On the Run With Bonnie & Clyde

by John Gilmore

  “‘By sun up and a new invasion of bugs, but still no sign of Barrow, we heard an old clunker comin’ north on the road. It was Ivy Methvin’s old truck, the old man at the wheel. Hamer told the sheriff to stop the old man who’d agreed to aid in a decoy.

  “‘The old man was gripin’, complainin’—didn’t want nothin’ to do with any shootin’. He told them Henry wasn’t home that night and he might be in the car with Clyde and Bonnie. Ivy was told it was too late for any revisions in the plan and ordered out of the truck.’ The old man kept whinin’ that Barrow was comin’,” Evon said, “and he’d kill him if he knew what was happenin’—kill him along with Henry and Henry’s mother, and anyone else. Hamer tried reasonin’, and Ivy Methvin got rambunctious, so Hamer said, ‘This man’s interferin’ with the law.’”

  Placing Ivy under temporary arrest, one of the posse led the old man a distance into the woods and safely out of any line of fire. He handcuffed Ivy to a tree.

  “With him still yellin’,” Russo said, “Ivy was quickly gagged and the men returned to their hiding places.

  “‘Methvin’s old truck was moved to the east side of the road—the wrong side—was jacked up, the right front wheel taken off, and left on the road. One lawman kicked the wheel a yard further from the truck, narrowing the road so southbound traffic was forced nearer the opposite side of the road.”

  Back in the bushes, each man with his high-powered weapon, waited as the sun beat down on the narrow dirt road. They waited for the sound of a car approaching—traveling fast. They waited an hour. Maybe more. When a V-8 engine heading at high speed was heard, Hinton, who could recognize Barrow, raised his binoculars and focused on the approaching windshield. “This is him,” he said. “It’s Barrow.”

  Forty-Two

  For several hours the previous night, Clyde sat silently staring at the black night beyond the dirty pane. His face in the glass was a mirage on a black beach with black waves creeping over the sand. As though Bonnie was reading his mind, she turned uncomfortably in the bed and said, “Do you think it’s awful to be dead?”

  Clyde said, “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was,” she said. “Now I’m awake so you come to sleep. Did you hear what I asked you?”

  He shrugged. “The good thing about dyin’s you don’t know you’re dead. If you don’t know nothin’ I guess it’s not awful.”

  “So it doesn’t matter,” Bonnie said. “You don’t know you’re dead.”

  “You never wake up to know it,” he said.

  “Sleepin’ without dreams,” she added. “Goes on forever, doesn’t it? I had that same dream so long ago. I was little. Bein’ in a coffin and dressed real pretty. Sleepin’ and not even catchin’ a breath.”

  His eyes were closing. “I guess so.”

  “I love you, daddy. You know I’ll miss you if I die.”

  “You won’t miss nobody if you die,” he said. “You won’t know it.”

  “Do y’ever wonder what happens to your soul? Where it goes? I think about that a lot.”

  Clyde smiled. “Maybe your soul just stays in your bones.”

  Sighing, she slumped on the squeaking bed. “You think you and I will be sent to hell? Like the song I keep hearin’, lovin’ and goin’ to hell?”

  “There ain’t no hell’n’ there ain’t no heaven,” he said, impatient. “I’ve lost that thinkin’, honey, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ but maybe a lot of black water that’s got no end. Just goes on....”

  She said, “So all we got that we’re knowin’ about’s right here?”

  “Go on to sleep now,” he said. “I’ll be watchin’.”

  “You got to sleep too, daddy. We’re okay in here, aren’t we? Nobody gonna come bustin’ in on us?”

  He shook his head. “How can I ever know that? ’Sides, I can’t s now. Just.... Somethin’s not right.”

  “What’s not right?”

  “I’ll wake you in a while. Maybe that singin’ and music’s still goin’ on in my head.”

  “I knew some of the French words,” she said. “It was sad about lovin’ and then they lose the love. But you and I haven’t lost any love.” She closed her eyes. “Are you scared at all of bein’ dead?”

  He looked at her, smiling a little. “I’m not scared of it. Just tired’s what I’m feelin’. I’m beat to my bones and the soles on my feet. I know you feel that way—beat through in your bones. Maybe I’m just thinkin’ sometimes where’s it gonna end?”

