by Kym Brunner
If’n I want to fit in, looks like I got to “tone down the Texan” like Daddy used to say. I try to remember how to make myself sound a high brow Yankee. “Just being funny is all. About the money, if ten is too much, I’ll take a fin, uh, five dollars. Whatever you got.”
“What the hell did you do to your hair?” the pip asks as he pulls out his wallet.
“You like it, eh?” I slick it back with my hands.
“Like it? You look like a dork.” He hands me a ten-spot, no questions asked. My kind of fella. “Pay me back when you get your next paycheck, loser.”
I size him up, tempted to make him give me all his cash after calling me a loser. But since I ain’t got my bearings just yet, I settle for the ten. Not sure how much things cost nowadays, but this ought to be enough to buy me a gun. “I’ll give you that and double,” I tell him, knowing I ain’t never gonna see him ever again. “You know where I can get me a car?”
Curly slides his wallet back into his pocket and laughs. “Your keys are right behind you on the table, dumbass.”
“What did you call me?” I ball up my fists, ready to pound on his face.
He yawns, waving a hand at me. “Chill out. What’s wrong with you? Are you high or something?”
Taking a deep breath, I decide to let the curse slide for now. If I knew for sure that I’d see this bum again, I’d let him know that no one calls me names and gets away with it. He’s lucky I didn’t ram his teeth down his throat. I turn around and snatch up the keys, but they don’t look like none I ever seen. I can’t help smiling when I see Ford on the key fob. Hope like heck that it’s an 8-cylinder. “Thanks, kid.”
He looks confused. “Who are you calling ‘kid’? And why are you still talking with that accent? You in a play at school or something?”
“Yeah, I’m James Cagney.” I open the door, wanting to get out quick.
“Don’t be gone long,” Curly yells. “Dad said he’s bringing a pizza home.”
Looks like Curly is my new brother. He ain’t nothing like Buck though. Buck was smart and a true gentleman in every way, while Curly is just surly. Ha! Ain’t that a hoot. Surly Curly.
“Yup,” I tell him. “Shouldn’t take but half-hour to get my business done.”
As I head out the door, I remember the first time I heard about pizza, from my wop friend, Gino. Said it had tomato sauce and cheese on a crispy bakery crust and was all the rage in New York. Now, while getting dinner in my empty belly sounds mighty tempting, I got me a job to do. I need cash so I can drive to West Dallas, my hometown in Texas. I want to see if one of my relatives still owns our filling station, maybe a niece or nephew. I need a place to hole up while I track down who set me up and got me kilt. Because if by some miracle he’s alive, he ain’t gonna be for long.
When I step outside, saliva near falls out my mouth. There are big, fancy houses all in a row and cars in every color under the sun. Everyone has green grass and flowers are blooming everywhere, which means people around here have money to blow. Things have really changed since I been gone—changed for the better. I stroll over to the shiny blue car in the carport out front and run my hand along its side. I whistle in admiration. This is one gorgeous vehicle. By the sight of all the money all these folks got, the Ain’t-So-Great Depression is long gone.
My hand is jiggly from excitement as I yank open the door and hop inside. Sweet Jesus! Looks like Jack Daniel is rolling in dough! Leather seats, gadgets and gears, fancy radio with lots of buttons. I feel the smooth leather on my palms and my heart starts racing. I can’t wait to see how much power this beauty has. Even my pecker is excited about driving this sweet ride. I spent the last two years of my life in cars so I love and respect Mr. Ford’s invention. Because of that, they love and respect me right back. After I search high and low for the ignition, I finally find it on the steering column. I slip the key into the slot and the engine roars into life.
“I’m going to have me some fun tonight!” I don’t know how to work all these levers, but I’m sure I can figure it out. I peer over and under, studying the different parts and how they work, amazed at all the jazzy gizmos they got now. When I see there’s no clutch, I realize—it don’t need one! This car shifts by itself! And different speeds on the windscreen wipers? Talk about swanky. I take a deep breath and set the gear to “D” for “Drive.”
