Infamous (11 page)

“Y’all living high on the hog,” Jones said. “T-bones and bourbon. Fine ole night in the Hooverville, ain’t it?”

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked, tipping back the whiskey bottle. He was unshaven, dressed in rags, with the breath of the dead. He polished off the bourbon, Adam’s apple sweaty and stubbled, bobbing up and down as he took the last swallow.

When he saw Mrs. Urschel, he broke the bottle on the grill, sparks scattering, and pointed the bottom directly at Jones’s chest. “You shore are a fat little fella. Like a little hog.”

Another bum snatched Berenice Urschel’s arm and twisted it up behind her back. “Take them rings off,” he said, nuzzling his mouth into her ear. “Them things are bigger ’an a cat’s-eye. You shoulda never come lookin’.”

The broken bottle refracted hard and silver in the fire glow as the hobo lunged for Jones’s belly. He sidestepped it easy, and the two men circled each other, the old hobo licking his dry lips. Jones reached for the .45 and aimed dead center at the man’s forehead.

“Y’all got ten seconds to hand over this woman’s money.”

“We ain’t got it.”

“Decent people live here,” Jones said. “And the shit runs downhill.” Jones took a breath and walked forward, gun loose by his side, and went straight up to the man gripping Berenice Urschel’s arm. He simply coldcocked the bastard across the temple.

The bum fell to his ass, clutching his face and moaning.

Jones pointed the gun at the hobo with the busted bottle and eyed down the barrel, squeezing the trigger just slightly, the cylinder buckling and flexing.

The man spit in Jones’s face, and Jones wiped it from his cheek with the back of his hand. He stepped forward and placed the revolver’s tip flat into the man’s nose.

The bum waited a minute, breathing hard and sullen, before reaching down and plucking a fat wad of bills from inside a busted boot. He nearly lost his balance, trying to stand tall before Jones but uneasy on drunk feet. “You can’t grudge a man for trying to go on the tit.”

“Open your mouth,” Jones said.

He opened his ragged hole, and Jones smelled a latrine of dead shrimp and whiskey and garbage. Jones pulled the broken watch from his breast pocket and set it on the man’s fat tongue. He sucker punched him in the gut, dropping the bastard to his ass, hitting him again in the mouth, breaking the timepiece into shards of glass and busted gears.

“All is forgiven,” Jones said.

8

K
athryn didn’t get up till almost eleven, worn out from the drive back and forth to Coleman and Paradise. She made a pot of coffee, grabbed her cigarette case, and took old Ching-A-Wee out for a doo-doo on her front lawn. How Kathryn loved that little dog. Lots of folks—including George—didn’t realize Ching-A-Wee was royalty. That’s God’s truth. When she and George had just gotten hitched in Saint Paul and lived in that awful apartment building with Verne Miller and Vi, there’d been an old maid who’d sold Pekingese on the second floor. Kathryn loved Chingy from the start. You could tell he was royal from the way he stood, begged for food, and, hell, even took a dump, legs sprawled and looking you dead in the eye, daring you to tell him it don’t smell sweet.

He skittered up the porch steps and, as she settled into a chair, onto her lap, nearly spilling coffee on the robe’s monkey-fur trim. She smoked for a while, stood and checked the mail slot—loaded down with nothing but bills and more bills. The department stores were the worst, always addressing you like this was something personal and not a business transaction, calling her “Mrs. Kelly” and telling her how “unfortunate” it was they hadn’t received a payment. The hell of it was, there was nothing unfortunate about it. She and George had blown through that Tupelo money damn-near Christmas, and if Mr. Urschel’s family didn’t come through she’d be back to making fifty cents an hour cutting men’s nails, complimenting fat old duddys on their style just to make a dollar tip or get an invite back to their hotels to make twenty bucks a throw.

“Hey, watch it,” she told Chingy. “Settle down. Settle down, little man.”

