Infamous Ace Atkins

G. P. PUTNAMS SONS
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Atkins, Ace.
Infamous / Ace Atkins.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-18685-5

1. Kelly, Machine Gun, 1897-1954Fiction. 2. CriminalsUnited StatesFiction. I. Title.
PS3551.T
813.54dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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This book is for

DORIS ATKINS and CHARLIE WELCH

Im leading a trail that is crooked,

My foes lurk round every bend;

I know someday they will get me,

I dread to think of the end.

GENE AUTRY, GANGSTERS WARNING

Everything is funny as long as it is

happening to someone else.

WILL ROGERS

Saturday, June 17, 1933

Theyd barely made it out of Arkansas alive after nabbing Frank Jelly Nash inside the White Front Café, a known hangout for grifters, thieves, and assorted hoodlums vacationing in Hot Springs. At first, Nash had made a real show of how they had it all wrong and that his name was really Marshall, and for a second it seemed plausible until old Otto Reedthe sheriff theyd brought alongripped the toupee off Nashs bald head and then started for the mustache. Thats mine. Thats mine, Nash had said. Theyd ditched the plan to drive to Joplin after almost losing Nash at a roadblock of crooked cops. And now the old bank robber was seated across from them, riding the Missouri Pacific all-nighter out of Fort Smith, wearing a shit-eating grin, confident his hoodlum buddies would spring him.

Special Agent Gus T. Jones of the U.S. Department of Justice checked his gold pocket watch.

It was three a.m.

Four more hours until theyd meet the Special Agent in Charge in Kansas City, where he, his partner Joe Lackey, and Sheriff Reed would hand off the son of a bitch for a short trip back to Leavenworth, from where hed escaped three years before.

Jones would want a shower and a shave and some sleep, but first he wanted a meal at the Harvey House, a big plate of eggs and bacon with hot coffee, served by a lilac-scented Harvey girl whod flirt with him despite Jones being fifty-two years old and needing a pair of bifocals to read the menu. Hed call Mary Ann, find a hotel, and then ride the rails back to San Antonio, where he worked as the Special Agent in Charge.

If you let me go, Ill just tell people I escaped, Nash said. To my grave, Ill tell people I hopped out the crapper window.

Jones filled his pipe from a leather pouch and dusted loose tobacco from his knee.

He stared over at Joe Lackeya good fella, for a Yankeewho sported a gray fedora over his Roman nose and small brown eyes. Jones still preferred a pearl gray Stetson, the same kind required when hed been a Ranger and later worked for Customs years back, riding the Rio Grande on the lookout for revolutionaries, cattle rustlers, and German spies.

The night flew past.

The seats in the train jostled up and down, metal wheels scraping against rail, anonymous towns of light and smoke flying by the window, just slightly cracked. Joe Lackey crossed his arms across his chest, his chin dipping down to his red tie in short fits of sleep. Sheriff Reed sat closest to the window and watched the lean-tos, farmhouses, and hobo jungles ablaze with oil-drum fires whiz by, exchanging a glance or two with Nash. The old bandit would give him the stink eye and turn his head, disappointed that Jones would be so hardheaded as not to take a bribe.

Howd you find me? Nash asked, his bald pate stark white. Face beet red from the sun. Doesnt matter much now.

Jones looked at him across the haze of pipe smoke with a wry smile. Jelly Nash was chained to a bunk and couldnt even scratch his ass.

But youre not going to tell me.

Guess not, Jones said.

Hey, whered you get those boots?

El Paso.

You still got a horse?

Why dont you get some sleep.

Just making some conversation.

You got a lot of friends in Arkansas.

Sorry about that, Nash said. I thought that roadblock was my ticket out.

So did I.

Probably be some friends waiting on me in Kansas City.

I doubt it.

You want to put some money down?

You wanna fill me in?

People talk.

Jones stood as the train shifted onto another track, and he found purchase on an overhead rail. He emptied his pipe out the open window, feeling the hot summer wind on his face. Without much thought, he fingered the loose bullets in his right pocket, keeping the .45 revolver in a holster under the hot coat, despite the Justice Departments policy about agents not carrying weapons.

I think a federal cop is a screwy idea, Nash said.

Who asked you?

What makes you all any different from those goons in Spain or Germany?

Id like to know what makes a con so damn stupid as to return to the prison where he escaped. If you hadnt busted them boys outta Lansing, you might be sleeping on satin sheets at some hot pillow joint.

That wasnt me.

Joe Lackey raised his head and knocked up the brim of his fedora from his eyes with two fingers and said, Sure thing, Jelly. Sure thing.

Jones looked over at his old buddy Otto Reed and watched him sleep. Sheriff Reed looked ancient, out of step off a horse, out of place with the times. They only brought him along because hed know Nash on sight. The old man was cut from the same cloth as Joness mentor, old Rome Shields back in San Angelo, whod taught Jones to fight and shoot after his fathers heart had been pierced by an Indians arrow.

Jones clicked open his gold timepiece again, feeling the heft of his holstered gun.

Frank Nash watched him, looking like a circus clown with that naked white head and reddened face, smiling at Jones, knowing. Slats of light shuttered his profile as they passed under a wooden bridge and came out again in moonlight.

Jones didnt like the look. It was the kind that always made him fold a hand.

HARVEY BAILEY KNEW THE MEET WAS ON THE LEVEL, A LITTLE diner right around the corner from Union Station in Kansas City, Verne Miller sending the signal that Jelly Nash needed a friend. And, brother, there was a lot you could say about Jelly Nash, but that bald-headed son of a bitch was there for Harvey when Harvey was serving a ten-stretch for bank robbery in Lansing, helping bust him out last month with a set of .38s smuggled into boxes of twine. Harvey, Jim Clark, Mad Dog Underhill, and a few more thieving sonsabitches walking out with the warden pretty as you please, Underhill holding him with a garrote like it were a leash.

Jelly Nash.

That was all Verne Miller had to say, and there was Harvey sitting beside a redheaded woman in a red dress at the counter. The woman wanted some eggs and bacon after a little late-night action with Harvey, whod picked her up at a colored joint where theyd watched Cab Calloway and his orchestra till three oclock. When Miller walked in the door, the woman kept studying her nails, not even noting the two men were friends. Of course she didnt know Harvey was married and had a kid, or even his real name. Hed told her that he was a traveling salesman of womens nightgowns, wondering if the action couldve been better if shed known she was with the dean of bank robbers, the gentleman bandit whod been knocking over jugs for more than ten years. She surely had read about some of his work, two million in cash and stocks from the National Bank and Trust in Lincoln a couple years back, or the U.S. Mint in Denver in 22.

