Heading out of Henryetta she said, “There’s one.”
He said, “Too many cars.”
Thirty miles later leaving Checotah, turning north toward Muskogee, Louly looked back and said, “What’s wrong with that Texaco station?”
“Something about it I don’t like,” Joe Young said. “You have to have a feel for this work.”
Louly said, “You pick it.” She had the .38 he gave her in a black and pink bag her mom had crocheted for her.
They came up on Summit and crept through town, both of them looking, Louly waiting for him to choose a place to rob. She was getting excited. They came to the other side of town and Joe Young said, “There’s our place. We can fill up, get a cup of coffee.”
Louly said, “Hold it up?”
“Look it over.”
“It’s sure a dump.”
Two gas pumps in front of a rickety place, paint peeling, a sign that said eats and told that soup was a dime and a hamburg five cents.
They went in while a bent-over old man filled their tank, Joe Young bringing his whiskey bottle with him, almost drained, and put it on the counter. The woman behind it was skin and bones, worn out, brushing strands of hair from her face. She placed cups in front of them and Joe Young poured what was left in the bottle into his.
Louly did not want to rob this woman.
The woman saying, “I think she’s dry.”
Joe Young was concentrating on dripping the last drops from his bottle. He said, “Can you help me out?”
Now the woman was pouring their coffee. “You want shine? Or I can give you Kentucky for three dollars.”
“Gimme a couple,” Joe Young said, drawing his Colt, laying it on the counter, “and what’s in the till.”
Louly did not want to rob this woman. She was thinking you didn’t have to rob a person just ‘cause the person had money, did you?
The woman said, “Goddamn you, mister.”
Joe Young picked up his gun and went around to open the cash register at the end of the counter. Taking out bills he said to the woman, “Where you keep the whiskey money?”
She said, “In there,” despair in her voice.
He said, “Fourteen dollars?” holding it up, and turned to Louly. “Put your gun on her so she don’t move. The geezer come in, put it on him, too.” Joe Young went through a doorway to what looked like an office.
The woman said to Louly, pointing the gun from the crocheted bag at her now, “How come you’re with that trash? You seem like a girl from a nice family, have a pretty bag… There something wrong with you? My Lord, you can’t do better’n him?”
Louly said, “You know who’s a good friend of mine? Charley Floyd, if you know who I mean. He married my cousin Ruby.” The woman shook her head and Louly said, “Pretty Boy Floyd,” and wanted to bite her tongue.
Now the woman seemed to smile, showing black lines between the teeth she had. “He come in here one time. I fixed him breakfast and he paid me two dollars for it. You ever hear of that? I charge twenty-five cents for two eggs, four strips of bacon, toast and all you want of coffee, and he give me two dollars.”
“When was this?” Louly said.
The woman looked past Louly trying to see when it was and said, “Twenty-nine, after his daddy was killed that time.”
They got the fourteen from the till and fifty-seven dollars in whiskey money from the back, Joe Young talking again about heading for Muskogee, telling Louly it was his instinct told him to go in there. How was this place doing business, two big service stations only a few blocks away? So he’d brought the bottle in, see what it would get him. “You hear what she said? ‘Goddamn you,’ but called me ‘Mister.’”
“Charley had breakfast in there one time,” Louly said, “and paid her two dollars for it.”
“Showing off,” Joe Young said.
He decided they’d stay in Muskogee instead of going down to Braggs and rest up here.
Louly said, “Yeah, we must’ve come a good fifty miles today.”
Joe Young told her not to get smart with him. “I’m gonna put you in a tourist cabin and see some boys I know. Find out where Choc’s at.”
She didn’t believe him, but what was the sense of arguing?
It was early evening now, the sun going down.
The man who knocked on the door-she could see him through the glass part-was tall and slim in a dark suit, a young guy dressed up, holding his hat at his leg. She believed he was the police, but had no reason, standing here looking at him, not to open the door.
He said, “Miss,” and showed her his I.D. and a star in a circle in a wallet he held open, “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Carl Webster. Who am I speaking to?”
