To death.”
TOLSON: I guess you’re meaning communism.
HOOVER: “Hoover in silk kimono and garish paint!”
What does it matter? The earth swallows us all.
Behold Melvin Purvis: who led a life,
Who strove, triumphed, prospered, failed, declined,
And perished, and tomorrow at three p.m.
Rejoins the elements; and the same awaits
The ones he left to mourn him,
All of us forgotten in the dirt.
—Where’s my Marcus Aurelius? Where’s my Marcus Aurelius?
I must read him every morning, a few lines—
“Hoover with his secret files and blackmail!”
TOLSON: Crying out for Marcus Aurelius
As for a slave.
HOOVER: And in my history
I want no mention made of Dillinger.
I will not stand to have the Post cry down
The roll of dust-bowl tommy-gunner rubes.
“Pretty Boy,” “Machine Gun,” “Baby Face,”
“Legs” and “Dutch” and “Bugsy.” Dillinger.
This suit’s too blue.
TOLSON: Too late. The black wingtips—
HOOVER: Nelson killed one of ours at Lake Geneva,
And again, in his final fight, he took two more.
They shot him to pieces, but he left them dying
And stole their vehicle and drove away.
A beast. He never marked a difference
Between manslaughter and the wringing of
A dinner chicken’s neck. And Dillinger!
The spawn of the ungodly partnering
Of our press’s sideshow cynicism
And that gawking yokel, the American soul.
What’s this!
TOLSON: Your nitroglycerin, m’lord.
HOOVER: “Baby Face Nelson.” I saw his face. His face
Was not a baby’s even in infancy.
I saw him laid out nude and green and pocked
With bullet wounds like small blue mouths.
Before or since I’ve never looked on death,
Not even Mother in the mortuary,
Only the runty scofflaw Baby Face.
He had the barrel belly and stick limbs
Of a starved Iowa farmer. I wouldn’t doubt
He’d chomped his share of dust behind the plow.
…Look, Clyde—do you think a clown in costume
Carries no soul inside him, do you think
I’m not a vessel which, when tipped, pours out
The oil of compassion in the beading dirt?
I am a cake of ash surrounding solar
Lusts and molten agonies. Gangsters?
Whatever I arrest them for I’ve done in here.
Whatever their desire drives them to,
Wherever this terrible engine guides or goads them,
I stand there waiting.—Marcus Aurelius!
Hear this, hear this:
“Everything is banal in experience, fleeting in duration, sordid in content; in all respects the same today as generations now dead and buried have found it to be.”
Here—you—read on, read on—
TOLSON: “A little while, and all that is before your eyes now will have perished. Those who witness its passing will go the same road themselves before long; and then what will there be to choose between the oldest grandfather and the baby that dies in its cradle?”
HOOVER: Behold Melvin Purvis!—
Squeezed through the story of a life as from
One end and out the other of a python;
And thence to fertilize the graveyard grass—
To feed the thatch of corpses’ houses.
TOLSON: This one.
HOOVER: Too red!
TOLSON: It matches.
HOOVER: Red is not my color!
TOLSON:…There. You’re beautiful.—Now wash it down.
HOOVER: Purvis, Dillinger, lying in your graves:
Assemble your eyeballs from your dead dust to watch
J. Edgar Hoover swallow dynamite!
BLACKOUT
Scene 3
February 29, 1960: A fathomless void.
A MAN in blood-soaked robe and pajamas, his head exploded.
A VISITOR in casual street attire.
MAN: You, sir!—What do you think you’re doing here?
VISITOR: Me? Hanging around. Hovering, more like it.
MAN: Explain your presence, please. You’re in my home.
VISITOR: Do you refer to a “house”?
MAN: I do. This house.
VISITOR: There’s nothing here but you and me.
MAN: Again
I ask, and one last time—before I act.
VISITOR: Well, I’ll be damned! I recognize you now.
MAN: Of course you do, unless you’ve burgled us
At random. State your business, sir, at once.
VISITOR: You’re Melvin Purvis, G-man—“Senior” G-man.
Hero of cereal box and radio.
The man who collared Dillinger.
PURVIS: And you?
VISITOR: I’m Dillinger.
PURVIS: John Dillinger?
DILLINGER: The same,
The chap you collared.
PURVIS: So!—A lunatic.
DILLINGER: I’m not the one with the forty-five in his hand
Wearing his brain for a hat.
PURVIS: Am I dreaming?
DILLINGER: This is a dream, but you’re not the one who’s dreaming.
I am dreaming that you’ve shot yourself.
PURVIS: Stupid nonsense.
DILLINGER: Take a look. That’s you.
PURVIS: There’s never been a mirror there before.
DILLINGER: I’ve never had a dream like this before.
PURVIS: I don’t look well.
DILLINGER: If you ain’t dead, I’d guess
You hover between the first and second worlds.
