up sometime, you're in the area. Maybe you could listen to them?"

"You bet I will.... You know, Joshua, it might not be safe to mention your book to anyone involved. Surely you understand that?

“Of course. But I still need to talk to them. They were like family.“

“Nice family, lucky you survived.”

“Family is whoever you get.“ Joshua looked at his watch. “Anyway, that’s most of the story for this book. Let’s call it a night. I'm hungry."

*******

The next day we wrote a query letter and polished the outline. It had an opening pitch and ten comprehensive chapter synopses, including a final chapter by Ellis which we hadn’t seen a word of yet.

“The facts and eyewitness testimony to back up the story of The Black Years will be presented at the end of the book in a chapter that sums up the players and events described in the story,” Joshua dictated. “This will include testimony from Joshua’s siblings and other living people who were associated or related to members of the conspiracy group, evidence of the involvement of Sonic Restoration Inc., available documentation about the conspirators and their connections with known suspects in later investigations. Related documents from public records of these investigations will be included as well. This chapter will be approximately 20 pages.”

“Which eyewitnesses were you thinking of?” I asked. Joshua thought for a while.

“Jennifer would have if she was still alive. She used to talk with me about it, years later, carefully though; she had been warned.”

“Remind me again, who was Jennifer?“

“She was Norbert’s wife, the one who ran in that day shrieking “They did it, they really did it!” She was pretty excitable. A very beautiful woman. My father had an affair with her, of course, both my parents liked to ‘swing’ with the Lowers.

“What happened to Jennifer?” I asked, not wanting to hear any more about 'swinging.'

“My mother told me she died sometime in the early 90’s. Another heart attack. It’s too bad really, Jennifer would have been willing to back me up. But we’ll find someone, Dean and I can make a road trip to Oklahoma, maybe Colonel Barnes will give us an interview. I know a someone else who could help too. My psychiatrist, Dr. Germaine, might be able to talk to some people.”

“You’ve been seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Joshua stood and went over to the coffee maker. Our morning pot was down to the dregs. He pondered this for a moment then went to the bathroom for a fresh pot of water.

“I’m all about therapy," I said when he returned. "Do you know I have a Master's Degree in Psychodrama? I spent years in it on both sides of the chair.”

“Really?” He ripped open a packet of coffee and popped it into the machine. With a sputter it began to drip.

“Sure. Everyone has their issues. I never felt worthy. It's still a problem sometimes but I compensate," I said casually. "How about you? Not that it’s any of my business, but did your work with Dr. Germaine have to do with the assassination?”

“Everything does, for me. Yes. But there’s other reasons too.” Joshua came over and gazed at the computer screen for a moment. “OK, this looks good enough, let’s print it and get it out.”

Because it was the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, no copy places were open but plenty of stores were selling printers. We bought one (on sale), went back to the hotel, hooked it up to the laptop and printed the proposal. Then we went to Dorr’s to celebrate. Frankly, I would have preferred nachos, but Joshua wanted another Thanksgiving dinner. Nothing fancy, there was not a lot of cash to spare after Ellis had been paid his half up front.

Dorrs’ menu was strikingly unimaginative. Metal platters of food were laid out in steam tables behind a glass counter, cafeteria style. Bored-looking women in hairnets dished out whatever you wanted. We pointed at our choices, paid at the checkout and carried our plastic trays through the cavernous seating area, past a handful of large families and single senior citizens, to a cleanish table in the back. As soon as we sat I launched into what I hoped would not be a difficult conversation.

"So Joshua," I said brightly, "I've prepared an invoice." I pulled an envelope out of my pocket and slid it across the table. "Before I forget, can you write me a check?" Joshua peeled open a pat of margarine, concentrating on the foil as if he were defusing a bomb.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll have to pay you in a month or two, when the book gets a contract.”

The sound of Antonio’s laughter emanated from a growing pain in the back of my neck, “Joshua, I need cash and I need it now. I have expenses, this trip cost me time and money.” I said immediately, surprising both of us, I think. He looked at me for a moment, then pulled out his wallet and peeled off a few twenties.

“Here, take this, that should cover your gas and any other expenses. I promise I’ll get the rest to you as soon as the money comes in. Just make up a bill, OK?”

I looked him in the eye for a long second, feeling my lips tightening, but there was nothing to do at that point. What could I say? The trip had cost me nothing but time. He had paid for the gas, meals and hotel. Also, I wanted to work on his book. I would have come down even if he wasn’t paying.

"OK. But next time I'm only working if you pay me half up front, like Ellis." I said, trying to sound like a hard-ass.

"Sure Lou, of course!" he said. He picked up a roll and spread the margarine liberally on it, then pushed half in his mouth and chewed away enthusiastically.

God damn it, I thought, Antonio was going to gloat over this. He would use it to try and convince me not to work on Joshua’s book anymore. I couldn’t lie to him, it would be the first thing he asked when we spoke again: “So, did the asshole pay you?”

I poked my fork into a pile of steamed carrots. They crumbled. I had lied about only working for money up front. As soon as I got home I planned to start researching Joshua's story. I just wouldn’t tell anyone nor expect to be paid. It would be a hobby, yeah, and I would get to the bottom of this on my own time. I was going to find those documents, if they existed. It was all in the evidence; if I could find it, the book would be published. If I waited for Ellis to find it, especially now that he had been paid half of his fee, the book would never be done and I would never get paid, and Antonio would laugh his damn head off, if he didn’t die first.

*******

Antonio was standing in a public square, somewhere in Florida. I walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. He turned to see me but was not happy. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

The alarm rang before I made a decision. I pushed my head into the unfamiliar pillow, willing away the sorrow, but it demanded recognition. This was the result of my feelings for Antonio, the ones I kept insisting didn’t exist. The jealousy, the rejection, the rage turned inward, the flimsy little hope, the pathetic, sorry picture of a woman with no self-control or dignity, weeping on the sidewalk. Over a decade of therapy and still falling apart over one coldhearted man or another. Jeez, would I never learn? That’ll be on my tombstone,’ I said to myself in the mirror, ‘One of these days I’ll learn.’

Joshua and I had a quick breakfast at Starbucks then parted, he south, I north. That dream bothered me all the way home.

It was snowing heavily when I pulled into the subdivision. The final hundred yards were slogged on foot through knee-deep powder, one suitcase slung over my shoulder, with Velcro bouncing beside me in joy. Snow was his element. He rolled and burrowed into it, leaping out like a rabbit with a frosted white face. I had to smile despite my exhaustion.

Two messages were waiting on the answering machine, one from Ben - thanking me for coming to the party and reminding me of a screening committee meeting the following week - and one from Antonio: “Just wanted to call and tell you I love you, happy Thanksgiving baby.” Fine. Like a child who had just heard her favorite lullaby, I went upstairs and fell asleep.

*******

The holiday season kicked into full gear. Durango's two big Christmas parties, both sponsored by the towns leading real estate companies, came and went. I stayed home from both events, glad to have an excuse. Lee Oswald’s time line needed to be finished by Christmas because Dad had invited me down to spend the holiday in Florida.

Against my better judgment I agreed. I dreaded family holidays, but it was too hard to say no to him, especially since he was my employer and had given me all that money to build the house. My emotional reservations were pushed aside for a plane reservation. It would be OK, I assured myself, there would be the pool, the hot tub, the beach, plenty of luxuries, and maybe a visit with Antonio could be arranged.

The film festival demanded increasing time. After its successful inaugural year we planned another, bigger and better festival for 2002. There would be three venues, an extra two days of showings, more parties, more workshops, and more people involved. The group had grown to double its original size. Sandra had taken over and rented a fine office space (where she was getting the money was not clear). We gathered there once a week to screen entries.

“Did you go to the Caldwell Banker party?” Ben asked as we watched a particularly disturbing feature about a gardener who maimed people with her shears.

“No, I missed it this year. Did you go?”

“Just for a little while,” he said, wincing as a finger hit the floor, “Tina and I were pretty bored.”

“I’m glad I skipped it, then. Besides, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“The Oswald stuff?” I nodded. “Say, have you heard from that guy, Joshua?” Ben frowned, “I can’t get in touch with him. He still owes me money.”

“Oh… oh dear,” a man on the screen had just lost an ear. Ben ignored the nauseating scene. He looked at me shrewdly.

“Do you know how to reach him?”

“Uh, no. I mean, I have the same number you do.” I did. I hadn’t even tried to contact Joshua since Thanksgiving. I knew by now he wasn’t going to pay me. Apparently Ben had yet to find out. I decided not to enlighten him. “Next time he calls I’ll tell him to contact you, OK?” Appeased, Ben nodded and turned back to the movie. He yawned pointedly at the bloody, screaming victim and raised his hand to request that we move on to another film.

Warm breezes swept in through the window, carrying sounds of laughter and clinking glass A yacht motored by, it’s rigging strung with Christmas lights. Coconut palms and poinsettias by the pool waved invitingly. I hurried to unpack my swimsuit.

Downstairs, Dad was at his computer and Ann on the telephone with one of her daughters. “Have you had dinner yet, honey?” Dad asked, glancing up from the keyboard.

“Not really, just snacks on the plane. How about you and Ann?”

“No, we usually eat around eight,” he looked at his watch, “How about Chinese? Would you mind picking something up?”

“Not at all,” I said, though really I wanted to swim, “I’d like to stretch my legs a little.”

“Oh, you’ll need to drive. Take the Rolls, the keys are on the table by the door. Get us a menu, would you? They’re in the kitchen by the telephone.”

A stack of dog-eared menus lay on the counter under the phone. I found the correct one and slid, sock-footed on the marble floor, back over to Dad. He picked out a variety of items for all of us, handed me a wad of twenties and returned to his computer. Ann waved from the phone. I took the menu and walked out to the garage, noting that all of his choices included meat.

The Rolls backed smoothly out into the warm, windy night. Across the street, on the highly desirable ocean side of Millionaire's Row, stood the palatial mansion of a very famous race car driver. Behind the wrought-iron gate of his driveway gleamed a half-dozen late-model Porsches and other sports cars I could not identify. Antonio would have known. Too bad he was spending Christmas with another woman.

Congress Street was brightly lit and very busy, even on Christmas Eve, the mall parking lot jammed with extravagant vehicles. I narrowly avoided getting winged by a Lamborghini, whose owner was intent upon getting a parking space I was approaching. Choosing caution, I parked at the far end of the lot and got my leg-stretchin' walking to the restaurant, its gold and green neon pagoda flashing across the sea of cars like a Chinese lighthouse.

Inside, the aromas of cilantro, chili and lemon grass wafted through the noisy crowd. I squeezed past the line for tables to order take-out. People glared at me, as if I were insulting them by moving past, even though the “Take-out Here” sign was highly visible over the register.

“Uh, excuse me, take out you know, Merry Christmas… “ I muttered to the irritated line-standers. They moved only just enough to let me pass. I made the order and squeezed back out, this time not looking at anyone’s face.

After returning with the fragrant sacks of food, I laid the table and placed the cardboard containers in the center, with candles and extra condiments. We sat down, unfolded our napkins and opened the boxes with anticipation. Onto white steamed rice we ladled our entrees, then passed the boxes around to share.

“What’s this?” Dad asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Szechwan green beans. My favorite.” I said.

“Ooh, that sounds good,” said Ann.

“There’ll be plenty for you both,” Dad said, passing the box on to her. “Where’s my pork?”

“Right here,” I handed over his meal with an equal desire to distance myself from it. He poured most onto his rice and opened a can of soda.

“So Merry Christmas everyone,” Dad said. “Let’s eat.”

We chatted about family, friends and films for a while. Then the conversation turned to work. “I’m done with the Oswald time line,” I said, “How is your research coming?”

“Not so well,” Dad muttered, “I think I’m going to drop the project.”

“Really?” I asked, chopsticks freezing in mid-air.

“Yeah, I can’t get any DNA evidence from this guy. He’s not going to give me any, and if I steal it there’s no proof that it’s his. Without DNA I don’t stand a chance of proving anything.” He took a long drink of soda and another mouthful of pork. After chewing for a while he said, “So, I’m going to let it go. I hope you don’t mind…”

“No,” I lied, trying to sound casual, “If you can’t prove your theory then it’s all speculation.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Dad. “What’s happening with Joshua’s book?”

“The last I heard, he had found an agent and an editor. He’s almost got a writer. I think he’s in New York.”

I spoke one set of words, but my mind kept fixating on my recent unemployment. I had just lost my source of income, and the mortgage payments were almost $1000 a month! There was no way I could make that kind of money in Durango. I had to figure something out, figure something out, figure something…

“New York, huh? I’m going there in a couple of weeks, we rented an apartment on the upper West Side, you know, just a place to stay when I go for the Opera. You should come visit.”

“Thanks Dad, I think I’m going to be busy for a while, got to find a job and all.”

“Yes, well, come whenever you can.”

The conversation moved on other subjects. After dinner we put the dishes in the washer and went into the living room to watch movies. Actually, Ann got back on the phone with another one of her daughters and Dad and I and Taffy, his dust-mop Himalayan cat, sat in the living room and watched whatever Dad chose. He had all the channels and a state-of-the-art remote control.

I sat through the film, making an effort to follow the storyline, while my brain busily tried to come up with a plan to keep my house. Roommates, definitely, a job, that’s a no-brainer, if I did those two things right away when I got back, then I would have a little time to think of something. By the end of the movie I considered that to be my plan, but anxiety kept gnawing away. “Want to watch another?“ Dad asked.

“No, thanks, I need some exercise after that meal. I was thinking I’d take a walk.”

“Suit yourself, the keys to the beach path are in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

A wild wind blew in from the east. All the palm trees along the road leaned inland, their fronds flapping and occasionally breaking loose. A few clouds raced by in the moonlight, backed by stars that became brighter over the open sea.

The normally busy boulevard was quiet tonight. Behind some bushes, in the wall of the race car driver’s palace garden, stood a discreet little door. On Millionaire’s Row the coastline is still public property, but only the residents get keys. I walked down a long passage, just a narrow slit between the walls of two estates, to another wrought-iron gate at the end. Once clear of that, a path of wooden slats through sand and sea grapes led out to the empty beach.

The sea called to me like an old friend in a crowd of strangers. I walked right up to the water’s edge and turned south, stepping slowly in and out of the wet spots behind the waves, talking to myself as I went.

“Step one; face facts. It’s Christmas Eve. I am alone and jobless. I am deeply in debt. Step two; what are my options? I could sell my house but I don’t want to. It’s my refuge. I am going to hang onto it, damn it! Step three, back to step one; face facts; I will have to get a job. My father is rich, I am not. Step four; rent the other bedroom. Step five….. What about Oswald? Is this the end of all my work? Yes, it is, face facts. Let it go. Step six; What about Joshua’s project? What if his story is true? I will still help him out in my spare time, yeah…. Maybe it hasn’t all been a total waste, those past two years, maybe I can salvage something. Step seven; try and cheer up, it’s Christmas, for goodness' sake.

A Holiday Inn loomed on the right, lights wildly twinkling and waving in the wind. I veered towards it. Past the swimming pool stood a well-lit restaurant. It was open, as was the lounge. Like the pool, it was vacant except for a lone bartender. He was whistling a carol, wiping glasses and stacking them on a shelf. I sat and ordered a glass of wine.

"Red or white?

"Oh... red, I guess."

"Cabernet? Merlot? Pinot Noir?"

"Noir sounds goods, something dark."

"Try this." He reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of something I didn't recognize. "Smoky, with a hint of berry. And how is your Christmas Eve?” he asked as he poured.

“Interesting so far and yours?

“Pretty quiet, you're the only one that's come in here since I came on."

"No Christmas carolers?"

"Not unless you sing."

\ "Nah, not in the mood tonight. Sorry."

"Out alone on Christmas Eve, eh?" He placed the last glass neatly on the shelf and hung his dishtowel on the edge of the sink.

"Technically I'm not alone, I have a family of sorts down the beach. We already had dinner. I uh... just felt the need for a walk."

"Sure," he said.

"And what are you doing working on Christmas Eve, if I may ask?" I sipped the wine. It did indeed taste smoky, quite good.

"I'm making overtime. The bar closes in about an hour, then Santa's going to stop at the mall on the way home.” He smiled behind him at a photo leaning on the shelf by the cash register. In it two boys and a pretty blond woman smiled back.

“I see. They look like they’ve all been good.”

“Yes indeed. I hope your Christmas will be as merry.” he topped off my glass and put the bottle away.

“Probably not. I'm deeply in debt and just lost my job.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. I drank in silence for a moment, then he leaned forward on the bar and said "Let me tell you something..."

He reached down with his right hand and rapped on his thigh with his knuckles. The sound it made was not of flesh. “Iraq, that’s where I left my leg. I came home and nothing was fun anymore. The things I used to love doing; swimming, surfing, football, all pretty much gone, unless I wanted to be the poster boy and have all those sympathetic eyes on me... I tell you, I almost gave up sometimes but I didn't. And look,” he smiled again at the photo, “things got better. Much better.”

We chatted for a while and half-watched a holiday special on the TV. As I neared the bottom of my drink I asked, “If you knew a secret... something dangerous that might get you killed if you told anyone, what would you do about it?”

He looked at me for a moment. “Probably nothing.”

“Why nothing?”

“Because those kinds of secrets are more trouble than they're worth, you know what I mean?”

“What if it would make something right that's been wrong for a long time?"

"I thought I was doing that in Iraq, now I'm not so sure. No, I'd keep that secret to myself." He looked at his picture and smiled."

"What if you had nothing to lose?”

“Everyone’s got something to lose,” he said. "You just have to figure out what it is."

“I’ll remember that,” I said. "Thanks... Merry Christmas." I drained my glass, tipped him heavily and walked back through the sliding glass doors towards the sea.

*******

After New Year’s I returned to Durango with my money-making plan. It didn’t take long to find roommates, a young couple, Robert and Jan, students at Fort Lewis College. They were happy to live way out in the woods because they had dogs. Velcro was delighted to have canine company, Lotta not so much but she put up with them admirably.

