“She confuses me all the time, too. Did a stripe sound like something you’d want to be, at least?”
He shrugs, but he grins too. “Ya want a butt?” Buck pulls a second cigarette from his jacket’s breast pocket.
I hesitate, not sure why I’m making the acceptance of a cig yet another defining moment. Society no longer frowns on women smoking. Even got fancy ones just for us ladies. “Sure.”
One-handed, he fumbles with the tip of his cigarette to light mine, passes it to me. I take a small drag, willing myself not to cough. I cough. The act of smoking is calming, though. I peer out the window, no longer recognizing the street names or this area of Dallas.
“Nervous?” Buck asks me.
“Yeah,” I admit, still staring.
“This kind of thing does that to ya. Makes ya nervous. I’ve made a few trips, and it still gets me jumpy, ya know? Want to walk through the plan again?”
I turn my head back toward Buck, blow out a slow stream of smoke, for once seeing him as a normal person and not some scary bimbo. “No, that’s okay.”
It’s not as if my part will be difficult.
I fluff my Sunday best dress over my legs, feeling more comfortable in its longer length. While finalizing details ’bout our alcohol run, Blanche complained how she could wear a dress just as well as I could, but Mary countered with how innocence was the proper look. She needed a doll, not a moll. And Blanche didn’t fit the bill.
I bob my knee anxiously as we drive, Buck announcing we’re only a few minutes away from the restaurant. For the umpteenth time, he looks in the rearview mirror.
“Everything okay?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“Yup. My brother is tailing us.”
“Your brother?” I twist to peer over the seat. Two pinpricks of light stare back.
“Yep, the one and only Clyde Champion Barrow,” Buck says with a wink. He takes another puff of his cig. “He’ll flash his lights if he spots any po-lice taking notice of us on the way.”
“Why’d they care ’bout us now? We don’t got the bootlegs yet.”
“Well,” Buck says, and licks his lips, “this here car is hot.”
I jolt straight up in my seat. “What?”
Buck chuckles. “Can’t expect me to use my own car. Don’t even have one.”
Panic seizes me. Going on the run to begin with is one thing. A big thing. Going on this run in a stolen car is a whole other shebang. “I want out. I want out this very second.”
“Sorry, Saint Bonnelyn, not going to happen. If we don’t show up where we said we would, when we said we would, these jokers are going to come looking for us. And trust me, we don’t want that happening.”
“Trust you? Why would I ever go and do a thing like that? You all lied to me.” My voice rattles ’round the car, hurting my own ears. “My God, did Blanche know?”
“She’s the one who suggested not telling you.”
“No,” I say, rubbing my forehead, needing for that not to be true.
“She said to give ya a few minutes and you’d come ’round.”
I drop my hand to my lap, clutch it with my other hand. My nails dig into my skin, but I almost relish in the pain, something I can control when everything else is moving too fast.
“Look, it’s safer this way.” Buck pats the steering wheel. “No one will know she’s gone for a few hours. But if I were to take the doctor’s car and things go south, the car will track back to him, and most likely to us. Can’t have that, can we?”
I feverishly shake my head, but it’s not only to answer Buck’s question. It’s also out of disbelief that I haven’t thrown open the passenger-side door.
“I know why you’re here, Saint Bonnelyn. Blanche told me how money is tight at home.”
And that, right there, is why I’m still here. I stare out the window, the betrayal I feel from Blanche growing. But she ain’t wrong. I wish things were different for my family.
“Want to know why I’m here?” I turn toward Buck, and he takes that as a yes as he says, “My brother got real sick a while back. Doc Peterson kept him alive. So if he asks something of me, I’m going to do it.”
“Why does he even do this?” I let out a slow breath, trying to regain my composure. “Why’d he open Doc’s?”
“Doc Peterson uses whiskey to treat patients. It’s allowed, ya know, medicinally.” I nod, although I didn’t fully realize that. “And the pharmacies were having a hard time filling his alcohol scripts ’cause of low production. The government controls all that. Doc Peterson took matters into his own hands.”