  Softly, she said, “Maybe it’s what I’m feelin’. I’ve been banged up so much I think half the time I’m almost dead. In a lookin’ glass I’m sure as hell appearin’ dead.”

  “You don’t look like that,” he said. “Times I’m thinkin’ maybe one of ’em gets the first shot, I say make it clean, fella, shoot me between the eyes. Done’n’ over. The whole fuckin’ state of Texas is beatin’ the weeds for us—”

  “—Oklahoma and Missouri and everywhere else.”

  “We’re okay here,” he said. “Nobody in these fuckin’ woods. You sleep now. I love you, baby. You believe I won’t ever stop lovin’ you, no matter what happens? Are you scared?”

  “No, daddy. You know I’m not scared.”

  “You’re the only idea I’ve got of anythin’ bein’ worth somethin’ to me,” he said. “I gotta tell you it isn’t any blessin’ from heaven how I’m feelin’—what we’ve had to do and how we’ve been. I can’t figure it or how it came about, everythin’ we’ve done. Just knowin’ we keep goin’ ’cause I don’t see no other way.” He turned the chair from the window and moved it closer to the bed. He said, “Baby, your momma would’ve seen it nice, us havin’ a house like that fella in Texarkana, and you with a little squirt or two like that little bitty fella, and me havin’ work to do.... All that’s not any way we’ve been livin’—it ain’t the way it’s happened.”

  “You think it’s too late to make ourselves different than what we’re doin’?”

  “I guess there was a time it could’a been different, so I reckon yes, honey, but none of that means I love you any less than if we were doin’ somethin’ your momma and the folks’d be happy about.”

  Clyde got up and sat on the bed beside her. He took her hands, his brow wrinkling. “It’s like if you pulled a bunch of straws out of a bag sayin’ you had to do this or that, an’ I’m sayin’ what we pulled out’s what we’ve got. I can’t be thinkin’ about livin’ a life we ain’t got anymore’n that fella in Texarkana can haul up and be livin’ another way. Don’t know if he’s lucky or you’n’ me’s the lucky ones, livin’ as we’re livin’.”

  “Runnin’ as we’re runnin’,” she said.

  “Gettin’ our butts shot, or shootin’ them others ’cause that’s the hand I’ve had as far fuckin’ back as I can remember—an’ I’m not enjoyin’ any of it except us bein’ with each other.”

  “Then it’s the hand I’ve been dealt,” she said. “I didn’t have anythin’ else, and it’s too late, isn’t it? We’ve gone a long ways, and it’s thrilled me all the way, thrilled my heart with you. Nobody can change any of that, but now I’m thinkin’ sometimes I should suicide myself an’ get it done since it seems we’ve got no other choice.”

  “You’re not gonna be killin’ yourself!” he said. “I’m not gonna kill myself. Laws’d be all hatin’ us for doin’ he job they’re so damned eager to be doin’. They’re wantin’ to put me in that electric chair, but I’m never goin’ hands up to ’em so they’re never gettin’ the chance. An’ you know I won’t be locked up ever again anymore’n them puttin’ me in that electric chair.”

  “I know that,” she said. “There’s nothin’ on this earth that I care more about than lovin’ you. There’s just me’n’ you, isn’t it? There’s nobody else.”

  “If we didn’t have our folks it’d be different,” he said. “We’d be down in Mexico livin’ the life like I was sayin’ and there’s nobody in the world that’d ever find us down in Mexico.” Bonnie didn’t
say anything. Looking intently at her, he said, “Now listen to me, honey, ’cause all that don’t leave us a whole lot. But you can get out of it, you know, ’cause they don’t have any proof you’ve ever done any killin’ that’d show you’re the same as me—”

  “—but I am the same as you! I’m a part of you that’s never gonna be surrendered.”

  “You’re a gal,” he said. “They’ll make it easy ’cause of it. They won’t be doin’ any long juggin’ or electrocutin’ you.”

  She put her fingers against his mouth. “I don’t think it’ll make any difference my bein’ a gal. We’re Clyde and Bonnie and there’s no separatin’ us, not anymore there isn’t, not with them sayin’ what we’ve done. They’ll be shavin’ my head and fryin’ me the same as you.”

