Everything's Eventual

   Harry Pierpont answered him. This was back in the days when it was still the Pierpont Gang instead of the Dillinger Gang. "Because he looks like a Homer," he said. "Wasn't ever anyone looked so much like a Homer as Homer Van Meter does."

   We all laughed at that, and now here I was again, and this time it was really important. You'd have to say life or death.

   Three or four cars went by and I pretended to be fiddling with the tire. A farm truck was next, but it was too slow and waddly. Also, there were some fellas in the back. Driver slows down and says, "You need any help, amigo?"

   "I'm fine," I says. "Workin' up a appetite for lunch. You go right on."

   He gives me a laugh and on he went. The fellas in the back also waved.

   Next up was another Ford, all by its lonesome. I waved my arms for them to stop, standing where they couldn't help but see that flat shoe. Also, I was giving them a grin. That big one that says I'm just a harmless Homer by the side of the road.

   It worked. The Ford stopped. There was three folks inside, a man and a young woman and a fat baby. A family.

   "Looks like you got a flat there, partner," the man says. He was wearing a suit and a topcoat, both clean but not what you'd call Grade A.

   "Well, I don't know how bad it can be," I says, "when it's only flat on the bottom."

   We was still laughing over that just like it was new when Johnnie and Jack come out of the trees with their guns drawn.

   "Just hold still, sir," Jack says. "No one is going to get hurt."

   The man looked at Jack, looked at Johnnie, looked at Jack again. Then his eyes went back to Johnnie and his mouth dropped open. I seen it a thousand times, but it always tickled me.

   "You're Dillinger!" he gasps, and then shoots his hands up.

   "Pleased to meet you, sir," Johnnie says, and grabs one of the man's hands out of the air. "Get those mitts down, would you?"

   Just as he did, another two or three cars came along—country-goto-town types, sitting up straight as sticks in their old muddy sedans. We didn't look like nothing but a bunch of folks at the side of the road getting ready for a tire-changing party.

   Jack, meanwhile, went to the driver's side of the new Ford, turned off the switch, and took the keys. The sky was white that day, as if with rain or snow, but Jack's face was whiter.

   "What's your name, Ma'am?" Jack asks the woman. She was wearing a long gray coat and a cute sailor's cap.

   "Deelie Francis," she says. Her eyes were as big and dark as plums. "That's Roy. He's my husband. Are you going to kill us?"

   Johnnie give her a stern look and says, "We are the Dillinger Gang, Mrs. Francis, and we have never killed anyone." Johnnie always made this point. Harry Pierpont used to laugh at him and ask him why he wasted his breath, but I think Johnnie was right to do that. It's one of the reasons he'll be remembered long after the straw-hat-wearing little pansy is forgot.

   "That's right," Jack says. "We just rob banks, and not half as many as they say. And who is this fine little man?" He chucked the kiddo under the chin. He was fat, all right; looked like W. C. Fields.

   "That's Buster," Deelie Francis says.

   "Well, he's a regular little bouncer, ain't he?" Jack smiled. There was blood on his teeth. "How old is he? Three or so?"

   "Just barely two and a half," Mrs. Francis says proudly.

   "Is that so?"

   "Yes, but he's big for his age. Mister, are you all right? You're awful pale. And there's blood on your—"

   Johnnie speaks up then. "Jack, can you drive this one into the trees?" He pointed at the carpenter's old Ford.

   "Sure," Jack says.

   "Flat tire and all?"

   "You just try me. It's just that . . . I'm awful thirsty. Ma'am— Missus Francis—do you have anything to drink?"

   She turned around and bent over—not easy with that horse of a baby in her arms—and got a thermos from the back.

   Another couple of cars went puttering by. The folks inside waved, and we waved back. I was still grinning fit to split, trying to look just as Homer as a Homer could be. I was worried about Jack and didn't know how he could stay on his feet, let alone tip up that thermos and swig what was inside. Iced tea, she told him, but he seemed not to hear. When he handed it back to her, there were tears rolling down his cheeks. He thanked her, and she asked him again if he was all right.

   "I am now," Jack says. He got into the hoodoo Ford and drove it into the bushes, the car jouncing up and down on the tire Johnnie had shot out.

   "Why couldn't you have shot out a back one, you goddam fool?" Jack sounded angry and out of breath. Then he wrestled the car into the trees and out of sight, and came back, walking slow and looking at his feet, like an old man on ice.

   "All right," Johnnie says. He'd discovered a rabbit's foot on Mr. Francis's key ring, and was working it in a way that made me know that Mr. Francis wasn't ever going to see that Ford again. "Now, we're all friends here, and we're going to take a little ride."