“I’ve seen you before,” said a voice.

Eugene startled. The voice lacked Louisiana’s Cajun drawl, and Eugene straightened as Johnny Walker stepped into the muted wash of the streetlight.

“You,” said Eugene.

Walker tipped his hat and fished a cigarette from his pocket. “You’re a reporter. Eugene Rêveur. I read your column in the paper.” He let the cigarette hang from his lip as he spoke, cupping his hands around it to light the end. “You want a smoke?”

“I can’t. My lungs . . .”

Walker shrugged and flicked the lighter away. Eugene wondered whether he’d have offered the same cigarette he held between his lips, and his stomach flipped uncomfortably. Walker’s voice wasn’t how Eugene imagined outlaws to talk: it was light, almost sweet, lilting with an Old-World accent, with nothing of that sandpapered growl the movie gangsters affected for their roles.

Pointing the cig at Eugene from between two fingers, Walker said, “You were in Baton Rouge the day we hit that bank."

Eugene’s hand returned to his chest of its own accord, and Walker followed the movement with his gaze. His eyes were sharp and terribly intelligent beneath the brim of his hat.

“Are you armed?” Eugene asked.

“Sure I am. You thinking about calling for help?”

“You’re wanted by the Bureau of Investigation.”

“That’s true, but you’re not the one to bring them down on us.” There was no threat in Walker’s words, just a laconic self-assuredness Eugene had never once felt in his life. “You’re a journalist, not a cop. You want the story.” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag. When he exhaled, the smoke curled around him like a great looping serpent in the yellow light. “If you call the Bureau, they’ll run us down like dogs in the street. They’ll try to, anyway,” he amended, a smile on his lips. “And if we’re dead, what will you ever learn about us? Save for speculation, but anyone can speculate. You want to know the truth.”

“You’re a bank robber. You’re a dime a dozen these days.” Eugene’s voice shook as he spoke, and Walker’s smile widened, but he didn’t interrupt. “You want to feel important, but your story’s no more special than any other man who thought he’d try his luck rather than starve with the rest of us.”

Walker tapped a speck of ash from the end of his cigarette. “Oh, we’ve never been common, not Angelique and I. We have stories, Mr. Rêveur. Stories and answers, but you have to ask the right questions.”

He flicked his cig to the pavement and ground it under the heel of his boot. His gaze never left Eugene, who stood frozen in place like a rabbit hypnotized in the snake’s coils. A spark of familiarity rushed into him for a split second, and then Walker ran a finger over the brim of his hat and the spell broke. Eugene shuddered back into himself and smoothed his hands down his thighs. His palms prickled with heat despite the night air's best efforts.