When we carried the luggage downstairs, Mrs Pearl Sniffins was leaning against the frame of the kitchen door. Beyond her, I could see the big turkey on the kitchen table, ready for stuffing. There were bowls and pots and pans. Potatoes and yams, stringbeans and corn. A pile of chestnuts. A pumpkin pie.
Mrs Pearl wore an apron over her housedress. Her hands were floured. She just stood there in those unbuckled combat boots. She watched us. She didn’t say anything.
Donohue came in and helped us carry out the suitcases. We stowed everything in the trunk and back seat of the Buick. Then we all came back inside.
‘Ma’am,’ Jack said, trying to smile, ‘we’ve got to be moving on. We’re just as sorry as we can be, looking forward to that fine Christmas dinner like we were. But we got no choice.’
‘No,’ she said, still staring at us. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’
‘Uh, Mrs Sniffins,’ Dick said, ‘we got you a few little things. Christmas presents. Not much. But we do appreciate all you’ve done for us.’
‘Your kindness,’ I said. ‘Your friendship. We’ll never forget it.’
We held the gifts out to her.
‘Leave them in the hall,’ she said, her face stony.
So we piled our packages on the hall table. We went outside. We got into the Buick, Donohue behind the wheel. We started up, pulled out of the driveway. I looked back. Mrs Pearl Sniffins was standing on the porch. Her hands were clasped under her apron. She looked like a statue. Something carved.
Jack turned to the left.
‘Through Whittier?’ Dick said.
‘The shortest and fastest way out,’ Donohue said. ‘Maybe they haven’t got a roadblock set up yet.’
But they had. We sped toward the town, trailing a cloud of dust. Then Jack slammed on the brakes. The car slewed sideways on the dirt, half-turned, skidded, came to a stop, rocking.
About five hundred yards ahead we saw a car and a Jeep blocking the road. They were in a V-formation, nose to nose, pointing toward us. No space between them. Men behind them with rifles and shotguns. On both sides were deep ditches, and then barbed-wire fences along the bald fields.
Donohue backed, swung, backed, swung. We accelerated in the other direction, speeding by Mrs Pearl’s again. I craned sideways. She was still standing on the porch, hands under her apron. We flashed by, went about two miles. Then slowed, slowed, and stopped.
Ahead of us, parked sideways across the road was a heavy tractor. No way around that. Two men behind it, peering cautiously over the treads.
‘Boxed in,’ I said.
‘They’re waiting for more men,’ Dick said. ‘More cars. More guns. Then they’ll move in.’
Donohue didn’t say anything. He was leaning forward over the wheel, staring through the dusty windshield.
‘Take off across country?’ Fleming suggested. ‘Bust through the fence and cut across the fields? It’s a chance.’
‘Where to?’ Black Jack said dully. ‘It’s miles to the nearest backroad, over fields, culverts, crick beds.
Meanwhile we’ll be leaving a dust cloud so big a blind Boy Scout could tail us.’
He put the car in reverse. We began to back up slowly. No reason. Just for something to do. Just to be moving.
‘Let’s run the roadblock,’ I said. “The one near Whittier. Just plow right on through. What the hell.’
Jack Donohue took a deep breath.
‘Suits me,’ he said. Then he turned, flashed his electric grin. ‘I love you, Jan,’ he said. ‘You too, Dick. If you’re all game, let’s go for broke.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Fleming said. ‘Stop here a minute, Jack.’
The car halted. Donohue and I looked at Fleming. His eyes were half-closed. He was breathing deeply, blowing air through pursed lips. His face had gone white. Freckles stood out on nose and forehead.
‘All right,’ Dick said, opening his eyes wide, ‘here’s what we do. Not much of a chance, but some. We go back to Mrs Pearl’s. Get her Plymouth. Pay her for it or just take it. Whatever’s needed. Unload the Buick, put everything in the Plymouth. Jannie drives the Plymouth, and Jack, you’re hunched down in the back seat, out of sight. Wait — another idea: Jan, you borrow one of Mrs Pearl’s bonnets. Get it? You’re driving an old Plymouth in a bonnet. You look like Mrs Pearl alone. They’re not going to shoot. They’re waiting for two men and a woman driving in a big black Buick. Okay, so now Jan, in a bonnet, is driving toward Whittier in the loaded Plymouth. Raising a big cloud of dust. And I’m right in the middle of that cloud of dust, driving the Buick. They’ll be watching the lead car — right? So at the last minute, just before the roadblock, Jannie, you pull as far over to the side as you can get. Not down in the ditch, but give me room to pass. I go roaring by in the Buick and crash the roadblock. Bam, biff, and pow! I’m going to bulldoze a way through; you can bet on it. Then, Jannie, the moment you see the opening, step on the gas and whiz through. What do you think?’
