Doc said, “Fine and dandy, if the snatch goes smooth. What if it’s queered at the scene? What if some fed recognizes somebody, or wants to look at ID, or they send a different car? What if the shit hits the fan, right there in front of the Banker’s Building?”
Karpis just smiled patiently through all this. He said, “We got all that covered. There’ll be a backup car with extra firepower parked across the way, in front of the Edison Building—on Adams, kiddy-corner from the Banker’s Building. If shooting starts, they cover the escape by opening fire from another direction. And if the snatch goes smooth, they cruise down Adams—dumping tacks behind ’em like bread crumbs, making flat tires and jamming traffic. At LaSalle, the backup car’ll head north, dropping more tacks, to throw the laws off the trail—and ditch their car and switch in an alley off Franklin and Monroe to a new car. And drive away.”
Doc was smirking, skeptical as hell. “All of this in the Loop. Creepy, you’re dreaming.”
Karpis said, “No, Doc—you’re sleeping. Think. Between six and seven, the LaSalle Street district is deader than a doornail. The market shuts down at three—everybody’ll be out by six, easy. On our way in, both the backup and the Hudson’ll take different routes—and if on the way in we see a lot of cops or anything else out of the ordinary, well fold it up. Either car’ll have the right to fold it—if the Hudson gets there and the backup isn’t in position, that means they chose to fold. If the Hudson wants to fold, they just drive on by the Banker’s Building, east on Adams, without stopping.”
Then Karpis went through the escape route—the one that would be taken should the job go sour. The Hudson would turn hard down Quincy, and take a very tight turn down the alley, Rookery Court. Then would pull west on Adams, and once there, if traffic’s heavy, use the siren, crossing LaSalle and Wells, going under the El. After another block on Adams, the Hudson would take a left and go south on Franklin Street. If the siren had been in use, it would be turned off here. Two short blocks later, the Hudson would cut across Jackson and dodge into a narrow, barely noticeable alley behind the fifteen-story building on the northeast corner. This alley led into a system of several alleys, the main, widest one of which was where the loading dock was, with the extra car.
“It’s a two-bay loading dock,” Karpis said, “nice and deep—a car can enter it and not stick out in the alley at all.”
Whether the snatch went smooth or soured, the Hudson would end up here, pulling into the bay next to the second car; everybody would tumble out, putting Hoover (gagged by now) in the trunk of the second car. Of the three men who picked up Hoover, two would be in Chicago police uniforms; they would quickly strip out of those with street clothes underneath—and drive out of the bay and onto Van Buren, going west.
Doc was starting to look less skeptical; but he still asked, “What about real cops? Two to a block, in the Loop, you know.”
Karpis shrugged like Jack Benny. “Supper hour, Doc. Streets are good and empty of uniforms ’tween six and seven.”
Doc nodded slowly. Then said, “Streetcars? Traffic?”
“Both’ll be slow at that hour, that part of the Loop.”
Nelson was nodding, too, saying, “And what traffic there is’ll mostly be people coming into the Loop, for dinner and an evening’s fun ‘n’ games—not going out, like we’d be doing.”
Doc said, “But State and Wabash and the streets around there will be hopping.”
Karpis shrugged again. “That’s in our favor. If an alarm is sounded, the cops’ll have to break through that traffic to get to us. By the time they reach the Banker’s Building at the southwest tip of the Loop, we’ll’ve switched cars.”
Doc thought about that.
Karpis went on. “The Hudson’ll only be on the street for about four blocks, remember. A few minutes at most.”
Karpis then went into the deployment of men: three in the fake state attorney’s car; two in the backup car; one at the loading dock waiting with the second car; another to disable the real state attorney’s car at the city garage near City Hall.
And me—I’d be baby-sitting the ladies, in Ma Barker’s apartment on Pine Grove Avenue. I might be there for weeks—as long as it took for Hoover to be ransomed, plus some cooling-off time. The men didn’t want to hook back up with their ladies till they were sure the Hoover grab was a success. Nobody wanted his girl serving time on this one.