I got a part-time job as a lab technician through a friend of Karl's, a pleasant young woman named Amanda; her family had a business making additives for sprinkler systems. In my spare time, which wasn’t much, I researched the characters in Joshua’s story, starting with General Rand. This is what I found:

A biography on the Air Force web site, according to which Harley C. Rand was born in Wisconsin in 1903. He entered the Military Academy in 1924. After graduating he served with the Fourth Cavalry in Fort Meade, South Dakota, until 1933, when he went to Randolph Air Force Base in Texas to become a pilot. He was based in Hawaii for a few years, then became an instructor at the Military Academy until WWII called him to active duty. He was a commanding officer of various bombing squadrons out of New York, Panama, Puerto Rico and the British West Indies. He held commanding posts in Italy and Germany before returning to Washington in 1945. Soon afterwards he was appointed to a host of other positions all with some combination of the words ‘General’, ‘Commander’, or ‘Chief’. He retired in 1955 whereupon his biography ended.

A FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) request resulted in a generous packet of military records. General Rand had a 27 year-long career. He was a commissioned officer. He never was wounded in action. He had a BS degree in engineering. He was married. Little tidbits of information were stuffed into the boxes on the forms, poorly typed. In some cases illegible, due to being obscured with reverse lettering, probably the fault of some ancient copier. There were some intriguing remarks, like this:

Foreign Service Credits - 40 as of 8 Mar 47 “Final clearance granted to TOP SECRET 26 Mar 51; Rpt , of NAC dtd 15 Apr 47, y OSI/IG, USAF, filed DO #4; plus 10 years continuous service. Final clearance granted 21 Aug 53 for access to TOP SECRET security information required in the performance of officially assigned duties/ 20 Final “Q” clearance... effective 17 Dec 53, granted by AEC for access to RESTRICTED DATA directly from a contractor of licensee of the AEC in the performance of officially assigned duties//

Top secret clearance? Probably not unusual for a general. OSI would be the Office of Secret Intelligence, the C.I.A.’s precursor. One of the general's appointments was as Chief of Staff at TAC (Tactical Air Command), Langley Field, Virginia. Langley, it should be noted, is home of the CIA.

The AEC, Atomic Energy Commission, has since morphed into the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. I sent them a FOIA requesting “information or records on all documents containing any information on the Top Secret clearance - “Q” clearance -granted to General Harley F. Rand, effective 12/17/53 'for access to restricted data directly from a contractor of licensee to the AEC in the performance of officially assigned duties.'

'I would like to know which contractors this clearance referred to,' I wrote, 'what work they were doing, and anything regarding Harley Rand’s relationship to the AEC and any of it’s contractors. I would also like to receive any information the AEC has regarding it’s contractors for cleaning up the radiation on the atolls used for atomic testing in the 1950’s and 60’s.' I attached a copy of the page from Rand’s records in case they had any questions.

They replied promptly, informing me that I would need written consent and identification of the individual about whom I was asking, and I would need it within 15 days of the date on their letter or the file on my request would be closed. ‘He’s dead,’ I wrote back, and enclosed a copy of his death records. They responded with a form letter; ‘No agency records subject to the request have been located.’

Having reached a dead end I moved on to Quinlan. He was relatively easy to find on the web: It’s hard to be so rich and maintain your privacy. In the late eighties he gave a million dollars to his alma mater. Four years later he gave the same university ten million dollars for their business school, which was instantly renamed after him. Their web site had a brief synopsis of his career and an article about how the school gave him an award for his 'Visionary' lifetime achievements.

International Industries was also easy to find, and there, on it’s board of directors, was Quinlan, with his son as the president of the company. International Industries specialized in commercial real estate. Their office complex housed some of the major players on the world financial stage… the big boys, J.P. Morgan, Raytheon, Wells Fargo, Hertz, Heineken, TRW, Countrywide, the list went on and on.

So Quinlan did have a lot to lose, and he was apparently every bit as rich and powerful as Joshua had said. Nothing more though, no smoking guns, just a very rich man with a history of aerospace contracts. The kind of man who was about to get even wealthier now, in the war that was waiting just around the corner.

*******

The city slept, or so it appeared. We watched it on TV, watched and waited. Then, out of the silent night, the first missile fell. The first building burst into flames, then another, then a third. Explosions lit the sky. Gunfire streaked upwards like Roman candles. "People are dying over there," I said to Velcro, "but for us it's a show, just another Fourth of July." The phone rang. It was Will.

"Friday," he said, "five o'clock at the train station."

"I'll be there," I replied.

Durango, tourist town that it is, hosts many a parade. There are all the usual holidays plus the ones that the town just made up; Durango Days, Iron Horse, Snowdown. The residents smile and wave, as they do for the train and strangers on the street, but today was different. Today we had a brand new war.

Martin moved up and down the line of puppeteers, offering assistance and encouragement to the many first-time performers. I watched him from the hood of a truck, where I sat to strap into stilts. "Gary, bring your arm up!" he said to a struggling pile of red, white and blue fabric. A cardboard hand reached skyward and Uncle Sam rose precariously to his feet. "Good! Now try walking forward..."

Once the ties were tight around my knees and ankles, I pulled the bird's head over my own and stood. "Ready?" Martin called to me. I gave a thumbs-up (or wings-up in this case). He waved an arm and the drums began.

We swarmed onto the street. I waved my long wings above the crowd. Mother Nature, Father Time, Brother Sun, Sister Moon and I all whirled in rhythm with the music, while Uncle Sam staggered along behind, waving a cardboard gun and a fist of money.

This parade, predictably, did not sit well with some in the audience. They were friendly enough to Mother Nature and Father Time, but when Uncle Sam lurched into view their mood turned sour. They booed and made rude hand gestures.

"Communists!" An old man shouted.

"Terrorists!" Shrieked a red-faced woman. The 'patriots' grumbled and turned away but many others stayed. Some stepped off the sidewalk to join us. By the time we made it to Buckley Park we were a much larger group. There Martin, a young man with a thick mop of curly hair and a streak of enthusiasm a mile wide, congratulated everyone on their efforts.

"Thanks for teaching that workshop, Lou," he said as we loaded puppets into his truck.

"You're welcome Martin, thanks for the opportunity to do something, I'd just about given up hope."

"We'll see you next Friday then?"

"You bet," I said.

But I didn't go. Antonio talked me out of it. "Are you crazy?" he said. "You're trying to start a business. You're trying to build a reputation. Who is going to hire you to write their documents if they see you on the front page of the newspaper in a bird suit? You want to be a writer, right?"

"Right."

"You want to keep your house, right?"

"Right."

"You don't want to break your back in some crappy minimum wage job and then lose your house anyway, right?"

"Right."

"Then get a CLUE!" he shouted. I pulled the phone away from my ear. "You're forty-five years old! What are you doing playing with puppets?! You're only making a fool of yourself. Grow up! Our country is at war with Iraq and you are at war with your own stupid, naive dreams. The only way our country will win will be to kill all those damned terrorists and the only way YOU will win will be to kill your infantile fantasy of world peace. It will never happen, NEVER, because people are natural born fighters. We KILL, baby, now get over it. Ditch the puppets, stay out of the newspaper, build your business and keep your beautiful house. Then you'll be safe and warm when the shit hits the fan.”

"That doesn't feel like winning," I said, but he had already hung up.

*******

By summer I was gradually getting a grip on my finances, but the mortgage was still a burden. To make matters worse in April I was downsized out of my lab tech job and replaced it with a weekend shift at the Durango Herald, working the “Sorry” route in the circulation department.

My job there was to answer the phone on weekend mornings when people called about their missing newspapers. “I’m sorry,” I would say, and would note their complaints in a database. At about 11 am, after the routes were done, I would drive around town to visit everyone who had not received their paper and I would give them another, along with a second, sad-ass apology. The pay was lousy, there were no benefits, I had to come in at 6:00 a.m. on weekends and I still couldn't cover the mortgage. In desperation I took Antonio’s suggestion to refinance the house and cash out most of my equity. I found a broker and got the wheels in motion.

We were on the phone when I noticed the smoke. A thick white column rose just beyond the ridge, it couldn’t have been more than five miles away. “How much insurance do you have?” Antonio asked when I told him. I got the paperwork and read the numbers. “This is what I want you do, “ he said, “listen carefully. You are going to hang up the phone with me and you are going to call your insurance company, the national office NOT the local one, got it? Then you are going to tell them that you just decided to get a little more insurance, you can get about 30% more without raising any suspicion. You are NOT going to mention the fire, got it? Repeat after me, I am NOT going to mention the fire. I know you’re a lousy liar so don‘t think of this as lying, you are just going to leave out one little fact. Got it? And get them to fax you the papers.”

I did as he instructed and successfully got a hefty increase in my insurance. With the faxed papers tucked safely in my suitcase by the door, I felt ready for anything, but I had no idea what was coming, not a clue.

*******

The neighborhood meeting was held at Mr. Henderson's, at the bottom of Aspen Trails. The residents of our subdivision and the few others that clustered near Lemon Lake milled about on the grass, waiting for the speakers to begin.

“I’ll help you move your stuff as soon as the meeting is over,” George said, as he handed me a paper plate of chips, “and you can stay us if you need to.”

“Thanks. I’m not too worried, it’s moving away, I think…” I said optimistically. Actually, you couldn’t tell which way the fire was moving, it seemed to have stalled but the smoke was getting thicker. I had been using my asthma inhaler steadily for the past two days.

“Don’t worry, I've designed lots of straw bale houses. They don’t burn, just smolder,” George said reassuringly. We found seats on the slope just below Mr. Henderson's front deck and ate our snacks, waiting for the speakers to begin..

The meeting was to be an ‘informative presentation’, a standard precaution just in case we would need to evacuate. That morning a code yellow alert had been issued for Aspen Trails and Los Ranchitos, the subdivision just west of us.

Ben had come by and taken a load of my most precious belongings to his house in the Animas Valley, including both computer hard drives, my JFK files and as many large puppets as would fit in his truck.

“It’s interesting the things people value…” he remarked as I crammed in the last dragon’s head.

“I think my stilts will go in front. If I put them next to the antenna they should both fit, actually,” I fretted as I trotted back to the house.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” Ben called after me, “It’s just a precaution, the wind’s coming from the south. We should have it under control in a day or two.”

Ben had been busy at the command center, running communications for the helicopters. He called me about the alert before I even heard it on the radio. “Looks like you may want to move some of your belongings. I can take a truckload to my place as soon as I get off my shift. Nothing to worry about, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” he had said.

The rest of the neighbors felt the same way. As we drove down the hill with our two loaded vehicles we saw a truck in almost every driveway, with people hustling back and forth, their various valued possessions in their arms. My most valuable possession sat in the passenger's seat, thumping his tail in greeting as we passed his friends, dogs and people alike.

“It won’t be for long, Velcro, Ben will take good care of you. I’ll pick you up in a couple of days,” I assured him. He smiled and licked my hand. Lotta, who didn’t travel well, was shut in the house. I would take her if I had to, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

The crowd was growing by the minute. Up on the deck of Mr. Henderson's house a number of uniformed men and women were talking animatedly amongst themselves, more that one gesturing towards the smoke column, which was blacker now than it had been just moments ago.

"Lou!" Robert and Jan, my ex-roommates, waved from across the road. They had moved out at the end of the semester, leaving only a truck which they had parked at the end of my driveway until they found a good time to relocate it. This, apparently, was a good time.

“Hi Lou, we came to get he truck and help you with your stuff,” Robert said, in his usual cheery style. He and Jan were hippies, always cheery, even in a code yellow alert.

“Would you like a brownie? I just made them,” Jan offered me a bag. I looked at her questioningly, “not that kind,” she smiled. I reached in and took one.

“Good, I need to keep my wits about me, at least for the meeting,” I took a bite and ummmed appreciatively as they passed the bag to George.

The meeting finally began. In the next hour and a half we heard from at least five ‘officials’ about the history of wildfires in Colorado, the causes of wildfires, the results, the cycles, and the deterrents. Not 'til the very end did they get to the point; OUR fire, the one right over the hill, was headed this way and would probably be here in three or four days. There was no huge rush but we should all start packing and getting out. It was good they saved that for the end, because the crowd dispersed instantly. More than a few mutters could be heard about windbags and wasted time as we scurried to our cars.

Back at the house we did what we could to prepare it for the coming inferno. Robert raked the surrounding area and pushed all the dry debris down the hillside, the rest of us went to work on the woodpiles, so carefully stacked near the door, grabbing armloads of wood and hurling them down the hill, as far from the house as possible.

We were almost done when a car came careening down Bear Run, much faster than anyone usually drove on the marginal roads of Aspen Trails. The driver paused briefly at the bottom of the hill, screamed something unintelligible out his window, and raced on down Trew Creek.

“What the hell was that about?” I asked Robert, who had stopped raking and was staring up at the ridge top.

“Fire,” he said in a shocked whisper, pointing. I looked up and saw a red glow undulating above the ridge. As I watched, a single tree at the peak burst into flames. The phone began to ring inside the house.

“Shit,” I said.

“Do you want me to get that?” Jan called from the upstairs window, she looked up and saw the flames. In a split second the fire had spread to a dozen trees.

“Nah, we need to go.” I replied. Another three cars came tearing down Bear Run. They didn’t stop.

“We’ve still got some time, let’s get as much as possible ready,” said George, who had been watching from the woodpile. “It’s a straw bale, it might not burn,” he said, with slightly less confidence than before.

We could all see clearly that the fire was huge, it rose at least 200 feet above the treetops, which ignited like matchsticks before it. We leapt into panicky action, each doing what we thought best: George pulled all the wooden furniture and flammable items away from the windows. Jan and I caught Lotta and shoved her into the cat carrier (yes, it took two of us). Robert grabbed a tarp off the back porch and laid it out on the living room floor in front of the bookshelves where all the JFK books were stored. He began to shovel them onto the tarp.

"You don't need to bother with those," I said, but he shook his head.

“You may need them someday.” He grabbed the four corners of the tarp, pulled it together into a bag, and began hauling the books up the living room steps. I ran over to take a loose edge of the tarp and together we pulled the pile down the driveway to his truck. “I’ll load these,” he panted, "you'd better go get Lotta and your stuff.”

I ran back to the house, wheezing audibly. The fire was less than a mile away, roaring like a freight train. Jan met me at the door with the cat carrier in hand. George was dragging my suitcases behind her.

A police car came wheeling down the mountain, siren blasting, “ALL RESIDENTS OF ASPEN TRAILS NEED TO EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY. THE FIRE IS COMING DOWN THE HILL. I REPEAT, ALL RESIDENTS WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE NEED TO GET OUT NOW!”

Robert ran back up the driveway. “Just one more thing,” he said as he hurried inside. He returned a moment later with two six-packs of beer that had been in my refrigerator. “I think we’re going to want these.” He ran back to his truck, where Jan was waiting anxiously, and they drove down the hill. George followed them and I brought up the rear, with Lotta yowling angrily in her carrier.

I looked back once. The entire mountainside was ablaze. ‘It’s like a disaster movie,’ I thought, ’yes, it’s just like being at the movies.’ In this dispassionate frame of mind I drove on down the hill.

At the entrance of the subdivision one of the officials from our earlier meeting was checking off names on a clipboard. He was white as a sheet. Despite all his knowledge of wildfires, this one had caught him by surprise.

“Are you Lou Gardner?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said calmly, “760 Trew Creek.”

Ok, You’re the last one.” He reached in and gave my arm a supportive squeeze. I thanked him and drove on, following the others to George’s house. I wondered why he had been so sympathetic. I looked in the rearview mirror at the wall of flames descending towards my home. It was only then that I noticed the tears, reflecting firelight beneath my eyes.

*******

Four days after leaving Aspen Trails, the second fire hit. I was having coffee with George and Karen when Ben called. “I think you’d better come out here and get your stuff, I may have to evacuate in a couple of hours.” he said matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “The fire hasn’t crossed the river has it?”

“No, there’s another fire coming down from the ridge behind me, it started near Junction Creek.”

“Shit.”

“You might want to hurry, they’re going to shut down the highway.”

“I’ll be right there.”

But I wasn’t. Highway 550, the main (and only) road through Red Mountain Pass, was closed about two miles south of Ben’s house. Three police officers and a man with a clipboard stood by the sawhorses, turning away all but the most desperate of residents. I watched them from 50 feet back, where I sat in a snarl of traffic. They argued, cried and begged their way through. The officers reluctantly stood aside for some, sending others away.

"Hmmm, time for Plan B," I muttered, pulling out of the traffic jam with a u-turn and parking just beyond a curve in the road, where I would not be seen running up the hill into the woods.

An irrigation ditch ran alongside the ridge, just behind the houses at the bottom of a steep rock face. I followed it north, figuring it would eventually take me past Ben’s house. Helicopters whupped overhead, sirens screamed, people could be heard shouting urgently to each other, calling frantically for their children and pets. Above the trees I could see a mushroom cloud of black smoke ahead. It wasn’t close enough to be at Ben’s house, I noticed with relief, but there was no telling from here which way it was headed nor how fast it was moving. I thought of Velcro and started to run.

Ben's driveway was full of cars. I figured his friends were helping him evacuate, but it seemed odd that no one was running back and forth to load them. Strains of bluegrass music floated out from the open front door. I rushed in to find Ben and his friends on the back patio, in no apparent hurry, drinking beer and listening to the police scanner. Velcro lay under the picnic table, gnawing a large rawhide bone. It was almost like a party, no, it WAS a party, a fire party, a gathering to watch one of the greatest shows on earth - better than the Fourth of July. The excitement of impending disaster was palpable, seductive. Ben was not even packing.

“You made it,” he said cheerfully, giving me a hug. Would you like a beer?”

“Sure,” I replied gratefully. The beer was ice cold. I slugged down a third of the bottle in three swallows and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. A black smear of soot remained, which I wiped ineffectively on my filthy pants. “Can I use your restroom?” I asked.

“Sure, but here,” he handed me a roll of paper towels, “use these, OK?”

After a quick clean-up I joined the others. The cloud of smoke had grown darker. Flashes of orange flame could be seen climbing down the mountainside just north of us.

“Don’t you think you might want to … maybe… leave?” I asked Ben. He shook his head and turned up the radio.

“Not yet, listen…” On the radio two panting voices could be heard trying to work out an evacuation plan:

“You can’t move them south, I repeat, not south, the highway is closed. You’ll have to take them north.”

“Where? All the way to Silverton? How the hell are we going to get them up there?” A pause. Static.

“Take them to Tamarron, they’ve gotta have some extra rooms.”

“They don’t. We called. It’s summer, all full you know…”

“Purgatory then, it’s not ski season, and don’t let them turn you away. It’s an emergency, for Christ’s sake!”

“Okaaay,” the other voice said, sounding unsure, but a minute later it reported that the ski resort would take all refugees, at least until the road was clear.

