Infamous

8

Kathryn didn’t get up till almost eleven, worn out from the drive back and forth to Coleman and Paradise. She made a pot of coffee, grabbed her cigarette case, and took old Ching-A-Wee out for a doo-doo on her front lawn. How Kathryn loved that little dog. Lots of folks-including George-didn’t realize Ching-A-Wee was royalty. That’s God’s truth. When she and George had just gotten hitched in Saint Paul and lived in that awful apartment building with Verne Miller and Vi, there’d been an old maid who’d sold Pekingese on the second floor. Kathryn loved Chingy from the start. You could tell he was royal from the way he stood, begged for food, and, hell, even took a dump, legs sprawled and looking you dead in the eye, daring you to tell him it don’t smell sweet.

He skittered up the porch steps and, as she settled into a chair, onto her lap, nearly spilling coffee on the robe’s monkey-fur trim. She smoked for a while, stood and checked the mail slot-loaded down with nothing but bills and more bills. The department stores were the worst, always addressing you like this was something personal and not a business transaction, calling her “Mrs. Kelly” and telling her how “unfortunate” it was they hadn’t received a payment. The hell of it was, there was nothing unfortunate about it. She and George had blown through that Tupelo money damn-near Christmas, and if Mr. Urschel’s family didn’t come through she’d be back to making fifty cents an hour cutting men’s nails, complimenting fat old duddys on their style just to make a dollar tip or get an invite back to their hotels to make twenty bucks a throw.

“Hey, watch it,” she told Chingy. “Settle down. Settle down, little man.”

She raked her nails over the nape of his neck and felt for the diamond collar, wondering how much she could pawn it for if things got really rough. Her bags were packed and plans made. She knew every step by heart. She would meet George in Oklahoma City, bring the new Cadillac, telegram to Saint Paul… Hot damn, he’d done it. She didn’t think he could, but George Kelly had done it.

She’d nearly counted off the list for the second time when the gray Chevrolet rolled into her drive and killed the motor, Ed Weatherford stepping from the cab and taking off his hat. “Mornin’.”

“What do you want?”

“That ain’t no way to greet a gentleman caller.”

“What if George was here?”

“I’d sit down and chaw the fat with him,” he said. “George knows we’re buddies.”

“Some buddy.”

“What are you sore at, darlin’?” He gave that crooked, two-dollar grin. “Did you want moonlight and roses? I can look in my pocket.”

“I know what’s in your pocket.”

She stood and opened the screen door to let Chingy in. Ed followed the walkway, and Kathryn turned, pulling arms across her chest, the cigarette still burning in her fingers. “If you came here for a throw, I ain’t in the mood.”

“You are mighty mistrustful this morning.”

“Well, did you or didn’t you?”

“Aw, well.”

“Nerts.”

“Listen, doll,” Ed said, standing at the foot of the steps and mawing at his hat.

Kathryn stayed flat-footed on the porch and let him stammer.

“There’s been some rumors and questions, and I thought I’d be coming out here personal-like and see if there was any truth to them.”

“Please.”

“Darlin’, just listen to me. Isn’t that what you wanted from me the other night? Keep an ear open? Well, here I am. So don’t throw water in my face. I just wanted to know if George was involved with that oilman business.”

“What oilman business?”

“Shoot,” Ed said. He looked down at his pointed boots and let out a deep breath. “Hadn’t we all had a good time? Me, you, and George-hadn’t we shared some laughs? And now you won’t even be straight with me for me to help you.”

“I’ve been to visit my mother, Mrs. Ora Shannon.”

“I didn’t ask where you been, baby. I asked what about George.”

“George had business.”

“Selling Bibles?”

“Good-bye.”

Kathryn picked up her stack of bills, leaving her coffee, cigarette, and morning paper on the porch, and turned to the house. The screen door almost thwacked shut before Ed stuck his big fat foot in the threshold and grinned at her through the screen.

She waited.

He reached down and picked up the Daily Oklahoman from the porch floor by her coffee that continued to steam, red-lipped cigarette on the saucer.

“Good likeness of him,” Ed said. “I seen him speak one time at the Texas Oilmen’s Association. Seems like somebody would’ve seen them two fellas with machine guns. Say, does George still got-”

“Take it up with him.”

