The boy-his namesake-was cuddled into his wife’s breast, and he could feel himself smile at the child, a warmth spreading into his chest, and the child turned from the wet nipple to his father, his eyes nothing but empty sockets and limitless space. A great shame flooding from his heart to his toes, knowing that he had killed the boy, backing over him in that goddamn Packard. His heart seized in his chest, and he shot up from the bunk, unable to breathe, tangled in wet sheets and holding tight on to the rails.

“Mr. Bailey.”

It took a few moments for Harvey to realize he was on the sixth floor of the Dallas County Jail.

He was locked down solid and fucked ten ways to Sunday, and the thought of it gave him so much relief that he caught his breath and found his feet on concrete warmed by yesterday’s sun. As he turned, he faced the negro guitar player from Mississippi, R.L., who outstretched his skinny arm with the longest fingers he’d ever seen, handing him a simple metal cup filled with water.

Harvey took it, wondering how the boy knew his mouth was so parched.

“You was dreaming.”

He looked at him.

“You was running from something,” R.L. said. “Your legs and arms were pumping something fierce.”

“What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“When?”

“In the morning.”

“Why’d you wake me?”

“I didn’t wake you, sir,” the boy said. “I was mopping the floor and seen you had some troubles.”

“I don’t have troubles.”

“You spoke the way a grown man talks to a baby. Does that make sense?”

Harvey finished off the cold water and handed the cup back to R.L., who held on to a filthy mop matted with dirt and hair. Light spilled from the metal door down the hall, cracked enough for Bailey to see Manion sitting on his fat ass, smoking a cigar, snorting and laughing it up with a trusty.

“More,” Harvey said.

R.L. disappeared back through the cracked door to stand before Manion to ask permission to fill the cup. Harvey walked to the narrow, oblong window, scratching his pecker, and held on to the bars, studying the drop and the route the alley took out into the downtown. He felt the thickness of the metal in his fingers and pushed his face through, just to catch a bit of wind but also stealing more comfort, being inside and paying for what he’d done.

“Once you sell it, you can’t take it back.”

The boy held the metal cup through the bars. Harvey just stared at him. “You spades always talk in riddles?”

“Your soul,” R.L. said, whispering. “You sell it and it’s gone. Ain’t no return policy on that.”

“How can you sell something you don’t have?” Harvey asked. “It’s all applesauce for simple folks.”

“I ain’t no simpleton,” R.L. said. “Take the water.”

The whole jail corridor was dark except for the slice cutting through the door, Manion gone from the chair now but a cloud of smoke left in his place. The boy’s face bony and skeletal, big-eyed and serious. “I’m givin’ you warning. You be careful for Mr. Manion. He’ll rip your guts out. He’s not your mark.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You make a deal with that man and he’ll own you.”

“Go peddle your goofer dust somewhere else,” Harvey said, tossing the empty cup to the floor, the clang sounding like a symphony along the concrete and metal doors. “I write my own goddamn ticket.”

“I know’d an old fella once that could talk to dead folks,” R.L. said. “You can say it ain’t true. But he swears on it. He said they come to you when you’s asleep because then you won’t doubt them.”

“Leave me alone, boy.”

“Watch out for Mr. Manion.”

“I’m gonna own that fella.”

“Don’t take this as disrespect,” R.L. said, gripping the mop in both hands. “But I think it’s in the reverse.”

“Is he gonna steal my soul?”

“Seems like you done sold that long ago.”

Harvey heard the skinny boy walk down the hall, the door clanging shut and locking with a final snap, reminding him of a tight cord breaking.

25

The manager of the Hotel Fort Des Moines wore one of those pencil-thin mustaches-the thinnest mustache Jones had ever seen-and smelled like he’d dunked his boiled shirt in some sweet-smelling perfume. All these characters were the same, dirt under their nails and grits in their mouth, till they slide into a suit and get a fancy title, and then they’re Douglas Fairbanks. The man had protruding buckteeth, and black hair growing from his nostrils.

“We’d like to see the room,” Agent Colvin said, leaning into the reception counter, seeming to take some confidence in standing next to Jones even though Colvin was at least a head taller. Colvin folded his hands on the polished wood and waited.

“The guests never checked out,” the manager said. “It’s still occupied. You don’t have the authority-”

“Didn’t I show you my tin?” Jones asked.

“I can’t give you a key to a private suite,” the manager said. “The Colemans are fine people.”

“Give me the goddamn key,” Jones said.

“Excuse me?”

“Colvin, grab the key,” Jones said. “I’m tired of this horseshit.”

Jones nodded to Colvin, who turned the corner of the front desk and snatched the key from the hook, the little man trying to block his escape, holding up a single finger. “You try to stop us, and I’ll knock that smirk off your face,” Jones said.

The agents took the stairs to the room. The hotel manager trailed like a yippy little dog at their boot heels, telling them they better stop or he’d call the police chief himself.

“I want all telephone tolls from this room and from every pay phone in this hotel,” Jones said, taking off his hat and holding it at his side. “I want to interview every bellhop, doorman, and maid. Check taxicabs, restaurants, and down at the train station. Do we know what kind of car they were driving?”

“The two women left in a white Chevrolet sedan,” Colvin said. “This year’s model.”

“What about Kelly?”

“No one saw him leave.”

“Sure they did.”

Colvin tried the lock with the key and pushed open the heavy oak door into the suite. Lots of newish, streamlined furniture, Oriental rugs, and the like. The hotel manager wedged himself into the threshold and stretched his arms from frame to frame, red-faced and sweating, and the sight of his struggle brought a grin to Jones’s face.

“Just how much did he tip you?” Jones asked.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Kelly.”

“You mean, Mr. Coleman?”

“No, I mean Mr. Kelly, you dumb sack of nuts.”

Colvin stepped over a pile of clothes and wet towels, already pulling out his leather-bound fingerprint kit to pull prints from the telephone, glasses, lamps, and doorknobs, while Jones picked up a stack of reading material on a nightstand. The Chicago Tribune. True Detective. Spicy Stories. On the floor, he found yesterday’s Des Moines Register torn to pieces.

“Trouble will follow,” the manager said, mopping his face with a laced handkerchief. “Trouble.”

“You can’t get much more trouble than having ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly in your presidential suite,” Jones said. “Don’t you read the papers?”

“I think you’re confused,” the man said. “Mr. Coleman wasn’t a gangster. He was a gentleman farmer. They were fine people with beautiful clothes… Oh, my Lord.”

“You sure stepped in it.”

The hotel manger looked down at the carpet, all green and plush and dotted with land mines of dog shit. He lifted up a dandy heel and spun around on one leg, confused as to what to do next. He turned and twirled and about fell over, holding on to his ankle, not daring to set down the wingtip.

“Scrape it off,” Jones said. “Listen, partner, you know you’re lucky to be alive. You just gave domicile to the most cunning, cutthroat, evil son of a bitch in this United States of America. ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly gets an itchy finger and he just might shoot up your whole damn lobby and take you out in the process. Human life isn’t any more to him than a fly on a cow’s ass.”