"Yeah. Like Jesse James," Nelson answered.

"Shut up and listen. This is the setup," Dillinger said. He took out a sheet of typing paper with a sketch of the bank and held it up for all to see. "The bank's on the corner, door faces the intersection, kind of catty-corner. The cages are on the left when you go in. Big shots are in an open area on the right. The teller windows are three feet high, so we use a pyramid. I'll take the door and the stopwatch. Go for twenties and under, you know how tough it is to pass a C-note these days. Homer and Lester work the vault, Harry and Russell clean out the tellers' windows. We'll drive through town once, check it out, then drop off Lester and Harry, then Homer and me. Russ parks the car in front of the bank. Remember, once we're in, we got four minutes."

"How about guards?" Pierpont asked.

"One old-timer in the bank."

"He's about seventy," said Van Meter. "Probably can't see past his nose."

Dillinger went on. "The cop station's two blocks away. There's a phone box here, just inside the bank door, I'll take care of that. We'll call in a fake accident from up the highway here, that'll get the sheriff outa town. So we got two cops and grandpa in the bank." He chuckled. "Hell, boys, we got 'em outnumbered."

The young policeman ducked into the bank and shook the rain off his raincoat. He walked across the floor with his weekly scrip check in hand and presented it to Dempsey for his initials. Luther Conklin was a local boy who had played football in high school, then spent two years at the state college. He was Tyler Oglesby's deputy. He had been on the force for eight months and everyone in town was proud of him.

"How are you today, Luther?" Dempsey asked, scribbling his initials on the green slip of paper.

"Just fine, sir. Hear about the fire up in Delphi?"

"No. When was this, last night?"

"Goin' on right now," Luther said earnestly. "They called down for help. Sheriff Billings's on his way up there to check things out. That new Five and Ten they got is burnin' up."

"Well, I hope nobody gets hurt," Dempsey said.

The bank teller honored Conklin's scrip and counted out his twenty-five dollars. He walked out of the bank counting it. Dempsey looked at the clock over the door. Ten more minutes and he'd be through for the weekend and on his way to Chicago. His mouth started to get dry thinking about the trip.

Clark guided the Packard slowly down Broadway, turned right, went down a block and turned back the way they had come. They drove past the police station as a young cop entered the front door. The police car was parked in the driveway.

"Well, guess we know where the laws are," Dillinger chuckled. "Swing back around up at the corner, Russ. We'll let Homer and Lester out."

The two men got out of the car and walked casually toward the bank as Russell drove through the intersection one more time. He went down half a block and let Harry Pierpont and Dillinger out. They walked back past the harness shop toward the bank, their guns muzzle-down under their raincoats. When they got to the bank, Van Meter and Nelson were crossing the street toward them.

"Okay, let's do it," Dillinger said and they entered the bank. A moment later, their partners came in behind them.

Dempsey, as he always did, looked up as the men entered the bank. Strangers, he thought. Then he took a second look. The one in glasses looked vaguely familiar . . .

Dillinger swung his shotgun out from under his coat. The man behind him twisted the "Open" sign in the doorway over to "Closed" and pulled the shade on the front door.

"All right, everybody." The man with the shotgun yelled a loud, harsh, no-nonsense command. "Shut up and listen to me. I'm John Dillinger and we're here to rob this bank. Don't you scream, lady, just swallow it, I know a screamer when I see one. All of you just shut up and sit down on the floor. Make yourselves comfortable and don't ring no alarms or yell or make a sound, otherwise some folks could get hurt. That there's Baby Face Nelson and he has a very itchy trigger finger. Four minutes, Homer! Now we don't mean to hurt nobody, you understand. We're just here to make a withdrawal."

He laughed as he peered through the window, pointing the shotgun at the ceiling. There were six employees and four customers in the bank. Van Meter, Clark and Pierpont all dropped to their knees and Nelson ran up their backs and sprang over the teller's window. He shoved one of the two women back and opened the door. As Dillinger stared at his stopwatch, the other three got up and went into the business compartment. The vault was open.

Dillinger stared through the window and saw a police officer walk down the opposite side of Broadway.

"Christ," he said under his breath, "a copper."

Tyler Oglesby had left Luther Conklin to handle the phone while he did his three o'clock rounds. He had planned to go to the bank but the shades were drawn and the closed sign was out. He checked his watch. Either he was slow or Ben Scoby was fast. He went into the barber shop.

"Hey, what's this we hear about a fire over in Delphi?" Nick Constantine said as he entered.

"Yeah," Tyler answered. "Big fire. Still out of control. Lester went on up to help. . . ."

Probably gone to get a haircut, Dillinger thought as Oglesby entered the barber shop. He turned back to his hostages, strolling past them, his shotgun butt resting on his hip. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, lit a wooden match with his thumb.

"One thing I want to make clear," Dillinger said as he lit the cigarette. "I ain't no gangster, I am a bank robber. Gangsters are scum, they work for the likes of Capone and that bunch and they get paid for bumping people off. You know what they say about John Dillinger, he's got the fastest brains and the slowest guns in the country. I ain't no killer, regardless of what you might've read in the papers. Three minutes, Homer! We rob banks because the banks rob you! Take your homes, charge you to use your own money, act like they's holier than God. They don't deserve no better than what we give 'em."

