Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [105]
“Oh Christ, this is bad,” said Karpis.
They decided to send Dock down to retrieve the cars and park them in front. When he returned this time, he said the policemen had ignored them. They appeared to be watching the adjacent building. “Let’s go,” someone said. Outside everyone hustled into the waiting cars. There were no cops in sight. They drove to Fred’s apartment without incident. But Fred wasn’t satisfied. He had to know if the plan was blown, and he couldn’t wait for Sawyer; if they were being watched, they could all be in Chicago by sunrise. Fred decided to return to Weaver’s building.
“Well if we do this,” Karpis said, “you’d better take some equipment over there. Don’t just go with a pistol.”
Barker stepped to the closet and brought out a submachine gun with two 50-shot drums. He and Karpis returned outside, where they slipped into Dock’s Chevy. Fred drove, Karpis beside him, the tommy across his lap. By the time they reached Weaver’s building, it was past midnight. “Should I go down the alley?” Barker asked.
“Yeah, go on down the alley,” Karpis said.
They eased down the alley, deep in shadow. The patrol car was gone. Reaching the far end, they turned into the street. The neighborhood was chockablock with brick apartment buildings, the streets lined with darkened cars. As they turned the corner, a set of headlights flashed behind them, a parked car coming to life. As Barker watched in the rearview, the car pulled out.
Karpis turned in his seat.
“They’re following us,” he said.
“Yeah,” Barker said. “I can see.”
They turned a corner, then another, driving slowly. The car stayed with them. Karpis peered backward, trying to make out the car’s occupants. There were two. In silhouette Karpis could just make out the driver’s peaked hat: a patrolman in uniform. “Them guys look like cops all right,” Karpis said. “What the hell are we gonna do?”
“Only one thing we can do,” Barker said. “That’s stop ’em.”
They eased around another corner, threading their way through the lines of parked cars in the narrow streets.
“How do you want to do it?” Karpis asked.
“I’m gonna pull around a corner real fast and stop, and you jump out with that machine gun and if they come around, start shooting.”
Butterflies danced in Karpis’s stomach as they approached the next corner. They surged around it and stopped. Karpis stepped out into the frigid night air, holding the submachine gun. Barker jumped out the other door, pointing his .45. When the car behind them turned the corner, both men opened fire. The night exploded: Karpis fired from the hip, emptying the entire fifty-shot drum into the car. Barker fired the pistol. The car shook as bullets ripped into it. When they had emptied their guns, both men peered at the car. They couldn’t see anyone sitting upright. They jumped back in their Chevy and drove off. Back at Fred’s apartment they turned on the radio, waiting for the news. They sat up all night waiting, listening. Not till dawn, when Dock ran out to fetch a newspaper, did they discover they had just machine-gunned a uniformed Northwest Airlines employee.
The man in the car turned out be a radio operator named Roy McCord, and he was following Barker and Karpis because he thought they were peeping toms. When McCord returned home from work that evening, his wife had told him of a prowler, presumably the man Karpis and Barker had seen earlier. McCord, still dressed in his aviator’s uniform and peaked cap, left his apartment with a friend to check out the report, spotted Barker’s car, and ended up in a hospital with three bullet wounds. He survived. The other man was unhurt.
All that day the gang debated whether to abort the Bremer job. In the end, they decided to put it off two days, till Wednesday, January 17. In the interim, both Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde struck.
East Chicago, Indiana Monday, January 15
After three weeks in the Florida sun, Dillinger headed back