Shed liked his gray hair, his tailored navy suit and crushed-felt hat, and his jokes at the hotel when theyd finished up the first time and hed hummed Ive Got the World on a String as they cooled down under the sheets.

At the diner, he handed the gal some bus fare, patted her backside, and she was gone, the girl knowing the score as much as he did. Harvey moved onto a stool close to Miller and smiled as a goofy-looking fella in a paper hat refilled their coffee and seemed to be real impressed that Jean Harlow was in town, asking if they knew she was a hometown girl.

Miller just looked up from his coffee, and the boy shut his mouth and headed back to the kitchen.

You sure know how to make friends.

Miller shrugged.

Harvey had known Miller for years. He was a retired bootlegger, a part-time bank robber, and a full-time button man for the Nitti Syndicate in Chicago and the Jew Outfit in New York. Miller had been a war hero whod come home from the trenches to be elected sheriff somewhere in South Dakota. And then he decided to take a nice cut of the county purse for himself and was run from town. Harvey met him after all that, when theyd been running whiskey down from Canada into Minnesota.

He was blond-haired and gray-eyed, movie-star handsome, a stone-cold killer who hated foul languagemost of all when you used the Lords name in vain.

Goddamn, its good to see you, Harvey said.

Miller shifted his eyes to him. Hed yet to take off his gray hat.

The two men sat in front of the plate glass of the diner, the small space feeling like a fishbowl, brightly lit in the middle of the night. Miller shuffled out a cigarette from his pack of Camels and tossed the rest to Harvey.

So whats the score?

They got Jelly in Hot Springs at Dick Galatass place, Miller said.

That was kinda showy, wasnt it? Prancing around Hot Springs like nobody would see him.

Miller shrugged. Two federal agents and some old sheriff.

What time?

Seven.

Whos meeting them at the station?

Guess well find out.

You got guns.

I got guns.

We got help? Harvey asked.

Working on it.

Hows it looking?

Miller shrugged.

Goddamn.

I dont like that kind of talk, Harvey.

I got a gun, Harvey said. A helluva gun that was supposed to help with some bank work, make some dough, and get me out of this lousy racket.

I can handle a Thompson.

I dont want trouble, Harvey said. I dont want any trouble. This can be as smooth and easy as we like.

I dont like trouble, Miller said, squashing out his cigarette. I hate it.

Jesus, I just wanted to make a little dough and cash out, Harvey said. And this doesnt do nothing but turn up the heat on all us.

Its a square deal.

Am I arguing?

THE MISSOURI PACIFIC STOPPED ONCE IN COFFEY VILLE AND rolled on through Roper and Garnett, curving east to Osawatomie and Leeds. The gray morning light hit the side of unpainted barns leaning hard into the wind and brushed across the windows of the train car. Jones watched Frank Nash startle himself with a hard snore and come alive with a start, reaching for a gunlike a man on the run was apt to dobut only getting a few inches and finding bound wrists.

He looked up at Jones, and Jones winked back.

Jones fingered bullets into the cylinder of his .45, spinning the wheel and clicking it back into frame. Joe Lackey was in the washroom shaving with a straight razor hed bought from the negro porter.

How bout some breakfast? Nash asked.

I hear they make a mean slop of grits in Leavenworth, Sheriff Otto Reed said. Reed was a pleasant man with a stomach large enough to provide a good rest for crossed arms. He chuckled a bit at his own joke, and Jones smiled back at him.

Nash said, Otto, sometimes you can be a true, authentic asshole.

Think of me when youre being cornholed, Jellybean.

Nash looked like hed sucked a lemon.

The light turned gold and hot, shining over endless rows of green cornstalks about to ripen in the high summer. Nash began to complain about the manacles hurting his wrists and asked if he could please put his hairpiece back on because he knew the Star and Associated Press would be waiting when he got off the train.

Come again? Jones asked.

You know, that reporter fella who chatted you all up in the station and knew who I was and where were going? Yes, sir, I bet my story is all across the wire.

Jones looked over at Sheriff Reed, and Reed said he didnt know what he was talking about. Lackey came out of the head, drying off his face with a little towel and then sliding back into a wrinkled shirt, knotting his tie high at the throat.

Did I miss something? Lackey asked.

KANSAS CITY UNION STATION WAS A BIG, FAT STONE CATHEDRAL with a sloping roof and Greek columns, a weigh station, a purgatorial crossroads where tracks from all over creation mishmashed and met and then bent and whipped out to the next turn, the following bend. Big, wide schedule boards, shoeshine stands, soda fountains, and fancy clocks, and even a Harvey House restaurant that Harvey had always liked because of the name.

They could turn right back around, head out of the city, and rob a dozen banks, fattening their rolls and leaving Jelly Nash to his own mire of shit. Sure hed been a good egg and come through with those .38s, but sending along some guns while you sit back and read the newspapers on the crapper aint the same as putting yourself out there, waiting outside a train station, sweating from worry, with barrels aimed at detectives and federal agents. Harvey wasnt so sure that Nash would go that far, truth be told.

Whered you get the Chevy? Harvey asked.

Does it matter?

Gonna be tough with just two, Harvey said, spotting the entrance where theyd watch and wait, windows down in all this heat.

Says who? Miller asked. That Thompsons a beaut.

Belongs to George Kelly, Harvey said. Kit bought it as an anniversary gift.

And he let you borrow it?

Hell, I said Id give it back.

George Kelly, Miller said, smiling as much as Verne Miller ever smiled. Machine Gun Kelly.

I know, I know, Harvey said. You remember that little bank in Ottumwa? He got so scared he puked all over himself.

Hes getting a name.

I dont want a name. Gettin a name gets you killed. If I hadnt been so damn stupid carrying those bonds with me, Id never been pinched.

Next time dont play golf with Keating and Holden.

Harvey slid into a parking space by the entrance and killed the engine. Two black sedans pulled by the doors, four men gathered and talked. Two of them held shotguns. One showed a badge to a porter when the porter gave some back talk.

We take em after they got Nash, Miller said.

Frank Nash aint worth this, brother.

Lansing mustve been a special place.

Harvey leaned into the drivers seat and lit another cigarette. Hed burn through three more before hed see those boys leading Frank Nash out in handcuffs. Verne, you are the most honorable bastard I ever met.

THE TRAIN BACKED INTO PLATFORM 12 A LITTLE AFTER SEVEN.

Jones and Joe Lackey were on their feet. Sheriff Reed unlocked Nashs handcuffs, let him affix the curly brown toupee back on his head, and then locked the cuffs back in front of him.