“So it’s not headed this way?” I asked.

“Not right now. Would you like any help with your stuff?” Ben was not a sissy when it came to fire. His years in Search and Rescue made him immune to panic. I had never seen fear on Ben’s face, and I didn’t see it now. If anything he looked slightly amused.

“Sure.”

We walked out to his garage. My jeep was still mostly packed, the things that Ben had driven were sitting on the floor beside it. I spent a few moments doing triage, pulling out the less valued items and replacing them from the pile on the floor; computers, puppet heads, files, memorabilia, until the car was full. “Are you packed?” I asked Ben.

“Yep,” he nodded towards his empty 4-Runner. Looking in I could see his briefcase and laptop on the passenger seat.

“Is that ALL you’re taking?”

“Everything else can be replaced.” he said. I looked at the jumbled pile in the jeep.

“I don’t think I could replace any of that stuff,” I said.

“Nope,” he agreed, looking at the large bird's head that stared back at him through the rear window. “I don’t expect you could.”

Getting out was much easier than getting in. I joined the stream of residents fleeing south to Durango. We moved slowly but steadily. Carefully avoiding livestock that had been set loose, we drove back to the highway, past the roadblock, past my other car (parked surreptitiously in the trees) and on into town.

The train was crossing 14th Street. I waited. Oddly enough the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad, which had started many a fire with its genuine coal-burning engines, was still in business. As Durango’s chief tourist attraction it was the last entity to give up and shut down in those disastrous days.

I watched it chug by with its load of tourists. Normally they looked cheerful as the train crossed through town, not today, boy. The few that had braved their way out to the open cars were clutching the railing and staring, white-faced, towards their destination as if they never thought they would see it again. I smiled and waved. They looked back with horrified confusion. Was the ride always like this? (The next day I heard that burning trees had been falling off the mountainside and landing near the tracks.) Still smiling, relieved to have escaped twice now, I drove my precious belongings over the rails and on down Florida Road, back to George and Karen’s house.

As the fire grew the Sorry Shift at the Herald turned into a nightmare. News was - forgive the pun - in hot demand. The official reports from the command center were vague and frequently wrong. Obviously they were overwhelmed and had no idea where exactly the fire was. Most of their staff were busy trying to put it out. By default the Herald was the only source of definitive news. Every subscriber hurried to their mailbox each morning, many to find that their paper had been stolen.

Furious calls rang in non-stop. I apologized as quickly as I could; “I’m sorry, I don’t know who took your paper... I’m sorry, we don’t do redeliveries outside city limits, you can come pick one up if you’d like... I’m sorry, your delivery person couldn’t make it past the roadblock... What, you want to cancel your subscription because your house burned down? I’m sorry.”

Finally, ten days after racing away from Aspen Trails, we were allowed to return. Thank-You signs lined Florida Road; 'We LOVE you fire fighters!' 'Free meals for Fire Fighters here!,' 'Fire fighters ROCK!' People waved to their friends and neighbors as we returned home. Velcro was thrilled, his tail knocked against my shoulder steadily when he realized where we were going. Lotta, locked in her travel case, yowled just as angrily as she had when we left.

“It’s OK, Lotta, we’re going home!” I told her joyfully over and over. I was thrilled. I had to see it to believe it but Ben had already called; “Your house made it, Lou, there’s a white flag on the chart at 760.”

All the way to Aspen Trails we drove toward the fire. On that day it hit Vallecito. I have never seen a nuclear blast, and I never hope to see one, but the smoke that rose over the lake looked exactly like pictures of Hiroshima. I tried to remain optimistic over my own good luck, but looking at that black, swirling mountain, with helicopters circling like flies on a gorilla, I felt dread tapping my shoulder insistently.

Turning left into the subdivision, it disappeared from view. Then everything was surrealistically normal. There was no sign of a fire anywhere. Except for the smell of smoke you would never guess it had passed so close. Had I chosen to turn right on Aspen Drive I would have seen a different world, but I didn’t make any side-trips. I drove straight up the hill, past my neighbors who waved and pumped their fists in the air in exuberance. We were the lucky ones that day.

The house was untouched. Everything was just as we left it; the hastily-scrawled ‘evacuated’ sign still hanging on the front door, the furniture islands in the middle of the rooms, books scattered on the floor. Smoke alarms beeped weekly, their batteries exhausted from screaming. The electricity was still off. I opened the refrigerator and slammed it shut again. There would be a lot of cleaning, oh yes, but it was OK. It was all OK.

Walking back out the front door I saw the trail of books down the driveway, then the blackened bushes just along the edge, then I finally looked up and saw that the fire had not entirely missed Aspen Trails; it had made a stop in my back yard. In fact, it had come right down the driveway and burned most of my property. What had been an alpine type forest, thick with scrub oak under aspen and pine, was now a sea of ashes, where elaborate holes marked the former roots of ancient trees. A few were left standing, scorched but alive.

At the end of the driveway lay a small pile of brilliant green Gatorade bottles, the only reminder of the men and women who had saved my home. I walked down the hill and stared at them. “Thank you,” I said to the bottles. I walked up onto the hillside and hugged every remaining tree. “Thank you,” I said to each of them. Then I went back inside to start cleaning up.

The refinance went through a week later. It had been bizarre, to say the least, working out the details during the fire. We all knew that my house stood a good chance of burning down before we signed the papers, but no one ever mentioned it. We stalled for days, waiting to see what would happen, making up rational excuses to delay. Then, when it was clear the house was out of danger, we finished the deal. I had enough money to keep my house for another couple of years. After that, well...... I would surely figure out something.

Monsoon season finally arrived. With no trees to hold the mountainside in place, Missionary Ridge came sliding down upon us. Disaster arrived on every little creek and stream. The entrance to Aspen Trails was marked by a shattered gazebo, an upside-down car and several mangled footbridges, all twisted among branches and ash-mud. A swath of destruction lay where Trew Creek had once meandered.

Many of my neighbors who had escaped the fire were now digging mud from their basements and hauling ruined possessions out on the grass to dry. My house - twice lucky - stood high on its hillside, overlooking the debris.

When a respectable amount of time had passed and the season finally changed, I threw a party. We drank flaming cocktails and mudslides, with virgin mudslides for the kids. Karl came, and Amanda and Parker, Ben and Tina, some friends from the film festival and even some of my hooligan pals from the chocolate factory.

Will showed us all how to knock back a shot of flaming blue Curacao (without extinguishing it first). Then he filled a glass for me. “Here, Lou,” he said, touching a match to the top “You swallow the fire, the fire does not swallow you.”

After three tries and a lock of singed hair I finally did it. Then everyone had to ‘give it a shot‘. By the time we had all succeeded (or declined out of common sense) we were laughing, cheering and telling stories of the summer of 2002, stories that we would tell over and over for the rest of our lives.

“Lou, you don’t understand. I’m sitting on the hood of my truck eating a gas-station hot dog for dinner. I gave all my money to the writer. Oh, I’ll get it back, but not for a little while. I’ll pay you more than enough when I get the first check.”

“Joshua, I can’t afford to travel down there right now.” That was sort of a lie, I had the money but didn’t want to spend it. “Are you sure you can’t even put up a couple of hundred for gas?”

“I’ll see what I can do. I know you need to get paid, you deserve to be paid, and you will.”

“Thanks, let me know ASAP if you can get the money. It’s not that much…”

“I’m eating a hot dog for dinner.”

“Meat’s expensive, you should give it up, you‘ll feel better too.”

He chuckled, “thanks for the advice Lou, I’ll call you later.”

“All right Joshua... good luck.”

Joshua had been making progress since I last saw him. He and Dean had traveled to New York where he had secured a reputable agent, Marshall King. Marshall was excited about exposing the assassination, said Joshua. He had an editor too, and a new ghost-writer, Louis Sterns.

Joshua was very upbeat about Louis. He wanted me to meet them in Dallas and I almost went, until I found out he was not planning on paying my expenses for the trip. I wanted to go, but you have to draw the line somewhere, especially if you had a friend like Antonio, who would surely tell you he told you so.

A few weeks later I went to visit Karl on his new work site He was building a house for Eleanor out in the valley. George had designed it - had blown out all the stops. It was a palace of environmental construction; an extravagant, imaginative home, made not only of straw-bales but adobe, rammed earth and recycled timber as well. Eleanor had some deep pockets. Her bedroom featured a fireplace and a freestanding claw-foot tub, oh my! Every now and then I would drop by to say hi to Karl and see what new wonders the house had to offer.

Mid-September and already the chill was coming on. After three days of rain, the drought seemed long gone. I parked by the road and hiked in, skirting the vast puddles. Not so for Velcro, he dove joyfully into them, flattened himself out as much as his fuzzy frame would allow and lay there with his chin in the water, staring up at me. His tail thumped heartily, splashing brown droplets onto my jeans. “Thanks, pal,” I muttered, scanning the work area for Karl.

“Hey, Lou!” He was on the roof with a couple of other men, laying out Spanish tiles.

“Hey Karl, I’m just checking out the castle.”

“Make yourself at home, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“No rush.”

When Karl came down the circular staircase in the back pantry Velcro rushed over; Karl was his very best friend. Velcro sat straight up in front of him, rigidly puffing out his chest, completely still but for the tip of his madly thumping tail. He raised a paw and offered it to Karl, who shook it firmly and gave him a warm pat on the head.

“Hi, Velcro,” he said fondly, then turned his attention to me. The instant he looked up, Velcro pawed at his knee. Karl admonished him gently. Velcro crept back a couple of feet and lay with his chin on the floor, gazing lovingly up at his pal.

“He likes you better,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” replied Karl, “He just hasn’t seen me in a while.”

“We’ve been busy, fire and all that…”

“Yeah, I’m glad that summer’s over. You want the tour?”

“You bet. Is Dean still working for you?”

“Sure is, he’s upstairs.”

Karl was a man of few words. It was a challenge not to fill the conversational gaps with gabble. I walked silently up the staircase with him. “How are you?” he asked at the top.

“Still working on my business plans,” I said, admiring the new tile floor. “I’m hoping to get back in touch with Joshua soon, maybe get that book on Rosewood started, but I haven’t heard from him in a while.” Karl looked at me curiously.

“Didn’t you hear?” I felt a cold thud in my stomach.

“Is he OK?”

“He’s sort of OK … He’s in jail.”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah, he called Dean from prison, called Eleanor’s home because I guess Dean gave it to him as his work number. Her daughter, Pamela picked up the phone and got the recording from jail, you know the one when you get a collect call?”

“I know it well.”

“Eleanor flipped out, she’s real protective of Pam, you know,” I nodded, “She told Dean never to have Joshua call her number again. He’s trying to lay low until she calms down.” I could imagine. Eleanor was high-strung on her good days.

“So what happened? Why was he arrested?” I asked. Karl lowered his voice,

“Child molestation.”

“WHAT!!??” I could probably be heard throughout all 4000 square feet of the house.

“Why don’t we find Dean?” Karl suggested, “He can explain it much better than I can.”

We walked down the hallway to a large room where Dean was sanding boards. He leaned over them, pressing down on a belt sander, from which thick clouds of sawdust billowed. Karl approached him with one hand cupped over his nose and mouth, then waved his other hand in Dean’s line of vision. Dean looked up, goggles peering over a red bandanna. He switched off the sander.

“Lou, how are you? It‘s been a long time...” He smiled brightly out from his sawdust crust and shook my hand energetically.

“Too long, I’m fine Dean, how have you been?”

“I’ve been doing real well, thanks.” He looked much happier than the last time I had seen him with Joshua, the lack of browbeating was doing him good.

“Karl told me Joshua was in jail.” Dean’s smile faded.

“Yeah, he was busted down in New Mexico with that new writer.”

“The writer was arrested too?”

“No, we think he was the one who turned him in.”

I walked slowly to a large tool box in the corner and sat down. “For child molestation?”

“No, he thought maybe Joshua was behaving badly to his new assistant, the girl who took my place. Plus he wasn't supposed to leave the state."

"Why not?"

“Because he was out on bail. Tom turned him in and Dee bailed him out. He would have been OK if he had stuck around, he had a good chance in court, but he wanted to go down to Las Cruces for something or other, and then to meet the writer in Albuquerque, and I guess things went bad…” My face must have been a picture of confusion. Dean stopped for a minute. “Sorry about the shock, I thought you knew.”

“That’s OK, I just don’t understand how something like that could have happened. I mean, Joshua as a child molester? It doesn’t seem possible. Did he do it?” Dean looked at his boots.

“I don’t think so.”

Voices came down the hall. The other workmen were returning from their break. “Listen, Dean, can we get together sometime and talk about this? I need to know what happened. I’d like to help if I can.”

“OK, how about tomorrow at Carvers? They have that Happy Hour deal on Fridays.”

“See you there.”

Dean returned to his sanding and I followed Karl for the rest of the tour. When we were done he walked me out to the driveway to say goodbye. I had to call Velcro three times before he peeled himself away from Karl and followed me back to the Jeep. There he curled into a compact little lump on the passenger’s seat and stared dolefully at me as I backed out.

The tires churned up mud, splattering red-brown streaks onto the windshield. Its aging wipers only served to smear clear a patch to see through. It was clearer than my thoughts though:

How the hell could this have happened? What was going on that I didn’t know about? Was Joshua a child molester?! How did I not pick that up? My intuition about people is one of my greatest strengths, either it had totally let me down or Joshua had been set up. And Tom was his accuser. Tom, of all the people involved in the project, had seemed untrustworthy right from the start. Where was Ellis? What did the others think? Was anyone trying to help Joshua? Should I? What if he really WAS a child molester? What if his story was true AND he was a child molester? I drove home staring blankly through a film of mud, seeing only the road in front of me and even that was unclear.

*******

The back room was jamming when I squeezed into Carver's. Of all the bustling Friday afternoon happy hours in Durango, Carver's was the best. It started at 5:00, when a rolling table with hot plates was pushed out from the kitchen, laden with finger food delights including pizza, hummus, nachos, buffalo wings and cookies. Opportunists (myself included) circled the table like a school of piranhas.

I loaded up a plate before joining Dean on the patio. He jumped up and pulled out a chair as I approached.

“Thanks Dean, it’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Lou. I heard you had a rough summer.”

“Yeah, well...It turned out OK, for me, anyway.” The waitress swooped over before my behind even touched down. Fridays were big tip occasions. She asked us for our drink order, glancing pointedly at our laden plates. “I’ll have the house wheat ale,” I said. She smiled and scribbled.

“A pint of the red chili special, please,” Dean said. She nodded and scooted off into the crowd.

“Chili beer? Exotic.”

“I like it,” He grabbed a nacho dripping with jalapeños, “the hotter the better.” He consumed it without a wince and offered one to me.

“No thanks, I’m a east-coast sissy. I’ll stick to the Pizza.”

We ate and chatted until the beers arrived, then, armed with alcohol, I asked, “So, Dean, you heard from Joshua lately?”

“Yes,” he said, taking a swig, and then, with a faint sigh of resignation, “he calls me every night at my brother’s house, that’s where I’m staying right now.”

“How is he doing?”

“Not so good. He can’t get in touch with anyone because we all work days, plus no one can afford the calls from jail, they’re very expensive you know.”

“I know. Does Joshua have my number? He can call me.” Dean’s face brightened.

“That would be great! He’ll be happy to hear that. He lost your number I think, all his papers are in his truck."

"Where's that?"

"In Albuquerque, the police have it.”

"Oh. Here...” I scribbled my number on a napkin, “Tell him to call me anytime, if I’m home I’ll accept the charges.”

“Thanks!” Dean carefully folded the napkin and pocketed it. The waitress came over to ask if everything was OK, which, of course, it wasn’t, but we nodded energetically to get her to leave.

“Is anyone trying to help him?” I asked. Dean shrugged,

“Everyone is pretty fed up. Rex won’t have anything to do with him and Ellis doesn't answer calls. Dave is trying, but he can’t do much”

We sipped in silence for a moment.

“I’ve been thinking...” (and I had) “... What if I wrote something?” I asked. “It might be a way to get Joshua some help, if I could publish an article or something. I’ll check with him of course, but I would think that all bets are off on the non-disclosure statements we signed, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “I don’t think the book is going to happen, at least not right now. Joshua still wants to write it, but nobody else does.”

“Well, if it’s ok with him, I’ll write an article and try to get him some help. Would you mind if I interviewed you? I don’t have to use your real name.” Dean thought for a minute.

“Sure, why not?”

“Great.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a notebook and pen.

“Now?”

“Yeah,” I flipped open the cover. Who knew if Dean wouldn’t change his mind given time to think about it? The notebook had been brought along for this purpose, “While it’s fresh in your memory.”

“Uh, OK, what do you want to know?”

“Let’s get a little background. When did you first meet Joshua?”

Dean took a large swallow of beer and leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing them. Once comfortably settled in the cowboy storytelling position, he began:

“I met Joshua six or seven years ago, out at Dave's place. Joshua was a friend of one of the woodworkers there. He came to visit one day and we all hung out together. He had a bicycle trailer business at the time. He wanted to quit it though, said he was doing something new. He said he needed an employee. I told him I could use some extra dough, so he hired me to help him move materials to his storage space in Socorro, steel and stuff like that. I did. Nothing much happened."

"The next trip, a few months later, Joshua wanted to take a drive to New Mexico. We stopped at Chaco Canyon and he just talked for a long time, five or six hours. That was when he first told me about the JFK stuff. He said he was going to write a book, and that he wanted me to be his bodyguard and driver. I thought it sounded interesting so I took the job."

"Joshua couldn’t afford to pay me much back then. He offered me a mountain bike. That was when things began to get strange. On the way back from Chaco I asked him if there was a guarantee on the bike - some of them come with lifetime guarantees, you know. It was weird, he flipped out, screamed at me, called me a piece of shit. He went on and on about trust and that I didn’t trust him, even though he was a Viet Nam veteran. I was amazed at his reaction. It was the first time I saw that side of him.” Dean took another long drink and stared at the bottom of his glass.

“And you kept working for him?” It was a statement more than a question.

“Everyone loses their temper now and then. I wrote it off at the time. Joshua didn’t have lots of work for me anyway. I kept taking construction jobs with Dave on that place out in Mancos. Joshua came by occasionally. One day he mentioned that he had worked with the DEA. He was banned from the site after that. Some of the guys out there were dealing pot on the side. Nobody wanted an ex-DEA agent hanging around. After that I would only see him when we went out for dinner or a beer. Then he just talked, boy, he could talk all night.”

