realizing they’d have to find some new digs, and sent Gerry back into the Piccadilly for George, heading north this time, skirting the lakefront.
“It was worse this time,” George said. “Walter Huston as the president gave me the creeps. The whole picture did nothing but blame gangsters for this country’s problems. What about the oilmen, the bank presidents, the greedy bastards on Wall Street? It’s easy. We’re an easy target. Hey, you want some popcorn?”
An hour later they found an apartment far north on Winthrop Street, a place called the Astra, the manager not even minding it being late and showing the good family to the little efficiency with a smile-this place being a hell of a lot cleaner-and talking about all the good folks he’d met from all over the world on account of the Fair.
“We’re going tomorrow,” Gerry said.
Kathryn ruffled her hair. “Ain’t she cute?”
George found the icebox and stared inside until Kathryn came over and let him know it was empty. She gave Geraline a five-spot and told her to fetch up some eggs and beer from a corner grocery she’d spotted.
“Candy?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Just as the door closed, she pulled George in close and bit his ear. He just stood there, limp in the shoulder and the arm, and she took a big handful of his sweaty shirt and asked him to do some pretty rough things to her. When he didn’t answer, she slapped him across the mug. “What’s the matter? We made it.”
“I’m going to sleep.”
She reached for his thick hand and placed it across her breast. His hand fell away, and he shook his head. “Wake me if I sleep too late,” he said, and stumbled off into a bedroom he’d never seen.
Kathryn sat there in the half dark on top of a big suitcase, wondering where the kid had gone, until she spotted something in a far corner, covered in dust and left alone. A fine, solid L. C. Smith & Corona, with working keys and everything, and a fat flat of snow-white paper.
She sat down and played with the keys a bit, the windows cracked open, hearing the night clatter of cars passing and kids up past their bedtime. A dog barking.
She played with the keys. She inserted a piece of paper.
By the time Geraline returned with an apple box of groceries, Kathryn barely heard her come in, Kathryn’s temples throbbing and sweat ringing the front of her dress and under her arms. She roused George from his sleep, only a crack of light coming from the bathroom.
“Hold this,” she said.
He took it and tried to focus, and then threw it to the ground and turned back over.
She picked it up with her gloves, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope addressed to Charles F. Urschel, Federal Building, Oklahoma City.
CHARLES F. URSCHEL KEPT THE LETTER IN THE RIGHT-HAND pocket of the suit Berenice had picked out-a strong navy linen, a crisp white shirt, and red tie clipped with a silver pin. He didn’t even think about reading it until he had been seated beside his wife, two sons, and Betty in the federal courthouse, a sweltering hotbox where women waved fans in front of their faces and men used the morning edition of the newspaper to create just a stir of air. Charlie at first thought the letter might not make a bad fan, and only on a whim did he slice it open with his thumb, being used to fan letters, love notes, and crackpots claiming to be Kelly himself. He unfolded it on his knee just as Boss and Ora, along with Potatoes, were led into the courtroom and seated side by side at the defense table. The table was flat and polished neat, a sweating pitcher of water and glasses the only obstruction.
While everyone continued to talk, waiting for the judge, Charles glanced down at the loose sheets of paper from the letter airmailed from Chicago:
Charlie took a breath, neatly folded the letter, and placed it into his pocket, scanning the courtroom for Bruce Colvin. Right as the judge entered and everyone stood, Charlie damn well heard an airplane overhead. He mopped his brow with a bleached handkerchief and excused himself, making his way from the courtroom, feeling like he was going to vomit.
In the public restroom, he steadied himself at a sink, splashing cold water in his eyes. As he dried his face and looked into the mirror, he spotted Bruce Colvin, standing over his shoulder.
“Betty was concerned.”
“I’m fine.”
“We’ve tapped two lines,” Colvin said. “Jarrett’s office and his personal line at home. We can put every conversation on phonographic records. It’s very clever stuff.”
Charlie steadied himself with hands on the porcelain sink.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“We have suspicions, too.”
“I said that won’t be necessary,” Charlie said, turning from the mirror and facing Colvin, the boy’s face withering in the volume of his voice. “My concerns were unfounded. I haven’t been well.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do I need to call Mr. Hoover myself or will you please drop this matter? Walter Jarrett is not a crook.”
“May I see what’s in the letter?”
Charlie snapped it into his hands like a piece of trash on the way out. “Why don’t you just find the Kellys, so my family can sleep. Or are you having too much fun playing house?”