Another shot from the field, and Jones was back inside now, back in the heat and stalks and loose, lazily planted rows, catching his breath and calling for Doc, finding his knees with his hands and mopping his face and glasses again.

He saw a form at his feet.

“Doc?”

When he looked through the lenses, he stared straight into the eyes of Detective Ed Weatherford, who lay on his back, staring crazy-eyed and wide-mouthed up at the sun, as if paralyzed by its power. In death, Weatherford still looked as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to speak.

Jones held the Thompson and listened. He spotted some broken stalks-broken down fresh, where the insides still showed a bit of green-and he followed the trail, a wild zigzagging, deep into the heart of the planting, to where he saw the broad, sweating back and freshly cut hair of Charles F. Urschel, leveling his 16-gauge on a man who had fallen to the ground but held himself upright on his elbows with a broad smile.

Jones walked up behind him.

“I have him, Mr. Urschel.”

The man didn’t answer, only breathed hard out his nose, sweat rolling down from his hair and down into his eyes, making him squint with the sting of the salt.

“I have him.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

“Sir?”

Urschel lowered the gun and rubbed out the salt with his fists. “That’s not one of ’em. Who are you?”

The man, now flat on his back, lifted his hands in a small truce, laughing a little bit. The nervous laugh of a man trying to get a hold of the situation.

“Why, Mr. Urschel, that there is Harvey Bailey,” Jones said. “The gentleman bank robber.”

“Jones,” Bailey said. “Been a while.”

Jones took off his Stetson and fanned his face. He reached down with a right hand and hoisted Harvey Bailey from the hard earth. “Harvey, if a head bobs up anywhere around here, or another shot is fired, I promise I’ll cut you in two with this machine gun.”

23

George was no fun at all. Here he was in the stylish Hotel Fort Des Moines-a suite, no less-with a pile of dough, a new Chevrolet with fresh plates, and two of the hottest babes outside a Hollywood lot, and still he complained about being bored outta his skull. Kathryn had picked up her gal pal Louise at the train station that morning, her carrying a hatbox in one arm and Ching-A-Wee in the other, and they’d spent the day shopping and getting their hair and nails done before coming back to see old sad-sack George, lying on the big king-size bed in his boxer shorts, holding an unlit cigar in his teeth and reading the funny papers, probably Blondie, because George sure thought Dagwood was a real hoot, making those tall sandwiches and singing in the bathtub. But he’d been reading the damn thing since they came back and not once had he even cracked a smile.

So what did the good wife do? She and Louise put on a little fashion show for him. Kathryn changed into a very stylish red dress with a shoulder cape, gauntlet cuffs, and a straight-as-straight skirt. Ching-A-Wee sat like a prince at George’s feet, yapping and barking with approval and all, because that royal dog had class.

George just grumbled and asked how much dough they’d dropped.

Louise picked out this queer green number to model, with wide, puffy sleeves and a big fat bow at the neck. She didn’t bother with the hat, only fussed over her shoes-soft, velvety slippers-turning in time to Duke Ellington on the radio.

George turned back to the funnies, cigar loose and wet, and Ching-A-Wee got pushed off the bed for licking his bare toes.

With their red lips and red nails, Kathryn and Louise were quite a matching pair, just like they’d always been in Fort Worth, ready for a night out after working a double shift at the Bon-Ton barbershop, filing nails and telling grizzled oilmen they were handsome.

George didn’t bother to look up from the top fold of the paper when prodded for the next outfits, only grunted again, scratching himself and reaching to the nightstand by the big old bed to put down the cigar and take a pull of bourbon straight from the bottle, a loaded.38 nearby.

“You gonna light that thing or just play with it?” Kathryn asked.

“Yeah, Georgie,” Louise said. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.”

George folded the paper and began to fool with that new lighter he’d bought in Saint Paul, flicking it on and off, and watching the flame with the bored interest of a drunk.

“What kinda luck,” Louise said. “Your grandmother dying and leaving you all this dough.”

“Yeah,” George said, staring over her shoulder and out the window. “Lucky me.”

“How’s the Bon-Ton?” George asked, not because he cared but because he felt like he had to say something.

And that was pretty damn foolish, because Louise was a hell of a looker. Big brown eyes and full lips, long muscular legs like a dancer. Some folks thought she had kind of a square jaw like a man and were taken aback by the way she talked rough and drank heavy. But that’s what made Louise Louise. She was a hell of a gal. If you wanted fun, you rang up Louise.

“Tips aren’t bad,” Louise said. “Meet some nice fellas.”

“Since when do you like men?”

“George!” Kathryn yelled from across the suite.

“And now it’s a secret?”

Louise caught George’s eye and smiled. George grinned at her.

And so it was like that, a little loosening of that tension that always existed between them. Ching-A-Wee wandered over to the piles of clothes and made a little nest in the silk and lace and turned around three times before lying down.

They’d only just checked into the hotel, getting in from Chicago the night before, and already the whole suite was a goddamn mess. Open champagne bottles and empty bottles of gin and bourbon. Two half-eaten plates of T-bones, fat and gristle congealing into purple and gray, making the poor doggie about go nuts, and untouched desserts they’d ordered at four in the morning, mainly just because you could order such a thing at four in the morning at the Hotel Fort Des Moines if you were staying in the presidential suite. There were newspapers from five different cities, movie-star magazines, and horse-racing tip sheets.

George didn’t move from the bed. He only belched and exchanged the funnies for a new copy of True Detective that Kathryn had picked up for him at the cigarette stand in the lobby. She knew he was hoping to see some pictures of the Urschel job inside, but instead the issue featured “How the Sensational Boettcher Kidnapping Was Solved.” She thought George was studying up on how the G nailed the bastards, but, after several minutes of her and Louise sorting through who had bought what, George looked up from the magazine, with its illustration of a startled man on the cover with a gun in his face, and said, “Do you really think you can learn to play the piano in an hour if I order this course?”

“Son of a bitch,” Kathryn said, and tossed her new, spiffy hat onto the carpet.

“Says right here it’s a money-back guarantee.”

“Just like the course you bought on how to hypnotize folks.”

“Worked on Potatoes.”

“That’s a true test.”

George started to laugh and thumped the page with his fingers. “This company also sells rings that say ‘Kiss Me, I’m Still Conscious.’ Maybe I should order a couple for you gals.”

“Yeah, George,” Kathryn said, studying some new lines across her face in the mirror. “That’d be a hoot.”

She saw Louise standing behind her, holding up the pair of black silk robes they’d bought in both fists, the ones they both adored with the white fur trim. Louise had the devil’s grin on her big lips, and Kathryn smiled back, knowing just what the girl planned. And they both scurried off like a couple schoolgirls needing a smoke into that huge tiled bathroom, big enough to park a Cadillac, and they kicked off their clothes down to their silk slips, cocking their legs and tugging on thigh-high stockings and high-heeled shoes with cute little bows. Louise was less curvy than Kathryn, with a flat chest and no hips of note, but she had an athletic look, reminding Kathryn a lot of Babe Didrikson only with a much better face.