"Barry N. Malzberg - In the Stone House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Malzberg Barry N)

Copyright © 1992 by Barry N. Malzberg, All rights reserved. First appeared in Alternate
Kennedys . For the personal use of those who have purchased the ESF 1993 Award
anthology only.



In the Stone House

Barry N. Malzberg

11/22/63 Joe Kennedy, Jr. wipes the stock of the rifle again, his hands shaking,
then, dissatisfied, breaks it open for the third time, making sure that the shells are still
there, that the trigger is properly positioned. He reassembles the gear slowly, cursing
the damned M-1, cursing his own stupidity in putting so much dependency upon a
weapon which was no damned good. He should have had better equipment, not
relied on the old Army supply service. But then getting better equipment would have
brought some attention and he didn't want that. You had to carry this on in secrecy.
Joe Kennedy, Jr. knows all about secrecy now, has counted upon it, has made it his
mistral and the source of all his splendor. Too late, Jack. Too late for all of this, Joe
Kennedy mumbles. He positions the cartons on the floor, peers out the window. A
scattering of crowd, good, the street cleared, better, no sign of the motorcade yet in
the distance. A little behind schedule but nothing ominous. Jack and the powder puff
would be along soon enough.
Joe Kennedy, once President of the United States, now reduced (in his own
mind if not quite in the estimation of the press) to sniveling bum, sniveling potential
assassin, perches on the sixth floor of the Dallas School Book Depository, waiting
for the presidential motorcade. He will sight his rifle on his brother's tousled head,
hope for the best, pull the trigger. It is a difficult business, assassinating your
younger brother, crazier yet if you are an ex-President of the United States,
1952-1956, which raises fratricide to the level of lunacy but there you are. It is the
last great service, Joe knows, which he can perform, not only for patrimony but for
the country. Jack is out of control, the arrogant little bastard had never been trust-
worthy in the first place but to a certain point he had been manipulable, now he was
no longer.
You had to save the plan, that was all: the plan was all that mattered and Jack had
broken the plan, shattered everything, the bastard. Joe thought of this, thought of
that, considered all of the dreadful but necessary implications of his position,
watching the sun drop little pools of uneven light on the dusty surfaces of the
cartons of books, feeling the old clarity coming back. It had been a long time since
he had felt this level of control but here it was, at last he knew what he was after,
what had to be done. In the distance, he thought he could hear the sound of
shouting, the thin tremor of drums and then as he arched his body, peered
awkwardly out the window, he could see the thin movement of the crowd which
could only indicate, yes, that the motorcade was coming. His breath was high in his
throat, perched there like some enormous bird. Joe felt alive, felt more in possession
of himself than he had in this long, dreadful exiled time. Well, he would wait it out,
that was all. This was a serious business. There was nothing frivolous about it. The
time for frivolity was gone.

11/22/46 I don't want it, Joe Jr. said to Jack, the big strapping jock. I was never