We were silent. I looked at Black Jack Donohue. He was staring out the side window at the cropped fields of Georgia.
‘Only one thing wrong with that idea,’ he said.
‘What?’ Fleming demanded.
7 drive the Buick,’ Jack said. ‘You hunker down in the back seat of the Plymouth.’
‘No way,’ Dick said. ‘It was my idea; I get to have the fun.’
‘We’ll flip a coin,’ Donohue said. ‘Heads you do the hero bit, tails I do.’
He fished in his pants pocket, brought out a fistful of change. He selected a quarter.
‘Bullshit!’ Fleming said. ‘I’d never let you flip a coin, you lousy crook. Jannie, you flip it. Heads, I drive. Tails, Jack does.’
I flipped the coin, caught it, closed my fist over it. Opened my fingers slowly. Heads.
‘Beautiful,’ Dick said. ‘My lucky day. Let’s go.’
We drove back to Mrs Pearl’s. No one on the porch. But when we pulled up in front with a scattering of crushed stone, she came out. She must have been watching from behind the screen door.
‘Let me do the talking,’ Jack said in a low voice.
She watched the three of us come up the steps. Those water-clear eyes regarded us gravely.
‘Another man called you,’ she said to Jack. ‘Said he was from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Wanted to talk to you. I said you was gone.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Donohue said. ‘Ma’am, we need your car, we surely do. We don’t mean to harm you, no ma’am, we don’t but we need that car in the worst way. And there’s no trouble for you in it, see’n as how we’re desperate characters and forced you to give us your keys. Leastwise, that’s what you can say. And we’ll pay you good money, ma’am, we surely will.’
She looked at him sorrowfully.
‘I’ll get the keys,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want no money.’
It took about five minutes to bring the Plymouth around and transfer the luggage. Mrs Pearl handed over one of her poke bonnets without asking why I wanted it. I supposed she guessed. Then we were ready to leave her for the second time. We stood close on the porch, me wearing the bonnet pulled down over the red wig.
‘Ma’am,’ Jack Donohue said, ‘there’s just no way we can thank you for all you done for us. You’ll get your car back sooner or later, I promise you that. I know you won’t take any cash for yourself, but I’d be much obliged if you’d let us make a contribution to your church.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it for the church. For good works. And I’ll say a prayer for you all.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pearl,’ I said, and stepped close to kiss her leathery cheek.
The men did the same. She just stood there, expressionless, not moving.
Jack took out his wallet, counted out a thousand dollars. He folded it, put it into her palm, closed her fingers over it.
Then we went down to the cars. Black Jack and I turned to Fleming.
‘Well …’ Dick said. ‘Everything straight? Jannie, get as close to the roadblock as
you can before pulling aside. Then I come roaring past and you pile it on the moment you see the opening.’
I nodded dumbly. I looked toward the sky. I didn’t want to look at him. If I looked at him, I’d burst, collapse, and die.
‘After you bust through,’ Donohue said to him, ‘get out of that car in a hurry. I’ll cover you and I’ll have the back door open. We’ll pick you up on the other side. Real bang-bang stuff. The Late Show.’
‘Sure,’ Dick Fleming said with a radiant smile. Then he said lightly, ‘Take care.’
We climbed into the cars. I drove the Plymouth. Donohue got down on the floor in the rear. When I glanced in the mirror, I saw he already had both his guns out. Dick Fleming followed us in the Buick.
Mrs Pearl Sniffins watched us go. I thought she waved a hand in farewell, but I may have been imagining that.
