Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  So, the plan now is to go hellbent for leather to the Texas border?”

  “Not quite yet, Mr. Hamer. We are taking Methvin to meet his father, at his farm in Bienville Parish.”

  Hamer turned his head to fully face Bierce. He favored the small blond man with his thousand-yard stare, the stare that over forty criminals had last seen.

  “You aren’t letting that bastard go. One way or another, he’s dying. Get in my way, and you’ll die, too.”

  Bierce still didn’t look directly at Hamer., but he smiled in an odd way. “Oh,” said the agent, “he will be yours eventually. I simply assumed you would want Mr. Barrow and Miss Parker as well.”

  “Just what are you getting at?”

  “I’ve contacted several reporters, and have engaged in a financial transaction. This transaction will guarantee, that at most, in a few days, Bonnie and Clyde will be at the home of Mr. Methvin’s father. He lives in the country. No innocent bystanders to be caught in a cross fire, plenty of time to prepare a trap from which they cannot escape. I believe they will see that, and surrender without a struggle. I very much want to take them alive, at least for a while.”

  Hamer grunted. “What about Hamilton?”

  Bierce took his right hand off the wheel and waived dismissively. “He is a true small fry. Without Barrow and Parker, he will eventually fall into our hands. The real danger is from Barrow and Parker. It will be tricky taking them alive.”

  Frank Hamer said nothing.

  There was a knock at the door of the run-down motel room Bonnie and Clyde occupied. Clyde cocked his Colt .45 and went to the door. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Barrow. Let me in.” Clyde recognized the voice of the man from Chicago. Uncocking his automatic, he unlocked the door. A thin, handsome man with a pencil moustache slid through the door, which Clyde swiftly closed and locked.

  “You’re pretty nervous, Clyde,” said the visitor. “No need. The people in this part of southwestern Kentucky have no use for the state bulls, much less the G-men.” He turned his attention to Bonnie. “Miss Parker, good to see you again. Now, just what do you have that is worth my coming all the way from Chicago?”

  Clyde went over to a valise on the crumpled bed, opened it and poured out its contents. Thirty thousand dollars. The visitor’s eyes were riveted to the money. Ever so slowly, a smile crept across his lips.

  “Thirty thousand dollars now, another thirty thousand when the job is done.”

  The visitor laughed out loud. Then he did the most outrageous thing. He bent down, placed the palms of his hands flat on the floor, and then in one smooth motion kicked his feet into the air. Walking on his hands, laughing the whole while, he made his way to the bed, pushed up with his deceptively slim arms, and launched himself into the air, landing on his back on the bed. He then grabbed bundles of the cash and hugged them like a lover. Bonnie giggled with delight. Even the grim Clyde smiled.

  “Where’d you learn to do that?” asked Bonnie, laughing.

  “A trick I picked up doing a spell in prison, had to keep occupied somehow.” The visitor continued to erotically fondle the money.

  “This is heaven sent, I don’t mind telling you. I’ve got troubles in Chicago, but you can buy yourself out of any trouble there with enough cash.” He sat up on the bed, and turned more serious. “So what’s the job? I imagine your boys in Louisiana aren’t letting go of this kind of dough for knocking over some bank.”

  “It’s a big one,” replied Clyde. “Remember that dago of yours who fouled up the Florida job back in ’33? Well, it needs to be done, and done right this time. You need to do it yourself. Personally.”

  “Jesus!” the visitor exclaimed. “That’s going to be a tough nut to crack. Good chance I’ll end up meeting Old Sparky.”

  “That’s why there’s another $30,000 waiting for you when the job is done.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Remember, I’m just a messenger in this. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of these Louisiana people. On the other hand, they can give you a lot of protection afterwards. We’re proof of that.”

  “Sixty-thousand dollars more when the job’s done, or no deal.” The man from Chicago was not a coward, whatever his other moral failings.

  Clyde sighed. “I can’t make a promise, but I’ll tell you this. Do the job so it doesn’t come back on Louisiana, and I reckon they will accept your deal.” Sure as hell hope so, he thought.

