by John Gilmore
He abandoned the guard’s car, met with Blanche, hugged her, kissed her, and boarded a Dallas bus—the safest way to go. By dawn the next day, Buck and Blanche had vanished from the state of Texas.
Staying with her cousin Mary, in Waco, Bonnie paid daily visits to the McLennan County Jail where the guards nicknamed her “the chilly little filly.”
Clyde was sharing the steel-hatched holding cell with another prisoner, William Turner, who faced the same judge as Clyde. Convicted of burglary and auto theft, Turner had twenty-five charges against him, wound up sentenced to only four years but told Clyde he wasn’t sticking around to be sent to Huntsville. “No one’s keepin’ me hangin’ in ‘the walls’ for four years,” he said.
“What’re you plannin’ on doin’,” Clyde said, “killin’ yourself?”
Turner shook his head. “You’re only doin’ two years, fella. I got four and that’s far more than I’m willin’ to do.”
Thinking for a moment, Clyde said, “Well, pal, two’s more than I’m gonna spend in a goddamn cage. You know some way of gettin’ outta here?”
“If I had my gun I’d get out fast,” Turner said. “That’s the key, y’know. I got the gun but it’s not where I can get it. You know what I mean? If there’s a way I can get a gun we’ll be walkin’ right now.”
“Maybe there’s a way,” Clyde said. “Let’s talk about it....”
The next morning, Bonnie’s small hand reached through a slot in the cell’s steel straps and held Clyde’s hand as she told him that as soon as he was sent to prison she wasn’t going back to West Dallas. “I’ll be stayin’ here,” she said. “I’ll find a job and be waitin’ for you.”
Lowering his voice, Clyde said, “Possible we’ll be together sooner than you sittin’ for two years waitin’. Turner’s been talkin’ about us takin’ off, but first we gotta get someone on the outside to do somethin’ for us.”
“Well,” Bonnie said, “I’m on the outside.”
Turner came closer, stood next to Clyde, and almost whispering but smiling, told Bonnie he had a gun in a house in east Waco. “It’s hidden,” he said, “but if you can get it, your boy here’ll be in your arms a hell of a lot sooner.”
Clyde squeezed Bonnie’s hand. “It’s the way of me gettin’ out,” he said. “I can’t go to prison, sugar. Buck’s busted out and I don’t wanna fill his shoes in Huntsville. That’s all there is to it.”
She stared at Clyde and said, “I don’t want you goin’ to prison. I’d rather die than see you bein’ locked up like this. It hurts me. What can I do?”
Turner said, “You find my gun and get it to me, and we’ll be the hell outta here. There’s no other way.” Using spent matches, Turner had sketched a little map of the east Waco house and made a square mark where the gun was hidden. “It’s loaded,” he said, “so you be careful. Nobody’ll be in the house most of tonight.” He told her where to find the key to the front door.
Folding the little pencil-sketched map, Bonnie stuck it into her blouse and turned to leave. Clyde said, “Wait a minute.” Thinking Clyde wanted to kiss her, Turner turned away as Clyde took Bonnie’s hand again. He said, “You’ve never done nothin’ wrong, honey.”
“I know it,” she said.
“Except maybe marryin’ that guy,” he said. “Law won’t lock you up for that, but if you get Turner’s gun and get yourself caught, you’ll be in jail same as me.”
She stared at him, withdrew her hand then reinserted it through a slot to touch his face. “I want to do it,” she said.
“If you get it, hide it in your clothes—somewhere they won’t frisk you, and come back visitin’ tonight. Tell ’em your momma needs you and you’re catchin’ an early train.”
“I’ll find it and be back,” she said, her eyes bright. “If they catch me, it won’t matter none since bein’ without you is the same as gettin’ locked in jail.” She tipped her head to kiss him through another slot.
Bonnie enlisted her reluctant cousin Mary on the “secret mission.” No longer was it a “private thinking place,” like when she was little. Driving anxiously through the Waco streets, Mary finally found the neighborhood, and said, “How come the street’s named Turner, too?”
“A coincidence,” Bonnie said, climbing out of the car. “They sure didn’t name it after him.” With little effort and a small flashlight, she located the front door key hidden beneath a painted rock.
On the porch, Mary said, “Isn’t this goin’ to be considered breakin’ into somebody’s house and bein’ a burglar?”