“For his patients?”
“Yup. Patients like Clyde got the ball rollin’. Then him and a few of his buddies started playing poker in his basement, which eventually led to the full-blown Doc’s.”
My lower back is moist from all this talk, but my head ain’t spinning anymore, even if nerves still jump ’round my stomach. “Has this been going on for a while?”
“Which part? Bootlegging?”
I scratch my nose, my chin. That word makes me uncomfortable. “Yes. No. I guess everything.”
“The doctor covers his tracks, if that’s what you’re after. He’s been bootlegging for medicinal purposes for years and years. The poker playing—not as long. Maybe three or four years. I ain’t too sure. Doc’s is still a baby, just a few months old. Took years to discreetly get everything set up downstairs. And I can assure you he was discreet. That’s why that raid was nothin’ but a false alarm.”
I also don’t like the sound of that word. It would’ve spelled bad news for my family and me if it’d been real. But it wasn’t. I’m okay. We’re okay. Better than okay, maybe. Makes me wonder though … “How come Doc’s is so busy?”
“What ya mean?”
“Many places are doing great after the war. But Dallas ain’t spreading its wealth too well.”
He nods a few times, like he’s familiar. “For those pinching pennies, I suppose they like pretending. Ya know, it ain’t illegal to drink.”
“It’s not?” I scour my memory. My parents weren’t big drinkers. But Roy’s daddy was, alcoholism running in his family and all. His ma was plenty happy when Prohibition was passed.
“Nope. Anyone is free to drink the stuff,” Buck says, turning his head left and right. He crosses a small intersection. “The government just wants ya to think you can’t. But the law says ya can do it in your home. You just can’t make, sell, or distribute it.”
I narrow my eyes, thinking. “But how do you get it to drink it?”
Buck slaps the wheel and I jump, my nerves already on edge. “Attagirl, Saint Bonnelyn. He’s corrupt, ain’t he?”
“Who?”
“The government. There’s so much poor going on and he’s focusing on what? Booze? Ridiculous. I ain’t surprised people take matters into their own hands,” he says, half paying attention, peering through the windshield. His voice lowers, as if talking only to himself. “Here we are.”
I get a chill. On our left, we pass MacGregor’s Restaurant, and Buck releases an audible breath. That ain’t helping my nerves. When we make a left turn into its alleyway, his fingers tap against the wheel, the noise pounding in my head.
Buck pulls the brake lever, silences the engine, cuts the lights. I shift again to see over the seat. Clyde’s car passes in the streetlight’s glow.
“All right,” Buck says. “This will be easy-peasy.”
I snort at his vocabulary, as if Little Billie said it and not some bimbo in a suit.
He hops from the car. Before I know it, my door is opening. Buck stands there, backlit, making it hard to see his face.
He offers me his hand. I hesitate.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I know you ain’t crazy ’bout any of this, but I’m okay.” I’m barely able to distinguish his facial features, but I can still tell my hesitation hurts his feelings. “Ya know I was arrested, don’t ya? Is that why you’re squirrely ’round me?”
My
expression must betray my desire not to admit it. His outstretched hand drops to his side.
“What I did wasn’t so bad.” Buck flicks his cigarette into the dirt and twists it into the cracked pavement with his shoe. “I got caught with stolen goods last year—me and Clyde did. Funny story, really.”
“I’m not sure I’d agree that spending time in jail is funny.”
“We stole turkeys.”
“Turkeys?” I scrunch my brows.
He chuckles. “Clyde wanted to make the holidays special for our ma and—”
“That’s sweet.”
“That’s Clyde for ya. He planned this big ol’ dinner we couldn’t afford. Reckon it’s my fault we got pinched, though. I had this bright idea we could make some clams by selling turkeys—at a premium, of course, but still less than the store was asking, those crooks.”
“So you stole turkeys?” I reckon that ain’t too bad.
