Infamous (53 page)

Harvey followed Main down to Union and strutted right into the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, past a sign advertising a colored orchestra at the Sky Lounge, and found a bank of phone booths. With his last few nickels, he arranged for a car and a little stake of cash. He snatched out a page in the telephone book for a Langford Ramsey on Mignon Avenue and decided to walk while he waited for the car. He walked up and over the Memphis bluffs and down to the Mississippi River, where he sat on a park bench for a long time and watched the long, sluggish brown water.

38

T
he trick with dodging a hangover was just to stay drunk for as long as you could, parceling out the sips slow and easy without getting sloppy. Kathryn drank straight gin over cracked ice for most of the night until she heard Lang knock on the back door, rousting Geraline from the couch, the girl none too happy about the plan. “I’m not going,” she said.

“The hell you aren’t,” Kathryn said.

“My parents don’t care.”

“How’s Lang supposed to find my grandmother’s place in Coleman?”

“And you swear he’ll bring me back?”

“Just as soon as he picks up a few things.”

“Your furs and your Pekingese dog.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m not a sap.”

“Didn’t say you were, sister,” Kathryn said. “The boy can’t find the farm himself.”

Geraline packed her little suitcase, arranging items they’d bought her at the Fair along with three packs of cigarettes, a small cigar box, her new little dresses, frilly socks and panties, and what have you. Kathryn walked outside and saw Lang hand Tich a twenty-dollar bill before Tich hobbled down the steps to head to work at first light down at the Peabody Hotel garage.

“He won’t talk?” Kathryn asked.

“He’s loyal,” Lang said. “Worked for my family for years.”

“Goddamn, my head hurts.”

“Where’s George?”

“Still passed out in the back bedroom,” she said. “Hasn’t stirred a bit.”

“Tich will get rid of the Chevrolet,” he said. “He promises to bring back something better with Tennessee plates.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“George is my family, Kathryn.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, whispering into his ear, “After you get our dough, ditch the little smart-ass at the first train station you see.”

Lang nodded.

“You’ll need cash to get there.”

He shook his head. But she tucked a fat roll of twenties in his hand.

“If something goes screwy, send a telegram to Tich.”

He nodded. They heard George stumble from the back bedroom and pad out into the hallway with bare feet, wearing only an undershirt and boxer shorts. He rubbed his stubbled jaw, and smiled when he saw Lang. “You headed to church or somethin’?”

Lang smiled, holding a brand-new straw hat in his hand.

“He’s going to be calling on Ma Coleman for us,” Kathryn said.

George walked close to Lang and put his hands on his shoulders, smiling at him, and Lang looking a little uncomfortable, probably from George’s gin breath. But George didn’t notice, only wrapped his big arms around Lang and gave him a big old bear hug. He patted his back.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” George said, and padded into the bathroom, where they both heard him start to take a leak.

Geraline stood at the door, dressed in her brand-new flowered dress, new shoes, and that beret Kathryn had bought on the Streets of Paris. On her collar, she wore a button that read CENTURY OF PROGRESS.

“C’mon, Lang,” Geraline said, chewing a big wad of gum. “Quit your yap-pin’. We got a long day ahead.”

HARVEY WATCHED THE YOUNG LAWYER AND THE LITTLE GIRL he’d seen with Kathryn in Chicago leave the little bungalow on Rayner Street. He’d followed Lang all the way from North Memphis, the man not once making him out in his rearview mirror, not even when Harvey pulled in down the street and killed his lights a little before dawn. On the seat next to him, he had a pack of Camel cigarettes, a .45 automatic, and a copy of the morning newspaper with more trial coverage on the Shannons in Oklahoma City and news that Verne Miller and George had been spotted at a diner in Minnesota. He also had several maps of Iowa he’d bought at a Standard service station—he planned to cut through there on his way up to Wisconsin to pick up his family.

The only sleep he’d gotten was when he’d closed his eyes for maybe two seconds on the river. A short time later, a nervous negro met him at a downtown filling station, handing him the keys to a Plymouth, afraid to look the famous bank robber in the eye.

When the lawyer and the girl pulled away from the house on Rayner, he tossed his cigarette out the window and laid the .45 in his lap. Only a fool would bust into the back door in a fella’s hometown, no telling who George had in there or if George was in there at all.

A prowl car passed outside the car’s windows, and the way it drove lazy and relaxed was enough for Harv. He started the car, knocked it into first, and drove back toward the downtown.

“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY,” KATHRYN SAID, JOINING GEORGE IN Tich’s rumpled bed.

He reached to a nightstand and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.

“I’m gonna buy you the biggest ring in Havana,” he said.

“I don’t need it.”

“We’re going to go to all those fancy clubs and drink rum. I’ll smoke cigars and fish.”

“What can I do?”

“Any damn thing you want.”

“Then what?”

“You want more?” George asked.

“I don’t like to be bored, George. I hate being bored.”