How do I look? Nash asked.

Like some squirrel crawled onto your head and died, Lackey said.

Nash ignored him and lifted his hands to use a little finger to smooth down a thin mustache while Lackey walked out first. From the window, Jones could make out a handshake with a clean-shaven young man in a blue suit and neat tie, the kind of style that mirrored all those endless memos from J. Edgar himself. Jones eased up a bit, still feeling good with the gun under his arm.

He reached for the broken-in Stetson on the rack, slid it onto his head. From down on the platform, Lackey gave a wave.

Cmon, Jelly, Jones said. Lets go.

Only my friends call me Jelly, and youre no friend of mine.

Get goin, shithead, Jones said. Hows that?

Reed snatched Nashs elbow. Jones led the way.

He walked down onto the steps. The black locomotive still hissing and spitting, worn out in the hot morning. He scanned the station, not finding much but that kind of simple action; the quiet rhythm you find at all train stations, coming and going, women in hats, men looking at the big board. The place was endless, as large a station as Jones had ever seen, fashioned of brick and marble, with tall windows that were downright religious. Hed always imagined purgatory would be a place like this, a big, sprawling train station with people filtering through, but so large that you could never find your way out.

Lackey introduced him to the young agent.

The kid pumped his hand and smiled and told Jones hed read all about him in True Detective, about the trouble at that Indian reservation, all those dead women, and what an honor it was to work with him. He looked to be about twelve years old, hair parted neat across one side, eyes eager, and hands nervous as he accepted the key from Sheriff Reed and took custody of Frank Nash.

Merry Christmas, Jones said. I sure will miss your company, Jelly.

Go fuck yourself, Nash said.

Is it just you? Jones asked the young agent.

No, sir.

The young man nodded to the front entrance of Union Station and three men in suits walking toward them. He pushed Nash ahead, placing a .38 in the small of his back and nervously telling the old train robber that hed blow out his spine if he tried any funny business. Frank Nash just laughed at that and said, Oh, all right, kid. Nothin from me.

More introductions.

Two beefy Kansas City detectives and the Special Agent in Charge.

We got a car waiting outside, the KC SAC said. The detectives here will follow us to the prison just in case.

Just in case what?

An ambush, he said. Their car is armor plated.

They were a group now, and Jones could feel the nervousness around him, scanning the big openness of the station, looking for any quick movement, a face covered by a newspaper, the point of a barrel around a corner. The light bleeding through the high-walled windows yawned white-hot on the marble floors.

When they passed a little booth for the Travelers Aid Society, a woman gave a big smile, looking at old Frank Nash, the curly toupee on his head and chained wrists, and said, Well, Ill be. Its Pretty Boy Floyd!

Jones looked over at Lackey, and they had a laugh, before emerging from the big cavern and out on the street and to the waiting car.

The two detectives walked ahead, watching the street, guns at the ready.

They handed Joe Lackey a shotgun theyd brought in from the trunk of the armored car. Jones placed his big revolver in his coat pocket while the young agent and the two beefy detectives walked Frank Nash out of Union Station and crossed the big open platform to the parking lot. A long row of windows showed folks eating up breakfast at the Harvey House, and Jones promised himself hed come back just as soon as the bastard was delivered and locked away.

The lot had filled with automobiles and people hustling through the big wide doors to the station. A metallic voice from a public-address system read off the morning trains set to leave. A gaggle of nuns emerged from a taxi, and a fat nun opened a coin purse to count out change into the drivers hand.

Put Jelly up front, Jones said.

The young agent placed him in the passenger seat. Otto Reed and Joe Lackey piled in the back of the sedan. Jones followed, and the two cops stood smoking and watching the parking lot, listening to instructions on the route to Leavenworth. They were to take a few back roads just in case they were followed.

The young agent pumped the detectives hands and then crossed back toward the drivers side of the car.

Jones took a breath and hoisted himself in the backseat beside Sheriff Reed and Lackey. Lackey had propped the shotgun up between his legs, and Jones made the remark he looked like he worked for Wells Fargo.

Cars passed. One of the detectiveshed later know the name was Groomsfinished a cigarette and smashed it underfoot, making his way to the hot car.

Hands up, a voice yelled.

A black Chevrolet had stopped beside them, and as Jones turned he heard the words, Let em have it. As Jones bent forward, he saw the young agent chopped to his knees and heard Sheriff Reeds shotgun blast by his ear, the top of Frank Nashs head opening up like a red flower as windows shattered and glass rained down on his neck. As Jones reached for the .45, bullets zipped all over the goddamn place, pinging and piercing, and he heard garbling yells and cries and dull bloody thuds that sounded like a mallet hitting steak.

Lackey was down beside him. He was bleeding, too.

The car shuddered and shook for a solid twenty seconds.

Stay down, Jones whispered.

The silence was electric and dull, and then buzzing filled Joness ears, and he heard the crunch of shoes upon the broken glass. A man breathed above him, words as close as if a filthy mouth had been placed to his ear, saying: Theyre dead. Theyre all dead. Lets go.

Kathryn had met George Kelly in a Fort Worth speak just before he got nabbed selling some moonshine on a Cherokee reservation just outside Tulsa. Shed been with Little Steve Anderson back then, and George had been with the kind of girl that George tended to be with before he traded up. Hed looked at her and lit a cigarette, a fat ruby ring on his finger, and winked, saying, Where have you been all my life? And he said it right there, right in front of Little Steve and the woman he was with, and Kathryn felt like she couldnt breathe. He was big and dark and looked rich. Very rich. And that night shed snuck away from that sad-sack husband of hers and wrapped her long fine legs around big George in the back of his 1928 Buick, him taking it to her so hard that it about wore out the shocks on that poor machine.

As shed slipped back into her unmentionables and scooted her silk dress past her knees, she lit a smoke. George had smiled at her and she smiled back, saying: Just what in the world are we going to do about this?

Thats the most romantic story Ive ever heard, said the girl, a friend of Kathryns who worked the coat check at the Blackstone Hotel. Thats something out of Daring Confessions, or Good Housekeeping if you kept out the sex part.

The two sat at a corner table at a beer joint in downtown Fort Worth, the old basement of a hardware store that still smelled of fresh-cut wood and penny nails. The bar was mahogany and the floors black-and-white honeycomb tile. The place was class in spades. Waiters wore white, and the band, Cecil Gill and the Yodeling Cowboys, dressed in satin garb with clean ten-gallon hats.

I loved him more when I saw how he handled himself, she said. You know, when he worked a job.

