On Sunday evening, November 24, 1963, Koethe, along with _Times-Herald_ editor Robert Cuthbert and reporter Bill Hunter of the Long Beach (California) _Press-Telegram_, visited the apartment of Jack Ruby, the convicted killer of presidential assassin Lee Harvey Oswald. The three men spent "two or three hours" talking to Ruby's roommate, novelty salesman George Senator. "I can't reveal what Mr. Senator said," Koethe told this reporter. "But believe you me it was an eye-opener, and it sure got me thinking about some things."

Koethe went on to say that he's done quite a bit of digging into the assassination and is writing a book on the subject. "It's a conspiracy, sure as shooting," he said. "And my book is going to blow it wide open."

Koethe refused to name the people he believes are responsible for the death of President John F. Kennedy and refused to reveal the basic motive and details of the conspiracy. "You'll have to wait for the book," Koethe said. "And believe me, the book will be well worth the wait."

Koethe's friend, reporter Bill Hunter, died in April. Editor Robert Cuthbert declined to be interviewed in depth for this article. "Jim's extracurricular activities are his business," Cuthbert said. "I wish him well with his book, though, because I love a good potboiler. Personally, I think Oswald was the lone assassin, and the Warren Report sure backs me up. Still, I've got to say that Jim Koethe exemplifies the bulldog reporter, so maybe he's on to something."

Koethe, 37, is a colorful local scribe, known for his persistence, assertive behavior and connections within the Dallas Police Department. He is reputed to be a close friend of DPD Officer Maynard D. Moore, who disappeared around the time of the assassination. Asked to comment on Officer Moore's missing status, Koethe said, "Mum's the word. A good reporter doesn't reveal his sources and a good book writer doesn't reveal anything."

I guess we'll have to wait for the book. In the meantime, though, interested parties will have to make do with the 16-volume Warren Report, which for this reporter stands as the authoritative final word.

(Las Vegas, 9/13/64)

The cat snared a rat. One chomp-adieu.

The cat prowled the hut. The cat paraded. Harvey Brams crossed himself. Donkey Dom laughed.

Milt grabbed the rat. The cat snarled. Milt dropped the rat in the shitter. The cat nuzzled Pete. The cat clawed the switchboard.

Biz was slow. The 6:00 p.m. blues descended.

Champ B. bopped through. Champ B. juked morale. Champ B. dumped some hijacked Pall Malls.

Pete bought them. Call it PR swag-potential Drac donations. _Hospital_ swag-yuk-yuk-lung-ward booty.

Biz picked up. Sonny Liston called. Sonny ordered two cabs. Sonny ordered scotch and red devils.

Pete yawned. Pete stroked the cat. Wayne walked in distracted. Dom checked his basket. Dom eyeball-stroked his bulge.

Pete said, "I've been calling you."

Wayne shrugged. Wayne passed Pete a note. A news clip-two columns. A call came in. Milt plugged it. Pete steered Wayne outside.

Wayne looked frazzled. Pete sized him up. Pete stuck the clip in his pocket.

"Sol Durslag. Ring a bell?"

"Sure. He's a card cheat. He's the treasurer for the Liquor Board, and he used to work for my father."

"Did they fall out?"

"Everybody falls out with-"

"Your father owns the Land o' Gold, right? He's got covert points."

"Right. The Gold and thirteen more."

Pete lit a cigarette. "Milt's been digging up shit. He heard that Durslag's been running card counters out of the Gold. I might need his help down the line."

Wayne smiled. "My father used to run him."

"That's what Milt said."

"So you…"

"I want you to muscle him. Think about it. You're Wayne Senior's son, and you've got your own reputation."

Wayne said, "Is this a test?"

Pete said, "Yes."

o o o

Durslag lived on Torrey. Durslag lived middle-class. Durslag lived in the Sherlock Homes tract.

Said tract was a style clash. Mock Tudors and palm trees. Mock gables and sand lots. Mixed-message _mishegoss_.

It was dark. The house was dark. Clouds draped the moon.

Pete knocked. Pete got no answer. The garage door was up. They lounged inside.

Pete smoked. Pete got a headache. Pete popped aspirin. Wayne yawned. Wayne shadowboxed. Wayne fucked with a gooseneck lamp.

Milt dished on Sol. Milt said Sol was divorced. Good news-no women.

The wait dragged. 1:00 a.m. went south. They loitered. They stretched kinks out. They pissed the walls green.

There-

Headlights/the driveway/incoming beams.

Pete crouched. Wayne crouched. A Caddy pulled in. The beams dimmed. Sol got out. Sol sniffed-

What's that smoke sm-

He ran. Pete tripped him. Wayne threw him up on the hood. Pete grabbed the lamp. Pete whipped the neck down. Pete flashed light on Wayne.

"That's Mr. Tedrow. You used to work for his father."

Sol said, "Fuck you."

Pete flashed him. Sol blinked. Sol rolled off the hood. Wayne grabbed him. Wayne pinned him. Wayne pulled his sap out.

Pete flashed him. Wayne sapped him-tight shots-the ankles/the arms. Sol shut his eyes. Sol bit his lips. Sol squeezed up fists.

Wayne said, "Pull your crew out of the Land o' Gold."

Sol said, "Fuck you."

Wayne sapped him-tight shots-the ankles/the chest.

Sol said, "Fuck you."

Pete said, "Say yes twice. That's all we want."

Sol said, "Fuck you."

Wayne sapped him-tight shots-the ankles/the arms.

Sol said, "Fuck you."

Wayne sapped him. Pete flashed him. The bulb was bright. The bulb was hot. The bulb burned his face.

Wayne raised his sap. Wayne swung it. Pete stopped him short.

"One yes to me, one to Mr. Tedrow. Pull your crew. Do my people some liquor-board favors."

Sol said, "Fuck you."

Pete cued Wayne. Wayne sapped him-tight shots-the arms/the ribs. Sol balled up. Sol rolled. Sol clipped the hood ornament. Sol snapped a wiper blade.

Sol coughed. Sol choked. Sol said, "Fuck you, yes, okay."

Pete pulled the lamp up. The light bounced and fizzed.

"That's two 'yes's,' right?"

Sol opened his eyes. Sol had singed brows. Sol had scorched lids.

"Yeah, two. You think I want this as a steady diet?"

Pete pulled his flask-Old Crow bond-instant headache relief.

Sol grabbed it. Sol drained it. Sol coughed and flushed-Man-o-Manischewitz, that's good!

He winced. He rolled off the hood. He stood straight up. He grabbed the lamp. He bent the neck. He flashed light on Wayne.

"Your father told me some things about you, sonny boy."

Wayne said, "I'm listening."

"I could tell you some things about that sick hump."

Wayne bent the lamp down. The light bounced and fizzed.

"You can tell me. I won't hurt you."

Sol coughed. Sol hacked phlegm-thick and blood-infused.

"He said you had it bad for his wife. Like a little pervert puppy."

Wayne said, "And?"

"And you never had the gumption to act."

Pete watched Wayne. Pete watched his hands. Pete got in close.

Wayne said, "And?"

"And Daddy shouldn't preach, 'cause he's a sick hump as far as his wife is concerned."

Pete watched Wayne. Pete blocked his hands. Pete closed in close.

Wayne said, "And?"

Sol coughed. "_And_ Daddy has Mommy screw these guys that he wants to cultivate, _and_ Mommy had this unauthorized thing with a colored musician named Wardell Gray, _and_ Daddy beat him to death with his cane."

Wayne swayed. Sol laughed. Sol flipped his tie in his face.

"Fuck you. You're a punk. You're a hump like your daddy."