Kathryn turned her head on his chest to look at him. He ashed the cigarette into his palm and scatted it onto the floor, passing the cigarette to her. “Lang’s lemonade sure sneaks up on you,” she said.

“The trick is to keep on drinking.”

“So I heard.”

“Kit, pull the shades.”

“You got to be kidding.”

“We got the house all to ourselves.”

“This place is depressing.”

“Bed still works,” he said, rocking it back and forth with his butt, making the springs squeak.

“Come on.”

“It’s our anniversary,” he said.

“You read the papers?” she asked.

“Always bad news,” he said. “Take off that nightie.”

“I’ll leave it on,” she said. “Just be quiet.”

She kicked out of her panties and straddled him, George flat on his back and looking up at her with puppy-dog eyes. She reached for him, and he told her that he loved her.

She reached for him again, knowing this was going to take some work.

Kathryn slapped George across his face and told him to try a little harder. The strap of her slip had fallen off one shoulder by the time they finally got the show started, and she alternated with a firm hand on his chest and dropping them both loose at her sides, feeling him inside her, George with his eyes closed, Kathryn thinking that, in the weakened light, he really did favor Ricardo Cortez, and for a while there was a pleasant moment when he was Ricardo Cortez and this wasn’t a crummy nest of a bed but the biggest, fattest bed in Havana, with silk sheets, and guitar music floating in from the brick streets. And the air smelled like sweet flowers and tobacco, and she arched her back more, her mouth parted, and then reached her nails into George’s shoulder and said, “Did you hear that?”

“Damn it, Kit,” George said, opening his eyes and crawling out from under her.

She pulled down her silk slip

George walked to the window and peeked outside. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s finish.”

“I need a drink.”

He started slamming cabinets in the kitchen, looking for some more gin but instead finding Tich’s stash of Log Cabin bourbon, bottom-shelf kind of stuff, that George poured over ice. He turned on the radio, saying he was listening for any news on them but only finding some kids’ show again. He drank and brooded there on the sofa until the shadows fell across the floor. Tich was back sometime later, dragging that old foot and bringing them an angel food cake from his church service and a .45 automatic he sold to George for $17.50.

George grabbed the gun but didn’t eat a bit of the cake, and he and Kathryn both went to bed sometime late that night, not really knowing when, all that time kind of getting mixed together. They slept apart, Kathryn not waking until she heard Tich had returned, and the ugly little man handed her a telegram from Gainesville, Texas. HAD SEVERAL TOUGH BREAKS . . . DEAL FELL THROUGH. TRIED TO GET LATER APPOINTMENT. BEST PROSPECT WAS AFRAID. IMPOSSIBLE. CHANGED HER MIND. DON’T WANT TO BRING HOME A SAD TALE. CAN GO ON IF ADVISABLE. WIRE INSTRUCTIONS HERE.

“Where’s the bottle?” she asked.

HARVEY WALKED UP THE DRIVEWAY OF THE LITTLE HOUSE on Rayner early that Tuesday morning after sleeping a night in the car at a tourist camp over the river in West Memphis, Arkansas. With the .45 loose at his side, he checked the back door and found it unlocked. He pressed on, not knowing who all was in the house. The kitchen was bare, a black skillet left cold on the burner, with the grease turning white and hard. He shifted the gun in his hand and moved into the main room, where a bunch of pillows and blankets was left on the couch, full ashtrays and half-finished glasses scattered across the room. He looked for suitcases, satchels, anything where they’d keep his dough if they had it with them at all. But he’d take whatever they had, fight over it if it came to that, and then he’d be on the great, beautiful, open road.

He heard sounds coming from a back bedroom.

He crept forward, and through a narrow crack saw the nude back of Kathryn, who was on top of George and riding him. He only saw George’s hairy legs and big feet and was glad he couldn’t see more, finally spotting a fat leather grip at the edge of the bed.

“Hope I didn’t stop you from the morning routine,” he said, tipping his hat at Kit. She crawled off George and covered herself with the entire sheet, George stumbling to his feet.

He walked up to Harvey as naked as you please and shook his head.

“Take it, Harv.”

“How much is left?” Harvey asked. “I only want what’s mine.”

“Three grand, give or take a few hundred,” George said. “Rest is hidden.”

“I’ll be wanting the rest.”

“How were we to know you pooled your goddamn money with ours at Cann’s place?” he said. “Your own fault.”

“Good luck, George.”

“Where’s Miller?”

“Dead,” Harvey said. “Nitti snatched him.”

“How’d Nitti know?”

“Pussy sure can make a man blind,” Harvey said. “You better get your eyes checked, George.”

“Skip the commentary, you rotten SOB,” Kathryn said. “Get what’s yours and get gone.”

Harvey tipped his hat, the leather grip feeling heavy and fat in his left hand. He hoisted it onto the table and opened the top, a breeze through a cracked window fluttering the loose bundles of cash. He caught sight of two garbagemen conversing with a fella who’d just parked across the street. The man opened his hood and stood against the fat fender.