Dillinger

‘Idiots,’ Youngblood said. ‘What good’s a mop and bucket without water?’

Dillinger held a finger up to his lips. He went over to the bars and checked right and left, then with his back to the bars in case anyone came along unexpectedly, he squatted down and carefully lifted the mop end from the bottom of the bucket and took out something wrapped in flannel.

‘Stand next to me,’ he whispered to Youngblood.

Their backs a screen in case anyone approached, Dillinger unwrapped the flannel. In its centre was a blue-black 32 calibre Colt automatic. Quickly, Dillinger checked the clip, saw that it had all eight rounds, and jammed it back into the handle.

‘Let’s have your knife,’ Dillinger said.

Youngblood produced a bone-handled pocket knife from the top of his right boot and handed it across. Dillinger sprung the blade, instinctively tested it on his thumb, and told Youngblood, ‘Stand by the bars. Anyone comes, you tell me fast.’

As Youngblood leaned backwards against the bars, Dillinger reached under the mattress on his bunk, slit it, and shoved the Colt into the slit. He tested to see if it was far enough away from the cut not to fall out accidentally. Only then did Dillinger look up at Youngblood with a smile.

There was amazement in Youngblood’s eyes. ‘Jesus, Mr Dillinger,’ was all he said.

The lounge of the hotel was crowded, reporters three deep at the bar, and the noise made it necessary to shout to be heard. The young woman, sitting alone at the bamboo table by the window where she could view the street, looked out of place in the neat two-piece black suit and cream oyster-satin blouse, her blonde hair framed by a close-fitting black velvet hat.

The man who approached her, glass in hand, was perhaps thirty-five, with a world-weary, sardonic face. A grey fedora was pushed to the back of his head.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Mike Jarvis, AP. I hear you’re with the Denver Press.’

That’s right, Martha Ryan.’

‘Can I get you a drink?’

She lifted her cup. ‘Coffee’s just fine, thank you.’

He sat down and offered her a cigarette. ‘They sent you up here to get the woman’s angle, I suppose?’

‘That’s right. Only it doesn’t look as if anyone’s getting in to see him’ she shrugged.

‘Well, there’s the sheriff,’ Jarvis said, nodding toward the large window.

‘Oh, where is he?’ Martha Ryan said, standing.

Jarvis laughed. ‘He’s a she,’ he said, pointing to where a middle-aged woman flanked by two male deputies was crossing the street. ‘Her husband was the sheriff of Lake County. When he got himself killed, she took over for the rest of his term, like they did in the olden days.’

The door opened and Lillian Holley entered and was immediately surrounded by excited newsmen, all talking at once. The two brawny deputies started to push a way through the crowd for her and she called in exasperation, ‘Can’t a girl get a cup of coffee in peace round here.’

Jarvis, watching her speculatively, turned suddenly to Martha Ryan. ‘She won’t let any one of the guys see Dillinger at the moment, but what if I persuaded her to let you in?’

Martha Ryan stared at him sceptically. ‘You think there’s a chance?’

‘Maybe, only one thing. You share your story with me and no one else. Is it a deal?’

She reached across and pressed his hand. ‘A deal, Mr Jarvis.’

He stood up as Lillian Holley pressed forward. ‘Hey, Lillian! Over here!’

She paused, glancing towards him. ‘Mike Jarvis, you still here? You don’t give up, do you?’

Her eyes considered the young woman and she came forward and Jarvis held his seat for her. ‘Here, take this.’

She sat down and the two deputies stood guard, backs towards her, arms folded, and the crowd of reporters retreated to the bar.

‘Introduce me, Mike,’ she said.

‘Miss Martha Ryan of the Denver Press.’

Mrs Holley frowned. ‘Your editor must be crazy, expecting a kid like you to hold her own with a bunch of villains like these guys. Just out of college?’

‘That’s right, Mrs Holley.’

A waiter appeared with fresh coffee. Lillian Holley said, ‘I get it, he wants a fresh angle. Why thousands of red-blooded American women have the hots for Johnny Dillinger.’

Martha Ryan blushed and Jarvis said, ‘It’s the little lady’s first big assignment, Lillian.’

‘Next thing, you’ll be telling me her ageing mother’s in the hospital and she needs the money.’

Jarvis grinned and turned to Martha. ‘Hey, you didn’t tell me.’

Martha Ryan smiled. ‘I won’t lie to you, Mrs Holley. Any kind of story from here would get me a byline and could make my career.’

Lillian Holley looked her over calmly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s nice to see a woman ambitious for a change, instead of all these hustling men.’

Martha Ryan said, ‘Just five minutes with him? Please Mrs Holley, it could be my break.’

Jarvis patted Martha Ryan’s hand. ‘Too much to expect, angel. I mean all these guys here have been hanging around for days trying to see John Dillinger. They’d go crazy. No, it can’t be done.’

Lillian Holley noticed how Martha Ryan gently moved her hand away from Jarvis’s condescending pat. ‘You men,’ she said to Jarvis, taking his bait, ‘think you know everything. Who the hell do you think is in charge around here? If I say this girl sees Dillinger, she sees him and there’s nothing those creeps can do about it.’

‘Sorry, Lillian, no offence meant,’ Jarvis said hastily.

Lillian Holley leaned across the table to Martha Ryan. ‘I’ll give you five minutes, that’s all, you understand?’

The girl stared at her in amazement. ‘You mean it? You really mean it? Five minutes with Dillinger.’

‘Hey, you got a great title for your feature there,’ Jarvis told her.

Lillian Holley said, ‘I’m leaving now. Give me a couple of minutes, then report to the back entrance of the jail. You’ll be expected. And keep it to yourself for now.’

‘Oh, I will, Mrs Holley,’ Martha Ryan said.

Lillian Holley stood up and turned to Jarvis. ‘And that goes for you, too. Keep your mouth shut on this one, Mike, or don’t come back.’

She nodded to the two deputies and followed them to the door.

Martha Ryan said, ‘I can’t believe it.’ She turned to Jarvis as he sat down again. ‘Have you any idea what this could mean to me, Mr Jarvis?’