“And sold ’em. The po-lice only locked us up to scare us straight. We were out in no time, even though that bullheaded Clyde put up a fight, always does. They almost kept him longer for resisting arrest. But they ended up just keeping us a night in the box. We were home in plenty of time to carve that bird for our ma.”
“So you’re sayin’ you’re like a modern-day Robin Hood?”
Buck slaps his leg, letting out a hoot of laughter. “Saint Bonnelyn, I like that spin, I gotta tell ya.”
His story settles between us. The back of my head itches, but I don’t move to scratch it. Right and wrong has been so muddy lately that my thoughts also stay still, not sure which way to go.
“Look,” Buck continues, his voice barely more than a whisper, “we can’t be futzing ’round out here. They’ll be here soon, and I can’t keep them waiting. You and I are a team now, right? You got to trust me.”
He offers his hand again, and this time I slowly place mine in his. After he helps me from the car, he pulls my hand through the crook of his arm. I take another quick puff of my cigarette then stomp it into the ground.
Together, we walk down the alley toward the street, Buck navigating the many potholes.
“Okay,” he says. We round the corner onto the sidewalk, the buildings high around us. A car passes. The storefronts have people here and there but ain’t overly crowded, it being suppertime. “Pretend I said something funny.”
I take a quick breath and think of what Clara Bow would do in her film It. I lean into Buck and laugh.
An older couple passes us, the woman smiling at me in a grandmotherly way.
“You’re a regular actress,” Buck whispers. I smile at that.
He pulls open the door to MacGregor’s Restaurant, and I go in first.
A hostess greets us, not a single wrinkle on her dress. Buck responds, with the words anniversary, girlfriend, and celebration louder than the rest. I almost shush him, this seeming like the kind of place where you can’t speak more than a whisper. The tables are covered in white, the utensils sparkling, the lights dim, the music low.
We’re seated, Buck pushing in my chair, and I don’t think anyone has taken special notice of us. But really, why should they? They don’t know we’re here to bootleg alcohol. We’re here for a nice supper. Probably the nicest supper I’ve ever had.
I peruse the menu. Despite my own pep talk, my hands tremble. My eye catches on Crown Roast of Pork. When I put the menu down, Buck lays his hand over mine, offering me a reassuring smile.
“Aren’t you two adorable?” the waitress remarks, suddenly at our table. “Would you like to hear our specials?”
“I think we’re all set,” Buck says, glancing at me for my agreement. I nod and take a sip of water to busy myself.
With our order placed, the waitress gone, and Buck and I alone again, he leans ’cross the table. Any nosy bystanders would think he was whispering sweet nothings to me, something Roy would do.
“All right,” Buck says, “I’ll be right back. Just need to use the li’l boys’ room.” He winks.
What he really means is: All right, I’ll sneak into the alley, meet the distributor, quickly load the car with alcohol, then be back for the main course. You stay here, my perfect-looking fake girlfriend, so that no one thinks it’s odd that I’ve left.
“Hurry back,” I say, covering the nervous inflection of my voice with a flirtatious undertone.
Buck kisses my hand before walking toward the back of the restaurant. My gaze follows him ’cross the room, my heart thumping in my chest. I close my eyes, tell myself that there’s nothin’ to worry ’bout. I just sit here. Sit here and wait. That’s it. And he’ll be back in a few minutes.
So what if last time Buck made an alcohol run he thought he had police watching him? This time is different. There were no flashing headlights from Clyde. That’s got to mean no one knows we have a stolen car. Not yet, at least. And, so far, no one’s acting strange in the restaurant. The waitress thought we were a real couple, even. We’re being nothin’ but discreet.
My heartbeat slows and I open my eyes.
Staring back at me from ’cross the room is Hazel Griffin, Southwest Dallas High School’s most notorious chatterbox and lead writer of our school’s gossip column. Next to her is Jimmy … whatever his last name is. All my brain can comprehend is how Hazel pins me with a That wasn’t Roy expression. She studies Buck’s empty chair and her lips twist.
I instinctively stand, my chair scraping against the floor. My napkin falls from my lap.
