Hazel launched herself into his arms and kissed him hard. “It’s been months,” she chided, when they came up for air.
“I know,” said Virgil, tossing his hat so that it landed on top of the dress. “Thought I’d bring you the frock as a peace offering. Like it?”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She pecked him on the cheek.
“Not too bright?”
“You said it goes with my eyes.”
“The size should be right, at least. I got it from your mother.”
“My mother!” She drew away to look at him. “My mother hates you, and you know it. She’d never talk to you.”
Virgil grinned even broader. “She didn’t, really. She thought she was talking to your dressmaker, who called her by mistake.”
“You’re really deceitful, aren’t you?” She snuggled up to him. After a moment, she said, “I wish I had someplace to wear the gown.”
This time it was he who drew away. He looked down at her. “Now, what kind of cad would send you a dress without giving you a chance to wear it?”
Hazel’s face lit up. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”
He slapped her on the rump. “Put it on!”
She had the package under her arm and had fled into the bedroom almost before he could get out of the way. “And hurry it up!” he said as she closed the door. “The theaters in Oklahoma City don’t hold their curtains for nobody!”
Louis Armstrong was halfway through “New Orleans Stomp” on the Victrola when Hazel came out of the bedroom. Virgil turned to face her and smiled slowly. “Oh, baby,” he said in a hushed voice, “you’re Garbo all over.”
She blushed, but that was exactly what she wanted him to think. Her shining black hair was pinned up high, so that her green earrings were visible. She wore very little make-up, but what she did use lengthened her lashes to supernatural proportions and, she thought, put just the right touch of ruddiness to her cheeks. The dress was sleeveless and extremely low cut. Her full breasts pushed against the material and pulled it taut across the front, leaving a deep cleavage much more sensuous than that allowed on the screen. She held a white clutch purse in one white-gloved hand to complete the effect.
Virgil moved in and kissed her, lips parted. She pushed him away, gently. “Just a second,” she said. “I surely don’t intend to go out hitchhiking in this outfit. Oklahoma City’s too long a way to go in the back of a produce truck.”
“First I’m a cad, now I’m a pauper.” Virgil went over to the window and drew the curtain aside with a flourish. “Look down, my love, on the chariot of your dreams.”
Hazel approached the window and looked down into the street. There, its glossy black finish icy in the glare of a streetlamp, sat a brand-new Marmon roadster. It had wire wheels and a set of white-sidewalled tires, the fifth of which was mounted on the right-hand running board. The top was down, revealing its white leather upholstery. Hazel let out a long sigh.
“Better than hitchhiking?” prompted Virgil.
She nodded. “Better than hitchhiking.”
Virgil put his arm around her and escorted her toward the door. “I seem to remember saying something about coming back in style,” he said, turning off the light behind him. “Well, a Ballard never breaks a promise.” He closed the door, leaving the apartment in darkness.
“Meet Ron McCoy. He’s our new wheel man.” Farrell stood aside so that the two could get a good look at each other.
Virgil studied the kid through narrowed eyes. He was wearing a blue jacket over a brown turtleneck sweater, both new. His auburn hair had been combed carefully back and parted in the middle, Valentino-style, and his face was peppered with acne. He chewed eagerly at a wad of gum. “Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Ballard,” said the boy, holding out his hand.
Virgil ignored the gesture. “What is this?” he said. “Some kind of joke?”
“Not at all.” Farrell draped his arm over the boy’s shoulders. “Ron, here, used to drive an ambulance in Tulsa. He can thread his way through traffic like a hopped-up seamstress. Am I right, Ron?”
The boy grinned. “Hell, I can handle anything that rolls. Just point me to the wheels, that’s all I ask.”
Virgil looked at Farrell, then at each of the Moss brothers, who were standing behind the gang leader, grinning from ear to ear. The kid sounded so much like Virgil on his first day with the gang that he couldn’t be sure whether they were putting him on or not. “You unsatisfied with my work?”
The other three burst into laughter. The McCoy kid looked at them and smiled, as if not sure what was going on. Virgil’s face grew hot. “What’s so damn funny?” he demanded.
