Infamous (38 page)

Two minutes later they were in the air, headed back to Oklahoma City.

“GIVE ME A SIP,” KATHRYN SAID.

George passed the pint of Old Schenley, straight rye whiskey.

“Bottled in bond under U.S. government supervision,” Kathryn said, reading the label before uncorking the bottle.

“Makes me sad to see that.”

“I know, George,” Kathryn said, sliding up next to him on the edge of Ma Coleman’s front porch, the old woman finally in bed, door double-locked in case George decided to get frisky. “You were a hell of a bootlegger.”

“You mean it, Kit?”

“Sure.”

“Better than Little Steve Anderson?”

“George?” Kathryn asked.

He snatched back the bottle of rye and took a healthy swallow.

“Don’t fuck up the moment,” she said.

“So that’s our new chariot?”

“Best I could do.”

“I said cheap,” George said. “Not broke.”

“The man promised she ran good.”

“I haven’t seen an old truck like that since I was running liquor.”

“Man said those Model A’s will run forever if you change the oil.”

“All she has to do is get us outta Texas, and then we can ditch her.” Kathryn looked up to the beaten porch, flooded with light from a kerosene lamp, bugs swarming at its brightness, at the spades and picks, a folded-up tent, coffeepot, metal cups, and an iron skillet.

“George, I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t go to Mexico. They got my mother.”

“If we stay,” George said, knocking back more rye, “they’ll hang us. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“I ’spec not.”

“You can bring Chingy,” he said. His eyes had grown bloodshot and his face flushed.

“Sam Sayres wants a thousand dollars.”

“Don’t you dare wire that money,” George said. “You think the G isn’t watching his office now?”

“We got to get it to him personal,” she said. “I called him today from in town. He walked around the corner and caught the telephone at some café. He says he’ll meet me
if
I bring the cash. Said they got Boss and Ora real good, and that they have nothing short of a lynch mob waiting for them in O.K. City.”

“Anyone you trust to deliver the dough?”

“Louise.”

“You call her?”

“Couldn’t find her.”

“Go figure.” George nodded, and passed back the rye. “Say, why does your grandma hate me so much?”

“She thinks you’re leading me down the primrose path to hell.”

“Ain’t it fun?”

“It was.” Kathryn took a swallow and made a sour face. “That’s some tough stuff, George.”

“Fresh out of champagne,” he said. “Say, how ’bout you and me and the pooch head back to Chicago? We’ll be protected. Safe. I know some joints where no white man will set foot. Only go out at night, lay low, till somethin’ knocks us off the front page and we go back to being Joes.”

“You don’t get it? Our pictures are in every paper in the country.”

“Oh, hell. Haven’t you ever been to a party and thought you’d seen some bastard who’s famous, but then you start thinking that you’re a little loony ’cause the fella is shorter or has different-colored hair or something. That’s all we need—a little change in style.”

“What can you do to your hair?”

“Go blond.”

“That mug doesn’t go blond.”

“Come on,” George said. “You want to go to the Fair. We’ll take enough of the loot to have some good times and lay low. Get drunk, lie around in our underwear, and read the funnies for a few months. I know this ole bootlegger up there who’s on the square. He owes me from Memphis. They call him

‘Silk Hat’ Harry.”

“Only if we get the dough to Sayres,” she said. “He’ll drop their case if he doesn’t get paid.”

“Shit, just give him that new Chevrolet,” he said. “That’ll keep ’im happy for a while.”

George finished off the rye and tossed the bottle far out in the weeds, before leaning back on the porch planks and staring up at the bugs gathering around the lantern. He reached out, pawing at them, trying to touch the light that was too far away. “You’re gonna get us killed with that ole hard head.”

She didn’t speak. She could think of nothing to say.

“Did I ever tell you what Jarrett wanted for fingering Urschel?” he asked.

“Figured the couple grand you took off the top from Albert.”

“That was for two cars we ditched,” George said. “And gas and the Coca-Cola we bought Urschel.”

“So what’d you pay ’im?”

“Not a cent.”

“You’re off your nut.”

“You don’t unnerstand, Kit. He said the pleasure was all his, to finger a rotten bastard like Mr. Charles F. Urschel.”

“How come?”

“I didn’t ask and I don’t want to know.”

CHARLIE HADN’T SLEPT MUCH IN THE THREE WEEKS SINCE he’d been turned loose. Each night he found himself returning to his sunporch, taking in a cold drink or a hot cup of coffee, always a cigar, and replaying every hand of that bridge game. He’d study on it until the sun would come up, and then he’d return to the kitchen, where he’d greet the federal agents, who sat in cars and walked the perimeter to babysit the Urschel house. But Charlie didn’t think much about those sonsabitches coming back. They got what they needed and were long gone by now. They were just a set of rusted parts: knobs and pins, gears and springs. He only wanted to know who wound them.

Agent Colvin walked into the dark porch. No moon tonight. You could hear the crickets and mosquitoes hitting the screens.

Charlie sat alone in a far chair, far enough that even if there had been moonlight he couldn’t be seen. He drew on the cigar and didn’t say anything, dressed in a bathrobe he’d worn all day, refusing to eat or bathe for the last week.

“We got the Shannons locked up tight.”

Colvin stood a fair distance away from Charlie’s dark corner, as if he’d catch some dread flu.

Charlie smoked and nodded. The boy wore a nice double-breasted blue suit, hat in hand, and, strangely enough, looked to be carrying a gun. Charlie’d never noticed a gun.

“Agent Jones figured they’d be safer in the city. There was some concern of an escape in Dallas.”