She said, “I’m Louly Ring?”
He smiled straight teeth at her and said, “You’re a cousin of Pretty Boy Floyd’s wife, Ruby, aren’t you?”
Like getting ice-cold water thrown in her face she was so surprised. “How’d you know that?”
“We been making a book on Pretty Boy, noting down connections, everybody he knows. You recall the last time you saw him?”
“At their wedding, eight years ago.”
“No time since? How about the other day in Sallisaw?”
“I never saw him. But listen, him and Ruby are divorced.”
The marshal, Carl Webster, shook his head. “He went up to Coffeyville and got her back. But aren’t you missing a automobile, a Model A Ford?”
She had not heard a word about Charley and Ruby being back together. None of the papers ever mentioned her, just the woman named Juanita. Louly said, “The car isn’t missing, a friend of mine’s using it.”
He said, “The car’s in your name?” and recited the Oklahoma license number.
“I paid for it out of my wages. It just happens to be in my stepfather’s name, Otis Bender.”
“I guess there’s some kind of misunderstanding,” Carl Webster said. “Otis claims it was stolen off his property in Sequoyah County. Who’s your friend borrowed it?”
She did hesitate before saying his name.
“When’s Joe coming back?”
“Later on. ‘Cept he’ll stay with his friends he gets too drunk.”
Carl Webster said, “I wouldn’t mind talking to him,” and gave Louly a business card from his pocket with a star on it and letters she could feel. “Ask Joe to give me a call later on, or sometime tomorrow if he don’t come home. Y’all just driving around?”
“Seeing the sights.”
Every time she kept looking at him he’d start to smile. Carl Webster. She could feel his name under her thumb. She said, “You’re writing a book on Charley Floyd?”
“Not a real one. We’re collecting the names of anybody he ever knew that might want to put him up.”
“You gonna ask me if I would?”
There was the smile.
“I already know.”
She liked the way he shook her hand and thanked her, and the way he put on his hat, nothing to it, knowing how to cock it just right.
Joe Young returned about 9:00 a.m. making awful faces working his mouth, trying to get a taste out of it. He came in the room and took a good pull on the whiskey bottle, then another, sucked in his breath and let it out and seemed better. He said, “I don’t believe what we got into with those chickens last night.”
“Wait,” Louly said. She told him about the marshal stopping by, and Joe Young became jittery and couldn’t stand still, saying, “I ain’t going back. I done ten years and swore to Jesus I ain’t ever going back.” Now he was looking out the window.
Louly wanted to know what Joe and his buddies did to the chickens, but knew they had to get out of here. She tried to tell him they had to leave, right now.
He was still drunk or starting over, saying now, “They come after me they’s gonna be a shootout. I’m taking some of the scudders with me.” Maybe not even knowing he was playing Jimmy Cagney now.
Louly said, “You only stole seventy-one dollars
.”
“I done other things in the State of Oklahoma,” Joe Young said. “They take me alive I’m facing fifteen years to life. I swear I ain’t going back.”
What was going on here? They’re driving around looking for Charley Floyd-the next thing this dumbbell wants to shoot it out with the law and here she was in this room with him. “They don’t want me” Louly said. Knowing she couldn’t talk to him, the state he was in. She had to get out of here, open the door and run. She got her crocheted bag from the dresser, started for the door and was stopped by the bullhorn.
The electrified voice loud, saying, “JOE YOUNG, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.”
What Joe Young did-he held his Colt straight out in front of him and started firing through the glass pane in the door. People outside returned fire, blew out the window, gouged the door with gunfire, Louly dropping to the floor with her bag, until she heard a voice on the bullhorn call out, “HOLD YOUR FIRE.”
Louly looked up to see Joe Young standing by the bed with a gun in each hand now, the Colt and a .38. She said, “Joe, you have to give yourself up. They’re gonna kill both of us you keep shooting.”
He didn’t even look at her. He yelled out, “Come and get me!” and started shooting again, both guns at the same time.