Ed made a real jackass show of folding up the newspaper all nice and neat and tucking it back near the coffee cup, saucer, and cigarette. “I can tell your nerves are a bit jangled this morning, and I can see you don’t have any sugar to give. I understand. But what you got to know, Mrs. Kelly, is that I knowed this is George’s work and I knowed why you were asking me about back doors and legal questions the other night. I didn’t figure it was for my good looks.”

Kathryn poked out her hip and placed a hand to it, thinking Mae West in She Done Him Wrong. “Are we finished?”

“Don’t think you need me now the deal is done,” he said. “The world can go sour on you anytime. You remember that, baby.”

She just looked through the screen at Ed Weatherford and waited for the goddamn, unfunny punch line coming from that goddamn, crooked mouth.

“I want a cut, Mrs. Kelly,” Ed said. “And this ain’t a request.”

“‘A-TRACTIONS OF THE ASTOUNDING NATURE, THE BI-ZARRE, THE start-ling and new in entertainment have been gathered from all parts of the universe to make The Midway-City of a Million Lights the z-z-zenith of amusement for all thrill seekers,’” the boy said. “Mr. Urschel, what does that word mean? ‘Zenith’?”

“Means ‘the highest point,’ son.”

“Holy smokes,” the boy said. “This must be somethin’ else. You want me to keep goin’?”

“You have plans to make the Fair?”

“Do I?” he asked. “Hold on a sec, and I’ll keep on readin’. ‘Located centrally on the World’s Fair grounds in Chicago, just south of Twenty-third Street, the many features of this outlay will satisfy even the oldest youngster that visits the Exposition.’ You know, they’re calling this thing ‘Century of Progress.’ That’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it? A whole dang century in one place? I got to see this. You want me to keep going or you want me to read them Ladies’ Home Journals to you? They got a story in there about Will Rogers that tickled me plenty. He sure is a pistol.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Mr. Urschel,” the boy said. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by chainin’ you up and makin’ you eat beans out of a can. I don’t get no pleasure out of it.”

“You could let me go.”

The boy laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“They’d kill me.”

“Who would?”

“You just messin’ with my mind now,” he said. “I was told I can read to you but better not talk. So let me go on… ‘Among the mul-multitudinous features are the many breathtaking rides, an Oriental village with exotic and colorful presentations of the life, rites, and customs of the Far East, a reproduction of African jungles and deserts, its queer villages, its ancient art and weird ceremonies, and “Bozo.”’ I think Bozo is some kind of monkey. A relation of mine just got back from Chicago and said they got some foreign dancers who don’t wear a stitch of clothes. The women’s titties jumpin’ up and down got to be worth the price of a ticket.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have another cigar on you?”

“I can git one,” he said. “Hit wouldn’t be trouble atall. Thought you said it wadn’t your brand.”

“It’s not. But I can enjoy it just the same.”

“Yes, sir. Hold on, Mr. Urschel. Hold on.”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

Charlie was handcuffed to the bed frame in stiff pajamas he’d worn for days, and, considering it was midday, he felt downright ridiculous. His arm had fallen asleep shortly after he’d been chained and would take nearly an hour to come alive when they’d move him room to room away from the sun’s heat. He heard the front screen door thwack close and heavy feet in the main room and coming closer.

The door flew open and two men stepped inside.

“Keys.”

A jangle, and heavy shoes moved toward him. A snick, and his dead arm dropped to his side.

“Up, Urschel,” said the big gunman who’d brought him to this wretched hole. Charlie was pushed into the next room, and a heavy hand sat him down hard in a chair. “We’re gonna take off the tape, but don’t turn around and look at us. I really don’t feel like killing you today.”

They ripped the tape from his eyes, and the brightness of the room blinded him in a white glow. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, the skin feeling wet and soft and raw around the edges.

The big gunman plunked down a cheap paper tablet and a pen on the desk. “Write,” the other gunman said. “You can choose who gets the letter. But you tell them we mean business and we want two hundred grand.”

Charlie Urschel didn’t feel like it, but he laughed like a hiccup escaping his belly. He didn’t mean it, but the whole idea was just kind of funny to him, the number so absurd that he wondered how they came up with it. “I don’t have-”

“Shut up and write, Charlie,” said the big gunman, Charlie recalling his fat, bullish neck.

A thick hand shoved the pen into his fingers, and he caught a glance of a ruby pinky ring on a hairy finger.

