FIC: The Third Man
FIC: "The Third Man"
AUTHOR: mistressmarilyn
DATE: August 15, 2009-July 22, 2010
FANDOM: Public Enemies (2009)
PAIRING: Melvin Purvis / John Dillinger / J. Edgar Hoover (Christian Bale, Johnny Depp and Billy Crudup)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They're characters belonging to Bryan Burroughs, Michael Mann and Universal Studios, not to mention the respective actors of the movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: Slash
SUMMARY: Melvin Purvis lets something--or someone--come between his close alliance with Bureau of Investigation Director J. Edgar Hoover.
WORD COUNT: 7,500
AUTHOR NOTES: In 'Public Enemies' Michael Mann fictionalized history, changing the chronology of events, even important ones. This, too, is fiction, speculative fiction based on actual events. And, yes, ultimately this is set in Mann's universe. No disrespect is intended toward Purvis or his remaining surviving son. This story was finally finished on the 76th anniversary of John Dillinger's death.
"Their relationship would be disrupted by a third man--a man who, so many decades later, remains linked to each of them. In this story of three men, the events of March 3, 1934, play a crucial role. What happened that day--what strange, improbable thing happened when a gun crudely carved from wood--set in motion the sweeping drama that would doom the delicate friendship between the director and one of his most loyal charges."
--Alston Purvis, 'The Vendetta'
"Thank you, ma'am, for letting us know."
Agent Carter Baum put down the phone and looked over at his boss. "That was the cigarette girl at Kelly's. She says Dillinger was definitely at the club last night, with some blonde on his arm. Or redhead. She couldn't remember which. But she was just sure it was Dillinger."
"How did she know?"
"She said she'd know him anywhere. She saw pictures of him after the jailbreak."
Melvin Purvis, Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago Bureau of Investigation, sat back in the chair opposite Baum, flicking a pen against his palm. It was late in the evening, and the two had the outer office to themselves. Baum presumably had a young family at home somewhere waiting for him; Purvis was most at home exactly where he was; he had no one waiting but President, the Negro servant who ran errands and sometimes chauffeured him around the busy streets of Chicago in his shiny Pierce-Arrow. An occasional gust of wind tossed fistfuls of rain against the windows, but the agents were oblivious.
"Why is it the women are all sure they know him, but the Chicago PD never seems to recognize him?" Purvis asked, knowing the answer already.
"I'm surprised this one called us. She mentioned he was a great tipper and was very nice looking. She said he gave her a nice smile."
"What do you suppose she liked best, the tip or the smile? I'm surprised she called us instead of the Tribune."
Baum looked away. "I think she saw you in a newsreel, and she thought you were even better looking."
Purvis smiled. "I doubt that," he said, pleased anyway.
"She mentioned she was from Atlanta and she knew the man in charge was a southern gentleman. She likes 'the sound of home.'"
"Ah."
"Do you think Dillinger's really back in Chicago? Maybe he just wants us to think he is."
"Yes I do. There are too many temptations here for him."
The two agents didn't need to enumerate those temptations; they were both aware that John Dillinger, christened 'Public Enemy Number One' by J. Edgar Hoover, the Bureau's director and the nation's new crime czar, liked the nightclubs, dance halls and whore houses of the windy city. He also liked the good roads in and around the city, which served for fast getaways from robberies in nearby Midwest towns.
And then there was Billie Frechette, the French Indian coat-check girl who had captured Dillinger's heart while law enforcement officials from state to state attempted to capture his body. And she had evidently done a better job of holding him; she had been with Dillinger in Tucson, Arizona when he was recently arrested, an accomplishment on the part of the local constabulary that was really more of a happy accident. A small fire had broken out in the hotel where Dillinger and his cohorts were holed up, and emergency workers noticed and reported the suspicious proliferation of weaponry in their rooms. What an embarrassment for the big city cops and Hoover's elite and educated national police force to be outdone by what amounted to an Old West posse!
Dillinger had eventually been extradited to Indiana, to the jail in Crown Point, and there he had pulled off his most outrageous escape yet. He had reportedly fooled the guards with a hand-carved 'gun' and had driven away in the sheriff's Ford V-8. Frechette hadn't been held or charged in Arizona; she was now back in Chicago under the close scrutiny of Purvis' team. After his escape, Dillinger had driven the stolen car across state lines, a crime recently designated a federal offense, which now put him under the official jurisdiction of the Bureau of Investigation.
It was up to Melvin Purvis to find him and take him, just as it had been since Hoover gave him the appointment to head up the Chicago office.
Purvis opened his notebook and reviewed the transcript of Dillinger's recent telephone conversation with Frechette, intercepted by one of Carter Baum's wiretaps. Dillinger made it clear he would return to Chicago to be reunited with Billie, to 'take care of her as he had promised.' Sighing, Purvis leaned back in the wooden stenographer's chair and reflected on how the most wanted man in America believed he could scuttle through the ever-tightening web of law enforcement in and around Chicago to somehow fulfill a promise made in a moment of passion. Dillinger's confidence was one of the keys to his success; it would also be a primary factor in his undoing.
"Don't come to Chicago, Johnnie," Frechette had said to him in their phone conversation.
Johnnie.
Purvis tried to think of the man he had recently confronted through the bars of the holding cell in Tucson as the 'Johnnie' Frechette had spoken to in such familiar terms. In the few moments they spent face-to-face, Dillinger's dark eyes had challenged him, had tested him and even come close to teasing him, albeit with what seemed to be grudging approval. Ultimately, Dillinger had warned him to 'find a new line of work,' calling him by his Christian name, Melvin. It had been a strange, almost surreal moment of intimacy, surrounded as they were by jailers and other agents. Purvis couldn't help wondering what the encounter would have been like without the audience . . . and without the bars.
"You're sure we've got her covered?" Purvis asked, convinced that Billie Frechette was the key. He had already experienced enough incompetence during his short tenure as the Chicago SAC to shake his confidence in his team. He knew his boss in Washington D.C. was pleased the Bureau would have another shot at Dillinger, now that he had escaped; Hoover hated thinking that some hick lawmen in the sticks had been able to do something his own team of well-bred young men couldn't. If Purvis somehow got Dillinger in his sights and let him slip away, his career would be as short-lived as that of many of the colorful gangsters currently roaming the Midwest.
"We've got two sets of eyes on her every second," Baum confirmed.
"'Clown Point' has the whole country paying attention," Purvis said, calling the Indiana jail by the nickname Will Rogers had coined. He would never forget Sheriff Holley giving him the wrong license number of her own car when he finally managed to get the shaken and defensive woman on the phone. "Things are gonna get tougher and tougher on all criminals, and that will make 'Johnnie' a lot less popular with his friends here in Chicago," Purvis prophesied.
"You think Nitti will give Dillinger the cold shoulder?" asked Baum. Frank Nitti, the heir to Capone's Chicago outfit, liked to keep a very low profile, unlike Dillinger and his contemporaries.
Purvis nodded. "I hope so. The women might still welcome him, but maybe he won't find it as easy to put a gang together without Pierpoint and Makley." Two of Dillinger's closest associates had been taken with him in Tucson and were now the guests of Ohio prison authorities. It was unlikely either would ever take another breath of free air.
"Carter," Purvis said, intercepting Baum's surreptitious glance at his watch. "It's late. Go home."
"Don't you want to follow up on that tip from Kelly's?"
Shaking his head, Purvis stood up, smoothing the rumples from his expensive jacket with the extended fingers of his right hand. "That was last night. Mr. Dillinger is somewhere else tonight. Somewhere else with someone else." He paused. "And it better not be Billie Frechette."
"It isn't," Baum said. "Reineke doesn't blink."
Purvis nearly shuddered, imagining the pig-like eyes of the wide-necked agent. "I think I'll call my driver and go home myself. I could use some sleep."
It wasn't strange for the man in charge to be the one to close up, on those rare occasions that the office wasn't open all night. Purvis locked the door to his own office first, then switched off the lights and secured the outer door. He didn't fear the thievery of a commonplace intruder, who would probably break the glass or pick the lock anyway. But he couldn't permit carelessness to allow the entry of an ambitious reporter or curious columnist; Chicago's journalists were as aggressive as its criminals. And scandal was to be feared as much as failure. The chairs lining the long hallway outside the office were empty; it was late enough that the pesky reporters had gone home, or more likely, to local drinking establishments. The repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment had done away with the need to frequent the thousands of speakeasies in Chicago.
Despite the noise of traffic as they negotiated the wet streets and the soulful voice of Billie Holliday on the radio, accompanied by President's melodious whistling, Purvis managed to drift off for a brief time during the short ride to his apartment off Michigan Avenue. For a few moments he was back in the warmth of South Carolina, the sun on his face and a summer breeze ruffling his hair as he rode along his favorite bridle path. He was 17 years old with his future ahead of him, and he had never heard the names J. Edgar Hoover or John Dillinger, names that would change his life forever. He was going to be a lawyer, a husband and a father. He had no plan to carry a gun other than the one he used for hunting game, and he had no intention of ever residing anywhere north of Virginia. When the rude sound of a blaring horn broke his reverie, he couldn't help wondering if he would ever experience the same peace he had once known at home.
He doubted it. His chosen course had taken him far afield from the lazy lethargy of the Deep South. His months in Chicago had been fraught with tension, danger and occasional violence. He rarely had even a moment to relax, his sleep often interrupted by urgent calls or insistent raps on his door. He had come face to face with more than one murderer, not to mention kidnappers and gangsters, most of them in his offices on the 19th floor of the Bankers Building, a few of them in his own apartment. His recent meeting with John Dillinger had been on someone else's turf and time clock, but this was an exception, not the rule.
