Look out ahead
I see danger come
I wanna pistol
I wanna gun
I'm scared baby
I wanna run
This world's crazy
Give me the gun

Baby, baby
Ain't it true
I'm immortal
When I'm with you -"Big Exit," PJ Harvey

i.

Billie, you tell yourself, this man is Public Enemy Number One. He's on the FBI's Most Wanted List. The most dangerous man you've been around with is Henry Jones, who stole a candy bar from the five and ten when you were twelve. Are you sure you can handle this new breed of man, this type of animal?

But you can't help notice the gleam of his patent leather shoes or the crisp crease in the legs of his trousers or the way his hooked smile droops like a slash at the bottom of a blank canvas. You can practically smell the fat wad of twenties nestling in his billfold and the way he's looking at you makes you feel like you've been stripped clean of your skin. His name is splattered across the front pages of all the papers and here you are, in your three-dollar, bargain store dress, sitting across from him, and all you can do is smile.

Your grip tightens on your fork and your lips begin to hurt and the tablecloth is like silk against your calf and you know you should just get up and run, but suddenly all you envision is your naked back pressed into a hotel wall, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and his hot breath rubbing against the base of your neck, smooth like a strand of pearls. You've been looking for a way to escape since the day you were born and this man is your ticket out of the dusty, mile-wide grin of the Reservation, of late-nights at the coat-check counter, of cramped backseats and kissing beady-eyed men just to pass the time. This man promises clear diamonds and new heels and hot-blooded fights and lovely, lazy make-up sessions. He is the door to the Underworld and though you've been tattooed and engraved with the philosophies of Christianity, the desire to sin is wailing like a siren, calling, calling, calling, enough to make your cheeks stain strawberry.

"Why would you tell me this?" you ask, leaning forward.

Dillinger shrugs.

"I ain't got no reason to lie to you, honey."

You were never a good girl, really. You were just waiting for someone to teach you how to be bad.

ii.

You were surprised that he was so gentle.

You don't want gentle.

("Johnny," you say, pulling back from his grasp. There is no need for further explanation. He understands completely.)

This is it and there's no turning back.

You don't want the roguish cad, the quick-thinking, heart-stopping rake with the Clark Gable charm. To commemorate the moment, you crave the primal, a peak at the violence bubbling beneath. Because you've had your fair share of love and it always ends when reality begins. Love, you think, is for children with too much pixie dust in their eyes.

Deep down, you know that he could very well think you're a fool, that once the carnal passion's been expired, he'll pick up and vanish, leaving behind teeth marks on your thigh and the bill on the dresser. But it's getting harder and harder to form coherent thoughts, let alone simply think. Like a wolf he's attacking your lips and you're kissing back with all the sour anger of the past twenty-two years and his body is pressing into yours as though he were trying to erase the both of you right off the map, right out of this moment. His right hand is slowly walking down the length of your torso and the fingers of the left are squeezing your corresponding wrist, squeezing so ferociously that his knuckles are bleach-white.

There's nothing but noise in your head, static-crackling, loud and harsh like sandpaper against a freshly-washed face. A quick nibble on your bottom lip and then his mouth is traveling south and you're shutting your eyes, seeing splotches like fuzzy paint splatters, your lungs heaving, your toes curling. You've lost all ability to speak and yet you want to say something, anything, to prove that this is very much real. But you've got to bottle up your emotions, drink up his aggression, let it simmer and let it explode. You are not a person anymore but a bundle of mixed wires and crossed signals, of blinking lights and mini black-outs. You've been reduced to a body, a body which you no longer have control over. You don't think you can bear this any longer and each passing second hurts, hurts like a goddamn knife to the stomach. And when you hear him groan, you realize it's not the myth you want, but the man himself.

It feels like you're on fire and you're too afraid to open your eyes, because you might actually see real flames. Water leaks from your eye and your mascara begins to run and you've reached a point where everything has been simplified into a scream and Jesus Christ, making it with all the Henry Joneses of the world never prepared you for something like this.

It's not until later, boxed in his arms, his chin perched on your shoulder, that you realize that he's the only man that's ever been able to bed you like a whore but treat you first and foremost, like a lady.

iii.

Naturally, he buys you a coat without asking.

Naturally, it's the perfect size and the perfect length, made of thick wool and the color of an eggplant. The buttons are brass and are as big as quarters. You close your eyes and put your cheek to the fur-collar. It both frightens and arouses you that this coat was probably stolen or bought with freshly-stolen money.

"Why?" you ask.