Concentrating on the paper and into the glare, Charlie worked about ten minutes constructing the letter to his business associate, E. E. Kirkpatrick. Kirk had handled his affairs for some time and would understand his tone and message beyond these men’s obvious mental limits.

A man over his shoulder with hot breath read it and then ripped it up.

“Let’s try again,” the big man said. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the condition of the Slick Company or what assets you got tied up in stocks and bonds and whatnot. Just say you want the money paid, and we’ll handle the rest. Don’t think, Charlie. Just write, and smilin’ days are ahead.”

“The estate’s money is in a trust. You just can’t cash a check. There are lawyers and procedures-”

“Fuck ’em,” the other man said. “Write. Don’t think. Thinkin’ is our job.”

Charlie wrote what the man said, word for word. He heard the man’s heavy breathing and even the wet snap of a smile behind him when Charlie signed his name to all this nonsense. No words were said; the gunmen simply left the shack, screen door banging behind them, and a big motor started outside, automobile scratching off in the dust.

“Mr. Urschel, we sure are sorry,” said the old man. “Potatoes, get dinner started.”

“Sorry, Mr. Urschel,” the boy, Potatoes, said. “I got another cigar for you, a gen-u-ine Tampa Nugget. And we got somethin’ special for dinner tonight, too.”

“That’s right, Mr. Urschel. A real home-cooked meal. Don’t mind those men none. We just want you real comfortable. Remember, we’s the ones who treat you nice.”

“Then why don’t you let me go?” Charlie asked. “I’ll pay you both ten thousand dollars apiece.”

Potatoes and the old man didn’t say a thing for a long while. The hound trotted over and licked Charlie’s hands while the cotton and tape was laid back over his eyes from behind. The dog slopped on his fingers, and Charlie could feel the long, drooping ears.

“That ole boy sure does like you,” the old man said. “He don’t come ’round to people so quick. He senses you’re a gentleman. A just man.”

“You should see him take after a coon,” Potatoes said. “You want to hear more about the Fair?”

“No, thank you, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” Potatoes said.

“Mr. Urschel,” the old man said. “If them boys don’t make it through what they’re plannin’ on, you have my word I’ll let you loose. I know you don’t know me. But my word is fourteen carat.”

“I bet,” Charlie said. “I could tell you’re a pair of real gentlemen.”

“I’ll go fetch your dinner,” Potatoes said. “I think I seen a Photoplay, too. Jean Harlow’s on the cover and gives an interview, real personal, saying things she ain’t said to nobody else before. I get the goose pimples just thinkin’ on it.”

“DID YOU HAVE TO MAKE HIM SWALLOW THE DAMN WATCH?” DOC White asked.

“They put that woman through hell,” Jones said. “Then he tried to slice me with a busted bottle.”

“Why didn’t you have them arrested?”

“They learned their lesson,” Jones said. “I hope they choked on their steak.”

“Pretty stupid calling Mrs. Urschel to complain.”

“Greedy as hell,” Jones said. “Those men were bums before the Depression. It just makes ’em easier to hide.”

“No shame atall these days.”

“Why don’t you tell that to Mr. Colvin?”

“Come again?”

“That little girl is twistin’ him in knots,” Jones said.

On a stone patio behind the mansion, Betty Slick wore a satin number, something worth a month’s pay to Jones, low-cut and tied at the shoulders. Jones had seen such numbers in magazines but never on Mary Ann. Mary Ann was no prude but would’ve thought paying that kind of money for a dress was a sin on the order of buying a bonnet you only wear on Easter Sunday. Bruce Colvin sat on the ledge of a marble fountain, felt hat in hand, conversing with the girl, who’d hop up onto the ledge in her bare feet and then hop back down. The whole dance of it was making Jones dizzy, and he wished the girl had somewhere to go to keep Colvin’s mind on the matter at hand.

Jones took the pipe from the corner of his mouth and knocked the tobacco out with the heel of his boot. “He don’t stand a chance.”

“What’s his story?”

“Worked as a prosecutor in some small town in Mississippi,” Jones said. “Joined up a couple years ago. Can’t shoot. Can’t track worth a durn.”

“Dresses regulation.”

“Our days are numbered.”

“They still need us.”

“If you say,” Jones said.

