Infamous (48 page)

“Call ’em ten more.”

“I don’t want to go back there.”

“Where?”

“The apartment,” he said. “They got us, Kit. They’re just making us into fools now. I hadn’t even been to the gosh-dang Fair.”

“How much of that shine did you drink?”

“Not enough.”

Kathryn raced the Ford under the State Street El and turned down toward the apartment, telling Gerry to hop out and get the bags they hadn’t unpacked. The kid leaned in and listened, nodding, and scooted on out the door, not needing to be told twice.

“That’s a good kid,” George said.

“I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“You wanna take a chance?”

“Goddamn you, George.”

Kathryn circled around the Loop until she spotted a late showing at the Piccadilly Theatre and let George out with a couple bucks. She said she’d send Gerry in to get him when it was safe. “Aw, hell,” he said, stumbling out and craning his neck up to the blinding marquee. “
Gabriel Over the White House
? I’ve seen this horseshit once and didn’t like it the first time.”

“Grab some popcorn,” Kit said. “Kick your feet up and have a snooze.” She knocked the Ford into first and circled on back down around the street through tall concrete and metal, the guts of the city machine, and headed toward the apartment, the rain starting again, wipers going, leaning into the windshield to see Geraline sitting on their luggage under the El tracks.

Kathryn honked her horn, and the girl threw the bags in and crawled in after them. “Whew.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I think the mug is screwy,” Geraline said.

Kathryn caught Gerry’s eye in the rearview and narrowed her look at the girl.

“I took the service elevator and didn’t see a thing.”

“Good, kid.”

“You gonna let me drive?”

“When we get a new machine.”

“What kind are we gonna get?”

“Whatever George can find.”

“Hope it’s a Cadillac,” she said. “I sure like those Cadillacs.”

“Me, too, sister.”

They drove around the city for a while, Kathryn knowing Chicago better than anyone who ever headed this way from Mississippi and pointing out this and that, the Wrigley Building, City Hall—
blah, blah, blah
—but all of it somehow meaning something to the kid of a dirt farmer. Kathryn checked the time, realizing they’d have to find some new digs, and sent Gerry back into the Piccadilly for George, heading north this time, skirting the lakefront.

“It was worse this time,” George said. “Walter Huston as the president gave me the creeps. The whole picture did nothing but blame gangsters for this country’s problems. What about the oilmen, the bank presidents, the greedy bastards on Wall Street? It’s easy. We’re an easy target. Hey, you want some popcorn?”

An hour later they found an apartment far north on Winthrop Street, a place called the Astra, the manager not even minding it being late and showing the good family to the little efficiency with a smile—this place being a hell of a lot cleaner—and talking about all the good folks he’d met from all over the world on account of the Fair.

“We’re going tomorrow,” Gerry said.

Kathryn ruffled her hair. “Ain’t she cute?”

George found the icebox and stared inside until Kathryn came over and let him know it was empty. She gave Geraline a five-spot and told her to fetch up some eggs and beer from a corner grocery she’d spotted.

“Candy?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Just as the door closed, she pulled George in close and bit his ear. He just stood there, limp in the shoulder and the arm, and she took a big handful of his sweaty shirt and asked him to do some pretty rough things to her. When he didn’t answer, she slapped him across the mug. “What’s the matter? We made it.”

“I’m going to sleep.”

She reached for his thick hand and placed it across her breast. His hand fell away, and he shook his head. “Wake me if I sleep too late,” he said, and stumbled off into a bedroom he’d never seen.

Kathryn sat there in the half dark on top of a big suitcase, wondering where the kid had gone, until she spotted something in a far corner, covered in dust and left alone. A fine, solid L. C. Smith & Corona, with working keys and everything, and a fat flat of snow-white paper.

She sat down and played with the keys a bit, the windows cracked open, hearing the night clatter of cars passing and kids up past their bedtime. A dog barking.

She played with the keys. She inserted a piece of paper.

By the time Geraline returned with an apple box of groceries, Kathryn barely heard her come in, Kathryn’s temples throbbing and sweat ringing the front of her dress and under her arms. She roused George from his sleep, only a crack of light coming from the bathroom.

“Hold this,” she said.

He took it and tried to focus, and then threw it to the ground and turned back over.

She picked it up with her gloves, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope addressed to Charles F. Urschel, Federal Building, Oklahoma City.

CHARLES F. URSCHEL KEPT THE LETTER IN THE RIGHT-HAND pocket of the suit Berenice had picked out—a strong navy linen, a crisp white shirt, and red tie clipped with a silver pin. He didn’t even think about reading it until he had been seated beside his wife, two sons, and Betty in the federal courthouse, a sweltering hotbox where women waved fans in front of their faces and men used the morning edition of the newspaper to create just a stir of air. Charlie at first thought the letter might not make a bad fan, and only on a whim did he slice it open with his thumb, being used to fan letters, love notes, and crackpots claiming to be Kelly himself. He unfolded it on his knee just as Boss and Ora, along with Potatoes, were led into the courtroom and seated side by side at the defense table. The table was flat and polished neat, a sweating pitcher of water and glasses the only obstruction.

