DILLINGER

A play by
DAVID HOPPE
Copyright 2013
DILLINGER is a work-in-progress. What follows
constitutes the opening of what will be a longer work
in three parts.
CAST
John
Jude
Patrick
Ana

A simple set in a black box: A long kitchen table, a

couple of chairs, a refrigerator and a stove.
Jude, a woman in her 20s, stands at the kitchen
table, chopping vegetables in a practiced manner.
She is making a stew. And so she takes various
vegetables from a pile in front of her, skillfully chops
them and tosses them in a large kettle.
Carrot. Zucchini. Celery.
John, a man of indeterminate age, enters. Watches
her.
John: Youre good at that.
Jude: What?
John: Thatchopping up.

(Jude chops another carrot, drops the pieces in the

kettle.)
Jude: Thanks.
John: That takes practice. Knife skills. I knew a fellow
once, cut the tip of his finger off while he was making
meat loaf. One minute he was chopping carrots and
next thing you know Vttt! Theres a different kind
of meat in that loaf! Personal-like. You cut yourself
much?
Jude: (chopping zucchini) No. Yes. I mean I used to.
Thats how you learn. You cut yourself and then you
stop. Or else you stop cooking, I guess. Which is not
an option for me right now.
John: Learn by doing.
Jude: By bleeding(laughs) Whoops! (she pauses) I
almost did it that time.
John: Im distracting you. Dont let me distract you.
Jude: I wont.
(John watches her chop)
John: You grow all that yourself? Or did you buy it at
the grocery store?
Jude:
John:
Jude:
John:
Jude:
John:
Jude:
John:

Neither. Its from the farmers market.

Farmers marketyou bought it from a farmer?
This morning. Everything fresh.
From around here, right?
Sure. At least thats what they say.
Who says?
The farmers market people.
The farmers, you mean.

Jude: I guess so.

(More chopping)
John: Thats the great thing about this part of the
country. The farms. The food. Like what youve got
there. Some people say its boring, how you can go
mile after mile, all day, all night, and see nothing but
corn. Ive never felt that way. I see the color green
and the layers, the layers of things growing, the
life. I can drive for hours and never be tired.
Jude: (pausing) I dont know. I love to drive but
sometimes I wish it didnt take so long. Sometimes it
feels like forever to get there.
John: Where?
Jude: Well, my grandparents used to live up in St.
Croix. If it was a holiday that meant we had to wake
up at dawn, just as the sun was rising. It took most of
a day to get there. At first it was exciting, the pulling
and pushing, making sure we had everything
together, the doors all locked, last call for the
bathroom, lights off except for the one we left
burning to make robbers think somebody was
home
John: (laughs) Oh, that fools nobody!
Jude: It doesnt? Then how come everybody does it?
John: To make themselves feel better. Believe me.
Jude: Why should I?
John: (shrugs)
Jude: Traveling was exciting at first. But man, after
the first three hours, I was ready to be there.
John: I like going. Going, going, gone. Ive driven all
over Indianapolis to Chicago, Chicago to Madison,
Madison up to St. Paul. Ive been over the Upper

Peninsula and down the coast of Michigan. If you

havent seen where the great lakes come together
where Huron and Michigan meet you havent seen
nothing.
Jude: That must be beautiful.
John: Beautiful? Beauty-full. Thats how my granddad
used to say it: Beauty-full. (pauses) Yeah. I like to
drive. I like to drive at night. You drive through the
countryside and theres hardly a light on anywhere. It
gets so dark, its like somebody put all the stars in a
sack.
Jude. Well, driving makes me tired. I want to be
there.
John: Sure, sure. Getting there is fine
(Jude pushes all she has cut up into a large kettle,
puts kettle on the stove.)
Jude: You know how they say getting there is half the
fun? I think its just half of what you could be doing if
youd already made it. Im impatient, I guess.
John: Impatient, yeah. So am I. Im impatient, too.
Jude: Its like this damn stew. I want to eat it! People
go on about cooking. First you do this and then you
do that. Become one, like, with the vegetables. To
hell with that! Its work, for godsakes. I want the payoff. The only good thing I know about cooking is
this (picks up wine bottle) Want some?
John: Dont mind if I do. Whats your name?
Jude: Judy. Judith. People call me Jude. Yours?
(Jude pours two glasses of wine)

