Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters.

A/N: No long apologies for my ridiculously long absence. Just know that I am sorry, dear readers, and that I will try harder to update on a regular basis from now on. Without further ado, chapter seven of Hello, Blackbird . . .


Chapter Seven

Mister Mystery

The first thing that came to Johnny's mind after this Merle dame claimed she knew who he really was?

It was about damn time.

He hadn't changed his physical appearance one bit and though the front page pictures were somewhat grainy, he was beginning to doubt his reputation. He had been declared Public Enemy #1, not even Capone could claim that title. And here he was in a big city surrounded by people who were in the same line of business as he had been, and they didn't recognize him. He was grateful for small favors but it was becoming a little insulting. However, he wasn't willing to give up his identity just yet.

She stood there, staring him down. Though there was fire in her eyes he could see her muscles were tensed, betraying the confident demeanor she was trying to convey.

"I know who you are," she repeated in a somewhat shaky voice.

This was the first time she appeared human to him. Before she was like a porcelain doll: steely and not to be touched. Now his identity could be compromised which should have made him feel threatened. But finally he felt like he had the upper hand and it thrilled him that the tables seemed to be turning. If she really did know who he was, she wouldn't turn him in because she wouldn't want to be seen associating with a famous bank robber.

Of course her family ran one of the biggest Boston operations so something like sharing a dance with one of the FBI's most wanted might not be as detrimental to her case as he thought. He just hoped that if he played his cards right he could keep the status quo in his favor.

"And who exactly am I darlin'?" he smiled slyly and walked towards her with his hands in his pockets, daring her to continue.

She took a deep breath, "You're John Dillinger."

"John Dillinger is dead," he replied.

"He's not dead," a sudden rise of confidence surged within her and she walked right up to him, "I'm looking at him."

He chuckled quietly and took his cigarette case out of his coat pocket. Selecting one from it and inserting it between his lips, he let her hang on his every move. After he lit it with a match from the small book in his other pocket he offered her the lighted butt. She took it and enjoyed a long drag as she watched him repeat the process for himself.

He blew out a puff of smoke and then returned his attention to her, "Let's walk."

He turned and started off towards the common. She followed behind him, attempting to keep up with his wide gait. He stayed silent until they reached a secluded section of the common. The only person Merle could spot was a homeless man lying underneath a tree, his arms and legs spread out to cool down from the heat that was now making her sweat. Or was that her nerves?

"So, you're saying John Dillinger isn't dead?" he finally asked.

"You should know, you're John Dillinger," she answered.

"What makes you think I'm him?"

"Not only are you the spitting image of him, John Dillinger is invincible. He wouldn't let some G-men shoot him in the back. He's smarter than that," she paused and brought her hand up to poke him in the chest, "You're smarter than that."

He stayed silent and after a moment he turned and began to walk once again deeper into the Common. When he noticed she wasn't following, he turned back around and motioned for her to keep moving. She obeyed his non-verbal command.

"Do you know why this section of land is called Boston Common, Ms. Mercier?" he asked her as he gestured around them.

"It's a common meeting place?" she replied, unsure of where this was going.

"No," he answered simply.

She let out an exasperated sigh, "Why then, Mr. Mystery, is this called the Boston Common?"

"Hmmm," he stopped suddenly but didn't face her, "Mr. Mystery? I like it."

"Well? Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is this called the Boston Common?" she was annoyed now.

"They use to hang people here," he then turned to her, "people like you and me. Murderers, bank robbers, pirates."

His voice had turned dark and his eyes were even darker. There was a danger lurking behind those chocolate eyes and she began to fear for her safety when she noticed now there weren't even homeless people around to witness their exchange. Not that she expected they'd be any help, but if he were to attack her in some way, should hoped someone would hear her screams.

"They would hang them from these very trees," and she looked up to see a canopy of lush green hiding a starry night from her prying eyes.

"And then," he continued and she had no choice but to look back at him, "they would bury them in the ground without even a marker to remember the poor souls."

He looked down and shuffled at the dirt beneath his feet where grass had failed to grow.

"Charming story," she bit back sarcastically, "Do you tell it to all the girls or am I special?"

He just chuckled half-heartedly at her question.

She grew even more nervous, "I'm no murderer."

He looked up at her like he hadn't realized she had been there the entire time.

"You're right Ms. Mercier," he paused, "You're a murderess."

"What's the difference?" she asked.

"You'll get off scott-free."

She laughed bitterly at the irony of the situation. After all, he had procured her the best lawyer in the city to defend her. Why was he now accusing her of being a cold-blooded killer?

"It was self- defense. He was going to kill me so I killed him first," she started to walk away from him since she was scared of where this conversation was headed, "excuse me if I wasn't ready to die just yet."

She didn't even hear him come after her but knew he must have when she felt his hand clamp down on her shoulder and she shuddered at the touch. She quickly shoved it off and turned to stand squarely in front of him.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"You're the one who followed me out here. I'm wondering what it is that you want," he replied slyly.

"I want you to admit that you're John Dillinger."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest to appear stern. When he stayed silent she continued.

"I meant what I said back in that club. John Dillinger was a hero amongst criminals. He stole from the establishment, not the people. In my family you are taught to steal from the mouths of babes. In most families of our kind that's how it goes," she was trying to speak slowly, deliberately, "But John Dillinger had morals. There was a kindness beneath the fire in his eyes and I see that in yours as well."

She was met once again with the cry of the crickets.

"So please, tell me that you're him so I may believe that our type of business has some type of hope; that those who gave us a good name are not all dead. That I'm not left in the company of big-time crooks and dirty dealers."

"A pretty speech for someone so young," he smiled and she instantly felt her muscles relax.

"I'm older than I look," she returned the smile, "So, Mr. Mystery, care to give me your real name?"

"Even if I was John Dillinger, what would make me trust you with such information?"

"We could exchange secrets," she suggested.

"What kind of secrets? You're already wanted for murder."

"I could tell you how I got involved in this whole mess, and believe me it is a very revealing and interesting story that in the hands of the wrong person, would put my whole family and our operation in danger."

When he didn't answer her immediately she continued, "trust me when I say that the information I would give you is as damning to me, as revealing that you are John Dillinger would be to you."

He let out a long sigh, "Well, Ms. Mercier, I will meet you tomorrow, 10 a.m., on the bank of the Charles River at the bottom of the footbridge. You tell me yours I'll tell you mine."

And he walked away.

"Why not now?" she called after him.

"Merle doll," she heard from behind her and turned to see her cousin coming towards her.

"Merle what in the world are you doing out here all on your own?"

"I – uh," she started but he interrupted her.

"Let's get back to the party. Uncle Billy is killing me at cards and I need you to spot me a few bucks," he slurred.

She could now see from his awkward posture that he was drunk and wouldn't be much of an escort back to the gin mill. But looking around she realized her Mr. Mystery was long gone. Sighing lightly she took Frankie's arm and led him back to Copley Square. She spent the rest of the night, gambling, drinking and dancing but what clouded her mind was her morning appointment with the man who quite possibly was John Dillinger.

It was that thought that kept her from sleep, even long after her head hit the pillow.


History Note: Yes, the Boston Common was used as a common burial ground in American's early days for all sorts of seedy characters and, it is reported, some not so seedy. This chapter is dedicated to those who were wrongly accused and have been forgotten under the soil I have walked over countless times, poor souls. It was also used as a sort of pasture for grazing cows but that didn't really fit into my story so I left it out. But now you know!

A/N: Thanks to xBelekinax, linalove, RileyPoole'sLittleWhiskeyGirl and breeee1994 for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?

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