Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [186]
Around nine, after walking six miles, they spotted a fire. Three fishermen Catfish knew were clustered around it. Nelson walked up to the fire and warmed his hands. A few minutes later a car parked about fifty yards away. “Come on, let’s go over and see who those fellows are,” Nelson told Catfish. Two Indians were standing beside a 1928 Chevrolet sedan. Anothercar, a Plymouth, drove up just as Nelson approached. Inside were two locals heading out for a night of fishing. As the men stood, swapping small talk, Nelson walked over to the Plymouth and studied it. “Is that yours?” Nelson asked its driver.
One of the men gave Nelson a dark look. He asked on what authority Nelson was fishing on the reservation. Nelson whipped out his gun. “This is my authority,” he said. “You line up with those Indians over there.” Nelson yanked the distributor cable out of the old Chevy, disabling it. He told Catfish to get in the Plymouth. Catfish doubled over, as if in great pain. “Me sick,” he said.
Nelson poked the pistol in the old Chippewa’s ribs and told him to get in the car. Nelson slid behind the wheel, then yanked a hatchet hanging by a cord from Catfish’s neck. “Don’t want you killin’ me while I’m driving,” Nelson said.
Catfish guided Nelson to an intersection with State Highway 70, at which point Nelson let him out of the car and drove off, heading south. Driving the length of Wisconsin, he pulled up the next morning at Louis Cernocky’s tavern at Fox River Grove. Cernocky welcomed him inside and fixed him something to eat. Nelson’s luck held. Despite the tips from Beth Green, despite the fact that Emil Wanatka had told the FBI it was Cernocky who sent the Dillinger gang to Little Bohemia, despite wiretaps and numerous interviews with Cernocky’s neighbors, Purvis had failed to put the tavern under surveillance.
While Nelson made his way toward Chicago that Friday, Dillinger sat hunched over the radio in Volney Davis’s apartment in Aurora, shuttling between the radio and police bands. Edna Murray watched him carefully. Dillinger’s charm was lost on her. She thought he had a killer’s eyes, and his lopsided grin struck her as a smirk. He ignored her and spoke rarely, usually to curse.9 Much of his anger was directed at Louis Cernocky, who Dillinger believed had led the FBI to Little Bohemia; he and Dock Barker agreed it must have been Cernocky who had betrayed Frank Nash, triggering the Kansas City Massacre. Dillinger and Van Meter kept their steel vests on, submachine guns across their laps. They were tired and tense and dirty. Hamilton’s death had hit both men hard, especially Dillinger. No one wanted to die like that.
There was a rare moment of humor when they heard a news flash about Nelson’s stay with Ole Catfish. “Well, Baby Face isn’t hungry,” Van Meter said. “He has plenty of catfish with him.”
But the real jolt came with the Friday evening papers. Boss McLaughlin’s arrest was front-page news. This was bad. McLaughlin knew Davis lived in Aurora. Dock Barker explained the situation to Dillinger. If McLaughlin talked, the FBI could be on their doorstep within hours. Dillinger caucused with Van Meter. They couldn’t leave without a new car. For the moment, they decided to stay. If the FBI came, Dillinger said, they would be ready.
As night fell, everyone took positions in the living room. It was a first-floor apartment; they could step through each of the three large windows onto the sidewalk. Dock Barker took a Thompson gun and stationed himself by one window, Van Meter a second, Dillinger the third. Volney Davis lingered outside in the streets, watching.
An hour went by, then two. Edna Murray was sitting in the bedroom worrying when suddenly Davis burst through the front door. “Dock, I think we got it!” he hissed at Barker. “They’re here! A car pulled up on Fourth Street and parked and two men got out and walked up the street. There’s another car on Fox Street.