to claw at the men with manacled wrists, until she was held under her arms and by her feet, lifted high off the ground, and taken up the ramp. She launched a final fight at the top, right at the airplane’s door, thrashing and hollering, her screams drowned out by the approaching siren.
A sheriff ’s car had followed them from the courthouse. From the top of the stairs, Jones could see Sam Sayres in the front seat.
“Start her up,” Jones said, hollering.
An agent told the pilot. Men spun the props.
Sam Sayres waddled from the official car, hollering and cussing, holding a piece of paper aloft. Jones pointed to his ear and shook his head. White walked past him and into the DC-2. Jones smiled down on the tarmac and waved good-bye just as the wind from the props knocked the papers loose from the lawyer’s hands and sent them, scattering and tumbling, toward the tower.
Two minutes later they were in the air, headed back to Oklahoma City.
“GIVE ME A SIP,” KATHRYN SAID.
George passed the pint of Old Schenley, straight rye whiskey.
“Bottled in bond under U.S. government supervision,” Kathryn said, reading the label before uncorking the bottle.
“Makes me sad to see that.”
“I know, George,” Kathryn said, sliding up next to him on the edge of Ma Coleman’s front porch, the old woman finally in bed, door double-locked in case George decided to get frisky. “You were a hell of a bootlegger.”
“You mean it, Kit?”
“Sure.”
“Better than Little Steve Anderson?”
“George?” Kathryn asked.
He snatched back the bottle of rye and took a healthy swallow.
“Don’t fuck up the moment,” she said.
“So that’s our new chariot?”
“Best I could do.”
“I said cheap,” George said. “Not broke.”
“The man promised she ran good.”
“I haven’t seen an old truck like that since I was running liquor.”
“Man said those Model A’s will run forever if you change the oil.”
“All she has to do is get us outta Texas, and then we can ditch her.” Kathryn looked up to the beaten porch, flooded with light from a kerosene lamp, bugs swarming at its brightness, at the spades and picks, a folded-up tent, coffeepot, metal cups, and an iron skillet.
“George, I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t go to Mexico. They got my mother.”
“If we stay,” George said, knocking back more rye, “they’ll hang us. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”
“I ’spec not.”
“You can bring Chingy,” he said. His eyes had grown bloodshot and his face flushed.
“Sam Sayres wants a thousand dollars.”
“Don’t you dare wire that money,” George said. “You think the G isn’t watching his office now?”
“We got to get it to him personal,” she said. “I called him today from in town. He walked around the corner and caught the telephone at some cafe. He says he’ll meet me
“Anyone you trust to deliver the dough?”
“Louise.”
“You call her?”
“Couldn’t find her.”
“Go figure.” George nodded, and passed back the rye. “Say, why does your grandma hate me so much?”
“She thinks you’re leading me down the primrose path to hell.”
“Ain’t it fun?”
“It was.” Kathryn took a swallow and made a sour face. “That’s some tough stuff, George.”
“Fresh out of champagne,” he said. “Say, how ’bout you and me and the pooch head back to Chicago? We’ll be protected. Safe. I know some joints where no white man will set foot. Only go out at night, lay low, till somethin’ knocks us off the front page and we go back to being Joes.”
“You don’t get it? Our pictures are in every paper in the country.”
“Oh, hell. Haven’t you ever been to a party and thought you’d seen some bastard who’s famous, but then you start thinking that you’re a little loony ’cause the fella is shorter or has different-colored hair or something. That’s all we need-a little change in style.”
“What can you do to your hair?”
“Go blond.”
“That mug doesn’t go blond.”
“Come on,” George said. “You want to go to the Fair. We’ll take enough of the loot to have some good times and lay low. Get drunk, lie around in our underwear, and read the funnies for a few months. I know this ole bootlegger up there who’s on the square. He owes me from Memphis. They call him ‘Silk Hat’ Harry.”
“Only if we get the dough to Sayres,” she said. “He’ll drop their case if he doesn’t get paid.”
“Shit, just give him that new Chevrolet,” he said. “That’ll keep ’im happy for a while.”
George finished off the rye and tossed the bottle far out in the weeds, before leaning back on the porch planks and staring up at the bugs gathering around the lantern. He reached out, pawing at them, trying to touch the light that was too far away. “You’re gonna get us killed with that ole hard head.”
She didn’t speak. She could think of nothing to say.
“Did I ever tell you what Jarrett wanted for fingering Urschel?” he asked.
“Figured the couple grand you took off the top from Albert.”
“That was for two cars we ditched,” George said. “And gas and the Coca-Cola we bought Urschel.”
“So what’d you pay ’im?”
“Not a cent.”
“You’re off your nut.”
“You don’t unnerstand, Kit. He said the pleasure was all his, to finger a rotten bastard like Mr. Charles F. Urschel.”
“How come?”
“I didn’t ask and I don’t want to know.”
CHARLIE HADN’T SLEPT MUCH IN THE THREE WEEKS SINCE he’d been turned loose. Each night he found himself returning to his sunporch, taking in a cold drink or a hot cup of coffee, always a cigar, and replaying every hand of that bridge game. He’d study on it until the sun would come up, and then he’d return to the kitchen, where he’d greet the federal agents, who sat in cars and walked the perimeter to babysit the Urschel house. But Charlie didn’t think much about those sonsabitches coming back. They got what they needed and were long gone by now. They were just a set of rusted parts: knobs and pins, gears and springs. He only wanted to know who wound them.
Agent Colvin walked into the dark porch. No moon tonight. You could hear the crickets and mosquitoes hitting the screens.
Charlie sat alone in a far chair, far enough that even if there had been moonlight he couldn’t be seen. He drew on the cigar and didn’t say anything, dressed in a bathrobe he’d worn all day, refusing to eat or bathe for the last week.
“We got the Shannons locked up tight.”
Colvin stood a fair distance away from Charlie’s dark corner, as if he’d catch some dread flu.
Charlie smoked and nodded. The boy wore a nice double-breasted blue suit, hat in hand, and, strangely enough, looked to be carrying a gun. Charlie’d never noticed a gun.
“Agent Jones figured they’d be safer in the city. There was some concern of an escape in Dallas.”