Jack gave me a series of commands from the back seat. So many, so rapidly, I knew I’d never remember them all …
‘Keep it under forty. Before we get in sight, swerve back and forth all over the road. Kick up the dust, slow down, then speed up suddenly. Try to churn up the road. That dust has got to be thick. Figure about thirty feet from the roadblock. Then stand on the brakes. You’ll skid in the dirt. Be ready for it. Try to stop fast. Turn to the left. Get it. The left! So when Dick goes by, he can see how much room he has. The moment he’s past, tell me. Yell something. I’m out of sight; I won’t be able to see. After you yell, I’ll start popping away to keep them down. Don’t get spooked by the noise. You pour on the gas. He’ll hit and then you get through. Go fast! Brake on the other side. Wait for Dick. Then-’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘all right! You’re telling me too much too fast. Just let me do it my way.’
He was silent for a moment. Then, when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle.
‘Sure, babe,’ he said. ‘Do it your way.’
1 glanced in the rearview mirror, then ahead, then in the mirror, then ahead. I gave Jack a running commentary …
‘Dick’s right behind us. About fifty feet back. Lots of dust. I can hardly see him. We’re coming to the final turn. Now we’re around. Now we’re on the straightaway. I’m slowing a little. I’m sitting up. I’m leaning forward so they can see the bonnet. Soon now. Get set; I’m going to turn off to the left. They see us. They’re standing behind the cars. A two-door and the Jeep. They’re waving their arms. I’m slowing. I’ll count down. Five, four, three, two, one … NOW!’
I jerked the wheel to the left. I felt the rear end break away. I fought the skid. The Plymouth started down into the ditch. I wrestled it back. Then we slowed, slowed. Stopped, tilted slightly, on the verge. The black Buick went roaring by. So close, so close. I caught a quick glimpse of Dick Fleming bent over the wheel, his face impassive.
It all should have gone in a flash. But it didn’t. It went in slow motion. I saw everything.
Dick aimed the accelerating Buick at the Jeep. Men scattered. One dived into the ditch. I pulled back onto the road. Donohue was up. He leaned out the open back window. He fired the pistol as fast as he could pull the trigger. Dick hit the Jeep just back of the right front fender. The crash deafened me. The Jeep lifted into the air. It rolled. The Buick spun and spun. A tire blew. The Jeep rolled over. The Buick plunged down into the ditch. There was room ahead. I aimed for the opening, sobbing, cursing, whatever. Jack held the back door ajar. He fired the revolver. I heard screams. Crack of rifles. Boom of shotguns.
Dust everywhere. A reddish haze. Screech of torn metal. Sudden whumpf1 as the Jeep exploded in a blossom of orange flame. I swerved to avoid the other car. Then 1 was through, past the mess. I stood on the brake, skidded to a halt. Jack Donohue was out and running back. I twisted to see. The Buick was crumpled in the ditch on its right side. The hood and trunk lid were sprung. The driver’s door was thrown back.Dick Fleming crawled out. He jumped to the ground. His left arm was dangling. I found the gun in my shoulder bag. I opened the door, stepped out onto the road. I held my gun with both hands. I aimed at the sedan and the men behind it. I pulled the trigger. Again. Again. Donohue was close to Dick. So close! His arms reached out. Shotgun boom. Dick lifted into the air. Literally lifted. Flew. Smacked down. Rolled. Jack halted, turned. He came running back. White face, white eyes, white teeth. All of him leached and straining. I stood there clicking the trigger on an empty gun. Donohue came gasping up. He pushed me sprawling into the front seat of the Plymouth. He jammed in beside me, behind the wheel. He shoved the car in gear. We took off. Spinning wheels. Shouts. Rifle fire. Something spanged off the roof of the Plymouth.
We went careening down the road. TTirough Whittier. Pedestrians and dogs scattered before us. Blank faces turned to us. Cars pulled onto sidewalks. I dragged myself from the floor. I sat upright on the seat.
Jack Donohue was singing a hymn, banging on the steering wheel …
‘Brighten the corner, where you are,’ he bellowed. ‘Brighten the corner, where you are …’
JOURNEY’S END
Now I knew I was changing. I knew how I was changing. Up to this point I had been a war correspondent, accredited to report but not to play an active role. Oh, I could, willy-nilly participate, but I could not influence.
But now I had planted myself on a dirt road in Georgia and fired a lethal weapon at duly appointed representatives of the law. It was really, in my mind, my first act of conscious illegality. I might have killed someone, although I doubted it. I couldn’t have cared less.
‘How old was he?’ Jack Donohue asked.