Louly’s hand went in the crocheted bag and came out with the .38 he’d given her to help him rob places. From the floor, up on her elbows, she aimed the revolver at Joe Young, cocked it and bam, shot him through the chest.
Louly stepped away from the door and the marshal, Carl Webster, came in holding a revolver. She saw men standing out in the road, some with rifles. Carl Webster was looking at Joe Young curled up on the floor. He holstered his revolver, took the .38 from Louly and sniffed the end of the barrel and stared at her without saying anything before going to one knee to see if Joe Young had a pulse. He got up saying, “The Oklahoma Bankers Association wants people like Joe dead, and that’s what he is. They’re gonna give you a five-hundred-dollar reward for killing your friend.”
“He wasn’t a friend.”
“He was yesterday. Make up your mind.”
“He stole the car and made me go with him.”
“Against your will,” Carl Webster said. “Stay with that you won’t go to jail.”
“It’s true, Carl,” Louly said, showing him her big brown eyes. “Really.”
The headline in the Muskogee paper, over a small photo of Louise Ring, said sallisaw girl shoots abductor.
According to Louise, she had to stop Joe Young or be killed in the exchange of gunfire. She also said her name was Louly, not Louise. The marshal on the scene said it was a courageous act, the girl shooting her abductor. “We considered Joe Young a mad-dog felon with nothing to lose.” The marshal said that Joe Young was suspected of being a member of Pretty Boy Floyd’s gang. He also mentioned that Louly Ring was related to Floyd’s wife and acquainted with the desperado.
The headline in the Tulsa paper, over a larger photo of Louly, said girl shoots member of pretty boy Floyd gang. The story told that Louly Ring was a friend of Pretty Boy’s and had been abducted by the former gang member, who, according to Louly, “was jealous of Pretty Boy and kidnapped me to get back at him.”
By the time the story had appeared everywhere from Ft. Smith, Arkansas, to Toledo, Ohio, the favorite headline was
GIRLFRIEND OF PRETTY BOY FLOYD GUNS DOWN MAD-DOG FELON.
The marshal, Carl Webster, came to Sallisaw on business and stopped in Harkrider’s for a sack of Beechnut scrap. He was surprised to see Louly.
“You’re still working here?”
“I’m shopping for my mom. No, Carl, I got my reward money and I’ll be leaving here pretty soon. Otis hasn’t said a word to me since I got home. He’s afraid I might shoot him.”
“Where you going?”
“This writer for True Detective wants me to come to Tulsa. They’ll put me up at the Mayo Hotel and pay a hundred dollars for my story. Reporters from Kansas City and St. Louis, Missouri, have already been to the house.”
“You’re sure getting a lot of mileage out of knowing Pretty Boy, aren’t you?”
“They start out asking about my shooting that dumbbell Joe Young, but what they want to know, if I’m Charley Floyd’s girlfriend. I say, ‘Where’d you get that idea?’”
“But you don’t deny it.”
“I say, ‘Believe what you want, since I can’t change your mind.’ What I wonder, you think Charley’s read about it and seen my picture?”
“Sure he has,” Carl said. “I imagine he’d even like to see you again, in person.”
Louly said, “Wow,” like she hadn’t thought of that before this moment. “You’re kidding. Really?”
Dangerous Women - Penzler, Otto Ed v1.rtf
BORN BAD
JEFFERY DEAVER
Sleep, my child and peace attend thee, all through the night.…
T
he words of the lullaby looped relentlessly through her mind, as persistent as the clattering Oregon rain on the roof and window.
The song that she’d sung to Beth Anne when the girl was three or four seated itself in her head and wouldn’t stop echoing. Twenty-five years ago, the two of them: mother and daughter, sitting in the kitchen of the family’s home outside Detroit. Liz Polemus, hunching over the Formica table, the frugal young mother and wife, working hard to stretch the dollars.
Singing to her daughter, who sat across from her, fascinated with the woman’s deft hands.
I who love you shall be near you, all through the night.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping.
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping.
Liz felt a cramp in her right arm-the one that had never healed properly-and realized she was still gripping the receiver fiercely at the news she’d just received. That her daughter was on her way to the house.