Two more women joined them from the bar. A negro in a white jacket brought them all shots of whiskey and frosty Shiner Bocks in thick glass mugs. The booze not as much fun since drinking was getting to be legit.

And when he got out of the Big House, Kathryn said, I was right there waiting for him. We drove straight through to Saint Paul and got married on the spot.

I like your ring, said the girl.

Kathryn looked at her finger as if eyeing a speck of dust. Im getting a new one soon.

Do tell, said the hatcheck girl.

Its big.

How big?

So big that Im through with Texas.

A bank?

Theres no money in banks anymore, Kathryn said. This Depression ruined that. You cant find a decent jug these days.

The three girls leaned forward. They were pretty, all of them wearing stylish new hats cocked just so and expensive little silk scarves. Kathryn pulled out a cigarette, always a Lucky, from a silver case, and two of the girls greeted her with a match.

She smiled self-consciously and took the one nearest to her.

Wheres George? asked one of the girls.

Working.

Did you bring em? asked another.

Kathryn smiled and reached into her little purse, pulling out three spent brass bullet casings. She slapped them on the table and said, You can probably still feel the heat in em. He shot up a barn this morning. You know, to practice.

Is it true he can write his name in bullets? asked the hatcheck girl, maybe getting a little too breathless about George.

Sister, Machine Gun Kelly can write his name in blood.

KATHRYN GOT BACK TO MULKEY STREET A FEW HOURS LATER SO plastered with whiskey and gin she nearly took out a fire hydrant turning in to the bungalows driveway. The bungalow had belonged to her second husband, Charlie Thorne, and she was glad hed left her something before shooting himself in the head with a .38, leaving a typed sob-sister note blaming his problems on her. Cant live with her, cant live with out her, the note read.

The kitchen light was on.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against the window glass to steady her feet.

George R. Kelly, aka George Barnes, aka R. G. Shannon, aka Machine Gun Kelly, looked up from an iron frying pan where he was flipping pancakes. He wore nothing but boxer shorts and blue socks. A cigarette hung loose out of his mouth.

Where the hell you been?

Working.

Working?

The boxer shorts were white and decorated with red hearts. His blue socks were held up with garters.

People are talking about you, she said. How do you think that gets done?

Youre drunk.

So are you, she said, eyeing the empty bottle of Old Log Cabin bourbon on the table.

Aw, hell, George said. Is that the way its gonna go?

Why are you cooking so much?

We got company.

Its two in the morning.

I just got a call, George said. Verne and Harvey are in town. Dont that beat all?

What? Kathryn asked. Are you screwy?

They needed a place to sleep.

What the hell are they doing in Texas? They hate Texas.

Hand me some bacon out of the icebox.

Kathryn plopped down at the little kitchen table and massaged her temples. She breathed, just trying to wrap her drunk mind around what George had done.

Dont get sore, he said. Make coffee.

You make coffee, you rotten son of a bitch.

Hey.

Dont you know that we got work to do? Have you even read any of those articles I cut out? Do you know how broke we are? GMAC calls every damn day about the Cadillac.

I got that covered.

What? You and Albert are going to go knock over a gas station for ten bucks? This is real money.

I guess.

You guess? Kathryn stood, walked up to her large husband, and rapped on his forehead with her knuckles. This isnt some bank job in Tupelo. This is the score. And just as were getting ready, you want Harvey Bailey and that sadistic son of a bitch Verne Miller cutting in. You know theyll want in.

Maybe we should cut em in. Theyre good, Kit. Theyre real good. Ive worked with them, not you. Its my ass.

And you want to cut the money another two ways?

Goddamnit.

Listen to what Im saying.

Thats not it. Aw, hell. You made me burn the gosh-dang pancakes.

She took a breath, damn glad she was drunk right now. She half walked, half stumbled back to the bedroom, where she pulled her new dress up over her head, down to her pink slip, and looked at herself in the long oval mirror. She was still good-looking at thirty, still had the curves but not too fat, and the dark hair and eyes she got on account of her Cherokee grandmother. Nice cheekbones. Like the makeup ladies told her at Neiman Marcus, good bones accounted for it all.

A black curl dropped over her eye as she studied herself, turning left to right, watching her profile and trying to remember that pout shed caught from Claudette Colbert.

She wiped the dark red lipstick off her mouth with a rag and had just plopped into an unmade bed when George stuck his head in the room. Honey, you mind making up the bed and sofa for the boys? Theyre gonna be real tired.

She didnt answer, pretending she was asleep, but after he closed the door Kathryn turned over and clicked on a bedside lamp. From the middle of a thick family Bible, she pulled out a handful of neatly clipped newspaper articles from the Daily Oklahoman. One of them had been read so much it had grown soft and light in her hands, the folds like lines on an old-time treasure map.

The headline read OIL MAN URSCHEL MARRIES SLICK WIDOW.

The union of the two fortunes will make the Urschels the richest household in the state and one of the richest in the nation. Charles Urschel began his career as partner of the noted Tom Slick, King of the Wildcatters, back when Oklahoma . . .

Kathryn read the story four times, each time with a pleasant smile, feeling much, much better about the world, before clicking off the table lamp and falling asleep.

Sometime about dawn she heard heavy feet and laughter and the clank of bottles and glasses and the smell of more burning bacon.

She lay there staring at the cracked ceiling, thinking of ways to send those two rotten bastards on their way.

THE NEWSBOYS CALLED IT THE UNION STATION MASSACRE. By the time Gus T. Jones was pulled from the shot-up machine, five men were dead. Sheriff Reed, the two Kansas City cops, Frank Nash, and the young agent. The boys name was Caffrey. Joe Lackey was shot in the arm, and the SAC was shot in the shoulder. Jones was pulled from the car without a scratch, and he walked the breadth of the brick streets, ringed by onlookers and police, and found the whole thing muted and curious, especially the way one of the big cops lay across the other, like twin boys sleeping in a river of blood.

Jones wired Hoover from the station.

Hoover cabled back that hed send more men.

The afternoon heat was on them, and Jones stayed long after each man was picked up off the uneven streets by a pasty mortician and his wife and driven away on a flatbed truck. Jones had immediately sealed off the station while the cops put out a radio call for the Chevy. He personally interviewed twenty-seven witnesses, most of whom had been eating a morning meal at the Harvey House. A reporter had spoken to the woman at the Travelers Aid Society, and soon the word was that Pretty Boy Floyd and his gang were responsible. The hell of it was that Jones didnt know whod pulled the trigger or driven the car, or if thered been two or a half dozen of em.

