“That old fool is apt to wreck us worse than we’re already wrecked,” Richetti said, nervously.
“Stop your complainin’, or I’ll thump you on the noggin with the nearest rock,” Charley said, exasperated by the man’s sour temperament.
The Bitzer Garage, where Richetti’s one-legged brother worked, was a run-down affair whose roof sagged like a sow’s belly, despite which a small-town crowd of over half a dozen people were already lined up, waiting to get their vehicles serviced. Joe Richetti was under a car when the old pickup towed them up to the lot. The shoats were still squealing. Two of the ladies waiting in line for service were forced to cover their ears.
“Damn, it’s barely sunup, and this place is already jam-packed,” Charley observed.
“My brother’s a helluva good mechanic,” Richetti said.
“I believe it—look at this crowd,” Charley said. “I probably should have hired your able brother, and left you to rot in Arkansas. He’s probably better company, too.”
Once they had removed the tow rope and thanked the farmer, Richetti leaned on the horn, to let his brother know of their arrival. Charley got out of the car, and straightened his tie. He had a change of clothes in his suitcase, and was hoping to change in the rest room, if there was one.
Joe Richetti rolled himself out from under the vehicle he was working on. He looked oily, in the way of a mechanic, and seemed to have his brother’s lack of humor. When he saw Charley straightening his tie, he was a little taken aback.
“Who’s this swank you brought with you?” he asked, dispensing with familial greetings.
“Never mind, get to work on this flivver,” Adam Richetti said.
Joe Richetti looked down the line of waiting customers.
“These folks are all ahead of you,” he pointed out. “I can’t just stiff ’em because you’re my brother.”
“Well, you better, or I’ll shoot your other leg off,” Adam threatened.
Charley couldn’t remember when he had met any two men as uncooperative as the Richetti brothers. He opened the trunk and removed his Tommy gun, which he was careful to point straight up in the air. Despite this precaution, the crowd immediately took note.
“Here, now,” Charley said, slamming the trunk closed. “Let’s not have any scufflin’ between brothers.”
He casually strolled over to the line of customers.
“Folks, I’m sorry to crowd in ahead of you,” he said. “I know it ain’t polite. But I’ve got an emergency at home, and I can’t wait. I’ll have to ask you to all take a seat, just for a little while,” he added, motioning his Tommy gun toward the bench along the wall.
An old-timer with a blue ear looked at him quizzically.
“You’re Pretty Boy, ain’t you?” he asked.
Charley decided the blue ear must be a birthmark.
“I’m Charley Floyd,” he said, patiently.
An old lady with dead rosebuds on her hat didn’t accept the situation in silence.
“What air you, crooks?” she asked, with no sign of fright.
“You could call us bandits, I guess,” Charley said.
“In other words, we’re hostages,” another lady said. She looked, if anything, more impatient than the first lady.
“Well, just till we get this car fixed, ma’am,” Charley told her. “I regret the inconvenience as much as you do.”
“The devil you do,” the old lady said. “What about my appointment at the beauty parlor? I was gonna get one of them new permanents.”
“Well, maybe you won’t have to put it off but about an hour,” Charley said, turning to Richetti.
“Eddie, why don’t you run out and get a big bag of doughnuts for these nice folks?” he asked. “No need for ’em to be uncomfortable.”
Richetti was chewing a match.
“Why don’t you go shit in your hat?” he said. “I ain’t providin’ doughnuts for no garage full of hicks.”
One of the old-timers bridled at being called a hick.
“Where’s this fool think he’s from?” the old-timer said. “Paris, France?”
“Just ignore him, sir, he’s ignorant,” Charley told him.
“Has he always been this rude?” he added, to Joe Richetti.
“Adam’s mean enough to bite, always has been,” Joe replied. He had been looking at the flivver with a practiced eye.
“If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t we trade cars,” he suggested. “I’ll even let you keep them new tires—won’t take half the time to switch tires as it would to take this carburetor apart.”
“Let’s have a look first,” Charley said, skeptical—he wondered if a criminal mind ran in the family.