“Did you believe his story?”

“I dunno. I never saw much proof of it,” Dean sighed. “Once we went to the library in Dallas and we found an old telephone book from the early 60’s. There was a listing for Maxwell Stevens as the president of Sonic Restoration Incorporated. That was the only evidence I ever saw.”

“Funny thing about that; lots of people seemed to believe him without any proof. I began to have questions about his story when Joshua told me his father didn’t actually shoot Kennedy but rather was sitting with a guy he called the Umbrella Man. Before that Joshua had said that his dad had pulled the trigger.”

“No kidding, Maxwell was the Black Dog Man?” I asked. Dean looked at me curiously, “The Black Dog Man… he was sitting on the curb next to the guy with the umbrella.” Dean shrugged. “He was opening and closing his umbrella right before the assassination. It was a sunny day… never mind.” Dean was obviously not an assassination buff. “So what happened after I saw you in Dallas?”

“We went on a road trip to meet an agent in San Diego. Ellis, Tom and Rex Harter met us there. I wasn't at the meeting, but I heard that she was very excited when they first told her about the book. Then Tom sort of took charge. Joshua said he scared her off, Tom was talking all about the money and she got suspicious. By the end of the meeting she had changed her mind. Maybe she was scared. She must have known how powerful Quinlan was, living there in Southern California and everything.... Anyway, she said no. Joshua was pretty mad at Tom.”

“After that we drove to El Segundo to see Quinlan’s company, International Industries. It’s a huge office park with stores and restaurants and all that. We didn't go in, we sat outside on the street in our car. Then an old man came out and got in a van. He must have been pretty important because he was surrounded by other people, all talking to him. Joshua said that was Quinlan. He got in the van and drove away.”

“That was all you saw of Quinlan? Joshua didn’t speak to him?”

“No, he didn’t want him to know about the book. .”

“Well, that would fit with his story, I guess.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, while we were in L.A. Joshua, Tom and Rex went to a party with a producer Tom knew, a guy named Barrelli. They met some movie stars, Tom Hunter and Julia Louis, among others. Joshua tried telling some executives about his story but they didn’t want to hear it. Barrelli was the only one willing to make the picture. Then he asked for a million dollars, just for his own salary. Joshua refused. So we left town without really getting anything done. Still, I felt inspired. I thought Joshua was really breaking into the big time, meeting Tom Hunter and all…”

“Was Tom Hunter going to be in the movie?” I pictured myself meeting the handsome star.

“I don’t know, Joshua didn’t say. I don’t think they talked much."

"Where did you go from there?"

"Las Vegas." Al smiled, remembering. He signaled the waitress with two raised fingers, she nodded and went to the bar for refills.

"We stayed at the Luxor. Ellis met a girl by the pool. She was pretty impressed with him, knew who he was and everything, and of course, he talked himself up. The two of them went off and that was the last we saw of Ellis."

"The next day we drove to Denver to meet with Tom and some of the investors. Joshua and Tom went to the meetings, I just hung out in town waiting for them to be finished.”

“Joshua told me Tom was involved in the mob, is that true?”

“Tom was small-time, from what I could see. He might have been selling coke, he sure had plenty on hand,” Dean smiled again, "but honestly I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. There were some things I was glad to be left out of."

His narrative was interrupted by a large family seating themselves at a nearby table. The young parents, both sporting long dreadlocks, spoke very gently to their rambunctious children, who totally ignored them. The children carried plates brimming with cookies, which they began to cram into their mouths the minute they perched in their chairs. Our waitress hurried over to take their order. They requested five glasses of water and an iced tea. She stalked away, tight-lipped. I could guess they would not be getting their water anytime soon.

As soon as all the little mouths were busy chewing, Dean continued; "Over that next year Joshua and I went back and forth between Las Cruces and Albuquerque a lot. Joshua wouldn’t fly on airplanes so we had to drive everywhere. I did most of the driving. We went to New York twice. After the first trip was when the warrant came out. That was ….oh, at least six months ago….”

“How come Joshua never mentioned it to me?”

“He wouldn’t tell you. He sure didn’t want your father or any of the other big investors to know. He figured it would all blow over because Tom had a criminal record and any judge would see that he was lying. Plus there was no real evidence or witnesses, so Joshua just carried on with the project as if it had never happened.”

“So... Dean.... what actually went on between Joshua and Tom’s kids?" I asked. "It all seems so unbelievable, bizarre. I never for a moment took Joshua to be the type of guy who would do something like that. You were there, huh?"

Dean picked at his food, “Yeah... I was there the whole time.” He took another swallow of beer and scowled at the ground. “Tom and his wife have two little girls, Sabrina, age nine, and I forget the older one’s name, she’s about eleven. While we were in Denver, Tom asked us to look after his kids for a weekend. Joshua didn’t want to do it, and I sure didn’t, but Tom would not stop hounding him until he agreed."

"So we spent the weekend babysitting the girls. We tried to keep them entertained. We went to movies, the arcade, the mall. Joshua bought them bike shorts and bathing suits. They would come out of the dressing room and model the clothes for him, which I thought was a little weird, but he never touched them. They had their own room at the Motel. I was with Joshua the whole time except for twenty minutes when he drove the girls back to Tom’s.”

“Was it a twenty minute drive?”

“Yes.”

“So he couldn’t have done much during that time.”

“That’s not when it supposedly happened. Tom claims Joshua molested them later, when they were all at the house together. Joshua was in the next room with the girls for a few minutes. There wasn’t even a door to the room, but that’s when Tom said Joshua touched them.”

“Did the girls accuse him?”

“No, just Tom and his wife. At least as far as I know. They both have been arrested for cocaine before, they don’t have a lot of credibility, but the circumstances didn’t help, and Joshua was pretty stupid to agree to baby-sit them if you ask me. He just doesn't have any common sense, you know?”

“I know.”

“He was arrested and held on $100,000 bail, because of the seriousness of the charges. Dee came up with the money, but wasn't happy about it.”

“I bet not.”

“The worst part was that... well, when you're out on bail you can't leave the state," Dean explained.

"Really?" I asked, as if I didn't know.

"Yeah. Joshua just ignored that law. Right after he got out he wanted to go back to New York to meet with his agent and editor. So we did, but that was my last trip. It was becoming too risky and frankly I was sick of being around him. So I quit." Dean took another pull on his beer and smiled.

“Good for you, Dean. I mean, I’m sorry it got so bad, and I’m sorry for Joshua, but I’m glad you quit.” I said. He nodded.

“Me too.”

The family next door suddenly had a spillage incident. One of the mini-rastas knocked his water over onto a younger sibling, who immediately began squealing loudly. The father patiently leaned over and began wiping off the baby, while Mom sopped up the water. No one said a word to the spiller, who laughed and slammed his hands in the puddle.

“So what did he do without you?”

“He got Dave to do some jobs. They went down to Tucson to move the writer in. Did Joshua tell you about him?”

“A little, Louis Sterns, right? What was his background?”

“He used to write for the London Star.”

“A tabloid?”

“I don't know... A newspaper. One of the daily papers. Joshua’s agent, Marshall King, found Louis. He said Louis would be perfect for the project. Actually,” Dean lowered his voice and leaned forward, “I think he's some kind of agent.”

“Great,’ I groaned. “What about Marshall? Did he seem trustworthy?”

“He was OK. He was so sincere, very excited about the book. But later he didn’t return any calls, after the arrest he and Louis Sterns wouldn’t have anything to do with Joshua. The same for the Harters, and Dee, well, don’t mention Joshua’s name to him, if you don’t want to hear a whole lot of cussing.”

“Did he lose his money?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Ouch.”

“No kidding, a hundred grand.”

We had a moment of silence for Dee’s lost money. Our neighbors were trying to get the waitress' attention for another glass of water, but somehow she didn't see them.

“Joshua told me that he and Dave helped Louis move to Tucson," Dean went on. "He was going to stay there with his wife’s family while he wrote the book. On the way Joshua met a girl in Las Cruces, Tiffany. She was twenty years old but she looked about fourteen. Joshua hired her to be his assistant and travel companion, kind of like my job was but without the security part."

"Anyway, Louis wanted to meet in Dallas, so Joshua and Tiffany drove up there. They met at the hotel where Sterns and his wife were staying. They had drinks for a while and during that time I think Tiffany told Sterns' wife that Joshua had crawled into bed with her in one of the hotels they stayed at. She said he didn’t force her to do anything, but she was still pissed.”

“Louis' wife and Tiffany talked about this, then, when Joshua said it was time to go, Tiffany refused. She said she was going to stay with the Sterns at their hotel. Joshua was upset but he left."

"When he came back the next day the cops were waiting for him. He was arrested on the outstanding warrant from Tom...." Dean paused for another swallow. "That was the last time any of us saw him. He calls a lot but sometimes,” this with a sharp glance, “I’m not home.”

I nodded; more than once had I seen Joshua‘s name on caller ID and let it ring. “Dean, Do you think Joshua is liar?"

Dean frowned. “I know he's told a couple to me…” he ventured, then, “Sometimes I wasn't sure. Once he told me if I couldn’t do my job right he would kill me. He was drunk, I ignored him, but it worried me. Then there were other times when he was so full of shit. Once, when he was angry, he pretended to call the DEA on his cell phone to report me, but the phone rang in the middle of his conversation." Dean chuckled. “Another time, before the second trip to New York, Joshua made up a story about a shootout in Albuquerque, in front of the Bank of America building. He told me his car was stolen but really it had been impounded and he wanted a ride back to Durango. He told me to tell Dee that there had been a shootout and that we needed to come immediately. I took my brother’s car, without permission. Dee and Dave came with me to Albuquerque to get him. We were all pissed, but we figured, if he would go so far as to tell a whopper like that, he must have needed help pretty badly.”

"Do you think he's lying about the JFK thing?"

"That's different," Dean said. "He acts a certain way when he's lying, it's obvious, he's a real bad actor. Hmmm....I don't think so, but I really don't know."

“What about his family? How come they don’t help him out?”

“He doesn’t talk about them very much. He certainly doesn’t talk TO them, not as long as I’ve known him.”

“Did you ever meet any of them?”

“Nope, but Dave did. He met Joshua’s sister, Sally, when they got together for dinner one night in Dallas. The minute Joshua brought up the assassination she told Dave not to believe any of it, and that Joshua was crazy. She put a hundred dollar bill on the table and left.”

Dean waved at a young woman who had just stepped out on the patio. She smiled and waved back. I looked at my watch and faked a yawn. "Well thanks Dean, I guess I'm going to roll along now...Just one more question,” I said, wrapping my remaining cookies in a napkin.

"Shoot."

“Do you think he’s crazy?”

Dean picked up a pizza crust and gnawed it thoughtfully. “Some people do. I think he's just paranoid. He was always saying that someone was following him, that we should be afraid, but I never saw anyone. The only thing I was ever scared of was his temper, and even then not so much. He‘s a big talker, you know?”

“I know.”

As I reached for my coat Dean said, “Oh, I forgot, Joshua wanted me to give you some phone numbers, in case he can’t reach you. Here…” he scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out a sheet of notepaper. On it were numbers for Joshua’s sister, Sally, and his former psychiatrist, Dr. Leonard Jenkins.

“Thanks, Dean, I’ll see if I can get in touch with any of them.”

“You don’t have to, those numbers are for 'just in case'." Neither of us wanted to mention what that case might be, so I gave him a hug and hustled out through the main dining room.

“Lou Gardner, what a pleasant surprise.” I turned to see a tall, familiar figure, sitting on a bar stool.

“Daine! How the hell are you? Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!” He was looking pretty good. He smiled his broad, foxy grin bringing on a wave of wary affection. Daine had not left town under the best circumstances. Karl told me he had run out on a number of debts. I chose not to let on.

“I’m fine,” Daine put his arm around my shoulder and turned me toward the empty stool beside him. There was actually a jacket on it, but he moved it to the next seat down. “They won’t mind,” he said as I sat. He leaned down over the bar, as if trying to make himself inconspicuous; a challenge for a six-foot-two man with long black hair in a town full of busybodies.

“I’ve been visiting a friend in Carbondale. It’s nice out there. I’ve already gotten a couple of things underway.”

“When did you get into Durango?”

“Just yesterday. I’m not staying long.”

We talked and drank beer for another half and hour or so. Daine eventually let on that he was ‘avoiding certain people’, and would I not mind keeping his presence in town a secret while he was here? “Sure,” I replied, “It’s not anyone from the film festival, is it? Because I still hang around with a few of those guys.”

“Oh no, none of them,” Once his bridges were burned Daine didn’t give them a second thought. Sandra and the others had not been so forgiving; the second festival had a fancy program with a photo of the founding members in the front. Daine had been airbrushed out.

“Have you heard about Joshua?” he asked.

“Yes, you mean him being in jail, right?” He nodded. “You’ve been in town one day and you already know the gossip?” Daine just smiled and waggled his eyebrows.

“So what’s going to happen with that book now?”

“I don’t know. Nothing at all, at this point, the whole shebang has gone into free fall.”

“I think you should write it.”

“Me? I don’t even know if it’s true.”

“So what? It will make a hell of a story. This might be your first published book.” He looked at me pointedly for a second, “Someone needs to tell it. What if it is true?”

“That’s a big ‘what if’. Still…” I thought for a moment and couldn’t come up with a single good reason not to. “You’ve got a point there. I’ll consider it.”

“Do.”

Daine glanced quickly over my shoulder as a group entered the restaurant. He hunched over when they passed behind us, then hopped up and slid into his jacket. “Well, I must be running along,” he said breezily. “It was so good to see you. Let’s do this again when we have more time.” He shot out of the door and was gone down the sidewalk.

“Yes,” I said to his empty chair, “Do lets.”

“If you accept the charges, press numlingderbundun.” I could barely hear the tape but I punched ‘one’ after the tone as I always had for Gabe's collect calls from jail. The garbled recording stopped short. There was a moment of silence, then a click.

“Joshua, are you there?”

“Lou?”

“How are you?”

“Not too good Lou. About as bad as I’ve ever been.”

“Dean told me.”

“I’m looking at four life sentences.”

“Oh… THAT much? What happened?”

“Lou, I didn’t touch those kids. And that woman who said I raped her, she owed me ten thousand dollars.”

“I guess Dean didn’t tell me everything. Some woman said you raped her?

“Yes, it’s a long story,"

"Give me the short version."

"I didn’t do it.”

"What was it you didn't do?" I asked with as much patience as I could muster.

"You see... I know this woman in Las Cruces. She has a problem with drugs. She got into trouble. I loaned her some money and, when I asked for it back, she accused me of rape. Tom told her to do it. She's a friend of his."

"Well that's a high-class crowd you hang out with, Joshua, no wonder you're in jail," I sputtered.

"Yeah, I know..." he mumbled.

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“He’ll only represent me until the end of the month unless he gets some money.”

“What about bail?”

“The judge didn’t post any bond.”

“Where are all those people who were in on the project? Rex, Ellis, (I left out Dee) what are they doing about this?”

“They won’t talk to me. You’re the last chance I have Lou. Can you ask your father to loan me some money to get out of here?”

“Joshua, if that’s your last chance, you’re screwed, because he’s never going to do it. No. I can tell you right now.”

“Can you just ask him?”

“No. You owe him $30,000, remember? He already thinks your crazy, I’m not going to ask him. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

There was a moment of silence while Joshua pondered the failure of his last hope, then in a dispirited voice, “You have to get the word out about my situation. Tell those groups we mentioned, tell the press, call Sixty Minutes, CBS News, the BBC...."

"Joshua, listen," I interrupted, "I don't have any evidence. All I have is your increasingly questionable word. And you want me to stop the presses based on that? Who's going to believe me? I wouldn't believe me."

"Please, you have to help me. I don’t want to spend my life in jail. That’s a death sentence for me. A child molester? They’ll kill me, the other prisoners, you know? I don’t stand a chance."

“Can I call your sister, Sally?”

“She won’t help. She doesn’t want me to write this book. She said she’ll testify that she was with my father that day.”

“It’s not about the book, Joshua, wouldn’t she bail you out? She’s your sister.”

“You don’t understand these people Lou. They’re small-minded Texans. They only care about their own little worlds. They’d just as soon see me dead." His voice cracked on the last words.

“OK Joshua. I’ll do what I can," I sighed. "But I’m not putting my name on anything. We need a contact. Who do you know who can do that?”

“Lou, I’ll give you half the rights to the book. I still have most of the movie rights. There’s a storage space out there with $15,000 worth of bicycles…”

“It’s not about the money. It’s just really risky, you know? I will do what I can, OK? As a friend.”

“OK Lou, thank you. I’d better say goodbye, I have to make some more calls… Just one thing…“

“Yeah?”

“If they tell you I committed suicide don’t believe them, you hear?”

Two cups of coffee later I had come up with a passable strategy. The first step was to get a post office box. Velcro and I drove into town and I rented one under the name of 'The Dark Endeavor Project'.

“So no one can find out my name on this box, right?” I asked the clerk.

“Only law enforcement officers,” she said.

“That’s reassuring,” I lied.

“Six months or a year?” She asked.

“To live?” I asked, confused.

“For the box. Do you want to pay for six months or a year?” She said, eying me carefully.

“Six months, this shouldn’t take long.”

Once home, I got online and registered for a free Yahoo email account, also in the name of the Dark Endeavor. Then, under the influence of several more cups of coffee and a sincere desire to get it over with before changing my mind, I wrote the following press release:

Here I put Joshua's address in jail, the post office box and the email. It took half the night to get the releases sent out. I covered all the media possibilities; the LA Times, the Denver Post, the Albuquerque Journal, Mother Jones, The Nation, the even the National Enquirer! The notice also went to mainstream TV news and radio talk shows, and every possible newsgroup on the net. Dozens and dozens of them I sent, heart pounding with excitement. This was it, the word was out! It was a lot of work but so worth it because, when I flopped into bed that night, I was sure my part in helping Joshua was done.

*******

He called a couple of days later. “Has anyone responded?” He asked, sounding a little desperate.

“No, but it’s only been two days since I sent that stuff out.” I tried to sound upbeat. "Has anyone contacted you?"

“No... Did you tell the JFK groups?”

“Yes, no answer yet. I’ll try to call them tomorrow.”

"Did you call my attorney?"