PURVIS: And you? Your gravestone says you’re dead.
DILLINGER: But dreaming.
PURVIS: So—which of us is dreaming?
DILLINGER: I’m the one
Who’s dreaming. You’re the one who shot himself.
PURVIS: The thing was jammed, I merely tried—
DILLINGER: The automatic forty-five’s beloved
Above its use and quite above its worth.
PURVIS: And where does this dreaming take place? Are you in Heaven,
Or Hell, or some such afterworld, and dreaming?
DILLINGER: No, I’m in Portland, Oregon.
PURVIS: I see.
DILLINGER: On Revolution Drive, west of the seventh
Tee of the Curtis Forest Country Club.
Do you golf?—I mean, when you have a head?
I’m not a member, but I love the greens.
Magenta in the twilight, silvery
And silken in the dew of dawn. Two cocktails
Down the hatch at three each afternoon,
Chuckling at the cavalcade of duffers
Whanging their pikes awhile, and then I nap;
And visit the dead in my dreams, apparently.
PURVIS: You’re the one who’s dead!
DILLINGER: O no, not I.
On July twenty-second, 1934,
You and your agents, at the Biograph
Theater on Lincoln in Chicago,
Ambushed Jimmy Lawrence.
PURVIS: Jimmy Lawrence.
DILLINGER: Sort of a guy I kind of knew but didn’t
Like. My Anna fed him to you. Me?
I was already in Portland.
PURVIS: Jimmy Lawrence.
DILLINGER: You asked for Johnny and she brought you Jimmy.
PURVIS: O yes, the whore, the madam, Anna—
DILLINGER: Sage.
PURVIS: Your Judas paramour. I thought I smelled a rat.
DILLINGER: You wanted a rat. She brought you the cheese.
Remember: Judas is always w
orking for Jesus.
PURVIS: And I assume you go by—
DILLINGER: Jimmy Lawrence!
PURVIS: Balderdash! I saw John Dillinger
Lying in the grease. I saw him jerking
Like a frog and then I saw him stop.
DILLINGER: Portland’s nice. It has a kind of rainy
Charm and not a lot of auto traffic.
I found a lovely lady there I’ve lived with
Almost twenty-five years. She’s got two kids—
That is, they’re grown now, out of the house,
But I was pretty well the dad who raised them
Since they were tots. And do you know, one day
In 1936 I watched the younger boy
Rip the top from his box of Post Toasties
And dump them in a mixing bowl and comb
His fingers through the flakes and come up with
—What do you imagine he came up with?
PURVIS: A Melvin Purvis Junior G-man badge.
DILLINGER: The head of your own division! Thanks to me
Your name shines on.
PURVIS: I wasn’t seeking fame
Or power. Only to steer our youngsters toward
The love of right.
DILLINGER: I could have revealed myself—
Letters to the press, mailed in the dead of night—
I could have grimed you with humiliation.
PURVIS: And why didn’t you?
DILLINGER: Well, the legend.
Jimmy Lawrence possessed a larger-than-life
Quality, shall we say, which history
Has tattooed with the name “John Dillinger.”
PURVIS: O. The outsized…legend.
DILLINGER: How’s the noggin?
PURVIS: Gives no discomfort at all. Damn this pistol!
DILLINGER: Legend will have it it’s the very gun
You shot me with.
PURVIS: It was a gift. I just received it.
In any case, the night you died I never
Fired once.
DILLINGER: With all those barrels blazing
It’s a wonder they didn’t drill some innocent.
Other than Jimmy, of course.
PURVIS: Blast this thing!
I had a tracer round in here, and it was jammed—
DILLINGER: Felled by the gun that made you famous.
There’s irony to the plan.
PURVIS: You’ve no idea.
I really cannot conjure a circumstance
More absurdly ironic than that my head
Should be skewered by a blazing tracer.
DILLINGER: A private joke?
PURVIS: Identify yourself!
Who are you, sir, and what’s your purpose here?
DILLINGER: I just explained all that. I’m Dillinger,
My mama’s favorite. Your head’s not working
Too efficiently, I’d guess.
PURVIS: My head!
DILLINGER: It’s me, your shining moment—Dillinger.
…Nervous, Purvis?
PURVIS: You!—Get out of my house.
DILLINGER: Is it?
PURVIS: Is it, is it—
DILLINGER: Is it your house?
Then offer me a glass of water. Fetch
Me one of your golf clubs. Touch one thing at all.
PURVIS: I hazard to say we’ve got a floor beneath us.
DILLINGER: The floor of what?
PURVIS: My home. Upstairs. That is—
DILLINGER: This isn’t a floor. It’s just a more substantial
Darkness underfoot. If we were breathing,
I’d say we were sucking on a vacuum.
But we’re not breathing. Airless dream.
PURVIS: Assassin!
DILLINGER: Excuse me? What did the pot just call the kettle?
