Browning Without a Cause

by Peter Corris

  What would be the point? I thought, but I let him rattle on.

  'Yes, sir, quite a time ol' Clyde had along with that Bonnie Parker. Good lookin' woman, mighty good-lookin', and smart too. Why, d'you know she wrote poetry about her and Clyde?'

  I showed a polite interest I didn't in the least feel. Bad mistake of course — if this Clyde was really some kind of kin to the outlaw, who had only been dead for twenty years or so, he might have had rights to the property which I could have bought up and made a million from.44 My life has been peppered with these sorts of missed opportunities. The only consolations are, you don't know you're missing them at the time and a lot of other people are in the same boat.

  'I shore would like Elizabeth Taylor to play Bonnie,' Deputy Barrow said.

  Such is the stuff that Hollywood dreams are made of. Here was this tobacco-chewing hillbilly dreaming of playing opposite Liz in a picture about a small-time holdup merchant whose girlfriend apparently wrote doggerel. It was too sad to laugh at and I just nodded and muttered something about talking to somebody about it.

  'Would you, Mr Kelly? Would you really do that? I'd shore appreciate it.'

  How many times have I and others made that promise and how rarely is it ever honoured? Certainly this time I forgot about it almost immediately because we'd pulled up outside the sheriff's office and it was time for me to run the gauntlet of curious on-lookers in my bare feet, dirty shirt and bathrobe. Thank god there were no photographers present — this was not an image I wanted preserved for posterity. Clyde threw away his cigar end and was once again the tough law officer, escorting me from the car a little more roughly than was needed.

  We were herded into Clayhorn's office. The sheriff lifted his legs from the desk, unfolded himself and stretched up in a massive jaw-cracking yawn. His big hands almost touched the ceiling. 'Well, well, what have we got here? Mr Cortez and Mr Kelly, the gun-toting bodyguards. Plus Presido County's leading drunk citizen. Howdy, Duane.'

  'Howdy, sheriff. You think I might lie down in a cell for a time? There's going to be a power of talkin' and I'm disinclined to it.'

  Clayhorn waved a magnanimous hand. 'You know where they are Duane. Go to it.'

  Tardbetter shuffled off. The deputies exchanged looks and Barrow seemed to be appointed spokesman without a word being said. Pedro and I sat down while the deputy stood at semi-attention, awaiting permission to speak.

  'You get on back to work Billy-Lee,' the sheriff said. 'Let's hear it, Clyde. No cussing and keep it short.'

  Barrow launched into an account of the incident that was more or less accurate and included Pedro's accusation that Duane Tardbetter had attempted to murder me, had shot at Mr James Dean earlier and had written some threatening letters. Clayhorn didn't take notes or seem very interested. He doodled with a pencil on the back of a wanted poster while Barrow was speaking, nodded when he'd finished and told the deputy to return to work. Barrow had done his best to put me in a good and sympathetic light and he shot me a look before he left. I gave him a wink.

  The sheriff threw down his pencil and leaned forward towards us across his desk. His lantern-jawed face lost its sleepy look and took on a frightening intensity. 'That's the biggest load of horseshit I ever heard. Duane Tardbetter can't write. In fact Sara-May's the only Tardbetter I ever heard of learned to write, leading me to think that she ain't really a Tardbetter after all, which wouldn't surprise anybody as knew her momma.'

  Pedro looked worried. 'Sheriff, I…'

  'Shut up! I've done a little checking on you since we had our first talk and what I hear leads me to believe you're a troublemaker. Now, you can swear out a complaint against Duane, get me involved in a lot of paperwork and court procedure which tires my patience more than some, or you can just stand up and walk outa here, leaving that pistol licence on my desk. Which is it to be?'

  Pedro never was a fool. Mustering all the dignity he could, he stood, took out his wallet and removed a slip of folded paper which he put on the desk. He gave me a nod which was impossible to interpret and walked out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

  'Smart man,' Clayhorn said. He looked at me as if seeing my unorthodox outfit for the first time. With features as craggy as his it was hard to tell, but I thought he might actually have been smiling.