Holding up the key, Bonnie said, “What’s this look like—a crowbar?”
“Looks like a key,” Mary said, “but this isn’t anyone’s place I got knowledge of.”
“You don’t need to and neither do I.” Bonnie opened the door and stepped into the living room. Using her flashlight, she studied the map and moments later was in the small bedroom where Turner indicated the gun was hidden. She searched a chest of drawers, a trunk, a wicker laundry basket, Mary fidgeting anxiously in the doorway, swearing they’d be arrested.
“Hush up!” Bonnie told her, rummaging in a closet. She dragged a chair across the room and stood on it, feeling over the shelves. On her hands and knees, she hunted beneath a daybed and was about to give up, then realized the square shape Turner had sketched wasn’t a chest of drawers, but a window box. The scribbled location of the window had confused her. He hadn’t indicated a window seat, just a box against a wall.
Bonnie removed cushions and newspapers from the lid and lifted it. She was reaching beneath a stack of magazines, old newspapers and clothes, when her fingers touched the cool steel of a gun barrel at the bottom of the box. She felt over it, gripped the butt and lifted the gun out of the window box. Using her flashlight, she could see the lead tips of bullets in the chamber of the .32 caliber Colt.
They hurried out of the house, locked the front door, and replaced the key where they’d found it. As they drove from the neighborhood, Bonnie wondered how she’d get the gun past the jailers—what part of her clothes could she hide it in? At night there were two guards, one upstairs and another at the downstairs desk. Talking it over with Mary, she said the only way to do it was to hide the gun on her body. “I can’t walk with it between my legs,” she said, “and no way to get it loose when I get to the cell.”
“Why are you doin’ this?” Mary said. “It’s crazy. If they find out, you’ll be in terrible trouble and I’ll be in trouble for helpin’ you!”
“Be quiet!” Bonnie told her. “I have to think.” She decided to use a long, thin scarf to secure the pistol against her bosom, partly between her breasts and the separation of her ribs. She could hunch herself slightly, keeping her arms close to her breasts. It was cold out, wasn’t it? Could she get past the jailers?
Turner was pacing back and forth in the cell while Clyde lay on the bunk, his eyes closed. “How can you sleep right now?” Turner said. Clyde opened his eyes. He said he wasn’t sleeping. “What do you think’s goin’ on?” Turner asked. “You think she got what she went for?”
“You’d know better than me,” Clyde said. “It’s your house. If your drawin’ is right, she’s got it.”
Less than forty minutes later, Clyde sat up, listening to sounds outside the cell. Bonnie had returned to the jail.
It was past visiting time, but she told the downstairs guard, “I’m sorry, but I gotta go back to Dallas come sunup. I’m catchin’ an early train.…” With Turner’s gun hidden against her chest, her eyes and lips sweet-talking the guard, she said she had to see Clyde again—speaking all the while with a smile and the ease of serving free coffee like she’d once sugared her customers in the café. She said, “It won’t take me more than a minute that’s no bigger than a little mouse?”
The guard said, “Go on upstairs, filly.”
Clyde was clutching the steel slots, watching Bonnie as she reached the head of the stairs. She was gasping a little to show she was out of breath, leaning slight
ly forward as the jailer approached her. With a side glance to Clyde, her eyes told him she’d done it—she had the gun. Clyde nodded to Turner who mumbled to Clyde, “She don’t look scared at all.” Now she had to move it out of her clothing and get it through the slot in the bars into Clyde’s hand.
The jailer said, “Well, go on and see your boy and say good night.”
“I’m gonna kiss him if you’re not lookin’ at me,” she said. With a grunt, the jailer turned from the cell as Bonnie moved against the steel, puckering her lips. It was fast, Clyde bending down a little to kiss Bonnie while she in the same movement pushed the gun from between her breasts, out of her blouse, through the steel slot and into his hand. Waiting behind Clyde, Turner took the gun that was passed to him in a sleight-of-hand move. He tucked the gun into the waist of his pants beneath his shirt.
Bonnie said, “Well, sweetheart, I’ll be back to see you sometime soon....”
“All done smoochin’?” the guard asked.