"Yes. He at least called me back, but he wasn't much help. He told me that I couldn't get my hands on any of the court documents. He said he could not “disseminate” them and that I wouldn’t want them anyway because they wouldn’t help."

“My lawyer is an idiot. Can you find me a better one?”

“Not without money, but hey, here’s an idea, how about the ACLU? If they think your civil rights have been violated they’ll help you for free.”

A nasal recording broke in, “You have 30 seconds left…”

“Would you call them? Please?”

“Sure, I’ll find out what I can and let you know.” Click. “Joshua?” Nothing for a few seconds, and then the dial tone hummed. “Fine, talk to you later then.”

When the volunteer at the Denver ACLU asked what I was calling about, I told him the whole story, leaving nothing out. He listened quietly while I described the book, the accusations and the accusers. When finished, I waited anxiously for his response. After a pregnant pause he asked, “Are his civil rights being violated?”

“Yes,” I replied, trying not to sound exasperated. “They’re doing it to shut him up, There’s no evidence, the girls haven’t accused him, and the judge won’t listen to anything about the Kennedy assassination. But that’s the whole reason he’s in jail. If the judge won’t listen to his story he has no chance to defend himself. I’d say that’s a violation of civil rights, fair trial and all that, eh?” There was a brief silence on the other end, then the volunteer said,

“Your friend needs to write and tell us his story, we can’t help him unless he asks us himself.” Nothing about the assassination, no mention of the enormity of the implications of this case, just a matter of fact statement about the correct procedure to follow. How was it I had expected something more?

“Oh. Well… thanks for your time. You have a nice day.”

“You too.” Click. ‘It’s just some nerdy little volunteer,’ I assured myself, he probably wasn’t even alive when the assassination happened. He had no idea the opportunity he let slip away. Never mind. I wrote the ACLU’s address on an envelope and put that in another envelope addressed to Joshua. Then I checked the email from the hotmail site, hoping for some response but there was nothing. Not a single one.

*******

The next time the phone rang it was Antonio. “Hey Baby, it’s been a while,” (it had been three days) “I missed you. What have you been up to?” I told him. His tone changed 360 degrees; it did a U-turn: “You SEE?!” he shouted, “The guy is an ASSHOLE, a LOSER, a LIAR! I HOPE you learned a lesson. You’d BETTER tell your father, and you’d BETTER not talk to Joshua again, EVER, or you can kiss my ass goodbye!” I pulled the receiver back from my ear and waited for silence.

“His story could still be true,” I said calmly, “nothing that’s happened disproves it. In fact,” Silence. I took advantage of the unusual quiet on the other end of the line to explain: “It’s quite probable that he would have serious emotional and mental issues if his father killed Kennedy and he grew up with that secret.”

“If you would like to make a call…” a tinny recording replied, “Please hang up and dial again.” I shrugged and went back to the internet. Antonio's tantrums were no longer any surprise. I was glad he hung up.

He had said one thing that stuck with me though, that I had to tell Dad what had happened. Antonio was right about that. I owed Dad the truth. He was $30,000 poorer thanks to me. The only chance of getting his money back was for Joshua’s story to be published, and that chance that was diminishing daily. I called him.

He was watching the news, so right away I said; “I have to tell you something about Joshua’s book.”

“Can it wait for an hour?”

“It’s already waited too long.”

“Really? Did he get a publisher?” The TV volume went down a bit.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news. There’s a bit of a problem. Joshua is in jail. He’s being charged with child molestation by Tom.” The volume went down to nothing. “He says he didn’t do it, he says he was set up by Tom to keep him from writing his book.” More silence, sound of throat clearing, “I don’t think he did it, I don’t know for sure, of course, but Dean was with him the whole time and he said nothing happened.”

“Why would Tom not want him to write the book?”

“Apparently someone higher up didn‘t want the story to come out, at least that’s what Joshua claims.”

“Well, if his story is true then there’s got to be people who would want to shut him up. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wants him discredited. He’s lucky they didn’t kill him.”

“Listen, Pop, I’m sorry about your money. I’m going to do what I can to help Joshua get out so we can finish the book and reimburse you.”

“Absolutely not,” he said quickly.

“What?”

“Now you listen to me, honey.” He said firmly, “I don’t care about the money. I just want you out. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t help him?”

“I’m saying I don’t want you even speaking with him. Get yourself un-involved ASAP.”

“But…”

“I am SAYING that whatever they did to him they can do to you, perhaps worse because nobody knows you. You would just be another accident. Now you promise me that you won’t speak to him again.”

“I can’t do that. I told him I would help him.” This call was not turning out as planned.

“You CAN do that. I don’t want you getting killed and these people can kill you as easily as they can scratch their asses. The next time he calls, you hang up.”

“Dad, that’s wrong, besides, he‘s my client,” I stammered.

“I don’t care. Listen, if you need money I can pay you to work for me, there’s other things I need to do besides writing that book. But you stay out of this. You could get caught up in something very bad. You don’t know for sure that he’s not guilty and you could get charged with aiding and abetting. Don’t talk to him again.” Silence, “I’m doing this for your own good. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. OK?”

An inner debate raged while Dad waited for my answer: If I did as he wished I would be rewarded with work, well-paid and probably pretty easy. But to abandon Joshua in exchange for money, well… that’s just plain wrong. Still, Joshua was a rather irritating person. He asked much and gave little but promises. If he was guilty as charged, even if his story was true, then I wanted nothing to do with him. But he could have been set up. It had happened before.

I didn’t know what to think. But I know what I felt; a shameful sense of relief. Here was my chance to escape from the stress and irritation of dealing with Joshua. I would have time to focus on business plans. I could stop banging my head against the wall trying to get someone to listen, it didn’t seem that anyone cared anyhow…

“OK Dad,” I said.

“Good. Now you have a nice night, I’m going watch the news. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

When the phone rang the next morning I let the machine get it. The recording asked me as usual if I would accept the charges from jail. I waited. When it instructed me to hang up, I did.

*******

“Here, take my picture,” Antonio handed me his camera.

“You want to take your sunglasses off?”

“Nope,” he smiled, leaning back and stretching his arms. A passing waitress almost spilled her tray on him but he didn’t notice. “This place is great! Just look at the view, look at the people…” He smiled seductively at a beautiful woman passing on the street below. She smiled back. I snapped the picture.

We were on our way from Tampa to Durango, driving Antonio's motor home to its winter storage. This jaunt to the Big Easy was a side-trip, purely for fun. New Orleans was wonderfully warm for early November. I handed the camera back to Antonio, pulled off my sweater and laid it over the wrought-iron railing.

“Thanks Baby. You know…” he lifted a spoonful of oyster soup to his nose, inhaling slowly. Antonio smelled his food as much as ate it lately. “I’m having a good time with you. You’re easy to get along with. Most trips I take with women are hell by the third day. We’ve been on the road… how long now?”

“Four days.”

“Is that all? It seems longer.”

“Thanks. I’ve been having fun with you too.”

“That’s good. How long have you been taking those pills now?”

“You think it’s the Prozac?”

“Baby, I know it.”

We took a riverboat ride, ate crabs for lunch, and shopped. Antonio wanted voodoo dolls for his enemies. There were plenty available in the souvenir stores, but he was stymied by the lack of pins. “We don’t encourage black magic,” one shop-girl said when he asked.

“Then why do you sell the dolls?”

“As souvenirs only, besides, each one has a pin.” It was true, every doll had a small ‘Good Luck from New Orleans’ patch pinned onto it. Antonio thanked her graciously, bought two and then, when she was helping other customers, he rooted through the bin and stole the pins from a dozen others. As soon as we were back on the street he stuck them into the dolls, which he dedicated to his ex-wife and divorce judge.

We finished the afternoon with a carriage tour. It was very expensive, but Antonio turned on the charm, found another couple who would split the price with us, and we all rolled off into the old quarter. As we wheeled past a block of apartments the guide pointed at a second floor balcony and said, “That’s where Lee Harvey Oswald lived the summer before he shot President John Kennedy.”

“Oswald didn’t shoot Kennedy," I said.

“I always thought that too,” said the man from the other couple (they were from Kansas, on their honeymoon), “I like to hunt, and I know Oswald couldn’t possibly have shot Kennedy with the gun he had and the distance he was at. Somebody else wanted him dead.”

“But we’ll never know who,” chimed in his new bride, “not as long as we live anyway.”

“We might,” I replied, “if we cared enough to find out.”

“But we don’t, see?” Antonio leaned forward and gave me a private glance, “It’s ancient history and there are so many other interesting things to discuss. For example,” he said to the young wife, “Are all the women Kansas as beautiful as you?”

I turned back to look at Lee and Marina’s old home, disappearing around a corner. 'I care,' I thought, 'but not enough to fight over it.' Then the thought slipped away.

It was dark outside when Antonio shook me awake. He was staring wildly. “What? What is it?!” I asked.

“You tell me,” he said.

“Is this a waking-up game? I have no idea. Usually the sleeping person is last to know.”

“You were crying.”

“Just now?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember? You were really crying, hard. Are you sure you don’t remember?” He eyed me suspiciously, Antonio was always on the lookout for lies.

“No, I was dreaming, about a song. Remember the one you played for me this morning, ‘Walking in Memphis’? I was walking in Memphis,” I sang, “walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale, I was walking in Memphis, but do I really feel the way I feel?”

“Don’t sing,” he said, rolling over, “I believe you. Go to sleep.”

Antonio had played the song for me that morning, twice. While I watched him singing I had a sudden pang of impending loss. I had noted it and let it slide, as I had so many pangs these days.

But emotions will not be overcome by force. They must be ridden, like boats, over stormy waters, hung onto tightly throughout the journey until a new dawn brings us into tomorrow. If you try to shove them under, they will pop up wherever they find an opening. If you shove them hard enough they will shove back, sometimes knocking you off your feet. My pang had waited until night, growing in its resentment at my denial, to release itself in my dream, no longer a pang but a wail. There were other disturbing side effects from the Prozac. I vowed to get off the pills as soon as Antonio was gone.

*******

When we got to Durango Antonio left the RV and trailer in storage. He packed some belongings and came to stay at my house for a few weeks, until his court hearing, an appeal of the ruling that gave full custody of Jenny to his ex-wife.

Antonio was paying me to help prepare his case. He dictated for hours at a crack, long letters to the judge, to his ex and mostly to Jenny. The letters to ex he had me mail - certified, return receipt. The letters to the judge I took to the County Courthouse. Antonio hated the Courthouse. He always warned me before I went:

“Whenever you go down to the County Courthouse, you need to remember one thing: Those people you deal with at the window, those secretaries and clerks, you need to remember that they are morons; lazy, inept, bumbling idiots. They’ve been there for ten, twenty, thirty years, they do the same damn thing every day and they don’t like to be challenged. They don’t care about you or your circumstances. They just want to count their paper clips, stamp their papers, make sure everyone has their staplers in place and sit on their fat asses. And the worst of it is they think you should respect them for that. They demand to be respected and they’ll fuck you up if you don’t kiss their flatulent, saggy behinds. So remember that when you go down to the Courthouse; pucker up and don’t steal any paper clips.”

With this warning in mind I delivered Antonio's letters to the judge. The clerks behind the window eyed me crosswise and reminded me that I was not an attorney. "I'm not representing him, just dropping off some documents. Please put them in his file," I said politely. The letters to Jenny were never mailed. They were sealed and put in his safe, which now occupied the secret closet in my living room.

Over the next two weeks, while we weren’t preparing for the hearing, we were itemizing lists, getting documents notarized and taking photos of all Antonio’s belongings. He filled the safe with his greatest treasures, collected over a lifetime of globe trotting. As we put each one in, he would reminisce about how he came to have it.

I was to remember his tales, to tell Jenny someday. There were rough diamonds from Saudi Arabia, where he had worked the power lines for an international oil company. There were bars of silver that he had bought in Mexico when he was on a sailing trip. There was elaborate jewelry brought from the far East and coins from his travels all over the planet. He described these adventures, and - of course - the numerous beautiful women he had slept with along the way. “You don‘t have to tell her about that,” he would say of his trysts .

Before he closed the safe, Antonio picked one small, black-star sapphire from a box and glued it into the eye of the dragon on my kiva. “There,” he said proudly, “That you can keep.” I didn’t really like it, the dragon’s eye now looked beady, a little dangerous.

“Thanks, Antonio, this place will never be the same.”

“I should hope not.” he laughed. “Stick with me, baby, I’ll show you how to live.”

*******

“Hey sweetie, this is your Daddy calling,” Antonio's voice, twice distorted by the tape and telephone, was piped into the courtroom. He sounded drunk. “I love you. I miss you. I want to wish you a happy birthday. I wish you would pick up the phone….. But I know your mommy and daddy are listening to this message first. They screen all my messages, don’t they? In fact, you’ll never get this at all, because my messages don’t get through. You’ll never hear me tell you I love you, You’ll think I forgot your birthday. They’ll just save this message to use in court, won’t you? Amy? Ron?”

His voice was progressively taking on an edge. The judge looked intently at Antonio while we listened. It was not a friendly look. “Well here’s one you can give the judge , OK? Honey?” His voice turned sickly sweet, a parody of himself speaking to his daughter, “I hope you like your new name; Ton o’ Shits!” He laughed hysterically and hung up.

Judge Wickerson looked interested for the first time since the hearing began. He called his clerk over, whispered something to her and then turned to Antonio.

“Thank you Mrs. Tenowitz,” he said to Antonio’s ex, who was listening on speakerphone from Chicago. “Mr. Avanteeeeee,” he said slowly, sternly, “do you come in here and waste my afternoon when you knew this tape existed all along?”

“That’s my POINT, your honor,” Antonio replied, sounding equally irritated, “I knew my daughter would never hear that message. They don’t let her hear ANYTHING I say. They throw away my letters, I don’t know WHAT they do with the gifts I send…. My daughter thinks I don’t care, she thinks I don’t love her…”

Antonio was starting to weep. The judge remained unmoved. He stood and picked up his papers. “The custody order stands as is. Mr. Avanti, don’t let me see your face for at least another two years.”

“I’ll be dead by then,” Antonio said bitterly. Judge Wickerson turned and left the room, heading for the party. Antonio sat still in his chair for a good three minutes. I didn’t say a word.

That night Antonio got very VERY drunk. He shouted at the invisible judge, cursed his ex-wife, screamed at me for failing him and wept profusely over losing his daughter. The only one he apologized to was Jenny, the rest of us were all to blame.

I left him by the fire and ascended to the bedroom. As soon as he realized his audience was abandoning him, Antonio chased after me. He demanded that I stay up with him, that he was not ‘through’ with me. I lay down on the bed and turned my back. This set him off like a rocket. He pounced on the bed, grabbed a pillow and pushed it down over my head. “Sleep!” he screamed, “Go ahead, sleep! You want to get away from me so badly? I’ll help you. I’ll help you get to sleep!”

Fighting panic I mumbled “I don’t need any help thanks,” and lay as still as possible, like playing dead for a bear. It worked. Disappointed by my lack of a response and perhaps realizing the deep shit he would be in if he killed me, Antonio released the pillow and flopped down on the bed. He cried himself to sleep.

Two days later he left for Tahoe. I drove him to the storage space where his motor home was. I watched him drive away, pulling the car trailer slowly out to the highway, then west, down the hill… gone… almost; he called from Aztec an hour later.

“I love you baby, I really do. You’re my best friend. I know we could never be together but please believe me when I say you are one of the loves of my life. I love you … I love you….” the cell signal began to break up, “…in my way….” gone.

“Yeah, right,” I said to the dial tone.

*******

I flushed all the Prozac down the toilet. That was a mistake. Whatever funk I had been in before taking the pills returned with a vengeance.

One night, about two weeks after trashing the pills, I walked to the fountain in the middle of the house and climbed up on its ledge. I undid my bathrobe and removed the cord, tying one end of it around the iron stair-railings above the fountain and the other end around my neck. I stood there for a long time, talking to myself:

“You’re no good! You’re not worth the air you breathe. You're not worth the food you eat." Shouted a voice within.

"Why?" I argued out loud. "What's wrong with me? Haven't I tried? Haven't I done my best?"

"Your best is a bust. You're a loser, a useless failure, a clown. Get off the planet, Bozo, make room for the winners. Jump! Jump!"

"Wait... things can get better... I can't give up now...." I said.

"You're never going to win. Face it, you're a failure. All you've got to show for your life is a fancy house you can't afford. A house that you hide in, staying comfy and safe. You're a coward, a wimp, a little Gal Friday for your daddy and men like Antonio."

"I used to be strong. I was brave once..."

"Give it up. That was a fantasy. You were kidding yourself. You never made a difference. All your protesting, your street theater, your marches and parades saved nothing. You were just living in your little dream world, acting like a child, playing with puppets!"

"I DID make a difference."

"Name one thing."

"..................Well...................."

I thought back on all my moments of glory; every success I could muster. The broadcasts, the poetry marathons, the neighborhood circus, the free concerts, parades, 'symbolic' actions, cheers, laughter, applause, the singing, holding hands in a circle... none of it was tangible or lasting. I guess you could say it was nothing but.... "Fun. I made the world a little more fun."

"Fun?! FUN?! You pathetic moron! You'll never be anything. You'll never do anything. Don't waste the air space. Jump! Jump!"

But it was already too late. I had chosen my voice. It was the one I listened to that night and every dark night thereafter. If you look for it, there's always a star to steer by, and if not, you can make one with paper mache.

I untied the cord, got down from the ledge and walked to the bathroom. A sad face stared back from the mirror, a stranger. She apologized to me. “It’s all right, “ I told her, “everyone has bad moments. We’ll feel better if we can just ‘hang’ in there. She grimaced at me and then, in a flash of recognition, smiled.

“It’s going to be OK,” I said. “Stick with me, kid, I’ll show you how to live.”

Velcro and Lotta followed me up to bed. They slept pressed against my back all through the night.

I sold the house in September, to a young couple who absolutely loved it. He was an environmental activist, she a landscape architect. They would take good care of the place, and maybe someday raise a family there. We set the closing for January 5th. I had six weeks to find an apartment and move. In the following chaos Joshua called. This time I picked up the phone.

“Lou?”

“Hi Joshua."

"I called Dave. He said you wanted me to call."

"Yeah, Joshua... Listen, I’m sorry I backed out on you, it was wrong.

"Never mind Lou, it's just good talk to you. I didn't think you would speak to me again. Everyone was scared when I was thrown in jail. A lot of people got out to be safe. I don’t blame them.”

