Then she had written to Perry to tell him precisely that. One fine day
he’d pay her back, have a little fun — talk to her, advertise his abilities, spell out in detail the things
he was capable of doing to people like her, respectable people, safe and smug people, exactly
like Bobo. Yes, let her know just how dangerous he could be, and watch her eyes. Surely that
was worth a trip to Denver? Which was what he’d do — go to Denver and visit the Johnsons. Fred
Johnson would stake him to a new start in life; he’d have to, if he wanted ever to be rid of him.
Then Dick came up to him at the curb. «Hey, Perry,» he said. «You sick?»
The sound of Dick’s voice was like an injection of some potent narcotic, a drug that, invading his
veins, produced a delirium of colliding sensations: tension and relief, fury and affection. He
advanced toward Dick with clenched fists. «You sonofabitch,» he said.
Dick grinned, and said, «Come on. We’re eating again.»
But explanations were in order — apologies, too — and over a bowl of chili at the Kansas City hash
house that Dick liked best, the Eagle Buffet, Dick supplied them. «I’m sorry, honey. I knew you’d
get the bends. Think I’d tangled with a bull. But I was having such a run of luck it seemed like I
ought to let it ride.» He explained that after leaving Perry he had gone to the Markl Buick
Company, the firm that had once employed him, hoping to find a set of license plates to substitute
for the hazardous Iowa plates on the abducted Chevrolet. «Nobody saw me come or go. Markl
used to do a considerable wrecked-car trade. Sure enough, out back there was a smashed-up De
Soto with Kansas tags.» And where were they now? «On our buggy, pal.» Having made the
switch, Dick had dropped the Iowa plates in a Municipal reservoir. Then he’d stopped at a filling
station where a friend worked, a former high-school classmate named Steve, and persuaded
Steve to cash a check for fifty dollars, which was something he’d not done before — «rob a buddy.»
Well, he’d never see Steve again. He was «cutting out» of Kansas City tonight, this is really
forever. So why not fleece a few old friends? With that in mind, he’d called on another exclassmate, a drugstore clerk. The take was thereby increased to seventy-five dollars. Now, this
afternoon, we’ll roll that up to a couple hundred. I’ve made a list of places to hit. Six or seven,
starting right here,» he said, meaning the Eagle Buffet, where everybody — the bartender and
waiters — knew and liked him, and called him Pickles (in honor of his favorite food). «Then Florida,
here we come. How’ about it, honey? Didn’t I promise you we’d spend Christmas in Miami? Just
like all the millionaires?»
Dewey and his colleague K.B.I. Agent Clarence Duntz stood waiting for a free table in the Trail
Room. Looking around at the customary exhibit of lunch-hour faces — soft-fleshed businessmen
and ranchers with sun-branded, coarse complexions — Dewey acknowledged particular acquaintances: the county coroner, Dr. Fenton; the manager of the Warren, Tom Mahar; Harrison
Smith, who had run for county attorney last year and lost the election to Duane West; and also
Herbert W. Clutter, the owner of River Valley Farm and a member of Dewey’s Sunday School
class. Wait a minute! Wasn’t Herb Clutter dead? And hadn’t Dewey attended his funeral? Yet
there he was, sitting in the Trail Room’s circular corner booth, his lively brown eyes, his squarejawed, genial good looks unchanged by death. But Herb was not alone. Sharing the table were
two young men, and Dewey, recognizing them, nudged Agent Duntz.
«Look.»
«Where?»
«The corner.»
«I’ll be damned.»
Hickock and Smith! But the moment of recognition was mutual. Those boys smelled danger. Feet
first, they crashed through the Trail Room’s plate-glass window, and with Duntz and Dewey
leaping after them, sped along Main Street, past Palmer Jewelry, Norris Drugs, the Garden Cafe,
then around the corner and down to the depot and in and out, hide-and-seek, among a
congregation of white grain-storage towers. Dewey drew a pistol, and so did Duntz, but as they
took aim, the supernatural intervened. Abruptly, mysteriously (it was like a dream!), everyone was
swimming — the pursued, the pursuers — stroking the awesome width of water that the Garden City
Chamber of Commerce claims is the «World’s Largest FREE Swim-pool.» As the detectives drew
abreast of their quarry, why, once more (How did it happen? Could he be dreaming?) the scene
faded out, and faded in upon another landscape: Valley View Cemetery, that gray-and-green
island of tombs and trees and flowered paths a restful, leafy, whispering oasis lying like a cool
piece of cloud shade on the luminous wheat plains north of town. But now Duntz had
disappeared, and Dewey was alone with the hunted men. Though he could not see them, he was
certain they were hiding among the dead, crouching there behind a headstone, perhaps the
headstone of his own father: «Alvin Adams Dewey, September 6, 1879 — January 26, 1948.» Gun
drawn, he crept along the solemn lanes until, hearing laughter and tracing its sound, he saw that
Hickock and Smith were not hiding at all but standing astride the as yet unmarked mass grave of
Herb and Bonnie and Nancy and Ken — standing legs apart, hands on hips, heads flung back,
laughing. Dewey fired . . . and again . . . and again . . . Neither man fell, though each had been
shot through the heart three times; they simply rather slowly turned transparent, by degrees grew
invisible, evaporated, though the loud laughter expanded until Dewey bowed before it, ran from it,
filled with a despair so mournfully intense that it awakened him.