He leans back into the sofa, arms spread wide, that lopsided grin making his face years younger.

"Cause I wanted to, sweetheart. And Johnny's girl shouldn't have to go around wearing three-dollar dresses when she could have the whole store. Of course, I never had an objection to that dress in the first place…either on you or on the floor."

Naturally, the smile and the coat and his kiss are enough to make you forget about the ticking of Death's vindictive hands.

At least, for a little while.

iv.

"I think my parents wanted me to be a nun."

Johnny laughs as he prepares for the day, slipping on a new shirt. The sun rumbled into the horizon only minutes ago, but Johnny is infected with the excitement and anxiety of another job, a strange sort of tension you still analyze like a microscope slide.

It feels like you went to bed only an hour ago and you know there's a huge hickey on your neck but you can't worry about that, because this is the second worst part of the entire day, when he giddily dresses like a little boy high on sugar while you must hide the fact that you feel downright sick. You've never been much of an actress, so the only way to conceal your shot nerves is to talk, to let the words flow and confess the first sensible thought you can grab, no matter how thick the cobwebs of the past cling.

"Really, now? And whatever gave you that idea?"

He goes to the vanity and reaches for his comb. You pull the sheets closer to your naked form and sit upright, back against the headboard.

"Well, you know how I grew up on the Reservation. I went to Catholic school practically all of my life. I didn't really know anything else. I didn't know you could be something else, be something more. When my cousin, Francis, we all call her Frankie, went and decide to become a nun, my parents acted like she was their own daughter. They were so proud of her and they thought since she did it, I'd want to. Bought me a new Bible with my name stitched in gold thread on the cover."

He combs his hair, meeting your sleepy gaze in the mirror.

"Well, by golly! Your name stitched in gold thread?" he teases.

You roll your eyes and then look at his cigarette case on the nightstand.

"They were heartbroken when I came to Chicago. I told them, look, I have to get out of here or I will never be anybody. There's a whole world out there and I won't be able to see it if I stay here."

"Bet they'd fall right over if they knew you were with me," he replies with a wink.

"Mère, she probably would. Father, he's never been a big fan of the government. He might want to shake your hand."

"Oh yeah? Then I like your Pa already."

He finishes with his hair and then studies his features in profile, a minute exact for the right angle, a minute exact for the left angle. If his face wasn't so famous, he'd look just like any other man, maybe more so. As it stands, a price hangs above his head and the brief flash of Johnny in cuffs or worse, Johnny's back littered with bullets makes you snatch the cigarette case. He runs his tongue across his teeth, his eyes sweeping the entire room. (The guns have already been strapped to his body; they're always at the very top of his list.)

He shuffles over and brushes his lips across your forehead and then to your mouth.

"Be back soon."

You drop the cigarette case and pull on his jacket lapels. He props one hand on the mattress and wraps the other around your waist and your head feels woozy and he kisses like the night you first met. You kiss him back with your eyes shut and your hands in his hair, hoping that he doesn't taste your fear.

He pulls back and you rest your forehead against his cheek.

"Take me with you."

Johnny puts his hands on your shoulders and forces you away, expression slightly amused, as though this were the first time you asked.

"Now honey, we've been through this. It's just easier if you stay here and wait. It'll take a minute thirty seconds, maybe two tops. But I got this down to a science and I can get in and out of any bank before they knew what hit `em."

"Yes, but Johnny-"

He frowns, his voice losing any and all goofy camaraderie.

"Didn't I make a promise to you? The very first night we met, didn't I make a promise to you?"

You avoid his eyes, focusing on the floral pattern of the comforter.

"Yes."

"And what did I promise? Look at me, Billie. What did I promise you?"

"That you would never leave me."

"That's right. I promised that I would always take care of you and I would never leave you. And I don't go back on my promises."

You're silent for a moment, thick charges of stubborn loyalty and stubborn love ricocheting between his dark eyes. This is the second worst part of the entire day and you wonder if you'll ever be able to prepare yourself, to pretend that he's just another man off to the office or the mill.

"I know," you reply, so quiet you can barely hear it yourself.

"Good."

He lets go and kisses you again, a kiss for each corner and a kiss for the middle of your trembling mouth.

He smoothes his hair and heads for the door.

It's not until you hear the roar of the engine that you retrieve a cigarette. It's not until you hear the squeak of a tire that you light it. And it's not until you're sure that he's long gone do you actually smoke it.

This is, after all, the second worst part of the day.

Waiting is the first.

v.

