McNally's caper

don’t but we need that car in the worst way. And there’s no trouble for you in it, see’n as how we’re desperate characters and forced you to give us your keys. Leastwise, that’s what you can say. And we’ll pay you good money, ma’am, we surely will.’

She looked at him sorrowfully.

‘I’ll get the keys,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want no money.’

It took about five minutes to bring the Plymouth around and transfer the luggage. Mrs Pearl handed over one of her poke bonnets without asking why I wanted it. I supposed she guessed. Then we were ready to leave her for the second time. We stood close on the porch, me wearing the bonnet pulled down over the red wig.

‘Ma’am,’ Jack Donohue said, ‘there’s just no way we can thank you for all you done for us. You’ll get your car back sooner or later, I promise you that. I know you won’t take any cash for yourself, but I’d be much obliged if you’d let us make a contribution to your church.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it for the church. For good works. And I’ll say a prayer for you all.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Pearl,’ I said, and stepped close to kiss her leathery cheek.

The men did the same. She just stood there, expressionless, not moving.

Jack took out his wallet, counted out a thousand dollars. He folded it, put it into her palm, closed her fingers over it.

Then we went down to the cars. Black Jack and I turned to Fleming.

‘Well …’ Dick said. ‘Everything straight? Jannie, get as close to the roadblock as you can before pulling aside. Then I come roaring past and you pile it on the moment you see the opening.’

I nodded dumbly. I looked toward the sky. I didn’t want to look at him. If I looked at him, I’d burst, collapse, and die.

‘After you bust through,’ Donohue said to him, ‘get out of that car in a hurry. I’ll cover you and I’ll have the back door open. We’ll pick you up on the other side. Real bang-bang stuff. The Late Show.’

‘Sure,’ Dick Fleming said with a radiant smile. Then he said lightly, ‘Take care.’

We climbed into the cars. I drove the Plymouth. Donohue got down on the floor in the rear. When I glanced in the mirror, I saw he already had both his guns out. Dick Fleming followed us in the Buick.

Mrs Pearl Sniffins watched us go. I thought she waved a hand in farewell, but I may have been imagining that.

Jack gave me a series of commands from the back seat. So many, so rapidly, I knew I’d never remember them all …

‘Keep it under forty. Before we get in sight, swerve back and forth all over the road. Kick up the dust, slow down, then speed up suddenly. Try to churn up the road. That dust has got to be thick. Figure about thirty feet from the roadblock. Then stand on the brakes. You’ll skid in the dirt. Be ready for it. Try to stop fast. Turn to the left. Get it. The left! So when Dick goes by, he can see how much room he has. The moment he’s past, tell me. Yell something. I’m out of sight; I won’t be able to see. After you yell, I’ll start popping away to keep them down. Don’t get spooked by the noise. You pour on the gas. He’ll hit and then you get through. Go fast! Brake on the other side. Wait for Dick. Then-’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘all right! You’re telling me too much too fast. Just let me do it my way.’

He was silent for a moment. Then, when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle.

‘Sure, babe,’ he said. ‘Do it your way.’

1 glanced in the rearview mirror, then ahead, then in the mirror, then ahead. I gave Jack a running commentary …

‘Dick’s right behind us. About fifty feet back. Lots of dust. I can hardly see him. We’re coming to the final turn. Now we’re around. Now we’re on the straightaway. I’m slowing a little. I’m sitting up. I’m leaning forward so they can see the bonnet. Soon now. Get set; I’m going to turn off to the left. They see us. They’re standing behind the cars. A two-door and the Jeep. They’re waving their arms. I’m slowing. I’ll count down. Five, four, three, two, one … NOW!’

I jerked the wheel to the left. I felt the rear end break away. I fought the skid. The Plymouth started down into the ditch. I wrestled it back. Then we slowed, slowed. Stopped, tilted slightly, on the verge. The black Buick went roaring by. So close, so close. I caught a quick glimpse of Dick Fleming bent over the wheel, his face impassive.

It all should have gone in a flash. But it didn’t. It went in slow motion. I saw everything.

Dick aimed the accelerating Buick at the Jeep. Men scattered. One dived into the ditch. I pulled back onto the road. Donohue was up. He leaned out the open back window. He fired the pistol as fast as he could pull the trigger. Dick hit the Jeep just back of the right front fender. The crash deafened me. The Jeep lifted into the air. It rolled. The Buick spun and spun. A tire blew. The Jeep rolled over. The Buick plunged down into the ditch. There was room ahead. I aimed for the opening, sobbing, cursing, whatever. Jack held the back door ajar. He fired the revolver. I heard screams. Crack of rifles. Boom of shotguns.

Dust everywhere. A reddish haze. Screech of torn metal. Sudden whumpf1 as the Jeep exploded in a blossom of orange flame. I swerved to avoid the other car. Then 1 was through, past the mess. I stood on the brake, skidded to a halt. Jack Donohue was out and running back. I twisted to see. The Buick was crumpled in the ditch on its right side. The hood and trunk lid were sprung. The driver’s door was thrown back.Dick Fleming crawled out. He jumped to the ground. His left arm was dangling. I found the gun in my shoulder bag. I opened the door, stepped out onto the road. I held my gun with both hands. I aimed at the sedan and the men behind it. I pulled the trigger. Again. Again. Donohue was close to Dick. So close! His arms reached out. Shotgun boom. Dick lifted into the air. Literally lifted. Flew. Smacked down. Rolled. Jack halted, turned. He came running back. White face, white eyes, white teeth. All of him leached and straining. I stood there clicking the trigger on an empty gun. Donohue came gasping up. He pushed me sprawling into the front seat of the Plymouth. He jammed in beside me, behind the wheel. He shoved the car in gear. We took off. Spinning wheels. Shouts. Rifle fire. Something spanged off the roof of the Plymouth.

We went careening down the road. TTirough Whittier. Pedestrians and dogs scattered before us. Blank faces turned to us. Cars pulled onto sidewalks. I dragged myself from the floor. I sat upright on the seat.

Jack Donohue was singing a hymn, banging on the steering wheel …

‘Brighten the corner, where you are,’ he bellowed. ‘Brighten the corner, where you are …’

JOURNEY’S END

Now I knew I was changing. I knew how I was changing. Up to this point I had been a war correspondent, accredited to report but not to play an active role. Oh, I could, willy-nilly participate, but I could not influence.

But now I had planted myself on a dirt road in Georgia and fired a lethal weapon at duly appointed representatives of the law. It was really, in my mind, my first act of conscious illegality. I might have killed someone, although I doubted it. I couldn’t have cared less.

‘How old was he?’ Jack Donohue asked.

‘Thirty-two,’ Jannie said. ‘I think. Maybe he had a birthday. Maybe thirty-three or — four. Around there.’

‘You don’t knowT he said incredulously.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Sheesh,’ he said.

At the same time my role as war correspondent came to an end. I became dissatisfied with what I had written in Project X. It seemed to me I had not told the whole truth about Dick Fleming, Hymie Gore, Angela, the Holy Ghost, Clement, Smiley, Antonio Rossi. Or even Jack Donohue. Or even myself.

As a journalist, I had limned us all as two-dimensional characters, cardboard cutouts. But reading back over what I had written, remembering the contradictions and complexities of everyone involved, I yearned for a larger talent so I could do justice to their humanness. Not only their frailties and inconsistencies, but their constancy and brave humor.

‘Where was he from?’ Jack Donohue asked.