Every story varied. The gunman was short. He was tall. He was dark. He was light. He wore a gray suit. He wore a blue suit. He was handsome. The man was ugly.

When bullets fly, the last thing a person does is study faces.

The hatband on Joness Stetson had grown wet.

He walked back into the relative coolness of the station, the place feeling even more like a cathedral. He sat down on a long, lone wooden bench. A wide swath of light fell from the windows, and he tilted his face into the sun, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief.

It was then he noticed the blood and gray matter across the lapels of his jacket.

Old Sheriff Reed grabbing for that shotgun between his legs, weathered hands slipping while trying to take aim at the gunmen, instead blowing off half of Jelly Nashs head. Jones knew hed take that image to the grave and never tell a soul. He figured Lackey would do the same, knowing Reed worked better for the newsboys as a martyr and not an old lawman with shaky hands.

Jones thought back to a box canyon nearly twenty years ago just outside Pilares, where some greenhorn Rangers and a lone Customs agent had followed Mexican bandit Chico Cano as he drove a herd of stolen horses back to Mexico. The canyon had been nothing but a trap, and soon Joness friend and the young Rangers had been pinned down by at least thirty bandits, two Rangers escaping and making for a nearby ranch where they got word to Jones. By the time he found the men, they were all dead. Shot a hundred times, faces unrecognizable after being smashed with rocks. The bandits had shot their horses, too, and stolen their saddles and guns. Some political types in Austin blamed the men who escaped for not staying in the canyon and fighting to the death.

Jones would never forget loading up those boys on mule back, the heat more than a hundred, the bloated bodies already busted and the smell so awful that it caused one of the animals to vomit.

It took years. But Jones got the saddles and the guns back.

And Chico Canos head, too. A gift from Pancho Villa.

Sir?

Jones slipped the glasses back on his face, bringing Union Station back into focus. Another young agent handed him coffee and told him hed drive whenever he was ready to head to the office. Jones thanked him and drank the coffee by himself in that long wash of light. He cleaned his glasses again and, when no one was looking, wiped the brains and blood from his jacket, tucked the handkerchief into his pocket, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer.

Then he stood, checked his weapon, and walked back to the Western Union office.

The next cable to Hoover read AGENTS CANNOT WORK ARMED WITH PEA-SHOOTERS. PLEASE ADVISE.

THE SONSABITCHES HAD LEFT HER CUTE LITTLE KITCHEN A goddamn mess. Kathryn was no nigger maidJunie came on Wednesdayand she didnt have time to be scraping out skillets and pouring suds into her big sink to clean up the piles of dishes laden with pancake syrup and cigarette ash. Coffee mugs that smelled like piney gin and sweet bourbon, open bottles of beer and busted poker chips. Son of a bitch. Kathryn walked over the black-and-white tile maze of the floor in her gingham housecoat, hair pulled into a tight knot behind her head, her arms elbow-deep into the bubbles, a cigarette hanging loose from her mouth.

The radio was tuned to WBAP, Jimmie Rodgers singing Miss the Mississippi and You. That yodeler was dead but still singing like the world was nothing but heartache and pain.

She poured in more suds and scrubbed another dish with a brush, rinsing with the clean water, drying with a damp towel, and placing it up on the rack. She grabbed a coffee cup that had been part of a set from her mama, Ora, and she gritted her teeth at the sight of a fat cigar ash in the bottom. George.

The back door to her little bungalow opened, and she smiled up at the face of old Albert Bates, the only friend of George Kellys that she could stand. He was nearly as tall as George, soft muscled, with a high forehead and gentle eyes. Bates was a good egg. A professional thief who was as honest as they come.

Hey, doll, Kathryn said.

Jesus H., Albert said, kissing her on the cheek and setting a suit jacket across a chair. I miss the party?

He rolled up his sleeves and began to clear more dishes, whistling along with old Jimmie the brakemans yodels while Kathryn bopped her head in time.

Harvey Bailey and Verne Miller stopped by last night.

Theyre gone? Albert asked, nudging Kathryn over with his butt and taking a spot in the suds, handing her the clean dish to rinse.

I told George to get em gone.

Where to? he asked.

They showed George a map, easy-pickin banks.

No banks are easy pickin these days. Nothin to pick.

He handed her a couple of her mothers cups. Chipped china with delicate rose designs.

I cant stand either one of those bastards, Kathryn said, rinsing and then drying. Verne Miller gives me the creeps. Those eyes. Jesus.

Did George . . .

Hes not that stupid, thank God, Kathryn said. This is a two-man job.

And one woman.

Doesnt come much better than Charles F. Urschel, Albert Bates said. Hey, can I have a smoke?

Kathryn dried her hands and reached for her pack of Luckies, sticking one into Alberts chiseled mug and lighting it with a kitchen match.

Oil, Bates said. Those people shit money. Howd you find im?

Can you believe it was Georges idea? she said. Hes got a finger man in O.K. City who said this fat cat was ripe.

Just like we like em.

Al?

Yeah, sweetie?

You ever get a pain in your heart just cause you feel so damn regular and dull?

No one would ever call you dull, Kit.

Kathryn smiled and pulled out another smoke. It sure is good to have some sense in the house.

Me and George will plan this thing so tight, itll be

Kathryn mashed her index finger to Albert Batess lips and said: Shush. Dont be a dope and get all cocky.

Saturday July 22, 1933

Charles F. Urschel found the cigar a little dry to his liking and squashed it out in an ashtray while Walter Jarrett dealt another rubber of bridge for the couples. Jarrett was just another oilman in Oklahoma City, someone Charlie knew casually from the club, but hed seen fit to invite himself and his talkative wife over for a long evening. Theyd already played too many rubbers, and despite Betty coming home at eleven-thirty as promised and kissing her mama on the cheek, they continued to stay on the sunporch and talk about government price schedules for low-grade gasoline, a shoe sale at Katz Department Store, and the new presidents radio address on Monday night. Charlie lit up another cigar, the same brand, but this one kept much better, and he said, What the hell, one more rubber, and the cards were all spread around and drinks refreshed. Mrs. Jarrett remarked how pretty young Betty looked in her summer dress, and Berenice was the one who said thank you, because, after all, Betty wasnt Charlies daughter but Tom Slicks, and as long as Charlie lived he damn well knew the differences between him and his old buddy and brother-in-law, who folks still called King of the Wildcatters.

You must watch boys, Mrs. Jarrett said. You cant trust boys. They are ruled by their thingamajigs.

