“Get some rest, boys,” Karpis said. “Drink and be merry if you like—if you ain’t alone, show her a good time. And sleep till noon. But at one, meet back in this room, for a final run-through. Because tomorrow’s opening night, already.”
People stood up, started moving out.
That was when I got my first good look at Chock Floyd’s friend Sullivan, and he got his first good look at me.
We both recognized each other, and why not?
He was the man who’d called himself John Howard, when he came to my office last month—the traveling salesman who hired me to follow his “wife,” Polly Hamilton.
38
It was the longest few moments of my life, standing there in Karpis’ room near the door, about to go out, heart in my throat as I looked in the face of a man who knew I wasn’t Jimmy Lawrence.
Slowly he removed the dark glasses and there my name was, in his eyes: “Heller,” they said, narrowing. Hell, he was as shocked as I was.
And there we stood, blocking the way.
“Move along, gents,” Nelson said. “We baked in this oven long enough.”
I swallowed; said, “Sure.”
My onetime client swallowed, nodded, put the dark glasses back on, moved out the door and I followed him out into the breezily warm summer evening, my hand drifting toward the automatic under my jacket as I walked.
The men were milling about, out in front of Karpis’ cabin, some of them having further smokes. Nelson tapped Sullivan on the shoulder and Sullivan looked at him from behind the dark glasses, with a tight, blank expression.
Nelson said, “You sure we ain’t worked together before?”
Sullivan smiled politely, shook his head no.
Nelson looked confused, momentarily, said, “You seem familiar. Huh. Well, what the hell.”
And he walked over to Chase and began talking, smoking.
I smiled at Sullivan.
Because I knew.
I knew why he hadn’t given me away to the others. And I knew he’d had just as long and sweaty a last few minutes as I had.
He was lighting a cigarette; his hand was shaking—it was barely perceptible, but I caught it.
I stood close to him, put a comradely hand on his shoulder. Spoke so low he could barely hear me.
But he heard me.
I said, “Let’s talk, Johnny.”
And John Dillinger nodded, and we began to walk.
“I’m surprised to see you, John,” I told him.
“Let’s leave names aside, Heller, here on out, okay? Some people got big ears.”
“But neither one of us better have big mouths, right? We can’t afford to give each other away, can we?”
We stopped in front of the central cabin; Karpis and Dolores were sitting on the bench, having Cokes. I put a nickel in the low-riding icebox and opened the lid and slid a bottle out for myself. Dillinger stood and watched me through the dark circles of the glasses, fedora brim pulled down. He was smoking, looking relaxed, calm; but I could feel his nervousness in the air, like electricity crackling between us.
We strolled around back; found a tree to stand under. No one else was around. It was a clear, moonlit night; we could see each other fine. Not that he wanted to see me.
Dillinger didn’t like this at all. On the other hand, I was getting a perverse sort of charge out of it. I’d thought the house was coming down on my head, minutes ago; now I knew I was sitting on top.
“What are you doing here?” he asked me. Clipped words. He took off the dark glasses, slid them in his shirt pocket behind his pack of smokes. He didn’t have a gun.
I took a sip of the Coke. “Let’s start with you,” I said. “Who knows you here? Knows who you really are, I mean.”
He exhaled smoke. “Just Floyd.”
“Not Karpis?”
He shook his head no.
“But you’re the silent partner Karpis was talking about,” I said.
He nodded.
“And Karpis seems to’ve been in on the planning, all the way…”
He shrugged. “He is,” he said. “But he thinks I’m just some friend of Chock’s. I’m supposed to be a guy from Oklahoma wanted for murder, who had a face job.”
“That isn’t far wrong.”
He gave out a short, humorless laugh. “Anyway, I never worked with Karpis. I met him once or twice. But not
