Meanwhile, Charles’s Thompson delivered its cargo in less than two-tenths of a second, six reports un-separated by pause or click, sending the 230-grain missives into the night in consecrations of radiance and spark and spinning flecks of flaming powder, which yielded to yet more pyrotechnics. The T for “Training” on the drum also meant T for “Tracer,” designed to demonstrate to rookie agents the power of the Thompson. It now demonstrated that power to Les. Six red-tipped Frankford Arsenal M1 .45 slugs streaked across time and space as if such trivial human conceits didn’t exist, each leaking a plumb-line contrail of sheer incandescence that bleached the black from the darkling plain as they reached and sank into and through the middle parts of Lester J. Gillis, then, still at killing velocity, vanished into the Illinois prairie at unpredictable angles.
Darkness returned to the planet a splinter of a second later, but the bullets had done their work, arriving in a three-inch cluster, blowing out viscera, vein, and artery, coil of intestines, bits of liver and spleen and spine, gobbets of muscle, ligament, and gristle, opening a hundred roaring Mississippis of blood that no force on earth could dam.
First shim of ice on the pond, the snap of dry leaves whirling in the air on a whisper of breeze.
Les stepped back, felt his weapon disappear from his grip, tried to compensate for his sudden blast of vertigo, lost his footing, and sat down hard in the grass. He touched the wound and was amazed at the blood flow, and how quickly wet his hand became.
He looked up to the lawman, who stood ready to fire again.
“You killed me,” he said in disbelief.
“I believe I have,” said Swagger.
66
THE OUACHITAS
ARKANSAS
The present
“IDON’T GET IT,” said Nick. “That’s not the Baby Face story. Or, rather, it’s the Baby Face story but with a new ending.”
Swagger didn’t say anything.
“Did he make this up to sell books, I wonder,” said Nick. “It’s more dramatic, it’s more movie-like, it’s better, certainly, as story.”
Swagger and Memphis looked at Rawley Grumley, who returned their stares evenly. No tremble in that boy.
“Grumley, the standard story about Nelson is that—”
“I know what it is,” said Rawley. “I read the history books.”
“So why would he make this up? Or is this the truth and the official story is the fable? ‘When the facts conflict with the legend, print the legend.’”
Nobody said a thing for a bit. Blue sky, the odd spectacle of three men sitting around a ruined picnic table, a fourth man, hands bound, sitting halfway in a hole, a coffin, a pile of gun-shaped objects shrouded in tightly wrapped canvas, and a Honda Recon sitting parked, all in the lee of the remains of a cottage.
“If it’s true, Charles should be a hero. Every schoolboy should want to be Charles.”
“How about you, sniper? You got anything to say. He’s your blood.”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me just check something,” said Nick. He took out his iPhone. “Let’s see if I can get anything out here or just— Well, well, hello, Internet. Okay, let’s check on the moon. Easily done now, not so easily done in 1973 or ’4 when Chase was writing at the age of eighty in his great-granddaughter’s basement in Sausalito. Come on, Google, where are you, you bastard?”
Google arrived, and Nick carefully ordered it to look for “Condition of Moon, Central Time Zone, November 27, 1934.”
One-point-eleven seconds passed, and Google loaded the iPhone’s small screen with possibilities, and Nick, like every other Google user since the beginning of Google, chose the first entry, to find that some insane person with way too much time on his hands had indeed put together a moon phase website indexed to all the years of the calendar.
“Well?” said Swagger.
“Okay. The moon was full. It didn’t reach apogee till eleven thirty-four, which means that at six, or whenever this action took place, it was indeed low. It would have been red, because its light was passing through more atmosphere.”
“All right,” said Swagger, “it seems real. But, like Nick, I don’t know why this isn’t the story we all know, why the papers weren’t all over it, why it’s hidden or something. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe the old man killer had something up his sleeve,” said Rawley.
