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 thesespink! 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 thosespink! noises. Jack says, Oh! Bastard! I'm hit! That bullet had to have come 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 coming 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 come, 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
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 thesespink! 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 thosespink! noises. Jack says, Oh! Bastard! I'm hit! That bullet had to have come 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 coming 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 come, 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