Public Enemies: Out of Mud
Title: “Out of Mud”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG (suicide)
Timeline: 1960
Summary: Twenty-six years after the infamous John Dillinger’s death, the former special agent Purvis contemplates the way his life has turned out.
Disclaimer: Public Enemies belong to Universal, Michael Mann, etc. And, well, history in a way.
A/N: Based on the movie version, thus taking a few liberties with the story of the real John Dillinger and Melvin Purvis.
OUT OF MUD
In a way they had all been national heroes then, no matter which side of law they were on. It had been a vicious, delirious time when you shot first and asked questions later, if at all, and men died at the flip of a coin, and gangsters were tough to tell apart from lawmen. Of course they believed they were doing the right thing; Melvin still believed it. It could not have been any different for someone who kept company with the wolf; one had to learn to howl. Sometimes, even after all these years, he would still wake up in the middle of the night, his heart thumping with the thrill of a frenzied manhunt, his mind racing. That was something those pencil pushers in the higher echelons of the Bureau could never feel, and Purvis be damned, if they hadn’t been splitting their sides with jealousy.
And look where it’d gotten them. Back then, in the world stuck between two wars, being tossed from one calamity to another, they were free. Free to sin as much as they liked. Free to pass their sleepless nights pondering the things they had done - or not. And how did it end? They threw him out like garbage, and Dillinger, the great, witty, though still dead as a door nail John Dillinger, he was a fucking hero, all right! So much that fragments of his goddamn gravestone were constantly being chipped off for souvenirs.
Purvis couldn’t remember when he had first started seeing Dillinger. Those were just seconds, bleared faces in the crowd, but he would recognize the first public enemy on top of the FBI’s list from thirty years ago anywhere. It sure as hell wasn’t guilt; but then, Dillinger didn’t try to enforce it. In fact, he didn’t really talk at all, which Melvin found rather comforting. Otherwise he’d have to admit he was becoming a complete nutcase.
Then there came the dreams. One dream, to be more precise: Dillinger’s face covered in blood right after the shootout at the Biograph. A single freeze frame, much closer than he had seen it before. Purvis meekly began to wonder how long he could go without sleeping: the last thing he wanted was to admit even to himself how much the dream affected him.
It wasn’t like he’d had any choice in the matter. No prison would have contained Dillinger, not by a long shot.
Dillinger gestured briskly towards a coffee can. “Keeps you up even better than remorse.”
Melvin started making coffee with an air of resignation: perhaps he was going mad after all.
“See you got it good in the end,” Dillinger went on. “Wife, kids. Wrote a book, eh?” He narrowed his eyes while his lips twisted in that boyish half-smile of his. “So how’d it feel to be sidelined after you’d done all the work when Hoover had just been crapping himself with envy?”
Coffee turned out stronger than Melvin liked, but he continued sipping it nonetheless as he sat at the kitchen table, looking past the suddenly talkative vision of Dillinger.
“They make ya go to church, Mel?” Dillinger asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Church’s not right for men like us. All that talk of fire and brimstone just makes me queasy.” He chuckled abruptly. “Pardon. Made me queasy.”
Melvin finished his drink, turned up the radio and left the kitchen. He wondered briefly with others will come too. Soon he might a whole line-up of dead criminals in his house.
* * *
“I shot you,” he said when Dillinger showed up the next day.
“Mel, I may be dead but I ain’t got no trouble with memory.”
“Three agents fired at you. But it wasn’t Winstead that did it. It was me.”
John snickered. “You boys squabble over it. It’s a big sandbox. But last time I checked, it didn’t do you no good. So why bring it up now?”
The truth was that Purvis was not certain which shot had been fatal.
“I’m not apologizing.” He paused briefly. “Why are you here? Why now?”
“Let’s say I’ve waited out for the buzz to die and I’m dealing the final blow.” The vision smiled.
Melvin fixed him with an unblinking glance. “Aren’t you cruel, Johnny?”
“Thing is, you ain’t happy now, Mel. You ain’t never been happy. You’re a careerist, an egotist, and a royal bastard in general. If you had crossed that one fine line between where you stood and where I stood, you coulda been happy.”
Melvin scoffed bitterly. Depression, they’d called it; and damn straight, the entire world had been depressed.
* * *
He stared at the pistol, a relic from his FBI days which he managed to keep. The gun in question may or may not have sealed John Dillinger’s fate.
“What you said,” he spoke without bothering to check if Dillinger was in the room - he always was, “about being happy. Nobody’s ever happy.”
“Nobody who doesn’t try.”
There was a tracer bullet jammed in the gun. Melvin twisted the weapon in his hands, aiming to extract it. Perhaps he could do some target practice in the backyard for old times’ sake.
“Watch it, Mel. If the gun goes off, it’d be pitifully ironic for you to die like that.”
There was undisguised mockery in Dillinger’s voice, and Purvis thought that all of that had just been an overly long introduction to that one shot. It wouldn’t require three gunmen to take him down. Just one old pistol and a load of memories.
Dillinger covered the barrel of the gun with his ghostly fingers, but whether it was a gesture of hesitation or encouragement, Melvin could not tell. He continued fiddling with the tracer bullet, essentially surrendering his future to luck.
“I don’t go to church,” he said, not taking his eyes off of the pistol. “I’m already in hell, what with you here.”
He glanced up. Dillinger was smiling.
“Luck be a lady,” he said.
