“Business, Johnny,” Lillian Holley said dryly. “Just business.”
“Oh, sure, the kind that makes me feel clean,” Dillinger said. “Six million unemployed out there, Miss Ryan. You ask them what kind of a thief John Dillinger is.”
Martha Ryan 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, “O.K., 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 that he put down by the wall.
“Okay, 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?”
“Anything you say, Mr. Dillinger,” Cahoon told him eagerly.
“Who’s out there?”
“The cleaning detail, all trusties. They won’t give you no trouble.”
“Any guards?”
“No.”
“What about down in the old jail?”
“I saw Deputy Sheriff Blunk down there a few moments ago.”
“Fine, we’ll get to him in a second.”
Dillinger moved out into the long corridor, which had cells opening off it. There were about twelve men out there, all trusted prisoners as Cahoon had said-the cleaning detail starting the day’s work, talking cheerfully among themselves.
Dillinger moved closer and paused. The man nearest to him saw him almost at once and stopped in the act of squeezing out his mop in the bucket, an expression of astonishment on his face. His stillness passed through the others like a wave. There was silence.
“Everyone inside.”
Dillinger motioned with the pistol to his own cell and stood back as they filed past him into the cell. There was no trouble, but then with men like these, he didn’t expect any.
He said to Youngblood. “You stay here. I’ll be back.” He nodded to Cahoon. “Let’s go.”
When Deputy Sheriff Ernest Blunk, on duty on the first floor, heard Cahoon call to him, he went up the stairs without hesitation to find Dillinger waiting for him, gun in hand.