As he got out of the car, he pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears. The weather alone had become a formidable enemy, invading his constitution with its insidious, icy fingers. He had suffered two debilitating colds already that winter, and the last had left him feeling tired and somewhat brittle. He was looking forward to a drink of whiskey when he got to his apartment, to feeling its rope of warmth uncoil in his belly.
He couldn't help wondering if John Dillinger were warm tonight, wherever he was.
He imagined so. Probably much warmer than he was.
When he got upstairs he had to force his key to make it work, and it frustrated him. He had to bite back a curse. The months of stress had certainly done nothing to improve his temperament; it was no wonder his temporary roommate, Skipper McSwain, had been so agreeable when he expressed the desire to move into his own place. He was barely fit company for the little terrier he brought with him from Birmingham, which he ultimately ended up leaving with Skipper. He never knew when he would be home to feed the affectionate little lapdog.
He could hear the phone ringing inside, and he knew who it was before he managed to push the door open and rush to answer.
"Melvin?"
"Yes, Mr. Hoover."
"You're getting home late."
"Yes, sir."
"You must take better care of yourself, or you'll find yourself getting another cold. We can't have that, can we? How can you capture Dillinger if you're unwell?"
"I'm feeling fine, Edgar."
"That's better, Melvin. When I call you at home, I expect to hear you calling me something other than 'Sir' or 'Mister.'"
Purvis sighed. "I know, Edgar. It's difficult. You're the director." He took a deep breath. "You're my boss."
"I'm much more than that, Mel. I'm your friend, aren't I?"
"Yes. Of course you are."
"I want you to be very careful, Melvin. I want you to keep one or two of your men nearby. Dillinger has seen you. It wouldn't be difficult for him to find you."
"He'll be doing his best to keep away from me, sir," Purvis answered, biting off the "sir" that automatically slipped out.
"Melvin. My dear Melvin. I think, as usual, you underestimate your charms."
"I don't know what you mean, Edgar. John Dillinger has no personal interest in me. He sees me as his enemy, plain and simple."
Purvis heard the sound of Hoover clearing his throat at the other end of the line. "I'm sure you hold a great deal of interest for Dillinger, Melvin. The man spent nine years in prison, and he undoubtedly knows a great deal about the company of men. And he certainly never saw anything like you while he was between bars. Until he saw you in Arizona, that is."
"Sir--" Purvis felt his face flush at the implication of Hoover's words. "I think you're giving Dillinger too much credit. He doesn't have your appreciation for the style of a man like myself."
Hoover's voice became even more clipped than usual. "I think I know what I'm talking about, Mel. Dillinger's not a fool. He's managed to outwit most of the law enforcement agencies in this country. Let's make sure he doesn't manage to get his hands on our Number One G-Man."
Purvis' eyes darkened as he stared toward the large window facing Michigan Avenue, aware suddenly of the rivulets of rain streaking the pane and the faint breath of air on the back of his neck from the door left carelessly open behind him.
"I'll call Carter--Agent Baum," he said, forcing his voice to be calm. "Don't worry, Edgar."
"I can't help but worry, Mel. I suggest you call that Cowboy you insisted I transfer to Chicago. That Winstead."
Winstead. The memory of his unflappable face and icy eyes was enough to ease Purvis's racing pulse.
"Yes, Charles. Winstead. I'll call him."
"Do it the minute I hang up," Hoover insisted.
"Yes."
"Good night, Melvin."
"Good night, Edgar."
When he heard the distinctive click on the other end of the line, Purvis dropped the receiver back in its cradle and turned, instead, to the apartment door, slamming it shut and locking it. President, who lived in a room off the small kitchen, had the night off and had his own key. The servant nearly always used an entrance from the back hall, which Purvis now checked to be sure it was secure. He still wore his overcoat and hat, and when he passed a mirror on his way to the bedroom, he suddenly felt ridiculous. He hurried to the front closet and pulled off both, irritated at his nervousness.
It was time for that drink. He didn't give another thought to Hoover's admonishments. The thought of calling Charles Winstead to ask for a bodyguard was completely distasteful. The veteran lawman already scrutinized Chicago's SAC with an expression that reflected something a little south of irony, and it was disconcerting at best, discouraging at worst. Purvis didn't want to seem as young and unseasoned as he was. Although he wasn't hesitant to admit his own fear, he knew he needed to command the respect of his agents; and a man like Winstead could never respect a leader who needed someone to tuck him in at night.
He would find a way to explain it to Hoover.
Or he would simply avoid the subject, somehow.
Purvis went to his liquor cabinet and reached for the crystal decanter of whiskey. He pulled out the stopper and poured three full fingers into one of the heavy tumblers that sat on a silver tray he had brought from home. Before he could raise the glass, he heard the squeak of the floor behind him.
"That's quite a drink. Mind pouring one for me?"
Turning slowly, Purvis arranged his expression to face his unwelcome guest. "Mr. Dillinger," he said, the pitch of his voice barely betraying his surprise, "you must have read my mind."
"Really, Melvin? Were you hoping I'd be here?"
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to wait long to see you again."
John Dillinger smiled, one corner of his mouth climbing higher than the other. That expression had been seen on the front pages of a hundred newspapers and in a half dozen newsreels, most shot when he was taken to jail in Crown Point where he held court in front of an army of reporters. He had gotten a fresh haircut and shaved his mustache since Purvis had seen him in Tucson, making him look younger and somehow fresher.
But the fact they were now staring at one another without the barrier of iron bars made the situation far less comfortable for Melvin Purvis. His pistol was in the pocket of his overcoat, and that was now hanging in the closet. And even if he had a gun within easy reach, he doubted he could bring it to bear before Dillinger managed to make one materialize in his own hand. Purvis was far from being the best shot in the Bureau, while John Dillinger was reported to be an expert with firearms.
Purvis would have to use his wits to get the better of Public Enemy Number One.
"I couldn't wait to see you either, Melvin. I haven't been able to get you out of my mind."
"Why is that, Mr. Dillinger?"
"Pour me that drink and I'll tell you."
Purvis filled another glass, slopping a little whiskey over the rim. He handed it to Dillinger, who nodded and clinked it against the one that Purvis had left sitting on the tray.
"Drink up, Melvin. You look like you could use it."
"Thank you," Purvis said, closing his fingers around the tumbler, lifting it to his lips without a telltale tremor in his hand, then taking a long swallow. He sighed with satisfaction at the subsequent feeling of somewhat fevered fulfillment and the resultant false sense of security. The warmth from the whiskey slowly leaked toward his toes.
"That's fine whiskey, Melvin. I'm not surprised you have the best."
"You were going to tell me something."
"I'd rather say it in the other room. Why don't you bring the bottle?"
Purvis picked up the decanter, wondering if he could use it to bludgeon Dillinger if he managed to get behind him. The man was probably too smart for that, used to watching his back, even with his supposed friends. Dillinger, the smiling mind-reader, stood back and motioned Purvis to walk in front.
"The bedroom, Melvin. That's where I've been waiting for you. I didn't think you'd be so long."
"We've been busy. Looking for you, of course," Purvis said.
"I would have saved you the trouble, you see."
Purvis walked past Dillinger, holding his breath. He suppressed a shudder, expecting something to happen, something sudden.
"You know where the bedroom is," Dillinger said. "You might want to finish that drink."
Purvis did just that as he entered the dimly lit bedroom, setting his empty glass on the bureau and walking to the wall by the window. He noticed the ashtray was empty; Dillinger evidently hadn't been smoking while he waited for Melvin to come home; Purvis remembered Dillinger's gun chewing from their encounter in Arizona. He glanced through the gap in the curtain, noting that the rain had stopped. The lights of the city seemed far away; the window was too far up to be an effective exit.
Dillinger poured more whiskey in both glasses, picking Purvis' up and holding it out. "Don't be a party pooper, Melvin. We're just gettin' started."
"I've had enough," Purvis said.
"Not by a long shot."
"I assure you."
"Do you? Do you assure me, Melvin? What the hell kind of talk is that? Why don't you tell me something about that conversation you had with Mr. Hoover in Washington. What was all that about? Was he 'assuring' you?" Something insistent flickered behind Dillinger's dark eyes. "'Edgar' this and 'Edgar' that," he said. "Why don't you tell me all about your relationship with Edgar?"
Purvis forced himself to smile, an expression that probably looked as stiff as it felt. He wished to God he had a cigarette. "Mr. Hoover and I are . . . friends. We have a lot in common."
"Do you now?"
"He's a gentleman. Something you couldn't possibly appreciate."
"Pick up your goddamned glass and take another drink," Dillinger said coldly. "And I'll tell you what I would appreciate. I would appreciate a little consideration from you, since I've come all this way. It was a long drive from Crown Point, Melvin."
Purvis complied, lifting the glass to his lips. This time his hand had an infinitesimal tremor which he hoped Dillinger didn't notice.
"I think 'Edgar' is your butt buddy, Melvin. I think he likes you because you're such a swell, so damned pretty and you know how to wear an expensive suit the way it should be worn, not to mention that pleasant way you have about you and how nice you look in all those newsreels."
Purvis stood stiffly, staring into his drink, not allowing his eyes to blink. After a few sluggish seconds, he decided to exhibit his justifiable outrage at Dillinger's inference. He shifted his focus to the intruder's face, taking in the famous features, the thick, ironically arched brows, the full mouth and the scar that looked as though it had been hastily etched by God on the man's right cheek. He narrowed his eyes and curled his lip into what he hoped would pass for a sneer, and then he shook his head disapprovingly.
"Really, John," he said, deliberately using Dillinger's Christian name. "That's a pretty poor attempt at an insult."
Dillinger smiled. "Is that so, Melvin? Maybe that's because it's no insult. The fact is, if you're not the man's chicken bait already, you'd probably like to be."