  The visitor sprang to his feet, and began cheerfully stuffing the money into the valise. “Then we’ve got an arrangement. Tell your people I will need a month, maybe two, in order to arrange things.” He snapped shut the valise, shook Clyde’s hand, winked at Bonnie, and sauntered cheerfully out of the dingy motel room.

  After a moment Bonnie said, “Well, it’s done. Clyde honey, let’s get some sleep.”

  “Wanna eat first,” he responded grumpily.

  “Got some bread, cheese, and meat at the store where we filled up the Ford. Got a newspaper, too. Here, read it while I fix us some sandwiches.” Bonnie casually tossed the newspaper to Clyde, who caught it easily. While Bonnie laid out the ingredients of their meal on room’s drab dresser, Clyde kicked off his shoes, sat on the bed, and unfolded the paper. In only a few seconds, his attention was riveted to a small column on the front page:

  MEMBER OF BARROW-PARKER GANG RELEASED FROM SHREVEPORT JAIL

  Hank Methvin, suspected member of the Bonnie and Clyde gang, was released from the jail in Shreveport yesterday. Methvin had been apprehended by Texas lawmen led by the famous Texas Ranger Frank Hamer. Hamer, who has killed forty-two men while wearing the badge, is notorious for his lack of consideration for due process and the rule of law. He had no legal authority to perform arrests in the state of Louisiana. Local police could have re-arrested Methvin when he was released, but rumor in the Shreveport Police Department and the State Police holds that he has been given immunity from all charges in return for helping apprehend Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, and for testifying for the state at their subsequent trial. It is reported that Methvin is staying out of the public eye for the time being at his father’s home in Bienville Parish….

  Clyde read no further. A vein pulsed on his forehead and his hands began to shake with rage. “Bastard! Ungrateful, backstabbing bastard! After I broke him out of the state prison.”

  Bonnie looked up from making the sandwiches.

  “Clyde, honey, what’s wrong?” she asked in a careful voice.

  Struggling to keep his voice from becoming an animal scream, Clyde said, “Do you remember how to get to Hank’s dad’s farm?

  Hamer smiled as he read the newspaper article, then threw it onto the table where the handcuffed Methvin could see it. He then tuned to Harry Bierce and said grudgingly, “Damn smart of you. Still, don’t you think Barrow and Parker could smell a rat and stay away?”

  Bierce turned to face the seated Methvin. “Well, Hank, what do you think? Is Clyde Barrow smart enough to smell a rat, or will he let the rage inside him govern his actions?”

  Methvin just glared up at him, and Bierce turned his attention to the elderly man who stood behind the handcuffed criminal, one hand slightly trembling, not with fear, but from the onset of Parkinson’s disease.

  “Mr. Methvin, I understand that your son has brought Barrow and Parker to your farm more than once. Do you think they will smell a trap? Or will their sense of betrayal require them to seek vengeance?”

  The thin old man first looked at Hamer, then at Bierce. “They’d be animals, Mr. G-man. Animals. Know’d that afore they started this string of killings. Tol’ my boy to have nothin’ to do with them, but Hank was always pig-headed. They’d be comin’ here to kill my boy, will probably kill you all too. They’d both be crack shots with them Army BARs, and they can kill twice you’s number.”

  Hamer emitted a barking, ugly laugh.

  Bierce replied, “We will be taking them alive, if possible.”

  The old man ignored Ha
mer and focused his tired brown eyes on the small, bespectacled Bierce for nearly a minute, then said, “Well, maybe you can. I want a promise, want to hear it from you.”

  “If I can honor what you request, I will.”

  Old man Methvin glanced over at Hamer, jerked his thumb at him, then looked back at Bierce. “That Ranger feller’s meanin’ to kill my boy. Seen a lot of bad people in my life, and I knows the killin’ look. If’n he has his way, Hank will never make it to prison in Texas.” Hamer scowled, but the old man ignored him. “Hank aren’t much, but he’s all the family I got. You read the newspapers, an’ you know my boy aren’t a mad dog killer like them two. You know he didn’t drop the hammer on those prison guards, or those three policemen. You want me to help you ketch Clyde an’ Bonnie? I’ll do it, but only if I have your word my boy will live to get to the Texas prison an’ serve his time.”