Betty Slick laughed and twirled her dark hair and laughed some more, and brought her show closer to Special Agent in Charge Bruce Colvin. Jones noted she was a pretty girl, with a woman’s figure and pleasant face. She was the kind of girl that still had the dew on her, and Colvin might as well have had a ring in his nose.

“I think I’m gettin’ the piles,” Doc said. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Where to?”

“Out of this mausoleum.”

The Urschel place had been cleared of most newspapermen, who had only the day before been working from tents and makeshift offices on the front lawn, on account of not scaring off the kidnappers. They were cleared from the house but not from the story; those bloodsuckers still called every other minute. Four extra phone lines had been added to the house, with agents and police listening to every call, analyzing every telegram, and studying every letter delivered. Simple messages were broken down and straight-ahead words were decoded.

“You go to Sheriff Reed’s funeral?”

“No, sir,” Jones said. “Couldn’t make it.”

“He was an all right fella.”

“Reminded me of ole Rome Shields.”

“From San Angelo?”

“Yep,” Jones said. “Rome Shields taught me everything I know.”

“Hell, Buster. Just what do you know?”

“The older I get, the more it escapes me.”

The trees made a good bit of shade as they walked down Eighteenth along the skinny sidewalk past many smaller homes-bungalows and such-all of them with brand-new cars and children playing on fresh-cut lawns with manicured bushes and trimmed roses. Jones removed his jacket and tucked it in the crook of his arm and over the.45 on his hip. The whole place felt like a hothouse, and he mopped his face a bit. A young agent from the local office slowed his vehicle beside them and asked if they needed a ride somewhere. The older men shook their heads and kept moving.

“This country’s going to hell.”

“Don’t be gettin’ soft and senile on me,” Jones said. “People have always been evil. Didn’t you read the Bible? There weren’t too many picnics between wars. Or you want to sing me a song about those gay ole days?”

“I don’t recall times ever bein’ this bad.”

“Don’t take as much to be an outlaw, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“How you figure?”

“Remember when we ran the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang?”

“I remember running that posse on Black Jack.”

“Well, when they pulled a job it took some effort,” Jones said. “You had to blast your way out of the bank and hope your horse kept on till the posse gave up. That’s a test of wills and endurance. You planned ahead and saw it through. What you got these days depends on the machine, not the man.”

“The best car.”

“These hoods are driving vehicles with fourteen and sixteen cylinders. What kind of country sheriff keeps that kind of machine in his garage? They get out of the bank and they’re as good as gone. Who’s gonna catch ’em?”

“What would Black Jack have done with a Buick and a Thompson?”

“Raise a lot more hell than these folks.”

“You know what ole Black Jack said before they hung ’im?”

“Tell it again.”

“ ‘I’ll be in hell before y’all eat breakfast, boys,’ ” White said, stopping for a moment to light a cigarette. “ ‘Let her rip.’ ”

“Took his head clean off, I heard,” Jones said. “Doc, you ever think you’d see a weapon that could fire thirty rounds in the blink of an eye?”

“That was made for the military, not for gangsters.”

“How you gonna keep it out of their hands?”

“Don’t take much skill with a full drum,” White said. “Sure can chew apart the scenery.”

“One man becomes an army.”

“It’s cowardice,” White said. “Not progress.”

When they returned, Kirkpatrick met them on the sunporch and opened the door. Maps and telegrams had been laid on the card table along with books and books of mug shots and prison records.

“Anything?” Jones asked.

“Cranks,” Kirkpatrick said. “Can you believe that woman had the nerve-”

“Yes.”

Jones and White removed their hats, laid them crown down, and took a seat at the card table. A negro woman offered some coffee, and they took it, White discussing running back to the hotel for sandwiches to keep the billing easy for expenses. Jones said that sounded fine, and he filled his pipe again and leaned back into the chair. He could hear the birds in the trees and the cicadas buzzing in the heat. The view was obscured and fuzzy on account of the metal screen.

“This is the screwiest one,” Kirkpatrick said. “Received it this morning while I was shaving.”

He slid the letter across to Jones. Jones glanced down and read it, getting the fire going in the bowl, and looked up at Kirkpatrick.

“What?” Kirkpatrick asked. “Surely you don’t think there is anything to something so outrageous?”