With a quick gulp, Purvis finished his whiskey. He had now had enough in a relatively short span of time to start to feel tipsy.
"You think I'm Hoover's 'chicken'?" he said, his voice a little louder than he had intended. "Is that some prison term for a homosexual? I would think after all those years behind bars, you'd know far more than just the words."
Dillinger's smile looked forced. "You're right about that, Melvin. I know plenty. I was a young man when they stuck me in the joint. And I could hardly go all those years without any release." He sighed. "A man in prison does what he has to do."
"Does he?"
"Sometimes he doesn't have a choice."
Purvis directed his stare at Dillinger's dark eyes. "You certainly have a choice now."
With his right hand, Dillinger swept the hair off his forehead. "I wish that was true, Melvin. I wish you hadn't come to Tucson, that I hadn't seen you in that damn jail. But I did. And so I had to come all this way to see you again."
"And what," Purvis asked, already knowing the answer, "do you want?"
Dillinger smiled, moving closer. "I want the same thing your pal Edgar wants. I want you, Melvin."
Purvis took a long breath through his nose. "You must be joking."
"I don't joke with G-Men," Dillinger said.
"If you intend to . . . to rape me, you'll find it won't be easy." The room was getting uncomfortably stuffy, and the neatly made-up bed stood like a silken monolith in its center.
"Rape you? Really? Are you gonna make me do that?"
"Make you? Do you expect me to simply concede?"
Nodding, Dillinger moved even closer, close enough for Purvis to smell spearmint gum and whiskey. "That would save some time for sure," Dillinger said. "Jesus, Melvin, do you know what it feels like to be here with you? I'm startin' to throb."
"Well, there's nothing I can do for you."
"Nothing? Not even a friendly hand?"
Purvis held his breath, not allowing himself to react.
"What about that pretty mouth of yours, Melvin. How 'bout you bring those pursed lips over here."
"You couldn't be that crass," Purvis protested. "Not even you. I'd never do that."
Dillinger grinned and shook his head. "Relax. I didn't mean that." He reached up and tapped his own lower lip. "I just want a little kiss, Melvin."
"A kiss?" The stuffy room, the whiskey and the proximity of Public Enemy Number One were conspiring to make Chicago's top federal agent light-headed. Purvis fought to catch his breath. "A kiss . . ."
"That's right, Melvin. I think I could take care of the rest of it myself if I could just have one kiss. That would get me through a lot of lonely nights on the road, running and hiding from you fellas with nobody to share my bed . . . or even my back seat. I think I'd take that memory to my grave."
"That's exactly where you're headed," Purvis whispered. "A grave." Dillinger was now inches away.
"Well, even Judas was willing to give Christ a kiss, right in front of all those Romans."
"I don't think--"
"You don't need to think, Melvin. Just close those eyes and lean into me."
Purvis complied almost inadvertently, wobbling toward Dillinger, who grabbed his arms with strong hands. "Ah--"
"Kiss me, Melvin. Oh my god, I want you so bad."
The last words were spoken against Purvis' right cheek as Dillinger eliminated the remaining space between them. They were close to the same height. A slight swivel of his head and Purvis' lips automatically locked against Dillinger's. At first he stood stock still, assessing the situation like an investigator taking an inventory of sensations--steely hand clutching his arm; strong fingers curling around the back of his neck; surprisingly soft lips flattening against his; smooth newly-shaven skin brushing his face and warm, whiskey flavored breath filling his mouth--before allowing himself to participate, to press back, to reach up. Suddenly it was Melvin Purvis who felt insistent pressure in his chest and groin, who wanted to take over and capture Dillinger's willing mouth and track his elusive tongue, the same way he had pursued the man himself across Chicago, driven by the memory of those challenging eyes and that mocking grin assailing him in a Tucson holding cell. Purvis gripped Dillinger's back and pulled the man close enough to brush the front of his expensive and painfully constricting pants.
Now it was Melvin Purvis doing the kissing and John Dillinger reacting.
Purvis was vaguely aware of the sound of moaning, but had no idea if it was Dillinger's or his own. From far away, from the dark, wet Chicago streets far below, he heard a car honking insistently, matching the moans emitted much closer by. Somehow it spurred him on.
He dug his fingers into Dillinger's back.
He used his tongue like an arrow, piercing Dillinger's mouth.
He thrust his pelvis forward, bracing a blunter arrow against a target on Dillinger's hip.
Dillinger started to struggle a little, his spine stiffening, then arching like a bow. Purvis held him for a few beats, his feverish thoughts as clear as ice.
I have him, he thought. I have John Dillinger.
Dillinger was gasping to catch his breath when Purvis finally released him, coming up for air himself.
"Damn, you're one good kisser," Dillinger said. "Better than I thought you'd be."
"Better?"
"Well, let's say more forceful. You surprise me, Melvin."
Purvis took a deep breath. "I imagine I do. And I imagine I could surprise you even more."
Dillinger's raised eyebrow showed his interest. "That so?"
"You said you wanted a kiss, Mr. Dillinger. You got one. And now I assume you're going to go about your business?"
Backing toward the bed, Dillinger sank down. "Maybe. Maybe not. It sounds like you don't really want me to." His dark eyes didn't blink. "And I liked it a lot better when you called me 'John.'"
Purvis sighed, wishing he had another drink, as if he hadn't had too much already. "I think we have limited choices, John. You can leave now and we can both pretend you were never here. Or you can risk having someone show up and find you here, which wouldn't be good for either one of us."
"Well, Edgar's in Washington, right, so it's not like he's comin' over anytime soon. You got another friend who might drop by in the middle of the night?"
"The Director is concerned about my safety. He could send someone over."
"He could."
"Or one of my men could drop by."
"Without calling first?"
"Probably not. But maybe."
Dillinger smiled. "I'll take those odds. We've got a few hours before daylight yet," he drawled. "I say we make good use of 'em."
Purvis folded his arms. "So you're staying?"
"For a while, yeah."
"And I can assume you're not staying for more conversation."
Crossing his legs, Dillinger patted the mattress next to him, allowing his fingers to play over the plush coverlet. "Well, as much as I love that refined voice of yours, I'd rather hear it whispering in my ear right about now. How about another kiss? Maybe we should save some time and try it naked."
Purvis hesitated. "There are things I will not do."
"I think I already know what those are. I can see you're no punk, and neither am I. Let's talk about the things you will do, Melvin. We don't have much time and I don't want to spend it arguing."
"I believe I'll get undressed, then," Purvis said simply. He walked toward the wardrobe that stood on the far wall.
"Just put your things over the chair, Melvin. No closets. No drawers. I'm no Pretty Boy Floyd. I don't want you bein' tempted to turn into a hero, especially if I'm layin' here in my skivvies." He stared up at Purvis. "Now that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it?"
Purvis shrugged and removed his jacket, then went to work on his tightly knotted tie.
"Yes, you are a fine lookin' man," Dillinger said, bending over to pull off his shoes, his eyes trained on Purvis. He undressed in no particular order, slipping off his vest, tossing his pants aside, while Purvis carefully removed his clothes and folded them, hanging his suit over the back of a chair.
Purvis made note of the fact that Dillinger had rescued a handgun from one of his pockets and kept it close to him on the bed. He also noticed the muscular definition in Dillinger's arms and shoulders as the man stripped down to his undershirt.
"What happened to that wooden spoon of yours?" Dillinger asked. "You were certainly stirring me up with that a few minutes ago."
Purvis stood in his shorts across from the bed, barefoot, well aware his erection had subsided. He had a feeling it wouldn't take much time or effort to revive it.
"Look how pretty you are," Dillinger cooed, "all bare-faced and bare-armed. Do you know you have a few freckles on that pale nose of yours? I noticed it back in Tucson, and I wanted to give you a big smooch through the bars."
Dillinger chuckled to himself, and Purvis felt his cheeks burn. He fought the temptation to reach over and pull the chain on the bureau lamp and shroud the dim scene in complete darkness. He had certainly performed a no less appreciative assessment of the outlaw who had invaded his room, even though he hadn't been inclined to wax poetic about the results.
"Let's just lie right here on top of the covers," Dillinger suggested, patting the bed again. "This feels so good, so rich. We don't need a sheet or a blanket. I don't think we'll have enough time to get cold."
Walking toward the bed, Purvis paused and unbuttoned his B.V.D. union suit, pulling it down and stepping free. He stood within reach of Dillinger, his body reacting as if to do just that.
"That's a pretty thing you've got there, Melvin. Elegant even. Just as I would have expected." Dillinger leaned forward and pressed his left cheek against Purvis' burgeoning erection. "Peach fuzz, like a boy. Smooth as silk. So nice."
"I--"
"Come down here on the bed with me. Help me get out of my damn shorts."
Purvis pushed Dillinger backwards and reached for his underwear. He fumbled at the waist, awkwardly untying the ribbon, then pulled down the shorts; afterward, he did the same to Dillinger's socks, first unfastening the garters. He left the undershirt alone, admiring the way it hugged Dillinger's ribs.
"Snuggle up, Melvin. Keep me warm."
"Put the gun on the floor first," Purvis said. "I have no intention of sleeping with that."
Dillinger grinned. "I guess I forgot about that," he said. "You could have grabbed it any time."
Purvis stared into Dillinger's eyes. "I did not come over here to grab your gun," he said. "At least not that one."
"Well, have at the other one, Mel!" Dillinger said, making room on the bed for Purvis. "It's all yours."
It's all mine, Purvis thought. All mine.
He lowered himself on his right hip and stretched out beside Dillinger, extending his left arm across the man's chest. Dillinger's nipples jutted through the thin shirt, and Purvis couldn't help brushing them as he reached over. They felt like fiery little bullets.