  Bierce studied the old man, beaten down by a half century of poverty, backbreaking toil, and grief. Then he gave a single nod, not for Hank Methvin, who Bierce regarded as a worthless animal, but for the old man who still loved his criminal progeny.

  Seeing Bierce nod, Hamer surged out his chair. “Now just a goddamn minute, you little bastard—”

  Bierce raised his right hand, like a traffic cop ordering the cars to stop. A small gesture, yes, but something in it, some indefinable menace, stopped Hamer short.

  “Mr. Hamer, I have given my word. I am a representative of the Federal government, superior to any state authority, even that of the Lone Star state. I believe that issue was settled in 1865.” At this point, Bierce chuckled, as if at a private joke. “Providing young Mr. Methvin behaves himself, he will be delivered to your courts alive and … relatively … unharmed.”

  All of a sudden, Hinton burst into the decrepit cabin, breathless from running. “Frank, I think it’s them! Saw them about a mile away with my binoculars. It’s a Ford V-8; not many of them out here in the sticks. Got to hurry to get into place.”

  “Come on, old man,” growled Hamer, grabbing the elder Methvin’s arm. “Down to your truck.”

  Hamer dragged the elderly farmer into a swift jog down the dirt path, which after two hundred feet turned into the county road. Bierce and Hinton stayed close behind. At the junction, the old man’s decrepit Model T pickup was parked, the hood already up, as if it had broken down.

  “Now lean in there and act like you’re tinkering with it, just like we discussed. They’ll recognize you and slow down. That’s all we need.” Hamer and Hinton then ran over to where Manny Gault and Bob Alcorn had mostly concealed the Plymouths and the Hudson with branches and brush.

  “Very well,” announced Bierce. “Once they slow down, I will step into the middle of the road, drawing my pistol. You four—” Bierce’s voice trailed off. Without speaking, Hamer and Hinton had opened up the trunks of the Plymouths, and were handing out weapons. Each of the four Texans was given a BAR and a Winchester pump-action shotgun. Bierce heard four metal clacks as the bolts of the powerful army weapons were drawn back, bringing deadly 30-06 rounds into the chambers.

  “Where did you get those weapons?” asked Bierce, his normally soft voice eerily deep.

  “Texas National Guard Armory,” replied Hamer, emotionless, as he and his three companions rushed to where half a dozen trees grew at the side of the road, giving cover. Behind him, Bierce heard the distinctive clunk as the Ford downshifted, reducing its speed.

  Sensing what the Texan’s were going to do, Bierce ran up to Hamer and said, “No! I must have at least one of them alive! Show them the BARs so they know resistance is futile, but don’t….”

  There was an audible thump as the butt of the heavy machine gun impacted the side of Bierce’s head. He fell to the ground, only dazed by the blow, which should have reduced him to unconsciousness, if not death.

  Hamer looked briefly at the Federal man, and, without emotion, said, “This is for Joe Crowson.” He then turned his eyes toward the Ford, less than seventy feet away. The old man, sensing what was going to happen, took off running back to his shack. The driver of the Ford, also sensing something was wrong, shifted down into second gear.

  His voice curiously quiet, Frank Hamer said, “Open fire, boys.”

  A deafening roar erupted. In four seconds, eighty 30-06 rounds hit the still moving Ford, causing it to judder uncontrollably. The four men threw down the empty BARs and grabbed the fully loaded 12-gauge shotguns, and began to blast round after round of buckshot into the Ford.

  Bierce staggered to his feet. In an unnaturally low, penetrating voice he screamed, “NO-O-O-!” and ran straight for the car as it gradually slowed to a stop at the side of the road. As Bierce barreled across the line of fire, Hamer threw up his arms and waved frantically, shouting for his men to stop shooting.

  Bierce staggered up to the Ford V-8, which was leaking fluids and hissing steam like a dying beast. Drawing his Colt, he jerked open the driver’s door. Clyde Barrow slumped out of the car and onto the asphalt, deader than Caesar. His torso and head a score of bloody holes, a baffled look of surprised rage frozen on his face. The normally unemotional Bierce stifled a howl of anger and disappointment as he leaned in to check the body of Bonnie Parker.

  To his amazement, despite a dozen prominent wounds, she was alive and barely conscious. Her eyes began to close. Viciously, Bierce pinched her cheeks. “The name, Miss Parker! The name of the man from Chicago!”