A letter from Charles F. Urschel to you and the enclosed identification cards will convince you that you are dealing with the Abductors. Immediately upon receipt of this letter you will proceed to obtain the sum of TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS ($200,000.00) in GENUINE USED FEDERAL RESERVE CURRENCY in the denomination of TWENTY DOLLAR ($20.00) Bills. It will be useless for you to attempt taking notes of SERIAL NUMBERS, MAKING UP DUMMY PACKAGE, OR ANYTHING ELSE IN THE LINE OF ATTEMPTED DOUBLE CROSS. BEAR THIS IN MIND, CHARLES E URSCHEL WILL REMAIN IN OUR CUSTODY UNTIL MONEY HAS BEEN INSPECTED AND EX CHANGED AND FURTHERMORE WILL BE AT THE SCENE OF, CONTACT FOR PAY-OFF AND IF THERE SHOULD BE ANY ATTEMPT AT ANY DOUBLE XX IT WILL BE HE THAT SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCE. As soon as you have read and RE-READ this carefully and wish to commence negotiations you will proceed to the DAILY OKLAHOMAN and insert the following BLIND AD under the REAL ESTATE, FARMS FOR SALE, and we will know that you are ready, for BUSINESS, and you will receive further instructions AT THE BOX ASSIGNED TO YOU BY THE NEWSPAPER, AND NO WHERE ELSE. We have neither time or patience to carry on any further lengthy correspondence. RUN THIS AD FOR ONE WEEK IN DAILY OKLAHOMAN. FOR SALE -160 Acres Land, good five room house, deep well. Also Cows, Tools, Tractor, Corn and Hay. $3750.00 for quick sale. TERMS. Box #-hear from us as soon as convenient after insertion of AD.

An hour later, the postman delivered a letter with Urschel’s identification and personal signature. From across the table, Doc White asked, “Our boys?”

“Yep,” Jones said. “See if Agent Colvin might have the time and inclination to join us. That is, if his dance card ain’t punched.”

ORA HAD FIXED A BIG SOUTHERN MEAL JUST THE WAY GEORGE liked it, and they all sat together like a proper family at Boss’s place, a mile down the road from where they kept Mr. Urschel. Kathryn let Boss say grace, and George answered it with a big, corny “Amen” and reached for the fried chicken, that long, hairy arm coming clean across the table for a drumstick. Albert Bates complimented her mother on the meal and poured himself a glass of iced tea.

“You send over a plate, darlin’?” George asked.

“Taters brung it,” Ora said, her voice grating, filled with a lot of North Mississippi; Saltillo to her bones. “Gave him some sliced tomatoes and field peas, too. Reckon he’ll like that?”

“Mr. Urschel should be grateful,” Bates said. “A big oilman lives on nothing but sirloin steak and bourbon. Craps out silver dollars like a one-armed bandit.”

“He’s due for some slop,” George said.

“George,” Ora said.

“Oh, no, ma’am, I don’t mean your cookin’ is slop, I’m talking the beans.”

“I don’t think he’s cut out for ranch living,” Bates said. “He tried to fight signing that letter, but not real hard. He wants this mess gone.”

“And what will you do then, Mr. Bates?” Boss asked. The old man sat at the head of the table in a boiled white shirt buttoned to the throat. He chewed his chicken as he spoke, with a lot of strength in those jaws, looking like a little bulldog gnawing on a bone, thin white hair combed back from his forehead and sticking up like a grizzled rooster’s.

“Get back to my sweetie and have some fun,” Bates said. “This is it for me.”

“What’s the next step for you, young man?” Boss asked.

“If I knew, this wouldn’t be an ounce of fun,” George said with a wink. “You go where you find the action. But I’m figuring they’ll answer that ad and play it smart. We’ll all be out of your hair by Sunday, and me and Kit will be on the road and Albert will be back with his sweetie.”

He smiled over at Kathryn, stopping her from laughing about Boss’s hair, and grabbed her knee with his free hand. She looked down at the red-and-white tablecloth and studied the uniform pattern. She hadn’t gotten any food, her stomach twisted up in knots. But George didn’t have a care in the world, reaching back across the table and grabbing a thigh this time and asking her mother for another helping of field peas. Old Ora lit up with smiles like that big mug had hung the goddamn moon.

“George, when you finish stuffing your gullet, how ’bout you and me go check out the machine?” Kathryn asked.