Charlie smiled over at Mr. Jarrett because it seemed to be the thing to do at the mention of peckers, and Jarrett grinned back before he leveled his eyes back at the cards. Jarrett was an uneasy card player who needed complete concentration, whereas Charlie could give the hand one glance, lean back, and enjoy his cigar while working out the basic math and guessing who had what and how theyd play em. Didnt matter if you were playing with an oil executive or a driller in some rotten boomtown, people had their systems and rarely liked to break tradition.

More pay for less hours does not make a lick of sense to me, Jarrett said. But they say we dont have a choice.

I have warned Betty, but she wont listen to me about boys and their animal ways, Berenice said. A new one comes calling almost every day, like tomcats.

Roosevelt means well, Charlie said. But you wont see me wearing that goddamn NRA eagle on my breast.

You can be like that dry cleaner I read about in Muskogee, Jarrett said. He said the eagle was mentioned in Revelations and that he wouldnt sign a damn thing with the mark of the beast.

I heard from a woman at the club that one young man tried to hide his in a popcorn box during a matinee movie show, Mrs. Jarrett said, eyes on her hand and then cutting them over at Berenice. It wasnt even a romance picture. It had Tom Mix in it.

Im not one for handouts, Charlie said. They can have their time with all this NRA nonsense until sharper minds prevail. Have you seen that film Gabriel Over the White House? I know the idea of a president dissolving Congress is kind of screwy, but Ill be damned if Walter Huston didnt make a fine leader at that.

You arent thinking of getting into politics? Jarrett asked.

What did that boy want? Berenice asked, hand light on her breast. For her to touch it? My Lord.

Berenice, would you hush and get us all some coffee? Charlie asked. Id like mine with a kick. Anyone else? Hell, no, I dont care one bit for politics or much for government. Why are you two talking about popcorn?

The porch had been fashioned from the rear of the mansion, screened in, with comfortable rattan chairs and ceiling fans to scatter away the midnight humidity and cigar smoke. The evening was a pleasant one in Oklahoma City, and the women quickly returned with a serving tray, china cups, and saucers. Hot coffee was poured, a little whiskey added, and Charlie began to flick cards around the table.

Berenice sat directly across him, Mrs. Jarrett flanked him to the right, and Mr. Jarrett to the left.

Berenice declared no trumps, and so the last game of the evening began with not much thought, the smoldering cigar burning down into Charlies fingers as he studied Mrs. Jarrett until she led with a ten of spades.

The radio played the orchestra from the Skirvin Hotel but soon signed off, and the weather and Ag reports began. Berenice walked to the cabinet and flicked off the RCA, and the couples were left with the soft evening sounds, a passing car or two, and there wasnt a bit of notice when they heard a car pull into the drive by the garage behind their home, doors click closed, and soft, deliberate steps coming from the walk.

Charlie lifted his eyes from his cards to Berenice, and Berenice shifted in her chair as if the cushion had grown hot. Betty Slick hadnt been home a half an hour and already suitors were driving by with a lot of teenage bravado, probably searching out pebbles to pelt her bedroom window.

Mrs. Jarrett played a jack, and her husband threw across a six.

Berenice met Charlies eyes with a smile, tossing across a king and winning the trick. He gathered the cards and made a notation on a pad beside him, taking a puff of his cigar, the tip glowing red, and smiling just as two shadows appeared before the screen door.

Men in dark suits and hats walked onto the porch. Both held guns.

The couples froze.

Which one of you is Mr. Urschel? the larger of the two asked. He had a square jaw and a thick neck, eyes obscured in shadow.

No one said a word.

I said whos Urschel? the man said, with a calm force and without a bit of nervousness, casually holding a Thompson machine gun as if it were a Christmas ham. The shorter of the men, who wasnt that much shorter, only slighter and leaner, held a revolver and kept a gun trained on Jarrett.

The last of the cigar smoke floated up from the glass ashtray, scattering into the ceiling fan as the big clock in the main house began to chime. Charlie could feel the blood rushing through his ears, thinking of that sorry bastard of a night watchman hed fired only last week on account of him sleeping on the job and listening to Amos n Andy when he should have been out patrolling.

The chimes stopped.

Okay, said the large man. Well take em both.

Urschel stood.

Jarrett did the same.

The large man gripped Charlies arm with thick, meaty fingers, walking him to the door as if he were a common drunk being tossed from a party. But the man suddenly stopped as if reminded by his manners or by the interruption of a passing thought. He turned back to the women with a grin: Ladies, dont say a word or make a move toward the telephone, or Im afraid well have to blow your goddamn heads off.

THE RIDE WAS FOREVER OR MAYBE TEN MINUTES, BUT FINALLY the damn car slowed and doors were thrown open. The driverthe large mantold Jarrett, without knowing his name, to get his ass out. The gunman who sat beside Charlie in the backseat nudged him in the ribs with the revolver and told him to be a good boy and stay put and shut the fuck up. The car had stopped at a dirt crossroads, and with the windows down Charlie could hear a baying hound and see flickering lights from a house a half mile from where the gunmen spoke to Jarrett.

The short one pulled a wallet from Jarretts pocket and thumbed through it. He lifted his head up to the other man and cocked it like a crow. Heavy headlights from the car seeped onto their heavy black shoes, and the big man with the big gun stepped forward.

Its not him.

The other man picked out a wad of cash and tucked it into his own shirt pocket before handing Jarrett back his wallet.

Now what?

Charles F. Urschel counted the silence, feeling the ticking of his watch against his wrist. He could not breathe, not that he was a great friend to Jarrett, but he didnt want to be a spectator to the mans execution either. He reached for the door handle.

One of the men said: Start walking, brother.

Charlie let out a long breath.

And the gunmen turned and came for Charlie, but he wasnt the least bit afraid, knowing they were going to hold him ransom just like that city managers son and that brewer from Minnesota and all the rest, so he let them go ahead and place cotton over his eyes and tape across the bridge of his nose and down between his eyebrows in the fashion of a cross.

He was led back to the car, someone pushing him down into the floorboard and telling him to be quiet and not move, and if they were stopped not to make a peep or hed not only get himself killed but theyd go back for his family.

Charlie hadnt opened his mouth since the sunporch.

The car fired up, and they rolled away, and Charlie bumped and jostled and closed his eyes, since there was no use keeping them open, but his mind racing all the same, the man resting his feet across his back like he was a stool, calling the driver Floyd. Soon he heard the pinging of rain across the hood and felt the car turn, thinking they were headed south but not knowing for sure as the men were silent. The whole thing made Charlie feel like a scolded child kept down and out of sight with close-lipped parents trying to teach him a lesson. The miles rolled and rolled, and he knew they were on a proper highway again.