  She did not seem to hear him, but began murmuring unconnected thoughts. “Oh Clyde, honey, told you to forget ’bout Methvin … Chicago feller sure was funny, walking on his hands … oh, Clyde—” She closed her eyes, exhaled a long breath, and died.

  Bierce lowered his head to hide the exasperation, the outrage, the disappointment that gathered and filled him. Then, out of the corner of his vision, he saw Hamer and his men come up, still clutching their shotguns. Hamer nudged Barrow’s corpse with the toe of his boot, then addressed Bierce.

  “The Parker bitch dead?”

  Bierce nodded his head jerkily. Then in a fluid motion he rose and faced Hamer, his light blue eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses blazing with fire. “Do you know what you have done?” His voice quiet, but nonetheless distressed at his nearness to the unspeakable violence that had occurred.

  Hamer did not flinch from Bierce’s stare. “I’ve put down some vicious murderers, and avenged my best friend. What do you think I did?”

  Bierce almost told the Texas Ranger that his desire for vengeance had stopped the prevention of a greater crime. Instead, he decided that Hamer simply would not believe him or if he did, this relentless lawman would suffer from guilt for the rest of his life. Besides, alongside the raging demons Bierce kept barely under control, was a strict code of fairness. He had known what it was to want vengeance, and to avenge the loss of someone he loved. He remembered a long-ago day of flame and blood, and a round of horror sailing through the air. He could not judge Hamer harsher than he had judged himself so many years ago.

  Bierce’s unusually acute hearing picked up the faint sound of a distant siren. Some nearby farmer with a telephone must have heard the gun battle and called the police. Bierce quickly went to his Hudson convertible, pulled off the concealing brush and branches, and leaped into the driver’s seat.

  “Where the hell are you going?” asked Hamer.

  “Away from here. You and your men can have complete credit for this bloodbath. Do not mention me, or the Bureau, to any officials or reporters—especially reporters. And, if Hank Methvin does not reach prison alive, I will be coming for you.” Bierce started the Hudson’s powerful motor, smoothly executed a bootlegger’s turn, and roared off down the road. The last thing the astonished Texans heard was the car slipping into third gear and accelerating into the distance.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “…Once I built a tower up to the sun, brick and rivet and lime…”

  “I’m not happy with you, Bierce,” said J. Edgar Hoover in a voice that barely carried across his large desk.
“Not happy at all.” His subordinates at the Bureau were well aware that his angry, loud blustering was reserved for small offenses, and when he was truly enraged, his voice sank to nearly a whisper.

  On the other side of the desk sat Harry Bierce, his double-breasted suit neatly pressed, legs crossed in a relaxed manner.

  “Director, I do not understand the cause of your concern. In addition to the Long matter, you sent me to investigate the wave of murderous crime sweeping the Midwest. Bonnie and Clyde are dead, Methvin and Hamilton back in prison. What more could you ask?”

  “Cut the crap, Bierce. The newspapers are giving all the credit to those Texas crackers Hamer and Hinton, when you and I both know that you were the one who lured Bonnie and Clyde in. You’re not stupid, so don’t pretend to be. You know that I need a record, a public record of Bureau successes to assure our budget on the Hill, and to keep the politicians off our backs.”

  “There would be precious little glory for the Bureau in what happened in Louisiana. As I have said, it was a lynch mob, nothing more, nothing less. I do not care that Parker and Barrow are dead; they well deserve to be. I believe some effort should have been made to bring them to trial, prove their guilt before a jury, and then send them to the chair. You follow what Hitler did in Germany just recently? They are now calling it ‘The Night of Long Knives’. Officially, only a few score died over what was supposedly a thwarted coup, but I have it on good authority the real total was over a thousand. Not just brown-shirted street thugs, but politicians, generals, university professors, journalists. Director, I was under the impression you did not want to see the United States become a country of force and violence, of lawlessness and injustice.”

  “Damn it, Bierce, you know I don’t want that! The Nazis are as big a threat to civilization as the Bolsheviks, perhaps bigger. It’s just that I’m under a lot a pressure from the Hill to show results for the Bureau.”