The Hunt

“Delphi,” Dillinger answered, his voice Indiana-flat, crisp and authoritative.

Russell laughed. “Well, if it ain’t on the map now, it will be after today.”

“Delphi,” Pierpont said. “What kinda name’s that?”

“It’s Greek,” Dillinger answered.

“How come they named a town after a Greek?”

“Beats the shit outa me,” Dillinger answered with a shrug.

“What the hell’s that?” Van Meter said suddenly.

Half a mile ahead of them, a state trooper was stopping traffic. Cars were backed up ten deep.

“What the hell Clark said.

Dillinger looked to their right and left. Ahead of them, past a cornfield, was a dirt road.

“There,” he said, “grab a right there, Russ.”

Russell didn’t even slow down.

“Grab a right here. Here! Damn it, Russell.”

Clark braked the Ford down and screeched rubber as he skidded into the dirt road.

“What the hell’s going on? They having a cop convention or sompin?” said Homer.

“Goddamn it, Homer, shut the hell up. Just keep drivin’, Russ. Just drive on here like we’re regular people.”

“Jeez, lookit the smoke,” Van Meter said.

To their left a pall of black smoke broiled up from the town.

“Christ, the whole town must be burnin’ up.”

“Well that’s just fuckin’ great,” said Homer.

Dillinger clawed a road map from the tray under the dash

and opened it.

“Where the hell are we?” he said to himself, tracing a finger across the center of the map.

“We’re gonna run outa road.”

“Here we are,” Dillinger said. “Hey, we’re okay. Grab a left at the next road. We’ll come back out on the highway just south of town. Hell, it’s perfect.”

“It’s an omen,” Pierpont said. “We probably woulda screwed up anyways. And it’s beginning to rain.”

“We’re not through for the day,” said Dillinger. “Not by a long shot. And rain’s good, keeps people inside”

“Where we goin’ now? A picnic,” Nelson sneered.

“Yeah, a picnic about twenty miles down the road. They’re serving tea and crumpets at the other bank.”

“What other bank?”

“Homer and I cased three banks, yesterday,” said Dillinger. “We’ll take the number two bank. Probably be just as fat. And they stay open on Fridays until three o’clock. We hit ‘em at quarter to three—it’ll be dark three hours later.”

“I don’t like it,” Homer Van Meter said. “I told you, these one-horse towns with one way in and one way out make me nervous.”

In the front seat, John Dillinger shook a Picayune from his pack and lit it.

“Trouble with you, Homer, you’re a crepe hanger.”

“I try to figure it all out ahead of time, like you do, Johnny.”

“You wanna hit a big town again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“We tried that in East Chi, look how that went. Charlie gets killed. A bank guard gets knocked off and I end up in the cooler. Now everybody thinks I’m a killer. I’m always the one gets the heat.”

“That’s cause you’re famous, Johnny,” Nelson snickered jealously.

“I don’t like bein’ blamed for somethin’ I didn’t do,” he snapped.

“What do you want me to do, write a letter to the News and confess?” Nelson said, and he laughed.

“Hell, Johnny writes letters to the papers all the time,” said Pierpont. “Even sent a book to old . . . whatsisname?”

“Matt Leach,” said Dillinger proudly, “Captain Leach, head of the Indiana State Patrol. Sent him a copy of How to Be a Good Detective.

“Damn fool stunt, you ask me. No use makin’ them any madder than they are already,” Van Meter replied.

“C’mon, Homer,” Dillinger replied, “they can’t get any madder than they are and they can’t come after us any harder.”