Bonnie stepped back, eyes wide and dancing with the crime she’d just committed. Later she’d tell Billie Jean a thrill ran through her “from feet to ears and back again,” an excitement few can know except those pushing the limits of danger. Walking into the jail to sneak a loaded gun to a prisoner had quietly vaulted Bonnie across an unseen boundary into an arena beyond law and order.
“Go back home now, honey,” Clyde said. “Whatever happens is gonna happen, and soon as it’s okay, I’ll be comin’ for you.”
Trembling with the strange, unfamiliar sensation, and with the jailer escorting her to the stairs, Bonnie glanced back to blow Clyde a kiss, then descended the stairs as Turner hid the gun. “Is it loaded?” Clyde asked.
Turner nodded and said, “We gotta figure this fast. Any delayin’ they’re gonna find what we got. We’ll go tomorrow?”
“I’m ready,” Clyde said.
Six
Early the next morning, another prisoner swaggered into the holding cell. Bigger than Clyde or Turner, Emory Abernathy had been charged with bank robbery and bragged to his two new cellmates that he was facing “a hundred years in the jug.” Clyde’s ears perked up. He wanted to hear more about “stickin’ up banks.”
Laughing about the burglaries Clyde and Turner had been convicted of, Abernathy said, “If we ever get outta here and run into each other, I’ll show you boys how to take one down in six minutes flat.”
Clyde said, “I’ll do it in four minutes.”
Abernathy grunted, looking a little sour. “I’d lay you odds, but you aren’t outta here, are you, sonny? Easy to say from where you’re sittin’, ain’t it?”
“Maybe sometime I’ll show you,” Clyde said, “but not this minute. Me and Turner got us a way out.”
“How the fuck you got a way outta here?”
“He’s got a key to the door,” Clyde said.
Squinting at Turner, Abernathy said, “What sort of key is he talkin’ about?”
Turner rolled over and carefully let Abernathy have a fast glance at the gun. Surprised, the big man smiled. He said, “That’s the best kind of key anybody’s got or can ever get a hand on.”
Nothing was said the rest of the morning, but by the afternoon they were talking fast—setting a plan into motion. Abernathy had joined the party as a “blessin’ from the hand of the Lord,” he said
Later, Turner complained to the jailer that his stomach was “on fire.” He was having an “attack of ulcers—sick as a dog,” he said, groaning painfully. He asked for milk to ease his guts.
The three sat anxiously, waiting for the jailer to return with the milk. “What’d he do, go to sleep?” Turner said.
Minutes later the annoyed jailer opened the cell door to hand a tin cup to Turner who suddenly bolted forward, wedging his body into the opening of the door. At the same time, Abernathy grabbed the surprised jailer, shoved the muzzle of the gun into his ribs and said, “Yell and you’re dead.”
Turner pushed the jailer into the cell as Abernathy warned him, “You stay quiet ’cause you don’t want to lose your head off your jawbone.” They locked the cell, and the three men made their way to the stairs. The second jailer was at a desk on the ground floor, and Clyde motioned for Abernathy to keep him covered. Waving the gun, Abernathy told the jailer, “Get your hands up!” The man stood, looking up, his hands in the air as the three hurried down the stairs. Clyde grabbed the keys to unlock the main jail door while Turner removed the steel crossbar, and Clyde then unlocked the door. Abernathy told the jailer, “Stand here with your hands up and don’t move ’cause I don’t want you boys comin’ after me for a killin’.”
The three bolted from the building, hitting the street at a run. They were approaching the corner when Abernathy hollered, “He’s comin’ after us!” Two shots were fired as Clyde and Turner darted into an alley. Abernathy had slowed, turned around, and sent two shots in the direction of the jail.
Clyde was sprinting ahead as the three ran out of the alley, the jailer’s shots going wild. Another block and Clyde suddenly stopped at a parked green Ford coupe. He opened the hood as Turner climbed into the car. “Stick it in neutral,” Clyde told him, then crossed the wires. The engine kicked over, Clyde locked down the hood and told Turner, “Move over—I’ll drive.” He slid onto the seat, shoving Turner, as Abernathy squeezed onto the passenger seat.
A mile away from the jail, Clyde slowed to a crawl. “We gotta get rid of the car,” he said. “Get us another one right now.” A few blocks away, the three climbed out and approached a vehicle parked in front of a small house.