When he awoke, it was as though he were a feverish, frightened ten-year-old; his hair was wet,
his shirt cold-damp and clinging. The room — a room in the sheriff’s office, into which he’d locked
himself before falling asleep at a desk — was dull with near-darkness. Listening, he could hear
Mrs. Richardson’s telephone ringing in the adjacent office. But she was not there to answer it; the
office was closed. On his way out he walked past the ringing phone with determined indifference,
and then hesitated. It might be Marie, calling to ask if he was still working and should she wait
dinner.
«Mr. A. A. Dewey, please. Kansas City calling.»
«This is Mr. Dewey.»
«Go ahead, Kansas City. Your party is on the line.»
«Al? Brother Nye.»
«Yes, Brother.»
«Get ready for some very big news.»
«I’m ready.»
«Our friends are here. Right here in Kansas City.»
«How do you know?»
«Well, they aren’t exactly keeping it a secret. Hickock’s written checks from one side of town to
the other. Using his own name.»
«His own name. That must mean he doesn’t plan to hang around long — either that or he’s feeling
awful damn sure of himself. So Smith’s still with him?»
«Oh, they’re together O.K. But driving a different car. A 1956 Chevy black-and-white two-door
job.»
«Kansas tags?» »Kansas tags. And listen, Al — are we lucky! They bought a television set, see? Hickock gave the
salesman a check. Just as they were driving off, the guy had the sense to write down the license
number. Jot it on the back of the check. Johnson County License16212.»
«Checked the registration?»
«Guess what?»
«It’s a stolen car.»
«Undoubtedly. But the tags were definitely lifted. Our friends took them off a wrecked De Soto in a
K.C. garage.»
«Know when?»
«Yesterday morning. The boss [Logan Sanford] sent out an alert with the new license number and
a description of the car.»
«How about the Hickock farm? If they’re still in the area, it seems to me sooner or later they’ll go
there.»
«Don’t worry. We’re watching it. Al — «
«I’m here.»
«That’s what I want for Christmas. All I want. To wrap this up. Wrap it up and sleep till New Year’s.
Wouldn’t that be one hell of a present?»
«Well, I hope you get it.»
«Well, I hope we both do.»
Afterward, as he crossed the darkening courthouse square, pensively scuffing through dry
mounds of un-raked leaves, Dewey wondered at his lack of elation. Why, when he now knew that
the suspects were not forever lost in Alaska or Mexico or Timbuctoo, when the next second an
arrest might be made — why was it he felt none of the excitement he ought to feel? The dream
was at fault, for the treadmill mood of it had lingered, making him question Nye’s assertions — in a
sense, disbelieve them. He did not believe that Hickock and Smith would be caught in Kansas
City. They were invulnerable.
In Miami Beach, 335 Ocean Drive is the address of the Somerset Hotel, a small, square building
painted more or less white, with many lavender touches, among them a lavender sign that reads,
«VACANCY — LOWEST RATES — BEACH FACILITIES — ALWAYS A SEABREEZE.» It is one of a
row of little stucco-and-cement hotels lining a white, melancholy street. In December, 1959, the
Somerset’s «beach facilities» consisted of two beach umbrellas stuck in a strip of sand at the rear
of-the hotel. One umbrella, pink, had written upon it, «We Serve Valentine Ice-Cream.» At noon on
Christmas Day, a quartet of women lay under and around it, a transistor radio serenading them.
The second umbrella, blue and bearing the command «Tan with Coppertone,» sheltered Dick and
Perry, who for five days had been living at the Somerset, in a double room renting for eighteen
dollars weekly.
Perry said, «You never wished me a Merry Christmas.»
«Merry Christmas, honey. And a Happy New Year.» Dick wore bathing trunks, but Perry, as in
Acapulco, refused to expose his injured legs — he feared the sight might «offend» other beachgoers — and therefore sat fully clothed, wearing even socks and shoes. Still, he was comparatively
content, and when Dick stood up and started performing exercises — handstands, meant to
impress the ladies beneath the pink umbrella — he occupied himself with the Miami Herald.
Presently he came across an