'Sure；' Johnnie says。 He had one of her Band…Aids stuck on his upper lip； over that place where his mustache never grew in later on。 He sounded listless and he wouldn't meet her eye。
'Make him do it； Homer；' she says； then jerked her thumb toward the bedroom； where Jack was laying wrapped up in the bloodstained sheet。 'If they find that one and identify him before you get clear； it'll make things just so much worse for you。 Us； too； maybe。'
'You took us in when nobody else would；' Johnnie says； 'and you won't live to regret it。'
She gave him a smile。 Women almost always fell for Johnnie。 I'd thought this one was an exception because she was so businesslike； but now I seen she wasn't。 She'd just kept it all business because she knew she wasn't much in the looks department。 Also； when a bunch of men with guns are cooped up like we were； a woman in her right mind doesn't want to make trouble among them。
'We'll be gone when you get back；' Volney says。 'Ma keeps talking about Florida； she got her eye on a place in Lake Weir…'
'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