Slick as rain, I maneuver this baby onto the street like I’ve been doing it my whole life. I drive slow at first, testing things out. It’s like a dream how easy it is to steer this thing. I cruise down the road, awed that there ain’t no wheel or carriage ruts to slow me down. As I get the hang of it, I press the accelerator and let this automobile zoom into high speed. “Yee-ha!” I shout, loud as I can. Even though the power of this auto ain’t nothing like the 12-cylinder Packards, it’s still mighty fine.
A cad pushing a baby buggy shakes his fist at me from the sidewalk, but I don’t pay him no mind. He’s prolly jealous of my driving skills, like everyone else. Ain’t nothing new. I turn onto a big street choked with cars and people and trucks. I nearly ram the vehicle in front of me when it comes to a stop right in the middle of the road. I notice all the other cars stop too and traffic goes the other way. I’m confused, ’til I remember those new stop-and-go lights that started popping up in all the big towns right before I got smoked. Soon as I think about how I got tricked, I feel my face getting hot. When I find out which son of a bitch set me up, someone in his family will die as horrible a death as their kin bestowed on me.
First things first. I need cash and I need it now. I drive up the road a mile or two looking for a store with lots of loot and nary a customer. I finally spy a filling station, which ought to be just perfect for my needs. I pull in and park right in front of the door so I can make a fast getaway. I turn around and check the back seat for Jack Daniel’s weapons, but don’t see a Tommy gun or a Browning Automatic Rifle in sight. What a total jelly bean, a good for nothing do-gooder.
For a second, I get an inkling that maybe I should start over and try my hand at making a clean living. I can turn around and go back to Curly and his family. Hook up with that dame, Twinkle. Could be kinda nice not to have to be on the lam all the time. No one here in this town knows me for nothing. As far as they know, Clyde Champion Barrow is long gone. Sure would be nice not to have to worry about going to the Big House again. I rub my chin, thinking it over, wishing Bonnie was here. She’d jabber with me about this. Was always good for that.
I sit up straighter and look around. What am I thinking? How can I go back and live with a family I don’t know? And make a decent wage doing what exactly? Farming’s too much work and I’m too set in my ways to learn a new skill. Damned if I want to work for no boss, neither. I ain’t gone farther in school than the sixth grade, so what else am I good at besides robbing?
Nothing, that’s what.
That’s when I glimpse a tire iron laying on the floor in the back. I know straightaway that this is a sign from God that I’m doing the right thing. I’ll head inside to case the joint first and then come back outside for my convincer. The tire iron’s no gun, but it sure oughta convince whoever’s behind the counter to give me all his money.
A bell jingles over the door when I walk in, just like our place back home in Texas. As much as it pains me to not mind my manners, I don’t say “Howdy” to the dollface coming out. But she don’t even notice—walking past like I’m made of air. Her ignorance suits me fine. One less citizen to identify me later on. I keep my head down and walk clear through to the back end of the store. I want to have a gander around the joint before I rob it. I pretend to shop, but all the while, I’m checking the layout of the place. I take in the back door exit and then count eight customers that could get in my way. I’ll have to make sure the palookas leave before I do anything else. If more than five of ’em jump me, I could be in for a spot of bad luck.
I’m amazed that they got a whole aisle filled with nothing but pretzels and potato chips. Hundreds of ki
nds and flavors, some I ain’t never even heard of before. I finally grab a bag of pretzels with a fancy blue wrapper and make my way to the front counter. When I get close to the register, I see a small movie screen up on the wall. It’s like the kind you see at a theater, ’cepting it’s a lot smaller. I watch for a moment, fascinated that you can see a movie picture for free, but I don’t recognize any of the actors. James Cagney’s not even in it, and he’s in just about everything. Of course, now that I ponder that idea, he’s got to be dead, too.
I rub my hand across my hair to slick it back, when the man in the movie does the same. I try a few more actions—waving, grabbing a white box off the shelf, bobbing my head back and forth. Sure enough, I’m the leading man. I toss the pretzels on the newspaper rack and dart out of there fast. No way to weasel out of that robbery, not with solid proof staring me in the face. There’s got to be other stores to rob around these parts—ones without fancy movie cameras.