She raked her nails over the nape of his neck and felt for the diamond collar, wondering how much she could pawn it for if things got really rough. Her bags were packed and plans made. She knew every step by heart. She would meet George in Oklahoma City, bring the new Cadillac, telegram to Saint Paul . . .
Hot damn, he’d done it
.
She didn’t think he could, but George Kelly had done it
.

She’d nearly counted off the list for the second time when the gray Chevrolet rolled into her drive and killed the motor, Ed Weatherford stepping from the cab and taking off his hat. “Mornin’.”

“What do you want?”

“That ain’t no way to greet a gentleman caller.”

“What if George was here?”

“I’d sit down and chaw the fat with him,” he said. “George knows we’re buddies.”

“Some buddy.”

“What are you sore at, darlin’?” He gave that crooked, two-dollar grin. “Did you want moonlight and roses? I can look in my pocket.”

“I know what’s in your pocket.”

She stood and opened the screen door to let Chingy in. Ed followed the walkway, and Kathryn turned, pulling arms across her chest, the cigarette still burning in her fingers. “If you came here for a throw, I ain’t in the mood.”

“You are mighty mistrustful this morning.”

“Well, did you or didn’t you?”

“Aw, well.”

“Nerts.”

“Listen, doll,” Ed said, standing at the foot of the steps and mawing at his hat.

Kathryn stayed flat-footed on the porch and let him stammer.

“There’s been some rumors and questions, and I thought I’d be coming out here personal-like and see if there was any truth to them.”

“Please.”

“Darlin’, just listen to me. Isn’t that what you wanted from me the other night? Keep an ear open? Well, here I am. So don’t throw water in my face. I just wanted to know if George was involved with that oilman business.”

“What oilman business?”

“Shoot,” Ed said. He looked down at his pointed boots and let out a deep breath. “Hadn’t we all had a good time? Me, you, and George—hadn’t we shared some laughs? And now you won’t even be straight with me for me to help you.”

“I’ve been to visit my mother, Mrs. Ora Shannon.”

“I didn’t ask where you been, baby. I asked what about George.”

“George had business.”

“Selling Bibles?”

“Good-bye.”

Kathryn picked up her stack of bills, leaving her coffee, cigarette, and morning paper on the porch, and turned to the house. The screen door almost thwacked shut before Ed stuck his big fat foot in the threshold and grinned at her through the screen.

She waited.

He reached down and picked up the
Daily Oklahoman
from the porch floor by her coffee that continued to steam, red-lipped cigarette on the saucer.

“Good likeness of him,” Ed said. “I seen him speak one time at the Texas Oilmen’s Association. Seems like somebody would’ve seen them two fellas with machine guns. Say, does George still got—”

“Take it up with him.”

Ed made a real jackass show of folding up the newspaper all nice and neat and tucking it back near the coffee cup, saucer, and cigarette. “I can tell your nerves are a bit jangled this morning, and I can see you don’t have any sugar to give. I understand. But what you got to know, Mrs. Kelly, is that I knowed this is George’s work and I knowed why you were asking me about back doors and legal questions the other night. I didn’t figure it was for my good looks.”

Kathryn poked out her hip and placed a hand to it, thinking Mae West in
She Done Him Wrong
. “Are we finished?”

“Don’t think you need me now the deal is done,” he said. “The world can go sour on you anytime. You remember that, baby.”

She just looked through the screen at Ed Weatherford and waited for the goddamn, unfunny punch line coming from that goddamn, crooked mouth.

“I want a cut, Mrs. Kelly,” Ed said. “And this ain’t a request.”

“‘A-TRACTIONS OF THE ASTOUNDING NATURE, THE BI-ZARRE, THE start-ling and new in entertainment have been gathered from all parts of the universe to make
The Midway—City of a Million Lights
the z-z-zenith of amusement for all thrill seekers,’”
the boy said. “Mr. Urschel, what does that word mean? ‘Zenith’?”

“Means ‘the highest point,’ son.”

“Holy smokes,” the boy said. “This must be somethin’ else. You want me to keep goin’?”

“You have plans to make the Fair?”