  'I'm sure you're a smart man too,' he said. 'Although a body wouldn't know it to look at you now. You just sit where you are and…'

  I didn't like that smile and it's never a good idea to let someone do all the talking. I pointed to my strapped up ankle. 'Can't do anything else, sheriff. I'm practically a cripple.'

  'That's a shame, Mr Browning, a terrible shame. Just let me make a phone call. There's a couple of fellers come into town all anxious to meet you.'

  22

  DARK suits, pork pie hats, pale faces, weekly barbering, peas in a pod. What else could they have been but G-men? When they walked into Hud Clayhorn's office I knew I'd been double-crossed by the lawyer Brennan. It didn't surprise me but I still cursed myself for trusting one of that species. Trust a lawyer and you can be almost certain that, whatever your problem was, it will get worse. The slightly older-looking of the two, and neither of them had hit thirty, plonked some papers down on the sheriffs desk.

  'Any charges pending against this man, sheriff?' he said in a tone that meant he knew the answer.

  'No, sir, Mr Burgess.' Clayhorn was mocking the man but in a way he couldn't object to.

  'Then we can take him off your hands.' Burgess produced a pair of handcuffs from the slim attaché case he was carrying. He handed them to the other man. 'Cuff him, Mr McAlpine.'

  'I protest!' I tried to stand but the ankle wouldn't let me and I sank back onto the hard chair, jarring my spine. 'I claim a citizen's right to …'

  'You ain't no citizen of Texas, mister,' the sheriff said. 'You may or may not be a citizen of the United States. From what I'm hearin' there's room for argument on that point. Either way, these here Federal officers are the men to take you in charge.'

  'I'm crippled,' I said. 'I can't walk.'

  'We get a few like that,' Clayhorn said. 'I figure to help out whenever I can. Doc Clanton's been mighty helpful passing on equipment to me.' He got up and opened a broom cupboard beside the gun rack. There were a few crutches sitting beside a broom, a spade and an axe. He measured me with his eyes and selected one. 'This'd 'bout fit you I reckon.'

  McAlpine put the handcuffs on and lifted me up, tucking the crutch under my shoulder. 'Let's go, Mr Browning,' he said.

  The pair of them marched me out the door, Burgess giving the sheriff a nod of thanks. Clayhorn saluted him, still mocking but obviously glad to be rid of me. A dark blue Packard was parked outside the office. McAlpine opened the back door, whipped away the crutch and shoved me inside. Burgess settled in beside me and McAlpine got in behind the wheel.

  'Where are we going?' I said.

  'Best thing for you to do is shut up for a while and listen.' Burgess unbuttoned his jacket and let me see the holstered pistol in his armpit, always a convincing demonstration. McAlpine started the car and drove sedately around the corner, into Main Street and then took a turn onto the road that led away from the residential area and into the desert. After a few minutes we were clear of shops and houses and passing by the few small holdings on the fringe of the town. We left those behind and got out into the flat, dry country that stretched away to Mexico, travelling west towards the sun which was blazing at us out of a clear blue sky. McAlpine put on dark glasses. I closed my eyes.

  There had been a few solid jolts of whisky in the flask and I was still feeling its effects, a mixture of despair and false courage. The crutch was lying across my legs. For one mad moment I thought of picking it up, bashing Burgess and using it to break McAlpine's neck from behind. Ridiculous. Burgess was staring out the window, looking half asleep, but he was more than twenty years younger than me and I had no doubt he could have that gun out before I got a good grip on the crutch. My ankle was t
hrobbing and I could feel the crusted blood around my ear. The whisky courage was ebbing very rapidly.

  'I need a smoke,' I said. 'Got any cigarettes?'

  Burgess fished out a pack of Luckies and let me take one with my manacled hands. He took one himself and lit us up, his first humane act towards me. I tried to feel encouraged, but they let a condemned man have a last smoke, don't they?

  'Thanks,' I said. 'I'm ready to start listening like you said, but I don't hear any talking.'

  Burgess cranked his window down and blew smoke out. There was an ashtray mounted on the back of the front seat and he opened it. He reached across, took my cigarette and crushed it out.

  'Hey…'

  'Be respectful, Browning. When the time comes, you'll be talked to and you'll listen. Meantime, be respectful and don't crack wise. I don't like it.'

