Pretty Boy Floyd

by Larry McMurtry

  Billy Miller stroked his gun while the two of them smoked and waited. It was his own gun this time, but the sight of Billy rubbing it made Charley nervous.

  “Suppose the law comes along and sees you rubbin’ that gun?” he said.

  “I got cat’s eyes,” Billy said, grinning. “I’d hide the gun, or else I’d plug the lawman.”

  “You go shootin’ a lawman, and it’s curtains for both of us,” Charley said. “Don’t shoot no lawman, or anybody else if you can help it.

  “There’s a big difference between a robber and a killer,” he added. “And don’t you forget it.”

  Folks went in and out of the bank, old ladies and merchants, mostly. It was Wednesday, a slow day. Lulu had explained that Mondays and Fridays were the busiest days at a bank. She thought it wiser to do the holdup in the middle of the week, though Charley argued that maybe Fridays were better, because Fridays were pay-days and the tellers would have lots of money for pay-checks.

  “Here come the girls,” Billy said, finally. Charley was on pins and needles waiting.

  “All we could find was fingernail polish,” Beulah said. “I’m thinking of painting my nails purple—they say it’s the rage. What would you say to that, Charley?”

  “I’d say you’re an idjit,” Charley said. “Pipe down—you’re gettin’ on my nerves, and Billy’s too.”

  “Gosh, I was just bein’ a girl,” Beulah said. “Can’t a girl even be a girl?”

  “Yeah, but couldn’t there be such a thing as a quiet girl?” Charley asked.

  When it finally came time to rob the bank, Charley and Billy got out, leaving Beulah at the wheel.

  “Straighten your necktie,” Charley said, as they were crossing the street, their pistols in their pockets.

  Just as they got to the bank, a tall cowboy in a white Stetson and brown boots with narrow tips arrived at the door a step behind them. Charley politely held the door for him.

  “After you, sir,” he said.

  “’Preciate it, mister,” the cowboy replied.

  Once inside, the cowboy went up to one teller—Charley chose a teller two windows down. There were only three tellers in the bank, and one of them was gone.

  “This is a stickup,” Charley said, only to hear what sounded like an echo, to his left. He stopped talking, and turned to the cowboy, who was looking at him a little oddly. Charley decided it must have been nerves, so he faced the old-lady teller and tried again.

  “This is a holdup, give me your money,” he said again. But again, there was the echo—it was like there was a choir of two, robbing the Earlsboro Bank. Charley looked back at the cowboy, and the cowboy was looking at him.

  “Say,” the old-lady teller demanded. “You crooks better decide which one of you is robbin’ this bank. There ain’t money enough for both of you to rob it. We’re about to go under as it is.”

  “I’m robbin’ the bank, ma’am,” the cowboy said firmly. “I don’t know what this city slicker thinks he’s doin’.”

  “No, that’s gettin’ it backwards,” Charley said. “I’m robbing the bank. This cowboy needs to go shoe his horse or something.”

  “Sir, I was here first—had my gun out before you even got to the teller’s window,” the cowboy pointed out.

  “That was ’cause I was polite and held the door for you,” Charley reminded him. The cowboy’s cool demeanor was beginning to irk him.

  Bill Miller was standing over by the window, watching the street.

  “Shoot him and grab the money,” Billy said. “We got to hotfoot it out of here.”

  “Would you mind tellin’ me why?” Charley asked Billy, irritated that a smooth-looking job had suddenly gotten complicated.

  Charley looked at the cowboy, and the cowboy looked at him.

  “I guess six bits is better than nothin’,” the cowboy said. He reached through the window and grabbed all the cash he could scrape out of the cash drawer. Charley did the same. The two tellers didn’t make a move.

  “Let’s go, bud, there’ll be another day tomorrow,” the cowboy said, seeing that Charley seemed reluctant to leave.

  “We’re supposed to take hostages—they can stand on the running board,” Charley said. He was trying to follow Big Carl’s instructions precisely, but the arrival of the cowboy flustered him—he had almost forgotten the hostages.

  “Say, that’s an idea,” the cowboy said, grinning. “I would have thought of that myself, eventually.”