“I’m sorry anyway, but I’m back. So... how are you?”

"Actually Lou, I need your help, I'm in a situation here."

"What's the problem?" I asked, thinking that there were two more trips to the storage space to be made before bed.

"There's a reporter for the Denver Post, Jerry Mallick, He was going to come out here and interview me yesterday..."

"That's great!"

"No, it didn't happen. He couldn't talk to me because they moved me the night before to another prison. They put me in there to stop the interview. Lou, they beat me pretty badly..."

"What!? Oh my God, Joshua, are you OK?"

"I'm OK now, nothing broken, but they warned me not to contact him or they'd do it again, worse. I need you to help me."

"Of course!" Perhaps I could make four trips tomorrow.

"Call the Denver Post. Talk to Mr. Mallick. Tell him my story. Give him the documents you found. I have to go now. Please try..." We were cut off. What was happening at the other end of the line? Had someone overheard Joshua? Would they beat him just for talking to me? I quickly looked up the phone number for the Denver Post. Mr. Mallick wasn't in. I left a voicemail.

"Mr. Mallick, I'm calling on behalf of Joshua Stevens, the man you tried to interview at Arapahoe last week. He didn't mean to blow you off. They wouldn't let him speak to you. Mr. Mallick, they beat him and warned him not to talk to you. He asks that you speak to me. I can tell you his story, please call me at ...."

Over the next three days I left three messages. On the third night he finally called back. "Mr. Mallick," I said, "I want to talk to you about Joshua Stevens, the man you were going to interview last week at Arapahoe Prison about the Kennedy assassination. He asked me to tell you what happened; why he couldn't speak to you..."

I waited for Mr. Mallick to ask me what happened but he didn't. He cleared his throat and said, "I've decided not to do that story."

"How could you not want to write this story?" I asked, deeply disappointed.

"It's not that I don't want to," he explained, "It's just that this kind of story will take a lot of ... time. I don't have... I'm not in a position where I can give it the attention it needs. Let me recommend a colleague, Mitch Choate, he could do your story the justice it deserves."

"That would be good." I mumbled.

He gave me a number and said goodnight. What was it Joshua’s friend had said on the tape? How Joshua needed an investigative reporter who was really dedicated, someone willing to spend years digging for the truth? Obviously that someone was not Mr. Mallick. I called Mitch Choate, no answer. I left the same old message and went to bed, hoping he would call in the morning.

He didn't. Six unreturned calls and two unanswered emails later I finally got the message, which a sadly passed on to Joshua.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why no one wants to hear your story. I'll get back on the research as soon as I can, it's just that things are really busy right now...." I was no better than the rest of them. Perhaps the only difference was that they were honest and I, ever the actor, was still pretending I could help.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't need money.

“Can you get me bail money?”

“No...

"How about your father, could he...."

"No, definitely not, I'm sorry... But maybe I could do something else...?”

After a moment’s thought Joshua said, “Ok, Lou. There are a couple of people you should talk to. Do you remember Dinah Erwin?”

“Ellis’ Ex?”

“Yes, her. She’s been a great help. She’s raising my bond.”

“The blond woman in Dealey Plaza? With the trench coat and the eyeliner? The CIA agent?”

“I don’t think she’s CIA, but yes, that’s her.”

“You don’t think she’s CIA?”

“She’s helping me, just call her, OK?”

Joshua gave me the number, “and Lou, Dr. Leonard Jenkins is still working on the project. He’s writing a screenplay.”

“Your ex-psychologist is writing a screenplay?”

“Yes. He thinks it will reach more people than a book. Listen, you could really help me if you would go to Dave’s house and get my tapes and papers, copy them and get them to Leonard Jenkins. Could you do that?”

“Sure…. What about Rex Harter?”

“Harter’s on the other side,” he grumbled, “Daniels too.…"

A muttering voice could be heard in the background. “Yes, just a minute,” Joshua said aside.

“Well at least Dave has stuck with you.”

“I don’t know Lou, I don’t think Dave is trustworthy either.”

“You’re kidding, Dave?”

“You don’t know him like I do. Anyway, please get those papers to Dr. Jenkins. Call him, OK? Stay in touch with him, give him Dinah’s number …. Yes, yes, I’m getting off now…. I have to go, Lou, there’s other people waiting for the phone. Goodbye, and thanks.”

I hung up and called Dinah. A woman’s voice with a strong Texan accent answered.

“Hi, is this Dinah Irwin?”

“Yayess.”

“My name is Lou. I’m a friend of Joshua Stevens’. He asked me to call you and let you know he’s trying to reach you but can’t get through.”

“Ah don’t know what the prahblem is. He called me and left a message this mornin'. Ah'm jest about to call him bayack. What did you say your name was?"

"Lou."

"May ah ask, how long have you known Joshua?

"About two years. And you?"

""Oh, not thayat long," she twanged. "So Joshua is really wrahtin' a book? He said he was."

Dinah was creeping me out. I put informant defensive play number one into action; always answer a question with a question.

"He was once, I don't know if he still is. He didn't tell you about it?"

"Oh yayess, he told me. He says it's about Kennedy. He says he kin make a lot of money. He says he can pay back the bail money. Ah hope that's true?"

"If you're asking me, I don't know. Has anyone donated money yet?"

"No, not yayet. They need some kahnd of guarantee, you know what ah mean?"

"Not really. What kind of guarantee?"

"Oh, you know, maybe a perceyentage..."

"Uh-huh. Well, good luck with that, I just told him I would give you a call. Thanks for the information."

"Uh, yayess... listen, ah need to know some of the contact info for the people workin' on the book. Do you have any names and numbers ah kin call?"

"No, sorry. You could ask Ellis, he was at those meetings."

"Not Ellis, he's a big lahr. Ah know Joshua paid him a lot of money up front. That was a mistake, Ellis jes' spent it and he didn't wraht a thing. You're sure you don't remember any names?"

"Nah, sorry. Anyway, thanks again and you have a great day."

Dinah never called me back, nor did she come up with any bail money for Joshua. I'm still not sure if she was an informant, an opportunist or both. Either way she was just another poorly chosen person to put your trust in. "Joshua, Joshua, Joshua" I sighed, hanging up the phone.

*******

Dave lived outside Mancos, Durango's neighboring town to the west. Velcro and I drove to his house on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Up highway 160, over the pass we went, through chilly air, under a brilliant blue sky, hugging the right lane for the last couple of miles before the summit as bigger cars and trucks roared by. Finally we crested the hill to see rolling gold and green mountains to the left, jagged, snowcapped peaks to the right, and ahead, sliding down between the two like a river, the road west. The land gradually flattened out towards the horizon, where a bright haze obscured the edge of earth and sky.

Turning right at the bottom of the mountain, we entered the tiny, red brick town of Mancos - only a couple of blocks long. Once past the bakery and over the river we were back in the country, driving down a valley dotted with ranches and orchards. I checked the address.

"There it is, buddy," thump thump. We pulled into a driveway marked with a wagon wheel. The house, obviously passive solar, was nestled into a hillside. On the porch two dogs barked loudly. Velcro barked back happily. I parked and let him out of the car, to submit to the sniffing and growling of Dave's dogs. Velcro had no problem acquiescing to their show of power. He groveled extravagantly for a minute or two, then they all wagged their tails and ran off together to welcome Dave's truck, which had just turned in the driveway.

Dave greeted them thoroughly before he could make his way over to me.

“Lou! It’s so good to see you again! Come on in. How have you been?” He reached out a long arm and we shook hands heartily. Obviously coming from work, I guessed, judging by the sawdust in his hair.

"Fine, Dave. How about you?”

“Great, just great,” he grinned. He looked genuinely happy, “I met a really nice girl, she lives here with me. She’s at work right now. Someday you’ll have to meet her.”

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

Dave opened the front door, which had been unlocked all along. We walked into the entryway of his home. He had built it himself. It was a lovely, warm-feeling adobe. Large windows lined the front of a greenhouse room, filled with cacti and other plants I didn’t recognize.

“Molly’s got a green thumb,” he explained as I ogled the flora. We walked further into the living room. A colorfully tiled fireplace took up the north wall. The armchairs and sofa had been pieced together from sapling trunks, bent to curve gracefully around the edges.

“Did you make those?” I asked. He nodded.

“It’s beautiful. I love your house.”

“Thanks, there’s still a lot more to be done, I’ll get to it when the construction season is over. Would you like some tea?

"Sure. You have anything with caffeine?'

Oh yes. Molly doesn't drink it, but me," he reached into a cabinet and pulled out a large tin of English Breakfast Blend, "I have a stash." He glanced at the answering machine, which was blinking steadily. "Joshua’s boxes are under the coffee table over there. Why don’t you have a look while I check my messages.”

"Thanks."

I tossed a throw pillow on the tile floor and sat down to investigate the boxes. The first one was filled with notebooks, loose files and dozens of cassettes marked with dates and numbers; Meeting with Ray, 11-20-00, 1 of 3 said one. I put it back in, pushed the whole box aside to take home and pulled out the second. It also contained a stack of papers, less neatly organized; more of a jumble. I tucked it by the door with the first. The final box was smaller. It was full of aging Kodak envelopes, each with photographs inside. Dave came in with two mugs of tea just as I was picking one to examine.

“Those are Joshua’s pictures. You can take the other two boxes but he asked me to keep those here. I just thought you might want to have a look at them.”

“Thanks.”

I chose a random envelope and picked a stack of photos from it. In them I saw a young man in combat fatigues, belts of bullets strung round his neck. He was standing in a jungle, back bent, looking tired. “That’s Joshua in Viet Nam,” said Dave. “Sugar?”

“Yes, please.” He measured out a spoonful and stirred it into my cup.

“Milk?”

“Thanks.” He poured in the milk and handed me the tea. I sipped carefully, staring at the first photo I had laid hands on. “He looks awfully thin.”

“Yeah, he's pretty thin now, he’s lost a lot of weight.”

“When did you see him?”

“A couple of months ago.

I flipped through the stack of photos. They were all from Viet Nam, pictures of Joshua and his fellow soldiers who, if Joshua’s story was true, were all long dead. If Kennedy had lived they would have had a chance. That war would have been over before they were ever drafted. If if if…

The rest of the pictures in the box were of Joshua and his friends and family. One of them showed him standing proudly in front of a red convertible, it must have been taken after the war. In another he was with an older man, perhaps his father, Dave didn’t know. In one of the sadder ones he beamed out at me with two little girls hanging on his neck. I finished the last stack and tucked them back into their envelope.

"Thanks Dave," I said, "I better go now, tomorrow morning I'm driving to Albuquerque to meet Dr. Jenkins."

"Good," he replied. "I'm really glad you're getting involved Lou, Joshua needs all the help he can get, and it will be good to have someone else for him to talk to." Dave nodded toward the note pad by the phone. "I had six messages and they were all from him."

*******

Rain was falling steadily when we pulled into Denver. Frank, my new boyfriend, drove his funny little Honda boxcar because it had lots of interior room for two large dogs (Velcro and Frank’s St. Bernard, Leo), as well as all the gifts he was planning to buy for his eight year-old daughter. We were already running late. This rain had been snow in Durango. A tractor-trailer jackknifed on Wolf Creek Pass, so we had a long delay. “I told you we should have left earlier,” Frank reminded me.

“You were right,” I said on cue. Frank liked to be right about things. He had his good qualities, like driving fast when it was called for. Once clear of the blizzard he put the pedal down and got us there only 20 minutes late, singing hits from the 70’s all the way. He dropped me and the boxes off at Dr. Jenkins’s office. “I’ll call you when I’m done,” I said.

“OK, I’ll be right over there,” Frank pointed to a nearby mall. He drove off. I staggered to the door with both boxes and plopped them down on the step. ‘Dr. Leonard Jenkins, Ph. D.’ announced the nameplate. I rang the bell and, after a minute, Dr. Jenkins opened the door.

He was a friendly-looking man, the kind of guy you might peg as a psychiatrist. Clean-cut, neatly dressed, round glasses, graying hair and comfortable shoes. “Lou, nice to meet you at last,” he said as he shook my hand. “Come in, can I get you some tea?”

“Yes thanks. Sorry I’m late, there was an accident on the way. I brought you the copies.”

“Wonderful. Thank you. Here...” he dragged the boxes in the door, “I’ll get these later. Let me take your coat.” I peeled out of my soggy jacket and Leonard hung it on a hook. We went into the main office, where an elderly man was sitting at a desk, poring over some papers.

“Ray Lynde this is Lou Gardner, Lou this is Ray.”

“Nice to meet you. You must be the Ray on the tapes.”

“I am... and nice to meet you too.” We shook hands. Ray was at least a decade older than Leonard, silver of hair and slightly slower of movement, dressed in wool slacks and a well-worn sweater. He had a pleasant smile. I found a comfy armchair by the heating grate and relaxed back into it.

“We were just talking about where to begin with the research,” said Leonard. “Did you get the copy of the script that I emailed you?”

“Yes, right here,” I patted my briefcase.

“As you know then, it’s written from my point of view, having Joshua for a client. It’s mystery, really,” said Leonard. “At this point we have very few documents to back up Joshua’s story. We need to find anything we can that either proves or disproves it.”

“Yes,” Ray added, “Joshua is very specific about certain events that occurred and the people involved. If he’s telling the truth there will be records of such, but we haven’t found any so far. Can you help?”

“Sure. I brought a few that you may find useful.” I opened my bag and pulled out some articles I had found on General Rand and Harry Quinlan. Leonard and Ray took the papers hungrily and read with growing enthusiasm.

“Joshua told us you had this, it’s exactly the kind of thing we want,” said Leonard.

“I'd be glad to look for more info, whatever you need. Where would you like to start?” I asked, thrilled to have met someone who appreciated my efforts at research.

“There is one issue we need to resolve right away,” Leonard said. “Joshua said Ellis told him there was a Supreme Court ruling that protected anyone who named names in the Kennedy investigation. He said Ellis assured him he could not be sued for libel if he put the real names in his book. We need to know if that’s true. Can you contact Ellis and ask him what this ruling was?”

“I can try. He doesn’t have a number listed but I have a PO box for him. I’ll write him a letter.”

“Joshua said to tell him he would get his other 50% if he helped us,” said Ray.

“Did Joshua say where he was going to get that money from?” I asked. Leonard laughed,

“No. But maybe Ellis will want to help out if he thinks he’ll get paid.”

“He probably knows Joshua better than that by now,” I said, “I’ll give it a try anyway.

“Also,” said Ray, “We are really looking for something to tie Joshua’s story to the official one. At this point we know of one person who connects the two, Jack Lawrence. He was an employee at a car dealership in Dallas. He raised suspicion on the day of the assassination because he came running into work, covered with mud and highly upset, right after the shooting.”

“I remember reading about him, he threw up, right?”

“Yes, the other employees reported him to the FBI because they thought he might have been one of the shooters. He was questioned but never charged. Anyway, Joshua says Jack was related to Norbert Lawrence, that they were brothers. Can you find us anything that would prove that?”

“I’ll try,” I said, scribbling notes as he spoke. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of right now. Ray, can you think of anything?”

“No,” said Ray, “but I would like to hear what you think of our screenplay so far.”

Dr. Jenkins made tea and we read through the manuscript together. The screenplay was still in outline form, some scenes were fleshed out with dialog while others were quite brief:

Scene - Classroom: Confusion. 7th grade children gasp and cry at the announcement of Kennedy’s assassination. Joshua leaps to his feet in a cheer. Everyone looks at him in astonishment. Teacher is in tears as she calms the children and sends them home.

And so on. The longer scenes described Leonard’s meetings with Joshua as his psychiatrist at the Veterans hospital, interspersed with flashbacks from Joshua’s life. It ended with a group of doctors discussing the case with Leonard. The audience was to be left with the question of whether or not the tale was true.

“There’s nothing in here that contradicts the story I heard from him.” I said, as we folded our scripts shut. “He’s consistent anyway.”

“Do you think it’s true, as Joshua says?” Ray asked.

“My instincts say yes, but instincts don’t hold up as evidence, especially if you’re going to accuse people of assassination.”

“Powerful people,” Leonard said, “That’s why we really need you to find out if that Supreme Court Ruling is real; we don‘t want to get sued.”

“Or killed,” I added.

“Joshua didn’t think there was much risk, most of the assassins are dead and the few left are too old to do anything... except for Quinlan,” said Leonard. We sat in silence for a second, pondering possible danger. I didn’t tell them about Joshua’s panic attack when I tried to hand him the telephone, or his angry accusation that Dean was risking our lives when he told his father the story. No, why scare them off? I wanted them to write their screenplay, then the story would be out and I could move on with my life. Leonard glanced at the wall clock.

“Oh, I need to get going, I’m meeting my wife for dinner.”

“Me too,” said Ray, “Got to get started on scene seven.” Leonard picked up our cups and carried them out to the kitchenette. Ray and I retrieved our damp jackets.

“You’re right to be concerned about Quinlan,” I said. “I’ll look for that ruling but, even if it’s real, it won’t protect you from the wrath of an angry billionaire.”

“Yes, there’s still a lot to be considered,” replied Leonard. “Let’s talk on the phone next weekend.” We agreed to have conference calls every other Saturday morning, then I left my new collaborators and went to join Frank for some holiday shopping.

*******

Frank is an expert shopper. For an amateur like me, shopping is something you have to do to get the stuff you need. The sport of the game is to get it as cheaply AND as quickly as possible. Not Frank. He could linger for hours over the goods in question, comparing labels, contents, quality and percentage off list price. Durango was too small of a town for a man of his talents. With only two malls; Penney’s and Wal-Mart, it was like a bunny slope for a double-diamond skier. Here in Denver, Frank was schussing into the shopping Olympics. At ‘Toys Are Us’ (after only two hours) he spent $500 on $800 worth of video games and electronics gizmos for his daughter.

“Wow,” I said, as he wheeled the towering cart to the car. “Did you leave anything for the other children?”

“This is nothing,” he replied, tossing bags into the back seat. We’ll come back tomorrow for the bike, they have to put it together.”

We shopped until the stores closed. In the morning we got the bike and then made our last stop, my favorite, the Chinese grocery store. Here we filled up the last remaining square inches of the car with jars of exotic sauces and fragrant herbs. We walked the dogs and took one last trip back to the store, for lunch at the café by the Kung-Fu video rentals.

“So what happened at your meeting?” Frank asked, pouring tamari onto his sweet and sour chicken wings. He hadn’t asked about it until now. He had spent most of the trip so far telling me about his life back in the 70’s, bemoaning the loss of his ‘good old days.’

