“Yes, ma’am,” he said, still smiling, Kathryn wondering if his lips didn’t hurt by now, squeezed tight over that big crooked smile.
“I appreciate you coming over like this.”
“Well, you said you were scared.”
“I am scared.”
“What about, sweet muffin?”
“You know George.”
His smiled dropped fast. “I know George.”
She dropped her head into her hands and shook her shoulders a bit, trying out what it must feel like to cry. She really tried to work on the breathing part of it like she was steadying herself or trying to hold herself together, but she knew she could never pull off a good cry like a good actress might.
Ed got out of his chair so fast he knocked his hat on the floor and put a lean hand on her shoulder. “Darlin’.”
“He’s gone and done it.”
“What’d he do? He hit you?”
She shook her head and sniveled. Hot damn, the sniveling felt just about perfect. She opened the hands from her face and wrapped them around the coffee mug full of hooch. “I can’t say.”
“Who says?”
“George says.”
“He threaten you?”
She looked up at him, making her black eyes grow big, and not answering at first. “He’s gone and done it. He’s gonna take me down with him.”
“Darlin’.”
She took a drink of rye. She’d had to take a drink the last time with Ed, too. She reached up and held his bony hand and said calmly. “I’m through with him, Ed. I’m really through.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Your daughter here?” he asked.
“She’s visiting my aunt.”
“And George?”
“He’s out of town.”
“Daddy’s here,” said Detective Ed Weatherford. He gripped her hand back.
Kathryn stood from the kitchen chair and let Ed work his lean fumbling hands on her sash until the robe dropped to the checkerboard floor.
“GODDAMN,” SAID THE BIG, LUMBERING GUNMAN. “GODDAMN.”
He’d been cussing over and over, ever since the other man had gone off for some gas. They were parked somewhere on the side of a ditch, and Charlie could hear the cows making confused sounds and smell their fetid shit through the open windows.
“Goddamn. Goddamn.”
Charlie wanted to ask the fella which genius was the one who was supposed to fill up the getaway vehicle, but instead kept his mouth shut.
He heard the snick of a lighter and smelled a cigarette.
“Don’t think you’ll get much,” Charlie said, filling the silence.
“Why don’t you just shut up.”
“The money’s all tied up in trusts. Nobody can touch it. Not even me.”
The man said nothing and then leaned forward to open the door, and Charlie heard him talking to the other fella and asking him if he had to walk clear back to Bumfuck, Egypt, to get them some gasoline, and the partner told him he’d had to wake up the attendant to take the locks off the pumps.
“He see you?”
“It’s dark.”
“You were gone for an hour.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I’m not complainin’. I just said it took a while.”
“Well, goddamnit, you sure are a grateful bastard.”
“Fill it up and let’s get gone.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Charlie said again, but wasn’t sure if anyone was listening.
THEY SMOKED AFTERWARD, JUST LIKE A CUTE COUPLE IN THE movies. The sheets covered Kathryn to the stomach, but old Ed Weatherford lay nekkid, the flat of his back in the soft indention worn by George Kelly’s big ass, without a stitch on except for a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots. He stared at the ceiling, hands under his head, and held that Lucky in his lips with a cocky, contented smile.
“Do you like to dance?”
“Sure,” Kathryn said. “Who doesn’t?”
“My ma,” Ed said. “She said dancing was evil. Led to fornication.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly dancing in the kitchen.”
“I wish you’d warned me about that fork.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have hopped on that table.”
“Why’d you call on me, Kathryn?”
She rolled over toward him, propping herself on an elbow, and played with a thin patch of black hair on his chest. She noticed he had a couple white scars across his stomach like he’d been raked by gunfire at some time, and that excited her more than when they were in the kitchen and he had his boots on and britches hitched down to his knees.
“You got shot?”
“Some crazy nigger got me. I kilt him, though.”
“You like me? Don’t you, Ed?”
“Sure I like you. Didn’t I just prove it to you?”
“What if George were to get me in trouble?”
“Like in a family way?”
“No, real trouble. If he got arrested.”
“He rob another bank?”
“Let’s say he did and then they arrested me, too. Couldn’t you have me called back to Fort Worth? Find something to charge me with here?”
“You call it extradite, darlin’.”
“Well, can you?”
“I s’pose.”
“You s’pose what?”
“Sure, I could get you extradited here. Make sure you get a fair shake with some friendly judge.”
“You swear?”
“Depends on my motivation.”
She nestled under his long, skinny arm and plucked the Lucky from his lips, taking a drag and staring up at the big, damp spot on the ceiling where the roof had leaked. She took a few puffs and then reached for him.
“Whew, careful there, darlin’. That ain’t no gearshifter!”
CHARLIE THOUGHT THEY WERE DEAD FOR SURE WHEN THE CAR went veering off the road an hour later, scattering and swerving and then sliding deep down into some kind of gulley or ditch. He’d been rolled up and around, and then found himself in the backseat, hanging upside down. The gunmen screamed at each other, each calling the other stupid. The driver tried the engine, and it turned over, and then there was just the spinning of wheels on mud.
With the tape over his eyes, darkness around him, Charlie Urschel smiled.
“Well goddamn, get out and push, Floyd.”
“Quit callin’ me Floyd.”
“Well, that’s your name, ain’t it?”
“How ’bout you push?”
“Who’s got the machine gun, you dumb yegg? Use your head.”
4
Gus T. Jones barely had time to pack his leather grip with some fresh clothes and his thumb buster before he was on a flight Hoover had chartered out of San Antonio straight to Oklahoma City. He and Doc White stepped off the six-seater by themselves just before sundown and were met by a long black Ford, a couple agents, and the Special Agent in Charge, a fella by the name of Colvin. Bruce Colvin. He was a nice enough guy, and he even took Jones’s grip, which Jones took to be on account of respect and not ’cause he was an old man. Colvin was one of the new streamlined agents, not even thirty years old, with grease-parted hair and a tailored suit, and he kept on calling Jones “Sir” and saying “This way,” and even held the door open for him. Some kind of lawyer or accountant type.
Jones turned back to the Orion aircraft and watched a mechanic slide some wood blocks under the tires and the propeller sputter to a stop. He could hear the boy a little bit better and leaned in for him to repeat that last part as he held on to the doorframe. Old Doc White threw his bag into the trunk and lumbered back around, asking, “Where do we domicile?”
White still talking like he and Jones were both Rangers, riding the river together with rifles and rucksacks, nothing but hard, wide-open land and restless Mexicans trying to smuggle guns over the border. Back then they hadn’t even seen a damn airplane.
“We have rooms for you at the Skirvin,” Colvin said, still holding Jones’s grip. “We can take you there immediately, let you settle in and get something to eat before we meet with the Urschels.”
“Not necessary,” Jones said. “Doc?”
“Yep.”