her white kid T-straps, the stones making her walk a bit wobbly till she was on the porch and into the hot box. George was with hershe could feel his breathing on her neckand she pushed through past a ratty sofa that had been her mothers, a couple broken chairs, and an old organ stuffed in a corner. They didnt have running water or electricity, but Armon had gone ahead and brought an organ home, sheet music and all, so he could buck-dance to hymns or whatever that boy liked.
George cocked his head to a door in the shack and creaked it open, and there he wasbigger than shiteyes covered in cotton and tape, ears plugged and arms chained through a babys high chair. Kathryn looked at her big fat baby and smiled, not believing the lug had actually pulled it off. High-dollar oilman Charles Urschel bound and tied like a gift.
George put a finger to his lips and closed the creaky door, walking from the heat of the house and back onto the uneven, slatted porch. He lit a smoke and offered her one from his pack. He clicked open his silver lighter with a little snap of his fingers, and the ruby ring caught the last light of the day. He winked at her, smooth and cool as George R. Kelly could sometimes be.
How come youre dressed like that? he asked.
What do you mean?
You look like you came from a party.
I wasnt at a party, she said. Its just some frock.
One of the easiest jobs I ever pulled, George said. We get four more of these, Kit, and were on our way to South America.
Lets get the money first.
Two hundred grand is nothing to people like this, George said. Theyll pay.
Well see.
Theyll pay.
Armon stood by the Cadillac and ran his hands over the silver hood ornament, took out a rag from his overalls back pocket, and began to shine the winged lady. The wind blew grit into his greasy hair, and he didnt even seem to take notice, just smiling up at the two of them like he sure couldnt have been any prouder.
Can we trust him? George asked from the corner of his mouth.
Hed eat pig shit for you.
Good to know.
And your momma?
Shed eat pig shit for a nickel.
Well have money, Kit. More money than well know how to spend.
I doubt that, she said.
Kathryn turned to George, wrapping her long arms around his neck. She leaned into him, letting herself go in a short fall, and he caught her and planted a big one on her. He reached his big hands around her waist and twirled her around, right there not ten paces from a pigsty and a shack, and kissed her on her ear and cheek and whispered to her that hed really like to screw her on a big pile of money.
I cant think of anything Id like better, doll.
JONES SMOKED HIS PIPE FILLED WITH CHERRY TOBACCO, SITTING in the very wicker chair in which Charles Urschel had played bridge just two nights before. He thought it a pleasant summer night, wondering when the real contact would come and how it would come and how reasonable the bastards would be. The toughest thing about a kidnapping was sitting on your ass and waiting. Jones had never exhibited any talent for doing nothing.
How will we know? Mr. E. E. Kirkpatrick asked.
Itll be clear, Jones said. Well know.
Will it be a phone call?
Could be.
A telegram.
Could be written in tea leaves, Jones said. But youll know.
Kirkpatrick was a thin man with a gaunt face and honest brown eyes; Jones thought he recalled something of the man being a newspaperman before joining up as a front man for Tom Slick. His seersucker suit rumpled, tie loosely knotted at the throat from travel, he had that rawboned look of a drinker, although Jones had never personally seen the man drunk. A straightforward fella, although a bit too much of a talker to Joness
George cocked his head to a door in the shack and creaked it open, and there he wasbigger than shiteyes covered in cotton and tape, ears plugged and arms chained through a babys high chair. Kathryn looked at her big fat baby and smiled, not believing the lug had actually pulled it off. High-dollar oilman Charles Urschel bound and tied like a gift.
George put a finger to his lips and closed the creaky door, walking from the heat of the house and back onto the uneven, slatted porch. He lit a smoke and offered her one from his pack. He clicked open his silver lighter with a little snap of his fingers, and the ruby ring caught the last light of the day. He winked at her, smooth and cool as George R. Kelly could sometimes be.
How come youre dressed like that? he asked.
What do you mean?
You look like you came from a party.
I wasnt at a party, she said. Its just some frock.
One of the easiest jobs I ever pulled, George said. We get four more of these, Kit, and were on our way to South America.
Lets get the money first.
Two hundred grand is nothing to people like this, George said. Theyll pay.
Well see.
Theyll pay.
Armon stood by the Cadillac and ran his hands over the silver hood ornament, took out a rag from his overalls back pocket, and began to shine the winged lady. The wind blew grit into his greasy hair, and he didnt even seem to take notice, just smiling up at the two of them like he sure couldnt have been any prouder.
Can we trust him? George asked from the corner of his mouth.
Hed eat pig shit for you.
Good to know.
And your momma?
Shed eat pig shit for a nickel.
Well have money, Kit. More money than well know how to spend.
I doubt that, she said.
Kathryn turned to George, wrapping her long arms around his neck. She leaned into him, letting herself go in a short fall, and he caught her and planted a big one on her. He reached his big hands around her waist and twirled her around, right there not ten paces from a pigsty and a shack, and kissed her on her ear and cheek and whispered to her that hed really like to screw her on a big pile of money.
I cant think of anything Id like better, doll.
JONES SMOKED HIS PIPE FILLED WITH CHERRY TOBACCO, SITTING in the very wicker chair in which Charles Urschel had played bridge just two nights before. He thought it a pleasant summer night, wondering when the real contact would come and how it would come and how reasonable the bastards would be. The toughest thing about a kidnapping was sitting on your ass and waiting. Jones had never exhibited any talent for doing nothing.
How will we know? Mr. E. E. Kirkpatrick asked.
Itll be clear, Jones said. Well know.
Will it be a phone call?
Could be.
A telegram.
Could be written in tea leaves, Jones said. But youll know.
Kirkpatrick was a thin man with a gaunt face and honest brown eyes; Jones thought he recalled something of the man being a newspaperman before joining up as a front man for Tom Slick. His seersucker suit rumpled, tie loosely knotted at the throat from travel, he had that rawboned look of a drinker, although Jones had never personally seen the man drunk. A straightforward fella, although a bit too much of a talker to Joness
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