John and Booth became a common sight on the capital city’s streets. Booth liked to work out in Brady’s gymnasium, but John never did cotton to building burly muscles. They spent most evenings in saloons—Taltavul’s next to Ford’s Theater, or Deery’s above the National, establishments that catered to a higher class of clientele. John strutted about town, head high, basking in his new status as a member of the elite.
Between drinks, the pair frequented Barker’s Shooting Gallery at Eleventh and Pennsylvania. Booth was an expert marksman, from any position, a perfectionist. No one could keep up with him—except John—who’d been shooting since he could walk. His Pa saw to that.
Unlike the more deliberate Booth, John was a quick snap-shot. His accuracy was about two-thirds of Booth’s, but John wa