  For moments he sat staring at her, again the sensation of black water flushing through his head. “You don’t think sometimes if you weren’t with me, if you hadn’t stuck with me, you wouldn’t be in all this?” She shook her head. He said, “You’ve wanted to be with me forever since we started lovin’ each other?”

  “Yes!” she said. “You know that as sure as you’re breathin’.”

  “Chrisakes,” he said, “long as I live, I’ll be lovin’ you, baby....” He leaned over and kissed her. “Go back to sleep, sugar. We gotta fetch Henry in the mornin’ an’ make a plan what we’re gonna do.” He touched her face. “An’ you don’t look like any dead girl. You look like an angel. Close your pretty eyes an’ dream up the sun shinin’ and maybe us bein’ in Mexico on a beach of white, white sand.”

  She put her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to live without you, daddy. Anything that happens has gotta happen to us, and if that’s meanin’ we die together, then that’s what it means, and I don’t mind nothin’ else.”

  The next morning she hummed the song she could hear Clyde playing on his saxophone. Sunlight was shining through the cracked window, laying on her wet skin as she soaked in the tub smelling her rose perfume and pine sap soap. She gently washed her scarred leg that looked skinnier than her other leg, also covered with scars. Wringing the washcloth, she touched at the bullet scars and stared at her breasts, rubbing her flesh gently. The music from Clyde’s playing stopped and she pulled the drain plug, then stood up reaching for a towel.

  Minutes later, humming what he’d been playing, she knocked on the toilet door for Clyde to help her. He held her close and then sat her on the bed. She donned the red dress and unrolled her new stockings.

  “You know, everytime I’m lookin’ at my leg it make me sick,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t even stand up on it.”

  Clyde was holding his saxophone. He was staring at the floor, then looked at her. “Soon we gotta figure out what we’re gonna do. You gotta make up your mind that we might have to go someplace else.”

  She pulled her stockings on, topped them with the elastic garters, then rolled the tops down above her knees. “You play that song slower than they do on the radio, and I like hearin’ you play it better.”

  She edged off the bed and slipped her feet into her red shoes, then sat in the wobbly chair, brought out her writing pad and pencil and began scribbling quickly. He asked, “What’re you writin’?”

  “Just a note to my momma,” she said. “I’m gonna write Billie Jean, too, but I’ll do that later.”

  With half a smile, Clyde said, “You gonna be tellin’ em how sad you are to be stuck in where we are with a busted sax player?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then got up, went slowly to where he still sat, and cradled his head against her belly. “You’re what makes me not sad, and that’s how I’m gonna feel till I die.”

  Smiling, he put on a blue cowboy-style shirt, and got into his suit as he watched how she combed her hair. “We’ll get some grub and go pick up Henry. I figure he’s gotta be at his folks.”

  “Where do you think he ran off to?” she asked.

  “We all ran off, unless the laws got him.”

  “Do you think we really need Henry with us? What if we don’t find him and you an’ me just go on to Texas?”

  Clyde shrugged. “I need him for a job, honey. I got no one else now and we’re only doin’ this one more, so I need him for that. We’ll get ourselves off for a spell, eat good and get you feelin’ well and be like other folks.” He stared at her. “You look so pretty and all fresh, and tomorrow we gotta buy you more presents. You just think of what’d make you happy, like you wanted those pretty shoes you’re now wearin’. I’ll get you ten pairs, honey.”

  She laughed, putting her hat on. “I’ll dance my way to paradise!”

  A half hour later, heading west, Clyde slowed down as they approached Gibsland. He stopped in front of Rosa Canfield’s café, the local diner frequented by loggers, townsfolk, and the uneven visits of tourists. Bonnie and Clyde took stools at the far end of the counter, Clyde with his back to two loggers eating pancakes.

  Bonnie drank coffee alongside with Clyde who picked at a plate of hot biscuits and gravy, and she asked, “Aren’t you goin’ to eat somethin’ more than that?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I want to get down the road and find Henry. Let’s take somethin’ with us.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Bonnie said. She ordered two egg salad sandwiches “for the road.” A couple of other customers stared at how she limped and hopped slightly with Clyde at her side. As they returned to the car, the waitress and both loggers had turned to watch them.

