Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [165]
O’Leary was nervous when he met Dillinger at 4:00 Monday afternoon at the corner of North and Kedzie Avenues. (Dillinger had left a cryptic phone message, “32 west and 16 north,” and O’Leary had figured it out.) Pat Cherrington climbed into the backseat to let O’Leary in front; Hamilton sat with her, a submachine gun in his lap under a blanket. When Dillinger expressed his disappointment that O’Leary had come empty-handed, O’Leary urged him to have faith in the courts.
“Will Mr. Piquett go to St. Paul and help defend her?” Dillinger asked.
“I’ll have to speak with him, but I’m sure that he will.”
“That’s fine, Art; give him this five hundred dollars.” Dillinger produced a roll of bills. “By the way, did you hear anything more about the doctor who does the plastic surgery?”
“Yes,” O’Leary said. “Lou says his name is Dr. Ralph Robiend.”
“Did you find out what he charges?”
“It’ll cost you five thousand dollars.”
“Five grand? Don’t you think that’s pretty high?”
“Not when you consider how dangerous it is,” O’Leary said. “Hell, don’t you realize you’re the hottest person in the whole United States?”3
Dillinger reluctantly accepted the fact that Billie was out of his reach; the FBI soon ferried her to St. Paul, where Piquett arrived to help defend her. Alone now, robbed of the woman he wanted to marry, Dillinger fell into a deepening funk. His mood would only have darkened had he known the FBI, acting on an anonymous tip, was already looking for Dr. Ralph Robiend.
If Dillinger was heartsick, John Hamilton’s mood was even bleaker. With each passing day he grew more fatalistic. He kept saying he would die soon. On several occasions he mentioned how badly he wanted to see his sister in his hometown of Sault St. Marie before he died. Dillinger tried to dissuade him, but the more Hamilton stewed, the more he wanted to go. Dillinger had gotten to say good-bye to his family: why couldn’t he? With a sigh Dillinger agreed to go along.
On Tuesday, April 17, Dillinger strapped on one of the new bulletproof vests, jammed a pistol into his shoulder holster, and climbed into his Ford V-8. That morning, his eyes scanning side roads for speed traps, he followed Hamilton’s car out of Chicago into Indiana. As the two cars drove north into Michigan, Dillinger spent the day alone with his thoughts. Beside him, where Billie had nestled, lay a pair of binoculars and a Thermos filled with cold water; in the backseat a row of guns sat in their cases.
At nightfall, the two cars stopped for gas at a station outside Sault St. Marie, at Michigan’s northern tip. As the attendant filled his tank, Dillinger stood in his overcoat in a light rain, his gray fedora pulled down over his forehead, watching the man’s every move. He didn’t want to be here; this was stupid.
“You’re a long way from home,” the attendant said, noticing the Minnesota plates. “What line of business you in?”
“Clothing salesman,” Dillinger said.cf
When night fell they drove into town. At 8:30 Hamilton’s thirty-nine-year-old sister, Anna Steve, answered a knock at the kitchen door of her frame house at the top of a steep hill on 14th Street. It was Pat Cherrington. “Are you Mrs. Steve?” she asked, and Mrs. Steve nodded. “Now don’t be afraid, don’t say a word,” Cherrington said. “I’ve got a surprise. There’s someone here who wants to see you.”
A moment later Hamilton materialized from the darkness, carrying a machine gun wrapped in a blanket. Dillinger was right behind him, holding a rifle. At the sight of her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in seven years, Mrs. Steve began to cry. Hamilton held her and said they couldn’t stay long. Wiping away her tears, Mrs. Steve said she wanted to go out and buy steaks to celebrate, but Dillinger shook his head and urged her to cook what she had in the house. Shooing her three children upstairs, Mrs. Steve prepared a dinner of bacon,