Also, the guy who’d disable the state attorney’s car had a bigger job than just kicking the nail in the toe of his shoe into the tire on a Hudson. First he’d have to go up a fire escape to get into the garage (which was serviced by carhops); then he’d have to hang around on the street and watch the state attorney’s real delivery boys go after their car and, when it turned out they were delayed by a flat tire, try to delay whoever it was from calling the office.
“That’s your job, Chase,” Karpis told Nelson’s lapdog John Paul.
Chase nodded.
“Just sap him or something,” Nelson said, offhandedly. “Don’t kill him or nothin’.”
Karpis underscored that. “No killing—if you can help it. We’re going to be hot enough. If they don’t believe they’ll get him back alive, they won’t pay the freight. We leave a trail of bodies, they’ll figure us to kill him for sure. Got that?”
Heads nodded.
“Now, we got a problem in possibly being recognized,” Karpis said. “I don’t think it’s much of one, ’cause Hoover and his people aren’t going to be looking for the likes of us to be picking him up for supper. But it’s a problem. So me and Chock and Chock’s pal Sullivan will do the pickup in the Hudson.”
Doc said, “Chock’s picture’s been plastered to hell and gone.”
“I know—but he’ll be in a police uniform, driving; he’s a big guy—he’ll look like your typical well-fed Chicago cop—won’t you, Chock?”
“Damn tootin’,” Floyd laughed.
Karpis pointed to himself with a thumb. “My face-lift and glasses and such makes me a good candidate for not being made. And Chock’s friend Sullivan doesn’t have a famous puss like some of the rest of us; he’ll be the other cop, the one in back. I’ll be in a nice suit and look like a state attorney’s assistant. And then the three of us’ll give J. Edgar a ride.”
Nelson pointed toward the map and said, “I want the backup car, parked on Adams there.”
Karpis nodded. “My thoughts exactly. You and Freddie.”
Freddie grinned, goldly, and nodded. “I’ll be wheel man.”
“Doc,” Karpis said, “you got the dock. The loading dock. All you got to do is baby-sit the switch car.”
Doc didn’t seem thrilled about it, but he nodded.
Karpis said, “Chock and Sullivan and me’ll baby-sit Mr. Hoover, incidentally. We got a place waitin’. Nobody else in this room needs know where that place is. Just rest assured it’s safe. Once the ransom’s delivered, I’ll find everybody and distribute the wealth.”
As an outsider to the ways of the outlaw, I was surprised to find that no one objected to this arrangement; the thought of a double cross never arose. They trusted each other. Or at least they trusted Karpis.
Then Doc nodded toward me. “What about Lawrence?”
“He baby-sits the girls.”
There was some laughter.
“Nice work if you can get it!” Floyd hooted, still out of view.
Even Doc smiled. “Where do I sign up to get my harem?” he said.
Nelson didn’t find it funny. “You got a job to do, Lawrence—do it! And no funny business.”
Fred grinned and said, “Don’t you worry about your better half, George—Lawrence’s already got his hands full with Lulu.”
That wasn’t a particularly witty remark, but there was more laughter, nonetheless, some of it from Nelson this time. Nobody seemed to mind that I’d taken over for Candy Walker with “Lulu” so quickly; it was just part of their world.
Floyd’s voice said, “Seriously, fellers—I think we oughta talk money. Jim me
ntioned he’d been promised five grand—and that sounds kinda low to me, even if his job is on the soft side.”
Doc said, “I’m for that. Lawrence’ll fall just as far as the rest of us, if it all comes down around us. Kidnapping’s kidnapping.”
Nelson jumped up. “He don’t get a full share. No way he gets a full share.”
Fred said, “Some of his share’s got to go to Candy.”
“Candy’s got no kin,” Doc said. “So it goes to Lulu.”
Nelson laughed, sat back down. “So it goes to Lawrence after all.”
There was some more general good-natured laughter, and Karpis pushed the smoky air with his palms, the teacher quieting his class. “We come to money, then. Fine. You might as well know an extra cut comes off the top.”
“Fuck!” Nelson said. “What for?”
Karpis said, “There’s a silent partner.”
