Public Enemies by Bryan Burrough

the encounter was passed on to Dutch Akers, who relayed it to Galatas. It was a measure of institutionalized corruption’s arrogance in America circa 1933 that Galatas, rather than giving up, redoubled his efforts to retrieve Nash from the men he now knew were federal agents. Leaving the White Front, he drove to the Oak Park tourist camp to break the news to Nash’s wife, Frances. She grew hysterical, but Galatas told her not to worry; he would take care of everything. Galatas drove Frances and her daughter to the home of a friend. There both Frances and Galatas began working the phones. One of their first calls went to a gangland hangout called the O.P. Inn in Chicago. A bartender promised to make calls on Nash’s behalf.
    Nash and his captors, meanwhile, sped to Little Rock, covering the fifty-five miles in fifty-eight minutes by Lackey’s watch. Another police car pulled them over. Two officers approached the car, and Lackey flashed his ID and explained who they were. The officers escorted the coupe to the far side of the city, where the two cars parted at the roadside.
    “Where ya headed?” one of the lawmen asked.
    “Joplin,” said Lackey.
    Lackey headed northwest up Highway 64. “I sure hope we get out of this state alive,” Nash said a bit later.
    “You and me both,” said Lackey.
    News of Nash’s sighting in Little Rock, as well as the agents’ plans to head to Joplin, was relayed to Hot Springs, and thus to Galatas. He dialed a Joplin number. The phone rang at the home of Deafy Farmer, the hulking confidence man who eighteen months earlier had sent Alvin Karpis and Fred Barker to St. Paul. Galatas spoke to Farmer for a minute, then hung up and turned to Frances. “This is all going to be taken care of,” he said. “You can meet Frank in Joplin.”
     
     
    Two hundred miles north of Hot Springs, amid the browning fields of western Missouri, a very different pursuit continued through that same hot Friday afternoon. Police from across the state, alerted by Floyd’s kidnapping of Sheriff Jack Killingsworth, had scrambled in pursuit, soon aided by dozens of local sheriffs and policemen.
    Floyd was steering northwest for Kansas City, speeding up Highway 83, then zigzagging across dirt roads into Hickory County. Thirty-five miles out of Boliver, he had taken over the driving from Richetti, whose moonshine swigging made Floyd nervous. To the sheriff’s surprise, Floyd was downright chatty. For his part, Killingsworth did his best to help the two outlaws. He was acutely aware of the shoot-out that would ensue if they were caught, and he wanted no part of it: he’d noticed the automatic pistol Floyd had in his lap.
    Floyd stayed cool as they headed into Henry County, about halfway to Kansas City. At a country store they stopped for candy bars and sodas, and Floyd asked the woman behind the counter whether she had heard any news of the kidnapping down in Boliver. She said a group of officers had just passed by, saying they figured Floyd was making for the Oklahoma border. Floyd smiled.
    At midmorning, police were alerted that Floyd’s car had roared through the towns of Wheatland and Quincy. Finally, outside the village of Brownington, Floyd spotted a state patrol car in his rearview mirror. Richetti grabbed the submachine gun. Floyd took the safety off his pistol and calmly told the sheriff, “Wave ’em back.”
    Killingsworth took off his panama hat and waved it furiously out the window. It worked; before long the car disappeared. They had been spotted, though, and Floyd was taking no chances. Two miles west of Deepwater, he slowed the car and began looking for a replacement. Within minutes a Pontiac zoomed past. “That looks like a likely car,” Floyd said. He hit the accelerator and gave chase, and they waved the other car to a stop.
    The Pontiac’s driver, a Baptist deacon named Walter L. Griffith, appeared confused as Floyd opened the driver’s door and barked, “Move over!” Griffith did as