sk.everythingseventual-第18节

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　　We　got　away　from　Purvis　and　the　Gees　after　the　shootout　at　Little　Bohemia；　Wisconsin…all　of　us！　The　biggest　mystery　of　the　year　was　how　that　goddam　pansy　ever　kept　his　job。　Johnnie　once　said；　'J。　Edgar　probably　can't　get　that　good　a　blow　job　from　a　dame。'　How　we　laughed！　Sure；　Purvis　got　Johnnie　in　the　end；　but　only　after　setting　an　ambush　outside　the　Biograph　and　shooting　him　in　the　back　while　he　was　running　down　an　alley。　He　fell　down　in　the　muck　and　the　cat　shit　and　said；　'How's　this；　then？'　and　died。
　　Still　folks　won't　believe　it。　Johnnie　was　handsome；　they　say；　looked　almost　like　a　movie　star。　The　fella　the　Gees　shot　outside　the　Biograph　had　a　fat　face；　all　swollen　up　and　bloated　like　a　cooked　sausage。　Johnnie　was　barely　thirty…one；　they　say；　and　the　mug　the　cops　shot　that　night　looked　forty；　easy！　Also　（and　here　they　drop　their　voices　to　a　whisper）；　everyone　knows　John　Dillinger　had　a　pecker　the　size　of　a　Louisville　Slugger。　That　fella　Purvis　ambushed　outside　the　Biograph　didn't　have　nothing　but　the　standard　six　inches。　And　then　there's　the　matter　of　that　scar　on　his　upper　lip。　You　can　see　it　clear　as　day　in　the　morgue　photographs　（like　the　one　where　some　yo…yo　is　holding　up　my　old　pal's　head　and　looking　all　solemn；　as　if　to　tell　the　world　once　and　for　all　that　Crime　Does　Not　Pay）。　The　scar　cuts　the　side　of　Johnnie's　mustache　in　two。　Everyone　knows　John　Dillinger　never　had　a　scar　like　that；　people　say；　just　look　at　any　of　the　other　pictures。　God　knows　there's　enough　of　them。
　　There's　even　a　book　that　says　Johnnie　didn't　die…that　he　lived　on　long　after　the　rest　of　his　running　buddies；　and　finished　up　in　Mexico；　living　in　a　haci　and　pleasing　any　number　of　se？oras　and　se？oritas　with　his　oversized　tool。　The　book　claims　that　my　old　pal　died　on　Novem…ber　20；　1963…two　days　before　Kennedy…at　the　ripe　old　age　of　sixty；　and　it　wasn't　no　federal　bullet　that　took　him　off　but　a　plain　old　heart　attack；　that　John　Dillinger　died　in　bed。
　　It's　a　nice　story；　but　it　ain't　true。
　　Johnnie's　face　looks　big　in　those　last　photos　because　he'd　really　packed　on　the　pounds。　He　was　the　type　who　eats　when　he's　nervous；　and　after　Jack　Hamilton　died；　in　Aurora；　Illinois；　Johnnie　felt　he　was　next。　Said　as　much；　in　that　gravel　pit　where　we　took　poor　old　Jack。
　　As　for　his　tool…well；　I'd　known　Johnnie　ever　since　we　met　at　Pendleton　Reformatory　in　Indiana。　I　saw　him　dressed　and　undressed；　and　Homer　Van　Meter　is　here　to　tell　you　that　he　had　a　good　one；　but　not　an　especially　great　one。　（I'll　tell　you　who　had　a　great　one；　if　you　want　to　know：　Dock　Barker…the　mama's　boy！　Ha！）
　　Which　brings　me　to　the　scar　on　Johnnie's　upper　lip；　the　one　you　can　see　cutting　through　his　mustache　in　those　pictures　where　he's　lying　on　the　cooling　board。　The　reason　the　scar　doesn't　show　in　any　of　Johnnie's　other　pictures　is　that　he　got　it　near　the　end。　It　happened　in　Aurora；　while　Jack　（Red）　Hamilton；　our　old　pal；　was　on　his　deathbed。　That's　what　I　want　to　tell　you　about：　how　Johnnie　Dillinger　got　the　scar　on　his　upper　lip。
