6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

IV

22 November 1963 // 16:05 //The Carousel Club // Dallas, Texas //

"The world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear"

"S' what've you been up to?" Hoarse and scratchy words emanated from the man in the corner. His grim eyes hesitantly met Ed's dark and imposing glare for only a moment. Eye contact was gauchely contrived and only endured for a moment before both men diverted their gaze back down to the varnished wooden counter.

"You could' say I been busy... Got a new job, so I been busy workin'..." Ed shrugged slightly. His gaze flickered momentarily over to Jack, lingering for no more than half a second. If only he knew, he thought, you could say I've been quite busy.

" Tha's good to hear. How're things with the missus?" Tears of anguish faded into calm, collected and barely contained fear, dwelling dangerously close to the surface.

It was the question he had been dreading. In the year and a half since Verna left him, only now was he able to even consider her name without the memories of their passionate, but brief, courtship flooding back like a violent, churning river.

"She uh, she... don't care 'bout me no more. Nope, she walk'd out las' year". Insolent eyes bore holes into the countertop with an imperious glower.

"No shit, eh? You serious? What happ'ned?"

"She uh... she din't really care 'bout me. Cared more about a certain high profile lover than she ever really cared 'bout me. She tol' me it ain't nothin, personal, jus' her mistake. Bu' she coul'nt bear to see me a'ter I learn'd 'bout her infidelity". Ed shrugged apathetically. Musty, dank air suffocated his lungs and oppressively caressed the bare skin on his arms and neck.

"Tha's too bad, it really is. I woul've thought you two're perfec' for one another."

His voice was lost in the stifling tension in the poorly-lit room.

Ed glanced around the room. In his mind, he imagined the setting as he had always known it: scantily clad women in exotic attire roaming seductively over the open floor, mingling in a crowd packed with off-duty businessmen. Cigar smoke traced winding purple tendrils between ceiling lights. A bitter mix of smoke and an amalgamation of sweet colognes filled the area. Burlesque- style music oozed out of twangy speakers, barely audible over the chorus of clinking glasses and occasional roars of conversational laughter. A devious young man, no more than 20 years of age, leaned his pinstripe-clad back against the cool, burgundy painted doorframe. A cheap cigarette perched precariously through pursed lips, the shimmery haze obscured only by the pork pie hat drawn steeply over his face.

The scene danced through his imagination like a ghostly imprint of the countless hours he had spent sitting in the very same dimly lit room. It was as if the familiarity continued to play out in his mind like a flickering movie. The echo of a distant voice reeled Ed back to reality as the film in his brain came to an abrupt conclusion. All that remained were the isolated floors, empty tables, and deafening silence.

"I'm sorry... I should'ta brought it up." Sorray... shuldn'ta... brought it up.

"Naw, ya did't know. Even I don' really know what happe'd." Eye contact still refused to materialize.

Once again, a booming silence flooded the room, ringing Ed's ears like roar of his rifle had only hours earlier.

"Who do ya think done it?" The disbelief and sorrow returned to the owner's voice. Even if he never said explicitly, Ed knew exactly what he was referring to. A clammy sweat broke out over his sunburned skin, bringing him to shiver almost immediately. He shut his eyes.

"Damned if I know. Alls I know is I hope they find that bastard real soon." His fists repeatedly clenched and unclenched as he thumped his foot against the counter. To Jack, it looked like a nervous habit—anxiety and shock after considering the grim news. For Ed, it was all he could do not to reveal what was really on his mind. He did his best to keep his secret unknown.

"I swear to God... If I ever foun' out who done it, I'd hav'ta wrap my own fin'ers 'round his neck and choke the life out'a him myself..." The bar owner took a steadying breath before rising to full height. Hostile footsteps marched behind the bar tabletop, shaking the floor in a regular pattern. Shuffle thump. Shuffle thump. Shuffle thump. Shuffle thump. Removing a chipped glass mug from behind the bar, he sloshed it full of amber liquor and looked up at him from the opposite side of the counter.

"I'd be doin' it wit you. That son o'a bitch deserves all o'it." His tone was laced with calmly collected confidence and seething rage. As an outer representation, it was a believable act. Within his own mind, however, Ed's thoughts were racing chaotically, his heartrate accelerating like his Studebaker down the freeway.

The owner retrieved another glass mug from his collection, filled it with beer, and slid it down to Ed. "I know you ain't us'lly a drinkin' man, but you nee' it righ' now." Ed wrapped his unsteady fingers around the flawless glass and took a sip; his hand shook dramatically, and he spilled just as much on the counter as he did into his mouth. Jack didn't notice.

"Tha's jus' what he'd want... git more famous 'an he 'lready is. He's 'lready the most hated man in the country. He don't need to be a victim here, we already got enough o' those." Jack snarled, his native Chicago accent showing through ever so slightly. Internally, his values fought viciously with each other. On one hand, his unrivaled patriotism drove him towards violent retribution; on the other, his detestation for the unknown assassin and his actions against the President clouded his judgement with grief and guilt.

It was as if a switch had been turned on within Ed's brain... this was exactly what he was wanting.

"I don' think so... tha' spaz knows wha' he did. He's pro'ly jus' some chicken Commie anyway. We can't jus' let him get 'way wit' it." Ed stared straight into the bar owner's eyes for the first time that afternoon. Jack glared back. In his years of knowing Ed, never before had he seen such brute determination in his face. Ed's threatening eyes penetrated deep into his soul. Yellow teeth peeked out between thin lips, almost curling into a knowing grin. Almost. A single bead of sweat ran down his squinting face before he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Jack was too fixated on his formidable glower to detect the fine trace of metallic gunpowder on his palms.

"You're bein' serious, ain't you? Jack broke into an anticipating grin himself.

"Damn straight." He kept he eyes glued to Jack's murky pupils.

"What'd you propose we do?"

"We wait until the pigs bring ou' the guy when they catch 'im. 'en we shoot him. Right 'ere, in fron' of everybody. Make a point o' it." A conniving tongue danced through partially exposed and rotting teeth.

"But no'ne else can know 'bout it, a'ight?" Jack turned his head dramatically to see if their conspiracy could have been overheard.

"Not a soul. If we're gonna do 'is, we're gon' to it right."

"Deal. Them fuzz gon' find him, all we got'a do is kill 'im easy. " He made it sound like the simplest task in the world. Which, after experiencing just how easy it had been the kill the President, wasn't much of an exaggeration.

For the first time all afternoon, the booming silence had subsided into an electrified buzz.