You're in the bath and he's absolutely stunned, as though he's never seen the female form, as though he's never seen you, as though it weren't a cheap, three-dollar dress that sparked his initial lust. You laugh and it brings him back to Earth, his fingers snatching at his tie.

"What are you waiting for?" you challenge.

And before he can reply there's a BOOM and a BANG and the door is busted open and there's yelling and you're screaming and men are grabbing at Johnny like he's the last Christmas ham and guns are waved in the air like pirate flags.

"Johnny!" you cry, "Johnny!"

But some bastard with bad breath is trying to restrain you and the cold metal cuffs glimmer on Johnny's wrists and he isn't even half as angry and worried and scared as you feel. Everything moves too fast for you to comprehend and before you realize it, the Feds have taken your Johnny away and you're standing in the bathtub, hair-dripping wet, wondering if this is the last time you'll ever see him.

vi.

There's not much to do but wait. And wonder. You wonder how he's doing, how long he's been sentenced, how long it'll take him to bust out, if he misses you as much as you miss him. Red helped you find a temporary apartment and your roommate seems to be a virgin to this whole world of lies and betrayal and crime and death and blood, but you're too exhausted to teach her the ropes.

At night, you stare out onto the street below, feeling their eyes, knowing that you are being watched. Every shadow could be a cop; every car passing at a sluggish crawl could be a Fed. You leave the radio on, long past the serial shows, long past FDR, until the station churns out snow. Your system can't handle such an overload of conflicting emotions at this extreme voltage. Consequently, you're zapped into a zombie, one who forms dozens of heart-sick letters in her head, one who makes cups of tea without drinking them, one who feels like she's lost the only home she's ever truly known.

And then one night, he calls.

"It's me, baby."

"I miss you."

"I know, baby. I miss you too. But remember what I said? I'm coming to get you."

The stitches unravel; you shed your mummified, zombie-skin.

"No! You can't, you can't! Oh, please."

You can practically see the slight cock of the eyebrow, the twist of the lips into a smirk.

"I can't? Says who?"

Your voice drops to a ragged whisper, though you know it's useless.

"I think they're watching me."

"I'm not leaving you. I love you."

You suck in a sob.

"I love you too."

"Do you trust me?" he demands, voice deep with solemnity.

"Yes. I trust you."

"Then I'll see you soon, honey."

"But-"

The line goes dead. You stare at the phone, wishing you could've warned him once more about the blood-hound diligence of the authorities. But then again, it wouldn't have made a difference. While other kids were afraid of the monsters under the bed, Johnny was the type that got down on his hands and knees and asked them to come out and play.

vii.

The coast is clear.

You're trying not to run down the stairs and out into the street because you know they're out there, ready and waiting to pounce. You keep your head down, your chin close to your chest and the air smells faintly of snow and you're wearing the wool coat he gave you, his own dress coat on top. To have just the arms of his coat around you adds another layer of expectation and you wonder if it's possible for a perfectly healthy woman to suddenly have a heart attack. You zip past the black car that's been hovering outside your apartment and dart like an insect into the assigned side street, wildly scanning the dark and hollow vehicles for that familiar outline. Once, twice, three times and nothing. Your heart tightens and your knees buckle and you can feel a lump claw at the back of your throat while you conjure the most macabre of possibilities--when headlights flash once, twice, three times.

You hold your breath.

The car swings away from the curb and rumbles right up to you and the driver is throwing open the passenger door and you don't even look before you hop right in, practically on his lap.

"Oh, Johnny! It's you! It's you! It's you!" you squeal, planting kisses all over his face.

He laughs and his mouth manages to intercept a kiss meant for the dimple in his chin.

He speeds down the street and the release of adrenaline is like the kick of a horse square to the chest.

You're so high with pure, unfiltered bliss that all you can do is repeat yourself, feeling like you could float right through the roof, all the way into the thickets of stars. Maybe he's not a man after all, maybe he really is a fable, a legend, the stuff dreams are made of. Despite the blinding enchantment of your delight, you can feel the disintegration of seconds, the dissolving of minutes, the eventual death march of hours. This moment can't last.

As Johnny heads for the highway, you suddenly understand the true meaning of love:

The splitting and reuniting of two atoms, alike in every possible way.

viii.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

Another smack to the face and it's something fierce all right. Your neck snaps to the left and the chair legs jerk slightly backward. You've been nearly 24 hours without sleep. The lights burn, your legs have gone numb, your jaw feels like it's hanging together by weathered string. Your entire body aches and stings as though it's been shoved through a meat grinder. You stopped yelling out three hours ago. You have yet to stop crying. The bottom of your dress is wet; they ignored your request to go to the ladies' room. You wonder if you'll die. Perhaps it's a bit of an extreme, but Fat Boy seems to get off by watching the new wounds in your face open up and spurt red rivers.