“Already checked on her,” George said. “Fueled up and ready to go. Got a tin of gas and cans of oil. Don’t you worry about nothin’.”

“I’d like to see her anyway,” Kathryn said, moving his hand off her knee, pushing the skirt back down. She reached for the iced tea and poured a glass, wishing these Baptists would wake up to the world and keep some gin in the house.

“Sheriff Faith come by today,” Boss said, just as plain as talking about crops and weather.

George stopped chewing. He and Albert exchanged glances.

“Oh, you boys don’t get nervous,” he said. “I been stashing folks here for years. The sheriff would tell me if the law was onto us.”

“May I have some more biscuits?” George asked.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Kathryn said.

“Why don’t you mind your own business.”

Ora hopped up like there was a fire poker in her ass and landed two buttermilk biscuits on his plate. Kathryn just shook her head and walked out the screen door and onto the porch, resting an arm on the column and looking across the pasture at all those goddamn cows mooing at one another, blind and directionless until someone cracked the whip. Suckers.

George sure took his time to join her, door clattering shut. He lit a cigarette and patted his stomach, following her down a path and to the garage he’d constructed with Potatoes and Boss that spring. He found the key in his pocket and loosened the lock and chain, opening up the big, wide barn doors to show off that gorgeous midnight blue Cadillac. A full sixteen cylinders, with big, fat pontoon fenders, torpedo headlights, and a slant-back grille topped with that gorgeous silver woman with wings. The places she’d see.

Kathryn ran her hand over the paint, which always felt liquid and alive to her, shining wet. She turned and leaned back against the door, crooking her finger at George. He didn’t need to be asked twice, but first shut the garage door and lit up a kerosene lantern.

He wrapped his big arms around her and kissed her square on the mouth, not like the men in the movies but like he was kissing somebody to test his brute strength. The way a knucklehead slams his mallet in a carnival game. “Careful,” she said. “Don’t mess up my hair. I just had it done.”

“I love you, Kit.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“That’s a big backseat back there, how ’bout we break her in.”

She ran a finger down the loose part of his silk shirt and tipped the brow of his fedora back from those murky green eyes, the color of swamp water. “I thought we’d wait. You know. Just like people do before a wedding.”

“Wait till what?”

“When you get the money and we’re on the road.”

“Come on, Kit. I’m hurtin’ here. And we’re married already, or had you forgot?”

“No, I hadn’t forgot.”

He wrapped a meaty arm tighter and pulled her in. He reached up under her skirt and was feeling her between the legs and over the panties, and she wasn’t feeling in that kind of mood, but it took her, and she had to tilt her head back to catch her breath. “George?”

“You are a peach.”

“George.”

“I love you, sweet baby.”

The garage smelled of polished wood and kerosene and new oil just waiting to get burned up from here to Mexico. “George, I need you to do something.”

“What’s that?”

He pawed at her dress and pulled down a bra strap, pushing her up on the hood and getting himself good and settled between her legs. With a real gentleness that she could never believe a big man could achieve, he laid her flat on her back and put his mouth to her nipple.

“I want you to murder that son of a bitch Ed Weatherford for me,” she said, looking at the tin roof. “He’s onto us, baby.”

George stopped and stepped back a few paces, shaking his head. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“George, be a gangster. Really.”

He shook his head.

Kathryn righted herself up onto her elbows and pushed herself off the Cadillac, fingering up her top and smoothing down the dress over her long legs. She reached into George’s shirt pocket and grabbed some Luckies, lighting the match off the mug’s chin.

She blew some smoke and shook her head.

His mouth hung open.

“You’d rather I do it?”

“I didn’t say that,” George said. “But that’s not in the plan.”

“Plan’s changed.”

“Just ignore him.”

“Then he’ll really be gunnin’ for us.”

They heard a car’s motor from down the road and then all of Boss’s guineas out there, raising hell and making that high, dumb guinea call. George cracked the barn door and told Kathryn to stay put. He peered out as she smoked and thought about different ways to kill that bastard Weatherford.

“Whew,” George said, closing the garage. “Thought it might be the law.”

“Who is it?”

“Harvey and Verne,” he said. “Ain’t that somethin’? Hope they brought something to drink.”

Kathryn shook her head and put out the cigarette with the toe of her high heel made of soft white leather. She made a fist with her right hand and rapped on George’s forehead as if it were a front door to an empty house.