Ace Atkins - Infamous

Harvey admired a fine.45 and a 12-gauge with a blue finish from across the room. The deputies called for the boy, and Harvey just nudged him on, turning away from the rack, following the deputy down a short stairwell.

“You got a car?” he asked the boy in a whisper, and followed him to a back door, where the boy unlocked two dead bolts and led Harvey into a back alley, where the rain fell sideways and stung his face. The boy walked across the alley, open and naked, long black electric wires crisscrossing overhead. A river of trash and mud running down concrete gutters and into clogged sewers.

He followed the deputy into an old brick warehouse filled with machines parked in a haphazard fashion, most of them labeled with the official seal of the sheriff. The rain on the roof made it sound like they were inside a huge drum.

The boy pointed out a ’29 Chevy. Harvey told the deputy to unlock it and scoot on over.

“Are you gonna shoot me, sir?”

“Kid, I ain’t even had breakfast yet.”

Harvey placed the.44 under his right leg, started her up with a couple kicks, and then headed north on Houston and then east on Elm. While he drove, he read the handwritten notes pulled from his shoe, the paper wet, ink bleeding on his fingers.

He leaned into the windshield, not seeing shit, and used the flat of his hand to wipe the fogged glass. South on Jefferson. West on Main. Left on Houston again, and then finding Eagle Ford Road out of Dallas.

“You got a dime?”

“Yes, sir,” the deputy said, reaching into his hip pocket.

“I don’t want your whole gosh-dang wallet. Just a dime.”

Harvey made two stops.

One to kick the deputy out of his car.

The second to make a phone call.

Harvey drove down the narrow dirt road, passing slow-moving cars in the opposite direction, spraying up potholes of muddy water, windshield wipers flapping, headlights cutting through the storm. The road had turned to shit, and he just wanted to keep the wheels moving, as he was leaning in, looking for road markers to Irving, that old church where he was to turn off to Manion’s house. He overshot it by a mile and had to turn back, the wind almost ripping the top from the vehicle.

The lights were on in a white two-story house with a gabled entrance and crooked black shutters. Harvey killed the motor and sat for a moment in the rain, seeing only a Ford sedan parked outside. The light inside was orange and glowing, coming from kerosene lanterns.

An electric wire had broken free from a pole and skittered up and around, throwing sparks up into the wind.

Harvey lit a cigarette and smoked, the wind rocking the car, until he decided to pull it around back to an old shed and kill the motor. He entered the house by the back entrance to the kitchen.

Tom Manion was eating a piece of buttermilk pie and reading a crisply folded newspaper when Harvey entered, wringing wet and holding the.44 in his waistband.

“Real shit storm, ain’t it?” Manion said, training his eyes on the newspaper and reaching for a cup of coffee.

“I could’ve been killed,” Harvey said. “I shoulda been.”

“Good day for an escape. You like some coffee?”

“I’d like to get going, if it’s all the same.”

“Have some coffee,” Manion said. “Got your change of clothes right there. Vehicle’s gassed up.”

Harvey glanced down at a worn-out pair of denims and a blue work shirt. Brogans with broken soles. He took off his Panama hat.

“What about the rifle?”

“What about my money?”

“I’m good for it.”

Manion nodded and walked to an old farm sink, pouring out the dregs from his cup. He leaned into the window, seeming to watch the old trees bend and break, limbs littered his yard. When he turned, he held a shiny new.38 in his hands.

Harvey had pulled the old, rusted.44.

“Arms up, Harvey.”

“I told you I’d get it.”

“I’m bringing you in.”

“You got to be pulling my pecker.”

“You gonna shoot? Then shoot.”

“Naw,” Harvey said, letting the cylinder fall from the gun. “Figured I might throw it at you.”

“I did me some thinking the other night, and I figured the man who brings in Harvey Bailey could write his own ticket. Don’t you agree? When I’m sheriff, I can do as I please. Ten thousand ain’t worth that.”

Harvey shook his head. The coffee was still over the flame and smelled acrid and burnt. He lifted his hands, Manion marching him to the back door, reaching onto the table for a napkin to wipe the pie crumbs from his mustache.

“You don’t think I’ll tell ’em about the file and the razor blade?”

“Who’s gonna believe you, Bailey? Didn’t you flush ’em down the commode like I said? Where’s your evidence?”

Lighting cracked close to the house. There was thunder, the rain falling even harder, while Manion pushed open the back door with his pistol. “You first.”

The wind shot around the house, blowing a small lace curtain from a door window.

Harvey smiled and picked up his new Panama hat. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather square it right here, Tom.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Bailey. I just hate to have to mop my gosh-dang kitchen floor.”

Harvey looked down at the linoleum and then up at fat Tom Manion and his shit-eating smile. He almost felt sorry for the sorry bastard as the gun cracked three times, blood spreading on Manion’s boiled shirt like spilt gravy, the son of a bitch toppling down to his knees. “You lying cocksucker,” Manion said, blood on his chin, flailing a bit before he died.

“How long you been here?” Harvey asked.

A dark figure in a black hat and black rain slicker stepped inside and pocketed the hot.44. His eyes cold and blue, jaw clenching.

“I left the hotel when you called,” Verne Miller said. “Let’s burn this house down and then go find George Kelly.”

“Good to see you, Verne,” Harvey said. “You’re a swell pal.”

KATHRYN DIDN’T GET WORRIED ABOUT LUTHER ARNOLD COMING back until about eleven o’clock that night, but a half hour later the grizzled man showed up, wet as a drowned rat, wringing out his hat on the cottage stoop like it was a washrag. Kathryn shooed him on inside, where she handed him a towel, with him saying he sure didn’t want to mess her things, as he dried his old head himself, and she told Flossie Mae to fetch up her husband some clean drawers. The rain fell hard and strong, raining all damn day, pinging so hard on the shingled roof that it was hard to talk.

The little girl, Geraline, was asleep, but all the movement and whispering woke her up, and she sat up in her bed and looked over at her father, shaking her head, saying, “Luther, why don’t you at least take your shoes off?”

“Hush up, child.”

The child reached for a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up and blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth.

“What did he say?” Kathryn asked, reaching for his clean clothes from Flossie Mae. Kathryn wore a black silk robe with gold orchids. Her red wig left to dry on the nightstand.

“Can we speak in private, ma’am?” Luther asked.

“We can’t go outside.”

They walked into the small bathroom, and Kathryn ran the water, not that it made much difference with the commotion outside. Luther sat down on the commode, with a fist propping up his head. “Well, the counselor said he’d need some more money.”

“You ask him about the trade?”

“He said he couldn’t put that matter on the table ’less you both come to him in person.”

“How are we supposed to both come to him when the whole world is looking for us?”

“You don’t look much like your picture,” Luther said, taking off his water-logged shoes and rolling off his socks. “I seen it in the bus station. That woman in the photographs looks like a hardened character. You ain’t no hardened character, Miz Kelly.”