  He waved his pistol at the two tellers.

  “Come on, ladies, we’ve appointed you hostages,” he said.

  “Can I get my hat?” one teller asked. “I get an earache if I go off without it.”

  “Charley, the sheriff’s coming, I may have to shoot somebody,” Billy said.

  “I told you not to use no names!” Charley said, annoyed by the incompetence of his partner.

  “Come ladies, time’s awasting,” the cowboy said.

  “What about my hat?” the teller insisted.

  “Grab it!” the cowboy demanded.

  Beulah was standing across the street, looking at a pair of shoes in the window of the dry goods store, when Charley, Billy, and the cowboy rushed out, herding the two tellers in front of them.

  “Get over here, pronto!” Charley said. “You was supposed to stay behind the wheel.”

  Beulah hurried back. They all piled in the car, with the two elderly tellers on the running boards.

  “I don’t think we need the hostages,” Billy said. “All they’re doing is blocking my aim.”

  “Nobody told you to aim—the sheriff ain’t even noticed us,” Charley said, pulling away slowly so as not to attract attention.

  Bobby Jars, the sheriff, was walking along thinking about how much he liked cracklins. He was planning to kill his pig in a day or two if the cool weather held, and he intended to make at least a bushel of cracklins. Bank robbery was the farthest thing from his mind.

  He thought it was kind of strange that Mrs. Dean and Mrs. Johnson, both tellers in the bank, would be riding down the street on the running board of a black car, but Sheriff Jars saw no reason to be too concerned about it—both old ladies were a little off, anyway.

  Old Man Jessup, an ancient, nosey fart who spent most of his time spitting and whittling on a bench in front of the feed store, was out of place this morning. He was on a bench by the bank—an annoyance. People who wanted to visit the bank wouldn’t appreciate having to wade through a pool of his tobacco juice.

  “I’m votin’ against you next election, Bob,” the old man said, without provocation.

  “Why? I ain’t arrested you, though I’d like to,” the sheriff said.

  “’Cause you’re too damn ignorant to stop this bank robbery that’s just took place,” Old Man Jessup said. The car was stopped a few blocks away so the hostages could step off the running boards.

  “Bank robbery?” the sheriff said, surprised. He tried to pull his pistol out of its holster. The holster had a fancy catch in it which was supposed to release the pistol instantly when he pulled on it. Only this time, it didn’t. The pistol felt like it was welded to the holster. By the time he finally got it out, the black car had proceeded on its way.

  “Pshaw, they let those women loose,” Old Man Jessup said. “They could’ve carried the women all the way to Chiney and I wouldn’t have cared.”

  “China,” the sheriff corrected.

  “Those old biddy hens don’t like me,” Old Man Jessup said, watching apprehensively as the two tellers approached. “Two to one they try to make me move.”

  Sheriff Jars had stopped thinking about cracklins. The election was only two months away, and now he had let the bank get robbed.

  “A citizen’s got the right to sit anywheres he wants to sit,” the old man said, spitting discreetly beside his bench. The two women looked stirred up, to him.

  “Mr. Jessup, I hope you change your mind about that vote,” the sheriff said.

  10

  The
cowboy tipped his hat to the two old ladies when they stepped off the running board.

  “Thanks for your time, ladies,” he said.

  “Ma’am, hope you escape the earache,” Charley said, not to be outdone when it came to politeness. He also tipped his hat, a courtesy Billy Miller neglected.

  “Tip your hat, where’s your manners?” Charley said.

  “Him? Manners?” Beulah said, smirking.

  “Shut up, I was watchin’ the sheriff,” Billy said. “Why’s this cowboy in the car with us? All he done was interfere.”

  The cowboy tipped his hat again, this time to Beulah and Rose.

  “Mornin’, ladies,” he said. “You both sure are dressed pretty.”

  “Say, I like this bozo,” Beulah said.

  Despite himself, Charley liked the man, too. Billy Miller was right—all he had done was butt in—but there was something real likeable about him. He seemed in a perfect humor, and just having him along made things jollier.

  “Ain’t you got a horse or something, cowboy?” Charley asked.