While everyone continued to talk, waiting for the judge, Charles glanced down at the loose sheets of paper from the letter airmailed from Chicago:

Ignorant Charles:

Just a few lines to let you know that I am getting my plans made to destroy your so-called mansion, and you and your family immediately after this trial. And you fellow, I guess you’ve begun to realize your serious mistake. Are you ignorant enough to think the Government can guard you forever? I gave you credit for more sense than that, and figured you thought too much of your family to jeopardize them as you have, but if you don’t look out for them, why should we. I dislike hurting the innocent, but I told you exactly what would happen you can bet $200,000 more everything I said will be true. You are living on borrowed time now. You know that the Shannon family are victims of circumstances the same as you was. You don’t seem to mind prosecuting the innocent, neither will I have any conscious qualms over brutally murdering your family. The Shannons have put the heat on, but I don’t desire to see them prosecuted as they are innocent and I have a much better method of settling with them. As far as the guilty being punished you would probably have lived the rest of your life in peace had you tried only the guilty, but if the Shannons are convicted, look out, and God help you for he is the only one that will be able to do you any good. In the event of my arrest, I’ve already formed an outfit to take care of and destroy you and yours the same as if I was there. I am spending your money to have you and your family killed—nice eh? You are bucking people that have cash, planes, bombs, and unlimited connections both here and abroad. I have friends in Oklahoma City that know every move and every plan you make, and you are still too dumb to figure out the finger man there.

If my brain was no larger than yours, the Government would have had me long ago, as it is I am drinking good beer and will yet see you and your family like I should have left you at first—stone dead.

I don’t worry about Bates. He will be out for the ceremonies—your slaughter.

Now I say it is up to you; if the Shannons are convicted, you can get another rich wife in hell, because that will be the only place you can use one. Adios, smart one.

Your worst enemy,

Geo. R. Kelly

I will put my fingerprints below so you can’t say some crank wrote this. See you in hell.

Charlie took a breath, neatly folded the letter, and placed it into his pocket, scanning the courtroom for Bruce Colvin. Right as the judge entered and everyone stood, Charlie damn well heard an airplane overhead. He mopped his brow with a bleached handkerchief and excused himself, making his way from the courtroom, feeling like he was going to vomit.

In the public restroom, he steadied himself at a sink, splashing cold water in his eyes. As he dried his face and looked into the mirror, he spotted Bruce Colvin, standing over his shoulder.

“Betty was concerned.”

“I’m fine.”

“We’ve tapped two lines,” Colvin said. “Jarrett’s office and his personal line at home. We can put every conversation on phonographic records. It’s very clever stuff.”

Charlie steadied himself with hands on the porcelain sink.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“We have suspicions, too.”

“I said that won’t be necessary,” Charlie said, turning from the mirror and facing Colvin, the boy’s face withering in the volume of his voice. “My concerns were unfounded. I haven’t been well.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do I need to call Mr. Hoover myself or will you please drop this matter? Walter Jarrett is not a crook.”

“May I see what’s in the letter?”

Charlie snapped it into his hands like a piece of trash on the way out. “Why don’t you just find the Kellys, so my family can sleep. Or are you having too much fun playing house?”

35

K
athryn lost George not long after he’d wandered into the Golden Pavilion of Jehol to find a toilet. She’d said to him, “Go ahead, George, take care of yourself just as we were about to see the Dutch dancers after missing them two days in a row.” Ever since they’d been at the Fair—their first day being Tuesday—George had been downright crazy for the Dancers of Tunis featuring the Amazing Iris, drinking gin from his hip flask, feeling like he was invisible with his blond hair and white suit, Panama hat, and purple-tinted glasses. All she wanted to see was one lousy traditional Dutch dance and to spend a little time on the Streets of Paris. But keeping track of George was the trick. And God knows where Gerry went—Kathryn wasn’t her mother—the girl showing up at the same time both nights on the Avenue of Flags, where they’d all wait in line for the Sky Ride, stretched high across the Fair, dodging spotlights, the pavilions lit up like ancient pyramids in blue, green, and yellow lights, neon wrapping the streamlined buildings. George would be full-on plastered and proclaim himself the real Buck Rogers and make folks in the Sky Ride laugh. He’d grown
that
goddamn cocky.

Not two seconds after stumbling out of the temple, he wandered up to her and asked her again about the Dancers of Tunis. “Don’t you know those girls aren’t from Africa,” she said. “They’re from Brooklyn. Two of ’em are nothing but common bubble dancers.”

“The hell you say.”

“One thing, George. I asked to see one thing.”

“So they dance in wooden shoes,” he said. “Where’s the kid?”

Kathryn shrugged. She lit a cigarette. They walked down the wide avenues hugging the lakefront. Signs pointing to every corner of the earth. LONDON. PEKING. DARKEST AFRICA.

“I bet she’s at the Enchanted Isle.”

“She doesn’t go for that kids’ stuff,” she said. “Told me she wanted to see where they made the beer.”

“Bavaria,” George said.
“Heigh-ho, the gang’s all here. Let’s have pretzels, let’s have beer.”

The streets were fat with people, most of the men in crisp white shirts without ties and women in flowered dresses and straw hats, pouring past George and Kathryn, who walked in the opposite way, crowd pushing around them like water around a river stone.

“Did you call?”

“Hell, yes, I called,” he said. “What do you think took so long?”

“I figured the temple has a nice toilet.”

“Some fella keeps telling me that Joe will call me back. Said they’re working on getting us a car. Forged papers, all that stuff.”

“And then what, George?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“We leave the country?”

“This country doesn’t want us anymore,” he said. “Maybe Mexico. Maybe Cuba. Maybe Memphis.”

“Memphis?” Kathryn asked. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m tired,” he said. “Let’s get a drink.”

“WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?” DOC WHITE ASKED. “I’VE WALKED from one end of this damn Fair to the other twice and my feet done swoled up.”

“Let’s take a seat.”