A Disgrace to the Badge

by Ed Gorman

  And Henry Starr was coming to town.

  Everybody knew it but nobody said it.

  Not to his face, anyway.

  But down at the bank, where she worked as a teller, that was all anybody talked about or thought about.

  Henry Starr, the first bank robber in the state to use a motorcar in his raids, was inexorably working his way toward Pruett City. You could follow his robberies with a southeast slanting line drawn on a map. Oh, he'd zig a little sometimes, and zag a little others, but the southeastern line didn't vary much. And someday soon, he'd be here. Mr. Foster, the bank's owner, had put on two extra shotgun guards. He had a bad stomach, did our Mr. Foster, and he walked around these days popping pills and touching his stomach and grimacing.

  And Dad would inevitably have a run-in with Henry Starr, who was known to love shoot-outs, as well he should, having won every darn one he'd ever been in.

  She looked at her father now and fought back tears. He looked old and somehow little-kid vulnerable. The liver spots on his big hands resembled cancerous growths. His arthritis-cramped hand gnarled itself around his pipe.

  Henry Starr, who was not unintelligent it was said, had likely sent a spy on ahead to look over Pruett City. And the report back would be obvious: the sheriff's an old man; he'll be easy pickin's.

  Sam Mines consulted the railroad watch he always carried in his vest pocket. "Well, time for me to be—"

  She smiled and took his hand. She wanted to jump up and hold him to her and never let him go. But she knew that such shilly-shallying would embarrass him. So she simply finished his sentence for him "—time for you to be pushin' off."

  He smiled right back. "I sure wish you'd look around for another beau, Laurel. That grease monkey's never gonna amount to much, I'm afraid."

  * * *

  It had been funny with the whore last night. Usually, he would have made love to her without any hesitation. That's what whores were for, wasn't it?

  But a certain thing he'd read in The Police Gazette crossed his mind just as he'd begun to unbutton his trousers—a thought so nagging that Henry Starr had buttoned right back up again and kicked the whore out of his hotel room.

  The thought was this: a man named Max Bowen, whom the magazine called "the most successful bank robber New York City ever saw," attributed his astonishing run of fifty-three bank robberies over eight years before being apprehended to the fact that the night before a robbery, he abstained from both liquor and ladies. The way, said this Max Bowen, that prizefighters did.

  And so there Henry Starr had been, unbuttoning his trousers, when the thought about abstinence struck him . . . and he'd immediately ordered the whore out of the room.

  This morning, as he cranked up his Model T and waited for his lazy-ass gang to come tumbling down the hotel steps so they could drive on to Pruett City and rob the bank there, he wondered if he' d been stupid.

  That whore sure was pretty. And sure did have a nice pair of breasts.

  Henry Starr, not a reflective man, gave a few moments thought to how bank robbing had been not all that long ago. Horses instead of cars. And no federal agents on your ass unless you killed one of their own. And no telephones to make tracking you down all that much easier.

  The car, especially, was a mixed blessing.

  Here it was, for example, a perfectly fine autumn day, sixty degrees already at seven A.M., the engine should be performing very well, and yet he still had to crank the damned thing as if it was twenty below zero and the engine block was covered with snow and ice.

  Not to mention problems with tires, muddy roads, and running out of gas.

  The one nice thing was the speed.

  You come bursting out of a bank with six or seven bags of cash, hop into the car, and in a few minutes you're tearing ass out of town at forty-five miles an hour—and God help anybody who gets in the way.

  That was where the Tin Lizzie beat the hell out of any kind of horse you'd care to name.

  The car finally kicked over.

  And by that time his gang, yawning and toting huge mugs of steaming hot coffee, came hurrying down the stairs, knowing Henry was going to be damned mad about them sleeping in this way.

  * * *

  As soon as Sully Driscoll opened the police station door, he knew he'd made another mistake. One just as dumb as last night's mistake of pelting Laurel's windows with pebbles.