  “I had a car,” the man said. “I think I’ll just leave her sit. That sheriff might get his gun out of his holster, eventually.”

  “So what’s your moniker?” Beulah asked. “I’m Beulah, and this is Rose. The little shrimpy guy is Bill ‘the Killer’ Miller.”

  “George Birdwell,” the man said, shaking hands all around. “If you folks would just be kind enough to carry me about a hundred miles up the road, I’d be obliged.”

  “We ain’t takin’ you no hundred miles unless you chip in for the gas,” Billy announced.

  “Who died and made you boss?” Charley asked. “Shut up if you can’t be polite.”

  “I’d be happy to provide the gasoline,” Birdwell said.

  “What do you think about women who paint their fingernails purple?” Beulah asked. “I’m thinking of trying it.”

  “Bob better not try it, that’s what I think,” Birdwell said.

  “Who’s Bob?” Rose asked.

  “My wife,” Birdwell replied.

  “I thought Bob was a boy’s name,” Charley said. “I never heard of a woman named Bob.”

  “You have now, bud,” Birdwell said. “Bob’s sweet as honey, I miss her right this minute.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the man’s eyes misted up at the thought of his wife. Once he thought about it a few seconds, Charley sympathized. His own eyes had often misted if the thought of Ruby happened to cross his mind.

  “Say, how many jobs have you pulled?” Charley asked. He remembered how calm and collected the cowboy had been when he entered the bank.

  “Six and a half, if you mean banks,” Birdwell said, with a grin. “Earlsboro would have been seven, if you hadn’t come along and grabbed half the loot.”

  “It looked like a cozy little bank,” Charley observed. “We had no idea you had your eye on it, too.”

  The first hundred miles passed quickly. Beulah made good her threat to paint her nails purple—it put Charley off, but she defied him. George Birdwell had only taken up bank robbing recently; he mostly traveled the rodeo circuit. He’d been all over the West, competing in rodeos, and he had many stories to tell. Although he mentioned several times how much he missed his wife, Bob, he didn’t ask to get out. He had a bottle of whiskey in each coat pocket, and shared them with the crowd. Billy Miller got tired of driving and gave the wheel to Charley, who kept rolling along in the general direction of Illinois. Before he had driven twenty miles, everybody else in the car fell asleep. During the night, Charley pulled off a time or two to nap, but mostly he kept driving. Big Carl had emphasized that it was wise to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of the crime.

  When dawn came, Charley was feeling pretty yawny, but they were on the delta of the old Mississippi. Billy Miller and George Birdwell were awake, but the girls were sound asleep.

  “We’re nearly to the river, let’s stop and eat a catfish,” Billy suggested.

  “Let’s cross it and then eat the catfish,” Charley said. “I’m more in the mood for flapjacks, anyway.”

  George Birdwell was tipped back comfortably in his seat with his hat brim pulled down against the glare of the rising sun.

  “What river might that be, boys?” he asked. “I ain’t been payin’ too much attention to the scenery.”

  “Why, the Mississippi—what river would it be?” Charley asked, surprised.

  “Whoa, horses, whoa!” Birdwell said, sitting up. “This is where I dismount.”

  “Why?” Charley said—he had come to like the man, and felt disappointed at the thought of him leaving.

  “I got a powerful superstition against crossing big water,” Birdwell said.

  “But we was gonna work Illinois for a while,” Charley said. “There’s lots of nice banks east of the Mississippi. You’d be welcome to come along.”

  “No, thanks—I appreciate the offer,” Birdwell said. “You’re welcome to the banks. I wouldn’t cross no big water for a hundred banks.”

  Bill Miller was glad to see the cowboy go. It wasn’t that he disliked him, particularly. It was mainly that there wasn’t room in the car for anyone with such long legs.

  “But how will you get back?” Charley asked, when they let Birdwell out by the side of a long field.

  “If I can’t steal a horse, I guess I’ll ride my thumb,” Birdwell said. “Adios, folks.” He grinned, and tipped his hat.

  “Give my regards to the ladies,” he added. “I got qualms about purple fingernails, though.”

