Doc broke a peanut in half and threw the shell down into the pit. “How many men we got working on this?” White asked.

“Here in the city?”

White nodded.

“Figured about twenty,” Jones said. “The SAC here, Purvis, says he’s got men watching brothels, known watering holes for hoodlums.”

“Watering hole sounds pretty good right now,” White said, flipping more shells down to the dinosaur as if the beast would suddenly change course and start foraging for real food. “What do you think about that Purvis fella?”

“Hell, all those college boys look the same to me, Doc. At twenty feet, I thought he was Colvin.”

“When I walked into the building, he asked me for my thumb buster,” White said. “Tole me I couldn’t walk around a real city armed. What the hell does he mean ‘a real city’?”

“He’s just jumpy, is all,” Jones said. “Following regulations.”

“Kelly ain’t here.”

“You said that already.”

“They’ll tip us off in a telegram,” White said. “Always do.”

“I think if George Kelly is in town, he’ll announce it bigger than a telegram.”

THE FINAL PLANS WERE LAID OUT OVER A FOLDING CARD TABLE set up in the back room of Joe’s Square Deal Garage, with maps of the city marked in pen and opened cartons of chop suey. Karpis wouldn’t let any of them drink, saying if they wanted a nip to settle their nerves they’d pass a bottle about go time. But he said it was going to be a hell of a long night, for them to lie out on the cots, think about the details of the job, every step, from the reserve to the git. At half past twelve it was “Go, go, go, that’s the rhythm of the day,” just like Fred Astaire says. Harvey squashed out his cigarette and stretched his legs, Miller flat on his back on the floor, not using the cot, eyes wide open, a Thompson like he carried in the War by his feet. The Barker boys were giving a final check over the Hudson, the greased hillbillies more excited about the ride out of town than the dough. And Karpis checked over the map once more before folding it up all nice and neat and tucking it into the side pocket of his suit jacket.

Harvey walked to the bathroom to find a fresh suit of clothes resting on a hanger, new shoes and socks. He shaved and dressed, tying his tie just as someone started beating the hell out of the door and telling him to shake it off and come on.

At first, he thought it was the cops. Or, worse, the Syndicate, looking for a cut.

But, goddamn, it was that hillbilly Fred Barker, telling him he was about to shit his drawers. Bailey left the bathroom and walked across the wide concrete floor to Miller, kicking at his shoe. Miller’s bright eyes sprung open, not dozing for a second, waking up like some kind of animal.

“We split the dough, and I want you gone,” Harvey said. “You hear me? I’ll find my way.”

Miller nodded. “Vi’s in Brooklyn.”

“Go to Brooklyn, anywhere but Chicago. Karpis told me Frank Nitti blames you for the world’s problems. You sabe?”

Miller nodded.

“Verne?”

Miller pulled up his body to his crooked knees, wrapping his arms around them, and lit a cigarette. Karpis walked back into the room, and Harvey turned to watch him, the light from the single bulb cutting a swath up to Karpis’s feet.

“Fred’s sick,” Karpis said. “Real sick. He’s got problems coming from both ends. Said it was the chop suey. Did you guys eat the pork?”

“Give ’im a soda,” Harvey said.

“We did,” Karpis said. “Shits running through him like a freight train.”

“We’ll make do,” Harvey said.

Karpis put his hands in his pockets, trying to rearrange the whole plan in his mind. But he shook his head, “Nope. Won’t work.”

Harvey looked down to Miller, and Miller cut his eyes up to Harvey, Harvey knowing this was Miller’s last chance, the last few hours he could make a score in Chicago. If there had been another way… any way.

KATHRYN WAITED FOR GEORGE AND GERALINE AT THE FENCE TO the racetrack on the Enchanted Isle, the little girl and the big lug in the same toy car, zipping around turns, Gerry at the wheel while George laughed and held on to his hat with one hand. They came skipping out from around the exit, George having turned the front brim of his fedora up so that he looked like a stooge. Still wearing the sunglasses after the sun had gone down.

The three of them walked side by side down the Avenue of Flags, where a couple women had chained themselves to a pole, one wearing a stitched cloth that read PROTEST FASCIST TERROR. GERMAN CONSUL HERE. Men stood by and watched the broads like they were sideshow freaks, a couple of coppers standing by, waiting for a key or someone to cut the chain. About halfway down the wide avenue, Kathryn spotted two men, elbow to elbow with thousands of sweaty folks with sore feet, walking back into the fairgrounds, the crowd splitting around them, the two fellas talking and walking in a casual, relaxed way. One was a tall and skeletal thing, wearing a Western suit and boots, the other, in a white linen suit, was shorter, and thick around the middle, wearing Western boots and a pair of glasses.

She clutched George’s arm and pulled him into her, a loving couple after a fine old day at the Fair, resting her head on the mug’s shoulder, reaching down and gripping Geraline’s sweaty little hand. The girl looking up at Kathryn and narrowing her eyes with that goddamn “What gives?” that she’d gotten down pat.

One of the men tipped his cowboy hat to the fine family and kept on walking. George started to whistle “Stormy Weather” as they passed.

“George?”

“I sure am hungry.”

“Did you-”

“What?”

She pulled him in closer, following the fat, heavy crowd, bustling with souvenir hats and balloons and pinwheels for the kiddies, out onto South Michigan, walking damn-near a goddamn mile south to find the big open lot where they’d parked that road-tired Ford. Geraline crawled in the backseat and lay down without a word, tuckered out from the long day.

“I shoulda got a hot dog,” George said, knocking the car into gear and heading west over the river and back over to Cicero to dump the Ford. They’d get some sleep at the Astra, George said, pack and leave for Memphis in the morning. Goddamn Memphis. George excited about heading home, talking about places he wanted to show her.

“You really think we can make it to Cuba?” she asked.

“You can practically see the place from Key West,” George said. “We have a nice drive down the coast and then hop a boat.”

“I remember Havana Widows. Lots of nightclubs.”

“You bet. And rum.”

“Shoulda known you’d care for rum.”

“Joan Blondell sure was a knockout in that picture.”

“Why don’t you ring her up, then?” Kathryn said. “See if she’ll iron your shirts.”

The traffic thinned out over the river but nearly stopped when they got outside Cicero, streets closed off for this big, crazy NRA parade, with tons of folks carrying banners and American flags, pictures of Roosevelt on sticks. Lots of blue eagles and all that hooey.

“Think about all the people we’ve put to work,” George said, smiling, mashing the clutch, shifting to neutral, the engine chugging behind an endless line of cars. Window down, arm hanging out the window. “You bet ole Uncle Sam is in overdrive, paying those G-men to look for the Kellys.”

“Maybe you can get a blue eagle tattoo on your ass.”

“Maybe I will.”

George pulled into the alley beside Joe’s Square Deal Garage and killed the lights. Kathryn reached back and tried to shake Geraline awake, but the girl was exhausted, and they left her in the backseat, taking a side door and walking into the big open space where several boys were giving a big Hudson a once-over.

One of the men leaned back out from under the hood and smiled. Harvey Bailey wore a big shit-eating grin.