  "Help you?" said Clete Mulwray, one of Pruett City's twelve deputies. He sat behind a large desk, seemingly lost in a sinkhole of paperwork.

  "I'd like to see the sheriff'

  "Any reason in particular?"

  "I guess I really should just talk to him."

  Mulwray shrugged, stood up. "Wait here." He disappeared down a short hall.

  He sure wasn't friendly. Sully wondered if the sheriff had told him about what Sully had done last night. No—if he had, the deputy would be smirking.

  Mulwray came back. "First door on your left."

  Sam Mines wore his familiar crisp khaki uniform. His campaign hat was angled from the top notch of a hat tree. With all the glassed-in law books, the office looked as if it belonged to a lawyer.

  Sam said, "Help you with something?"

  "I came to apologize."

  "You apologized last night."

  "Yeah, but I couldn't sleep much. All I did was think about how stupid I was. So I came to tell you again."

  Sam leaned back in his chair. He didn't invite Sully to sit down. His eyes were even unfriendlier than Mulwray's.

  "You ever think you might be better off with Constance Daly?" Sam said.

  Sully swallowed hard. Was this Sam's way of saying he didn't want Sully to see Laurel anymore?

  "No, sir. I—I love Laurel."

  "Laurel can't give you your own auto shop."

  "I know that."

  "And Laurel can't give you a big house and a nice fat bank account."

  "I know that, too. But I happen to love Laurel."

  Job couldn't have sighed any more deeply than Sam Mines did at that moment. He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and said, "Sully, I'm going to tell you something. And it's going to hurt your feelings. And I'm sorry for that in advance. You're kind of brash sometimes—and you're so crazy over motorcars you make people laugh at you—but you're a decent, hardworking lad, and I really don't mind you at all."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  Old Sam smiled. "Yeah, I guess it is."

  "Then thank you."

  "But."

  "There's always a but, isn't there, Sam?" Sully said, hoping to keep the conversation light.

  "Yes, I'm afraid there always is." Sam glanced away, as if preparing himself to say something he was reluctant to say. "Sully, you're a decent boy. And my daughter loves the hell out of you. But I want to ask you something, and I want you to answer me honestly."

  "All right." Sully knew this was going to be terrible.

  "Do you think you can make much of a living working at that garage?"

  Sully felt sick. "You mean she could marry somebody with a better future?"

  "That's a good way to say it, I guess."

  "Well, I—"

  "I want the best for Laurel, Sully. You can understand that, can't you?"

  "Well, sure, but—"

  "I wish you'd think about it, Sully. I know it's not the way young people like to think about their futures—once upon a time I was just as hot-blooded as you are—but just think about what Constance could do for you. And what somebody like Andrew Stillson could do for Laurel."

  Andrew was a thirtyish bachelor, and a nice enough guy, who ran the local apothecary. But he wouldn't make a good husband for Laurel—

  "I'll think about it, sir."

  "That's all I ask, son. And about last night—Don't worry about it. I got too mad by half. Like I said, I was hot-blooded myself once." He smiled. "That's just how men are built, I guess."

  * * *

  The newspapers in the state were after Henry Starr even more rele
ntlessly than the lawmen.

  And as he bumped and swayed along behind the wheel of his Model T, Starr thought of the lies they wrote about him and how they were purposely damaging his reputation.

  There was a time when the Henry Starr name shone as brightly as that of Jesse James and the Dalton Brothers. Your first-class bank robber. A man that a lot of people secretly looked upon as a folk hero. The banks robbed people, didn't they? Then what was so wrong about robbing them right back? That was the attitude a lot of folks had.

  Then came that damned robbery in Oklahoma City, and people had never again felt the same quiet admiration for Starr.

  'Technically," Starr always said to his gang when he'd been drinking—and Lord were they long tired of hearing about it—"technically, I didn't shoot him in the back. I shot him in the side."