"I said, where is he?"

You don't even bother to raise your head. Your hair sticks to the smears of blood. Your lip feels like it ballooned two sizes.

"You really think I would tell you? He was right there. The whole time! He was right across the street. I said I came in a taxi and you bought that? He drove me!"

You raise your head for this last bit, pride momentarily dulling the monstrous wailing of your muscles. You try to mimic all the times you've seen Johnny sneer.

"And you know what? When Johnny hears about how you slapped around his girl, he's going to come for you, Fat Boy. That's a promise."

The man's face has transformed from cherry red to a milky white. The veins in his neck bulge, straining against the skin.

And for a split second, you laugh because you have won.

ix.

The FBI Agent tells you what you already knew: John Dillinger is dead.

Killed while exiting the Biograph after watching Manhattan Melodrama.

For some reason, you feel partly responsible. If you had been there, maybe you could have convinced Johnny to stay in. Or go dancing instead. Then again, if you had been there, none of this would have happened, and some bitch in red wouldn't have tipped off the Feds and Johnny would still be alive, snickering at the newspapers, speeding down the highway with his hand on your thigh, singing Billie Holiday in your ear. They haven't said who actually shot him, but you can safely guess that it was Fat Boy from your Inquisition.

The Agent is surprised at your considerably stoic reaction. Tears are streaming down your face but your mouth is pressed into a firm line, your hands clasped together and resting on the top of your lap, quiet and reserved as though it were Christmas mass.

"So why are you coming to see me? To see the damage you done?" you say.

The Agent stares.

"No. I came here because he asked me to. When he went down, he said somethin'. I put my ear next to his mouth, and what I think he said was this. He said, tell Billie for me: Bye bye, Blackbird."

x.

It's a Saturday night and you have no idea why you're here, because clearly this is an up-scale, classy joint and you, Miss Evelyn Frechette, are not exactly a Class-A Dame. The wine colored, low-backed, three-dollar dress looked stunning under the low lights of your apartment, but in here, you look just like every other star-struck, dopey-eyed, naïve dreamer, on the prowl for a way to quench your perpetual loneliness. But the music's been pretty good and there have been some good-looking men, so the night's not a total loss.

You've finally reached the sanctuary of your table, free from the octopus-hands of a Mr. Reginald Yates, when Patricia jabs her elbow into your side and giggles.

"Billie, that man over there has not stopped staring at you since we came in."

You don't want to turn around so you pretend to laugh at something incredibly funny. Coolly, you sip your water and fiddle with your curls.

"What's he look like?" you ask.

"Oval-ish face. Brown hair. Dark eyes. Hard to say how tall he is, since he's sitting down. But he's probably taller than you."

"Wow Patricia. What a vivid description."

"I don't know! What else do you want me to say? If you squint your eyes, he kind of looks like Clark Gable. But-OH MY GOD."

Your artfully-constructed veneer shatters.

"Oh my God, what?"

"He's coming over here! Oh my God, what do you think he's going to say?"

No sooner than the question has left Patricia's lips, you feel his presence, noticing the flabbergasted looks of the other girls at the table. Slowly, turning from your hips, you swivel to face the stranger, attempting to plaster some sort of indifferent smile on your face, one reserved for women who have seen much more and done much more than you think you will ever experience in your lifetime. His face looks oddly familiar but you can't come up with a name. It's a handsome face all right, perhaps not the conventional sort of handsome, but coupled with his expression, it's the kind that makes you momentarily forget your own name.

"Hey baby. Where ya been all my life?"

You fight the urge to look at Patricia and stand with more grace than you knew you possessed. You place your hand in his and you're whisked off to the dance floor, Billie Holiday crooning about black birds in the background. He closes the gap between your bodies and you think maybe, just maybe, this will be one affair that'll last until the next morning.

"What's your name?"

He grins, mouth lopsided like he's the only one to have figured out the punch line to life's greatest joke. It's kind of endearing, you think.

"Jack. Jack Harris."

"Evelyn Frechette. But nobody calls me that. Everybody calls me Billie."

Less than three hours later, you and "Jack Harris" will be sitting at a restaurant down the street.

And with the flourish of that lopsided grin, Jack Harris will confess that he's really John Dillinger.