“They showed me their screenplay, I gave them my research, and we picked a couple of things to focus on. I need to try and find Ellis,”

“Who? You want some spinach?”

“Sure, Ellis, the famous writer, the one who sells his pamphlets in Dealey Plaza. I told you about him, remember?”

“No, but that’s OK.” He spooned a huge helping of Spinach onto my Styrofoam plate. I continued,

“Ellis Morton, he told Joshua that there’s a Supreme Court Ruling that protects you from getting sued if you name possible suspects in the assassination.”

“I never heard of such a thing.”

“Me neither, but if it exists we can use real names in the screenplay.”

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Frank said. “You don’t even know if that story is true. You should focus more on making money here and now if you want to keep your house. I think you’re wasting time on pie in the sky.”

“Thanks for the advice. Could you pass the wontons?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Oh, before we leave, I need to go back to Target, I think I‘ll get that radio after all.”

The Pelican's Nest was abuzz with Film Festival volunteers. I climbed the narrow staircase, squeezed past someone descending with a large box, and emerged into DFF Central. Originally a high-end bar, the Nest had gone out of business and then morphed into an office space, which Sandra had rented. The bar was still there, lining the entire north wall, now covered with programs, checklists, telephones and mailing boxes full of hopeful entries. Sandra's office was at the back. She was on the telephone when I knocked.

"I'll be right with you," she mouthed, pointing to a chair. I sat. She talked on for another few minutes before hanging up. "Lou, I'm glad you could make it, I want to talk to you about the marketing effort so far."

"OK, what's up?" I asked. Sandra looked at some papers on the desk for a moment, then picked up a pen and began tapping its point on the top page. A series of black dots marked the rhythm of her message. It was not friendly.

"We feel the marketing this year has really been... lacking. We feel you could do a much better job if you put some more effort into it."

"I'm doing the same thing I do every year," I said. "Press releases, PSA's, ads, calendar announcements," I ticked them off on my fingers. "What is it that 'we' feel is lacking?"

"Well," she leaned forward and stopped tapping, "you need to get out in the community more, get some parties organized, do some fundraising events, get the local buzz going."

"You mean like Daine used to do before he was air-brushed out of the group?" I asked.

Sandra was pissing me off. She had turned out to be a very high-maintenance, demanding director, a regular film festival Nazi. I stared back at her across the desk. She started tapping again. “The festival is bigger this year. We need more effort from everyone. We need you to step up to the plate and give it your best shot, which we just don’t feel you are doing right now.”

“Sandra,” I took a deep breathe, trying to remain composed. “I am a volunteer. I am doing exactly what I said I would do. If you had not thrown Daine out of this group you would have had plenty of parties and boatloads of buzz. As it is, I am not stepping up to any plates and I am not taking on Daine’s job. The shot I’m giving you right now is the best shot you’re going to get from me. If that’s not good enough, find someone else.”

Actually,” the dots turned into short, dark lines, “I have. I just wanted to give you a chance to keep your position as marketing director. Since you decline I have no choice but to replace you. Rita will be our new marketing head. You can take directions from her. Your next meeting is scheduled for...”

“Listen Sandra,” I said, standing and picking my coat off the back of the chair, “I am a volunteer, was a volunteer. I don’t take directions from anyone. I’ll get the files to Rita and then,” I looked at my watch, “I have an interview for a real job. Good luck with your festival.”

I walked out of her office and back past the bar, where busy helpers were folding programs and making phone calls. “Bitch,” I muttered, heading down the stairs.

“Lou, have you got a minute?” Ben slid down after me. He must have been ready for this moment, probably knew why Sandra had called me in.

“A couple, I have to be at an interview at two.”

"Really? Where at?"

"The County Courthouse. They have an opening for a secretary." Inside I could hear how Antonio would guffaw, IF he ever found out.

“How about some coffee? My treat.”

“Sure, I could use a friend right about now.”

We walked a block to the Durango Coffee Company and sat at a small table in the corner. Ben ordered two large cups of mocha java. “You look like someone who’s just been called on the carpet,” he said.

“Fuck the carpet, Ben. Fuck the festival and especially fuck Sandra. I’m done.”

He leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles. “You shouldn’t let her get to you. She’s not going to last, you know? She’s not the type of person who can make it in Durango.”

“What type of person is that?”

“Someone who knows how to fit in, how to get along. Sandra has big plans to make this festival a financial success and to build a lucrative career for herself. She’s so fixated on her goal she doesn’t see how she’s alienating all her volunteers. She’s sabotaging herself. She’ll be gone in a year or two.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been here a long time. I’ve seen dreamers and misfits come and go. Everyone moves here with big hopes of happily-ever-after, only to find that they don’t fit in. That’s going to happen to Sandra and I hope..... The waitress returned with our coffees. Ben slipped her a ten and told her to keep the change. “And I hope...” he resumed, “that it doesn’t happen to you.”

“What are you talking about?” I eyed him warily, sensing another lecture coming on.

“The company you keep,” he said, “your taste in friends. Really Lou, to give up your position in the festival because you feel some kind of loyalty to Daine, well... Do you think he would have made the same kind of sacrifice for you?”

“I don’t know, but let’s not forget it was an unpaid position and Sandra is a pain in the ass.”

“Decidedly so,” he nodded. “But it’s not just Daine. I’m sorry to say I’ve seen you make some very poor choices with other people too.”

“You’re talking about Antonio?”

“Yes, and Joshua, and I don’t know who else. You seem to have a habit of picking very inappropriate friends.”

I stared at Ben blankly. He continued, “I care about you Lou - as a friend I mean - and I don’t want to see you sabotaging yourself with people like Daine or Antonio Avanti, God forbid, or that lunatic with the Kennedy story. It makes you look bad, Lou, and you don’t want to look bad in a small town like Durango.”

I could have said, “You’re right Ben, my pals are crazy, troublemakers all. Thanks for your advice. I’ll try to have normal relationships. I’ll try harder to fit in.” But I didn’t. This time I said, “What qualifies you to judge my friends?” Ben looked uncomfortable for a moment, then replied,

“I’m judging my friends, Lou, and you’re becoming a liability.”

“What do you mean?” Shocked, I could feel tears pushing at the back of my eyes.

“I’m not really getting anything from our friendship. You used to be fun, but nowadays you seem... lost, confused, angry... even a little crazy sometimes.” He shrugged. “I don’t want that kind of person for a friend, you know? I need to take care of number one.”

In a moment I was going to cry. For the second time in less than thirty minutes, I grabbed my coat and bag and headed for the door. “Maybe I seem lost and crazy to you, Ben,” I rasped, “But you should look around. This town is full of people like me. You take care of yourself... I have to go get a job.”

I wept on the way out, but the tears were all dry by the time I got to the interview.

*******

As promised, I spent the weekend working on research for the screenplay. I wrote to Ellis, offering him the other half of whatever Joshua had paid him if he would rejoin the project. I also asked him about that Supreme Court ruling.

I then emailed all the JFK research groups and chat rooms I could find. While waiting for responses to my Supreme Court ruling question, I looked for a link between Jack and Norbert Lawrence, searching Dad's Kennedy books for details.

I found the most comprehensive description of Jack's part in the assassination in “Compelling Evidence, a New Look at the Assassination of President Kennedy.”* There Michael T Griffith summed up descriptions of Jack from books by Jim Marrs, Robert Groden and Harrison Livingstone:

“About a month before the assassination, a man named Jack Lawrence was hired at Downtown Lincoln-Mercury, a Dallas car dealership that was only two blocks from Dealey Plaza. Lawrence got the job by providing job references from New Orleans. These references were later found to be phony. Lawrence was known as an ardent right-wing speaker, and reportedly had been an expert marksman in the military. The night before the assassination, Lawrence borrowed a car from the dealership, saying he needed it for a date.

According to their memos, when the FBI interviewed Jack Lawrence, they asked him about the day of the assassination, what he saw and heard at the dealership? He talked about why he had a company car out at the time, and why it was left at Dealey Plaza - traffic, had to get back to work. He attributed his state of muddy, puking confusion to a hangover, though that would not have explained how he was out of breath, nor would it justify his having been in such a rush to get to work when he had already missed half the day. Despite caring so much about getting to work, he left early so he could get some rest at his room in the YMCA, the same Y that Lee Oswald was known to frequent.

The deeper I dug into Jack Lawrence’s story, in the books and on the internet, the more convoluted it became. Jack, much like Lee Oswald, was reportedly an emphatic supporter of Fidel Castro. He also received a bad conduct discharge from the military. At the same time he was a right-wing speaker. He hung out at the Carousel Club and was a good friend of George Senator, Jack Ruby’s roommate. He was said to be a former deputy Sheriff in Louisiana before his career move into car sales. He was also co-owner of a boat, the Elsie M. Riechert, which he loaned to the CIA to run guns to Cuba.

The Lincoln-Mercury dealership, where Jack worked, was a potential hotbed of assassination activity. They supplied the cars for Kennedy’s motorcade. Most motorcades have cars that are all similar, but the cars provided for Kennedy that day were of widely different makes, models and colors, all the better to pick out your target from.

Lee Oswald supposedly came to this same dealership ten days before the assassination to test drive a car, which he said he was going to buy with some money he was planning on getting soon. Supposedly Lee didn’t know how to drive.

The salesman who took him out for the test drive, Albert Bogard, was very reluctant to talk to authorities and somehow lost the paperwork he had filled out on Lee. He testified to the Warren Commission on April 8th, 1964. Right after that he was badly beaten up and left town. By September Albert was back, cooling his heels in a Dallas jail on charges of passing bad checks. In the interim he had spent time at a training camp for Cuban rebels in Louisiana.

Coincidentally, Albert Bogard owned a share in the same boat as Jack Lawrence, the Elsie M. Riechert. Bogard was murdered just a few miles from the camp in Louisiana about a year later.

The next time I spoke to Joshua I asked him for anything he could remember about Norbert Lawrence.

“Norbert and Jennifer were close friends of my parents,” he replied. “Norbert was a construction worker. He was directly involved in the planning. His cover job was in the ’white room’ at SRI. I think he was an air conditioning technician with the public schools before that. His brother, Jack, was one of the shooters. They were both good shots, they were in the Navy together in World War Two. Jack’s cover job was at the Chrysler Dealership. Norbert was one of the drivers. He was at the grassy knoll that day. I think Jack was stationed at the Dal-Tex building."

"Is there any way I can prove that they were brothers?"

"They came from West Virginia, so maybe there are some birth records there?”

“I’ll check.”

I tracked down Norbert in a federal census from 1930. He was six years old then, living in Texas, with a sister named Mabel but no brothers. “His brother was younger than him, maybe he wasn’t born yet,” Joshua said when I told him. An FBI report, from November 27th, 1963, said that Jack was from Dallas and was born “about 1939,” which would indeed have put him past the census date. The 1940 census will not be publicly available until 2012. If I am still around I will make sure to look up Jack.

Next I found Norbert's obituary. It had to be him, there were too many similarities, yet it wasn't a complete match either. The obit said Norbert was 73 when he died in September of 1996, which would have made him the right age to match the census. Rather than hailing from West Virginia though, Norbert was a lifetime resident of Fort Worth. He had been in the Marine Corps - not the Navy - during WWII. After that he worked for the Fort Worth School Department as a “heating and air conditioning specialist” for 37 years before retiring.

Norbert's survivors included three sons, a brother named Ted, not Jack, and a sister, Mabel. It was a bit of a letdown that the obituary had not connected him to a brother named Jack.

I ran all the names of Norbert's relatives through another specialty search site to find their contact information. Norbert and his second wife, Celine, had lived in Mansfield, Texas, with his oldest son, Gregory, in the last year of Norbert’s life. There was a Duncan Lawrence of the right age listed in Wichita Falls, and the youngest child of Norbert and Jennifer, Paul, was living near Dallas.

When Joshua called on Sunday morning I gave him the news and the numbers. He was very excited despite the fact that the obit seemed to disprove Norbert's connection to Jack Lawrence.

"Are you sure they were brothers?” I asked.
“I really thought so, but I could be wrong, and he could have been using a different name... and the FBI might not be telling the truth.”

“Wouldn't be the first time… but without documentation we can’t link Norbert to Jack.”

“There’s another possibility, the obituary only mentioned Norbert’s surviving relatives. Jack could be dead.”

“That’s a good point. It looks like the best way to find out is to ask his family. How about you give some of those numbers a call?”

“Well… OK, I’ll try,” Joshua said reluctantly.

By Sunday afternoon it was clear that no one had heard of such a law. I sent an email to Ray and Leonard, advising them to go with pseudonyms if they wanted to be safe from libel suits. If Ellis ever got back to me with proof of the ruling I would let them know, but there was no telling when and if Ellis would ever reply.

I went back to my computer, to spend the rest of the evening digging through the pile of conflicting information for a possible link between Norbert and Jack. I have not found one to this day.

*******

On Tuesday morning Joshua called me back. “Lou! I talked to Mabel, Norbert's sister, and guess what? She said Jennifer is still alive! She gave me her number, I tried calling but no one was in. I‘ll try again tonight.”

“Jennifer, Norbert’s wife? The obituary said he was married to an Celine.”

“He was. He and Jennifer got divorced back in the 80’s and she remarried. She’s living in Tucson.”

“Wow. Why did your mother tell you she was dead?”

“To stop me from talking to her. She was helping me remember things that Rosewood had erased. I know she‘ll want to talk to me. I’ll call you as soon as I speak to her and let you know what happened.” Joshua gave me Jennifer’s number and address and hung up, eager to call his few remaining friends and tell them the good news.

“Dr. Jenkins went to visit Jennifer,” he announced a few days later. “I gave him her number because he was going to Tucson anyway, and she said he could come over to talk about me. He told her I needed some help, and he asked her about my father and Rand and Quinlan, and she said it was true!”

“She said they killed Kennedy?” I swallowed my oatmeal without tasting it.

“Well, I’m not sure, I didn’t get a long time to speak to Leonard, he was on his cell phone and it kept cutting out, but it sounded like she did.” My mind whirled, the implications were huge, a second witness!

“Joshua, that’s fantastic, is she willing to testify?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Well, anyway, even that she told Dr. Jenkins is a start. Have you spoken to her?”

“No, I tried but I can’t seem to get through. I’ll keep trying. I have to call my attorney now. I‘ll talk to you later. If I don‘t speak to you before Christmas, have a merry one.”

“You too,“ I said, though I doubted Christmas in jail would be merry.

*******

The Pit-Stop was so noisy and crowded I didn’t hear the phone ring. The Pit Stop, Durango’s B-grade version of the Golden Corral, was one of Frank's favorite all-you-can-eat places. Quality ranked far below quantity in his dining priorities, especially when his daughter, Tina, was with us for the weekend. Tina was very excited about the upcoming holidays. She shoveled Jell-O into her mouth and told us about the new computer games she wanted. Frank, pretending to be casual, was listening closely to make sure he had already purchased them on our trip to Albuquerque. As she ran through her list I poked through my fried ‘clams,’ trying to find something chewable.

"And the Sponge Bob Square-pants game...." She finally named one he hadn‘t bought.

“That's enough Tina, you don't want to be selfish,” he admonished. She pouted and stuck a cookie into her mashed potatoes, which she proceeded to use as a scoop, dipping them in chocolate sauce before dripping them into her mouth.

“And where did you learn to eat like that? Does your mother teach you any manners at all?” Frank fussed. Tina smiled at me before plopping the entire choco-spud cookie onto a piece of white bread, wrapping it like a burrito and delicately nibbling the end.

“I love these buffets,” I said, “they really give you freedom to experiment with a variety of cuisines.”

“Can we watch the food network when we get home?” Asked Tina.

“I suppose so, BUT,” Frank tried again to assert some authority, “only if you eat everything on your plate.”

“OK,” she replied cheerfully, and began to mash it all into a pile. Frank glared at her for a moment and then decided to change the subject.

“How’s your research project going?” he asked me.

“Great,” I said, “I think we have a second witness.”

“That’s nice,” said Frank, “Tina, use your napkin.”

“She knew Joshua back when … it happened,” I said, choosing my words carefully. Tina’s radar instantly picked up my hesitation.

“When what happened?” She asked.

“Don’t interrupt,” said Frank, “The adults are having a grown-up conversation. So, you were saying?”

“I think we might be able to break the story. People will be more apt to listen if there are two witnesses, and at least one of them is not in... an institution.”

“Really?” for the first time since I had started it, Frank showed some enthusiasm for the project. “So it’s true?”

“If she said so, but I'm still not sure if she did or if it’s just Joshua exaggerating, which he's prone to doing.”

“If it’s true, you should get someone to make a movie about it.”

“That’s kind of what we’ve been doing.”

“Movie? You’re going to make a movie?” Tina asked through a mouthful of mush.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Frank. He turned back to me. The moment he did, Tina grabbed a paper napkin and spit the lot into it, then wrapped it carefully and put it on one of her used plates. She waved to the waitress, who picked up the plate and took it away.

“This could be big. I can talk to some directors about it, maybe Oliver Stone or Michael Moore.” Frank’s eyes started to shine. “Yeah, let me know and I’ll make some phone calls.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, even if she does want to go public. Famous people are pretty hard to reach.”

“Who wouldn’t want a story like that? That’s the biggest news of the century!”

“So I thought, but honestly, sometimes it’s like banging your head against a wall, trying to find someone to listen to it.”

“You just don’t try hard enough,” he said. I wanted to poke him with my fork but instead stabbed it into a breaded fish fillet, which cracked like a rock.

“Um, excuse me, what story?” asked Tina politely.

“Something you wouldn’t care about,” said Frank.

On the way home I saw Leonard’s message. I called him back immediately, anxiously hoping for good news. “I met Jennifer,” he said right away.

“I know, Joshua told me. What happened?”

“I called her in Tucson and told her I wanted to talk about Joshua. She was very gracious and invited me over. I met with her and her husband. She’s a beautiful woman, still. They live in a nice house in a well-to-do neighborhood…”

“Did she say that it was a conspiracy?”

“Uh, no. Did Joshua tell you she did?”

“He didn’t know for sure, he thought somehow she backed up his story.”

“Well, she did, in a sense. She did say that Maxwell, Rand, Quinlan and some of the others Joshua mentioned were working together at SRI. But when I asked her about the Kennedy thing she got real flustered and said repeatedly that it was nonsense, and that Joshua must be crazy. I couldn’t be certain she was telling the truth, she seemed to be very nervous about it.”