Farrell rubbed his face to clear it of mirth. “Jesus, but you’re a sensitive son of a bitch,” he said. “Don’t you even know when you’re being promoted?”
“Promoted.” Virgil glanced at Ralph. “That true?”
Ralph was choking with suppressed laughter. “That’s right,” he finally managed to croak. “From now on, Virgie-boy, you’re goin’ into the bank with us!”
“In the bank? You mean it?”
“You can handle a gun,” said Farrell, smiling. “I saw that in Okmulgee, when you fired a shot over that bank guard’s head. Just grazed the top of his cap. That was no accident. Anyway, I figure anybody who can throw lead like that doesn’t belong behind the wheel.”
Virgil grinned. “Ron, is it?” He thrust a hand toward the boy. “Welcome to the Farrell gang.”
McCoy accepted the handshake. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Ballard. You won’t regret it.”
“That’s settled, then.” Farrell went over to the dining room table, where a crisp new road map had been spread out across the top. “Boys,” he said, “this is gonna be our new base of operations.” He traced a large circle with his finger on the southwestern corner of Oklahoma.
“We’re moving?” asked Floyd. “Why?”
“Things are getting too hot around Miami. A few more bank jobs in this area and we’ll lose our protection. Besides, we need mobility. No more of this setting up in one place. Too risky.”
“We’re on the run.” Virgil eyed him savagely.
Farrell raised his eyes to Virgil’s. “Not at all. We’re just shifting to another part of the state.” He focussed his concentration back on the map. “From here on in, we’re living out of a suitcase.”
Apache, Oklahoma.
The head cashier had his back turned when the big Studebaker pulled up in front of the bank’s window, so he didn’t see the four men get out and head for the door. He was turning back to his customer when somebody gasped. He looked up.
One of the men, a big, towheaded farmboy-type, remained outside while the other three entered the bank. The first through the door was an Indian, wearing a sharp double-breasted suit and a well-trimmed black moustache. He had a pistol in his hand. Just behind him, a short bulldog of a man came in carrying a shotgun. His eyes swept the room and came to rest on the teller. The third was a young fellow, well-dressed and innocent-looking in spite of the big Luger he kept trained on the cashier’s midsection. They swiftly crossed the waxed tile floor and stopped before the head cashier’s cage. The customer who had been standing there drifted away, hands in the air.
“All right,” said the Indian calmly, “this is just what you think it is, folks. We’re gonna attend to our business and leave, and nobody’s gonna get hurt … as long as nothing unexpected happens.”
There was a great silence in the room. The five or six customers who had been lined up at the tellers’ windows raised their hands slowly without waiting to be told. The head cashier saw out of the corner of his eye that the other two bank employees had done the same. Then he raised his own hands, pausing only to resettle his spectacles on his prominent nose.
“Not you,” said the Indian, twitching the muzzle of his pistol. “You’re gonna need your hands.” He unfolded the small burlap sack he’d been carrying beneath his arm and opened it. “Fill ’er up.”
The cashier slid open his cash drawer and began loading bundles of bills into the sack. He couldn’t resist the urge to count them mentally as they disappeared down the burlap mouth. His salary for the previous year went by the first fifteen seconds.
One of the bank’s customers, a woman, dropped her purse and it hit the floor with a thump. The innocent-looking young man whirled at the sound and thrust his Luger in the woman’s direction. His finger was prevented from squeezing the trigger when the Indian dropped his sack and grabbed his partner’s wrist. “Calm down!” he snapped.
The cashier hit the alarm button with his foot. The bell above the door began clanging. Twisting free of the Indian’s grip, the young man aimed his Luger at the cashier, seemed to think better of it, wheeled, and shot the bell. It exploded in a cloud of torn metal and went on ringing in a different key.
“Let’s clear the hell out!” The Indian snatched up the half-full sack and ran out the door on the heels of his companions. The Studebaker was rolling by the time they had the doors open. In the next moment it was gone, its passing marked by a swiftly settling cloud of red dust.
