Infamous (36 page)

And so Cleo Brooks took a big breath, closed her eyes, and puffed out her cheeks, as the preacher’s son rode her like he was high on an old-fashioned bicycle going down a rocky path.

The whole meeting on the rock didn’t take ten seconds.

When he finished, her not feeling a thing, he crawled off her and walked over to his clothes and got dressed. Not looking at her till he knotted his tie tight at the throat. He tossed down a crumpled dollar she knew he’d stolen from the collection plate.

He shook his head and sat, saying, “You tricked me. You got the devil in you. Like all women. You tricked me.”

And that was the story that all Saltillo and part of Tupelo heard as her little white belly had grown large and she’d stood before his father on the front steps of the church, the preacher not willing to dirty the sanctuary with the likes of a tricky little girl like Cleo Brooks.

She had a daughter. The dumb boy went off to Bible college.

When Ora said let’s pack up and leave Mississippi, Kathryn didn’t hesitate. They bundled up the baby, packed two suitcases, and got on the train to Memphis and then onto Fort Worth. She took on the name Kathryn after a fancy woman who used to tip big at the Bon-Ton after a manicure.

Kathryn finished the cigarette on blind Ma Coleman’s porch, letting the wind take the ash and scatter it everywhere. She thought about how things mighta been different if she could have stayed in Saltillo, but none of the paths seemed that appealing to her.

She spotted the truck from a ways off, coming down the dirt road, kicking up the grit and the dust, and she stood from the wooden steps and walked blind, shielding the sun with her hand over her eyes until the truck stopped down by that beaten mailbox and out walked George R. Kelly, lugging two suitcases, his fine hat crushed and crooked on his head and sweat rings around his neck and dress shirt.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, walking. “Son of a bitch.”

Kathryn walked to meet him, not caring if her bare feet tore on the gravel, and stepped halfway up the road. “Where you been, you dumb ape?”

“You’re sore at me? If that doesn’t beat all.”

“Yeah, I’m sore. Took you long enough.”

“You and Louise took the car and ten thousand dollars.”

“I told you I’d be here.”

“You’re sore.”

“I’m sore.”

George let out all his breath, slipping his hat down over his eyes. He shook his head like she was the one who’d gone plain nuts.

“We got to bury the loot.”

“Grandma won’t be too pleased.”

“Grandma doesn’t have to know,” he said. “She’s blind.”

“She knows everything.”

George shook his head, as if contemplating a hell of an arithmetic problem. “Do you at least have a drink for me?”

“YOU KNOW WHY I CALLED,” CHARLIE URSCHEL SAID.

“Yes, sir,” Bruce Colvin said. “We got within a few hours of catching them in Des Moines. Their coffee wasn’t even cold. Their car was spotted in Buffalo. Yes, sir, we’re onto them.”

Charlie shook his head. “Not that.”

“Yes, sir,” young Bruce Colvin said. The young boy always looked spit-polished and clean, suit creased to a knife-edge. Hair neatly parted and oiled, a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging loose from a watch chain. “I see.”

“Figured you hadn’t had time for a proper meal.”

“No, sir.”

“Is your steak good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know what I want to discuss?”

“May I say something first?”

“Of course.”

“She’s a fine girl.”

“Oh,” Charlie said.

The young man had met Charlie at the Cattlemen’s steak house right in the heart of the warehouse district, the cows so damned close it wasn’t but a few minutes between them taking a breath and sizzling on your plate. He cut a fat slab off the porterhouse and pointed the end of the bloody fork at Bruce Colvin.

“You are an impressive young man,” Charlie said. “I know you have the best of intentions.”

“Yes, sir,” Colvin said. The federal agent had yet to touch his steak, a buzzing conversation of cowboys and roughnecks all around them. A waiter stopped by the table and refilled their glasses of sweet tea and then disappeared. Colvin used his napkin to wipe some nervous sweat from his forehead. “I thought you and Mrs. Urschel might not be pleased, and there are some complications you should know about.”

“Because of the ongoing legal matters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Isn’t this a private matter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does Agent Jones know?”

Colvin nodded, and took a small bite of his steak. Above him loomed the head of a long-horned steer with yellow glass eyes. The eyes were as large as golf balls.

“There’s been some trouble with the Shannons,” Colvin said. “We might not be able to bring them back to Oklahoma City for trial.”

Charlie listened and continued to chew the meat, along with the fat and gristle, remembering coming here with Tom Slick, the restaurant being one of Slick’s favorites because he didn’t have to rub elbows with the hucksters always trying to pick his pocket. Charlie remembered Slick sitting right here in this very booth, offering some solid advice on women, talking about one argument or another that Charlie had had with his late sister. What was that? Something about the women who gave you the worst trouble were the only ones worth having. Just what did he mean by that?

“There’s a hearing tomorrow in Dallas,” Colvin said. “We expect the judge to extradite, but their attorney will no doubt fight. He will appeal, and this could drag on.”

“What’s Agent Jones say?”

“He said he’ll take care of it.”

“How?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t know. Agent Jones is pretty determined to bring them back.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about the Shannons,” Charlie said. “They treated me decent.”

“They were accomplices.”

“They’re not to blame. They’re simple and weak-minded.”

“We will find the Kellys,” Colvin said. “You have my word.”

“They’re not to blame either.”

“Sir?”

“I want to tell you something, Mr. Colvin, and I want you to listen. I need you to do me a favor, and I understand it may not be easy.”

