Dillinger

‘Sure I do,’ he said. ‘New York, next stop.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘And what I said about sharing the story. Forget it. This one’s yours. Who knows, maybe you could get a Pulitzer.’

She was almost in tears. ‘But why are you doing this for me? I don’t understand?’

‘Simple,’ he said. ‘I work out of AP’s New York office myself. Maybe if you get there, you’ll let me buy you a cup of coffee some time.’ He smiled, reached across to pat her hand.

Instead, Martha Ryan took his hand and pumped it. Thank you, Mr Jarvis,’ she said.

‘Call me Mike.’

‘Thank you, Mike.’

Jarvis smiled. ‘Now get the hell out of here and get your story.’

Youngblood, leaning against the door, watching, now made a quick gesture. ‘Someone’s coming.’

Dillinger quickly lay on the bed. As he lit a cigarette the key rattled in the lock, the sliding bars opened and a guard stood to one side as Lillian Holley entered followed by the young woman.

‘On your feet, Johnny,’ Mrs Holley said. ‘I’d like you to meet a lady. This is Miss Martha Ryan of the Denver Press and I’ve told her she can have five minutes with you.’

‘Hell, Mrs Holley,’ Youngblood said, ‘I could do with five minutes there myself.

As Youngblood spoke, there was the most extraordinary change in Dillinger. He was on his feet in an instant, his face pale, his eyes very dark so that Youngblood recoiled as from a blow in the face.

‘Sorry, Mr Dillinger,’ he whispered.

Dillinger turned to Martha Ryan, his charming half smile on view again. ‘Miss Ryan, what can I do for you?’

She was, for a moment, almost overcome. He was not what she thought he’d be. Though he was shorter than she’d expected, his shoulders were those of a bigger man. His restless, intelligent face and pleasant, courteous voice carried a curious authority.

Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak. ‘Well, I know your background, Mr Dillinger, everyone does. Your family, that kind of stuff. I just wanted to ask you some other kinds of questions.’

He pulled a chair forward. ‘Fire away.’

She took a pad and pencil from her purse. ‘They say you intend to escape from here. Is that true?’

The question was so naive that Lillian Holley laughed harshly and answered it for him. ‘This section of the jail, honey, the new section, is escape-proof. That’s the way the architect designed it. Even if he got through that door he’d have to pass through God knows how many gates and armed guards.’

Dillinger turned to the girl. ‘Satisfied?’

‘But they say your friends are coming to get you out.’

‘What friends? If I had friends, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to crash Mrs Holley’s Indiana Alcatraz, would they?’

The half smile was still firmly in place, as if he was laughing at the world and everyone in it. ‘However, if an attractive honey like you’d come along for the ride, I might decide to try for the outside.’ He winked at Mrs Holley. ‘Course, Mrs Holley could come along as chaperone.’

Martha Ryan wasn’t sure whether he was making a pass or a joke or both at the same time. She tried again. ‘Have you any interest in politics, Mr Dillinger?’

‘Not until Mr Roosevelt came along. You can say I’m for him all the way, and for the NRA – particularly for banking, only he’ll have to hurry.’

She looked genuinely bewildered. ‘I don’t understand, you’re a ...’ She hesitated.

‘A thief?’ He said helpfully. ‘True. I rob the banks, if that’s what you mean, but who do they rob, Miss Ryan? Indiana, Kansas, Iowa, Texas – take your choice. People thrown off their farms wholesale while the banks foreclose, then sell out at a huge profit to the big wheat combines.’

‘Business, Johnny,’ Lillian Holley said dryly. ‘Just business.’

‘Oh, sure, the kind that makes me feel clean,’ Dillinger said. ‘Six millions unemployed out there, Miss Ryan. You ask them what kind of a thief John Dillinger is.’

She sat there staring up at him. He didn’t sound that much different from some of the editorial writers she’d met. Lillian Holley said, ‘OK, angel, that’s it,’ and pulled her up, a hand under her elbow.

Martha Ryan held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Dillinger and good ...’ She swallowed the words, blushing.

Dillinger laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put that in your article if I were you. They mightn’t understand.’ And then he smiled gently. ‘Don’t worry about me, Miss Ryan. I know the road I’m taking, I know what’s at the end of it. My choice! No one else’s.’

Martha recoiled instinctively. Dillinger’s courtly smile had changed into a stone mask. She went out, wanting to glance back, Lillian Holley followed. The door closed behind them. Dillinger stood there for a moment, then felt inside the mattress and took out the pistol.

‘Are you with me?’ he asked Youngblood.

‘You crashing out, Mr Dillinger?’

‘That’s it.’

‘The guy I killed was trying to stick a knife in me, but I could still get the chair, Mr Dillinger, him being white. That don’t leave me much choice, so I’m with you.’

‘Good, when the time comes just do as I say and I’ll get you out of here,’ Dillinger told him.

He took his jacket out of the cupboard, put it on and slipped the pistol into his right-hand pocket, then he lay on the bed and closed his eyes, thinking of his father. Boy that old son-of-a-bitch would be surprised if his bad boy walked in the door.

As one of the deputies unlocked the door at the rear of the prison, Lillian Holley said, ‘Well, what did you make of him?’

Martha Ryan was bewildered and showed it. ‘I expected a monster, not a ... ladies’ man.’

‘I know. It’s very confusing. You know there are people who argue that he’s never even killed anybody.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing. He’s an Indiana farm boy, born and bred, and wherever he travels in the back country, people know, but they don’t turn him in, not for any reward. Can you explain that to me?’

‘No.’

‘Well, when you can, you’ll have your real story.’

She shook hands and Martha Ryan passed outside and the door closed behind her.

When Cahoon unlocked the door of Dillinger’s cell he was carrying a bucket full of soapy water which he put down by the wall.

‘OK, Herbert,’ he said to Youngblood. ‘Cleaning time.’ He straightened and found himself staring into the muzzle of a Colt automatic, steady in Dillinger’s hand. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said softly.

Dillinger got off the bed. ‘Just do as I say, Sam, and we’ll get along. Understand?’