"So, you like to be called 'Johnnie,'" Purvis said in a hushed voice.
"Lots of folks call me that," Dillinger admitted.
"Your lovers call you that?"
"Sure. My pals, my girlfriends, my pop."
"She calls you that. Billie Frechette."
Dillinger's eyes, within inches of Purvis' face, narrowed. "You need to leave her out of this, Melvin."
"Oh? Why? You've made no secret of your affection for her."
"You got a tap on her phone, do you? I bet your boys would love to listen to more than that, wouldn't they, Melvin? You want to hear me make her come?"
"Hardly. That doesn't interest me."
"Doesn't it? Aren't you interested in the fairer sex, Melvin? Not at all?"
"I didn't mean that, and you know it. I'm not interested in Billie Frechette or in your relations with her. She's a means to an end."
"She's the woman I love, Melvin. But you knew that already, didn't you?"
Purvis made a sound of impatience; with his left hand he pushed Dillinger flat on his back and then tweaked a nipple, hard, hoping it would affectively silence the current conversation.
"Dammit. That hurts."
"Does it?"
"You gonna hurt me, Melvin? I didn't think that was your style."
"Why don't you close your eyes, John, and tell me exactly what you think my 'style' is. I'm fascinated by the way your mind works."
Dillinger stared at Purvis from under his lashes. "I never close my eyes when I fuck, Melvin. You learn not to when you're in the joint. If some hawk is gonna shank you right before he shoots, you wanna see it comin'."
"Sounds unpleasant."
"It is. There's no romance or roses in stir, and the only candy we have is in a man's ass," Dillinger said, his melodic voice belying the grim words. "The handiest lubrication is blood, which is why so many cons have scars around their assholes. If somebody wants to be nice, he cuts you first."
Purvis took a deep breath. "You don't seem like a brutal man, despite your unfortunate profession."
"If I'm not brutal, it's not because they didn't try to make me that way. Nine fucking years, Melvin."
Nine years for a robbery that netted barely $50; Purvis knew the story well. He had started his law enforcement career as a lawyer; justice was hardly blind, but it was often stupid.
"I bet you've never been hurt in bed," Dillinger said. "Why would you? It's all been hearts and flowers with you."
"I wouldn't go that far," Purvis responded, his mind starting to wander. He pulled it back. "If you won't close your eyes," he said, changing the subject, "then just look at me and be as still as you can. I'm going to make love to you with my finger."
He probably shouldn't have said 'make love,' but he refused to say 'fuck.'
"Your finger?"
"Yes. This finger. Hand me that cold cream next to the bed, please."
With a knowing smile, Dillinger complied, giving Purvis the small jar and watching as Purvis poked his middle finger into the fluffy paste. "Is that your jack off juice, Melvin? You keep it handy, I see."
"Yes," Melvin replied matter-of-factly. "It's perfect for this. Just soothing enough. Just slippery enough." He reached down and ran his hand over Dillinger's penis, slipping his middle finger into the mitre, the slit that sheathed the most sensitive opening on a man's body.
"Oh, Lord. I see," Dillinger said, cringing a little. "You really meant you were gonna use one finger."
"Let's see if you like this as much as I do, John. Or should I call you 'Johnnie'?"
"Call me whatever you damn well please, but I'm not sure I like that at all," Dillinger said. But his stiff organ said different, and Purvis persisted.
"They call this 'the Bishop's hat' or 'the Bishop's eye,'" Purvis said, "because it looks so much like the cleft of a mitre, a religious headdress."
"That's very interesting, Melvin," said Dillinger through clenched teeth. "Thanks for educating me."
"You see how quickly this gets wet. The fluid is nature's preparation. This becomes quite distended and open."
"Jesus Christ, Melvin."
"If I move my finger different ways," Purvis said, describing his continuous but varied manipulation, "running it along the cleft like this, poking at the opening like this or simply flicking it under the glans like so, I can bring you to quite a rampant state."
"Fuck!"
"You want me to squeeze or pull or do something more familiar, more mundane. But I'm not going to, John. I'm going to surprise you, remember?" Purvis pressed his lips against Dillinger's temple; he breathed into the man's ear. "I'm going to delight you," he whispered.
"I'm going to kill you, you bastard," Dillinger said, groaning.
"Not until I'm finished with you."
Dillinger erupted with a stream of invectives as Purvis' finger penetrated the opening. "Lie still!" Purvis commanded. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I've had doctors I wouldn't let do that," Dillinger complained.
"And yet if this were a woman's tongue, you'd lie back and enjoy it. How much is in a man's mind and not his body?"
"Oh, God. That is not in my mind, Melvin. That is . . . unbelievable."
Taking pity, Purvis pulled his finger away and dutifully stroked the shaft for a few minutes. But then he resumed his former occupation, this time finding Dillinger even wetter and more swollen. "That's perfect, Johnnie. You're so ripe."
"Yeah, like a goddamned boil about to pop. My God."
Purvis kissed the damp skin of Dillinger's neck. "It's wonderful what you can do with one finger," he murmured. "The sensation is so strong."
"I can't tell whether I need to piss or to come. And I don't know if I give a damn." Dillinger's legs started to tremble and he gave a low, guttural gurgle. "Melvin," he whispered hoarsely, "you're a naughty boy, aren't you?"
Purvis ignored him. "In a minute I'm going to pull on you, John. Long, firm strokes that will finish you. And when your emission reaches the opening, it's going to feel like lava erupting, very hot and very thick as it bursts through your swollen organ."
"Oh--"
"Very, very hot."
"Yeah."
"And very satisfying."
"Please, Melvin. Christ."
"You're ready, aren't you, John?"
"God, yes. Yes."
"You want me to finish you, don't you?"
"Please."
Purvis whispered into Dillinger's left ear as his finger drilled even deeper than before. "Say that again, John. Say 'please.'"
"Please, Melvin."
And finally Purvis did as he had promised, firmly gripping Dillinger's shaft and stroking from the base. The agitated outlaw ejaculated almost immediately, his legs and back stiffening against the mattress as he moaned with release. He turned his face and groped for Purvis' mouth with his own, demanding another kiss, one that started out frenzied and violent with gnashing teeth and an insistent tongue and ended with nothing more than the tender pressure of swollen lips.
"Oh, Melvin," Dillinger said, many minutes later. "I didn't think that was the hole you were interested in. I thought you had something else in mind."
"I told you," Purvis answered.
"I feel like callin' you 'Sugar' or something along those lines. Would you mind?" He reached toward Purvis' belly. "I should give you a turn," he offered.
"No need. I found your excitement quite satisfactory. I'm surprised you didn't feel the evidence against your leg."
"God, put your arms around me now. I just want to lie here with you, Sugar."
"Yes. Of course."
Purvis wrapped his body around Dillinger's damp limbs, pressing his left cheek against Dillinger's, running his fingers through the thick mop of hair over Dillinger's forehead. "I like the smell of you," he said, breathing in the musky scent of the man mixed with his pungent after-shave.
"Melvin."
"I love this time of tenderness, don't you? I'm sure you haven't felt it much in your lifetime."
"Hell, no. And have you?" Dillinger asked.
After a moment, Purvis said, "No. Not really."
"Who taught you to do that, Melvin? Not some woman, I'll bet."
Purvis sighed. "You know the answer to that already, don't you?"
Dillinger stiffened again, this time with what Purvis guessed was anger. "This situation is fucked," he said.
Purvis nodded, his nose nuzzling Dillinger's ear.
"I should get the hell out of here."
Purvis nodded again.
"I said I should go."
Purvis nodded yet again.
"Fuck you, Melvin."
"John. Johnnie."
Dillinger pushed Purvis away. "Don't start that. We're not gonna start with the violin music, Melvin. We can't."
Purvis sighed. "All right. Let's just lie quietly, then, for a few minutes more. Maybe I'll fall asleep and you'll just get up and go. And that will be the end of it."
"All right, Melvin. That's what we'll do."
As his heart rate and respiration slowed and his flesh cooled, Purvis felt as if a good deal of his fever had been purged. He kept his eyes closed and after several minutes started to feign sleep. He felt the mattress depress and then undulate as Dillinger rolled away and got up. And he was nearly tempted to look up as he felt the man's frame hovering over him, the face lowering, the mouth pressing to his one last time.
"Take care of yourself, Melvin," Dillinger said softly before he left. "Try not to get yourself killed."
Purvis wanted to respond in kind, but there was no point. Dillinger was doomed, and surely they both knew it.
"And don't let that bastard push you around. You don't have to kiss his ass to get ahead. You're obviously your own man."
Before he left, Dillinger carefully pulled the coverlet around Purvis' naked body. "You don't want to catch your death of cold, Melvin."
His concern was eerily reminiscent of Hoover's.
Purvis waited to stir until he heard the outer door close. Then he slowly crawled out of the comfortable nest Dillinger had built around him. Starting to shiver almost immediately, he padded to his wardrobe and grabbed his burgundy dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around him. He picked up the tumblers and what was left of the bottle of whiskey and carried them out of the bedroom. He deposited the glasses in the kitchen sink and ran tap water over them for several minutes. And after making sure the front door was shut and securely locked, he poured himself a fresh drink.
Purvis tried to imagine what it would be like not to tell anyone about the encounter with Dillinger, ever--keeping a lifelong secret from his father and sisters and friends like Skipper McSwain, from the Bureau, from fellow agents like Carter Baum and Charles Winstead, from J. Edgar Hoover.
It wouldn't be his only secret, would it?
Walking to the window, he stared down at Michigan Avenue. The streets were still slick, but empty of traffic or activity. There was no sign of John Dillinger as Melvin Purvis sipped his whiskey and stood there watching.