As soon as the wheels had touched the smooth surface, the men began to laugh and laugh.

An hour later, they ran out of gas.

KATHRYN SAT AT A SMALL KITCHEN TABLE WITH A DETECTIVE from the Fort Worth Police Department named Ed Weatherford. Shed known Ed since shed been married to Charlie Thorne, and Eda lean, rawboned boy with red hair and big teethhad been such a good egg hed made sure all of that mess went away real fast. The hell of it was that hed only screwed her once, and that must have still resonated with him like some kind of tuning fork in his pecker because goddamn old Ed wore a rickety smile from the moment shed opened her door after midnight and leaned into the frame just like shed seen Jean Harlow do a thousand times.

The black satin kimono was just loose enough. And she smelled like fresh powder whered shed dabbed it under her arms and in the money patch. She poured rye into two coffee cups, and they sat and smiled at each other from across the table covered in red-and-white oilcloth.

Arent you the funny one, she said after theyd had a couple drinks. He played with her naked foot with his clumsy old boots.

Yes, maam, he said, still smiling, Kathryn wondering if his lips didnt 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.

Hes gone and done it.

Whatd 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 cant say.

Who says?

George says.

He threaten you?

She looked up at him, making her black eyes grow big, and not answering at first. Hes gone and done it. Hes gonna take me down with him.

Darlin.

She took a drink of rye. Shed had to take a drink the last time with Ed, too. She reached up and held his bony hand and said calmly. Im through with him, Ed. Im really through.

She squeezed his hand.

Your daughter here? he asked.

Shes visiting my aunt.

And George?

Hes out of town.

Daddys 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.

Hed 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.

Dont think youll get much, Charlie said, filling the silence.

Why dont you just shut up.

The moneys 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 hed had to wake up the attendant to take the locks off the pumps.

He see you?

Its dark.

You were gone for an hour.

Son of a bitch.

Im not complainin. I just said it took a while.

Well, goddamnit, you sure are a grateful bastard.

Fill it up and lets get gone.

Youre wasting your time, Charlie said again, but wasnt 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 Kellys 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 doesnt?

My ma, Ed said. She said dancing was evil. Led to fornication.

Well, we werent exactly dancing in the kitchen.

I wish youd warned me about that fork.

Maybe we shouldnt have hopped on that table.

Whyd 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 hed 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? Dont you, Ed?

Sure I like you. Didnt 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?

Lets say he did and then they arrested me, too. Couldnt you have me called back to Fort Worth? Find something to charge me with here?

You call it extradite, darlin.

Well, can you?

I spose.

You spose 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 aint 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. Hed 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, thats your name, aint it?

How bout you push?

Whos got the machine gun, you dumb yegg? Use your head.

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 Joness 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 hadnt even seen a damn airplane.

We have rooms for you at the Skirvin, Colvin said, still holding Joness 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.

And they were in the Ford, riding off the tarmac and hitting a state road into town, two agents in the front and Colvin sitting in back with Jones and White. The sun had just started to dip down, and the glare cut hard into Joness eyes, making him remove his wire glasses and tuck them into his jacket as he kept on talking.

What do we know?

They let Jarrett go outside the city limits.

Doc had taken off his Stetsonregulation, same as Jonesand balanced it across his knee. His suit wasnt federal regulation like Colvins; Doc had chosen a Western style, with cowboy stitching at the seams, and a silver belt buckle the size of a dinner plate.

We know where?

Eight miles east on Northeast Sixty-third, right at the river. You know Oklahoma City, sir?

Ill take a map to it. Go on.

Sometime after midnight, Mr. Jarrett knocked on the door of a farmer namedColvin looked down at his notes, and, in the light, Jones wondered if the boy had started shaving yetFred Wilson, but Wilson wouldnt open the door. He thought Mr. Jarrett might be an escaped convict. A little while later, hethat being Wilsonsaw a car start at the crossroads and head toward Luther.

Whats in Luther?

Access to U.S. 66, Colvin said. Straight to Tulsa.

Jarrett get a good look at our boys?

Said they look foreign.

Hell, that narrows it.

Doc White rolled a cigarette and lit it, watching the hard country roll by and turning his head back to stare at a small shantytown that had been constructed next to a dry ditch. Burlap sacks flew on sticks like flags. A naked child watched the vehicle pass while banging two tin cans together.

The wife?

Berenice Urschel, Colvin said. She doesnt remember much.

And Jarretts wife?

Even less.

This may be an indelicate question, but just how much are these folks worth?

The last estimate of the Slick estate is valued at a little more than twenty million.

Jones gave a low whistle. Doc looked up from his smoke.

Thatll keep the lights on, Doc said.

I knew Tom Slick, Jones said. Dont know his wife. Or I should say, Urschels wife now. Also remember a front man who worked for Slick in San Antonio, fella named Kirkpatrick. You heard his name?

No, sir, Colvin said. Urschels boys were fishing in Mexico and are headed back. Right now, its just Mrs. Urschel, her teenage daughter, and some neighbors and friends. Were trying to keep the newsboys away.

Havin much luck? Jones asked.

You ever been to a circus, sir?

THE GET AWAY CAR FINALLY STOPPED EARLY THAT MORNING, AND Charlie thought theyd arrived at wherever they were headed to chain him up or stick him in a cage or whatever these people do to decent taxpayers. He didnt move from the floor of the backseat, the big feet of the man on his back. The driver got out, and Charlie felt some of the weight lifted from the shocks and then heard some outside banter with someone.

Gettin much rain out here? the gunman asked.

Not a speck, a woman said in a graveled hick voice.

Corn gettin high?

Burned up.

All of it?

We still got broom corn. Mister, I get thirsty just walkin outside.

You sell Coca-Colas?

Sure thing. Cost you a nickel, though.

Thats fine. What flavor you got?

We got that grape Nehi, some Dr Pepper, and straight Coca-Colas in that cooler over yonder. Fill her up?

Charlie thought now was the time to yell, and he filled his lungs, but it was as if the man sitting above him could read his thoughts, grinding the heel of his shoe between Charlies shoulders, the way youd put out a cigarette butt. The man whispered, Stay still. My finger gets jumpy.

Yall are preachers, aint you? asked the attendant. I figured yall for the ministry.

Howd you guess?

Charlie squirmed, and the heel inched up to his neck.

FOREIGNERS, BERENICE URSCHEL SAID. PROFESSIONA LS, IM sure of it.

What kind of foreigners? Jones asked.

People not born in this country.