67
WILLOW ROAD
NORTHFIELD, ILLINOIS
November 27, 1934
CHARLES STOOD ABOVE the man he’d shot, who sat clumsily in the grass, his shirt rapidly loading with dark blood, whose face still showed disbelief and stupor, his open, slack fingers useless.
“Now I’m going to give you something you didn’t give nobody. You sure didn’t give it to Sam or Ed. They checked out alone.”
The man looked at him. His brain still half worked, and Charles knew he was comprehending. He blinked, maybe tried to speak but only swallowed, then coughed some blood sputum.
“You get to die in the arms of your wife with your best friend standing by.”
He turned to Helen and J.P., who were out of the car now and bearing witness to Les’s death.
“Dump the guns and get him out of here. You can take him to the hospital, if you want, but it won’t do no good. I’ve seen that wound before. All those holes. It’s always fatal. He’s got an hour or so left before he pumps dry.”
“Thank you,” said Helen. “You are a decent man.”
She ran to Les.
“Oh, baby, baby,” she said, holding him, unfazed by the copious blood that soaked his midsection, “we’ll get you out of here, we’ll take care of you. It’ll be all right, you’ll be fine.”
He’ll be fine in hell, Charles thought.
He stood by as Helen and J.P. lifted the bleeding man and took him to the car, out of which J.P. had already pulled the Monitor, a batch of magazines and cartridge boxes.
“And one more thing. Helen, you come here now.”
Helen turned from her comforting and came to Charles. She was a pretty gal, no doubt about it. Why do they give themselves away on such trash? It was one of the great mysteries of life.
“You listen to me, now,” he said. “This didn’t happen. I never ran you off the road, there was no gunfight, it wasn’t my bullets that hit him. Sam Cowley put six slugs into him in Barrington and he bled to death on account of that. There was no Swagger, nothing in a field, in a hick town, a hundred miles from anywhere, no moon, no wind, no grass blowing. That’s the story you tell in exchange for giving him the sort of death he don’t otherwise deserve. If I hear different from either of you, I will come visit and you won’t like that a bit.”
They looked at him, not comprehending.
“Just do what I say. You will be caught, you will be questioned, give ’em some cock-and-bull about safe houses in Wilmette. It don’t matter, they won’t care. Just set your mind to it. You’re doing it for him, think of it that way.”
“I don’t understand,” said Helen.
“You don’t have to. Now, get out of here. Take Lester to the cemetery he so richly deserves.”
“We’ll put him in St. Peter’s in Niles Center. He likes it.”
68
THE OUACHITAS
ARKANSAS
The present
“SO WHERE DOES the story he chickened out come from?” asked Nick. “I don’t see any—”
But then he halted.
Bob broke his silence.
“He couldn’t save Sam. That would dog him the rest of his life. Maybe it destroyed him. But he was able to save Sam’s reputation, his memory, his heroism, in the story that Sam killed Baby Face. Along with Ed Hollis. To do that, he had to take himself out of the story. He had to erase himself from history and from the FBI. We’ll never know how he did it, but the ‘ru
nning away’ lie was part of it. He had to do what Baby Face couldn’t do. He had to kill himself.”
69
NORTHFIELD, ILLINOIS
November 27, 1934
CHARLES WATCHED THE HUDSON pull out with its cargo of dying gangster. Where it went, what they did with the body, all that meant nothing at all to him. It would take care of itself.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief and applied it to the wound on his ear. The linen came away saturated with red. He went back to the wound, cleaned it as best he could, satisfied himself that he’d lost the top half inch, and that it would scab over for a month or so, but that it wouldn’t kill him. He’d stop and get some disinfectant for it.