‘Thirty-two,’ Jannie said. ‘I think. Maybe he had a birthday. Maybe thirty-three or — four. Around there.’
‘You don’t knowT he said incredulously.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Sheesh,’ he said.
At the same time my role as war correspondent came to an end. I became dissatisfied with what I had written in Project X. It seemed to me I had not told the whole truth about Dick Fleming, Hymie Gore, Angela, the Holy Ghost, Clement, Smiley, Antonio Rossi. Or even Jack Donohue. Or even myself.
As a journalist, I had limned us all as two-dimensional characters, cardboard cutouts. But reading back over what I had written, remembering the contradictions and complexities of everyone involved, I yearned for a larger talent so I could do justice to their humanness. Not only their frailties and inconsistencies, but their constancy and brave humor.
‘Where was he from?’ Jack Donohue asked.
‘Somewhere in Ohio,’ Jannie Shean said. ‘He never spoke of it. Never went back, as long as I knew him.’
‘Have any family?’ he said. ‘ ‘A mother living, I think. Never mentioned his father. I had the feeling the father had deserted or maybe he was dead. Dick never said and I never asked.’
‘You didn’t know much about him,’ Black Jack said. Accusingly.
‘No,’ I said wonderingly. ‘I didn’t.’
Hadn’t wanted to, I almost blurted out. Hadn’t wanted to pry, probe, ask questions. If he had wanted to tell me about himself, he would have, wouldn’t he? Or was that a cop-out? Did he interpret my lack of curiosity as lack of interest? I thought him a very private man. Perhaps he was, not from choice but because that was the kind of friend he thought I wanted.
Donohue was right: I hadn’t really known Dick Fleming. Who he was, what moved him. I saw his body flung into the air, then crumpling, rolling. I wanted him back. I wanted to hold him naked in bed, stare into those guileless blue eyes, and whisper, ‘Who are you?’ I think he would have told me.
‘He had class,’ Jack Donohue said.
‘You have class,’ Jannie Shean said.
‘No,’ he said sadly, ‘all I got is front. I know it.’
At the same time I realized I had been hardened. I could feel it in my bones. I am speaking now not of Jannie Shean, a novelist, mother of Chuck Thorndike, Mike Cantrell, Buck Williams, Pat Slaughter, and Brick Wall. I am speaking of Bea Flanders, nee Jannie Shean, refugee, criminal, and most-wanted. I had le
arned the argot, habits, fears, precautions, cruelties, and cunning of the lawbreaker on the run.
When I had been casing the Brandenberg job, I had felt something of that: me against society, everyone’s hand raised against me. I had found a kind of wild exhilaration in it: rebel versus the establishment. Now I felt no excitement. Only a savage resolve. Simply to exist. Acknowledging that I had turned a corner in my life and could never go back.
‘He was a marvelous lover,’ Jack Donohue said. ‘You know?’
‘Yes,’ Jannie Shean said. ‘I know.’
‘He was so fucking elegant,’ Black Jack said.
He wanted to talk about Dick Fleming, to remember
him. Bea Flanders didn’t. I wanted to forget the dead and get on with the perilous business of living.
After that bullet-studded getaway at Whittier, we fled along backroads to Homerville, Donohue threading a maze of dirt lanes he remembered from his rum-running days. The Plymouth had no radio, but at Fargo we ditched the car and stole a Chevy pickup, the keys kindly left in the ignition. There was a scratchy radio in the cab, and we heard hourly broadcasts of the hunt that had been organized, the net drawing tight around us. ‘An arrest is expected momentarily.’
We took turns at the wheel, and north of Lake City in Florida ditched the Chevy pickup and caught a bus to Jacksonville. There, after spending half a day in a fleabag hotel, we bought a rackety heap in a used car lot. It was a ten-year-old Dodge. We paid cash, gassed up, and headed south on Route 95 again.
In all these switches and changes, we had carefully transferred all our luggage. There was never a question of leaving anything behind; we didn’t discuss it. We even brought along the suitcase containing Dick Fleming’s clothes, and toilet articles.
During the time we spent in Jacksonville, I found a drugstore that was open and bought hair bleach, dye, and some other things. We changed Donohue to a straw-colored blond, a process that took more than six hours. His eyebrows were lightened with white mustache wax and he donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
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