  This was in reference to one Horace P. Puckhaber, manager of the State Bank and Trust, who had been about to throw a jar of ink through a side window so as to warn the people on the street that a robbery was going on inside the bank. Hopefully, the people would be smart enough to inform John Law.

  At the exact moment he hurled the jar, Horace P. Puckhaber was standing with his hands held high, his back to Starr. Starr had his Colt trained on the man. Starr hadn't seen the plump little man earlier secret the jar into his meaty fist. In order to throw the jar through the window, though, Puckhaber had to run sharply to his left. He would then—this was the only way Starr could figure out such a foolish but surprisingly brave act—pitch himself to the floor and roll away behind a desk for cover.

  Now, wouldn't you shoot such a man in such a situation? Of course you would. What choice would you have? You had to stop him before that damned ink jar smashed the window, didn't you?

  So here's how it actually happened:

  Puckhaber, his hands up, seemingly being as obedient as a good dog, suddenly starts to turn to his left.

  Starr sees the ink jar. Sees the window. Understands what's going on. He shouts, "Drop that jar!"

  Then it gets confusing. Because at first—for just one second—Puckhaber starts to carry through with his plan. He keeps turning left.

  At which point, by instinct, Starr fires his gun.

  But all of a sudden, before the bullet tears into him, he turns away again, his back to Starr.

  Well, he almost turns back.

  Here's why Starr says that the press is lying about him: If you look carefully at the fatal wound, you'll see that it is actually on the side of the man. Very near his back, true—within an eighth of an inch—but still, technically, in the side.

  Making Starr, at worst, a side-shooter.

  Now, a man can live with a reputation as a side-shooter. But not as a back-shooter. Even though many legends have, in fact, been back-shooters—including Wild Bill and all four of the Earps—the people who read the newspapers and the dime novels don't know of it. They believe that their heroes are simon pure, just as white-hatted and blue-eyed and pearly-teethed as the hacks say they are.

  Starr has shot and killed eight men. And all of them bankers, which is pretty much like killing Indians or coloreds, which is to say not much of an offense at all according to the general populace of this particular time and place.

  Starr is proud of murdering eight bankers.

  Were these the same type of whore who'd foreclosed on his very own parents in 1881? Proud of being a front-shooter.

  And not at all ashamed of being a side-shooter.

  He just wishes that the newspaper bastards would lay off him about being a back-shooter . . .

  Such were the thoughts of Henry Starr as he rolled toward Pruett City in his Model-T.

  * * *

  Was there any machine so wondrous as a Model T? A miraculous instrument of gasoline tanks, acetylene headlights, inner-tube tires, and clutch, reverse, and brake. And was there any experience—excepting kissing Laurel—as much fun as spreading the innards out on a sheet and cleaning each one so that it performed to utter perfection?

  That was how Sully spent the morning. George Adair, one of the wealthiest men in the area, had brought his son's car in for a quick clean-up. And had insisted that Sully do the work. More and more people asked for Sully personally. Hank Byers, the owner of the gas station-garage, was both flattered and hurt—flattered that he had the best garage man in town, and hurt that his own days as the reigning car expert had waned.

  Usually, you could hear Sully whistling as he worked on cars. Who wouldn't whistle when he was doing—and doing well—exactly what God had put him on the earth to do?

  But there was no music in his soul this sad day. Sam Mines had made it clear that he would not countenance a marriage between Laurel and Sully. And Sam was—whether or not she wanted to face up to it—in a position to discreetly undermine any wedding plans.

  And Sully felt sure that was just what Sam would do.

  * * *

  Laurel taught school in the mornings. She was always home in time to fix her father his lunch.

  Though today was sunny and perfumed with that most enchanting of scents—burning leaves and hazy hills—it was still nippy, so she fixed tomato soup, generous slices of cheddar cheese, and slabs of wheat bread. Food that would stick to the ribs and give you energy for this harbinger of winter.

  Sam didn't mention last night until they were almost finished eating. "Sully stopped by to apologize again."

  She smiled. "He wants you to like him, Dad. I want you to like him, too."

