sk.everythingseventual-第27部分

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　　'Shut　up；　Vol；'　Dock　says；　and　gives　him　a　hard　poke　in　the　shoulder。
　　'Anyway；　we're　gettin'　out　of　here；'　he　says；　rubbing　the　sore　place。　'You　ought　to　get　out；　too。　Take　your　luggage。　Don't　even　pull　in　on　your　way　back。　Things　can　change　in　a　hurry。'
　　'Okay；'　Johnnie　says。
　　'At　least　he　died　happy；'　Volney　says。　'Died　laughin'。'
　　I　didn't　say　nothing。　It　was　ing　home　to　me　that　Red　Hamil…ton…my　old　running　buddy…was　really　dead。　It　made　me　awful　sad。　I　turned　my　mind　to　how　the　bullet　had　just　grazed　Johnnie　（and　then　gone　on　to　kill　a　fly　instead）；　thinking　that　would　cheer　me　up。　But　it　didn't。　It　only　made　me　feel　worse。
　　Dock　shook　my　hand；　then　Johnnie's。　He　looked　pale　and　glum。　'I　don't　know　how　we　ended　up　like　this；　and　that's　the　truth；'　he　says。　'When　I　was　a　boy；　the　only　goddam　thing　I　wanted　was　to　be　a　railroad　engineer。'
　　'Well；　I'll　tell　you　something；'　Johnnie　says。　'We　don't　have　to　worry。　God　makes　it　all　e　right　in　the　end。'
　　
　　We　took　Jack　on　his　last　ride；　wrapped　up　in　a　bloodstained　sheet　and　pushed　into　the　back　of　that　stolen　Ford。　Johnnie　drove　us　to　the　far　side　of　the　pit；　all　bump　and　jounce　（when　it　es　to　rough　riding；　I'll　take　a　Terraplane　over　a　Ford　any　day）。　Then　he　killed　the　engine　and　touched　the　Band…Aid　riding　his　upper　lip。　He　says；　'I　used　up　the　last　of　my　luck　today；　Homer。　They'll　get　me　now。'
　　'Don't　talk　like　that；'　I　says。
　　'Why　not？　It's　true。'　The　sky　above　us　was　white　and　full　of　rain。　I　reckoned　we'd　have　a　muddy　splash　of　it　between　Aurora　and　Chicago　（Johnnie　had　decided　we　should　go　back　there　because　the　Feds　would　be　expecting　us　in　St。　Paul）。　Somewhere　crows　was　calling。　The　only　other　sound　was　the　ticktock　of　the　cooling　engine。　I　kept　looking　into　the　mirror　at　the　wrapped…up　body　in　the　backseat。　I　could　see　the　bumps　of　elbows　and　knees；　the　fine　red　spatters　where　he'd　bent　over；　coughing　and　laughing；　at　the　end。
　　'Look　at　this；　Homer；'　Johnnie　says；　and　points　to　the　。38；　which　was　tucked　back　in　his　belt。　Then　he　twiddled　Mr。　Francis's　key　ring　with　the　tips　of　his　fingers；　where　the　prints　were　growing　back　in　spite　of　all　his　trouble。　There　were　four　or　five　keys　on　the　ring　besides　the　one　to　the　Ford。　And　that　lucky　rabbit's　foot。　'Butt　of　the　gun　hit　this　when　it　e　down；'　he　says。　He　nodded　his　head。　'Hit　my　very　own　lucky　piece。　And　now　my　luck's　gone。　Help　me　with　him。'　We　lugged　Jack　to　the　gravel　slope。　Then　Johnnie　got　the　bottle　of　lye。　It　had　a　big　brown　skull　and　crossbones　on　the　label。
　　Johnnie　knelt　down　and　pulled　the　sheet　back。　'Get　his　rings；'　he　says；　and　I　pulled　them　off。　Johnnie　put　them　in　his　pocket。　We　ended　up　getting　forty…five　dollars　for　them　in　Calumet　City；　although　Johnnie　swore　up　and　down　that　the　little　one　had　a　real　diamond　in　it。
　　'Now　hold　out　his　hands。'
　　I　did；　and　Johnnie　poured　a　cap　of　lye　over　the　tip　of　each　finger。　That　was　one　set　of　prints　wasn't　ever　going　to　e　back。　Then　he　leaned　over　Jack's　face　and　kissed　him　on　the　forehead。　'I　hate　to　do　this；　Red；　but　I　know　you'd　do　the　same　to　me　if　it'd　gone　the　other　way。'
　　He　then　poured　the　lye　over　Jack's　cheeks　and　mouth　and　brow。　It　hissed　and　bubbled　and　turned　white。　When　it　started　to　eat　through　his　closed　eyelids；　I　turned　away。　And　of　course　none　of　it　done　no　good；　the　body　was　found　by　a　farmer　after　a　load　of　gravel。　A　pack　of　dogs　had　knocked　away　most　of　the　stones　we　covered　him　with　and　were　eating　what　was　left　of　his　hands　and　face。　As　for　the　rest　of　him；　there　were　enough　scars　for　the　cops　to　I。D。　him　as　Jack　Hamilton。
　　It　was　the　end　of　Johnnie's　luck；　all　right。　Every　move　he　made　after　that…right　up　to　the　night　Purvis　and　his　badge…carrying　gunsels　got　him　at　the　Biograph…was　a　bad　one。　Could　he　have　just　thrown　up　his　hands　that　night　and　surrendered？　I'd　have　to　say　no。　Purvis　meant　to　have　him　dead　one　way　or　the　other。　That's　why　the　Gees　never　told　the　Chicago　cops　Johnnie　was　in　town。
　　
