Dillinger

As he got out, the old man was already transferring his belongings from the Ford. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’

‘You could say that.’

Dillinger lifted the rear seat of the Ford, revealing a shot-gun and two automatic pistols.

‘You going to war, Johnny?’ Doc asked.

They stowed the shotgun and pistols along with the rest of the arsenal under the rear seat of the Chevrolet. ‘That’s it,’ Dillinger said.

The old man shook his head. ‘No, the Ford, Johnny. That’s got to go.’ He nodded across the track to the swamp. ‘In there.’ He slapped the car on the roof with the flat of his hand. ‘Seems like a waste, but when a man gets too greedy, he can end up on the end of a rope.’

Dillinger reached in and released the handbrake, then went round to the rear, and they got their shoulders down and pushed. The Ford bounced across the track, gathered momentum and ran away from them down the slope, plunging into the dark waters below. They stood there watching it disappear, Dillinger lighting a cigarette and offering the old man one. Doc shook his head and put his empty pipe in his mouth, chewing on it until the roof of the Ford had disappeared under the surface.

‘That’s it.’

They went back to the barn and got into the Chevrolet, and Dillinger drove back to the farm, braking to a halt at the foot of the porch steps. He started to open his door and Doc shook his head.

‘You’ve got to get moving, Johnny. Let’s cut it now.’

‘Whatever you say, Doc.’ Dillinger held out his hand.

Doc said, ‘I want you to know I’m going to take your advice. I’m going south to the Florida Keys with money in my pants and it’s all thanks to you.’ He got out of the car and closed the door, leaning down to the window, I’m going to get some warmth into my old bones before I die and that’s thanks to you as well, Johnny.’

Dillinger smiled. ‘Good luck, Doc.’

He drove away through the rain and the old man stood there listening to the Chevrolet’s sweet sound fade into the distance. Then he trudged across the muddy yard to the barn and opened the doors. An old Ford truck stood inside. He started it with the handle and drove it across to the front of the farm and went inside.

When he reappeared, he was carrying a suitcase and the briefcase, no more. He put them into the cab and went back up the steps into the living room. The hound dog moved restlessly beside him. It was very quiet, only the rain humming on the roof.

‘Quiet, Sam,’ he said gently. ‘We’re leaving now.’

He took out his pipe, filled it methodically from his worn tobacco pouch. Then he picked up the photo of his wife in the silver frame and slipped it into his pocket.

He struck a match on the side of his shoe and put it to the bowl of his pipe, then took the cowl of the oil lamp on the table and touched the match to the wick. It flared up and he reached forward and very gently turned it on its side. It rolled, coal oil spilling across the table and dripping to the floor, tongues of flame leaping up.

‘Why, damn me, Sam,’ Doc said to the hound. ‘We appear to have a fire on our hands. Time to leave, I’d say.’

He went out and down the steps, holding open the door so that the old dog could climb up on the passenger seat. He went round to the front, swung the crank, then got behind the wheel and moved into gear. As he drove away, he started to sing softly:

‘John Dillinger was the man for me,

He robbed the Glendale train,

Took from the banks, gave to the poor,

Shan’t see his like again.’

Behind him, flames burst through the shingle roof and black smoke billowed into the air. Doc hadn’t been happier in years. Then he remembered the man who’d come calling, Leach. The son-of-a-bitch had the whole of the Indiana State Police to catch one man. He hoped Johnny would be across the state line by now. Or real soon.

In his Washington office, J. Edgar Hoover had seven grown men standing around his desk as if they were page boys instead of high-ranking G-men. Hoover’s voice was calm, but the men who had worked with him knew that he was furious.

‘He phoned me,’ Hoover said.

Of course they knew already. It was the scuttlebutt of headquarters.

‘He phoned me collect. He said I should tell the President not to close any more banks.’

The men standing there kept straight faces because they knew what Hoover’s fury would be like if they so much as smiled.

‘He’s made more headlines than movie stars. I don’t want the kids in this country growing up emulating that man. Understand?’

They all nodded.

‘The local boobs can’t catch him, and when they do, they can’t hold onto him. I want John Dillinger taken by the Bureau. Dead or alive.’

It was the man standing next to Purvis from Chicago who said, ‘Any preference?’

Hoover laughed so they all thought it was OK to laugh too.

Hoover stood up for the first time. ‘Here’s my plan.’

3 (#uc7d58fbc-636d-53b7-bed8-1a008e0ad617)

In Texas he’d driven with the top of the white convertible down, hoping the breeze would help. Maybe not feeling safe yet was adding to his discomfort. But once he was across the border he felt safe, and the hot sun seemed to bear down on him even more, and he finally pulled over to the side of the dusty road, and raised the top to keep the sun off his head. He put the turned down panama hat beside him on the seat to let the sweat band dry out a bit, damn glad he’d bought it and thrown the straw hat away. He didn’t want to look like an American from a mile away.

With his fingertips he felt the moustache he’d started to grow on the ride down. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. It was coming in black. All he needed was a better suntan.

Above the town the Sierras floated in a purple haze. He bet it was cooler up there, but he had to find a decent hotel, if there was such a place. Across the Plaza Civica that fronted the church, he saw it: the Hotel Balcon, a squat pink building with a crumbling façade. It had been used as a strongpoint during the revolution and the walls were pitted with bullet holes.

He pulled the white Chevrolet up in front of it, aware of the eyes watching him from the park. Maybe from windows up there too. Should he have stuck to a black car like most other people drove, not a white convertible that called attention to himself? He loved the goddamn car and didn’t care about anything except that it was now covered in dust and grime. These people sure had lousy roads compared to the States.

Dillinger put on his linen jacket, took the one suitcase. Everything else was safely stowed in the trunk.

He noticed but didn’t pay any attention to the older man who sat on the bench in front of the hotel, smoking the stub of a cigarette the way people who can’t afford cigarettes did, dragging smoke out of the last half inch.

As Dillinger passed, the man said, ‘Hi.’

Dillinger stopped. He certainly didn’t recognize the old fellow in the crumpled linen suit. He had the face of a man who’d lived hard all his life. A grizzled beard framed his wide mouth.

Dillinger’d been worried about knowing only a few phrases in Spanish and here was this guy saying, ‘Hi.’ Then, ‘Can you spare two bits?’

Dillinger put his suitcase down. ‘How’d you know I spoke English?’

‘You walk like an American. And I never saw anybody down here drive a job like that.’ He pointed at the convertible. ‘Besides,’ he said with a small-time laugh, ‘Illinois plates don’t grow on cars down here. Two bits and I’ll watch your fancy job while you check in.’

‘What’s it need watching for?’

‘The kids around here’ll be down, on it three seconds after you walk in that front door. I’m cleaned out. Two bits and nobody gets near your car.’