“Do I?” he asked. “Hold on a sec, and I’ll keep on readin’.
‘Located centrally on the World’s Fair grounds in Chicago, just south of Twenty-third Street, the many features of this outlay will satisfy even the oldest youngster that visits the Exposition.’
You know, they’re calling this thing ‘Century of Progress.’ That’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it? A whole dang century in one place? I got to see this. You want me to keep going or you want me to read them
Ladies’ Home Journal
s to you? They got a story in there about Will Rogers that tickled me plenty. He sure is a pistol.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Mr. Urschel,” the boy said. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by chainin’ you up and makin’ you eat beans out of a can. I don’t get no pleasure out of it.”

“You could let me go.”

The boy laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“They’d kill me.”

“Who would?”

“You just messin’ with my mind now,” he said. “I was told I can read to you but better not talk. So let me go on . . .
‘Among the mul-multitudinous features are the many breathtaking rides, an Oriental village with exotic and colorful presentations of the life, rites, and customs of the Far East, a reproduction of African jungles and deserts, its queer villages, its ancient art and weird ceremonies, and “Bozo.”’
I think Bozo is some kind of monkey. A relation of mine just got back from Chicago and said they got some foreign dancers who don’t wear a stitch of clothes. The women’s titties jumpin’ up and down got to be worth the price of a ticket.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have another cigar on you?”

“I can git one,” he said. “Hit wouldn’t be trouble atall. Thought you said it wadn’t your brand.”

“It’s not. But I can enjoy it just the same.”

“Yes, sir. Hold on, Mr. Urschel. Hold on.”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

Charlie was handcuffed to the bed frame in stiff pajamas he’d worn for days, and, considering it was midday, he felt downright ridiculous. His arm had fallen asleep shortly after he’d been chained and would take nearly an hour to come alive when they’d move him room to room away from the sun’s heat. He heard the front screen door thwack close and heavy feet in the main room and coming closer.

The door flew open and two men stepped inside.

“Keys.”

A jangle, and heavy shoes moved toward him. A snick, and his dead arm dropped to his side.

“Up, Urschel,” said the big gunman who’d brought him to this wretched hole. Charlie was pushed into the next room, and a heavy hand sat him down hard in a chair. “We’re gonna take off the tape, but don’t turn around and look at us. I really don’t feel like killing you today.”

They ripped the tape from his eyes, and the brightness of the room blinded him in a white glow. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, the skin feeling wet and soft and raw around the edges.

The big gunman plunked down a cheap paper tablet and a pen on the desk. “Write,” the other gunman said. “You can choose who gets the letter. But you tell them we mean business and we want two hundred grand.”

Charlie Urschel didn’t feel like it, but he laughed like a hiccup escaping his belly. He didn’t mean it, but the whole idea was just kind of funny to him, the number so absurd that he wondered how they came up with it. “I don’t have—”

“Shut up and write, Charlie,” said the big gunman, Charlie recalling his fat, bullish neck.

A thick hand shoved the pen into his fingers, and he caught a glance of a ruby pinky ring on a hairy finger.

Concentrating on the paper and into the glare, Charlie worked about ten minutes constructing the letter to his business associate, E. E. Kirkpatrick. Kirk had handled his affairs for some time and would understand his tone and message beyond these men’s obvious mental limits.

A man over his shoulder with hot breath read it and then ripped it up.

“Let’s try again,” the big man said. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the condition of the Slick Company or what assets you got tied up in stocks and bonds and whatnot. Just say you want the money paid, and we’ll handle the rest. Don’t think, Charlie. Just write, and smilin’ days are ahead.”

“The estate’s money is in a trust. You just can’t cash a check. There are lawyers and procedures—”

“Fuck ’em,” the other man said. “Write. Don’t think. Thinkin’ is our job.”

Charlie wrote what the man said, word for word. He heard the man’s heavy breathing and even the wet snap of a smile behind him when Charlie signed his name to all this nonsense. No words were said; the gunmen simply left the shack, screen door banging behind them, and a big motor started outside, automobile scratching off in the dust.