One of the old-timers went over to a bench, and turned on the radio. Jimmie Rodgers was singing “I’m in the Jailhouse Now.” Adam Richetti looked at the radio as if he wanted to shoot it, but he restrained himself.
Just then, over the sounds of the old Blue Yodeler, they heard a loud clanking from the street.
“You got a good little business here, Joe,” Charley said. “I hear another customer comin’.”
Joe looked out the garage door, and was visibly shaken by what he saw coming.
“Aw, jeez—it’s the sheriff,” he said. “What the deuce am I gonna do now?”
“Nothin’, I’ll just shoot him,” Adam Richetti said. He reached in his pocket, and drew his pistol.
“Hey, now!” Charley said. “If you don’t stop this wild talk, I’m gonna have to whack you with the biggest wrench I can find on your brother’s workbench.”
“What’s the sheriff’s name?” he asked Joe.
“His name is Killingsworth—Jack Killingsworth,” Joe Richetti informed him.
“We may have to detain Sheriff Killingsworth for a few minutes while we work out this auto trade,” Charley said. “Go ask him what’s wrong with his car, and I’ll do the rest.”
Sheriff Jack Killingsworth was a big, strapping man, as good-natured as anyone in Bolivar, Missouri. Joe hobbled out, as quick as he could, trying to keep him from driving the car any farther and damaging it more.
The sheriff got out of the car, and grinned at Joe.
“My horse is winded,” he said. “If I was to have to chase any desperadoes today, I doubt I’d catch ’em.”
“Uh, come on in, Sheriff,” Joe said. “I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”
The sheriff gave the waiting customers a big wave and a holler, and walked into the garage. The second he did, Charley covered him with the Tommy gun. He smiled when he did it; he wanted to keep things as amiable as possible.
“Uh-oh,” the sheriff said.
“There’ll be no trouble, sir, if you’ll just relax,” Charley said, quickly lifting Killingsworth’s revolver.
The old lady with the appointment at the beauty parlor didn’t take the amiable view of things.
“It’s about time you showed up, Jack,” she said. “These bandits have been holdin’ us hostage for nearly an hour. I’ve done missed my appointment at the beauty parlor.”
“Joe, I’ll make the trade,” Charley said. “Would you switch them tires? I don’t want to keep this lady from her appointment any longer than I have to.”
“Aw, tell her to shut up about her damn appointment, Charley,” one of the old men said. “She wouldn’t look no better if she spent a week in that beauty parlor.”
Sheriff Killingsworth, assessing the situation and realizing he was caught, tried to follow instructions and relax.
“I think I know you from pictures,” he said, to Charley. “You’re Pretty Boy Floyd, ain’t you?”
“Charles Arthur Floyd,” Charley corrected. “You can just take a seat with these other folks, if you will. As soon as Joe switches them tires, we’ll be moseyin’ on out of here.”
Joe Richetti got his jack, and immediately started to work.
“Somebody should’ve made a picnic,” the sheriff observed, dryly.
“You can make all the picnics
you want, Sheriff, after the next election,” the old lady said. “I ain’t votin’ for you, and I doubt anybody else will either. Not after this disgrace.”
The sheriff gave Charley a see-what-you-got-me-into look.
“Your ordeal is about over, ma’am,” Charley said patiently. Then he looked over at Killingsworth, and shrugged—Charley couldn’t remember seeing a friendlier or more jolly fellow since he’d met George Birdwell robbing the bank in Earlsboro, long ago.
“Maybe they can still work you in at the beauty parlor,” he said, trying to get the old lady to look on the bright side.
“I doubt it,” the woman said. “They’re tight on Fridays.”
Charley had begun to feel that it would not be wise to drive off and allow Sheriff Killingsworth the opportunity to pursue them—he looked like an able man.
“Sheriff, I’m gonna have to inconvenience you a little more,” Charley said. “The safest approach to this situation is for you to ride along with us for a while. That would be the best way to keep the peace.”
“Hell, a safer way would be to shoot him,” Richetti said. “I ain’t gonna like drivin’ around with no law in the car.”
Charley was just about at the end of his rope with Richetti.