“Who?” Nelson demanded.
Karpis shook his head no. “No name. That’s why they call it ‘silent,’ B.G.”
There were some smiles at the use of the initials; Nelson didn’t pick up on it, but Karpis was gently deriding him.
Karpis went on. “Our silent partner is bankrolling the job, out of his share. If it queers, he takes the loss. Also, he provided the inside dope on Hoover’s activities.” He nodded toward the map. “And he helped me put together this whole shootin’ match.”
Floyd’s voice: “It’s fair, George. It’s only fair.”
Doc Barker was nodding, and Fred said, “It is fair.”
Nelson, disgruntled, said, “Yeah, yeah. Okay.”
Karpis smiled benignly. “We got a big pie to cut up, George. We are talking about five hundred thousand dollars.”
Five hundred thousand dollars!
Suddenly I heard myself talking.
“You really think the government is going to meet that?” I asked.
Karpis said, “Yeah, I think so. I can’t guarantee it. But I think they’ll meet the ransom demand, yeah.”
I didn’t, but held back further comment.
Nelson was putting his two cents in. “Uncle Sam can just print us up some money,” he said, “and if he don’t—then we will kill Hoover, and won’t that be sweet.”
Doc, not liking the sound of that particularly, said, “Then what?”
Nelson grinned; he was shifting into high-gear Cagney. “Then we grab Cummings or the president or somebody, and let’s see ’em fuck with us then.”
Nobody countered that. Just no arguing with logic, I guess.
Karpis said, “Here’s the way the money shakes down. We’re going to pay Lawrence twenty grand off the top, and give Lulu five, out of respect to Candy. Any argument?”
No argument.
“That gives each of us fifty grand and pocket change.”
The room was quiet as church, while everybody contemplated the new start that could mean. That could indeed get Chock Floyd “across the river,” in style.
“Get some rest, boys,” Karpis said. “Drink and be merry if you like—if you ain’t alone, show her a good time. And sleep till noon. But at one, meet back in this room, for a final run-through. Because tomorrow’s opening night, already.”
People stood up, started moving out.
That was when I got my first good look at Chock Floyd’s friend Sullivan, and he got his first good look at me.
We both recognized each other, and why not?
He was the man who’d called himself John Howard, when he came to my office last month—the traveling salesman who hired me to follow his “wife,” Polly Hamilton.
38
It was the longest few moments of my life, standing there in Karpis’ room near the door, about to go out, heart in my throat as I looked in the face of a man who knew I wasn’t Jimmy Lawrence.
Slowly he removed the dark glasses and there my name was, in his eyes: “Heller,” they said, narrowing. Hell, he was as shocked as I was.
And there we stood, blocking the way.
“Move along, gents,” Nelson said. “We baked in this oven long enough.”
I swallowed; said, “Sure.”
My onetime client swallowed, nodded, put the dark glasses back on, moved out the door and I followed him out into the breezily warm summer evening, my hand drifting toward the automatic under my jacket as I walked.
The men were milling about, out in front of Karpis’ cabin, some of them having further smokes. Nelson tapped Sullivan on the shoulder and Sullivan looked at him from behind the dark glasses, with a tight, blank expression.
Nelson said, “You sure we ain’t worked together before?”
Sullivan smiled politely, shook his head no.
Nelson looked confused, momentarily, said, “You seem familiar. Huh. Well, what the hell.”
And he walked over to Chase and began talking, smoking.
I smiled at Sullivan.
Because I knew.
I knew why he hadn’t given me away to the others. And I knew he’d had just as long and sweaty a last few minutes as I had.
He was lighting a cigarette; his hand was shaking—it was barely perceptible, but I caught it.
I stood close to him, put a comradely hand on his shoulder. Spoke so low he could barely hear me.
But he heard me.
I said, “Let’s talk, Johnny.”
And John Dillinger nodded, and we began to walk.
“I’m surprised to see you, John,” I told him.
“Let’s leave names aside, Heller, here on out, okay? Some people got big ears.”
“But neither one of us better have big mouths, right? We can’t afford to give each other away, can we?”