Mex. Eye-talian?

They were very dark. Very swarthy. One of them had a neck as thick as a bull.

What were they wearin?

Light shirts. Dress pants. Both of them wore hats.

Jones made a note. They sat across from each other in the family salon among the velvet furniture, gilded mirrors, and large oil paintings of well-fed people Jones took to be family. A negro woman came in and set down two glasses and a crystal decanter filled with water.

We heard a car drive up on the driveway but didnt think anything about it, because the children use the drive all the time, Mrs. Urschel said. Both of them carried machine guns. I didnt know what those long black things were, but Mr. Jarrett later told me. We just sat there and didnt say a word while the larger of the two men walked toward the card table. The slender one stood by the door and covered us with the gun.

You get a decent look at the car?

We just heard the motor spurt as it drove away, she said, starting to choke up a bit. I didnt get a very good look at the car.

How bout your daughter? Jones asked. You said shed gone upstairs?

Outside a great bank of windows, through long pressed curtains, photographic flashes went off over and over in a strobe fashion, bringing back memories of lightning pockets in west Texas. The lawn of the Urschel home had looked like a state fair when theyd pulled up, and the driver had had to honk the horn just to cut through the sea of men with notebooks and cameras.

Oh, Im so thankful that it wasnt Betty, she said. She thinks these same two men have been following her for several weeks. She saw them in a blue sedan when she came back from Tulsa Tuesday.

You mind if we talk to her?

I believe the man from the local office is with her in the kitchen now. Jones nodded. Doc White was at the front door, talking to three city cops in plain clothes and giving directions on where to stand post. The door had been opened and closed so many times that the big house filled with heavy heat, and White was perspiring through the front of his shirt.

Did you or your husband have threats against your persons?

We have had letters and that mess. But that was some time ago, and they were all cranks.

Mrs. Urschel leaned forward, resting her forehead in her left hand. A big clock on a very big mantel in the very big room read nearly ten.

I would try and persuade you to get some shut-eye, Jones said. But dont expect you to.

What do we do?

Give em what they ask.

And then what?

Then we go to work.

Did I do right calling that telephone extension? she asked. I think I woke Mr. Hoover.

Im sure he didnt mind.

It was printed right there in Time magazine, she said. Id recalled the article about the kidnapping epidemic just as soon as Id run upstairs. Im so glad I kept that issue. Youll have to excuse me, Im as nervous as a house cat.

Berenice Urschel was not a beautiful woman, but she had a nice warm smile and nice warm brown eyes that lit up when she smiled back at Gus Jones. She reminded him a bit of his wife, Mary Ann, only with better manners and no propensity for using bad language. Mary Ann was a true master in the art of profanity and could outcuss any shitheel cowboy or redneck twice her size.

Jones stood and grabbed his hat from the sofa. He followed a long hallway lined with paintings of open pastures and rolling green hills, almost like windows looking away from the city or back years ago when all this was Indian territory.

He found Special Agent Bruce Colvin in the kitchen, talking to Betty Slick while the negro woman refilled a big coffeepot. Another negro was sweeping by a back door where agents and police officers came in and out, tramping in dirt. The negro didnt take notice, just sweeping that same dirty spot over and over, refilling the dustpan and emptying it.

The girl sat up on the countertop, rocking her long tan legs against a cabinet.

Colvin nodded to Jones, a notebook in a loose hand. The girl didnt turn around, staring at Colvin. She continued to stroke long brown hair over her right ear.

You think you could identify the men who followed you? Colvin asked.

Maybe.

If we showed you a photo?

Are you married?

Maam?

Jones coughed, and the girl turned to him. She wore a pin-striped linen dress and tall-heeled shoes adorned with pink bows. She had sleepy green eyes, and acknowledged Jones with a soft Hello while managing to keep her attention full on that bright-eyed college boy.

Jones grinned a bit when he noted the perspiration pop on the young agents forehead.

Miss Slick, well do everything we can to protect you.

Do you all carry guns?

Do we? Jones asked.

I target-shoot out at a pumpkin farm sometime, Colvin said.

You dont say, Jones said. Those pumpkins move much?

Betty Slick shot him a hot look and then turned back to Colvin with a big smile.

Mother said there was nothing amateurish about these men. She said, They knew just what they were doing.

IT WAS ABOUT DAYBREAK NOW, URSCHEL KNOWING THIS BECAUSE the light changed through the gaps in the hospital tape. A gray, dull light, the rumbling and bumping down the road making him nauseated but never sleepy, tucked and rolled in the womb of the floorboard, and for a while feeling like part of the machine, the gears and the brakes, the cluttering, spurting jumble of cranks and belts digesting the black gold that to Charlie Urschel would always remain hot as the core of the earth and always a welcome sight dripping off the hands and faces of riggers and geologists, always with big, wide grins, from tapping that vein.

The steady, graveling swoosh turned to rolling, piano-key clatter of wood that went on for a good bitup a bridge and over a riverand then the tires found solid ground again, gears shifting to a purr, and, with a slap of foot on pedal, they were headed somewhere damn fast.

Hours later, Charlie heard clanging and a trunk slam. A man and a young-sounding woman talking. The woman promised to meet them at the ranch, and Charlie strained an ear. But then one of the men gripped him by the neck and pulled him from the car, heels dragging on the ground, and another car door opened, and he was pushed inside and onto a large leather backseat.

Do you love me? asked the young woman.

You know it, baby. You just know it.

Oh, shit, said the young woman. Here she comes, sick with the religion, too.

Get them sonsabitches off my land, said an old woman. A hellfire abomination.

Just a minute, said the man.

Theyre going, said the young woman.

Dont think that I wont shoot you, the old woman screamed. Dont you doubt it, boys.

Charlie twisted his head toward the noise.

I prayed for you, the old woman said. I prayed for you both, and you bring this evil to my doorstep. Let us all pray.

The old woman began to hum Amazing Grace.

Why dont you plug Urschels goddamn ears, the man said. This aint smart, listenin to this radio show.

Hush, you filthy evil man.

They drove the new car faster and harder, and Charlie knew it was a bigger, steadier ride, with an engine as powerful as a truck. He was lulled to sleep for a moment and then awoke when he heard the men talking again, and figured the young woman hadnt come along.

Did that fella know which way?

Head back ten miles and then turn east.

I told you.

You didnt say anything. You said you knew where you were. Wed still be traveling down that road if I hadnt stopped.

What if hes wrong?

Would you shut up and let me drive?

Go back and ask him again.

Hell I will.

Just turn around and let me ask him.

The son of a bitch will hear you.

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