　　I'll　never　forget　the　way　Jack　laughed　when　I　brought　them　flies　in　on　their　strings。　He　was　a　good　fellow。　They　all　were；　mostly…good　fellows　who　got　into　the　wrong　line　of　work。　And　Johnnie　was　the　best　of　the　bunch。　No　man　ever　had　a　truer　friend。　We　robbed　one　more　bank　together；　the　Merchants　National　in　South　Bend；　Indiana。　Lester　Nelson　joined　us　on　that　caper。　Getting　out　of　town；　it　seemed　like　every　hick　in　Indiana　was　throwing　lead　at　us；　and　we　still　got　away。　But　for　what？　We'd　been　expecting　more　than　a　hundred　grand；　enough　to　move　to　Mexico　and　live　like　kings。　We　ended　up　with　a　lousy　twenty　thousand；　most　of　it　in　dimes　and　dirty　dollar　bills。
　　God　makes　it　all　e　right　in　the　end；　that's　what　Johnnie　told　Dock　Barker　just　before　we　parted　pany。　I　was　raised　a　Christian…I　admit　I　fell　away　a　bit　along　my　journey…and　I　believe　that：　we're　stuck　with　what　we　have；　but　that's　all　right；　in　God's　eyes；　none　of　us　are　really　much　more　than　flies　on　strings　and　all　that　matters　is　how　much　sunshine　you　can　spread　along　the　way。　The　last　time　I　seen　Johnnie　Dillinger　was　in　Chicago；　and　he　was　laughing　at　something　I　said。　That's　good　enough　for　me。
　　
　　
　　As　a　kid；　I　was　fascinated　by　tales　of　the　Depression…era　outlaws；　an　interest　that　probably　peaked　with　Arthur　Penn's　remarkable　Bonnie　and　Clyde。　In　the　spring　of　2000；　I　re…read　John　Toland's　history　of　that　era；　The　Dillinger　Days；　and　was　particularly　taken　by　his　story　about　how　Dillinger's　sidekick；　Homer　Van　Meter；　taught　himself　how　to　rope　flies　in　Pendleton　Reformatory。　Jack　'Red'　Hamilton's　lingering　death　is　a　documented　fact；　my　story　of　what　happened　in　Dock　Barker's　hideout　is；　of　course；　pure　imagination　。　。　。　or　myth；　if　you　like　that　word　better；　I　do。
　　
　　
　　　
　　　IN　THE　DEATHROOM
　　
　　
　　It　was　a　deathroom。　Fletcher　knew　it　for　what　it　was　as　soon　as　the　door　opened。　The　floor　was　gray　industrial　tile。　The　walls　were　discolored　white　stone；　marked　here　and　there　with　darker　patches　that　might　have　been　blood…certainly　blood　had　been　spilled　in　this　room。　The　overhead　lights　were　cupped　in　wire　cages。　Halfway　across　the　room　stood　a　long　wooden　table　with　three　people　seated　behind　it。　Before　the　table　was　an　empty　chair；　waiting　for　Fletcher。　Beside　the　chair　stood　a　small　wheeled　trolley。　The　object　on　it　had　been　draped　with　a　piece　of　cloth；　as　a　sculptor　might　cover　his　work…in…progress　between　sessions。
　　Fletcher　was　half…led；　half…dragged　toward　the　chair　which　had　been　placed　for　him。　He　reeled　in　the　guard's　grip　and　let　himself　reel。　If　he　looked　more　dazed　than　he　really　was；　more　shocked　and　unthinking；　that　was　fine。　He　thought　his　chances　of　ever　leaving　this　basement　room　in　the　Ministry　of　Information　were　perhaps　one　or　two　in　thirty；　and　perhaps　that　was　optimistic。　Whatever　they　were；　he　had　no　intention　of　thinning　them　further　by　looking　even　halfway　alert。　His　swelled　eye；　puffy　nose；　and　broken　lower　lip　might　help　in　this　regard；　so　might　the　crust　of　blood；　like　a　dark　red　goatee；　around　his　mouth。　One　thing　Fletcher　knew　for　sure：　if　he　did　leave；　the　others…the　guard　and　the　three　sitting　in　tribunal　behind　the　table…would　be　dead。　He　was　a　newspaper　reporter　and　had　never　killed　anything　much　larger　than　a　hornet；　but　if　he　had　to　kill　to　escape　this　room；　he　would。　He　thought　of　his　sister；　on　her　retreat。　He　thought　of　his　sister　swimming　in　a　river　with　a　Spanish　name。　He　thought　of　the　light　on　the　water　at　noon；　moving　river　light　too　bright　to　look　at。　They　reached　the　chair　in　front　of　the　table。　The　guard　pushed　him　into　it　so　hard　that　Fletcher　almost　tipped　himself　over。
　　'Careful　now；　that's　not　the　way；　no　accidents；'　said　one　of　the　men　behind　the　table。　It　was　Escobar。　He　spoke　to　the　guard　in　Spanish。　To　Escobar's　left　sat　the　other　man。　To　Escobar's　right　sat　a　woman　of　about　sixty。　The　woman　and　the　other　man　were　thin。　Escobar　was　fat　and　as　greasy　as　a　cheap　candle。　He　looked　like　a　movie　Mexican。　You　expected　him　to　say；　'Batches？　Batches？　We　don't　need　no　steenkin　batches。'　Yet　this　was　the　Chief　Minister　of　Information。　Sometimes　he　gave　the　English…language　portion　of　the　weather　on　the　city　television　sta