“I should’ve plugged that sonuvabitch cashier the minute we walked in.” Virgil, in shirtsleeves and vest, stared down at the moonlight rippling across the surface of Lake Lawtonka. A moth fluttered and banged at the screen door a few inches in front of his face, struggling to get near the light.
Ralph, slouched in an overstuffed chair beneath a wrought iron floor lamp, grunted above his copy of the Literary Digest. “I wish to hell you’d quit grousing,” he said. “There ain’t nobody around to hear it anyways.” He turned the page and admired a full-length shot of Arnie Rothstein.
“What in God’s name did Roy go to Elgin for anyway, this time of night?”
“Movie. ‘The Mark of Zorro.’ Doug Fairbanks.” Ralph made a parrying motion with his right hand, swinging an imaginary sword. “Ron was driving.”
The moth was still clinging to the screen, fascinated by the light.
“Eight thousand goddamn dollars. We did better than that in Dawes.”
Ralph wasn’t listening. Arnie Rothstein. Ten million dollars a year.
“The trouble with these jerk bank tellers, they don’t respect guns.”
“Shut up. Floyd’s tryin’ to sleep.”
“Guns aren’t just for looks. We got to teach them that. What we got to do, we got to start using ’em, like in Dawes.” Virgil felt the weight of his Luger pulling against the shoulder holster beneath his vest. He had bought the rig on the way across the state, from a high-class sporting goods store outside of Guthrie, and had not yet stopped congratulating himself on the purchase. It felt good.
“The next time we walk into a bank,” he said, “we got to kill somebody.” He reached out and crushed the moth.
Farrell, seated on the end of the wooden dock, finished baiting his hook and dropped the line into the water. The red-and-white bobber danced twice on the metallic surface and sat still.
Ralph Moss watched it for a few seconds, then directed his attention back to his boss. He was standing above Farrell, hands thrust deep into his pockets. “We got to do something about Virgil,” he said at last.
“I know.” The gang leader fished a cigarette and lighter from an inside pocket of his jacket, placed the cigarette between his lips, and lit it one-handed. “What else did he say?”
Ralph shrugged. “That was it. He says, ‘We got to kill somebody,’ and goes upstairs. Nothin’ else.”
“Think he meant it?”
“He meant it, all right. Virgil don’t joke much.”
“Yeah.” The bobber jiggled and returned to its original position. A nibble. “He almost shot that dame back in Apache.”
“He would of, too, if you hadn’t stopped him. That boy’s bad news, Roy. We can’t afford to have him around no more.”
“That’s your lookout. You hired him, remember?”
Ralph sighed heavily. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He watched a duck come in low over the water and brake to a standstill on the surface, like a seaplane. “Okay, I’ll tell him he’s got to go.”
“You don’t have to tell me nothin’!”
Ralph turned. He heard the dock creak and knew Farrell had done the same. Virgil, hatless, his jacket unbuttoned, was standing on the bank at the other end of the dock. His face was a mask of fury. “You four-for-a-quarter sons of bitches,” he hissed.
“How long you been standing there?” Ralph demanded.
“Long enough.” Virgil strode across the dock, drew back his fist, and smashed Ralph square in the face. The solid Oklahoman staggered backward, scrambling to keep from losing his balance and toppling into the clear water. He succeeded, then charged toward Virgil, snorting like a mad bull.
“Hold it!” Farrell reached out and took hold of Ralph’s ankle. His momentum carried him forward and he pitched facedown onto the dock. “Knock it off!” The gang leader indicated the peaceful cottages on the other side of the lake. “You want somebody to complain and call the law down on us?”
Ralph, who had climbed to his hands and knees, relaxed somewhat. He got to his feet and brushed the dust off his trousers.
Virgil’s face was flushed. “You bastards can worry about the law by yourselves from here on in. I’m clearing out.” He wheeled and headed back toward the cottage.
“What are you gonna do?” Farrell’s voice carried across the lake and came back. He was resting on one hip on the end of the dock, watching the young man’s progress up the grassy bill.
Virgil stopped and turned, looking down at the two figures on the dock. “Read the papers,” he shouted. “You’ll find out.” He hesitated a moment longer, then spun on his heel and resumed his journey toward the house and the black roadster parked before the garage.