{fini}
AUTHOR: mistressmarilyn
DATE: August 15, 2009-July 22, 2010
FANDOM: Public Enemies (2009)
PAIRING: Melvin Purvis / John Dillinger / J. Edgar Hoover (Christian Bale, Johnny Depp and Billy Crudup)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They're characters belonging to Bryan Burroughs, Michael Mann and Universal Studios, not to mention the respective actors of the movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: Slash
SUMMARY: Melvin Purvis lets something--or someone--come between his close alliance with Bureau of Investigation Director J. Edgar Hoover.
WORD COUNT: 7,500
AUTHOR NOTES: In 'Public Enemies' Michael Mann fictionalized history, changing the chronology of events, even important ones. This, too, is fiction, speculative fiction based on actual events. And, yes, ultimately this is set in Mann's universe. No disrespect is intended toward Purvis or his remaining surviving son. This story was finally finished on the 76th anniversary of John Dillinger's death.
"Their relationship would be disrupted by a third man--a man who, so many decades later, remains linked to each of them. In this story of three men, the events of March 3, 1934, play a crucial role. What happened that day--what strange, improbable thing happened when a gun crudely carved from wood--set in motion the sweeping drama that would doom the delicate friendship between the director and one of his most loyal charges."
--Alston Purvis, 'The Vendetta'
"Thank you, ma'am, for letting us know."
Agent Carter Baum put down the phone and looked over at his boss. "That was the cigarette girl at Kelly's. She says Dillinger was definitely at the club last night, with some blonde on his arm. Or redhead. She couldn't remember which. But she was just sure it was Dillinger."
"How did she know?"
"She said she'd know him anywhere. She saw pictures of him after the jailbreak."
Melvin Purvis, Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago Bureau of Investigation, sat back in the chair opposite Baum, flicking a pen against his palm. It was late in the evening, and the two had the outer office to themselves. Baum presumably had a young family at home somewhere waiting for him; Purvis was most at home exactly where he was; he had no one waiting but President, the Negro servant who ran errands and sometimes chauffeured him around the busy streets of Chicago in his shiny Pierce-Arrow. An occasional gust of wind tossed fistfuls of rain against the windows, but the agents were oblivious.
"Why is it the women are all sure they know him, but the Chicago PD never seems to recognize him?" Purvis asked, knowing the answer already.
"I'm surprised this one called us. She mentioned he was a great tipper and was very nice looking. She said he gave her a nice smile."
"What do you suppose she liked best, the tip or the smile? I'm surprised she called us instead of the Tribune."
Baum looked away. "I think she saw you in a newsreel, and she thought you were even better looking."
Purvis smiled. "I doubt that," he said, pleased anyway.
"She mentioned she was from Atlanta and she knew the man in charge was a southern gentleman. She likes 'the sound of home.'"
"Ah."
"Do you think Dillinger's really back in Chicago? Maybe he just wants us to think he is."
"Yes I do. There are too many temptations here for him."
The two agents didn't need to enumerate those temptations; they were both aware that John Dillinger, christened 'Public Enemy Number One' by J. Edgar Hoover, the Bureau's director and the nation's new crime czar, liked the nightclubs, dance halls and whore houses of the windy city. He also liked the good roads in and around the city, which served for fast getaways from robberies in nearby Midwest towns.
And then there was Billie Frechette, the French Indian coat-check girl who had captured Dillinger's heart while law enforcement officials from state to state attempted to capture his body. And she had evidently done a better job of holding him; she had been with Dillinger in Tucson, Arizona when he was recently arrested, an accomplishment on the part of the local constabulary that was really more of a happy accident. A small fire had broken out in the hotel where Dillinger and his cohorts were holed up, and emergency workers noticed and reported the suspicious proliferation of weaponry in their rooms. What an embarrassment for the big city cops and Hoover's elite and educated national police force to be outdone by what amounted to an Old West posse!
Dillinger had eventually been extradited to Indiana, to the jail in Crown Point, and there he had pulled off his most outrageous escape yet. He had reportedly fooled the guards with a hand-carved 'gun' and had driven away in the sheriff's Ford V-8. Frechette hadn't been held or charged in Arizona; she was now back in Chicago under the close scrutiny of Purvis' team. After his escape, Dillinger had driven the stolen car across state lines, a crime recently designated a federal offense, which now put him under the official jurisdiction of the Bureau of Investigation.
It was up to Melvin Purvis to find him and take him, just as it had been since Hoover gave him the appointment to head up the Chicago office.
Purvis opened his notebook and reviewed the transcript of Dillinger's recent telephone conversation with Frechette, intercepted by one of Carter Baum's wiretaps. Dillinger made it clear he would return to Chicago to be reunited with Billie, to 'take care of her as he had promised.' Sighing, Purvis leaned back in the wooden stenographer's chair and reflected on how the most wanted man in America believed he could scuttle through the ever-tightening web of law enforcement in and around Chicago to somehow fulfill a promise made in a moment of passion. Dillinger's confidence was one of the keys to his success; it would also be a primary factor in his undoing.
"Don't come to Chicago, Johnnie," Frechette had said to him in their phone conversation.
Johnnie.
Purvis tried to think of the man he had recently confronted through the bars of the holding cell in Tucson as the 'Johnnie' Frechette had spoken to in such familiar terms. In the few moments they spent face-to-face, Dillinger's dark eyes had challenged him, had tested him and even come close to teasing him, albeit with what seemed to be grudging approval. Ultimately, Dillinger had warned him to 'find a new line of work,' calling him by his Christian name, Melvin. It had been a strange, almost surreal moment of intimacy, surrounded as they were by jailers and other agents. Purvis couldn't help wondering what the encounter would have been like without the audience . . . and without the bars.
"You're sure we've got her covered?" Purvis asked, convinced that Billie Frechette was the key. He had already experienced enough incompetence during his short tenure as the Chicago SAC to shake his confidence in his team. He knew his boss in Washington D.C. was pleased the Bureau would have another shot at Dillinger, now that he had escaped; Hoover hated thinking that some hick lawmen in the sticks had been able to do something his own team of well-bred young men couldn't. If Purvis somehow got Dillinger in his sights and let him slip away, his career would be as short-lived as that of many of the colorful gangsters currently roaming the Midwest.
"We've got two sets of eyes on her every second," Baum confirmed.
"'Clown Point' has the whole country paying attention," Purvis said, calling the Indiana jail by the nickname Will Rogers had coined. He would never forget Sheriff Holley giving him the wrong license number of her own car when he finally managed to get the shaken and defensive woman on the phone. "Things are gonna get tougher and tougher on all criminals, and that will make 'Johnnie' a lot less popular with his friends here in Chicago," Purvis prophesied.
"You think Nitti will give Dillinger the cold shoulder?" asked Baum. Frank Nitti, the heir to Capone's Chicago outfit, liked to keep a very low profile, unlike Dillinger and his contemporaries.
Purvis nodded. "I hope so. The women might still welcome him, but maybe he won't find it as easy to put a gang together without Pierpoint and Makley." Two of Dillinger's closest associates had been taken with him in Tucson and were now the guests of Ohio prison authorities. It was unlikely either would ever take another breath of free air.
"Carter," Purvis said, intercepting Baum's surreptitious glance at his watch. "It's late. Go home."
"Don't you want to follow up on that tip from Kelly's?"
Shaking his head, Purvis stood up, smoothing the rumples from his expensive jacket with the extended fingers of his right hand. "That was last night. Mr. Dillinger is somewhere else tonight. Somewhere else with someone else." He paused. "And it better not be Billie Frechette."
"It isn't," Baum said. "Reineke doesn't blink."
Purvis nearly shuddered, imagining the pig-like eyes of the wide-necked agent. "I think I'll call my driver and go home myself. I could use some sleep."
It wasn't strange for the man in charge to be the one to close up, on those rare occasions that the office wasn't open all night. Purvis locked the door to his own office first, then switched off the lights and secured the outer door. He didn't fear the thievery of a commonplace intruder, who would probably break the glass or pick the lock anyway. But he couldn't permit carelessness to allow the entry of an ambitious reporter or curious columnist; Chicago's journalists were as aggressive as its criminals. And scandal was to be feared as much as failure. The chairs lining the long hallway outside the office were empty; it was late enough that the pesky reporters had gone home, or more likely, to local drinking establishments. The repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment had done away with the need to frequent the thousands of speakeasies in Chicago.
Despite the noise of traffic as they negotiated the wet streets and the soulful voice of Billie Holliday on the radio, accompanied by President's melodious whistling, Purvis managed to drift off for a brief time during the short ride to his apartment off Michigan Avenue. For a few moments he was back in the warmth of South Carolina, the sun on his face and a summer breeze ruffling his hair as he rode along his favorite bridle path. He was 17 years old with his future ahead of him, and he had never heard the names J. Edgar Hoover or John Dillinger, names that would change his life forever. He was going to be a lawyer, a husband and a father. He had no plan to carry a gun other than the one he used for hunting game, and he had no intention of ever residing anywhere north of Virginia. When the rude sound of a blaring horn broke his reverie, he couldn't help wondering if he would ever experience the same peace he had once known at home.
He doubted it. His chosen course had taken him far afield from the lazy lethargy of the Deep South. His months in Chicago had been fraught with tension, danger and occasional violence. He rarely had even a moment to relax, his sleep often interrupted by urgent calls or insistent raps on his door. He had come face to face with more than one murderer, not to mention kidnappers and gangsters, most of them in his offices on the 19th floor of the Bankers Building, a few of them in his own apartment. His recent meeting with John Dillinger had been on someone else's turf and time clock, but this was an exception, not the rule.