　　
　　Me　and　Johnnie　and　Red　Hamilton　got　away　from　the　Little　Bohemia　shootout　through　the　kitchen　windows　in　back；　making　our　way　down　the　side　of　the　lake　while　Purvis　and　his　idiots　were　still　pouring　lead　into　the　front　of　the　lodge。　Boy；　I　hope　the　kraut　who　owned　the　place　had　insurance！　The　first　car　we　found　belonged　to　an　elderly　neighbor　couple；　and　it　wouldn't　start。　We　had　better　luck　with　the　second…a　Ford　coupe　that　belonged　to　a　carpenter　just　up　the　road。　Johnnie　put　him　in　the　driver's　seat；　and　he　chauffeured　us　a　good　way　back　toward　St。　Paul。　Then　he　was　invited　to　step　out…which　he　did　quite　willingly…and　I　took　over。
　　We　crossed　the　Mississippi　about　twenty　miles　downriver　from　St。　Paul；　and　although　the　local　cops　were　all　on　the　lookout　for　what　they　called　the　Dillinger　Gang；　I　think　we　would　have　been　all　right　if　Jack　Hamilton　hadn't　lost　his　hat　while　we　were　making　our　escape。　He　was　sweating　like　a　pig…he　always　did　when　he　was　nervous…and　when　he　found　a　rag　on　the　backseat　of　the　carpenter's　car　he　whipped　it　into　a　kind　of　rope　and　tied　it　around　his　head；　Injun　style。　That　was　what　caught　the　eye　of　those　cops　parked　on　the　Wisconsin　side　of　the　Spiral　Bridge　as　we　went　past　them；　and　they　came　after　us　for　a　closer　look。
　　That　might　have　been　the　end　of　us　right　there；　but　Johnnie　always　had　the　Devil's　own　luck…until　the　Biograph；　anyway。　He　put　a　cattle　truck　right　between　us　and　them；　and　the　cops　couldn't　get　past。
　　'Step　on　it；　Homer！'　Johnnie　shouts　at　me。　He　was　in　the　back…seat；　and　in　rare　good　humor　from　the　sound　of　him。　'Make　it　walk！'
　　I　did；　too；　and　we　left　the　cattle　truck　in　the　dust；　with　those　cops　stuck　behind　it。　So　long；　Mother；　I'll　write　when　I　get　work。　Ha！
　　Once　it　seemed　we　had　them　buried　for　good；　Jack　says；　'Slow　down；　you　damned　fool…no　sense　getting　picked　up　for　speeding。'
　　So　I　slowed　down　to　thirty…five　and　for　a　quarter　of　an　hour　everything　was　fine。　We　were　talking　about　Little　Bohemia；　and　whether　or　not　Lester　（the　one　they　were　always　calling　Baby　Face）　might　have　gotten　away；　when　all　at　once　there's　the　crackle　of　rifles　and　pistols；　and　the　sound　of　bullets　whining　off　the　pavement。　It　was　those　hick　cops　from　the　bridge。　They'd　caught　up；　creeping　easy　the　last　ninety　or　a　hundred　yards；　and　were　close　enough　now　to　be　shooting　for　the　tires…they　probably　weren't　entirely　sure；　even　then；　that　it　was　Dillinger。
　　They　weren't　in　doubt　for　long。　Johnnie　broke　out　the　back　window　of　the　Ford　with　the　butt　of　his　pistol　and　started　shooting　back。　I　mashed　the　gas　pedal　again　and　got　that　Ford　all　the　way　up　to　fifty；　which　was　a　tearing　rush　in　those　days。　There　wasn't　much　traffic；　but　what　there　was　I　passed　any　way　I　could…on　the　left；　on　the　right；　in　the　ditch。　Twice　I　felt　the　driver's…side　wheels　go　up；　but　we　never　tipped。　Nothing　like　a　Ford　when　it　came　to　a　getaway。　Once　Johnnie　wrote　to　Henry　Ford　himself。　'When　I'm　in　a　Ford；　I　can　make　any　car　take　my　dust；'　he　told　Mr。　Ford；　and　we　surely　dusted　them　that　day。