I get in my car and start the engine, mad that everything is so queer in this new world. Lots of things have changed—some of them not in my favor. I tap the steering wheel, pondering my next move, when a plump buttercup walks up to a tall metal box that’s fifteen feet from the door. I’m curious what that contraption is, so I watch. She shoves a card in a slot, pushes some buttons, and right before my eyes, dough comes spitting out of the machine! While I’m still staring, wondering if I’m seeing things, another stoolie comes up and does the same thing!
Hell, I don’t need a gun to pull this job off. I grab hold of the tire iron and pull up so there’s only five feet between my car and the cash-making machine. All I gotta do is wait for the next halfwit to come by and stick his card in the slot, and I’ll have me an easy stack of greenbacks. To pass the time, I whistle Bonnie’s favorite tune, “We’re in the Money.” I only get through the song once when a slim dame wearing close to nothing sallies up and puts her card in.
I linger inside my car until the money is shooting out the machine before I make my move. I dash out, leaving the car door open, and cozy up right behind her. I push the tire iron into her back. “Don’t scream or I’ll kill you. Give me all your money.” She starts to turn around when I tighten the grip on her arm. “Don’t look at me. Just hand me the loot. NOW!”
“Here!” She holds the cash over her shoulder. “Take it!”
I stuff the wad into my back pocket and push the tire iron in her back as a reminder. “Now keep quiet until I get to my car or I’ll shoot.”
I dash off, thinking this job was easier than falling off a log.
I barely take three steps when she screams, “Help! Help me someone!”
“Shut up!” I snarl, gritting my teeth, running at her.
She’s frantic, pointing, backing away. “Heeeelp! Thieeeef!”
“I said close your head!” I hoist the tire iron and wallop her on the side of her skull with one swift blow. Not hard enough to kill her—but enough to make the trollop shut her trap. She crumples to the ground in an instant. I run like a jackrabbit and hop in the car, hightailing it out of that gas station before anyone can figure out who or what she was snapping a cap about. I drive away with a handful of loot and no cop on my tail. Just like old times.
Turns out there are some things even a person with a sixth-grade education never forgets.
I drive a few blocks and turn down onto a side road to count my cash and reckon what to do next. I pull in front of a house under a shady tree and put the car into park. Next door, a man pushes a lawn mower around his yard, the putt-putt sound of the motor the same like when I was a kid. I count my money. “Yes, sir. Eighty bucks! That lady was loaded.”
I lean my head back, thinking about where to go next. If Bonnie was here, we’d drive about fifty miles and then go out for a nice meal. We’d scoot from town to town, living in fancy hotels for weeks on this bounty. The smell of freshly cut grass reaches my nose and I take a deep whiff, longing for the country. I sorely wish my moll were here to celebrate with me.
Flashing lights go off inside my head, like the kind I remember from Prohibition raids.
Before I know what’s happening, Whoosh! I’m back inside Jack’s head. Alone. In the dark, soundless. If I had that tire iron in my hand right now, I’d hit myself over the head with it for letting my guard down. Must not be the smell of cologne that lets Jack get back in after all.
I can’t believe my Second Coming is done as quickly as it arrived.
CHAPTER 11
Saturday, May 21st // 12:33 P.M.
Monroe
After my shower, I dress in one of my favorite outfits, hoping to lift my spirits—a red floral vintage-style halter top with wide lapels, coupled with black, high-waisted shorts with two rows of buttons down the front panels. I finish it off with a red feather clip in my hair.
You look swell—for a chippy. Once I take over your body, I’ll lose five pounds and those clothes will look right as rain.
Shut up. They look fine now.
Men like their women as lean as flagpoles.
Not anymore they don’t. It’s unhealthy.
As cool as I thought the legend of Bonnie Parker was, she’s way better as a footnote than a companion. All that’s left to do now is to lock up these slugs and pray she leaves.
That’s a waste of time. Go find Clyde instead.