The daughter she hadn’t spoken with in more than three years.
Imy loving vigil keeping, all through the night.
Liz finally replaced the telephone and felt blood surge into her arm, itching, stinging. She sat down on the embroidered couch that had been in the family for years and massaged her throbbing forearm. She felt light-headed, confused, as if she wasn’t sure the phone call had been real or a wispy scene from a dream.
Only the woman wasn’t lost in the peace of sleep. No, Beth Anne was on her way. A half-hour and she’d be at Liz’s door.
Outside, the rain continued to fall steadily, tumbling into the pines that filled Liz’s yard. She’d lived in this house for nearly a year, a small place miles from the nearest suburb. Most people would’ve thought it too small, too remote. But to Liz it was an oasis. The slim widow, midfifties, had a busy life and little time for housekeeping. She could clean the place quickly and get back to work. And while hardly a recluse, she preferred the buffer zone of forest that separated her from her neighbors. The minuscule size also discouraged suggestions by any male friends that, hey, got an idea, how ‘bout I move in? The woman would merely look around the one-bedroom home and explain that two people would go crazy in such cramped quarters; after her husband’s death she’d resolved she’d never remarry or live with another man.
Her thoughts now drifted to Jim. Their daughter had left home and cut off all contact with the family before he died. It had always stung her that the girl hadn’t even called after his death, let alone attended his funeral. Anger at this instance of the girl’s callousness shivered within Liz but she pushed it aside, reminding herself that whatever the young woman’s purpose tonight there wouldn’t be enough time to exhume even a fraction of the painful memories that lay between mother and daughter like wreckage from a plane crash.
A glance at the clock. Nearly ten minutes had sped by since the call, Liz realized with a start.
Anxious, she walked into her sewing room. This, the largest room in the house, was decorated with needlepoints of her own and her mother’s and a dozen racks of spools-some dating back to the fift
ies and sixties. Every shade of God’s palette was represented in those threads. Boxes full of Vogue and Butterick patterns too. The centerpiece of the room was an old electric Singer. It had none of the fancy stitch cams of the new machines, no lights or complex gauges or knobs. The machine was a forty-year-old, black-enameled workhorse, identical to the one that her mother had used.
Liz had sewed since she was twelve and in difficult times the craft sustained her. She loved every part of the process: buying the fabric-hearing the thud thud thud as the clerk would turn the flat bolts of cloth over and over, unwinding the yardage (Liz could tell the women with near-prefect precision when a particular amount had been unfolded). Pinning the crisp, translucent paper onto the cloth. Cutting with the heavy pinking shears, which left a dragon-tooth edge on the fabric. Readying the machine, winding the bobbin, threading the needle…
There was something so completely soothing about sewing: taking these substances-cotton from the land, wool from animals-and blending them into something altogether new. The worst aspect of the injury several years ago was the damage to her right arm, which kept her off the Singer for three unbearable months.
Sewing was therapeutic for Liz, yes, but more than that, it was a part of her profession and had helped her become a well-to-do woman; nearby were racks of designer gowns, awaiting her skillful touch.
Her eyes rose to the clock. Fifteen minutes. Another breathless slug of panic.
Picturing so clearly that day twenty-five years ago-Beth Anne in her flannel ‘jammies, sitting at the rickety kitchen table and watching her mother’s quick fingers with fascination as Liz sang to her.
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee. . .
This memory gave birth to dozens of others and the agitation rose in Liz’s heart like the water level of the rain-swollen stream behind her house. Well, she told herself now firmly, don’t just sit here… do something. Keep busy. She found a navy-blue jacket in her closet, walked to her sewing table, then dug through a basket until she found a matching remnant of wool. She’d use this to make a pocket for the garment. Liz went to work, smoothing the cloth, marking it with tailor’s chalk, finding the scissors, cutting carefully. She focused on her task but the distraction wasn’t enough to take her mind off the impending visit-and memories from years ago.
Dangerous Women Page 30
