Ace Atkins - Infamous

So the True Story of this shy and awkward farmer boy who came up from the low, who dreamed his dreams in a logging camp, who worked as an ad taker on a newspaper and as a clerk in a telephone company, fi nally to evolve as one of the greatest actors and the world’s greatest love on the screen, has knocked all records for “reprints” higher than a kite.

No kiddin’. True Story sold over two million issues just so the regular folks can read about Clark Gable. Kit could kind of see it but not see it, too. He had confidence and style, and good posture and height. But it would take some to get over those funny jug ears and the space between his teeth.

To the millions of younger men and women who are still dreaming their dreams while they go about the daily round of their ordinary work, this great True Story lends the start of hope without which those dreams cannot go on. And to the many thousands of older men and women who are enjoying their fi rst-time fruits of attainment, it lends courage to character, for in the amazing life of this eager young country boy who found himself suddenly without warning caught in the mesh of all the feminine wiles that Hollywood could produce, there has been the lure of enough temptations to shake the character of a saint.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Kathryn said, popping and stretching the paper and turning over the fold. She knew Gable was swimming in top-shelf tail, and even with the teeth and ears she’d go to bed with the son of a bitch. Mainly because the son of a bitch was Clark Gable, and every time she saw his picture in some dime-store rag or below the movie marquee she’d know she’d made him shake and quiver.

Kathryn lit a cigarette, crossed her legs, and dangled one leg loosely, rocking it back and forth, reading on and thinking that she could use a new pair of good shoes, until George came out of the back room smelling like a Mississippi smokehouse.

“They want it.”

“Want what?” she asked, bored and distracted.

“The money.”

“Well, of course the Kid wants the money.”

“He said it would be taken care of.”

“Is he here?”

“No,” he said. “They rang him up for me.”

“Then hell, no, no one is getting the money,” she said. “Tell those Jews you want to see Kid Cann himself, live and in person, or this deal ain’t going to happen.”

“But Kit…”

“Go on,” she said. “George?”

He turned around and looked over his shoulder.

“Trade them out a thousand.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” she said, blowing some smoke into the ceiling fans. “I want to go shopping.”

AGENT JOE LACKEY ARRIVED ON THE MORNING TRAIN FROM Kansas City, his right arm still in a sling from where he took a spray of machine-gun bullets. But he wore a smile on his big-nosed face and stepped down onto the platform in a sharp gray felt hat and blue serge suit. Jones shook hands with him in an awkward fashion and grabbed his old friend’s grip as they headed toward the entrance and bright light.

“You sure you’re ready?” Jones said. “When Hoover said you were back on the job-”

“Don’t you know I’m left-handed, Buster?”

“That’s a lie.”

“Well, I’m left-handed now. So what does it matter?”

Doc White waited for the agents by the main entrance to the small station, only a couple miles from the Urschel house, deep in the warehouse district. White stepped up and met Lackey, pumping his hand. “I thought you really got hurt. Hell, they just winged you.”

“Good to see you, Doc.”

“I better get a beer for those flowers I sent,” White said. “I thought you were dying.”

Jones dropped Lackey’s luggage in the trunk and walked around to the passenger side of a brand-new Plymouth the local office supplied. He reached into a front seat and pulled out a folded map that he neatly pulled apart and spread flat across the wide hood of the car. The two agents joined him, the hood still hot as a skillet, and they all leaned over a big, sprawling view of the United States, with all its rivers and man-made borders, state lines, highways, and cat roads. Jones had drawn a big circle in red ink, and in several cities he’d penciled in phone calls, letters, and tips. Every crank, nut job, and honest tip was flagged.

“What we’ve got is a radius that stretches about six hundred miles,” Jones said. “We take in Saint Louis, Kansas City, extend over to Santa Fe on the west and Nashville to the east. I’d put the far point north being Davenport and down south somewhere around Corpus Christi. It’s a needle in a haystack for sure.”

“You don’t think the shack was far,” Lackey said in his funny Yankee accent.

“I think they took Mr. Urschel on a little joyride up and around,” Jones said. “Hither and yon. They telegraphed they were far to the north. The two yokels who watched him, not the gunmen, had to mention a half dozen times that Oklahoma and Texas were to the south. They furnished him with clothes with the goddamn labels still stitched in ’ em showing Joplin, Missouri. This whole deal is south.”

“Down on the border?” Lackey asked.

“I don’t think that far.”

“Just ask Buster if you want to take a flight somewhere,” White said, leaning loose and lean as a stick on the fender. “He’s studied every airline’s flight schedule there is. ’Bout to make us both cross-eyed.”

“Saw the report,” Lackey said. “You can narrow down the flights?”

“We can narrow the ones that didn’t fly the night of the storm,” Jones said. “I have two airlines I like.”

They were on the fifth floor of the Federal Building ten minutes later. Colvin had given Jones his office, and he’d tacked schedules on a large board, along with maps of Okalahoma and Texas and Missouri. Telegrams and letters had been sorted in bins, and mug shots were tucked into a half dozen binders on the desk. Jones worked from a small black typewriter on the desk, and at his elbow there was a cup of cold coffee and his cold pipe.

“You’re going stir-crazy,” Lackey asked, “aren’t you?”

“I’m not much for secretarial work.”

Lackey took his hat and jacket off and hung them by the door. He closed the door behind the two of them with a light click, but you could still hear the telephone bells ringing and the hard clack of the typewriters and the chatter of Teletype machines. The air was smoky and stale, and all the action of the days since Urschel returned home made the office air smell sour with nervous sweat.

Jones sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. He was in his shirtsleeves and wore a gun rig over his shoulder.

“I’d open a window, but they’re painted shut.”

“I’d shoot out the panes,” Lackey said. “How do you live like this?”

Jones shrugged.

“Listen,” Lackey said. “I haven’t put this in a report yet. But after you got reassigned, I picked up where you left off on the Union Station massacre.”

“Not much to follow,” Jones said.

“You remember requesting the phone records for Dick Galatas in Hot Springs? From the pool hall?” Lackey asked. “Well, the son of a bitch called Joplin twenty times after we picked up Jelly Nash.”

Jones nodded. “Let me guess.”

“That’s right, that old grifter Deafy Farmer. It’s taken me some time to run down the calls out of Farmer’s place, but the wires were burning up while me and you and Sheriff Reed were on that train. We didn’t stand a chance.”

“Who’d he call?”

Lackey leaned in and placed his elbows on his knees, his short red tie dipping from his neck. “A rental. False names. When we found the place, it was littered with cigarette butts and rotgut gin. They left plates of spaghetti on the counter half eaten.”