“You might want to slow down with the liquor, partner,” Jones said.

“My hand is steady,” Kirkpatrick said. “My reflexes agile. The drink just keeps the perception a bit more keen.”

Jones nodded and drank some coffee. The dawn focused to the east in a dull, gray light, and the old man stretched his legs and studied the porters hauling suitcases and trunks into the baggage car. The car door rolled to a heavy slam, and the steam engine started up again with the conductor’s whistle.

“Mr. Slick always got what he wanted,” Kirkpatrick said. “He did. Yes, sir. He said he wanted to be a millionaire and didn’t rest till he was the King.”

“And so Tryon made him a millionaire?” Jones said.

“They blasted every hole with nitroglycerin to shake her loose but ended up with nothing but dusters.”

Kirkpatrick grinned a bit to himself and chuckled and took another nip of whiskey, staring straight down the line of tracks from where they’d come, his mind settling on a place that was solid and familiar. He patted the Gladstone bag as he stood. But when he reached for the flask again, Jones pulled it from his hand and tucked it into his coat pocket.

“After the deal, Kirk,” Jones said. “C’mon, let’s get you some coffee.” The black locomotive steamed and chugged on through Tulsa and over the Cimarron River, taking a hard, clanging turn north. Tulsa’s factories bellowing with smoke and the refineries spewing fire soon faded into the lonely glow of old farmhouses and quiet little towns-Bartlesville, Dewey, Coffeyville, and Parsons. Storefronts all shut up with planks over windows and doors. FOR SALE signs across vacant lots and farms. But nothing of the signal. Not even the smell of a fire on the horizon. The old negro porter found the men drinking coffee and smoking in silence as the train jarred to its final stop-the fifty-first from Oklahoma City-and he stood next to them nodding as the Katy’s tracks converged with dozens in a wide, sprawling maze of steel and crushed granite. When Jones peered around toward the engine, he could just make out the big cathedral shape of Union Station coming into view.

“They said for me to come alone,” Kirkpatrick said.

“And we’ll comply.”

“I can handle this.”

“Don’t feel like taking chances on a Sunday.”

“You didn’t have to take away my liquor,” Kirkpatrick said. “Got cold back here.”

“Least eighty degrees.”

“Perhaps we should take two cabs to the Muehlebach?”

“I’ll stay close,” Jones said, holding on to the rail and looking east to a bright sunrise. “These folks are having some fun making us jump through hoops.”

Jones followed Kirkpatrick through the long beams of lights across the marble floors, train schedules being read over the public address, and right through the front doors he’d taken with Joe Lackey what seemed like years ago. In his mind, he still kept the picture of old Sheriff Reed and that young agent chewed up and bleeding to death on the street.

He arrived at the Muehlebach Hotel minutes later and found the house phone so he could be connected to “Mr. Kincaid.” There were potted palms and brass spittoons, sofas as large as beds. Gentlemen and ladies all spoke to one another like they were in a library, and near the registration desk a fella with greased hair played a grand piano. Kirkpatrick finally answered and gave Jones his room number. “Make sure no one sees you.”

“I didn’t figure on being announced.”

Two hours later, the men got a knock on the door. A postal telegram read UNAVOIDABLE INCIDENT KEPT ME FROM SEEING YOU LAST NIGHT. WILL COMMUNICATE ABOUT 6 O’CLOCK.-E. E. MOORE.

11

A hand shook Charlie Urschel awake sometime in the middle of the night, him knowing it was night because he’d heard the second plane pass overhead and on account of asking the boy the time every time he’d heard it. He couldn’t see or feel his arm but heard the distinctive click of the chains and felt his dead arm coming to rest in his lap. Then there were hands upon him, rubbing him, giving him the Mr. Urschel, Mr. Urschel, wake up, and it was all so rushed and furious that he was pretty well convinced this was it, they’d messed up the deal and now were going to finish him off. But Charles F. Urschel would not give the bastards the pleasure of seeing one jigger of emotion, and he struggled to find his feet using only the good arm. He felt the rip of tape from his eyes, and the whole damn blackness was filled with a harsh morning light coming from the east windows. Mr. Urschel, here’s ten dollars. It’s all we got, now run. Jes’ remember me in your kindness and prayers ’cause these bastards don’t trifle none. Charlie knew the words were coming from the old man but still couldn’t see him, being as blind as a man in a snow-storm, as he allowed himself to be led out into the morning heat and told to Jes’ keep goin’, don’t look back, don’t look back for nothin’, till he hit the main highway. And Charlie didn’t ask questions but loped forward, sightless and fumbling and holding on to his left arm, massaging it with his fingers because it was about the only thing that kept him vigilant and sharp and knowing he was alive. Soon he was able to feel the rocks and stones on his bare feet, the hot wind blowing his pajamas like a loose tent.

He rubbed his raw eyes with his fists until he saw spots, and he tried to move forward, the sun being the first thing that actually had a shape to it, white-hot and burning. He looked down to the ground, the flatness of the hard earth, the thorny weeds and scrub brush cutting and ripping, and Urschel lost his shirt and tore at the cloth, binding the strips to cover his feet. And the shapes were hollow and glowing, and he didn’t know if he was headed toward the road the old man spoke of or was wandering aimlessly in whatever godforsaken land they’d taken him to. He was sweating now, and he figured the morning had crept on, maybe two hours since he’d been cut loose. On the horizon, all he saw were gassy mirages and more flat land, in some kind of dusty limbo where he’d walk and lope, growing so thirsty that he didn’t know a mirage from a water hole but kept moving ahead until he finally became entangled in a row of barbed wire. Hung in his own personal Calvary.

He took a breath, his legs quivering with the exertion. He unpricked the line from his skin and then touched the wire with his fingertips. The strips of it pierced his hands, but, goddamn, he knew this was a road, and if he could just keep moving ahead it would lead somewhere. The sun was high, and he could see almost regular now, watching a big-eared jackrabbit loping across the dusty plain.

The goddamn jackrabbit didn’t need water.

He could go on forever in the morning dew.

The cloth strips had fallen away from his feet, the earth so hot he couldn’t sense the gravity anymore. The fence line led to an empty pool of water and then another pool of nothing, and if he could just keeping going there was a road leading back to Oklahoma City and pitchers of iced tea with bridge games and light, leisurely walks for gentlemen after their evening meal, where they patted their stomachs and cleaned their teeth with pocketknives.

He smiled at the thought, bringing his shoulders back, shoeless and wearing only the pajama bottoms, trying to walk like Charles Urschel would. He walked as if people could see him and would know him and could recognize he was a man of great importance in the community.

He figured it to be early afternoon when he about gave up.

But there was a figure in the distance. And he called to it.

The figure called back and waved his hat.

It was Tom Slick himself, covered in top-grade oil up to his knees and elbows, with that rascal grin on his lips.