“Don’t worry about my partner, Sheriff,” Charley assured Killingsworth, while glaring at Richetti. “He’s nothin’ but a trigger-happy torpedo—he’s the only one around here that’s gotta worry about gettin’ shot.”
Nonetheless, Sheriff Killingsworth wasn’t enthusiastic about traveling with a hothead like Adam Richetti.
“Why do you wanna take me?” he asked, hoping Charley would change his mind.
“You know the roads, Sheriff—the dirt roads, I mean,” Charley told him. “And if you’re with us, you can’t be chasin’ us.”
“I guess you got a point,” Sheriff Killingsworth admitted.
“Even if I ain’t, I got the drop,” Charley replied.
When the tires were switched, Charley insisted that Richetti drive. He put the sheriff in the front seat, and sat directly behind him. Killingsworth was pretty nervous at first, but he gave clear directions when asked.
“Switch on that radio, Eddie,” Charley said. “I’m tired of ridin’ along listening to the tires turn.”
“I’ve told you, my name ain’t Eddie,” Richetti said.
“Well, it can be your nickname, then,” Charley said. “Turn on the damn radio.”
Richetti did, and this time, Jimmie Rodgers was singing “Waitin’ for a Train.”
“I guess old Jimmie owns the airwaves,” the sheriff commented.
Then, with no warning, an announcer broke in to announce a bank robbery in a place called Mexico, Missouri—two lawmen had been killed.
“Scores of lawmen and volunteers are searching for the killers,” the announcer said. “Authorities believe Pretty Boy Floyd and his gang are the most likely suspects.”
“What gang?” Charley asked. “And where the hell’s Mexico, Missouri, anyway? I never even heard of the place.”
“It’s a helluva ways from here, Mr. Floyd,” the sheriff informed him. “I believe it’s up past Hannibal somewhere. It’s north—way north—I know that much.”
“Well, here I am, Sheriff,” Charley said. “I ain’t in no Mexico, Missouri. It’s gettin’ so if anybody anywhere gets robbed or shot, if they can’t pin it on Dillinger, they pin it on me.”
“You don’t have to worry about this one,” the sheriff said. “You got me for a witness, this time.”
“That’s what happens when you get a reputation,” Richetti pointed out.
“I oughta make a list,” Charley said, annoyed.
“What kinda list?” Richetti asked.
“A list of towns I never heard of, much less visited, where I’m supposed to have pulled all these jobs,” Charley said. “This is gettin’ goddamn irritating. I’m bein’ blamed for everything except the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby!”
“You’re mighty prominent in your profession, Mr. Floyd,” Killingsworth said. “Now that they’ve finished Bonnie and Clyde, there’s just Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, and you.”
Charley felt a gloom take him, a mood lower than the floorboards.
“Ain’t but one way it can end, Sheriff,” he said.
“How’s that?” Killingsworth asked.
“Lead—and lots of it,” Charley said. “I’ll go down full of lead, just like Bonnie and Clyde—and George Birdwell.”
“He had a big funeral, I hear,” the sheriff said.
Charley didn’t answer—he found himself wondering if Whizbang Red was still alive.
26
“Look on the bright side, Jack,” Charley said, to Sheriff Killingsworth.
“Crackers and cheese is better than nothin’.”
They were stopped by the side of a narrow Missouri back road, with two flats on Joe Richetti’s car, and the winter day was fading fast. The tire switch Joe had pulled in Bolivar turned out to be a tire switch entirely in his favor.
“Crime runs in the family—I should’ve kept a closer eye on your one-legged brother,” Charley said to Richetti, when the spare blew. Fortunately, they had stopped at a little grocery store a few miles back, so at least they had the cheese and crackers, and a couple of jugs of cider.
“I’m usually home eatin’ supper this time of day,” Sheriff Killingsworth remarked. He had gotten unusually silent after the second tire blew. “I guess I miss my boy,” he added.
“Well, you’re eatin’ supper, you just ain’t eatin’ at home,” Charley said.
The sheriff’s remark brought Dempsey to mind; and Ruby, of course. Charley knew all too well how the big sheriff felt.