Back in the vault, Baby Face Nelson was throwing money in a bag held open by Homer Van Meter.

"Why the hell does he have to walk around jawin' like that," Nelson snarled, stuffing packets of twenties in the bag. "Makin' a damn fool of all of us."

"Keeps their minds off things, Lester," Van Meter answered. "Just do your job there and let Johnny do things his way. This's gonna be one hell of a haul." He grinned broadly as he shook the bag and let the loot settle in the bottom.

"Lookin' good, Johnny," Van Meter yelled.

Dillinger checked the front door again. No sign of the copper. He reached in his coat pocket, took out a pistol and waved it toward the ten people sitting on the floor.

"See this? This is my good luck charm. This is a wooden gun. That's right, wood! Carved it out of the top off a washboard and colored it with bootblack. Walked out of the Crown City jail with it, right past the National Guard and everybody else and drove off in the sheriff's car. Ain't a jail made can hold John Herbert Dillinger, folks."

Dempsey sat on the floor, holding his knees, and he thought about the situation and could not help smiling. Dillinger saw the smile. He walked across the bank floor and leaned over Dempsey.

"You think this is funny, pal?"

"No, Mr. Dillinger," Dempsey answered.

"Well, I like a man with a sense of humor, friend. Here, have a cigar."

He slid a cigar in Dempsey's inside jacket pocket. "If you don't smoke, you can frame it."

He looked at the stopwatch. "Two minutes, Homer." He strolled back to the front door as he spoke, never excited or hurried. He opened the blind an inch and peered out. No sign of the cop. He turned back to the group on the floor.

"Hell, times bein' what they are, a man can't get a decent job if he wants to. Listen, I was born in Mooresville, right down the road. Did my first time in the State Reformatory. I'm just a hometown boy when you get right down to it. My pap runs a grocery down in Mooresville just like that one across the street. I'm wanted in seven states, hell I'm wanted in states I ain't even been to yet! Not that we ain't taken our share of banks, mind you. Hell, we took down over a dozen banks. Harry Pierpont, the dandy there, he's been in on fifteen, sixteen. And Homer Van Meter must've robbed, what, twenty banks, Homer?"

"Twenty-two," Van Meter called back from the vault.

"Twenty-two. You know, there's a number that just seems to dog me. I was born on the twenty-second of the month, stole my first car on the twenty-second, was paroled on the twenty-second. I took my first bank on the twenty-second and escaped the G-men up in Wisconsin just a month ago on the twenty-second. Now here it is the twenty-second of May. One minute, Homer. Well, you gents and ladies will remember this day for the rest of your lives, May 22nd, 1934, and you will tell your grandchildren that you was in the Drew City bank the day it was held up by the John Dillinger gang. Sure is more excitin' than sitting around with a fly swatter, whackin' flies, now ain't that a fact, everybody? People'll come from far and wide just to visit here and you will talk about this day for years to come and when you do, you will tell everybody that Johnny Dillinger wasn't a bad sort, he was mannerly and pleasant and didn't hurt a soul and took no money except what was the bank's. Ten seconds, boys, wrap it up."

"Lot more here," Nelson yelled from the vault.

"I said wrap it up."

"Johnny," Harry Pierpont said, looking out the window. "Across the street, that copper's comin' out of the barber's."

"Damn!" Dillinger thought for a moment. "Okay, Russ, go out and get in the car and crank'er up just like normal. Don't show your weapon. If he comes on toward the bank, put the drop on him and tell him to stand fast and no harm'll come to him. Tell him who we are. Soon's you got the car hot, we'll pile in. Go on now."

"Right," Clark said.

Across the street, Tyler Oglesby stared at the bank. His watch still said five minutes to three. He decided to go over anyway, he was sure Ben would let him deposit his scrip.

As he started across the street a man exited the bank and got in a black Packard parked on the corner. Oglesby smiled at him as he approached the car and then the man swung his hand up and pointed a .38 at him.

"Stand fast there, copper. This is the Dillinger gang. You make a move and a lot of people could get hurt."

Oglesby stopped short. His mouth fell open. And then the door to the bank burst open and four men came rushing out carrying bank bags. Without thinking, Oglesby grabbed for his pistol, clawing it out of the holster and backing up at the same time.

Russell Clark fired. Oglesby felt the bullet hit his chest. It felt like somebody had punched him very hard and he fell over on his back. He heard people screaming and the screeching of tires but they seemed very far away. He felt numb all over and then the world seemed to spin away from him as he felt like he was falling into a deep, dark well.

The people of Drew City seemed frozen in time, staring with disbelief at Tyler Oglesby who lay spread-eagled in the middle of Broadway, staring up at the rain. Dempsey was the first to get to him. He ran from inside the bank and dropped on his knees beside him.

"Tyler!" he cried. He turned and yelled up at Dr. Kimberly's window over the Dairy Foods.

"Doc, hey Doc, come quick! Tyler Oglesby's been shot."