“Hazel,” I whisper, as if sayin’ her name louder will make this situation worse.
She sashays toward me, Jimmy trailing behind like he always does. “I underestimated you, Bonnelyn Parker. He’s a Casanova,” Hazel says. “And you? Two-timing Roy Thornton? Just like Ethel Bowens did to Harold Monroe. Wow. Haven’t you two been together since you were pups? Didn’t Roy buy you a house?”
“No,” I say, and madly shake my head. “I mean, yes. He bought me a house, but—”
“And your hair? Now that’s scandalous. It really makes me wonder what you’ve been up to this summer. I got to believe Blanche Caldwell has been involved in some way or another.”
“Hazel—”
She steps closer, presses her finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t you worry. After I figure out all your secrets, I’ll be sure to keep ’em to myself.” She laughs. “See you at school, Bonnelyn. Can you believe it’s starting so soon?”
Hazel brushes past me, my mouth doing nothin’ but catching flies. Jimmy follows, lowering his head.
“Hazel,” I say, louder, and turn to also follow, to tell her that she’s got it wrong. She doesn’t stop. My God, Hazel Griffin never keeps a secret.
I picture my world coming down ’round me, starting with Roy unraveling all of my lies.
All I can do is stand here. For a minute? Five minutes? Time also stands still, ’til I hear a scream, easily swallowing the soft din of the restaurant.
A deep scream.
A man’s scream.
My hand flies to my chest, the earlier pounding now seeming like child’s play.
The deal’s gone bad. I know it.
10
All thoughts of Hazel Griffin and her big mouth are gone, vanished, unimportant.
That scream …
Buck? No, I tell myself, hands on my chest. It’s not Buck.
Something’s gone wrong, but Buck is fine.
He’ll come waltzing into the dining room any second now. But the seconds pass and I’m left standing here by myself, gripping the back of my chair, easing some of my weight against it.
Some patrons are frozen, forks in midair. Others are on their feet, looking ’round with questioning, panicked expressions. The volume of MacGregor’s spikes, creating the type of commotion reserved for tragedies.
One voice rises above the rest, screaming into a phone. “Get me the police.”
The police.
I blink, holding my lids closed, and pray that, when I open them, Buck will finally be coming this way. We�
�ll leave. We’ll count our blessings.
The soft light crashes into me when I open my eyes. But no Buck.
I turn on my heel, racing for the door, for the alley.
A handful of people have gathered on the street, the same puzzled looks on their faces. By the grace of God, none belong to Hazel.
For a second, I think of fleeing, running in the opposite direction. But I find myself kicking off my heels and plunging into the alleyway.
The car’s interior light leaks from the open back door, softly illuminating a carload of crates and Buck’s body propped against the car, his head tilting to the side, a black circle spreading on his stomach. His hands lie limply on either side, inches from a bloody knife.
He’s quiet, his eyes fluttering open and closed.
Only feet away from Buck, two men grapple. Their footsteps are heavy, their struggle throwing them left and right ’cross the small space. I stumble side to side. A gleam of light catches the object they are fighting over. A pistol. A completely terrifying pistol. More terrifying than our shotgun. A shotgun is bigger, and I can see it coming. But a pistol is small, discreet, and can come out of nowhere. And this one is pointing all over the place—at me, the wall, the ground, the sky, Buck—too fast to fully register.
I feel the weight of the crowd forming behind me, but I’m afraid to turn to see how many. I’m afraid for them to see my face. Even worse, the police could join them any second.
And here I am, feet away from a brawl. A stolen car with a backseat full of giggle juice. A man with a knife wound to his stomach. My insides tremble, my hands tremble, it feels as if even the alley’s walls tremble, as if they’re inching closer with every breath I take.
I can only speculate ’bout what went wrong, fearing that my earlier hesitation made Buck late. But I know I must do something, anything.
“Stop!” I scream at the two men—the first word that comes to mind.
They jolt, and the gun slips free. It clatters against the pavement. Close. Too close. And I squeak like a child.
Becoming Bonnie Page 10