　　We　paid　a　price；　though。　There　were　these　spink！　spink！　spink！　noises；　and　a　crack　ran　up　the　windshield　and　a　slug…I'm　pretty　sure　it　was　a　。45…fell　dead　on　the　dashboard。　It　looked　like　a　big　black　elm　beetle。
　　Jack　Hamilton　was　in　the　passenger　seat。　He　got　his　tommy　gun　off　the　floor　and　was　checking　the　drum；　ready　to　lean　out　the　window；　I　imagine；　when　there　came　another　of　those　spink！　noises。　Jack　says；　'Oh！　Bastard！　I'm　hit！'　That　bullet　had　to　have　e　in　the　busted　back　window　and　how　it　missed　Johnnie　to　hit　Jack　I　don't　know。
　　'Are　you　all　right？'　I　shouted。　I　was　hung　over　the　wheel　like　a　monkey　and　driving　like　one；　too；　very　likely。　I　passed　a　Coulee　Dairy　truck　on　the　right；　honking　all　the　time；　yelling　for　that　white…coat…farmer…son…of…a…bitch　to　get　out　of　my　road。　'Jack；　are　you　all　right？'
　　'I'm　okay；　I'm　fine！'　he　says；　and　shoves　himself　and　his　sub　gun　out　the　window；　almost　to　his　waist。　Only；　at　first　the　milk　truck　was　in　the　way。　I　could　see　the　driver　in　the　mirror；　gawking　at　us　from　under　his　little　hat。　And　when　I　looked　over　at　Jack　as　he　leaned　out　I　could　see　a　hole；　just　as　neat　and　round　as　something　you'd　draw　with　a　pencil；　in　the　middle　of　his　overcoat。　There　was　no　blood；　just　that　little　black　hole。
　　'Never　mind　Jack；　just　run　the　son　of　a　bitch！'　Johnnie　shouted　at　me。
　　I　ran　it。　We　gained　maybe　half　a　mile　on　the　milk　truck；　and　the　cops　stuck　behind　it　the　whole　while　because　there　was　a　guardrail　on　one　side　and　a　line　of　slowpoke　traffic　ing　the　other　way。　We　turned　hard；　around　a　sharp　curve；　and　for　a　moment　both　the　milk　truck　and　the　police　car　were　out　of　sight。　Suddenly；　on　the　right；　there　was　a　gravel　road　all　grown　in　with　weeds。
　　'In　there！'　Jack　gasps；　falling　back　into　the　passenger　seat；　but　I　was　already　turning　in。
　　It　was　an　old　driveway。　I　drove　about　seventy　yards；　over　a　little　rise　and　down　the　other　side；　ending　at　a　farmhouse　that　looked　long　empty。　I　killed　the　engine；　and　we　all　got　out　and　stood　behind　the　car。
　　'If　they　e；　we'll　give　em　a　show；'　Jack　says。　'I　ain't　going　to　no　electric　chair　like　Harry　Pierpont。'
　　But　no　one　came；　and　after　ten　minutes　or　so　we　got　back　in　the　car　and　drove　out　to　the　main　road；　all　slow　and　careful。　And　that's　when　I　saw　something　I　didn't　like　much。　'Jack；'　I　says；　'you're　bleeding　out　your　mouth。　Look　out　or　it'll　be　on　your　shirt。'
　　Jack　wiped　his　mouth　with　the　big　finger　of　his　right　hand；　looked　at　the　blood　on　it；　and　then　gave　me　a　smile　that　I　still　see　in　my　dreams：　big　and　broad　and　scared　to　death。　'I　just　bit　the　inside　of　my　cheek；'　says　he。　'I'm　all　right。'
　　'You　sure？'　Johnnie　asks。　'You　sound　kind　of　funny。'
　　'I　can't　catch　all　my　breath　just　yet；'　Jack　says。　He　wiped　his　big　finger　across　his　mouth　again　and　there　was　less　blood；　and　that　seemed　to　satisfy　him。　'Let's　get　the　fuck　out　of　here。'
　　'Turn　back　toward　the　Spiral　Bridge；　Homer；'　Johnnie　says；　and　I　did　like　he　told　me。　Not　all　the　stories　about　Johnnie　Dillinger　are　true；　but　he　could　always　find　his　way　home；　even　after　he　didn't　have　no　home　no　more；　and　I　always　trusted　him。