  Behind the wheel, Clyde adjusted the shotgun to his left side, moved the .45 on the floor beneath Bonnie’s movie magazine, then turned the key and shifted into low gear as Bonnie unwrapped one of the sandwiches. She asked, “You want part of this, daddy? You hardly ate your biscuits.”

  “I didn’t like the gravy,” he said. “Weren’t at all like our mommas make. I’ll eat a sandwich after we get Henry,” he said. “He’s probably nervous as shit waitin’. Maybe hidin’ under a bed.”

  Clyde drove south out of Gibsland, the gravel from the dirt road rattling up in the fenders. He gathered speed on the old logging road, then veered to the right at the Mt. Lebanon crossroads. He increased his speed on the dirt road heading south to Sailes, the road narrowing as it led through the forest.

  Glancing at Bonnie and and the sandwich open on her lap, the wind rattling the wax paper, he said, “You gonna eat that now, honey? It’s gonna get dried out if you don’t.”

  “Just a couple bites,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m so hungry, but I am.”

  “You’re feelin’ better, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I guess I am,” she said. “I had another hotel dream last night. I was seein’ those silver sugar bowls again....” She took a deep breath. “I want to mail my letter. maybe when we get to Sailes....”

  She stopped talking. Clyde was slowing down, leaning forward. Up ahead, facing north on the wrong side of the road, was the old truck that belonged to Henry’s dad. Staring through the windshield, Clyde said, “There’s Ivy’s truck sittin’ there headed the wrong way.” Slowing down more, Clyde said, “He’s got it jacked up and that wheel off. I don’t see him. Where the hell’s the old man?”

  “If he got a ride,” Bonnie said, “he didn’t take his tire. Look at it sittin’ in the road, waitin’ to get run over.”

  Clyde shifted back into first gear, one foot holding the clutch, the right foot off the gas and easing on the brake. He pulled past the truck, wider to avoid running into the tire, almost coming to a stop as looked out the passenger window for a glimpse of the old man.

  He managed to say, “I don’t see him anywhere—” before the first heavy rifle bullet penetrated Clyde’s head above the left ear, blowing off part of his head, then exiting the right side of his face to tear into Bonnie’s breast and lungs. A split second more and a twelve-second hurricane of one-hundred and sixty-seven high-powered bullets bombarded the steel shell of the Ford, ripping through the dead bodies of Clyde and Bonnie.

 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Described by the Sydney Morning Herald as the “quintessential L.A. noir writer,” John Gilmore has been acclaimed internationally for his true crime work, his literary fiction and Hollywood memoirs. As one of today’s most controversial American writers, Gilmore’s following spans the globe, from Hong Kong to his native Hollywood. He has traveled the road to fame in many guises: kid actor, stage and motion picture player, Beatnik painter, poet, screenwriter, low-budget movie director, and novelist. His work is translated into numerous languages. After heading the writing program at Antioch University in San Francisco, Gilmore taught, traveled, and lectured extensively while producing an indelible mark in crime literature with Severed: The True Story of the Black Dahlia, and L.A. Despair: A Landscape of Crimes & Bad Times. Interviewed in all media, Gilmore lives in the Hollywood Hills, where he is at work on a major novel.

  Also by John Gilmore

  L.A. DESPAIR

  A Landscape of Crimes & Bad Times

  John Gilmore delivers his ultimate, relentless panorama of sex, violence and death in five raw chronicles of SoCal sickness:

  — Porn legend John Holmes and untouchable Hollywood crime lord and drug impresario Eddie Nash — the unvarnished story of the sex-and-coke-laced Wonderland murders

  — “King of Western Swing” and early LA TV’s singing cowboy phenomenon Spade Cooley walking the line of nightmare, depravity and murder

  — Hollywood’s fallen angel Barbara Payton — seemingly hell-bent to descend from Movie Star Sexpot to the gutters and dumpsters of real-life Tinsel Town

  — From gorgeous Hollywood hooker to San Quentin’s gas chamber, the infamous Ice Blonde murderous Barbara Graham