‘Somewhere in Ohio,’ Jannie Shean said. ‘He never spoke of it. Never went back, as long as I knew him.’
‘Have any family?’ he said. ‘ ‘A mother living, I think. Never mentioned his father. I had the feeling the father had deserted or maybe he was dead. Dick never said and I never asked.’
‘You didn’t know much about him,’ Black Jack said. Accusingly.
‘No,’ I said wonderingly. ‘I didn’t.’
Hadn’t wanted to, I almost blurted out. Hadn’t wanted to pry, probe, ask questions. If he had wanted to tell me about himself, he would have, wouldn’t he? Or was that a cop-out? Did he interpret my lack of curiosity as lack of interest? I thought him a very private man. Perhaps he was, not from choice but because that was the kind of friend he thought I wanted.
Donohue was right: I hadn’t really known Dick Fleming. Who he was, what moved him. I saw his body flung into the air, then crumpling, rolling. I wanted him back. I wanted to hold him naked in bed, stare into those guileless blue eyes, and whisper, ‘Who are you?’ I think he would have told me.
‘He had class,’ Jack Donohue said.
‘You have class,’ Jannie Shean said.
‘No,’ he said sadly, ‘all I got is front. I know it.’
At the same time I realized I had been hardened. I could feel it in my bones. I am speaking now not of Jannie Shean, a novelist, mother of Chuck Thorndike, Mike Cantrell, Buck Williams, Pat Slaughter, and Brick Wall. I am speaking of Bea Flanders, nee Jannie Shean, refugee, criminal, and most-wanted. I had learned the argot, habits, fears, precautions, cruelties, and cunning of the lawbreaker on the run.
When I had been casing the Brandenberg job, I had felt something of that: me against society, everyone’s hand raised against me. I had found a kind of wild exhilaration in it: rebel versus the establishment. Now I felt no excitement. Only a savage resolve. Simply to exist. Acknowledging that I had turned a corner in my life and could never go back.
‘He was a marvelous lover,’ Jack Donohue said. ‘You know?’
‘Yes,’ Jannie Shean said. ‘I know.’
‘He was so fucking
He wanted to talk about Dick Fleming, to remember
him. Bea Flanders didn’t. I wanted to forget the dead and get on with the perilous business of living.
After that bullet-studded getaway at Whittier, we fled along backroads to Homerville, Donohue threading a maze of dirt lanes he remembered from his rum-running days. The Plymouth had no radio, but at Fargo we ditched the car and stole a Chevy pickup, the keys kindly left in the ignition. There was a scratchy radio in the cab, and we heard hourly broadcasts of the hunt that had been organized, the net drawing tight around us. ‘An arrest is expected momentarily.’
We took turns at the wheel, and north of Lake City in Florida ditched the Chevy pickup and caught a bus to Jacksonville. There, after spending half a day in a fleabag hotel, we bought a rackety heap in a used car lot. It was a ten-year-old Dodge. We paid cash, gassed up, and headed south on Route 95 again.
In all these switches and changes, we had carefully transferred all our luggage. There was never a question of leaving anything behind; we didn’t discuss it. We even brought along the suitcase containing Dick Fleming’s clothes, and toilet articles.
During the time we spent in Jacksonville, I found a drugstore that was open and bought hair bleach, dye, and some other things. We changed Donohue to a straw-colored blond, a process that took more than six hours. His eyebrows were lightened with white mustache wax and he donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
The next day, at St Augustine, Jack bought maroon slacks, white socks, leather strap sandals, and a short- sleeved sport shirt in a wild tropical print. He wore the tails loose, over his belt, not only to look like every other tourist on his way to Disney World, but also to conceal the revolver he carried at the small of his back.
We knew there had been no photos taken of Bea Flanders; the best they’d have would be a police artist’s sketch or a retouched photo of Jannie Shean. So I stuck with the curly red wig, heavy makeup, falsies under a tight sweater, and floppy slacks with wide cuffs above high-heeled shoes.
Also, for additional camouflage, we bought a cheap camera which Jack wore suspended from his neck on a leather strap. And I put away my Gucci shoulder bag, and carried a straw tote bag that had ‘Florida’ and a palm tree woven on the side. The only thing we lacked were three messy-faced kids, screeching and blowing bubblegum.
We spent the next night at Daytona Beach, and realized Christmas had come and gone. We went out separately the next morning and bought each other gifts. I gave Jack an electric shaver and he bought me a string bikini (too small) and a blue velour beach coverup (too large). But we kissed, and it wasn’t the worst day-after- Christmas I’ve ever spent.
We cut over to Orlando, traded in the ancient Dodge, and bought a two-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass. In all these trades and buys, Jack had to use his identification. We had no doubt that our trail would be picked up eventually. All we hoped to accomplish was to confuse our pursuers long enough for us to get to Miami. There we could hole up in a safe place and figure our next move. We were still carrying more than five thousand in cash, plus the big, valuable pieces from the Brandenberg heist. It was, we figured, enough to get us through with maybe another switch of cars before we arrived in southern Florida.
Got back onto Route 95 again and headed south past Cocoa, Palm Bay, Vero Beach. We stayed the night in West Palm Beach, dined well on broiled dolphin, and went to a disco late in the evening. We didn’t dance; just watched. Then we went back to our motel and made love.
It wasn’t the first time we had had sex since Dick Fleming’s death, but the intensity hadn’t diminished. We coupled like survivors, like the plague was abroad in the land and we had to prove we were alive. Between paroxysms I questioned Jack about his family, his youth, what he had done, how he had lived. Never again did I want to mourn a stranger.
But reticence had become such an ingrained part of him that I couldn’t break through. And even when he did reveal something — an event, an incident, a triumph, a failure — I never knew whether or not to believe him. He had told me to doubt everything he said, and he had taught me too well.
He did say this …
‘I used to go to the track all the time. In the grandstand, you know, or standing at the rail. And I’d turn and look up at the clubhouse, and I’d see these men and women. No different from me and you. I mean, in my head I knew they were no different. They ate and shit. They were going to die. But to me, they
‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘They had money.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe,’ he said. ‘But with some of them it was more than that. I mean, you can look at a good colt and see the breeding. The build, the way it carries its head, the way it steps out. You just
‘An accident of birth.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I agree. Not something they did. Something they were born to, just like that frisky colt bouncing along and tossing his beautiful head. But that’s what I wanted. To be. To have. All my life. When I was in the bucks, I bought the right clothes and went to the right places. I learned how to act. The small fork for the salad — right? But the headwaiter always knew, and I knew he knew. Slip him enough and you’d get a good table and good service. You’d think you were in, until you saw how he treated the class people. Maybe they didn’t even tip him dime one, but he kissed their ass. They were something special, you see. And no matter how much I paid him, he knew I was just a redneck in drag, with punk between my toes and calluses if you looked close enough.’
‘Just shut up and lie back,’ I said fiercely. ‘Let me pleasure you.’
‘All right,’ he said faintly.
After a while, just before he fell asleep, he murmured, ‘I’ll never make it.’
‘Sure you will. We’ll be in Miami tomorrow.’
‘No,’ he said drowsily, ‘not that.’
