And there she stopped and stood, mouth open, not even awake yet, to see a picture of her mother with Boss Shannon and dumb old Potatoes, who was fool enough to look right into the lens and smile. A smaller headline read, “Desperado ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly and Wife Still at Large.”

“Goddamn,” she said. “Goddamn.”

She threw open the door to the suite, flung open the curtains, nobody stirring in the big bed until she swatted George-still looking like a fool as Joan Crawford-who shot off his ass and reached for the gun, aiming at Kathryn’s heart.

“Cool it, Joan,” Kathryn said, throwing the paper in his lap. “The G’s got ’em. They raided the farm four days ago. They’re onto us.”

Louise stirred in the bed, complaining and tossing in the tangled sheets until she fell with a loud thud to the floor.

“Get dressed,” Kathryn said. “Both of you.”

“What gives?” Louise asked.

“We’re headed back to Texas to rescue my family,” Kathryn said, reaching for the pistol in George’s loose hand and then prying the mask from his face until the elastic broke from his thick neck.

“What’s that gonna do, Kit?” he asked, looking a lot uglier than Joan Crawford. “It’s too late.”

“The hell it is,” she said. “You brought my kin into this and now you’re gonna get ’em out.”

“Me and what army?”

“I don’t care how you do it,” she said. “Take your pecker out of your hand and make some calls to all those hoods that you brag about knowing. Call in some favors, make some bribes. I don’t give a good goddamn. Just get my momma.”

“Quit your crying,” George said.

“I’m not crying,” Kathryn said, knowing she’d started.

A toilet flushed, and Louise came startled from the bathroom, carrying her hatbox, already dressed with her hat all crooked. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” she said.

Kathryn bit into her knuckles, still holding the gun. “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. How’d they know?”

George didn’t say a word, keeping a fat finger running over the words in the news story and then turning the page.

“I said how’d they know?” she said.

George didn’t say anything for a few moments and then closed the newspaper in his lap. He looked up at Kathryn with the most confused of expressions as he asked, “Who in the hell is ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly?”

24

That was a hell of a thrilling conversation,” Doc White said. “You expected him to sing?” Jones asked.

“Well,” White said, turning to Jones on the steps of the Dallas County Jail, “if I were in that predicament, facing that long of a stretch, I’d be open to some straight talk.”

“But you’re not in that predicament.” Gus Jones affixed his Stetson on his head and squinted into the afternoon sun. A long shadow fell from the jail and sliced down the marble steps. “If it were you, you’d react a certain way. J. Harvey Bailey is a different breed.”

“Sounds like you admire him.”

“I wouldn’t call it admiration, Doc. It’s understanding the animal.”

“Shit, Buster. I never knew you were so goddamn wise.”

“You sure are funny today, Doc. You could be Will Rogers.”

A government sedan rolled up to the curb below. The wind shooting down the long avenues and through the cracks of concrete and the glass buildings was as hot and dry as the desert. He recalled visiting Dallas twenty years back, and there wasn’t a building more than a few stories tall. Now the whole center of town reached to the damn clouds, keeping all the familiar hotels and shops in shadow.

“I just think Harv is pulling our leg,” White said. “Said he was only at the Shannons’ place to grab some shut-eye. Who’s gonna believe that?”

“He confessed he’d just robbed two banks. The man was tired. He has a bum leg.”

“You believe him?”

“Now, why in the world would a man confess to robbing two banks if he hadn’t?”

“To loosen the noose from the Urschel job.”

“Maybe.”

“When I got up, you ask him about Kansas City?”

“Shit, I forgot.”

“Aw, hell, Buster. You’re just trying to be contrary. In the old days, we’d just tie Bailey to a mesquite tree and set his feet on fire till he told us what we wanted to know.”

“If Bailey was a weak-minded fool, I’d contemplate that. You think I forgot about those that got killed? But he’s not gonna give himself up, or Miller. You could toss a rope around his neck and he’d stick to the same story.”

The two men crawled into the black sedan and it pulled away, Joe Lackey turning from the front passenger seat and resting his head on his forearm. “Nothing?”

“Nope,” White said. “Buster’s gone soft on us.”

“He confessed to working two jobs with Clark and Underhill.”

“He say where in the hell’s Verne Miller?” Lackey asked. He wiped a drop of sweat off his big nose with a forefinger, his face swarthy and wet under his gray felt hat.

“Said he hadn’t seen Verne since he escaped from Lansing. Said they played a round of golf.”

“Bullshit,” Lackey said. “Two men saw Miller dart out of that cornfield. You ask him about Union Station?”

“Said he read about it in the papers.”

“Bullshit.”

“Well, of course it’s all bullshit,” Jones said. “You know, I’m getting tired of being second-guessed. I get enough of that from Mary Ann. What’d you get from the Shannons?”

“Good ole Ma sez Kathryn Kelly is a fine Christian woman who has a mental deficiency for bad men.”

“And Pa?” Jones asked.

“Nothing new,” Lackey said. “Same as before. Said Kelly threatened to kill him and his family if they didn’t help.”

“Kelly wasn’t there when he picked up the gun,” Jones said.

“Yeah,” Lackey said, nodding. “He didn’t have much of an answer for that. And says he never saw Verne Miller. Every time I mentioned Miller, I thought the old guy would piss himself.”

The drive took them out of the downtown, past an old warehouse reading PERKINS DRY GOODS COMPANY, and onto the highway headed northwest to Love Field, where they’d arranged for an airplane back to Oklahoma City. They passed roadside courts, filling stations, and new Wild West highway attractions, Passion plays, and Alamo reenactments, the whole town of Dallas spilling out onto what used to be a dirt trail and now had been paved, leading to damn-near everywhere. One of the motor courts had been built in the style of an old Spanish mission, complete with tile and stucco, and it advertised authentic rooms for two dollars a night. Down Highway 77, a roadside diner advertised A MEAL LIKE MOM’S for only two bits.

“You can find everything you want out here,” Jones said. “Everything a man needs.”

Western-wear shops. Steak houses. A billboard facing the road into town read JOBLESS MEN KEEP GOING. WE CAN’T TAKE CARE OF OUR OWN. Another billboard promised that tuberculosis was PREVENTABLE AND TREATABLE

The driver pulled off the main highway and past a gate opening onto the tarmac. They followed a side road to a large, open hangar where a single-engine silver airplane was being fussed over by several mechanics. Special Agent Bruce Colvin waited inside along with the young sharpshooter from his office, Bryce. Bryce held two rifles, one in each hand. Colvin’s hair was neatly greased, and he held a perfectly steamed hat in his long fingers.

Jones stood from the machine and tipped his hat to Bryce. Bryce nodded back.

“You boys ready to head home?” Jones asked.

Colvin approached and shook his head, and all five agents, including the driver, walked out onto the tarmac as the airplane sputtered to life and moved out onto the runway, the sound of the engine stopping conversation and deafening their ears.

Colvin simply handed him a postcard from the Hotel Fort Des Moines. Some heat could be headed your way. Much cooler up north. Will wire gas money soon. Love, Sis.