“So she didn't admit anything,” I sighed.

“No. I changed the subject and we talked about Joshua. I asked her to tell me whatever she could about his family.

She said she met Maxwell when they worked in the same building in Fort Worth, that he insisted she meet Maureen. She and Norbert got to know the Stevens’ pretty well,” (here I thought briefly about ‘swinging’ but pushed it aside) ... “After a while she realized that Maxwell was an abusive drunkard. She said she didn’t understand how Maureen put up with it. Eventually Norbert and Maxwell started Sonic Restoration Inc. with Rand, Peters and Quinlan. It lasted a couple of years, then the company went bankrupt and everyone went their separate ways.”

"Did she say anything about Joshua going to Rosewood?”

“No, she said she didn’t know about that or about Viet Nam, she only saw Maureen a couple of times in the later years. Maureen told her that Joshua wasn’t welcome in the house after the shooting incident.”

“So she knew about him taking a shot at Maxwell?”

“Oh yes. She thinks Joshua is just like his father, she said that’s why we can’t believe him.”

“How about her sons? Do you think they would talk with us or with Joshua?”

“She said one of them was alienated from her.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, we didn’t go that deep, it was a conversation about Joshua, not her.”

“What about the other one?“

“I didn’t ask, she got pretty quiet so I took the hint and left.”

“Oh, yeah, well… That gives us some answers, but it’s not going to make any front page news.”

“No, we’ll just have to keep looking. Ray and I will call you the Saturday after New Years’, we’re both taking a break for the holidays.”

“Ok, thanks, I’ll email you anything I find in the meantime.”

“So she said there was no conspiracy?” Asked Frank. He had been listening carefully as he drove. Tina would surely have asked about it too if she had not been busy with her gameboy in the back seat.

“”She said Joshua was crazy.”

“Well, that's too bad. Are you still going to work on the project?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm...." It was the hmmm he used as a warm-up for disagreement. "You know, you would be a lot better off if you spent your time doing something profitable.”

“Maybe. I’m not convinced he’s a nut. I’ll keep doing the research until I find something that proves he’s wrong or he’s right.”

“Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.” I stared out the window at the passing trees until the time was right to change the subject.

“Let’s watch Iron Chef when we get back to your place.”

“OK, but after that Battlestar Galactica is on.”

“Great, I love science fiction.”

Another argument averted. We drove back to the house with no more mention of JFK or assassination conspiracies.

We made popcorn and watched TV, with Tina between us, until she fell asleep on the sofa. When Frank took her up to bed I quickly scribbled some notes about Leonard's meeting with Jennifer. Her denial was a set-back, but it didn't prove anything. If the story was true then she would have survived this long only by keeping it secret. I tucked the notes into my bag just as Frank returned with another bowl of popcorn. We watched monster movies long into the night.

*******

“They’re not going to talk to you,“ Joshua said.

“I was hoping they’d talk to you. You’re their brother. They’d talk to you, right?”

“I don’t know…”

“How about I just try and find their numbers? Then you can call any one of them if you feel like it?”

“Yeah, ok, I guess.”

“Just give me as many facts as you can about them so I have something to go on.”

“All right,” he sighed, “My oldest sister is Sarah Lynn Trenton. She took over an oil company when she was 26 years old, Corbison Industries, or something like that. She married Lenny Trenton of the Trenton Oil Pipeline Company. They live in Houston. Harry Quinlan is her godfather.”

“Dolores is the next oldest, Delores Leah Biggs. She married John Biggs, head of the surgical department of the largest private hospital in town. She’s kind of sympathetic, she might talk to me…”

“Anyway there’s also Karen, Karen Marie Stevens, she married a bank president in Fort Worth, but I can’t remember his name.”

“Then there's Mark and Martin. Mark is the older. His middle name is Maxwell. The last I heard he was working for the Wingard Supply Company in Seattle.

There’s a funny story about Mark, He had the assassination rifle for a while, then he lost it. My father was furious because it was confiscated during a raid on Mark’s apartment,” he chuckled, “The biggest pot bust in Texas. It made all the papers. Dad pulled some strings with the police chief, Blackie Sustaire, and the rifle disappeared from the cell where they were keeping the evidence. I don’t know what Dad did with it after that, but you can be sure he was more careful.”

“My youngest brother, Martin Ray Stevens, works for the World Bank in the Development Department, or something like that. I haven’t spoken with him in a long time, we never spent much time together...” Joshua sounded increasingly wistful as he talked about his family. When the time was up I thanked him for trying and said goodnight.

*******

Based on the information Joshua gave me. I began searching for his family. The web site I had subscribed to turned out to be a huge help. Not only did it list names, towns and telephone numbers, it sorted families into groups who shared the same number, and it listed the age of each person. Thus I found Sarah and her husband in Houston, they had 2 grown children and apparently one of Lenny’s brothers living in their house.

I couldn't find listings for Dolores, Karen or Mark, but, when searching for Martin and "World Bank" I found a discussion paper Martin had written for his employer. It was in a directory of non-governmental organizations based in Jordan. Their slogan was “Development Through Cooperation.” Ironically, when I printed the listing out, the name of the website in the upper left corner said “Development Through Corporation”- which was apt since all the papers listed in the “Development Economics” category were published by the World Bank.

Because I don’t want to get sued by Martin I cannot give the exact text of the brief on his paper, so here is a paraphrased description:

Martin’s paper, like most of the others in that category, should have been titled “How to Take Over the World,” or “Stealing Foreign Nations.” I stuffed the printout in my files and didn’t bother looking further for Martin’s number. Something told me he would be no help at all.

The phone rang, making me jump. Thinking it was Joshua - he had called three times that morning, I picked it up and said, “Did you talk to Jennifer?”

“I’m sorry,” said a woman’s voice, “I was trying to reach Lisa Gardner.” (Lisa is my first name. No one uses it, not even my family.)

“I’ll see if she’s home. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m from the County Planning Department. I’d like to talk to her about her interview last week.”

“I think I hear her coming in,” I said, adding a slight nasal tone and raising my pitch a hair. “Lisa! Phone for you!” I put the receiver down, walked to the door and back, then picked it up. “This is Lisa,” I said in my normal voice.

“Lisa, this is Lauren at the County Planning Department. We’d like to offer you a job.”

*******

I started work at the County, as a secretary, the bottom monkey on the totem pole of the department. The work was pretty easy, the planners were very nice, the pay and benefits were not to be sniffed at, the only possible problems I could see were my fellow secretaries.

Once again, to my dismay, Antonio was correct. Not that all the secretaries and clerks fit his description, but the two that I had to work with... well, he had them pegged right down to their pompous self-righteousness and their wide behinds.

“Never mind, it’s not for the long term,” I assured myself each time they loudly pointed out my mistakes to each other, “we’ll get that screenplay done, I’ll get paid for my research and then I’ll be out of here. Antonio never needs to know how right he was.”

*******

I have had happy Christmases and I have had crappy Christmases, but the worst one (so far) was 2004. Velcro died. He got sick on Christmas Eve morning. He wouldn't move, just lay in the corner and looked at me sadly. By nightfall I was panicked, so we took an emergency trip to the Vet to discover that he had cancer and was fading fast.

I had a week to say goodbye. I spent it lying on the floor next to him (when I wasn't at work). I slept with my hand on his back. I cooked steak and hamburgers to tempt him into eating. I sang to him, told him how much I loved him, all of that, you know. That week was an anomaly of time; the longest one of my life yet over way too soon.

To his credit, Frank held my hand on New Year's day, the day I called the vet to come and bring the needle. We huddled around Velcro, who had crawled into the back yard and wedged himself between a tree and the house. I tried to help the vet, who had a hard time getting the needle into Velcro's paper-thin vein. I was supposed to loosen the rubber strip around Velcro's leg to let the Sodium Pentothal reach his heart, but I couldn't. I pulled and tugged but I couldn't do it, finally the vet did it one-handed.

I cried for days. When I got it back from the crematorium, I put the can of Velcro's ashes on a shelf by the spot where he used to lie. Lotta sat next to it, sniffing his old collar which was taped to the top. She and Velcro had been good buddies.

A week later Robert, Antonio's friend, called me on my cell phone. I was just walking into the Courthouse to go to work.

"We lost Antonio," he said.

"Where? On the mountain? Did you call search and rescue?" I asked anxiously. Antonio was an expert skier, it was not like him to get lost.

"Not like that, Lou... he's gone." I stopped with my hand on the doorknob.

"How?" I croaked..

"Asphyxiation. They found him in his motor home with the engine running. You know all that snow they've been getting up there? Well it was piled up on the motor home and the exhaust fumes backed up. He was sleeping on the sofa with the TV on."

"So it wasn't the cancer in the end?"

"No... he was just tired."

"Did he leave a note?" I started to cry.

"No."

"Well, thanks Robert, for letting me know."

"I'm sorry, Lou, I know you loved him, and he loved you, in his way."

The last time we spoke on the telephone had been in August. Antonio was passing through town one more time on his way to Tahoe. "How would you like to go on a houseboat for a week?" he asked me.

"I can't, I'm in a relationship with someone." I left out that it was a shallow and somewhat unsatisfactory relationship.

"Me too, so what?" Same old Antonio.

"Don't you think your girlfriend will be upset if I go on a vacation with you?"

"Yes. That's the point."

"Uh, no, Antonio, my boyfriend would be upset too and I like it better when he's happy."

"Suit yourself. You're not the first one I asked, you know...."

"I'm sure I won't be the last either."

You ARE smart, baby, that's what I always loved about you." Click.

He wouldn't have killed himself, not Antonio, not without a note or a scene. A drama queen like Antonio would not have made his final exit without a swan song. He was just tired.

I slowly released the door handle and walked back through the parking lot to the dumpster, where I leaned against the far side, so no one could see me from the building. There I wept into my hat until all the tears were gone and only rain was left, sliding down my face on its way to the earth, where it would remain frozen through the long winter months ahead..

*******

With Antonio gone there was no more need for excuses. I broke up with Frank days later. He was not devastated, just angry about the inconvenience. "Who's going to house-sit for me this weekend? Tina and I were going to Albuquerque. I meant to ask you before but I've been busy."

"I don't know, Frank."

"I can't believe you're doing this. Things were fine."

"You don't love me. You said so plenty of times. And I don't love you either. I like you..."

"So what's wrong with that?"

"I want more out of a relationship. I want love."

"You are so selfish! OK, fine, it's over. Don't call me again. I'm going now, gotta find a house-sitter, honest to God..." He hung up. I put down the phone, relieved.

“No more relationships for me, Lotta,” I told my cat, “Not unless it’s true love and frankly, maybe not even then.” She purred and rubbed against my ankle, then curled up in her new favorite spot - next to the can on the shelf.

One cold morning in February, after unpacking the last box of belongings into my new apartment, I pulled out the box of cassettes from Dave‘s house. Joshua said he had taped a phone call between himself and Colonel Lawrence Barnes. Hoping for a smoking gun, I rummaged through the jumbled cassettes, found one labeled Barnes, and eagerly popped it in the player.

I listened... and listened and listened. Their chat went on for almost an hour. From the rambling and repetitive nature of his monologues, the colonel appeared to be senile or close to it. Whenever he flagged Joshua would egg him on with a "really?" or a "what happened after that?"

They talked about almost everything BUT the assassination, starting with Lawrence and Maxwell's business together as weapons 'reps' for parts manufacturers during the early stages of the ballistic missile program. In this story Lawrence fixated on a single theme: One of their manufacturers, let's call him Ron, had a big ego and refused to implement a quality control system in his factory, which lost them all a lucrative contract.

Their next topic was Lawrence's military career, starting with his first pilot training program in 1937. His war remembrances stretched through the end of WWII, Korea and Viet Nam. Lawrence flew 38’s, 51’s, F-80’s, F-4’s and A-26’s before he was finally retired from flying and went to work at the Pentagon. This dialog went on for at least thirty minutes. There were notably more pauses as both speakers seem to tire of talking. I wondered how much longer this conversation could last before Lawrence either passed out or died. Joshua seemed in no hurry to get to the point.

The Colonel spoke wistfully of his flying days. However, towards the end of his service, he was dealt a few bitter blows. He never made General. He went in front of two review boards and was shot down both times. He was given plenty of percs as a full-bird colonel; including a trip around half the world, where he met the leaders of each country for cocktail parties and chitchat. He was particularly proud of his jokes with Golda Meir. He also fondly remembered a lunch stop at "The Rifles" in the Khyber Pass.

Finally Lawrence begged off and they hung up, confessionless. Joshua never asked and the Colonel didn’t mention it. Maybe he was cagier than he let on. Maybe he had nothing to do with any conspiracy and Joshua was crazy. Yet all the possibilities were still there. While he never made General, Lawrence must have wielded some serious power to be running around meeting the leaders of Europe. His description of weapons business with Maxwell was true to Joshua’s story as well. So close, but no hard evidence, nothing that would stand up in court.

That was the only recording of the Colonel, however, there was another cassette labeled “Barnes' Wife”. It contained a much briefer phone call between Joshua and Colonel Barnes' wife, Velma. Apparently, the next time Joshua called with his tape recorder ready, the colonel was not at home. Velma wasn't pleased to hear from Joshua. In fact, she was pretty direct in telling him not to call anymore.

Joshua persisted, telling her that all he wanted was to hear stories about his father. Didn't she think, after all, that it was important for children to know who their parents were? She relented a tad at this, but then shot back that her husband never liked Joshua's father, and that Maxwell was nothing but a mean drunkard:

VB: (Voice hardens) Well there’s nothing else that we can say, Max...… Joshua, OK? I mean really, hell, I don’t know really why, I can’t say anything that isn’t there, OK? And Lawrence has nothing really to say about Maxwell, I mean he has NOTHING to say about Maxwell."

Any further tapes Joshua might have made of his conversations with the Barnes were not in the box.

I made copies for Leonard. He said when he told Joshua the tapes had not contained any confessions, Joshua had replied that maybe he was confused, or maybe Lawrence had talked about the assassination at a later time, and maybe that tape was in his truck, which had been impounded by the Albuquerque police.

There was one more mini-cassette tape, labeled 3/12/99. Upon listening to it I learned that, prior to our first big meeting in Albuquerque, Joshua had called a friend and asked him to write the book. His friend, whom I shall call Jim, was a well-known journalist. From their conversation it was obvious they had been acquainted for some time.

Jim knew all about The Dark Endeavor project. Joshua had given him some documents, perhaps a proposal of some kind, and Jim had read them. Jim was of the opinion that the book was nowhere near ready to present to an agent. Joshua filled him in on the progress so far and then, expressing frustration with his writer, asked Jim to write the book. Jim politely declined:

The tapes raised more questions than they answered, like, why was Velma so anxious to distance her husband from Maxwell? And what was Lawrence doing on his European jaunt besides meeting world leaders? And was there another reason he never made General? After listening to these secret conversations I was more intrigued than ever. Not only for the information they revealed, but by the people, Lawrence, Velma and Jim.

So many times I had wondered if my telephone calls were bugged and now, here I was, the eavesdropper, listening for incriminating tidbits from people I had never met, whom I had no right to judge. Lawrence and Velma had reached their golden years. Whatever mistakes they had made were far beyond salvage. Whatever secrets they may have tenaciously held, like all our secrets, would do their damage internally. They would get what they deserved. And Jim, well, whether or not he believed Joshua's story, he didn't want to write the book. He had other priorities.

Furthermore, he was right; a real investigator was what the story needed, but that never happened. Leonard, Ray and I are the ones who got consumed. All that this blockbuster, story-of-the-century had left to tell it was a handful of amateurs, writing in their spare time, playing at being spies.

*******

The records for Sonic Restoration Inc. had been hiding in plain sight, or site, to be accurate; the Texas Secretary of State’s web site. For a small fee I got the articles of incorporation (1961), articles of amendment (1963) and forfeiture of charter (1965).

The articles of incorporation stated that SRI was formed for the purpose of “Cleaning and processing of all missile, aircraft and machine parts; also non-metallic materials, and to own, operate and use any machines or devices in connection therewith. To do general business of selling, leasing or manufacturing of equipment, parts and materials.” SRI had three directors; Edward Burton, Dorothy Burton and Maureen Stevens, Joshua’s mother. Edward and Dorothy were also named as incorporators, along with a Charles Bartley.

In the articles of amendment the company increased its value by $50,000. This paper was signed by Maxwell E. Stevens, Joshua’s father. Under the signature line was typed “Vice President,” but vice had been scratched out, so at the time Maxwell was apparently the president of Sonic Restoration, Inc. Edward Burton signed as the secretary.

Finally, in the forfeiture of charter, the corporation ceased to exist due to a lack of assets. Attached to this was an ‘Information Request Concerning Assets Owned By Delinquent Corporations’ that had been sent to SRI from the office of the State Comptroller of Public Accounts. Under the ‘reason for forfeiture’ column was listed an account balance of $393.53. The last known officers of the company were M.E. Stevens, E. Burton, and Harley F. Rand. So there they were, just as Joshua had said, his parents, General Rand, Edward Burton and someone named Charles Bartley.

Armed with these names, I put $30 down on a two-day subscription to the Dallas News Archives. They were all there. Maxwell and Maureen Stevens, General Harley Rand, The Burtons, the Lawrences, Harry Quinlan, Bob Teller and Charles Bartley. As I read the articles I gathered new names and searched for them too.

Like a flower opening, a much bigger picture began to unfold. Joshua had been the only source at first, then there were the occasional documents found, but this web site, ah, it gave a wealth of details that Joshua probably had never known. It proved without a doubt that the people Joshua had spoken of were indeed real and were living their lives, more or less, as he had described them.

THE BURTONS: Dorothy Burton, for instance, loved to throw parties. During the late 60’s, in her stylish home on Greenbrier Street, she hosted:

Knowing this much about Dorothy, I was intrigued that she should also be a director of a missile processing company, but there she was on the papers for SRI. Either Dorothy led a double life or she was just a 'puppet director'. In either case she lost her bearings. Years later, after Edward died, she was seen wandering the neighborhood in her nightie, talking to herself. Dorothy's party was definitely over.

Edward's 1973 obituary didn't name the cause of his death, but it did mention other basic information: He was a Dallas native, WWII army veteran and a Presbyterian. He was survived by Dorothy, two sons, two daughters, one brother and on