“You oughtn’t to kick about one day, Jack,” he added. During the afternoon, he and Sheriff Jack Killingsworth had worked their way up to a first-name basis. Charley liked the good-natured lawman—even though he was a sheriff, talking to him reminded Charley of how lacking in conversational skills Richetti was, and just how much he missed his old partner, Birdwell. The two men talked about farming, fishing, baseball, and they even talked of how they had gotten into opposite lines of work. They joked about married life, and they exchanged stories about their sons. Charley thought it was interesting, how much they had in common—him, an outlaw; and Killingsworth, a lawman.
Charley’s mood started downhill again like a runaway wagon, passing Killingsworth’s melancholy at breakneck speed.
“As soon as we get to Kansas City, we’ll let you go,” Charley told him. “You’ll be home tomorrow, and you can have your boy with you every day. You can play ball, or go fishing with him, or just sit and look at him, whenever you want.”
“I guess you’re right, Charley,” Jack Killingsworth said, noticing that the young man’s dark mood had returned.
“I’m hunted day and night now,” Charley said. “Don’t you think I’d like to see my boy? I’da damn sight rather be holdin’ him across my knee, instead of this Tommy gun. I only get to see him once in a while—all I could manage to do last time I saw him was drive by the school-yard at recess, and look at him for a minute—I couldn’t even get out of the car.”
“That would be hard,” the sheriff said. He had come to like the young bandit himself—Charley Floyd sure didn’t seem like the coldblooded killer J. Edgar Hoover and the newspapers made him out to be.
“It is—harder than you’ll ever know,” Charley said. “Eat your cheese and crackers, and don’t be kickin’ about one day.”
The road they were stopped on went northwest, up toward the plains. A pair of hawks soared over, hunting quail, but otherwise, there was not a living thing in sight.
“If you went up this road and just kept goin’, you’d come to the North Pole, eventually,” Jack Killingsworth said.
“Drop me off in Iowa somewhere, if you’re thinkin’ of makin’ the trip,” Richetti said. “I was in Amarillo once, in the wintertime—that’s close enough to the North Pole for me.”
> Just then, they saw a speck in the far distance.
“I think that’s a car,” Charley said. “If it is, I want you to put your sheriff’s hat on, and use your authority to flag it down. We won’t do nobody no harm, we just need a lift.”
Richetti, skeptical, took the dim view.
“Nobody but desperate fools would travel on a road this empty,” he said.
In fact, though, it was a car—a spanking new blue Pontiac, driven by a shoe salesman named Griffiths. He was a small, bald man with specs, wearing a black suit that would have looked better on an undertaker, in Charley’s opinion. Sheriff Killingsworth had no trouble flagging him down.
“Sir, we’ve got an emergency,” the sheriff said. “We need a lift bad.”
“Oh, uh … where to, sir?” the little shoe salesman asked.
“Kansas City,” the sheriff said.
“Kansas City? My wife will divorce me, if I run off to Kansas City,” Mr. Griffiths said. “She’s probably starting supper right now, expecting me home.”
“We can offer crackers and cheese,” Charley said. “I doubt it’ll compare with your wife’s cooking, but it beats going hungry. Could you scoot over, please?”
“Scoot over where?” Mr. Griffiths asked, looking alarmed.
“To the passenger side—I know a quick route and would prefer to drive,” Charley said.
“Why, sir, I know nothing about your abilities, and this is a brand-new car,” Mr. Griffiths said. “If I let a total stranger drive it and you was to wreck, my wife would divorce me.”
“I can’t help it if you’ve got a shaky marriage,” Charley said, impatient. “Scoot over.”
“I can vouch for my friend’s driving,” the sheriff said, thinking fast. “Mr. Charles is an expert.”
Charley hated to put Killingsworth in the back seat with Richetti, given that the latter was dumb and trigger-happy, but he decided to try it. Richetti was not a steady driver. He was always letting up on the gas, a habit Charley could barely tolerate. Also, he was lax on curves, and had swerved nearly into the ditch several times. Besides, the Pontiac was brand-new, and he had always liked driving sharp new cars. Even in the predicament he was in, it felt good to speed down the road in a new vehicle.
Pretty Boy Floyd Page 32