would help him? Bobo? Fat chance! But her husband might. If Fred Johnson had followed his own inclination, he would have guaranteed employment for Perry after he left prison, thus helping him obtain a parole. But Bobo wouldn't permit it; she had said it would only lead to trouble, and possibly danger. Then she had written to Perry to tell him precisely that. One fine day he'd pay her back, have a little fun - talk to her, advertise his abilities, spell out in detail the things he was capable of doing to people like her, respectable people, safe and smug people, exactly like Bobo. Yes, let her know just how dangerous he could be, and watch her eyes. Surely that was worth a trip to Denver? Which was what he'd do - go to Denver and visit the Johnsons. Fred Johnson would stake him to a new start in life; he'd have to, if he wanted ever to be rid of him. Then Dick came up to him at the curb. "Hey, Perry," he said. "You sick?" The sound of Dick's voice was like an injection of some potent narcotic, a drug that, invading his veins, produced a delirium of colliding sensations: tension and relief, fury and affection. He advanced toward Dick with clenched fists. "You sonofabitch," he said. Dick grinned, and said, "Come on. We're eating again." But explanations were in order - apologies, too - and over a bowl of chili at the Kansas City hash house that Dick liked best, the Eagle Buffet, Dick supplied them. "I'm sorry, honey. I knew you'd get the bends. Think I'd tangled with a bull. But I was having such a run of luck it seemed like I ought to let it ride." He explained that after leaving Perry he had gone to the Markl Buick Company, the firm that had once employed him, hoping to find a set of license plates to substitute for the hazardous Iowa plates on the abducted Chevrolet. "Nobody saw me come or go. Markl used to do a considerable wrecked-car trade. Sure enough, out back there was a smashed-up De Soto with Kansas tags." And where were they now? "On our buggy, pal." Having made the switch, Dick had dropped the Iowa plates in a Municipal reservoir. Then he'd stopped at a filling station where a friend worked, a former high-school classmate named Steve, and persuaded Steve to cash a check for fifty dollars, which was something he'd not done before - "rob a buddy." Well, he'd never see Steve again. He was "cutting out" of Kansas City tonight, this is really forever. So why not fleece a few old friends? With that in mind, he'd called on another ex-classmate, a drugstore clerk. The take was thereby increased to seventy-five dollars. Now, this afternoon, we'll roll that up to a couple hundred. I've made a list of places to hit. Six or seven, starting right here," he said, meaning the Eagle Buffet, where everybody - the bartender and waiters - knew and liked him, and called him Pickles (in honor of his favorite food). "Then Florida, here we come. How' about it, honey? Didn't I promise you we'd spend Christmas in Miami? Just like all the millionaires?"
Dewey and his colleague K.B.I. Agent Clarence Duntz stood waiting for a free table in the Trail Room. Looking around at the customary exhibit of lunch-hour faces - soft-fleshed businessmen and ranchers with sun-branded, coarse complexions - Dewey acknowledged particular acquaintances: the county coroner, Dr. Fenton; the manager of the Warren, Tom Mahar; Harrison Smith, who had run for county attorney last year and lost the election to Duane West; and also Herbert W. Clutter, the owner of River Valley Farm and a member of Dewey's Sunday School class. Wait a minute! Wasn't Herb Clutter dead? And hadn't Dewey attended his funeral? Yet there he was, sitting in the Trail Room's circular corner booth, his lively brown eyes, his square-jawed, genial good looks unchanged by death. But Herb was not alone. Sharing the table were two young men, and Dewey, recognizing them, nudged Agent Duntz.
"Look."
"Where?"
"The corner."
"I'll be damned." Hickock and Smith! But the moment of recognition was mutual. Those boys smelled danger. Feet first, they crashed through the Trail Room's plate-glass window,