Макс Коллинз - True Crime

The fat little woman — she couldn’t have been over five feet two but must’ve tipped the scales at 170 — moved gracelessly across the room and turned the hillbilly music down, but not off. She turned and smiled apologetically, girlishly. She took off her gold-rim glasses and tucked them away in a pocket. Her dress was a floral tent but she had what appeared to be a string of real pearls about her neck. Her stomach protruded enough to make the hem of her dress ride up and reveal the rolled tops of her stockings. She was a cross between an old flapper and a new tank.

She gestured for me to sit on the couch and I sat. She sat next to me. She had lipstick on and smelled of lilac water and too much face powder. The oddest thing about her was, despite the false teeth and the jowly face and pointed features and absurd Shirley Temple curls, how nice a smile she had.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked. The place was air-conditioned, so the request didn’t seem absurd, despite the August heat outside.

“That’s generous of you, Mrs. Hunter, but no thanks.”

She waved at the air and turned her head coquettishly. “That name’s just for outsiders.”

“We’ll make it ‘Mrs. Barker,’ then.”

She was looking off absently. “Though I do like the name Alice... wish my folks had called me that instead of Arizona.”

“Pardon?”

She touched her massive bosom with a splayed hand; her fingernails, though short (possibly through biting), were painted red as her lipsticked mouth. “Isn’t that the most awful name? Arizona? Who can picture callin’ a little girl that!”

In the background somebody — Gene Autry? — was singing plaintively about his horse.

“I like ‘Kate’ better,” I said.

“So do I. But you can call me Ma. All the boys call me Ma.”

I suppose I should’ve been honored or at least flattered at being admitted to the club so easily, so rapidly; but all I felt was a little queasy.

I said, “You’re too kind... Ma. And why don’t you call me Jimmy?”

“Jimmy. That’s a good name. I like it.”

“I’m glad.”

“Well, Jimmy. How can ol’ Ma be of help?” One of her plump arms was brushing against me.

“I wonder if you could put me in touch with Doc Moran — a mutual friend of ours has requested I find him, and bring him back.”

She pursed her lips in what was meant to be a facial shrug but came off more like a grimace. She said, “Might be I could take a message for you.”

“Are you going to be seeing the doctor?”

“Might be. If I can find me a ride.”

“A ride?”

“The doctor’s with my boys Freddie and Arthur right now. They’re with that nice boy Alvin Karpis. Do you know Alvin?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“He’s a right nice boy. Anyway, I got to get to ’em, soon as I can.” Her fleshy face tightened. “They need me.”

“You’re in regular touch with them?”

She shrugged again, with her shoulders this time; the earth moved. “They don’t have a phone where they’s stayin’. But they call from in town now and then.”

That sounded like they were in the country somewhere.

“And you’re planning to join them, soon?” I asked.

She nodded, said, “But I don’t drive. I have to find me a driver.”

You never know when opportunity’s going to knock; it might even knock in the form of a fat little old lady from the Ozarks... Gene Autry, if that’s who that was, was suddenly singing something more upbeat, about the prairie.

“I could drive you,” I said. Not too eagerly, I hoped. “My instructions are to see the doctor personally. No go-betweens.”

She nodded sagely. “You gotta bring him back yourself. That’s your orders.”

“Right.”

“And orders is orders.”

“Yes they are.”

She put her hand on mine; it was cold, clammy — hers, I mean. Hell, mine too.

She said, “Well, why don’t you drive me there, then. But I gotta warn you. Somethin’ big’s in the wind.”

“Oh?”

“Felt I should warn you. You might get caught up in it.”

“In what?”

“Somethin’ big.”

“Well. Would that be bad?”

She smiled enigmatically. Still a nice smile, despite the otherwise physically grotesque person it belonged to. “Not if you like money.”

“I like money.”

“Well, wherever my boys go, there’s money to be had. I got good boys who work hard, Jimmy. You looking to make an extra dollar?”

“Sure.”

She winked at me. “You’ll do no better than to stick with my boys.”

“You seem proud of them.”

“Couldn’t be prouder. So — do I have me a chauffeur?” She said it like ‘show fer.’

“It’d be my honor. I even have a car...”

“What kind?”

That stopped me.

“Chevy coupe,” I said.

She shook her head. “Won’t do, won’t do.” She got up and clomped over to a chest of drawers against one wall. She pulled open a drawer and it was brimming with cash. She counted out a stack and trundled over and handed it to me.

“There’s six hundred,” she said. “See if you can’t get a nice used twelve-cylinder Auburn. With a radio. I’m partial to twelve-cylinder Auburns with radios.”

I put the fat wad of cash in my suitcoat pocket as she went back and closed the drawer.

I said, “When would you like to leave?”

“Tomorrow afternoon soon enough? Like to pack my bags, and take in a movie s’evenin’ — I just love the movies, and when I’m out on the road with my boys I sometimes go weeks without a movie. Or bingo, or anything civilized. But a mother’s got to make sacrifices for her boys, don’t you know?”

I said I knew, and told her I’d pick her up the next day at one.

She walked me to the door, her arm linked in mine; gave me a pat on the cheek. Her fingers were cold and soft.

“You seem like a nice boy,” she said. “You gone always to be good to your ol’ Ma, now, ain’t you?”

I said I’d do my best.

Then I went out and bought a used twelve-cylinder Auburn. With a radio.

The next afternoon I was tooling up Highway 19 through McHenry County — its green rolling hills interspersed with rich farmland, lakes and the occasional gravel pit — behind the wheel of the nicest automobile I ever sat in. Though only a ’32, the Auburn had quite a few miles on her, which had helped me land the sporty two-seater (we were keeping the top up today) at a reasonable price. It was just the kind of automobile every man dreams of owning, to impress the girl riding next to him. Unfortunately the “girl” next to me had more miles on her than the Auburn.

She was wearing a hat that fit snugly on her skull, like something an aviator might wear, only floral. Her baggy dress was an off-white with light purple flowers that clashed with the hat and the snow-white seat cushions. Of course, she was sitting on a cushion of her own, an air cushion that boosted her up so she could peer out the windows; even with the air cushion, she was so squat she barely rose above the dash. Right now she was leaning forward, turning the tuning dial of the Motorola radio built under the dash, the needle on its little round face spinning like a hand on an out-of-control clock, as she desperately searched for hillbilly music.

“The music this radio gets is just plain lousy,” she said, turning off Bing Crosby singing “Where the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day.” There was an accusatory note in Kate Barker’s voice, as if had I been more careful in picking out this particular vehicle, I might have been able to get one that played “That Silver-Haired Daddy of Mine” continuously.