Infamous

mood.”

“You are mighty mistrustful this morning.”

“Well, did you or didn’t you?”

“Aw, well.”

“Nerts.”

“Listen, doll,” Ed said, standing at the foot of the steps and mawing at his hat.

Kathryn stayed flat-footed on the porch and let him stammer.

“There’s been some rumors and questions, and I thought I’d be coming out here personal-like and see if there was any truth to them.”

“Please.”

“Darlin’, just listen to me. Isn’t that what you wanted from me the other night? Keep an ear open? Well, here I am. So don’t throw water in my face. I just wanted to know if George was involved with that oilman business.”

“What oilman business?”

“Shoot,” Ed said. He looked down at his pointed boots and let out a deep breath. “Hadn’t we all had a good time? Me, you, and George-hadn’t we shared some laughs? And now you won’t even be straight with me for me to help you.”

“I’ve been to visit my mother, Mrs. Ora Shannon.”

“I didn’t ask where you been, baby. I asked what about George.”

“George had business.”

“Selling Bibles?”

“Good-bye.”

Kathryn picked up her stack of bills, leaving her coffee, cigarette, and morning paper on the porch, and turned to the house. The screen door almost thwacked shut before Ed stuck his big fat foot in the threshold and grinned at her through the screen.

She waited.

He reached down and picked up the Daily Oklahoman from the porch floor by her coffee that continued to steam, red-lipped cigarette on the saucer.

“Good likeness of him,” Ed said. “I seen him speak one time at the Texas Oilmen’s Association. Seems like somebody would’ve seen them two fellas with machine guns. Say, does George still got-”

“Take it up with him.”

Ed made a real jackass show of folding up the newspaper all nice and neat and tucking it back near the coffee cup, saucer, and cigarette. “I can tell your nerves are a bit jangled this morning, and I can see you don’t have any sugar to give. I understand. But what you got to know, Mrs. Kelly, is that I knowed this is George’s work and I knowed why you were asking me about back doors and legal questions the other night. I didn’t figure it was for my good looks.”

Kathryn poked out her hip and placed a hand to it, thinking Mae West in She Done Him Wrong. “Are we finished?”

“Don’t think you need me now the deal is done,” he said. “The world can go sour on you anytime. You remember that, baby.”

She just looked through the screen at Ed Weatherford and waited for the goddamn, unfunny punch line coming from that goddamn, crooked mouth.

“I want a cut, Mrs. Kelly,” Ed said. “And this ain’t a request.”

“‘A-TRACTIONS OF THE ASTOUNDING NATURE, THE BI-ZARRE, THE start-ling and new in entertainment have been gathered from all parts of the universe to make The Midway-City of a Million Lights the z-z-zenith of amusement for all thrill seekers,’” the boy said. “Mr. Urschel, what does that word mean? ‘Zenith’?”

“Means ‘the highest point,’ son.”

“Holy smokes,” the boy said. “This must be somethin’ else. You want me to keep goin’?”

“You have plans to make the Fair?”

“Do I?” he asked. “Hold on a sec, and I’ll keep on readin’. ‘Located centrally on the World’s Fair grounds in Chicago, just south of Twenty-third Street, the many features of this outlay will satisfy even the oldest youngster that visits the Exposition.’ You know, they’re calling this thing ‘Century of Progress.’ That’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it? A whole dang century in one place? I got to see this. You want me to keep going or you want me to read them Ladies’ Home Journals to you? They got a story in there about Will Rogers that tickled me plenty. He sure is a pistol.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Mr. Urschel,” the boy said. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by chainin’ you up and makin’ you eat beans out of a can. I don’t get no pleasure out of it.”

“You could let me go.”

The boy laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“They’d kill me.”

“Who would?”

“You just messin’ with my mind now,” he said. “I was told I can read to you but better not talk. So let me go on… ‘Among the mul-multitudinous features are the many breathtaking rides, an Oriental village with exotic and colorful presentations of the life, rites, and customs of the Far East, a reproduction of African jungles and deserts, its queer villages, its ancient art and weird ceremonies, and “Bozo.”’ I think Bozo is some kind of monkey. A relation of mine just got back from Chicago and said they got some foreign dancers who don’t wear a stitch of clothes. The women’s titties jumpin’ up and down got to be worth the price of a ticket.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have another cigar on you?”

“I can git one,” he said. “Hit wouldn’t be trouble atall. Thought you said it wadn’t your brand.”

“It’s not. But I can enjoy it just the same.”

“Yes, sir. Hold on, Mr. Urschel. Hold on.”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

Charlie was handcuffed to the bed frame in stiff pajamas he’d worn for days, and, considering it was midday, he felt downright ridiculous. His arm had fallen asleep shortly after he’d been chained and would take nearly an hour to come alive when they’d move him room to room away from the sun’s heat. He heard the front screen door thwack close and heavy feet in the main room and coming closer.

The door flew open and two men stepped inside.

“Keys.”

A jangle, and heavy shoes moved toward him. A snick, and his dead arm dropped to his side.

“Up, Urschel,” said the big gunman who’d brought him to this wretched hole. Charlie was pushed into the next room, and a heavy hand sat him down hard in a chair. “We’re gonna take off the tape, but don’t turn around and look at us. I really don’t feel like killing you today.”

They ripped the tape from his eyes, and the brightness of the room blinded him in a white glow. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, the skin feeling wet and soft and raw around the edges.

The big gunman plunked down a cheap paper tablet and a pen on the desk. “Write,” the other gunman said. “You can choose who gets the letter. But you tell them we mean business and we want two hundred grand.”

Charlie Urschel didn’t feel like it, but he laughed like a hiccup escaping his belly. He didn’t mean it, but the whole idea was just kind of funny to him, the number so absurd that he wondered how they came up with it. “I don’t have-”

“Shut up and write, Charlie,” said the big gunman, Charlie recalling his fat, bullish neck.

A thick hand shoved the pen into his fingers, and he caught a glance of a ruby pinky ring on a hairy finger.

Concentrating on the paper and into the glare, Charlie worked about ten minutes constructing the letter to his business associate, E. E. Kirkpatrick. Kirk had handled his affairs for some time and would understand his tone and message beyond these men’s obvious mental limits.

A man over his shoulder with hot breath read it and then ripped it up.

“Let’s try again,” the big man said. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the condition of the Slick Company or