As he got out of the car, he pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears. The weather alone had become a formidable enemy, invading his constitution with its insidious, icy fingers. He had suffered two debilitating colds already that winter, and the last had left him feeling tired and somewhat brittle. He was looking forward to a drink of whiskey when he got to his apartment, to feeling its rope of warmth uncoil in his belly.
He couldn't help wondering if John Dillinger were warm tonight, wherever he was.
He imagined so. Probably much warmer than he was.
When he got upstairs he had to force his key to make it work, and it frustrated him. He had to bite back a curse. The months of stress had certainly done nothing to improve his temperament; it was no wonder his temporary roommate, Skipper McSwain, had been so agreeable when he expressed the desire to move into his own place. He was barely fit company for the little terrier he brought with him from Birmingham, which he ultimately ended up leaving with Skipper. He never knew when he would be home to feed the affectionate little lapdog.
He could hear the phone ringing inside, and he knew who it was before he managed to push the door open and rush to answer.
"Melvin?"
"Yes, Mr. Hoover."
"You're getting home late."
"Yes, sir."
"You must take better care of yourself, or you'll find yourself getting another cold. We can't have that, can we? How can you capture Dillinger if you're unwell?"
"I'm feeling fine, Edgar."
"That's better, Melvin. When I call you at home, I expect to hear you calling me something other than 'Sir' or 'Mister.'"
Purvis sighed. "I know, Edgar. It's difficult. You're the director." He took a deep breath. "You're my boss."
"I'm much more than that, Mel. I'm your friend, aren't I?"
"Yes. Of course you are."
"I want you to be very careful, Melvin. I want you to keep one or two of your men nearby. Dillinger has seen you. It wouldn't be difficult for him to find you."
"He'll be doing his best to keep away from me, sir," Purvis answered, biting off the "sir" that automatically slipped out.
"Melvin. My dear Melvin. I think, as usual, you underestimate your charms."
"I don't know what you mean, Edgar. John Dillinger has no personal interest in me. He sees me as his enemy, plain and simple."
Purvis heard the sound of Hoover clearing his throat at the other end of the line. "I'm sure you hold a great deal of interest for Dillinger, Melvin. The man spent nine years in prison, and he undoubtedly knows a great deal about the company of men. And he certainly never saw anything like you while he was between bars. Until he saw you in Arizona, that is."
"Sir--" Purvis felt his face flush at the implication of Hoover's words. "I think you're giving Dillinger too much credit. He doesn't have your appreciation for the style of a man like myself."
Hoover's voice became even more clipped than usual. "I think I know what I'm talking about, Mel. Dillinger's not a fool. He's managed to outwit most of the law enforcement agencies in this country. Let's make sure he doesn't manage to get his hands on our Number One G-Man."
Purvis' eyes darkened as he stared toward the large window facing Michigan Avenue, aware suddenly of the rivulets of rain streaking the pane and the faint breath of air on the back of his neck from the door left carelessly open behind him.
"I'll call Carter--Agent Baum," he said, forcing his voice to be calm. "Don't worry, Edgar."
"I can't help but worry, Mel. I suggest you call that Cowboy you insisted I transfer to Chicago. That Winstead."
Winstead. The memory of his unflappable face and icy eyes was enough to ease Purvis's racing pulse.
"Yes, Charles. Winstead. I'll call him."
"Do it the minute I hang up," Hoover insisted.
"Yes."
"Good night, Melvin."
"Good night, Edgar."
When he heard the distinctive click on the other end of the line, Purvis dropped the receiver back in its cradle and turned, instead, to the apartment door, slamming it shut and locking it. President, who lived in a room off the small kitchen, had the night off and had his own key. The servant nearly always used an entrance from the back hall, which Purvis now checked to be sure it was secure. He still wore his overcoat and hat, and when he passed a mirror on his way to the bedroom, he suddenly felt ridiculous. He hurried to the front closet and pulled off both, irritated at his nervousness.
It was time for that drink. He didn't give another thought to Hoover's admonishments. The thought of calling Charles Winstead to ask for a bodyguard was completely distasteful. The veteran lawman already scrutinized Chicago's SAC with an expression that reflected something a little south of irony, and it was disconcerting at best, discouraging at worst. Purvis didn't want to seem as young and unseasoned as he was. Although he wasn't hesitant to admit his own fear, he knew he needed to command the respect of his agents; and a man like Winstead could never respect a leader who needed someone to tuck him in at night.
He would find a way to explain it to Hoover.
Or he would simply avoid the subject, somehow.
Purvis went to his liquor cabinet and reached for the crystal decanter of whiskey. He pulled out the stopper and poured three full fingers into one of the heavy tumblers that sat on a silver tray he had brought from home. Before he could raise the glass, he heard the squeak of the floor behind him.
"That's quite a drink. Mind pouring one for me?"
Turning slowly, Purvis arranged his expression to face his unwelcome guest. "Mr. Dillinger," he said, the pitch of his voice barely betraying his surprise, "you must have read my mind."
"Really, Melvin? Were you hoping I'd be here?"
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to wait long to see you again."
John Dillinger smiled, one corner of his mouth climbing higher than the other. That expression had been seen on the front pages of a hundred newspapers and in a half dozen newsreels, most shot when he was taken to jail in Crown Point where he held court in front of an army of reporters. He had gotten a fresh haircut and shaved his mustache since Purvis had seen him in Tucson, making him look younger and somehow fresher.
But the fact they were now staring at one another without the barrier of iron bars made the situation far less comfortable for Melvin Purvis. His pistol was in the pocket of his overcoat, and that was now hanging in the closet. And even if he had a gun within easy reach, he doubted he could bring it to bear before Dillinger managed to make one materialize in his own hand. Purvis was far from being the best shot in the Bureau, while John Dillinger was reported to be an expert with firearms.
Purvis would have to use his wits to get the better of Public Enemy Number One.
"I couldn't wait to see you either, Melvin. I haven't been able to get you out of my mind."
"Why is that, Mr. Dillinger?"
"Pour me that drink and I'll tell you."
Purvis filled another glass, slopping a little whiskey over the rim. He handed it to Dillinger, who nodded and clinked it against the one that Purvis had left sitting on the tray.
"Drink up, Melvin. You look like you could use it."
"Thank you," Purvis said, closing his fingers around the tumbler, lifting it to his lips without a telltale tremor in his hand, then taking a long swallow. He sighed with satisfaction at the subsequent feeling of somewhat fevered fulfillment and the resultant false sense of security. The warmth from the whiskey slowly leaked toward his toes.
"That's fine whiskey, Melvin. I'm not surprised you have the best."
"You were going to tell me something."
"I'd rather say it in the other room. Why don't you bring the bottle?"
Purvis picked up the decanter, wondering if he could use it to bludgeon Dillinger if he managed to get behind him. The man was probably too smart for that, used to watching his back, even with his supposed friends. Dillinger, the smiling mind-reader, stood back and motioned Purvis to walk in front.
"The bedroom, Melvin. That's where I've been waiting for you. I didn't think you'd be so long."
"We've been busy. Looking for you, of course," Purvis said.
"I would have saved you the trouble, you see."
Purvis walked past Dillinger, holding his breath. He suppressed a shudder, expecting something to happen, something sudden.
"You know where the bedroom is," Dillinger said. "You might want to finish that drink."
Purvis did just that as he entered the dimly lit bedroom, setting his empty glass on the bureau and walking to the wall by the window. He noticed the ashtray was empty; Dillinger evidently hadn't been smoking while he waited for Melvin to come home; Purvis remembered Dillinger's gun chewing from their encounter in Arizona. He glanced through the gap in the curtain, noting that the rain had stopped. The lights of the city seemed far away; the window was too far up to be an effective exit.
Dillinger poured more whiskey in both glasses, picking Purvis' up and holding it out. "Don't be a party pooper, Melvin. We're just gettin' started."
"I've had enough," Purvis said.
"Not by a long shot."
"I assure you."
"Do you? Do you assure me, Melvin? What the hell kind of talk is that? Why don't you tell me something about that conversation you had with Mr. Hoover in Washington. What was all that about? Was he 'assuring' you?" Something insistent flickered behind Dillinger's dark eyes. "'Edgar' this and 'Edgar' that," he said. "Why don't you tell me all about your relationship with Edgar?"
Purvis forced himself to smile, an expression that probably looked as stiff as it felt. He wished to God he had a cigarette. "Mr. Hoover and I are . . . friends. We have a lot in common."
"Do you now?"
"He's a gentleman. Something you couldn't possibly appreciate."
"Pick up your goddamned glass and take another drink," Dillinger said coldly. "And I'll tell you what I would appreciate. I would appreciate a little consideration from you, since I've come all this way. It was a long drive from Crown Point, Melvin."
Purvis complied, lifting the glass to his lips. This time his hand had an infinitesimal tremor which he hoped Dillinger didn't notice.
"I think 'Edgar' is your butt buddy, Melvin. I think he likes you because you're such a swell, so damned pretty and you know how to wear an expensive suit the way it should be worn, not to mention that pleasant way you have about you and how nice you look in all those newsreels."
Purvis stood stiffly, staring into his drink, not allowing his eyes to blink. After a few sluggish seconds, he decided to exhibit his justifiable outrage at Dillinger's inference. He shifted his focus to the intruder's face, taking in the famous features, the thick, ironically arched brows, the full mouth and the scar that looked as though it had been hastily etched by God on the man's right cheek. He narrowed his eyes and curled his lip into what he hoped would pass for a sneer, and then he shook his head disapprovingly.
"Really, John," he said, deliberately using Dillinger's Christian name. "That's a pretty poor attempt at an insult."
Dillinger smiled. "Is that so, Melvin? Maybe that's because it's no insult. The fact is, if you're not the man's chicken bait already, you'd probably like to be."
