THE ASSASSIN'S DAGGER

“There’s one thing I want to ask you. What would you do if it was your brother?”- Jonathan Peter Jackson, “Day of the Gun“ KRON TV 2003

    Booze will make you do funny things; not always in your best interest. I can commiserate with Jack’s weakness for the stuff. Late one summer evening, after drinking all day with bunch of old friends, we decided to continue the party at a local bar in Montgomery. Having just returned from years in California, I had forgotten how cold the nights could get this time of year. Someone lent me an old pair of overalls, and we stumbled on our way to Clinton Street. 

     The street in front of the bar was filled with young people, laughing and drinking, having a great time. I’d been out on the West Coast for years, and thought in my absence that Montgomery had turned into Fort Lauderdale on Spring Break. It sure looked like I’d been missing out on a hell of a lot of fun. So with a bad case of beer goggles and tunnel vision, I headed for the bar. Before I knew what was happening, a uniformed village cop stepped in front of me. “Let’s see some ID,” he ordered brusquely. I was 30 yards from the front door, and could not understand why this young cop was asking for my papers. I was well over 21. “Fuk you.” I slurred. “I don’t have to give you any fukken ID.” 

    What happened next is a little jumbled up. In an instant, four burly plainclothes cops jumped on, handcuffed me, and threw me in the back of their squad car, where I proceeded to make a spectacle of myself. All this rough physicality seemed a bit extreme. Well—my mistake. It turned out that the big block party was the bar emptying out due to a phoned-in bomb scare. Drunk me—in those borrowed overalls and belligerent attitude—fit a pretty good profile of a “mad bomber.” 

    They threw me in a cell in the basement of the old Academy building, where I had gone to elementary school; now repurposed as the village jail. When I sobered up, I looked around and realized that the man-cage was built on the exact same spot where I helped my janitor grandfather clean erasers in 1964. Indulging in a bit of nostalgic revery, while my brother tried to spring me, my mind drifted back to those simpler years. My brother Bird, well known and liked in town, explained that his older brother could be a bit of an asshole, but was basically harmless. He talked them out of shipping me off to the Orange County jail in Goshen for the weekend. “Don’t let him out of your sight.” they warned, opening up my cage. I owe Bird for that one. The car ride home was predictably a bit testy.     

Jack Hodges sworn

By Martin Van Buren:

Q. Did you see any person that morning.

A. I saw Ira Jennings going across the road in the village of Sugar Loaf, for a pail of water. When I got back to the house the family had all done breakfast.

Q. Did you then drink more whisky?

A. I took a dram, and sat down to my breakfast: when I was about half done, Dunning came into the room and said “the old savage was going along the road.” I got up, went into Dunning’s room and looking out the west door, saw Mr. Jennings in the road. I went back and took my gun from behind the door and was going to take down the powder and shot from the peg; Mrs. Teed said “I will get it for you.” I then told her I wanted another drink. She said “There’s the whiskey. Help yourself.”

Q. Where was Dunning when you left the house?

A. After I got down below the house, I saw Dunning walking fast, nearly up with Mr. Jennings; he came along side of him at Knap’s [sic] bars, they went along side by side as if talking together.

   Even from a distance Jack could hear the angry voice of Richard Jennings echoing through the woods. Dick pointed his finger from stump to stump, through the piled brush, accusing Dunning of cutting his wood and stealing his timber. Dunning just smiled smugly, shrugging his shoulders, shivering, rocking from foot to foot in the cold. Dick didn’t stop yelling. He went on cussing out poor Dave Dunning as Jack watched and listened. Eventually Dunning’s grin faded.

     Jack moved in closer and stopped again, leaning against a hemlock, camouflaged in the shadows by an overhanging branch, taking in Dick’s tirade. Richard Jennings had his back to Jack, but Dunning could see him clearly. Dunning had had enough of the old man’s scolding and was trying to signal Jack, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, as if to say, “Get on with it. Shoot the bastard.” Jack saw that look and nodded, biding his time. Let Dunning sweat, he thought, leaning on the musket barrel. No hurry.

    But something, a crack of a twig, as the gun butt was planted in the snow, a change in the wind direction swirling the brush, something made Dick turn around. And there stood Jack Hodges, his hand around the barrel of Dave Conklin’s old bird musket. Dick made eye contact, but the threat never registered. He asked Jack if he was joining Dunning to cut more timber or just out hunting partridge? Jack didn’t answer. Turning his back to both men, Hodges pulled the hammer back on the shotgun, feeling it click twice into firing position. Even then, Dick didn’t get it. Jack looked over his shoulder as Richard Jennings came slowly towards him in the blowing snow. When Dick was ten feet away, Jack swung his full body around, and in one fluid motion raised the gun to his shoulder and fired. The scene disappeared in a cloud of white, sulfurous smoke.