He went to the guns, which lay in the grass. The Monitor was heavy, but not so heavy that he couldn’t also take up the Thompson by its front grip. He got the load to the Pontiac, opened the trunk, and laid the weapons next to Sam’s Thompson and Ed’s Model 11. He went back, picked up the various .45s and magazines that had spilled out of a getaway bag, the bag itself, and took it all to the trunk too. One item was an envelope, which held a crisp, new thousand-dollar bill. He threw that in the trunk too. Then, standing there, he peeled off his topcoat and his suit coat, unsnapped and unbuttoned his floral-carved shoulder rig with its automatic. He looked at it, a man who trusted a gun, and the gun protected him and did its duty for him. Can’t ask more of a gun. You did good, bud, he thought, and laid it on the pile. He closed the lid, got his coats on fast—it was cold, the moon was higher now, full and bone white, the wind still whistled through the grass.
After his labor, he awarded himself a cigarette. One last thing remained.
He went to the car, started, backed, turned, cranked the wheel, and returned to Willow Road. He followed it, over a bridge, to an intersection with one Happ Road, a turn to the right, a turn to the left, a transit over some tracks, and he found himself in the tiny village of Northfield. A turn past the town hall took him to a gabled, shingled house that was called Happ’s Liquors and Bar & Grill. It had a phone booth outside, near the entrance.
He went to it, dropped in his nickel.
“Number, please?”
He gave it, then fed in another dime for the downtown call.
“Jessup, Herald-Examiner.”
“You recognize my voice?”
“Jesus Christ, where are you? You heard? Baby Face killed two—”
“Baby Face is dead,” said Swagger. “Here’s your scoop, as I promised. He was shot by Sam Cowley of the Justice Department, who put a .45 into his guts with a Tommy gun. He bled out. They dumped him at St. Peter’s Cemetery, in Niles Center. You show up there tomorrow at nine a.m. and you’ll find him somewhere, on the ground. Do you hear me?”
“Niles Center, St. Peter’s.”
“You call the Division, got that? And this has nothing to do with me.”
“You killed Baby Face?”
“Sam Cowley killed Baby Face. That’s the story you’re telling, and you got it first. It ain’t got nothing to do with me. You never heard of me, you never got this call.”
“I—”
He hung up, pulled another nickel.
“Randolph 6226.”
“That’s another dime, please.”
The dime tinkled as the phone swallowed it.
“Justice Department.” It was Elaine, still on.
“Elaine, it’s Swagger.”
“Sheriff, thank God! They’ve been looking for you. They’ll be so glad.”
“Who’s running things?”
“Inspector Clegg.”
“Elaine, you’re the best. You did so much for me, and, believe me, I do appreciate it.”
“Sheriff, I—”
“Can you put Clegg on?”
“Just a second.”
But it was four seconds.
“Clegg.”
“It’s Swagger.”
“Jesus Christ, man, where are you? Do you know what’s happened? Nelson jumped Sam and Ed Hollis in Barrington. He killed ’em both and stole their car. I’ve got all the men out looking for Baby Face. I need you, dammit, Swagger. The men need you. Get in here!”
“No sir,” said Charles.
“What? Where are you?”
“I’m in a bar, drinking. And getting drunker.”
“Swagger, what is—”
“I was at Barrington. I saw Sam’s guts shot out, and Ed’s head with a hole above the eye. No thank you. Not me. I come through enough already with the war, with the fights I been in. I ain’t ending up in some field, bled out, while the small-town cops stand around clucking.”
“Charles, you’ve been drinking. It’s understandable. Go home, go to bed, sleep late, and come in ready to go tomorrow. We need you. The men need you. They look up to you for leadership and steadiness. They don’t have to know about tonight.”
“By tomorrow morning, I hope to be well south of St. Louis. You tell them what you want, a crack-up, a breakdown, a chicken dance, I don’t care. I ain’t gonna end up like Ed or Sam. That’s for suckers. They’re only dead because some fat Nancy J. Swish in Washington, who wanted to poke Purvis’s pretty ass, wants to get more money in the budget. That ain’t worth dying for, not a bit of it. I’m done. I’m headed out.”
“Swagger, Jesus Christ, you cannot say . . . That is so . . . Swagger, if you do this, I will wipe the slate clean of you. You will be expunged from the record and nobody will mention your name again. You will be shunned, banned, despised. You will be cast into outer darkness. You will be—”
Charles hung up.