Oglesby looked up but did not recognize him. A moment later his eyes lost their focus and glazed over. Dempsey heard his deep sigh and knew he was dead. He looked up at the crowd gathering around and shook his head as Oglesby's young deputy spun around the corner in the city Ford.

"After 'em, Luther," Ben Scoby yelled from the bank door. "It's the Dillinger gang!"

As the getaway car roared down Broadway, Nelson thrust his tommygun out the window and fired a long burst at the hardware store. The bullets shattered the plate window, splintered ax handles and kerosene cans and snapped harnesses like twigs as they hung from hooks in the ceiling. The people inside dove to the floor as the bullets raked the store above their heads, showering them with debris.

"What the hell'd you do that for?" Dillinger yelled.

"Give 'em something else to talk about," Nelson yelled back. "Hey, looks like a patrol car swingin' in behind us."

"That must be the other copper. Step on it, Russell."

"I'm goin' almost seventy now!"

"I'll just slow that son-bitch down," said Nelson.

"No more killing, Lester!" Dillinger yelled.

"Right," Nelson said. He smashed out the back window of the Packard with his tommygun and waited as the patrol car drew closer. When it was in range he fired one burst, then another.

In the patrol car, Luther Conklin saw the window smash out but could not see clearly because of the rain. Then he saw the flash of the machine gun and heard the bullets ripping into the radiator, heard the steam hissing from it. The radiator cap exploded off and steam poured out. Conklin swerved in the road as another burst tore into both front tires. They burst under him and the car veered, skidded wildly on the wet pavement. He frantically fought the steering wheel, trying to gain control, felt the car skid into the shoulder and saw the tree rush toward him, felt it tear into the far side of the car. He smashed against the steering wheel, his breath rushing from his lungs.

Nelson settled back in the seat with a grin. "Cooked that little bastard's goose for him," he said.

"Christ, we killed another cop, maybe two," Dillinger said, shaking his head.

Conklin staggered out of the car, clutching his sprained ribs and fell back against the ruined police car. Rain poured down his face. He stared with frustration and disappointment as the most famous bank gang in history disappeared down the rain-swept highway. Dillinger, Pierpont, Clark, Nelson and Van Meter. He had no way of knowing that within six months all of them would be dead, tracked down by the man they feared most, the G-man Melvin Purvis. Dillinger would be the first to die, exactly two months later. On the twenty-second day of July.

TWENTY-TWO.

What rotten luck, what bloody, stupid rotten luck.

What was it Vierhaus had said to him once, it's usually the unexpected that gets you. He was on the spot because it had never occurred to him that he might be trapped in this town, certainly not by the FBI. But that was exactly what was happening.

Dempsey sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the raindrops making thin tracks down the window. He had been sitting without moving for ten minutes. He looked at the clock: three-twenty.

When Ben Scoby contacted the Chicago FBI office, Purvis himself got on the line. He was coming down personally with a team of FBI agents and had ordered Scoby to lock up the bank and send everyone home until they arrived. Scoby had called a meeting at seven P.M. in front of the bank.

Dempsey had to leave before the FBI got to Drew City. He could not risk an interview with the G-men. Nor could he risk taking the bus or hitchhiking; everybody in town knew him. There was only one way out: he had to hop a freight. And even that was risky. If his failure to show up at the bank started a search, they might check the train when it arrived in Lafayette. But it was a risk he had to take.

He made his decision. First, he thought, shave off the mustache and wash the dark dye out of his hair. Dress warmly, it was still quite cold at night. Wool socks and the heavy-soled walking shoes Louise had given him for his birthday. Money was not a problem. I'm not unprepared, he thought, just caught short.

He got a pair of heavy corduroy trousers and a thick plaid jacket from the closet, dug out socks and shoes. He was on his way to the attic when the doorbell rang. Dempsey fell back against the wall. It couldn't be the government men. It had to be Louise. He stood motionless for a full minute while the bell rang a second, then a third time. As he stood there, a plan began to form in his mind. He thought about it as he slowly descended the stairs.

It was perfect, he thought. Even if they saw through it later it would give him time. Once he was in Chicago, he didn't care what they thought, he would no longer be Fred Dempsey.

He opened the door and Louise rushed into his arms.

"Oh God, my heart stopped when I heard," she said, hugging him to her. "Thank God you're all right. I was afraid they shot you."

"It was Tyler Oglesby."

"I know, I just left Dad. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course. All I did was sit on the floor for five minutes and listen to John Dillinger brag about what a good guy he is."

"I can't believe it! All the times we've joked about the bank being held up. And Roger and his cards . . ."

"Easy," he said. "It's over. It's even over for poor old Tyler. C'mon, let's go upstairs."

"Upstairs?"

"We've got three hours before the FBI gets here."

"Fred!"

He leaned over and kissed her throat.

"But . . ."

"All the excitement, it . . . it excited me." He kissed the back of her neck and she twisted her head and shivered.

"Gives me goose pimples."

"You always give me goose pimples."

He drew her slowly up the stairs, kissing her and caressing her cheek as they mounted the stairs. He led her into the bedroom, eased her onto the bed. She lay down beside the pants and flannel jacket.

"What's that?" she asked.

He was leaning over her on stiff arms, staring down at her.