She had a daughter. The dumb boy went off to Bible college.

When Ora said let’s pack up and leave Mississippi, Kathryn didn’t hesitate. They bundled up the baby, packed two suitcases, and got on the train to Memphis and then onto Fort Worth. She took on the name Kathryn after a fancy woman who used to tip big at the Bon-Ton after a manicure.

Kathryn finished the cigarette on blind Ma Coleman’s porch, letting the wind take the ash and scatter it everywhere. She thought about how things mighta been different if she could have stayed in Saltillo, but none of the paths seemed that appealing to her.

She spotted the truck from a ways off, coming down the dirt road, kicking up the grit and the dust, and she stood from the wooden steps and walked blind, shielding the sun with her hand over her eyes until the truck stopped down by that beaten mailbox and out walked George R. Kelly, lugging two suitcases, his fine hat crushed and crooked on his head and sweat rings around his neck and dress shirt.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, walking. “Son of a bitch.”

Kathryn walked to meet him, not caring if her bare feet tore on the gravel, and stepped halfway up the road. “Where you been, you dumb ape?”

“You’re sore at me? If that doesn’t beat all.”

“Yeah, I’m sore. Took you long enough.”

“You and Louise took the car and ten thousand dollars.”

“I told you I’d be here.”

“You’re sore.”

“I’m sore.”

George let out all his breath, slipping his hat down over his eyes. He shook his head like she was the one who’d gone plain nuts.

“We got to bury the loot.”

“Grandma won’t be too pleased.”

“Grandma doesn’t have to know,” he said. “She’s blind.”

“She knows everything.”

George shook his head, as if contemplating a hell of an arithmetic problem. “Do you at least have a drink for me?”

“YOU KNOW WHY I CALLED,” CHARLIE URSCHEL SAID.

“Yes, sir,” Bruce Colvin said. “We got within a few hours of catching them in Des Moines. Their coffee wasn’t even cold. Their car was spotted in Buffalo. Yes, sir, we’re onto them.”

Charlie shook his head. “Not that.”

“Yes, sir,” young Bruce Colvin said. The young boy always looked spit-polished and clean, suit creased to a knife-edge. Hair neatly parted and oiled, a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging loose from a watch chain. “I see.”

“Figured you hadn’t had time for a proper meal.”

“No, sir.”

“Is your steak good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know what I want to discuss?”

“May I say something first?”

“Of course.”

“She’s a fine girl.”

“Oh,” Charlie said.

The young man had met Charlie at the Cattlemen’s steak house right in the heart of the warehouse district, the cows so damned close it wasn’t but a few minutes between them taking a breath and sizzling on your plate. He cut a fat slab off the porterhouse and pointed the end of the bloody fork at Bruce Colvin.

“You are an impressive young man,” Charlie said. “I know you have the best of intentions.”

“Yes, sir,” Colvin said. The federal agent had yet to touch his steak, a buzzing conversation of cowboys and roughnecks all around them. A waiter stopped by the table and refilled their glasses of sweet tea and then disappeared. Colvin used his napkin to wipe some nervous sweat from his forehead. “I thought you and Mrs. Urschel might not be pleased, and there are some complications you should know about.”

“Because of the ongoing legal matters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Isn’t this a private matter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does Agent Jones know?”

Colvin nodded, and took a small bite of his steak. Above him loomed the head of a long-horned steer with yellow glass eyes. The eyes were as large as golf balls.

“There’s been some trouble with the Shannons,” Colvin said. “We might not be able to bring them back to Oklahoma City for trial.”

Charlie listened and continued to chew the meat, along with the fat and gristle, remembering coming here with Tom Slick, the restaurant being one of Slick’s favorites because he didn’t have to rub elbows with the hucksters always trying to pick his pocket. Charlie remembered Slick sitting right here in this very booth, offering some solid advice on women, talking about one argument or another that Charlie had had with his late sister. What was that? Something about the women who gave you the worst trouble were the only ones worth having. Just what did he mean by that?

“There’s a hearing tomorrow in Dallas,” Colvin said. “We expect the judge to extradite, but their attorney will no doubt fight. He will appeal, and this could drag on.”

“What’s Agent Jones say?”

“He said he’ll take care of it.”

“How?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t know. Agent Jones is pretty determined to bring them back.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about the Shannons,” Charlie said. “They treated me decent.”

“They were accomplices.”

“They’re not to blame. They’re simple and weak-minded.”

“We will find the Kellys,” Colvin said. “You have my word.”

“They’re not to blame either.”

“Sir?”

“I want to tell you something, Mr. Colvin, and I want you to listen. I need you to do me a favor, and I understand it may not be easy.”

“Anything, sir.”

“I want you to realize this favor has nothing to do with your relations with my niece. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how to tap a man’s telephone line? This damn thing doesn’t stop or end with the Kellys.”

The boy looked as confused and mindless as the steer over his head. His blue eyes widened as he leaned in and whispered, “Who?”

Charlie looked up from his steak for a moment and then began to saw into the meat closest to the bone. “The son of a bitch who just walked through the door.”

Colvin craned his head, and said, “That’s Mr. Jarrett.”

“That’s your villain in this picture,” Charlie said. He broke off a piece of toast and sopped up the blood and juices. “He lunches here every day.”

“Sir?”

JONES HAD ARMON SHANNON BROUGHT TO THE LITTLE WINDOW-LESS room in the basement of the Dallas Courthouse. Nothing but a small table and a couple chairs, an ashtray, and a pitcher of ice water. The pitcher had started to bead up and sweat in the airless heat. Jones removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, exposing his hand-tooled rig and.45. He paced the room, studying on what he knew about old Potatoes’s situation, until the boy was hustled in, manacled at the wrist and ankle, and seated with a firm hand.

The deputy locked the metal door behind him.

“You and George are good buddies, I suppose.”

Armon said nothing.

“Your daddy says you look up to him.”

Armon looked at the floor.

“Would you like some ice water?”

Nothing.

Jones poured a couple glasses and pulled up a chair near Armon. The boy just sat and sulked, not lifting his eyes.

“You’re in a hell of a pickle, son,” Jones said. “I don’t think you need a high-dollar lawyer to explain that. You’re looking at a lifetime in prison. You need me to tell you a little bit about those animals who live there?”

The boy lifted his eyes.

“’Spec not. I bet your friend Mr. Kelly might’ve told you a few of the highlights from when he was in Leavenworth.”

“Prison can’t hold ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly.”

“ ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly. Yes, sir. Desperado hero. You think a man’s a hero for holding a gun to a fella’s spine and keeping him hostage? You need to get into your thick head that’s just plain old-fashioned cowardice. You need to be thinkin’ about your own self. Your wife and that little girl of yours. You’ll be feeble and gray before you see ’ em again. A good chance that baby will be taken by the state on account of her parents being in prison.”

“My wife wasn’t party to this.”

“How are we to know if you’re not talking to us? Your daddy is a smart man. He told us a good bit, and I gave him my word that we’d make that known in court.”