Kathryn stood shoulder to shoulder with Louise, each of them in a black satin robe, sash untied, showing off their slips-Kathryn’s black and Louise’s white-and then the long, tight stretch of black stockings. Kathryn jutted out her hip bone and sank a hand right onto that handle.

Louise grinned at her in the reflection.

“What are you two gonna do?” she asked.

Kathryn dabbed on a little more lipstick and then leaned into the mirror and fingered down the makeup across her left eye. “Whatta you mean?”

“Just hop from hotel to hotel?” Louise asked. “Dance till the money runs out?”

“George doesn’t dance.”

“Come off it, sister.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Looks like Georgie boy needs some action.”

“Just like a kid,” she said. “C’mon, let’s get on with it.”

Kathryn went into the room first, George still studying True Detective-the back pages, mind you-as she whisked shut the long draperies to block out the hard afternoon light and crawled up onto his right flank, grasping the magazine and throwing it with a flutter to the floor. Lousie wasn’t far behind, hopping onto the bed with a giggle and crawling up close on George’s other side.

George’s mouth opened, and the wet cigar fell to his chest. “Dang it.”

Louise lay on her back, the robe opening up wide, and crooked her right leg so she could dangle the other off her knee, kicking the high heel back and forth. “Nice digs,” she said, looking up at the gilded fixture over the bed. “Real nice.”

“Whatta you think?” Kathryn asked, nuzzling close.

“It’s a little dark,” George said.

“You said you’re getting bored.”

“I am bored,” George said.

Kathryn leaned into him and kissed him full on the mouth. He didn’t resist, not like George Kelly ever resisted.

“Why don’t you tell your gal pal to take a walk?”

Kathryn gripped his throat with her strong, long fingers and pressed him down to his back, straddling his chest. Louise saddled up to her, walking on her knees, and looked down at George, shaking her head with disappointment.

“What are we gonna do with him?” Louise asked.

“Make him talk,” Kathryn said. “See if he’s a rat.”

“You two broads are crazy,” George said. “Damn, it’s dark.”

“Shut up, George,” Kathryn said, slapping him across the mug. “Do we need to draw you a diagram?”

FEDERAL AGENTS REPLACED THE WINDOWS AND FILLED THE bullet holes in the old Shannon place the best they could. And for three days they sat on the farmhouse, waiting for George and Kathryn Kelly to drive on back to the homestead and greet the old folks with their newfound loot. But going into late afternoon that Wednesday, Jones knew it wasn’t going to happen. Kelly was too smart for that-now thinking of him as just Kelly, trying to figure out the man’s mind-set and cunning. A sharp criminal who’d worked with Verne Miller and Bailey.

Jones walked back around the house and followed a rutted path to that big garage Kelly had constructed, his own personal rabbit hole. Inside they’d found all manner of weaponry and bullets, car parts, motor oil, and tins of gasoline. Buried deep in back, agents had also found boxes and boxes of Mrs. Kelly’s private things. Fox, mink, rabbit, and monkey coats. Perhaps fifty gowns, and an entire box bulging with the lady’s unmentionables-garters, slips, brassieres, and the like-smelling of the sweet lavender of the sachet packed within.

Jones knew that it was a solid plan to study on those you were hunting. From the garage constructed earlier that spring-learning details of the construction from old Boss-he knew that Kelly was an organized man, a man of detail and planning. He’d taken special care of this little rabbit hole, a place to patch up and reload if the heat had come down. But now the son of a bitch was out and on the open road to God knows where.

If the Shannons knew, they sure weren’t telling. For two days Jones had sat with them in the county jail, asking questions till they’d fall out of their chairs from lack of sleep, praying to the Lord God for a sip of water. He hadn’t talked to that kid Armon, aka Potatoes, for five minutes before the kid pissed his overalls.

Doc White walked through the mouth of the old garage, which was growing hot and stale with the heat and buckets of dirty oil.

“I didn’t know any woman could own so many pairs of drawers,” White said. “She could pick out a fresh pair for the rest of her life without ever taking to scrubbing.”

He held in his hands a telegram he passed on to Jones. He read it.

“Hotel Cleveland?”

“They checked in under the name of the Shannons,” White said.

“This was five days back.”

“Still a trail, Buster.”

Jones closed up the box he’d been searching through and walked out into the fading daylight with White. “Let’s head back to Dallas. I’d like a little time with Bailey for Hoover’s goddamn paperwork, but we won’t get a word. Bailey’s a hard ole nut.”

“That son of a bitch got caught at Kelly’s hideout while taking shots at us,” White said. “I figure a little cooperation is in order.”

“Hell, I know Bailey. I’ve known the bastard for about as long as I’ve known you. He’ll say he stopped at the farm to buy some ears of corn.”

“I say we go to Cleveland.”

“They’re not in Cleveland,” Jones said.

“We can’t keep the news of the raid blacked out forever. The story’s gonna break.”

“Once the Kellys get word, they’ll go underground,” Jones said. “It could take months to flush ’em.”

Doc looked back at the barn and shook his head, “And all we got is a fistful of panties.”

“You reckon she’ll come back for ’em?”

“The drawers?”

“The Shannons.”

“Everybody loves their momma,” White said.

Jones mopped his face and eyes in the fading sunlight and nodded. “Keep the boys stationed here, let’s see what turns up. C’mon, let’s go talk to Harv.”

HARVEY BAILEY KNEW FROM THE START THAT HE WAS GONNA get along just fine with the head jailer, Deputy Tom Manion. A tall, gangly sort, with a contented fat belly and a pleasant weathered laugh. A gentleman, a genuine Spanish War hero, and, the way Harvey saw it, a fella with a price tag hanging from his nose. On Harvey’s third night in the Dallas County Jail, Manion had grown comfortable enough with him to share a cup of coffee and a couple of cheap cigars, talking on the rotten state of things in the world, and how Manion figured he could do a lot better than the current sheriff, who didn’t know one end of a gun from another, an elected politico with no heart.

Harvey Bailey leaned into the bunk and studied the end of his cigar. “That’s the way of the world. The men who do the real work are never in charge.”

“You said it, Mr. Bailey.”

“Mr. Manion?”

“You can call me Tom.”

“Tom, what have you heard about my affairs?”

“Well, I think that federal man from San Antonio is planning on shipping you to Oklahoma City. He said there’s gonna be a big trial for you and the Shannons. He sure is an arrogant little cuss.”

Harvey nodded, climbing off the bunk and walking to the narrow little barred window that looked out onto a back alley.

“I want you to know I didn’t have a thing to do with that kidnapping,” Harvey said, still dressed in a suit but without his tie or shoes. “They just made me the goat.”

“I believe you, Mr. Bailey,” Manion said. “I know of your reputation.”

“I make an honest living.”

Manion laughed. “Sure thing, Mr. Bailey. What’s it like robbing banks?”

Harvey shrugged. “Not much different from any other job, I guess. You put a lot of work into the planning and detail. A good yegg knows the risks and the payoff.”

“You get nervous?”

“Never have,” Harvey said, walking toward the bunk. “Just don’t have it in my nature.”