In a moment the engine was running, Abernathy grinning. He said, “There’s your minutes, pal. We’ll see how it goes when we gotta eat.”
Turner laughed. “I’m starvin’. Don’t forget my ulcers, boys.”
A short time later, Clyde drove off the road behind a service garage. He said, “One of you get some money, a screwdriver, and pliers and what you can. We’ll get over the line into Arkansas.”
Abernathy said, “I’ll go in. You drive around back of this dump so we’re headin’ to the road.” He got out, Turner’s gun in hand.
Clyde said, “Don’t shoot anybody.” They waited while Abernathy strolled to the front of the building. Slowly, Clyde inched ahead, gravel crunching under the tires. He nosed close to the north side of the building, waiting until Abernathy came out of the station, bills in one hand, the gun in the other. He jumped into the car a second before Clyde sprung ahead, bounced at the shoulder, then raced onto the road.
“Looks like thirty or forty bucks,” Abernathy said. “He was just about to stick it in a hole in the floor.” He brought a screwdriver and pliers out of his pants pocket, saying, “The guy asked if I wanted a crowbar. I told him, ‘I got my hands full, pal.’ He said, ‘Thought you’d like a crowbar and you’re sure welcome to what you got.’”
Turner laughed. Clyde said, “First bunch of cars you see, give a holler so I can get rid of these plates.”
Out of Texas and into Arkansas, Clyde stopped at a roadside diner to remove the Texas license. He told Turner to get some grub on the run. “Don’t stick ’em up so we don’t have any laws crawlin’ around here.” While Turner went for some food, Clyde removed the Texas plate and unscrewed an Arkansas license.
Time seemed to race with Clyde behind the wheel as they swapped another two cars and roamed as many states, stopping along the way to stick up a couple of gas stations, fill the tanks, rob a market and two roadside cafés. Before they reached Middletown, north of Cincinnati, Ohio, they were out of money.
Abernathy had bragged about his Ohio connections, but they didn’t pan out. Clyde was annoyed with the bouncing back and forth of what he felt to be nothing but hot air on the part of Abernathy, while Turner played second fiddle to the more experienced of the trio.
Clyde kept thinking about Bonnie—what she’d done, setting him free, like she’d flung open a window. Now he was chasing a blind trail into Ohio—far from what he knew or felt easy with,
and eager to make the trip back to Texas as soon as possible.
It was the middle of March, stranded in downtown Cincinnati, when the three entered a café. After sharing stew and pork and beans, Clyde said, “I don’t wanna to stick around. You boys might have other stuff goin’ on, but I gotta get back to Texas.”
When the trio stopped at the Baltimore and Ohio depot in Cincinnati, Clyde went in, casually roaming from baggage to postcard rack, finally asking for a train schedule. He looked around carefully, taking in what he saw. After a few minutes, he left the depot and made his way back to the car where Abernathy and Turner were waiting.
Clyde climbed behind the wheel. “We can do it,” he said. “We’ll come back later.” He drove away from the depot, finally slowing beside a creek. He stopped, cut the engine, and put his head back on the seat.
Abernathy dozed while Turner twisted restlessly, curling on the seat, unable to get comfortable, groaning that his legs were cramped and aching. He said, “I got some kind of problem—some fever in my leg bones.”
Neither Clyde nor Abernathy said anything. The rest of the afternoon they spent dozing by the creek or waiting for the dark to set in.
By sundown they were on the move. They stuck up a gas station, Abernathy going in with the gun while Clyde sat behind the wheel, engine humming, his left foot holding the clutch to the floor.
Bonnie knew he’d be coming back. Her heart raced at the thought of his closeness. She’d received a telegram from Indiana. He said he was okay. She knew he was on the run and couldn’t show. But what was he doing in Indiana?
She knew the law was watching her house—watching the Barrows’ as well. Bonnie’d catch sight of the cops driving past, slowing, snooping, looking around. She kept waiting for Clyde but he didn’t show. He’d be hiding, she knew it. Even miles away, she knew he could sense what was happening. She believed he shared a bond with her that couldn’t be broken, something formed of some hot metal like an iron ring that held the two locked in an irreversible union. At times the thoughts made her dizzy. She never believed such a thing could happen to her. It didn’t matter that her body was not in his presence, because she swore to herself that her soul was clenched with his as securely as his arms had been around her.