He climbed the steps, went to the counter, and bought a pint of Pikesville Rye.
The guy at the counter took his money, but said, “Say, bud, you okay? That ear needs tending.”
“It’s fine,” said Charles. “It don’t hurt a bit.”
Then he went outside, got in his car, opened the bottle, took a swig, and pulled out for the long drive ahead.
70
AHMED’S TURKISH BATH
CHICAGO
November 29, 1934
THE STEAM WORKED ITS WAY in through his pores, seemed somehow to drain all the toxins and regrets from his soul and urged him to relax. He had much to contemplate with pleasure.
They were working meatpacking. Take over the union, threaten a strike, the big boys paid to keep the men on the line, and it was more incoming cash, bushels of it. Nobody could stop them, nobody could risk standing against the Italians. And this was happening everywhere! Right now, the thing against Swift, the biggest, was proceeding as planned. Swift had seen the others roll over and knew that resistance was pointless. Mr. Nitto would be pleased, as would the New York people.
He stretched his legs. Vapors occluded his vision, isolating him in a world of fiery fog. He breathed in, feeling the purifying rush of the superheated moisture as it rode the currents into his lungs. A man could fall asleep coddled by such total pleasure.
They had found Baby Face Nelson’s body in some graveyard in Niles Center. He was the last of the big ones on the list, which meant that enterprise could be concluded. It was another triumph. The only loose end was the sheriff, who had gone chicken—who’d have thunk?—and disappeared, but sooner or later he’d turn up. That would have to be dealt with, but it wasn’t a big thing. After all, the guy was a hick.
He felt like a Roman emperor. It was hard not to, given the wealth, the power, the prestige, the future that lay ahead. His towel was like a toga, and he best rode the world like a colossus. A long way from Palermo, that was for sure.
The door opened and D’Abruzzio saw the attendant through the vapors, bringing him a replacement for his iced tea. That was Jackie, good at his trade, knowing exactly what a big-time customer needed in terms of tending.
He mopped his brow with his towel and smiled at Jackie,
who leaned toward him in the fog. Except it wasn’t Jackie, it was a well-dressed man, sweating profusely, in a suit and tie.
The man smiled back at him, and D’Abruzzio was struck by how handsome he was—a matinee idol?—and how familiar. Had he seen him on-screen?
Then he realized he’d seen him in the papers. It was John Paul Chase, Nelson’s gofer, who’d gotten away from Barrington unscathed.
Phil wondered if he wanted a touch but instead saw the muzzle of a .38 snub two inches from his nose.
“Baby Face Nelson says hello,” said Chase, and shot him through the eye.
71
TOWARD LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS
The present
THE GRUMLEY HAD their prize rewrapped, their weapons retrieved, their StingRay gizmo stowed in backpack. They were headed back to skip tracing, strip bars, and hitting Negroes in the head and face—their life, in other words.
“You’re not going to shoot up a Piggly Wiggly or a bowling alley with that old Colt rifle, are you?” Swagger asked.
“No sir,” said Braxton, Rawley having retreated into silence again, “it goes on an outward-bound flight to some collector in Uzbekistan, or maybe Colombia, paid for in cash money, most of which will be in our wallets by six p.m. You understand, we can’t disclose the name of our client.”
“You don’t have to,” said Nick. “I made a phone call. If Mr. Kaye thinks he’s out of the soup, he’s got another think coming. I’d stay clear of him after you cash out because a whole lot of federal heat is about to light up his sorry little life. He’s going to learn no Russian mobster can fuck him up as badly as a nasty virgin spinster GS-20 from the IRS.”
“We’re just the help,” said Braxton. “Don’t know nothing, didn’t do nothing. It pays to be stupid sometimes.”
“Don’t it just?” said Bob. “And here’s a little something to bring a smile to his face. It’s the last time he’ll smile in the next thirty years.”