Free Going to Chicago by Rob Levandoski Page A

The hillbilly waved at us. “Hiya boys! See you still got your melons!” They joined us on the step.
    â€œWhere’s that shiny Auburn?” Will asked.
    â€œThirsty bitch ran out of gas,” the hillbilly said. “Had to put her out of her misery. Two sweet how-do-you-dos through the radiator. God rest her oily soul. So how’s this thing—whatever it is—on gas?”
    My entire body prickled. “You aren’t gonna steal it?”
    He rubbed his chin. “It sure ain’t the kind of veekle I steal generally. But we are in a pinch.”
    I reminded him of what he’d told us only the day before, that he wouldn’t rob us unless we were rich. “Well, we’re just as poor as we were twenty-four hours ago,” I assured him.
    The hillbilly sized me up. “I can see you are. But at the moment you boys have the misfortune of being a lot richer than us. Funny how the world works ain’t it?”
    The woman was sizing up Will. His cone especially. “Sweetie. Go in there and steal me one of those.”
    The hillbilly liked the idea. “I could go for a cone myself. And whatever’s in the cash drawer.” Chuckling at his own joke, he sauntered in, shotgun over his shoulder. The woman tipped her head and looked parallel at Clyde, who was still mourning the loss of the cone he didn’t want. “He thin in the head or something?” she asked us.
    â€œEar wax,” Will said.
    â€œHe got any drops?”
    Boom! Boom! Glass showered our backs. The hillbilly stepped through the shattered window, steaming shotgun in one hand, two cones in the other, both several scoops high. “They didn’t have any damn chocolate,” he said. “Nothing but vanilla.”
    â€œI coulda told you that,” Clyde said.
    I watched the woman sink her red lips into the white vanilla. It was a better show than the tomato.
    â€œWell boys,” the hillbilly said, “it’s time to say goodbye again.” He crawled in the Gilbert SXIII. The woman danced to the other side, sucking ice cream and listening to that jazz music in her head.
    Will tossed his cone and stormed toward the Gilbert SXIII. “You can’t leave us here.” It wasn’t a plea. It was an order. Will, after all, had a World’s Fair to see.
    The hillbilly was smiling. “Sure I can. I’m a bad man with a big gun. I can do anything I want.” Then he looked down at the controls. His smile disintegrated. “Judas Priest! Damn old Model T. I don’t have time to relearn this crazy-ass thing. Boys, consider yourself kidnapped.”
    We watched him load his shotgun and motion us forward. He made me get behind the wheel. He stretched out on the passenger side and made his girl squeeze in between Will and Clyde and the melons in the back. He waved a grand good-bye to the garage owner, who was already sweeping up the glass, and ordered me to fly—not west toward Joliet, or back east toward Valparaiso—but south down some dusty farm road into the steamy Indiana corn.
    Will demanded to know where we were headed.
    â€œWho knows?” the hillbilly said. When his cone was gone he had his girl hand him a melon, which he sliced open with a pocketknife. He filled his face. “These are almost ripe,” he said. He tossed the rinds into the corn and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive suitcoat. “Since we will be traveling together for a while, let me introduce myself. I am Gustavus P. Gillis. Better known as Gus ‘The Gun’ Gillis, professional lawbreaker. That sweet little biscuit seated there in the back is my moll, the talented Gladys Bartholomew.”
    â€œWhen Gus gets killed I’m going to become a famous actress on the radio,” she informed us.
    Gus reached over the seat and thrust his hand at Will. Will reluctantly shook it. “I’m Will Randall. That’s Ace Gilbert driving. And this is my