John: Make it John. Johnnie. Jack. Whatever. Bottoms

up.
Jude: Sure.
(Both drink)
John: So what do you do when youre not cooking?
Jude: Oh, Im trying to be famous, which, as you can
see, isnt working so well at the moment.
John: Famous?
Jude: Its what Ive always wanted. From the time I
first opened my eyes. Wherever Ive looked, Ive seen
famous people. Movies, on TV, in magazines. The
Worldwide Web. Fame is every place. Its the story of
our country, the history of the world. From the very
beginning there are famous people and then theres
everybody else: Jesus, even he was famous. People
gathered round him. I dont think there has ever not
been fame. The cavemen probably had their heroes.
So who wouldnt want that? Instead, I mean, of the
alternative.
John: You mean being like everybody else.
Jude: Like everybody else.
John: Thats a pisser, all right.
(Jude shakes her head and drinks.)
John: So how you gonna be famous? You gonna be a
famous cook?
Jude: Chef. Chefs are famous. But no, Im not gonna
be a famous chef. I wouldnt know how. Besides, Ive
seen those chef shows on TV. Cheffing is way too
stressful.
John: You act?
Jude: No.
John: Do you sing?

Jude: Are you kidding?

John: Dance?
Jude: Never.
John: Maybe youll invent something, like a car that
drives itself. Or a gun to shoot whoever is sneaking
up behind you.
Jude: I wish!
John: You could be a great humanitarian. Somebody
who cures crippled children.
Jude: I dont think so.
John: Wellyou could be the worlds greatest lover.
(John takes Judes hand, kisses it.)
Jude: Oh, brother.
John: (closing in) Whats the matter? (kisses her on
the lips)
Jude: (breaking away, as if nothing happened) I knew
this guy once we went to high school together. He
had green eyes. You dont see many guys with green
eyes, do you? I wonder why that is. His name was
Steven Schmidt. Thats a solid name, isnt it? Steve
Schmidt. He was a running back on the football team
and vice president of our senior class. He got good
grades, was accepted by Northwestern University,
with a scholarship to play football. When people were
protesting about the war, he took me downtown so
we could march up State Street. Thats what he said.
It was raining that morning and I wondered if he
would call and say the thing was cancelled. But it
wasnt, and we went downtown anyway. The rain let
up, and we marched. There must have been a
thousand people there. Cops in their long rain
slickers standing on every street corner. It seemed

like a big deal. I liked it: walking there with Steve,

right up the middle of State Street, the cops just
standing there, watching us. Later, though, when I
watched the news to see what happened, there was
no mention of it. Nothing. It was like it never
happened!
John: What happened to Steve Schmidt?
Jude: Steve? He died. Right after that. He was
running around the track and his heart blew up.
Nobody knew he had a condition. So he never used
that scholarship. Never got to be a big success. It
was like he never happened, either.
John: You think love can make you famous?
Jude: Only in my mind.
John: What if I told you I was famous. Would you
believe me?
Jude: Thats the thing about fame. I wouldnt have to
believe you. I would know.
John: (laughing) Thatsthats good!
(Enter Patrick OMalley. He walks around the
periphery, as if trying to get his bearings. Finally, he
comes to rest by the refrigerator and regards John
and Jude before speaking. They return his gaze.)
Patrick: (To John) Remember me?
John (joking): Cant place the face, but those flat feet
are sure familiar.
Patrick: East Chicago. The First National Bank.
January 15, 1934?
(John shakes his head.)
Patrick: Maybe you remember how cold it was that
day. The wind off Lake Michigan? We called it the
Hawk. Maybe you remember the snowflakes in the

air. It was too cold for a blizzard. But those flakes

were the size of quarters. Or maybe you remember
the street. It was white from the salt they poured
down to melt the ice.
John: Im sorry, pal. (to Jude) This aint ringin any
bells.
Patrick: I could mention little girls 3 of em and
my beloved wife. But they werent part of it. (to Jude)
You want to be famous? This mug was famous. More
popular than the President of the United States. Big
as a movie star. He was so famous he had to cut his
face so people wouldnt recognize him. Thats
famous.
Jude: (to John) Who are you?
Patrick: I saw him come out the front door of the First
National Bank. He was hunched down behind a
buddy of mine, another cop, named Wilgus. You
thought if you could push him across the sidewalk,
you could get away. But I had an angle. I had a shot.
Wilgus! I hollered. Sure enough, Wilgus turned just
enough. It was the sound of my voice made him turn.
The sound of my voice: Wilgus!
(John flinches.)
Patrick: Maybe you remember that?
John: I remembernothing.
Patrick: Wilgus turned just enough. I had a clear shot.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. The gun in my hand
bucked like a son of a bitch pardon my French,
Maam. I hit you, too. Gotcha! That should have been
the end of the story. That should have been the
finish. But you had that goddam
John: Bullet-proof vest.
Patrick: Bullet-proof vest. Thats right, thats right.
You almost went down.

John: I almost went down.