PURVIS: I fought on the side of the law.
DILLINGER: The law is a whore.
You chased men down and killed them in the streets
And you and I were brothers in our fame.
PURVIS: Fame and infamy are different things.
DILLINGER: They’re different words.
PURVIS: A bad man’s mind
Troubles itself to slice at the semantics.
DILLINGER: I was a killer and you were a killer too.
I look at your exploded head and think:
Now there is the face of justice.
PURVIS: What do you mean?
DILLINGER: Come now. I’ve studied very carefully
The accounts of the death of Pretty Boy Floyd.
PURVIS:…I agree life’s not what I thought it was.
I saw a world divided into shining light
And stinking darkness, saw it as a clash
Of hammer on rock, clash of army on army.
But it’s much more beautiful than that.
I’ve used many years to think on this, I—
Stand back! What are you doing in my house?
DILLINGER: I told you. And I told you that I told you.
You don’t recall, because we’re moving backwards
Swiftly as you head away from your death.
PURVIS: Why would I be hurtling backwards, sir?
DILLINGER: That’s what happens at the end of it all.
A kind of boomerang effect. You slam
Against your finish, carom back toward the start.
Does the name John Dillinger mean anything?
PURVIS: Mean anything! I might as well have married him.
Our names are certainly joined…Who might you be?
DILLINGER: As a matter of fact, I am John Dillinger.
PURVIS: Poppycock! Where are we, incidentally?
DILLINGER: Baby Face, Machine Gun, Pretty Boy,
You got ’em all. All but Dillinger.
PURVIS: You don’t impress me as the gangster sort.
You hardly seem insane or stupid enough.
It takes a kind of hideous idiocy
To make an outlaw.
DILLINGER: What it takes is jizz.
PURVIS: My wife is in this house, sir. Bring your tongue
To heel.
DILLINGER: Above all what it takes is youth.
Young blood blazing up like gasoline
And a mind that marches in a pounding swoon
To the anthem of its own bubbles.
I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a crook.
I knew from the night of my first and only gunfight.
PURVIS: Star Lake.
DILLINGER: Star Lake, Wisconsin, at the inn.
The place surrounded, bullets in the air,
Corpses hanging out the windows—
For Baby Face it was an opera.
PURVIS: He was a special kind of psychopath.
DILLINGER: Not to say I’d wash my history
Entirely spotless. After the fireworks
An uneventful life feels full to burst.
The front porch swing swings sweeter underneath
A man who’s swum through blood to get to it.
Baby Face was how old when he died?
PURVIS: He died young.
DILLINGER: And lucky he wasn’t younger.
Now—tell me how you murdered Pretty Boy.
PURVIS:…If you actually happen to be John Dillinger,
If this is an actual conversation in my house,
If this is something other than a dark
Senility I’ve wandered into dying,
Do you dream I’d come here carrying my sins
To lay at your feet? In any case, I’m clean.
DILLINGER: You ambushed Jimmy Lawrence in an alley
And Pretty Boy was stretched out wounded when
You told a cop to blow his brains away.
PURVIS: I’m satisfied I’ve chosen the good and the right
In essence.
DILLINGER: Essence! Now who takes his razor
To the words?
PURVIS: In my most human essence, in
My freed
om, where my human gist resides,
In that freedom God put out of reach
Even of his own fingertips,
There is where I choose and where I’m judged.
I am not a mystery to myself.
…But I seem to have gotten turned around in all
This darkness…Have I committed suicide?
DILLINGER: No. You’ve had an accident.
Do you know who you are?
PURVIS: I’m Melvin Purvis.
DILLINGER: Correct. The man who collared Dillinger.—
Before you ask: I’m Dillinger, I’m quite
Alive, this is a dream, it’s not your dream,
It’s my dream, you have blown your head off,
And you’re following it into the afterworld.
PURVIS: And I’m meeting you on the road to the afterworld
Because I had a hand in your dying?
Do you offer to guide me down? Or do you stand as obstacle?
DILLINGER: You weren’t responsible for my death.
I’m very much alive.
I’m napping on my porch in Portland, Oregon.
PURVIS: I have a headache!
DILLINGER: You just shot yourself.
PURVIS: Ah! Yes!—And have I committed suicide?
DILLINGER: No. You’ve had an accident.
PURVIS: You see!
It isn’t what I do that counts; it’s why.
It isn’t what I’ve done; it’s what I meant.
It isn’t how I act, but only how
I’m thinking while I’m acting—Yes, I know,
It terrifies the heart to learn that good
And bad come down to infinitely
Subtle motions of the will, but I’ve
Used many years to think on this, I, I—
…WE JUST COLLARED DILLINGER!
This puts our division on the map!
We had him in the alley. I said,
“Drop it, Johnny,” I said, “we’ve got you covered.”
He turned, unfurled his coat, went for his gun.
Soul of a Whore and Purvis Page 13