Макс Коллинз - True Crime

Fred grinned and said, “Don’t you worry about your better half, George — Lawrence’s already got his hands full with Lulu.”

That wasn’t a particularly witty remark, but there was more laughter, nonetheless, some of it from Nelson this time. Nobody seemed to mind that I’d taken over for Candy Walker with “Lulu” so quickly; it was just part of their world.

Floyd’s voice said, “Seriously, fellers — I think we oughta talk money. Jim mentioned he’d been promised five grand — and that sounds kinda low to me, even if his job is on the soft side.”

Doc said, “I’m for that. Lawrence’ll fall just as far as the rest of us, if it all comes down around us. Kidnapping’s kidnapping.”

Nelson jumped up. “He don’t get a full share. No way he gets a full share.”

Fred said, “Some of his share’s got to go to Candy.”

“Candy’s got no kin,” Doc said. “So it goes to Lulu.”

Nelson laughed, sat back down. “So it goes to Lawrence after all.”

There was some more general good-natured laughter, and Karpis pushed the smoky air with his palms, the teacher quieting his class. “We come to money, then. Fine. You might as well know an extra cut comes off the top.”

“Fuck!” Nelson said. “What for?”

Karpis said, “There’s a silent partner.”

“Who?” Nelson demanded.

Karpis shook his head no. “No name. That’s why they call it ‘silent,’ B.G.”

There were some smiles at the use of the initials; Nelson didn’t pick up on it, but Karpis was gently deriding him.

Karpis went on. “Our silent partner is bankrolling the job, out of his share. If it queers, he takes the loss. Also, he provided the inside dope on Hoover’s activities.” He nodded toward the map. “And he helped me put together this whole shootin’ match.”

Floyd’s voice: “It’s fair, George. It’s only fair.”

Doc Barker was nodding, and Fred said, “It is fair.”

Nelson, disgruntled, said, “Yeah, yeah. Okay.”

Karpis smiled benignly. “We got a big pie to cut up, George. We are talking about five hundred thousand dollars.”

Five hundred thousand dollars!

Suddenly I heard myself talking.

“You really think the government is going to meet that?” I asked.

Karpis said, “Yeah, I think so. I can’t guarantee it. But I think they’ll meet the ransom demand, yeah.”

I didn’t, but held back further comment.

Nelson was putting his two cents in. “Uncle Sam can just print us up some money,” he said, “and if he don’t — then we will kill Hoover, and won’t that be sweet.”

Doc, not liking the sound of that particularly, said, “Then what?”

Nelson grinned; he was shifting into high-gear Cagney. “Then we grab Cummings or the president or somebody, and let’s see ’em fuck with us then .”

Nobody countered that. Just no arguing with logic, I guess.

Karpis said, “Here’s the way the money shakes down. We’re going to pay Lawrence twenty grand off the top, and give Lulu five, out of respect to Candy. Any argument?”

No argument.

“That gives each of us fifty grand and pocket change.”

The room was quiet as church, while everybody contemplated the new start that could mean. That could indeed get Chock Floyd “across the river,” in style.

“Get some rest, boys,” Karpis said. “Drink and be merry if you like — if you ain’t alone, show her a good time. And sleep till noon. But at one, meet back in this room, for a final run-through. Because tomorrow’s opening night, already.”

People stood up, started moving out.

That was when I got my first good look at Chock Floyd’s friend Sullivan, and he got his first good look at me.

We both recognized each other, and why not?

He was the man who’d called himself John Howard, when he came to my office last month — the traveling salesman who hired me to follow his “wife,” Polly Hamilton.

It was the longest few moments of my life, standing there in Karpis’ room near the door, about to go out, heart in my throat as I looked in the face of a man who knew I wasn’t Jimmy Lawrence.

Slowly he removed the dark glasses and there my name was, in his eyes: “Heller,” they said, narrowing. Hell, he was as shocked as I was.

And there we stood, blocking the way.

“Move along, gents,” Nelson said. “We baked in this oven long enough.”

I swallowed; said, “Sure.”

My onetime client swallowed, nodded, put the dark glasses back on, moved out the door and I followed him out into the breezily warm summer evening, my hand drifting toward the automatic under my jacket as I walked.

The men were milling about, out in front of Karpis’ cabin, some of them having further smokes. Nelson tapped Sullivan on the shoulder and Sullivan looked at him from behind the dark glasses, with a tight, blank expression.

Nelson said, “You sure we ain’t worked together before?”

Sullivan smiled politely, shook his head no.

Nelson looked confused, momentarily, said, “You seem familiar. Huh. Well, what the hell.”

And he walked over to Chase and began talking, smoking.

I smiled at Sullivan.

Because I knew.

I knew why he hadn’t given me away to the others. And I knew he’d had just as long and sweaty a last few minutes as I had.

He was lighting a cigarette; his hand was shaking — it was barely perceptible, but I caught it.

I stood close to him, put a comradely hand on his shoulder. Spoke so low he could barely hear me.

But he heard me.

I said, “Let’s talk, Johnny.”

And John Dillinger nodded, and we began to walk.

“I’m surprised to see you, John,” I told him.

“Let’s leave names aside, Heller, here on out, okay? Some people got big ears.”

“But neither one of us better have big mouths, right? We can’t afford to give each other away, can we?”

We stopped in front of the central cabin; Karpis and Dolores were sitting on the bench, having Cokes. I put a nickel in the low-riding icebox and opened the lid and slid a bottle out for myself. Dillinger stood and watched me through the dark circles of the glasses, fedora brim pulled down. He was smoking, looking relaxed, calm; but I could feel his nervousness in the air, like electricity crackling between us.

We strolled around back; found a tree to stand under. No one else was around. It was a clear, moonlit night; we could see each other fine. Not that he wanted to see me.

Dillinger didn’t like this at all. On the other hand, I was getting a perverse sort of charge out of it. I’d thought the house was coming down on my head, minutes ago; now I knew I was sitting on top.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me. Clipped words. He took off the dark glasses, slid them in his shirt pocket behind his pack of smokes. He didn’t have a gun.

I took a sip of the Coke. “Let’s start with you,” I said. “Who knows you here? Knows who you really are, I mean.”

He exhaled smoke. “Just Floyd.”

“Not Karpis?”

He shook his head no.

“But you’re the silent partner Karpis was talking about,” I said.

He nodded.

“And Karpis seems to’ve been in on the planning, all the way...”

He shrugged. “He is,” he said. “But he thinks I’m just some friend of Chock’s. I’m supposed to be a guy from Oklahoma wanted for murder, who had a face job.”

“That isn’t far wrong.”

He gave out a short, humorless laugh. “Anyway, I never worked with Karpis. I met him once or twice. But not so’s he could recognize me.”

“But Nelson and the others are a different story.”

He exhaled some more smoke; it made a sort of question mark in the air. “Yeah,” he said. “They might pick up on my voice, or my eyes. Plastic surgery don’t change you as one hundred percent as people think.”