“Albert said you ran out of gas.”
“Albert shoulda brought more gas.”
“Weren’t you watching the gauge?”
“You see many gas stations on those cat roads?”
“You shoulda thought ahead.”
“It worked out.”
“Can I see him?”
“No.”
She looked away and watched the sun a bit.
“Oh, hell,” George said. “Come on. Don’t go poutin’ on me. I’m too damn tired.”
They took the new Cadillac-the same one GMAC threatened to repossess if they didn’t make another payment-down a twisting dirt road, scattering up trails of thick Texas dust that coated the midnight blue paint with a fine powder, into the southeast corner of Boss’s place, where his son lived with his barefoot and pregnant teen bride. Armon came from the house when he heard the Buick and ran out to meet them, clopping along in unlaced brogans, big overalls covering his naked chest. He wore a big smile on his crooked face and opened the door for her, being more pleasant to her than when they first met, when his hick daddy and her stupid momma decided to make a go of it after meeting in the want ads. Back then, Armon used to try to peep at her through a crack in the bathroom wall. He was that kind of kid.
“Y’all did it,” Armon said. “You really pulled it off.”
George killed the engine and stood from the car, stretching and groaning, still feeling the long drive from the night before. He lit a cigarette and watched Armon from over the big hood of the Buick.
“What do you say, Potatoes.”
“Hey, George,” Armon said. “Whew. We got ’im all settled in and even brought him a can of beans. He won’t speak or nothin’. I guess he’s still kind of upset about y’all taking him. You think he might want a smoke or something? I read in the papers that fellas of his type like cigars. I could go to town and get him some smokes. He might like it. Or you think he’d like some of Boss’s ’shine? That might make him feel a little more rested and all.”
George looked to Kathryn.
“I think he’s fine with the beans,” Kathryn said. “Don’t make a fool of yourself in town. Just make sure he stays chained up, and you shut your goddamn mouth.”
She pushed Armon to the side, walking down the dirt path in her white kid T-straps, the stones making her walk a bit wobbly till she was on the porch and into the hot box. George was with her-she could feel his breathing on her neck-and she pushed through past a ratty sofa that had been her mother’s, a couple broken chairs, and an old organ stuffed in a corner. They didn’t have running water or electricity, but Armon had gone ahead and brought an organ home, sheet music and all, so he could buck-dance to hymns or whatever that boy liked.
George cocked his head to a door in the shack and creaked it open, and there he was-bigger than shit-eyes covered in cotton and tape, ears plugged and arms chained through a baby’s high chair. Kathryn looked at her big fat baby and smiled, not believing the lug had actually pulled it off. High-dollar oilman Charles Urschel bound and tied like a gift.
George put a finger to his lips and closed the creaky door, walking from the heat of the house and back onto the uneven, slatted porch. He lit a smoke and offered her one from his pack. He clicked open his silver lighter with a little snap of his fingers, and the ruby ring caught the last light of the day. He winked at her, smooth and cool as George R. Kelly could sometimes be.
“How come you’re dressed like that?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you came from a party.”
“I wasn’t at a party,” she said. “It’s just some frock.”
“One of the easiest jobs I ever pulled,” George said. “We get four more of these, Kit, and we’re on our way to South America.”
“Let’s get the money first.”
“Two hundred grand is nothing to people like this,” George said. “They’ll pay.”
“We’ll see.”
“They’ll pay.”
Armon stood by the Cadillac and ran his hands over the silver hood ornament, took out a rag from his overalls’ back pocket, and began to shine the winged lady. The wind blew grit into his greasy hair, and he didn’t even seem to take notice, just smiling up at the two of them like he sure couldn’t have been any prouder.
“Can we trust him?” George asked from the corner of his mouth.
“He’d eat pig shit for you.”
“Good to know.”
“And your momma?”
“She’d eat pig shit for a nickel.”
“We’ll have money, Kit. More money than we’ll know how to spend.”
“I doubt that,” she said.
Kathryn turned to George, wrapping her long arms around his neck. She leaned into him, letting herself go in a short fall, and he caught her and planted a big one on her. He reached his big hands around her waist and twirled her around, right there not ten paces from a pigsty and a shack, and kissed her on her ear and cheek and whispered to her that he’d really like to screw her on a big pile of money.
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better, doll.”
JONES SMOKED HIS PIPE FILLED WITH CHERRY TOBACCO, SITTING in the very wicker chair in which Charles Urschel had played bridge just two nights before. He thought it a pleasant summer night, wondering when the real contact would come and how it would come and how reasonable the bastards would be. The toughest thing about a kidnapping was sitting on your ass and waiting. Jones had never exhibited any talent for doing nothing.
“How will we know?” Mr. E. E. Kirkpatrick asked.
“It’ll be clear,” Jones said. “We’ll know.”
“Will it be a phone call?”
“Could be.”
“A telegram.”
“Could be written in tea leaves,” Jones said. “But you’ll know.”
Kirkpatrick was a thin man with a gaunt face and honest brown eyes; Jones thought he recalled something of the man being a newspaperman before joining up as a front man for Tom Slick. His seersucker suit rumpled, tie loosely knotted at the throat from travel, he had that rawboned look of a drinker, although Jones had never personally seen the man drunk. A straightforward fella, although a bit too much of a talker to Jones’s liking.
“This would’ve never happened in Europe,” Kirkpatrick said. “They are too civilized. Did you know that in England it’s a crime for a family to pay a ransom?”
“Is that what you think Mrs. Urschel should do? Not pay?”
Jones laid his Stetson crown down onto the table. He rolled his sleeves to the elbow and leaned in.
“We can’t let people like Charlie just be ripe for the picking. How’s an honest man supposed to live his life? Is a rich, successful man fair game for the masses? Does a man have to be surrounded by guards to take a nighttime stroll or go on an impromptu fishing trip?”
“I can’t tell the family what to do,” Jones said.
“But what would you do?”
“You mean if Mr. Urschel was my family?”
“Or if it were you?”
“If it were me, my wife wouldn’t give these people a plug nickel,” Jones said, smiling. “But that’s based on personal appraisal.”
“What if Charlie was your brother?”
“You think Mr. Urschel would pay?”
“I don’t think money is of concern to Mr. Urschel,” Kirkpatrick said. “Only the principle.”