  Sam frowned at his soup bowl.

  "Something wrong, Dad?"

  Sam sighed. "Well, I don't think he likes me very much right now."

  She had been about to put the spoon to her mouth but stopped. Her father's demeanor had become troubling. She sensed that their comfortable little lunch hour was about to be spoiled. "Did you have an argument?"

  "No, no argument."

  "Well, what then?"

  He leaned back in his chair. He looked nervous.

  "You look as if you're afraid to tell me, Dad."

  A kind of shame came into his expression. "Maybe I went a little too far."

  She slammed her spoon down on the table. "Darn it, Dad. Tell me what you said to Sully. That's what we're talking about here, isn't it? Something you said to him rather than the other way around?"

  The shame did not leave his handsome but age-wrinkled face. "I told him the truth was all, honey. The truth as I see it, anyway."

  And then he told her what he'd said.

  * * *

  At the time the car pulled on to the drive, Sully was busy pounding nails into the leg of a wooden workbench that had gone all wobbly. He had a pocketful of nails and a hammer and was working fast as he could. He wanted to get back to his real calling: fixing engines.

  He put the hammer down, wiped his hands on the bib overalls he wore to work in, and then proceeded out into the sunlight from the cool shadows of the garage.

  Four men sat in a green Model T. There was a similarity of bulky body, of big-city suits, and of wide-brimmed dress hats that made him think of the covers of his favorite magazine, Argosy, whenever it ran a story about gangsters. The license plate read Oklahoma, all right, but that was the only thing local in the picture, which he was giving a quick study.

  But that wasn't the only local thing, it turned out. When the burly driver spoke, it was with the familiar Okie twang that was Sully's own.

  "Fill up the gas, kid."

  Sully almost smiled. They were imitating the Argosy was what they were doing. Imitating the covers and the gangster silent pictures that were just starting to come into fashion.

  Sully wondered if the driver had a crimp in his neck. The way he angled his head down, so that he hid virtually his entire face beneath the wide brim of his fedora— No, not a crimp in the neck, Sully realized. The driver is hiding his face.

  "Yessir," Sully said.

  And it was then that the driver seemed to forget himself. He raised his head just enough so that Sully could see his fac
e and realize just who he was dealing with here.

  Their eyes met, locked.

  There was great, knowing rage in this man's gaze. The banality of his words had nothing to do with the hard anger of his brown eyes. "And check them tires, too."

  Sully almost said, "Yessir, Mr. Starr." But, thank God, he caught himself in time. If Starr knew that Sully had recognized him—

  * * *

  Laurel was raking leaves when she realized what she really should be doing. Talking to Sully. Telephone was no good because it was a party line and saying anything confidential over the phone—well, you might as well be done with it and just put it in the newspaper.

  She rushed to the garage and climbed aboard her bicycle with the outsize basket for carrying groceries, with the outsize light for riding at night, with the outsize horn for getting tykes, squirrels, dogs, kittens, and raccoons out of her way as she was rolling along.

  Dad was speaking for himself, Sully. I love him and I know he means the best for me. But he's wrong about you. I know how much you love working on cars, and that's what I want you to do for the rest of your life—for the rest our lives. I don't want to go against my own father, Sully, but I will if I have to. One way or another, you and I are going to get married. I promise you that, Sully. On my sacred word.

  And she would seal it—as did all the girls in the romance novels she wouldn't admit to reading or liking—with a kiss.

  * * *

  The kid recognized me, Henry Starr thought. No doubt about that.

  With all the Wanted posters everywhere, it was difficult to go anywhere without being recognized. That's why Starr had been thinking about leaving Oklahoma.

  He'd heard Missouri was good pickings for bandits—he himself preferred the romantic sound of "bandit" to the drab word "robber"—and maybe it was time to give it a try.

  As for the kid who was just now starting to put gasoline in the car . . .

  One of the boys in the backseat leaned forward and whispered, "That kid recognized you."