  When Beulah woke up, Charley repeated the remark. Partly it was to irritate her, but partly he meant it. He thought women ought to be proper in their attire.

  “Why would I care what some cowboy thinks about my fingernails?” Beulah asked. “Where is George, anyway?”

  “He left,” Billy told her. “My guess is, he couldn’t stand your yappin’.”

  “Oh, can it, you little creep,” Beulah said. “I can’t help it if I got somethin’ to say!”

  11

  The Sylvania job would have gone off smooth if it hadn’t been for the hostage. The only woman in the bank when they started the robbery was the bank president’s wife, and she was so fat that when Charley helped her up on the flivver’s running board, the car tipped to one side.

  “I don’t think this is gonna work,” Charley said. “No offense, ma’am, but I think we may have to do without a hostage, this time.”

  “Get in here, people are lookin’,” Beulah said, pointing at a hat in the window of the dry goods store. “Rose, make a note of this store.”

  “Make a note of the store?” Billy said. “Why?”

  “’Cause there’s a cute hat in the window, and I may want to come back and buy it,” Beulah informed him.

  Just as Charley took the wheel, a deputy sheriff rounded the corner a block away, and drew his pistol. Billy was in the back seat. The deputy fired once, and Billy knocked out the back window and cut him down with the Tommy gun. Charley saw the man sprawl against a building as he gunned the car.

  “Hey, you moron, why’d you knock out the window?” Beulah shrieked.

  “Because he’s been itching to kill somebody ever since I met him, and now he has!” Charley said, bitterly.

  “He was shootin’ at us!” Billy said, plaintively.

  “He only shot once,” Charley said. “He couldn’t have hit us in a week. You couldn’t wait to use that Tommy gun, could you?”

  Billy felt sick at his stomach. They’d had the Tommy gun three days; a mug they met in a chili joint in Cincinnati sold it to them. They had taken it out and fired it into a riverbank a few times, but Billy really hadn’t got the hang of the gun. When he knocked out the back window of the car, the gun seemed to shoot itself. He’d had a bad dream once: some bull had shot at him, and he was able to watch the bullet go into his head, right between his eyes. When the hick deputy popped at them with his pistol, Billy blasted away, not expecting to hit much
. It was a surprise to see the deputy flung back against the building like a rag doll.

  “If I didn’t have to drive, I’d climb back there and beat the tar out of you!” Charley said, hot. “Now we’re in the soup for sure.”

  “Yeah, and there’s glass all over this car,” Rose said. “If I cut myself, you’ll be sorry.”

  “Gee,” Billy said, feeling blue, “I guess I ain’t got a friend in the world.”

  He felt like going back to Indiana to watch his brother-in-law and sister slug one another and break furniture. It beat staying with Charley, when Charley was hot.

  “You’ll make lots of friends in the clink, if you don’t swing,” Charley informed him. He roared around a corner and had to swing into a ditch to keep from smashing an old man poking along in a wagon. The car bounced when he cut back onto the road.

  “Will you slow down?” Beulah said. “I didn’t come to Ohio with you to get smashed in a car wreck.”

  “This is a getaway car, get it?” Charley told her. “A getaway car is supposed to go fast. Otherwise you don’t get away.

  “They won’t let you wear no purple nail polish in the Ohio pen, I’ll bet you that,” he added.

  “Charley, are you still mad at me about that?” Beulah asked. “If you are, you need to get over it.”

  “This may surprise you, Beulah, but I got bigger things to worry about right this minute than your nail polish,” Charley said, sarcastic.

  “Billy, I’m lettin’ you out at the first bus station I can find. You need to take a powder until things settle down,” he added.

  “Maybe the deputy didn’t die,” Billy said, forlorn. “Maybe I just winged him.”

  Nobody answered.

  “I can’t imagine why we bought this Tommy gun,” he said, a little later. “It’s too much gun for these small-town holdups.”

  “I wish George Birdwell had come with us,” Charley said.

  “That cowboy?” Billy said, indignant.

  About that time, it began to snow, forcing Charley to slow down.

  “Now every cop in the state will be looking for a black Ford with a smashed-out window,” Charley said, disgusted.