Ace Atkins - Infamous

If the Shannons knew, they sure weren’t telling. For two days Jones had sat with them in the county jail, asking questions till they’d fall out of their chairs from lack of sleep, praying to the Lord God for a sip of water. He hadn’t talked to that kid Armon, aka Potatoes, for five minutes before the kid pissed his overalls.

Doc White walked through the mouth of the old garage, which was growing hot and stale with the heat and buckets of dirty oil.

“I didn’t know any woman could own so many pairs of drawers,” White said. “She could pick out a fresh pair for the rest of her life without ever taking to scrubbing.”

He held in his hands a telegram he passed on to Jones. He read it.

“Hotel Cleveland?”

“They checked in under the name of the Shannons,” White said.

“This was five days back.”

“Still a trail, Buster.”

Jones closed up the box he’d been searching through and walked out into the fading daylight with White. “Let’s head back to Dallas. I’d like a little time with Bailey for Hoover’s goddamn paperwork, but we won’t get a word. Bailey’s a hard ole nut.”

“That son of a bitch got caught at Kelly’s hideout while taking shots at us,” White said. “I figure a little cooperation is in order.”

“Hell, I know Bailey. I’ve known the bastard for about as long as I’ve known you. He’ll say he stopped at the farm to buy some ears of corn.”

“I say we go to Cleveland.”

“They’re not in Cleveland,” Jones said.

“We can’t keep the news of the raid blacked out forever. The story’s gonna break.”

“Once the Kellys get word, they’ll go underground,” Jones said. “It could take months to flush ’em.”

Doc looked back at the barn and shook his head, “And all we got is a fistful of panties.”

“You reckon she’ll come back for ’em?”

“The drawers?”

“The Shannons.”

“Everybody loves their momma,” White said.

Jones mopped his face and eyes in the fading sunlight and nodded. “Keep the boys stationed here, let’s see what turns up. C’mon, let’s go talk to Harv.”

HARVEY BAILEY KNEW FROM THE START THAT HE WAS GONNA get along just fine with the head jailer, Deputy Tom Manion. A tall, gangly sort, with a contented fat belly and a pleasant weathered laugh. A gentleman, a genuine Spanish War hero, and, the way Harvey saw it, a fella with a price tag hanging from his nose. On Harvey’s third night in the Dallas County Jail, Manion had grown comfortable enough with him to share a cup of coffee and a couple of cheap cigars, talking on the rotten state of things in the world, and how Manion figured he could do a lot better than the current sheriff, who didn’t know one end of a gun from another, an elected politico with no heart.

Harvey Bailey leaned into the bunk and studied the end of his cigar. “That’s the way of the world. The men who do the real work are never in charge.”

“You said it, Mr. Bailey.”

“Mr. Manion?”

“You can call me Tom.”

“Tom, what have you heard about my affairs?”

“Well, I think that federal man from San Antonio is planning on shipping you to Oklahoma City. He said there’s gonna be a big trial for you and the Shannons. He sure is an arrogant little cuss.”

Harvey nodded, climbing off the bunk and walking to the narrow little barred window that looked out onto a back alley.

“I want you to know I didn’t have a thing to do with that kidnapping,” Harvey said, still dressed in a suit but without his tie or shoes. “They just made me the goat.”

“I believe you, Mr. Bailey,” Manion said. “I know of your reputation.”

“I make an honest living.”

Manion laughed. “Sure thing, Mr. Bailey. What’s it like robbing banks?”

Harvey shrugged. “Not much different from any other job, I guess. You put a lot of work into the planning and detail. A good yegg knows the risks and the payoff.”

“You get nervous?”

“Never have,” Harvey said, walking toward the bunk. “Just don’t have it in my nature.”

“You married?”

“Yes.”

“You want to talk to your wife?”

“I don’t bring her into my business.”

“She’s kinda in it now.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I bet she’s worried sick.”

“She knows I’ll be home soon.”

“Doesn’t look that way,” Manion said. “Mr. Gus Jones has a solid case.”

“I know that,” Harvey said. “That’s why I intend to escape.”

Manion laughed. “You sure are a pistol, Mr. Bailey. I’d get worried if this wasn’t the safest jail in the whole state of Texas. In case you forgot, we have you on the sixth floor. You’d have to bust through me, the jailer working the desk, make your way downstairs, and then out the front door past a whole mess of deputies. And still find yourself an escapee in downtown Dallas.”

Harvey shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“A real pistol.”

“I’d just stopped off in Paradise to rest my leg. How was I to know I’d stepped into a federal raid? George Kelly and all that mess. It’s gotten to the point you don’t know who to trust.”

“I do appreciate the company,” Manion said, leaning into the ladder-back chair and studying the one barred window. “Usually all we get is cutthroats and niggers. Only good thing about them niggers is, they sure can make music. We just got this ole boy in the other day, came into town from Mississippi and got charged for shortchanging a whore. He plays some mighty fine guitar.”

“Well, bring ’im in here.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’ll know?”

“I guess you’re right,” Manion said, a big smile on his face. He swatted his tired old hat against his leg as soon as he’d made up his mind and jangled the keys on his hip. “Maybe round up a nip for us, too?”

“I wouldn’t complain.”

“Be right back, Mr. Bailey,” Manion said. “Don’t go nowheres.”

Bailey pointed the end of his cigar at Manion and the cell door and winked. “Don’t worry. I’m six floors up, remember?”

A few minutes later, Manion returned with a rail-thin negro, wearing a thrift-store suit and carrying a battered guitar. The negro was just a kid, maybe a teenager, down in the mouth, and looked to be just rousted from his sleep.

“Play a song for us, boy,” Manion said.

“What do you want to hear?”

“What songs do you know?”

“I know ’em all.”

“You know ‘The Wreck of Old 97’?”

“Sure, everybody knowed that.”

“Play it.”

The boy began to pick the guitar and sing about a cloudless morning on a mountaintop, watching the smokestack below on that old Southern railroad, and the way he twanged his voice and made the words sound pretty, Harvey could close his eyes and think he was listening to a white man. “That ole 97, the fastest train / Ever ran the Southern line.”

“What else you know?”

“ ‘Birmingham Jail’?” the boy said.

Manion uncorked the bottle and took a sip of some bonded Tennessee whiskey and passed it on to Harvey. Pretty soon, a trusty pushing a broom was watching the men through the bars, and he smiled a big negro grin before breaking out into a jig and dancing around. Manion cracked open the door and let him in, and, man, that started it, the trusty walloping around on his brogans, slapping his knees and twirling, the negro guitarist wiping his brow and accepting a tin cup of whiskey from Manion, who was real careful not to let a negro drink from the bottle.

“You Mr. Bailey, ain’t you?” asked the guitar picker.

“I am.”

“I read about you in the paper,” he said. “They say you the best bank robber that ever was.”