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Yon strolled out of the men’s room at the Newport Jo’s, his typical time displacement modus operandi. He wore a slim-fitting striped suit with a paisley tie, hair over his ears, and a thin moustache. The Beatles’ Hello Goodbye played on the juke, as if to signify the completion of his transcendental journey through time.
He’d been here before – three weeks ago for him, just yesterday for the world of 1968 Jo’s. On that occasion, he’d met with his contact to finalize the deal that would be consummated today – May 24 – the day of Robert F. Kennedy’s visit to Jo’s.
Yon strolled to the garage door built into the front wall and took a seat just as Jo herself was lifting the broad wooden door to let the sunshine in after days of rain, creating a sidewalk café. The fresh sea air rushed in and Yon inhaled deeply.
In a few minutes, Yon’s contact was to put a permanent end to RFK’s run for the presidency, and Yon wanted to be there to witness history. The history the Syndicate paid him very well to ensure occurred. And if he could catch a recording of it on his watch without being noticed, he could make a few extra bucks on the side for the bootleg historical footage.
Yon ordered a bowl of the famously fabulous chowder and waited. Seconds later, a shabby-looking, bearded man in his late twenties, hippy-length hair and a tie-dye with cut-off denim shorts and flip-flops, strolled in from outside through the garage door, walking right past Yon without noticing him.
The hippy carried a little green canvas bag over his shoulder like a purse that bounced against his hip as he walked. A short string of wooden beads hung from the pouch’s zipper. He took a seat at the counter and looked around nervously for a few moments before reaching into his bag, eyeing the shiny .22 before grabbing a rubber band. He pulled his brown hair back into a pony tail and ordered a coffee.
Don’t get too antsy, kid. Don’t blow this.
Within minutes, Robert Kennedy’s long black Lincoln rolled up. A large contingent of staff and political supporters ushered he and his wife Ethel toward Jo’s. Yon lifted his sleeve to reveal his watch, and touched the interface to begin recording. He glanced toward the hippy and held his breath.
The hippy suddenly widened his eyes and clutched at his throat. He tried to stand, but slipped as he raised himself off the stool and crashed to the floor onto his side, spilling peanut shells across the counter and down under the tables and chairs.
A burly logger threw his chair back and hoisted the skinny hippy to his feet, then started slamming his open palm into the choking man’s back. The hippy turned blue, then purple as he desperately tried to take in oxygen.
Yon wondered why the logger didn’t perform the Heimlich, then realized it was about a decade early for that.
One final swat of the logger’s waffle-iron hand and the culprit detritus flew from the hippy’s mouth and skittered across the floor. Bile trickled down the hippy’s chin and his eyes rolled back in his head as the color returned to his cheeks, his knees buckling.
“Are you okay, honey? Come on, come back here and sit down for a while, take a drink of water,” said Jo, escorting the hippy into a back room.
A round of applause rose for the logger, timed perfectly with the entrance of Mr. Kennedy.
With Yon’s man in no shape to do his job, it became clear he was going to have to rework this scenario. Kennedy’s visit was short and sweet, and the man was long gone before the hippy was ready to be doing any killing for Yon.