“Anything, sir.”

“I want you to realize this favor has nothing to do with your relations with my niece. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how to tap a man’s telephone line? This damn thing doesn’t stop or end with the Kellys.”

The boy looked as confused and mindless as the steer over his head. His blue eyes widened as he leaned in and whispered, “Who?”

Charlie looked up from his steak for a moment and then began to saw into the meat closest to the bone. “The son of a bitch who just walked through the door.”

Colvin craned his head, and said, “That’s Mr. Jarrett.”

“That’s your villain in this picture,” Charlie said. He broke off a piece of toast and sopped up the blood and juices. “He lunches here every day.”

“Sir?”

JONES HAD ARMON SHANNON BROUGHT TO THE LITTLE WINDOW-LESS room in the basement of the Dallas Courthouse. Nothing but a small table and a couple chairs, an ashtray, and a pitcher of ice water. The pitcher had started to bead up and sweat in the airless heat. Jones removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, exposing his hand-tooled rig and .45. He paced the room, studying on what he knew about old Potatoes’s situation, until the boy was hustled in, manacled at the wrist and ankle, and seated with a firm hand.

The deputy locked the metal door behind him.

“You and George are good buddies, I suppose.”

Armon said nothing.

“Your daddy says you look up to him.”

Armon looked at the floor.

“Would you like some ice water?”

Nothing.

Jones poured a couple glasses and pulled up a chair near Armon. The boy just sat and sulked, not lifting his eyes.

“You’re in a hell of a pickle, son,” Jones said. “I don’t think you need a high-dollar lawyer to explain that. You’re looking at a lifetime in prison. You need me to tell you a little bit about those animals who live there?”

The boy lifted his eyes.

“’Spec not. I bet your friend Mr. Kelly might’ve told you a few of the highlights from when he was in Leavenworth.”

“Prison can’t hold ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly.”

“ ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly. Yes, sir. Desperado hero. You think a man’s a hero for holding a gun to a fella’s spine and keeping him hostage? You need to get into your thick head that’s just plain old-fashioned cowardice. You need to be thinkin’ about your own self. Your wife and that little girl of yours. You’ll be feeble and gray before you see ’em again. A good chance that baby will be taken by the state on account of her parents being in prison.”

“My wife wasn’t party to this.”

“How are we to know if you’re not talking to us? Your daddy is a smart man. He told us a good bit, and I gave him my word that we’d make that known in court.”

“I’m not a rat.”

“You learn that from a Cagney picture? Hell, son, you’re just a farmer. Look at the dirt under your nails.”

“I won’t rat on ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly.”

“He ain’t Billy the Kid.”

“You want me to stand up for the bankers and oilmen?”

Jones rubbed his face, took a sip of water, and leaned back in his chair. “I came to you because I told your daddy I’d try. This is a favor, son, and it won’t come ’round again. You need some plain talk and understanding of this predicament. You think Kelly and your stepsister would do the same for you?”

“I know they would.”

Jones took another sip and grunted. “You want to bet?”

“Kit told me you coppers would try and buddy up. She said y’all can’t breathe without telling a lie.”

“I’m offering you time. You’re young enough that you can still claim some of it. Your story doesn’t have to go like this.”

“Go to hell.”

“Boy,” Jones said, sadly, “that just doesn’t sound right coming out of your mouth. I knew you’d be like this, and some of the fellas thought they might be able to get you to tell them where to find the Kellys by stomping the ever-living shit out of you. I told them that wasn’t necessary. I figured you had a level head.”

“You figured wrong.”

Jones stood.

“How much they promise you?”

“They ain’t paying me.”

“I’d at least ask something for my child,” Jones said. “Don’t be foolish. You know Kathryn spent up toward two thousand dollars just on panties, shoes, and such? They’re living it up. Big parties, spending sprees, booze, and high times. I bet they’re laughing at the ole Shannon family.”

“They’ll bust us out.”

“You think George is worried about you?” Jones asked, slipping into his suit jacket and reaching for his hat.

Armon looked down at his manacled legs. “Fuck you.”

“Boy, those words just don’t fit your mouth,” Jones said. “High times. While your youngun is about to be sent to the orphanage, they’re popping champagne bottles.”

“They’ll bust us out.”

“Sure,” Jones said, reaching for the door. “Did you know Kathryn doesn’t even speak to her other kin? They’ve tried to call and write her for years, but she thinks she’s too good for ’em. Just like she thinks she’s too high-hat for you, Potatoes.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I’m a trained investigator, son.”

“She visits her grandma in Coleman ever since I know’d her. She loves that old woman. Stick that in your pipe, copper.”

Jones knocked on the door for the deputy. The door cracked open. “You sure are a tough nut, Potatoes. I just plain give up.”

27

Wednesday, August 23, 1933

W
ell, if the devil don’t walk among us,” Grandma Coleman said, spitting some snuff juice into an empty coffee can. Her hair was dyed the color of copper wire, framing a wrinkled complexion that resembled the skin on boiled milk. Sometimes Kathryn saw a bit of Ora in her grandmother, and sometimes, when the old woman grew cross, she saw a bit of herself. Mainly it was the way her cataracted eyes would gain some clarity—if only for a moment—and fix on something in her mind. Kathryn knew that look, had seen it in the mirror too many times when George would wander into the bathroom and ask her if she’d like to pull his finger or lift his leg to play a flat tuba note.