A shot rang out.
March 16, 2010
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG (suicide)
Timeline: 1960
Summary: Twenty-six years after the infamous John Dillinger’s death, the former special agent Purvis contemplates the way his life has turned out.
Disclaimer: Public Enemies belong to Universal, Michael Mann, etc. And, well, history in a way.
A/N: Based on the movie version, thus taking a few liberties with the story of the real John Dillinger and Melvin Purvis.
OUT OF MUD
In a way they had all been national heroes then, no matter which side of law they were on. It had been a vicious, delirious time when you shot first and asked questions later, if at all, and men died at the flip of a coin, and gangsters were tough to tell apart from lawmen. Of course they believed they were doing the right thing; Melvin still believed it. It could not have been any different for someone who kept company with the wolf; one had to learn to howl. Sometimes, even after all these years, he would still wake up in the middle of the night, his heart thumping with the thrill of a frenzied manhunt, his mind racing. That was something those pencil pushers in the higher echelons of the Bureau could never feel, and Purvis be damned, if they hadn’t been splitting their sides with jealousy.
And look where it’d gotten them. Back then, in the world stuck between two wars, being tossed from one calamity to another, they were free. Free to sin as much as they liked. Free to pass their sleepless nights pondering the things they had done - or not. And how did it end? They threw him out like garbage, and Dillinger, the great, witty, though still dead as a door nail John Dillinger, he was a fucking hero, all right! So much that fragments of his goddamn gravestone were constantly being chipped off for souvenirs.
Purvis couldn’t remember when he had first started seeing Dillinger. Those were just seconds, bleared faces in the crowd, but he would recognize the first public enemy on top of the FBI’s list from thirty years ago anywhere. It sure as hell wasn’t guilt; but then, Dillinger didn’t try to enforce it. In fact, he didn’t really talk at all, which Melvin found rather comforting. Otherwise he’d have to admit he was becoming a complete nutcase.
Then there came the dreams. One dream, to be more precise: Dillinger’s face covered in blood right after the shootout at the Biograph. A single freeze frame, much closer than he had seen it before. Purvis meekly began to wonder how long he could go without sleeping: the last thing he wanted was to admit even to himself how much the dream affected him.
It wasn’t like he’d had any choice in the matter. No prison would have contained Dillinger, not by a long shot.
Dillinger gestured briskly towards a coffee can. “Keeps you up even better than remorse.”
Melvin started making coffee with an air of resignation: perhaps he was going mad after all.
“See you got it good in the end,” Dillinger went on. “Wife, kids. Wrote a book, eh?” He narrowed his eyes while his lips twisted in that boyish half-smile of his. “So how’d it feel to be sidelined after you’d done all the work when Hoover had just been crapping himself with envy?”
Coffee turned out stronger than Melvin liked, but he continued sipping it nonetheless as he sat at the kitchen table, looking past the suddenly talkative vision of Dillinger.
“They make ya go to church, Mel?” Dillinger asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Church’s not right for men like us. All that talk of fire and brimstone just makes me queasy.” He chuckled abruptly. “Pardon. Made me queasy.”
Melvin finished his drink, turned up the radio and left the kitchen. He wondered briefly with others will come too. Soon he might a whole line-up of dead criminals in his house.
* * *
“I shot you,” he said when Dillinger showed up the next day.
“Mel, I may be dead but I ain’t got no trouble with memory.”
“Three agents fired at you. But it wasn’t Winstead that did it. It was me.”
John snickered. “You boys squabble over it. It’s a big sandbox. But last time I checked, it didn’t do you no good. So why bring it up now?”
The truth was that Purvis was not certain which shot had been fatal.
“I’m not apologizing.” He paused briefly. “Why are you here? Why now?”
“Let’s say I’ve waited out for the buzz to die and I’m dealing the final blow.” The vision smiled.
Melvin fixed him with an unblinking glance. “Aren’t you cruel, Johnny?”
“Thing is, you ain’t happy now, Mel. You ain’t never been happy. You’re a careerist, an egotist, and a royal bastard in general. If you had crossed that one fine line between where you stood and where I stood, you coulda been happy.”
Melvin scoffed bitterly. Depression, they’d called it; and damn straight, the entire world had been depressed.
* * *
He stared at the pistol, a relic from his FBI days which he managed to keep. The gun in question may or may not have sealed John Dillinger’s fate.
“What you said,” he spoke without bothering to check if Dillinger was in the room - he always was, “about being happy. Nobody’s ever happy.”
“Nobody who doesn’t try.”
There was a tracer bullet jammed in the gun. Melvin twisted the weapon in his hands, aiming to extract it. Perhaps he could do some target practice in the backyard for old times’ sake.
“Watch it, Mel. If the gun goes off, it’d be pitifully ironic for you to die like that.”
There was undisguised mockery in Dillinger’s voice, and Purvis thought that all of that had just been an overly long introduction to that one shot. It wouldn’t require three gunmen to take him down. Just one old pistol and a load of memories.
Dillinger covered the barrel of the gun with his ghostly fingers, but whether it was a gesture of hesitation or encouragement, Melvin could not tell. He continued fiddling with the tracer bullet, essentially surrendering his future to luck.
“I don’t go to church,” he said, not taking his eyes off of the pistol. “I’m already in hell, what with you here.”
He glanced up. Dillinger was smiling.
“Luck be a lady,” he said.
A shot rang out.
March 16, 2010