  A statement like that is irresistible to someone like me, especially as I was now feeling a little more hopeful. You don't talk seriously to someone you plan to kill, do you? 'What happened to the "Mr"? And what makes you think my name's Browning? It's Kelly. You can see it for yourself on my driver's licence and other things if you weren't so keen on driving to Chihuahua.'

  Burgess ignored me and we drove on for a few minutes before he reached forward and tapped McAlpine on the shoulder. 'This is it. Turn off here.'

  Here was nothing to my mind. Just a point on the road with uneven, rocky ground on either side and barely a blade of grass showing. Then, as McAlpine slowed and made the turn to the right, I noticed a large rock that seemed somehow out of place — a marker, recently positioned. I looked ahead over McAlpine's shoulder and saw that we were following a track that hadn't had much traffic in recent times, say, for the past twenty years, but still showed signs of wheel ruts and flattening. It ran slightly uphill towards a mound where a couple of water-starved, wind-whipped cottonwoods struggled for existence.

  Jesus Christ, I thought, and my hopeful feelings evaporated. Maybe you talk seriously before you act seriously. They're going to lynch me!

  The car stopped in the meagre shade provided by the trees and the two FBI men got out and began smartening themselves up. They each combed their short hair, using the car's side mirror, straightened their ties and brushed down their suits. Both had removed their hats during the drive. Now they inspected them for dust, wiped the sweatbands with clean handkerchiefs and replaced them carefully on their heads. Burgess took out a pen knife and carefully cleaned his fingernails. McAlpine inspected his hands and evidently found them satisfactory. Both men then lit cigarettes and gazed towards the east, like a couple of Arabs waiting for prayer time.

  I sat in the car, sweltering and fearful, but reluctant to say or do anything. At least they weren't fetching rope and shovels from the trunk. I discovered a box of matches in the pocket of my bathrobe and I picked the long butt out of the ashtray and lit it. A little piece of defiance, just to show that I hadn't completely knuckled under. Burgess and McAlpine continued to look east and I wriggled across the seat and looked out the open door in the same direction. I could see a few birds wheeling about and some clouds — a typical Texas landscape, which is to say, empty.

  I heard the helicopter before I saw it, the way you do. A drone in the distance, then a dot appears and begins to take shape as the noise grows louder. You didn't see helicopters flying around every day of the week in those days the way you do now, and there was still something frighteningly futuristic-looking about them. The FBI men dropped their cigarettes, stamped them out and went through their clothes straightening drill again. Burgess whipped around and saw me leaning out of the car about to take a drag on the Lucky.

  'Put that out!' he snapped.

  I took the drag and flicked the butt at him. It hit his trouser leg and he jumped as if he'd been shot. The chopper was getting closer and Burgess was getting red in the face. He looked as if he wanted to shoot me. Instead, he stood on the smouldering butt and hastily brushed his pants down. Then he imitated his colleague by throwing his shoulders back and tucking in his chin, standing almost to attention, as the helicopter touched down about thirty yards away.

  The chopper blades threw up dust and grit that made a mess of the G-men's careful grooming. They ignored it and continued to hold their poses. The blades stopped and the door of the helicopter opened. Two men climbed down, one a tall, loose-limbed type who seemed to blend in with the landscape despite his pilot's overalls, and the other a short, dapper character who held his hat in his hand and caressed his hair before putting the hat in place. He looked at the ground as he walked with short, hesitant steps, as if unsure what this rough, dirty stuff beneath his feet was. He was sallow-skinned and thick-waisted, middle-aged and out of condition. When he was ten yards away I recognised him from the set of his fleshy jaw and the suspicious and mistrustful look of his dark, hooded eyes — J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI supremo.

  I haven't had a lot to do with famous people in my time, apart from movie stars who don't really count. They're famous, but not important, if you know what I mean. Sports people are much the same — I knew Les Darcy quite well when I was young and once played tennis against 'Big' Bill Tilden.45 I chauffeured Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in London after the Great War and I suppose you have to count Howard Hughes as famous,46 although stark staring mad is what he basically was. I suppose Edgar Hoover was the most powerful man I ever met and, even though he's been dead for around ten years, I still hesitate to speak candidly about him.47

  He approached the two agents and gave them a nod. 'Good work, boys. It'll go on your files.'