“Did I show you the latch?” Charlie asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you thought no more of it?”

“We’ve made inquiries into Mr. Jarrett’s business dealings.”

“Any horse’s ass can get the key to the city.”

“We’re still checking, sir.”

“I want him arrested,” Charlie said, the idea sounding ridiculous and hollow coming from his own mouth. “Or questioned, or whatever the federal police do.”

“We don’t have anything.”

“How did those men know to find me on the back porch?”

“Perhaps the light was on.”

“They had no hesitation,” he said. “Jarrett unlocked the screen during our game. They had arrived from the front. I never leave the back door unlatched.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think I’ve gone off my rocker?”

“No, sir.”

“Timing.”

The men didn’t speak for a while. Colvin found a chair close to Charlie and asked if it was all right to take a seat.

“Sir, I’d like to take Miss Betty for a soda tomorrow evening after supper,” he said, face half shadowed, swatting away a bug that had flown through a crack. “But only if you and Miss Berenice approve.”

“Of course,” Charlie said, smashing his cigar in an empty coffee cup.

“Agent Jones is very good,” Colvin said. “He thinks the Kellys may have returned to Texas.”

“That would be foolish.”

“Kelly’s wife has people there.”

“I bet they’re halfway to South America, laughing at us all.”

“I don’t think they’re laughing.”

“You play cards, Agent Colvin?”

“I do.”

“Bridge?”

“No, sir.”

“Jarrett cheats.”

Colvin nodded.

“He hesitates before pulling a card.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Let’s say the player on your right leads with a queen of hearts. And then when it comes to your turn, you have a king, and you’re pretty damn sure your partner has the ace. You might hesitate, and toss out a three instead of a king. That way, your partner knows he can take the trick with the ace and lead a low heart back to your king. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jarrett hesitates like a son of a bitch,” he said. “He knew I’d spotted him, yet he continued.”

“He didn’t change his game?”

“No.”

“So what do you do?”

“Confront him.”

“So he won’t cheat again?”

“Exactly,” Charlie said. “A liar must be confronted or he’ll continue to rub your nose in his stink.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve invited the Jarretts over Saturday night to play a few rubbers,” Charlie said. “I’d like you to be my partner.”

28

S
hackled at the hands and feet, Harvey wasn’t too pleased when Deputy Tom Manion punched the STOP button on the elevator somewhere between the third and fourth floors. He’d grown used to being left alone on the tenth floor, learning he’d been moved to the death cell on account of Special Agent Gus Jones witnessing that little buck-dancing party and complaining to Sheriff Smoot. Stopping partway up on the ride wasn’t a good sign. The manacles kept Harvey from even being able to adjust his balls, let alone defend himself. He looked over at Manion and asked, “You forget your blackjack?”

“If you’re lying to me, I won’t need no rubber hose, fella,” Manion said in that countrified, hoarse voice. “What you said the other night, about the money, is it true?”

“Sure, it’s true.”

“Ten thousand.”

“That’s what I said.”

“How can you get it to me?”

“I can get two grand to you by tomorrow,” Harvey said. “The rest will come once I’m freed.”

Manion licked his lips and hitched up his pants, using his fancy silver belt buckle.

“This ain’t gonna be no cakewalk.”

“Didn’t expect it to be.”

“And if you don’t pay up what you owe, so help me Jesus, I’ll track you to the corners of this here earth.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, Tom.”

“You’re gonna be in the death cell,” Manion said, biting a cheek, shaking his head. “That’s the durned part of all of it.”

“Can you move me back downstairs?”

“I’m the one who suggested it.”

“It’s like a tiger’s cage,” Bailey said. “Houdini couldn’t break out.”

“There’s a ledge.”

“With a barred window.”

“And if you get out of that there window, you can shimmy out to the ledge and get to the stairs on the roof.”

“You got a blowtorch?”

“I’ll get you a file,” Manion said, not looking at Harvey, keeping his eyes on the numbers, the stagnant dial marking the floors. “You worry about that money.”

“I’ll have to make some calls.”

Manion nodded. “Figured you wouldn’t pull it out your ass.”

“The rest of it when I’m free of this shithole.”

“This is a brand-new jail.”

“And soon it will be your kingdom.”

“You really think I could be sheriff?”

“Sheriff?” Harvey said, catching Manion’s eye and winking. “Thought you had your sights on the governor’s mansion.”

“I always ride just one horse at a time.”

“May take a couple days.”

“Them federal men want you up in Oklahoma City something fierce, already moved the Shannons. The sonsabitches complained about our ability to keep you locked up.”

“The nerve.”

“Couple days, huh?”

“Yep.”

“If I were you, I’d set my mind on Monday.”

“Why Monday?”

“It’s Labor Day, hadn’t you heard? Every deputy in the department asked for time off.”

“I’ll need a gun, too.”

Manion reached over and hit the ON button, the elevator jerking hard up out of the still space, knocking Harvey off balance, and heading up to the tenth floor and the death cell. Manion didn’t say anything till they stopped and the door slid open to a hollow and silent floor, wind whistling around the building. “I like a man who knows what he wants.”

“We got a deal?” Harvey asked.

“Long’s as you understand the terms.”

KATHRYN BANGED THE EARPIECE AGAINST THE PAY TELEPHONE a half dozen times before hanging up, snatching up some loose dimes into a fist, and walking back to the drugstore counter. She saddled up on a revolving stool and ordered a Dr Pepper float, raking dimes back into her purse, and looked at herself in the old-fashioned mirror, deciding the red wig didn’t look half bad, even if the frock was something she bought off the rack at the five-and-dime.