It could be my infantile aversion to authority figures, but the way she’s protesting my putting the slugs back makes me suspicious. It doesn’t matter what she says anyway, because I don’t trust her one bit. She’s not about to give me advice that will make her situation worse.
On the other hand, if she’s right and she is still around after I’ve put the slugs back, I need to know what I’m up against. If she can hear through my ears because I’m a bad listener, it makes sense that I need to find out her weaknesses. Hopefully it’ll give me an advantage. So far, I know she’s a love slave to Clyde, enjoys rotgut whiskey, and sits in the car like a dumbass waiting for Clyde to rob banks. I want to know more, but first I need to locate Jack and Milo to see if anything is up with either of them.
I flip open my laptop, log on to my social network, and do a search for Jack Hale—Chicago. There are only about ten listings, so it doesn’t take me long to find the one I want. I request his friendship and send a generic message along with it, hoping he’ll shed some light on my dream.
Weird scene yesterday. I’m checking to see if everything’s okay with you today. Just curious ~Monroe
Then I do the same for Milo Ricci. Turns out he’s the only one with his name in all of Chicago. I send him a message similar to Jack’s and start racing around, getting ready to leave. The sooner I get these slugs locked away, the sooner I’ll know if I can get rid of Bonnie before she gains any more power.
I slip on a pair of black sandals and am halfway to the door when I come across the smashed document frame with Bonnie’s poem inside on the floor next to my dresser. Plastic shards are everywhere, and parts of the exposed poem stick up between the sharp edges. Another impulsive act—why can’t I control myself? If Dad sees this when he wakes up, he’ll be furious at me. I kneel down and start picking up the pieces of the container, made even more tedious because I have to be careful not to tear the poem. After several painstaking minutes, I finally free the poem without any damage. “Thank God!” Bonnie and I say at the same time, surprising me. I fold it up and slide it into my back pocket so I can buy a replacement frame at the craft store.
Hey, I wrote that!
“Yeah, I know, genius,” I whisper, imitating her.
She begins narrating the poem as I tiptoe past Dad’s closed door, desperate not to wake him. I hate lying to him, so I’d rather not have to make up a story about where I was going, which is what I’d have to do if he saw me now. Luckily I manage to stay quiet enough to sneak out. I take the elevator downstairs, pick up a coffee in the lobby, and catch a Yellow Cab. On the way I come up with an alibi if anyone sees me at the restaurant—that I left a textbook in my da
d’s office and need it to study for finals.
When the cabbie pulls up at The Clip Joint, I charge my ride to my dad’s account before racing to the employee entrance. The door slams behind me, helped by a gust of wind. I make a covert sprint for my dad’s office when from behind me I hear, “Monroe!”
My heart stops. It’s Dad.
I spin around, and see him walking toward me. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
I smile, my excuse temporarily forgotten in the panic of seeing my father here, so I settle for a detour instead. “I should ask you the same thing. I thought you were still at home sleeping.”
“Guess some of us can actually be quiet enough not to wake the others in the household.” He clears his throat and gives me a wry smile.
“I am quiet,” I reply. He tilts his chin down and stares at me. “Sometimes,” I add.
“I want you to come check something out.” He tugs on my elbow, leading me toward the front lobby. “Billy and Denny are here too.” As I follow him, I’m hoping upon hope that he’s got something inconsequential to show me—sturdier hangers in the coat room, revised menu items, maybe a fancy new doorknob on the front door. But when we turn the corner, I see Billy kneeling on the floor next to the toolbox. Denny’s standing a few feet away, wiping his forehead with a red bandana.
And there’s a brand spanking new display case mounted on the wall between them.
Several spotlights are aimed at a three-foot square glass rectangle that has two glass shelves. The tan beret that Faye Dunaway wore in the 1967 Bonnie and Clyde movie is on one shelf, alongside a letter of authenticity and press kit photos of her and Warren Beatty.
The velvet-lined plastic box containing three slugs is on the other.
“Wow,” I manage, the coffee I drank in the cab percolating in my stomach. My face heats up, like I’m leaning over a hot toaster. “The display looks stuper, I mean super, guys,” I stammer, anxiety building in my chest.