  Files, as everyone knows, were sacred to J. Edgar. Burgess and McAlpine seemed to grow a couple of inches, watered by praise. Burgess sprang to open the trunk of the Packard. He lifted out a folding camp stool, dusted the seat and placed it on the ground. Hoover sat, only a couple of feet away from me now, and condescended to look in my direction. His hooded, brooding stare was enough to make you lose your lunch, if you'd had any. He waved his hand imperiously and the two agents, along with the pilot moved away out of earshot.

  'Richard Kelly Browning,' Hoover said in a soft voice that carried a trace of southern accent. 'Born Noo-castle, Australia, fifty-nine years of age. Served in Australian army in World War I. Rank, private, no decorations, no record of discharge. Entered USA illegally 1919 from Mexico. Arrested for gun-running in Canada in 1920 and entered USA, again illegally, from Canada in that year. Pilot and movie actor, declared bankrupt 1930, granted US citizenship 1938 for services rendered to FBI. Private Investigator, California, 1943–4. Honorary rank US military 1944–5. Proprietor Sherman House, dramatic academy, Sherman Oaks, California.'

  In fact the FBI had reneged on the deal to grant me US citizenship after I'd helped them bust up the Ku Klux Klan in Hollywood in 1938, and only came through four years later when I'd been of further service.48 Otherwise, it was pretty accurate, although it left out my military service in Mexico and Canada along with a few other things less meritorious. All in all, as I calculated it, there was about as much to be proud of as to be ashamed about. I stuck my hands out.

  'Pretty impressive, huh? I'm glad to meet you, Mr Hoover.'

  He ignored my hands, and when he looked at me it was as if he was looking at something that belonged under a rock. 'Impressive isn't the word I'd use. I've never seen a record so full of holes and ah, ambiguities. It offends my sense of… completeness. You're a bad egg, Mr Browning, a rotten apple.'

  'I helped you twice,' I protested. 'Those guys in the bedsheets were going to assassinate every rich Jew in Hollywood and…'

  'That's an exaggeration.' As he said this I got the feeling Hoover thought the plan wasn't such a bad idea. 'And the only reason you helped was that we'd have slung your ass out of the country if you hadn't. Am I right?'

  He was and he wasn't, but he wasn't looking to debate the matter. Hoover, as I discovered over the next few minutes, was as full of acting tricks as James Dean. He could switch from down-homey to hard-ass bureaucrat in a split secon
d and his doubling-up of the metaphors and throwing in of rhetorical questions was all a technique to get the upper hand. He didn't have to work very hard to get it with me — here he was in his five hundred dollar suit with three armed off-siders while I was unshaven, half-naked, half-crippled and smelling like a polecat.

  I nodded sullenly. 'Whatever you say.'

  'Now that's getting something to be like the right attitude. A mite reluctant maybe but getting there.'

  'You're holding all the cards, Mr Hoover. What do you want from me?'

  He looked me over carefully before answering, taking in my battered and dilapidated appearance. He knew I didn't have any influence to wield, and from the way his eyes glittered I could tell he was enjoying this moment of total power. I looked up at the nearest horizontal branch on the straggling cottonwood. I didn't think the FBI men were going to lynch me — I had a feeling it would be something worse.

  I was so nervous my legs shook and the matchbox in the pocket of my robe started to jiggle. I was sweating and parched and I sensed that the fastidious Hoover would have liked there to be more distance between us. He adopted another course by taking out his cigar case, flicking it open and offering me a long panatella.

  'I only smoke after meals myself,' he said. 'Not my choice — doctor's orders. But perhaps you'd care to indulge now?'

  I took a cigar and lit it. Cuban. Delicious. This was a few years before Castro made the smoking of Havanas un-American. I resolved to myself never to smoke anything else if I got out of this fix and it's one resolution I've more or less kept.

  'Thank you.' I blew the smoke over the top of Hoover's immaculate hat.

  'Mr Browning, I get the sense that you're a person who hasn't fulfilled his potential. I'm about to change all that.'

  The smoke suddenly tasted less sweet. 'What d'you mean?'

  'You're about to become known as the man who rid the world of Lucky Luciano.'