With a quick gulp, Purvis finished his whiskey. He had now had enough in a relatively short span of time to start to feel tipsy.
"You think I'm Hoover's 'chicken'?" he said, his voice a little louder than he had intended. "Is that some prison term for a homosexual? I would think after all those years behind bars, you'd know far more than just the words."
Dillinger's smile looked forced. "You're right about that, Melvin. I know plenty. I was a young man when they stuck me in the joint. And I could hardly go all those years without any release." He sighed. "A man in prison does what he has to do."
"Does he?"
"Sometimes he doesn't have a choice."
Purvis directed his stare at Dillinger's dark eyes. "You certainly have a choice now."
With his right hand, Dillinger swept the hair off his forehead. "I wish that was true, Melvin. I wish you hadn't come to Tucson, that I hadn't seen you in that damn jail. But I did. And so I had to come all this way to see you again."
"And what," Purvis asked, already knowing the answer, "do you want?"
Dillinger smiled, moving closer. "I want the same thing your pal Edgar wants. I want you, Melvin."
Purvis took a long breath through his nose. "You must be joking."
"I don't joke with G-Men," Dillinger said.
"If you intend to . . . to rape me, you'll find it won't be easy." The room was getting uncomfortably stuffy, and the neatly made-up bed stood like a silken monolith in its center.
"Rape you? Really? Are you gonna make me do that?"
"Make you? Do you expect me to simply concede?"
Nodding, Dillinger moved even closer, close enough for Purvis to smell spearmint gum and whiskey. "That would save some time for sure," Dillinger said. "Jesus, Melvin, do you know what it feels like to be here with you? I'm startin' to throb."
"Well, there's nothing I can do for you."
"Nothing? Not even a friendly hand?"
Purvis held his breath, not allowing himself to react.
"What about that pretty mouth of yours, Melvin. How 'bout you bring those pursed lips over here."
"You couldn't be that crass," Purvis protested. "Not even you. I'd never do that."
Dillinger grinned and shook his head. "Relax. I didn't mean that." He reached up and tapped his own lower lip. "I just want a little kiss, Melvin."
"A kiss?" The stuffy room, the whiskey and the proximity of Public Enemy Number One were conspiring to make Chicago's top federal agent light-headed. Purvis fought to catch his breath. "A kiss . . ."
"That's right, Melvin. I think I could take care of the rest of it myself if I could just have one kiss. That would get me through a lot of lonely nights on the road, running and hiding from you fellas with nobody to share my bed . . . or even my back seat. I think I'd take that memory to my grave."
"That's exactly where you're headed," Purvis whispered. "A grave." Dillinger was now inches away.
"Well, even Judas was willing to give Christ a kiss, right in front of all those Romans."
"I don't think--"
"You don't need to think, Melvin. Just close those eyes and lean into me."
Purvis complied almost inadvertently, wobbling toward Dillinger, who grabbed his arms with strong hands. "Ah--"
"Kiss me, Melvin. Oh my god, I want you so bad."
The last words were spoken against Purvis' right cheek as Dillinger eliminated the remaining space between them. They were close to the same height. A slight swivel of his head and Purvis' lips automatically locked against Dillinger's. At first he stood stock still, assessing the situation like an investigator taking an inventory of sensations--steely hand clutching his arm; strong fingers curling around the back of his neck; surprisingly soft lips flattening against his; smooth newly-shaven skin brushing his face and warm, whiskey flavored breath filling his mouth--before allowing himself to participate, to press back, to reach up. Suddenly it was Melvin Purvis who felt insistent pressure in his chest and groin, who wanted to take over and capture Dillinger's willing mouth and track his elusive tongue, the same way he had pursued the man himself across Chicago, driven by the memory of those challenging eyes and that mocking grin assailing him in a Tucson holding cell. Purvis gripped Dillinger's back and pulled the man close enough to brush the front of his expensive and painfully constricting pants.
Now it was Melvin Purvis doing the kissing and John Dillinger reacting.
Purvis was vaguely aware of the sound of moaning, but had no idea if it was Dillinger's or his own. From far away, from the dark, wet Chicago streets far below, he heard a car honking insistently, matching the moans emitted much closer by. Somehow it spurred him on.
He dug his fingers into Dillinger's back.
He used his tongue like an arrow, piercing Dillinger's mouth.
He thrust his pelvis forward, bracing a blunter arrow against a target on Dillinger's hip.
Dillinger started to struggle a little, his spine stiffening, then arching like a bow. Purvis held him for a few beats, his feverish thoughts as clear as ice.
I have him, he thought. I have John Dillinger.
Dillinger was gasping to catch his breath when Purvis finally released him, coming up for air himself.
"Damn, you're one good kisser," Dillinger said. "Better than I thought you'd be."
"Better?"
"Well, let's say more forceful. You surprise me, Melvin."
Purvis took a deep breath. "I imagine I do. And I imagine I could surprise you even more."
Dillinger's raised eyebrow showed his interest. "That so?"
"You said you wanted a kiss, Mr. Dillinger. You got one. And now I assume you're going to go about your business?"
Backing toward the bed, Dillinger sank down. "Maybe. Maybe not. It sounds like you don't really want me to." His dark eyes didn't blink. "And I liked it a lot better when you called me 'John.'"
Purvis sighed, wishing he had another drink, as if he hadn't had too much already. "I think we have limited choices, John. You can leave now and we can both pretend you were never here. Or you can risk having someone show up and find you here, which wouldn't be good for either one of us."
"Well, Edgar's in Washington, right, so it's not like he's comin' over anytime soon. You got another friend who might drop by in the middle of the night?"
"The Director is concerned about my safety. He could send someone over."
"He could."
"Or one of my men could drop by."
"Without calling first?"
"Probably not. But maybe."
Dillinger smiled. "I'll take those odds. We've got a few hours before daylight yet," he drawled. "I say we make good use of 'em."
Purvis folded his arms. "So you're staying?"
"For a while, yeah."
"And I can assume you're not staying for more conversation."
Crossing his legs, Dillinger patted the mattress next to him, allowing his fingers to play over the plush coverlet. "Well, as much as I love that refined voice of yours, I'd rather hear it whispering in my ear right about now. How about another kiss? Maybe we should save some time and try it naked."
Purvis hesitated. "There are things I will not do."
"I think I already know what those are. I can see you're no punk, and neither am I. Let's talk about the things you will do, Melvin. We don't have much time and I don't want to spend it arguing."
"I believe I'll get undressed, then," Purvis said simply. He walked toward the wardrobe that stood on the far wall.
"Just put your things over the chair, Melvin. No closets. No drawers. I'm no Pretty Boy Floyd. I don't want you bein' tempted to turn into a hero, especially if I'm layin' here in my skivvies." He stared up at Purvis. "Now that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it?"
Purvis shrugged and removed his jacket, then went to work on his tightly knotted tie.
"Yes, you are a fine lookin' man," Dillinger said, bending over to pull off his shoes, his eyes trained on Purvis. He undressed in no particular order, slipping off his vest, tossing his pants aside, while Purvis carefully removed his clothes and folded them, hanging his suit over the back of a chair.
Purvis made note of the fact that Dillinger had rescued a handgun from one of his pockets and kept it close to him on the bed. He also noticed the muscular definition in Dillinger's arms and shoulders as the man stripped down to his undershirt.
"What happened to that wooden spoon of yours?" Dillinger asked. "You were certainly stirring me up with that a few minutes ago."
Purvis stood in his shorts across from the bed, barefoot, well aware his erection had subsided. He had a feeling it wouldn't take much time or effort to revive it.
"Look how pretty you are," Dillinger cooed, "all bare-faced and bare-armed. Do you know you have a few freckles on that pale nose of yours? I noticed it back in Tucson, and I wanted to give you a big smooch through the bars."
Dillinger chuckled to himself, and Purvis felt his cheeks burn. He fought the temptation to reach over and pull the chain on the bureau lamp and shroud the dim scene in complete darkness. He had certainly performed a no less appreciative assessment of the outlaw who had invaded his room, even though he hadn't been inclined to wax poetic about the results.
"Let's just lie right here on top of the covers," Dillinger suggested, patting the bed again. "This feels so good, so rich. We don't need a sheet or a blanket. I don't think we'll have enough time to get cold."
Walking toward the bed, Purvis paused and unbuttoned his B.V.D. union suit, pulling it down and stepping free. He stood within reach of Dillinger, his body reacting as if to do just that.
"That's a pretty thing you've got there, Melvin. Elegant even. Just as I would have expected." Dillinger leaned forward and pressed his left cheek against Purvis' burgeoning erection. "Peach fuzz, like a boy. Smooth as silk. So nice."
"I--"
"Come down here on the bed with me. Help me get out of my damn shorts."
Purvis pushed Dillinger backwards and reached for his underwear. He fumbled at the waist, awkwardly untying the ribbon, then pulled down the shorts; afterward, he did the same to Dillinger's socks, first unfastening the garters. He left the undershirt alone, admiring the way it hugged Dillinger's ribs.
"Snuggle up, Melvin. Keep me warm."
"Put the gun on the floor first," Purvis said. "I have no intention of sleeping with that."
Dillinger grinned. "I guess I forgot about that," he said. "You could have grabbed it any time."
Purvis stared into Dillinger's eyes. "I did not come over here to grab your gun," he said. "At least not that one."
"Well, have at the other one, Mel!" Dillinger said, making room on the bed for Purvis. "It's all yours."
It's all mine, Purvis thought. All mine.
He lowered himself on his right hip and stretched out beside Dillinger, extending his left arm across the man's chest. Dillinger's nipples jutted through the thin shirt, and Purvis couldn't help brushing them as he reached over. They felt like fiery little bullets.