Part II
Escapee
The bloodhounds strain at their leashes, baying around the legs of Oklahoma City Sheriff Roger McCracken. He is a big man, a barrel balanced solidly upon a pair of long and incongruously lanky legs, his square head surmounted by a broad-brimmed approximation of a Western hat. His uniform consists of tan breeches stuffed into the tops of a battered pair of half boots and a heavy black jacket zipped halfway up the front with a star insignia on the upper left sleeve. He reaches down, grabs a thick fold of loose dog flesh, and shakes it. “Best damn hounds on this side of Tulsa.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Farnum, a faceless shadow in the mouth of the alley, fingers the butt of his machine gun nervously. “He could be in Missouri by now.”
The sheriff squints distastefully at the trench-coated figure before him and spits onto the invisible pavement. “Fuck you. I had to wake up the guy in charge before I could get the dogs.”
Farnum ignores the sheriff’s belligerence. “Let’s get going.” He leads the way out into the street, where the glow of a number of flashlights points out the locations of the various lawmen. The drizzling rain splatters loudly against the sidewalks and pavement. A few brave souls, awakened by the gunfire of a few minutes before and the persistent baying of the hounds, have ventured out of their doors, but they remain in the shelter of their porches, out of the way.
“Jake! Take these things off my hands, will you?”
The lanky deputy sheriff trots over to relieve his superior of the noisy dogs. He is either chewing a fresh wad of gum or is still working at the old piece. Another deputy, who has been holding Sheriff McCracken’s shotgun, hands the weapon back to the lawman.
“All right,” snaps Farnum. “We’ll stick with this street. Sheriff, take your men and search the alleys and side streets. Leave the dogs with us.”
The sheriff glares at Farnum. In the peripheral illumination afforded by the flashlights, the special agent’s ruddy face is hard and tense. His mind is clearly concerned with his prey and nothing else. The sheriff nods his assent and turns away, signaling his deputies to follow him.
The hounds, their leashes now held by a special agent, f
all silent, sniffing the air. They get the scent and lunge forward, baying and snapping as the agent scrambles to keep up with them.
Sheriff McCracken watches as the trench-coated agents move on in the hounds’ path. Then he turns and leads the way into a narrow alley. Jake, the gangling deputy, follows his superior’s broad back, along with the other men in uniform. Soon the street is silent.
Chapter Seven
December 24, 1926.
The thick record wobbled around and around inside the portable crank-up phonograph, occasionally taking time out between scratches to allow Ruth Etting’s voice to come through, warbling “Silent Night.” George Shipman, proprietor of “Shipman’s, the most well-equipped drugstore in Okmulgee,” was working late to fill a prescription for his wife’s mother. Christmas or not, people still got sick. He finished the last few capsules and slid them into a sterile glass bottle, funneling them through the round neck via a narrow slip of white paper.
Outside the plate glass window, tiny flakes of snow swarmed and swirled through the night air, flashing like fireflies as they caught and reflected the light from inside the store. Freezing winds whined around the corners of the brick building, making Shipman doubly grateful for the warmth emanating from the little olive-drab furnace in the corner behind the counter. It cheered him to look up from his work and see the hearty little flame glowing through the thick glass window in the side of the furnace and reflecting the colorful ornaments on the small Christmas tree standing on the nearby display table. It made the holiday seem worthwhile.
He wiped the top of the bottle with the slip of paper and shoved in the stopper. Then he transferred the tiny container to the pocket of his white coat. Behind him, the phonograph had stuck and the record went on, over and over: “Tender and, tender and, tender and—” Shipman lifted the arm and set it down again closer to the center of the disk. It resumed playing.
He was turning back to the counter when the bell above the door jangled and somebody came in, bringing a gust of icy wind in with him. The stranger was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, well dressed in a suit and heavy topcoat that hung to his knees. Shipman was unable to see the man’s face beneath the broad-brimmed hat he had pulled low over his eyes. He strode down the aisle, brushed past a cardboard cutout of Santa Claus set up to display a table of cosmetics, and stopped before the counter.
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