We stopped in front of the central cabin; Karpis and Dolores were sitting on the bench, having Cokes. I put a nickel in the low-riding icebox and opened the lid and slid a bottle out for myself. Dillinger stood and watched me through the dark circles of the glasses, fedora brim pulled down. He was smoking, looking relaxed, calm; but I could feel his nervousness in the air, like electricity crackling between us.
We strolled around back; found a tree to stand under. No one else was around. It was a clear, moonlit night; we could see each other fine. Not that he wanted to see me.
Dillinger didn’t like this at all. On the other hand, I was getting a perverse sort of charge out of it. I’d thought the house was coming down on my head, minutes ago; now I knew I was sitting on top.
“What are you doing here?” he asked me. Clipped words. He took off the dark glasses, slid them in his shirt pocket behind his pack of smokes. He didn’t have a gun.
I took a sip of the Coke. “Let’s start with you,” I said. “Who knows you here? Knows who you really are, I mean.”
He exhaled smoke. “Just Floyd.”
“Not Karpis?”
He shook his head no.
“But you’re the silent partner Karpis was talking about,” I said.
He nodded.
“And Karpis seems to’ve been in on the planning, all the way…”
He shrugged. “He is,” he said. “But he thinks I’m just some friend of Chock’s. I’m supposed to be a guy from Oklahoma wanted for murder, who had a face job.”
“That isn’t far wrong.”
He gave out a short, humorless laugh. “Anyway, I never worked with Karpis. I met him once or twice. But not so’s he could recognize me.”
“But Nelson and the others are a different story.”
He exhaled some more smoke; it made a sort of question mark in the air. “Yeah,” he said. “They might pick up on my voice, or my eyes. Plastic surgery don’t change you as one hundred percent as people think.”
“Yours ain’t bad,” I said.
He sighed heavily; a weight-of-the-world sigh. “It cost me. And it wasn’t just one operation. It was a whole series of ’em, out West. No hack like Doc Moran.”
“He’s dead, you know.”
“Lot of that going around.”
This time I was the one who laughed h
umorlessly. “Threatening me, John? Or referring to your own greatly exaggerated demise?”
He sneered. “What do you think?”
“I think you went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get officially dead. You should’ve dropped off the face of the earth by now. Why get back in the game again, so soon, or at all—when you went through so much trouble getting out?”
The sneer got nastier. “Guess.”
“I’ll take a wild one—money. Death is free, but only if you really die, right? Take Piquett—he wouldn’t come cheap, not for a scam this size. He’s risking disbarment, after all.”
Another laugh. “He risks that every day. But, no, he didn’t come cheap.”
“Or Zarkovich and O’Neill, either.”
“No.”
“Or Anna Sage.”
“Or Anna Sage,” he admitted.
The muffled sound of hillbilly music could be heard from the tourist camp, behind us; Ma had finally found her station.
“Does Polly Hamilton know?”
“That I’m alive? No. You’re part of a select group, Heller.”
“No names, remember? It does explain why you came to my office personally, to put me in motion where Polly Hamilton was concerned. I came to think you were just some con man Piquett hired. You did it yourself, though, to keep the circle nice and tight. A secret like this isn’t easily kept. Fewer conspirators the better.”
He said nothing.
I swigged the Coke; finished it. Tossed the bottle into the trees. “Yeah, it must’ve cost you, really cost you—or you wouldn’t be risking your new face out in the open like this…not to mention this lunatic plot to kidnap Hoover. Jesus! You really believe the government’ll pay you people off?”
“Yeah,” he said, testily. “I think they’ll pay. And I don’t think they’ll even tell the public it ever happened.”
That hadn’t occurred to me.
I said, “You figure they’ll put on a press blackout till they get Hoover back.”
“I do. And after. They got a lot of press and prestige tied up in that fat little bastard. He’s riding my ‘death’ like a rodeo pony.”
Ma’s hillbilly music in the background lent some color to his remark.
I grunted a laugh. “Must frustrate you—here you are ‘dead,’ and the fuck-ups you fooled, you used, are using you to make themselves look like Saturday afternoon heroes.”
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