Patrick: You staggered a bit.
John: (feels chest): I staggered.
Patrick: I should have got you in the head, but the
gun in my hand bucked. And Id never shot a fellow
before.
John: Id never shot a fellow before. Never.
Patrick: You had the tommy gun. You didnt hesitate.
If I didnt know better, Id guess you were scared.
John: You hit me in the chest. I thought I was dead.
But I wasnt dead. I thought I was dead, but you were
standing there. You were still standing there, like you
were my oldest friend, or my sister, or my dad.
Patrick: I should have blown your brains out.
John: (to Jude) The newspapers said I was a coldblooded killer. Id never shot anyone in my life! They
said I was a murderer.
Patrick: (to Jude) He had the tommy gun. I was
standing as far from him then as I am now. He let me
have it: eight bulletholes across my chest, like a
goddam row of medals. One, two, three, fourfive,
six, seven, eight. Good-bye my three little girls.
Good-bye my dear wife. Good-bye, good-bye, goodbye, good-bye.
Jude (to John): Who are you?
John: Remember how I said driving was the best
part? Thats because when we stopped, got to some
town like Indianapolis, or South Bend, Chicago, or St.
Paul, thats when the trouble started. The driving,
man, that was good. Dashboard light shining in our
eyes. Our eyes following our high beams up the road.
You said you want to be famous. Like I said, I know
something about that.
Patrick: He was big. A big goddam deal.

John: Daddy wanted me buried in Indianapolis, where

I was born. So they packed my body in ice and
brought me home. They knew thered be crowds. So
they laid me out in a basement on Massachusetts
Avenue, same street where Id robbed a bank, what,
just two years before? It might have been a million. A
couple of guys, cops, I guess, sat down there with
me. They smoked cigarettes and talked about what a
big deal I was. Then they talked about who was
better, the Cardinals or the Cubs a subject I knew
about, having been to a few games at Wrigley Field
that summer. Those boys didnt know enough to
shake the sand out of their boots. It was a long night.
Next day, 5,000 people showed up for the burying at
Crown Hill. (to Patrick) How many showed up for
yours, old man?
Patrick: Never mind.
John: Cmon. How many?
Patrick: Not so many as yours.
John: No sir, I guess not.
Jude: Whats your name again?
John: I told you. You must not have been listening.
Jude: Tell me again.
(Ana Sage, a stout older woman, appears.)
Ana: He said Jimmy was his name. But we knew that
was not true.
John: You see? I was so famous it didnt matter what I
called myself.
Ana: (To Jude): I am hungry. Is that soup you are
making?
Jude: Its a stew, vegetable stew.

Ana: I can cook. Cant I Jimmy? I made you fried

chicken. You said you liked it.
John: I liked it, alright.
Patrick (To Ana): I know you.
Ana: Perhaps.
Patrick: From East Chicago. You were with a pal of
mine, another cop we called The Sheikh. (To John)
He promised my wife and my girls hed track you
down if it took him the rest of his life. (To Ana) You
being with the Sheikh: I remember that. I bet he fixed
things for you, am I right?
Ana: I cooked the fried chicken. I wore an orange
skirt. (To Jude) The newspapers said it was red, a red
dress. I dont wear red. I have never worn red.
John: Too obvious. Plus it doesnt suit you.
Jude: Whyd they say you wore red?
John: They say what they want, see? They say what
they think people want to hear. They said I was a
killer.
Patrick: They were right!
John: Thats not what I set out to do. But they print
something, and put it out, and, sure enough, it
doesnt matter if its true or not.
Ana: The papers said I was your friend. I was never
your friend.
John: I watched your son play softball in the park. I
took you out on the town
Ana: You lied to me about who you were. But I knew. I
knew.
John (To Jude): You say you want to be famous? I
know something about that.
Ana: I am hungry.
Patrick: I am dead.
(Ana and Patrick begin to fade out.)

John: Were all dead, for Christ-sake.

Jude (To John): Who are you? Really.
John: My friends call me Johnnie. After we eat, what
do say we go see a movie?
Jude (holding up her smart phone): Can I take your
picture?
John: With what?
Jude: With this.
John: That thing?
Jude (looking at the viewfinder, pressing a button):
Thats good.
John: Wait a minute. Let me see that.
Jude (holding phone so John can see): Here.
John: How did you do that? How does it work?
Jude: I dont know, but I bet it makes me famous.
(Jude begins to run.)
John: Wait!
(Jude is running.)
John: Give it to me, dammit!
(Jude keeps running. John starts to run, but he is
quickly winded.)
John: Wait for me.
(Jude looks back, keeps running.)
John (hands on knees): Ah, the hell with it. The hell
with you.
Jude (slowing down, looking back): Tell me who you
are. Tell me what you did.

John: Babydoll, whatever you hear, I didnt do

nothing to deserve being treated like this.
(Jude regards John for a moment. Then she swipes
her smart phone and presses down on an app.)
Fade to black.