"So, you like to be called 'Johnnie,'" Purvis said in a hushed voice.
"Lots of folks call me that," Dillinger admitted.
"Your lovers call you that?"
"Sure. My pals, my girlfriends, my pop."
"She calls you that. Billie Frechette."
Dillinger's eyes, within inches of Purvis' face, narrowed. "You need to leave her out of this, Melvin."
"Oh? Why? You've made no secret of your affection for her."
"You got a tap on her phone, do you? I bet your boys would love to listen to more than that, wouldn't they, Melvin? You want to hear me make her come?"
"Hardly. That doesn't interest me."
"Doesn't it? Aren't you interested in the fairer sex, Melvin? Not at all?"
"I didn't mean that, and you know it. I'm not interested in Billie Frechette or in your relations with her. She's a means to an end."
"She's the woman I love, Melvin. But you knew that already, didn't you?"
Purvis made a sound of impatience; with his left hand he pushed Dillinger flat on his back and then tweaked a nipple, hard, hoping it would affectively silence the current conversation.
"Dammit. That hurts."
"Does it?"
"You gonna hurt me, Melvin? I didn't think that was your style."
"Why don't you close your eyes, John, and tell me exactly what you think my 'style' is. I'm fascinated by the way your mind works."
Dillinger stared at Purvis from under his lashes. "I never close my eyes when I fuck, Melvin. You learn not to when you're in the joint. If some hawk is gonna shank you right before he shoots, you wanna see it comin'."
"Sounds unpleasant."
"It is. There's no romance or roses in stir, and the only candy we have is in a man's ass," Dillinger said, his melodic voice belying the grim words. "The handiest lubrication is blood, which is why so many cons have scars around their assholes. If somebody wants to be nice, he cuts you first."
Purvis took a deep breath. "You don't seem like a brutal man, despite your unfortunate profession."
"If I'm not brutal, it's not because they didn't try to make me that way. Nine fucking years, Melvin."
Nine years for a robbery that netted barely $50; Purvis knew the story well. He had started his law enforcement career as a lawyer; justice was hardly blind, but it was often stupid.
"I bet you've never been hurt in bed," Dillinger said. "Why would you? It's all been hearts and flowers with you."
"I wouldn't go that far," Purvis responded, his mind starting to wander. He pulled it back. "If you won't close your eyes," he said, changing the subject, "then just look at me and be as still as you can. I'm going to make love to you with my finger."
He probably shouldn't have said 'make love,' but he refused to say 'fuck.'
"Your finger?"
"Yes. This finger. Hand me that cold cream next to the bed, please."
With a knowing smile, Dillinger complied, giving Purvis the small jar and watching as Purvis poked his middle finger into the fluffy paste. "Is that your jack off juice, Melvin? You keep it handy, I see."
"Yes," Melvin replied matter-of-factly. "It's perfect for this. Just soothing enough. Just slippery enough." He reached down and ran his hand over Dillinger's penis, slipping his middle finger into the mitre, the slit that sheathed the most sensitive opening on a man's body.
"Oh, Lord. I see," Dillinger said, cringing a little. "You really meant you were gonna use one finger."
"Let's see if you like this as much as I do, John. Or should I call you 'Johnnie'?"
"Call me whatever you damn well please, but I'm not sure I like that at all," Dillinger said. But his stiff organ said different, and Purvis persisted.
"They call this 'the Bishop's hat' or 'the Bishop's eye,'" Purvis said, "because it looks so much like the cleft of a mitre, a religious headdress."
"That's very interesting, Melvin," said Dillinger through clenched teeth. "Thanks for educating me."
"You see how quickly this gets wet. The fluid is nature's preparation. This becomes quite distended and open."
"Jesus Christ, Melvin."
"If I move my finger different ways," Purvis said, describing his continuous but varied manipulation, "running it along the cleft like this, poking at the opening like this or simply flicking it under the glans like so, I can bring you to quite a rampant state."
"Fuck!"
"You want me to squeeze or pull or do something more familiar, more mundane. But I'm not going to, John. I'm going to surprise you, remember?" Purvis pressed his lips against Dillinger's temple; he breathed into the man's ear. "I'm going to delight you," he whispered.
"I'm going to kill you, you bastard," Dillinger said, groaning.
"Not until I'm finished with you."
Dillinger erupted with a stream of invectives as Purvis' finger penetrated the opening. "Lie still!" Purvis commanded. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I've had doctors I wouldn't let do that," Dillinger complained.
"And yet if this were a woman's tongue, you'd lie back and enjoy it. How much is in a man's mind and not his body?"
"Oh, God. That is not in my mind, Melvin. That is . . . unbelievable."
Taking pity, Purvis pulled his finger away and dutifully stroked the shaft for a few minutes. But then he resumed his former occupation, this time finding Dillinger even wetter and more swollen. "That's perfect, Johnnie. You're so ripe."
"Yeah, like a goddamned boil about to pop. My God."
Purvis kissed the damp skin of Dillinger's neck. "It's wonderful what you can do with one finger," he murmured. "The sensation is so strong."
"I can't tell whether I need to piss or to come. And I don't know if I give a damn." Dillinger's legs started to tremble and he gave a low, guttural gurgle. "Melvin," he whispered hoarsely, "you're a naughty boy, aren't you?"
Purvis ignored him. "In a minute I'm going to pull on you, John. Long, firm strokes that will finish you. And when your emission reaches the opening, it's going to feel like lava erupting, very hot and very thick as it bursts through your swollen organ."
"Oh--"
"Very, very hot."
"Yeah."
"And very satisfying."
"Please, Melvin. Christ."
"You're ready, aren't you, John?"
"God, yes. Yes."
"You want me to finish you, don't you?"
"Please."
Purvis whispered into Dillinger's left ear as his finger drilled even deeper than before. "Say that again, John. Say 'please.'"
"Please, Melvin."
And finally Purvis did as he had promised, firmly gripping Dillinger's shaft and stroking from the base. The agitated outlaw ejaculated almost immediately, his legs and back stiffening against the mattress as he moaned with release. He turned his face and groped for Purvis' mouth with his own, demanding another kiss, one that started out frenzied and violent with gnashing teeth and an insistent tongue and ended with nothing more than the tender pressure of swollen lips.
"Oh, Melvin," Dillinger said, many minutes later. "I didn't think that was the hole you were interested in. I thought you had something else in mind."
"I told you," Purvis answered.
"I feel like callin' you 'Sugar' or something along those lines. Would you mind?" He reached toward Purvis' belly. "I should give you a turn," he offered.
"No need. I found your excitement quite satisfactory. I'm surprised you didn't feel the evidence against your leg."
"God, put your arms around me now. I just want to lie here with you, Sugar."
"Yes. Of course."
Purvis wrapped his body around Dillinger's damp limbs, pressing his left cheek against Dillinger's, running his fingers through the thick mop of hair over Dillinger's forehead. "I like the smell of you," he said, breathing in the musky scent of the man mixed with his pungent after-shave.
"Melvin."
"I love this time of tenderness, don't you? I'm sure you haven't felt it much in your lifetime."
"Hell, no. And have you?" Dillinger asked.
After a moment, Purvis said, "No. Not really."
"Who taught you to do that, Melvin? Not some woman, I'll bet."
Purvis sighed. "You know the answer to that already, don't you?"
Dillinger stiffened again, this time with what Purvis guessed was anger. "This situation is fucked," he said.
Purvis nodded, his nose nuzzling Dillinger's ear.
"I should get the hell out of here."
Purvis nodded again.
"I said I should go."
Purvis nodded yet again.
"Fuck you, Melvin."
"John. Johnnie."
Dillinger pushed Purvis away. "Don't start that. We're not gonna start with the violin music, Melvin. We can't."
Purvis sighed. "All right. Let's just lie quietly, then, for a few minutes more. Maybe I'll fall asleep and you'll just get up and go. And that will be the end of it."
"All right, Melvin. That's what we'll do."
As his heart rate and respiration slowed and his flesh cooled, Purvis felt as if a good deal of his fever had been purged. He kept his eyes closed and after several minutes started to feign sleep. He felt the mattress depress and then undulate as Dillinger rolled away and got up. And he was nearly tempted to look up as he felt the man's frame hovering over him, the face lowering, the mouth pressing to his one last time.
"Take care of yourself, Melvin," Dillinger said softly before he left. "Try not to get yourself killed."
Purvis wanted to respond in kind, but there was no point. Dillinger was doomed, and surely they both knew it.
"And don't let that bastard push you around. You don't have to kiss his ass to get ahead. You're obviously your own man."
Before he left, Dillinger carefully pulled the coverlet around Purvis' naked body. "You don't want to catch your death of cold, Melvin."
His concern was eerily reminiscent of Hoover's.
Purvis waited to stir until he heard the outer door close. Then he slowly crawled out of the comfortable nest Dillinger had built around him. Starting to shiver almost immediately, he padded to his wardrobe and grabbed his burgundy dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around him. He picked up the tumblers and what was left of the bottle of whiskey and carried them out of the bedroom. He deposited the glasses in the kitchen sink and ran tap water over them for several minutes. And after making sure the front door was shut and securely locked, he poured himself a fresh drink.
Purvis tried to imagine what it would be like not to tell anyone about the encounter with Dillinger, ever--keeping a lifelong secret from his father and sisters and friends like Skipper McSwain, from the Bureau, from fellow agents like Carter Baum and Charles Winstead, from J. Edgar Hoover.
It wouldn't be his only secret, would it?
Walking to the window, he stared down at Michigan Avenue. The streets were still slick, but empty of traffic or activity. There was no sign of John Dillinger as Melvin Purvis sipped his whiskey and stood there watching.
{fini}