Free Red Highway by Loren D. Estleman

bulletin put out by the Stillwater police that had turned the trick; he’d barely had time to ditch it and buy the Buick before every damn cop in town had zeroed in on his trail. But he couldn’t complain about the used heap, for it had been in his possession over a year without incident. He was glad nobody had seen him leaving the drugstore back in Okmulgee, or he would have to give up this one, too.
    It was January, 1927, the dawn of a new year, but Tulsa hadn’t changed. Bigger, perhaps, than when he had last seen it, and noisier; Virgil didn’t notice it. The multi-laned streets were no less confusing than they had ever been, and the skyscrapers still reached high into the air on both sides, making a tunnel of the broad avenue. A few buildings had been added since his last visit, their clean new facades contrasting sharply against the drab grays and browns of the edifices around them. Not far away, construction was under way on still newer buildings. Bricks and lumber and equipment and bags of cement were piled in stacks in the center of vacant lots and near half-finished foundations, some of the stacks spilling over onto the sidewalks. Some rich bastards showing off their millions, thought Virgil, and turned the corner. The big business boom had infected everybody. Including bank robbers.
    There were numerous hotels in the area, any one of which would have been suitable for Virgil, had it not been for their rates. It had been a long time since his last big score, and he had long since gone through his cut from the Farrell days. He was searching for a more rundown building, the kind that advertised low rates. Something between a flophouse and the Savoy. With this in mind, he guided the car away from the downtown area and toward the poorer section of Tulsa.
    It was fortunate for Officer William Creiderman that he was standing near a telephone booth when the blue Buick came down his street. He had just stepped out the door of the Atlas Cafe, his stomach comfortably packed full of doughnuts, and was frowning at the coffee spots on the front of his blue uniform tunic when the sound of tires squeaking on the wet pavement made him look up. He eyed the car, looked up at the driver, and blinked.
    He had seen that profile just a few minutes before, in the center of a wanted circular his station had received that morning. He took a copy of that circular from his pocket and studied it. He had been right. The same young face, without the hat, peered out at him from beneath the familiar WANTED legend. The man’s name was spelled out underneath the pictures, but that was of no importance to Creiderman. He shoved the circular back into his pocket and stepped into the phone booth, dialing as he watched the big sedan recede into the distance.
    Virgil could read the vertical sign through the window of the shabby lobby: THE WAYFARER MOTEL. Most of the electric bulbs in the sign had been smashed, leaving three at the top and two at the bottom to cast a ghostly glow over the black letters. His car was parked in the street below and across from the sign, evaporating into the swiftly gathering dusk. He wondered if it would be safe in this neighborhood.
    He struck the crusty bell impatiently with the heel of his hand. A tiny cloud of dust rose from the battered desk as he did so, sliding and settling into a fan-shaped design across the blotter. It was another minute before the fat little man appeared in the doorway of the room behind the desk, his bald pate shining sickly green in the light of the shaded bulb that hung from the ceiling. He wore a white shirt, yellowed at the collar, and a neutral-colored vest that had worn fuzzy around the seams and buttons. He reached the desk and stood looking up at Virgil expectantly.
    â€œHow about a room?” said Virgil.
    The man grunted something unintelligible and flipped open the thick book on the counter. He found a page that was half filled with scrawled signatures and turned