Pretty Boy Floyd

by Larry McMurtry

  For a few days, Ruby wavered. She remembered how sad Charley had looked in the prison visiting room, trying to hold his ripped pants together so he would look decent for his wife. For all she knew, he still thought of her every night. It might be that having her and Dempsey to think about was all that was getting him through; Charley had told her that, in the few minutes they’d had to hug. In the letters she’d got, he had sent his love to Dempsey, and mentioned that he dreamed about them both sometimes.

  But that didn’t solve the problem of the cough medicine, or the struggle to scrape up food, or the loneliness that was making her feel like an old woman, although she was barely twenty-one. She remembered, too, that when she walked out of the Jeff City pen, she was so full of despair she didn’t know how she would make it without Charley.

  Bessie Floyd loved her sister-in-law, and sympathized with her struggle. Bradley, her husband, wasn’t quite as wild as his brother or his father, but he was wild enough. Bradley’s weakness was moonshine. He was sweet when he was sober, but once he siphoned a little corn whiskey into him, he’d pick a fight with anybody, and usually ended up the loser. He had his portion of the Floyd temper—sometimes, when Bradley had been gone for a day or two, laying up somewhere with his jug, Bessie wondered why she had ever married into the Floyds in the first place. She knew Ruby Floyd was probably wondering the same thing—she hadn’t even laid eyes on Charley for two years.

  So it was no big surprise to Bessie when Ruby walked in one day with a guilty look in her eye. Bessie was not a judge. Folks had to get by, and getting by wasn’t always as simple as the Bible said it should be.

  “I done something bad with Lenny,” Ruby said. “Now I’m in a pickle.”

  “Does that mean you’re pregnant?” Bessie asked.

  “No, not yet,” Ruby said. “But I’m thinking I may leave Charley.”

  Bessie had not met the young baker from Coffeyville. Ruby hadn’t wanted to insult Charley’s family; she had been discreet. All she knew was that Ruby was agitated.

  “Charley would kill me if he knew I was even thinkin’ about this,” Ruby said.

  “Honey, stop looking that way,” Bessie said. “Charley didn’t never mean bad for you and Dempsey—if I run over the dog with the flivver, even if I don’t mean to, and even if I love the dog, the dog’s still dead. Charley left you in a hard spot, whether he meant to or not. You got a child to think of.”

  “What if Charley still wants me when he gets out?” Ruby asked. She trusted Bessie’s judgment. Bessie was solid.

  “I don’t know what if,” Bessie said. “A person can what-if themselves to death. Grown-up life’s largely guesswork, anyway.”

  Ruby wandered around the kitchen, still agitated.

  “Do you love this fella?” Bessie asked.

  Ruby picked up the coffeepot; she looked like she needed to throw something. Bessie hoped she wouldn’t throw the coffeepot—it was already dented, from a time she had thrown it herself.

  “He’s likeable,” Ruby said, finally. “He’s real, real likeable.”

  “Anything can grow,” Bessie said, waiting.

  Ruby put the coffeepot back on the stove.

  “Anything can shrink, too,” Bessie reminded her, after a moment. “Bradley and me have kind of shrunk ourselves a little bit.”

  “Has he been drinkin’ too much again?” Ruby asked.

  “Enough, but it ain’t that,” Bessie told her. “I don’t know that it’s any one thing, especially. It just feels kinda shrunk.”

  “Will you hate me if I marry Lenny?” Ruby asked. “I got to make a move. I got to, Bessie. I can’t stand no more of this. It ain’t good for Dempsey, me bein’ so blue all the time.”

  “I won’t never hate you, Ruby,” Bessie said. “We been through too much together. We’re both married to Floyds, that’s enough right there.”

  “I sure hate to leave you and Bradley, though,” Ruby admitted. “You’ve been a big help to me and Dempsey, my own folks are too hard up to do much.”

  Bessie walked over, and gave Ruby a hug. She was a skinny girl; Bessie could feel her thin body shaking.

  “Life ain’t for sissies,” Bessie said.

  “Aw, Bessie, I don’t know anything about life,” Ruby said. “I don’t know who it’s for. I just know I got to do better than I’m doing. I think it would be better for Dempsey.”

  “You gonna divorce Charley, then?” Bessie asked.

  Ruby wasn’t sure whether she still loved Charley—or if it was just the memory of Charley that she loved. It had been so long since she’d seen him that he had become kind of like a ghost.

  But she and Dempsey had to live; she couldn’t think about Charley now.

  “If I decide to marry Lenny, I guess I’ll have to,” Ruby said.

  26

  Big Carl Bevo was treated special from the moment he entered the Jeff City pen. The first time Charley happened to walk past his cell on the way to a meal, Big Carl was sitting on his bunk, eating a steak and reading a newspaper. Two guards were bowing and scraping while he ate, asking him every minute or two if he needed anything.

  “What’s he done that he gets to eat steak in his cell?” Charley asked Jerry.

  “That’s Big Carl Bevo,” Jerry said. “I expect they’d let him have more than steak, if he wanted it.”

  “Like what?” Charley inquired.

  “Like a whore,” Jerry said. “Or maybe two whores.”

  “What’s he done that he’s so special?” Charley asked. “I don’t see nobody else eatin’ steak around this jailhouse. I doubt even the warden gets anything that tasty.”

  “Well, Big Carl’s a lot more important than the warden,” Jerry said. “I expect the warden would trot down here and shine his shoes, if Big Carl asked him to.”

  “Shit in a bucket,” Charley said, impressed. “What’d he do?”

  “He’s kilt three people with his bare hands, for one thing,” Jerry said. “Besides that, he pulled the biggest job ever pulled in Missouri.”

  “How big, and what kind of job?” Charley asked.

  “The First National Bank of K.C., that’s how big,” Jerry informed him. “Ninety-two thousand dollars, and they still ain’t found the money. Of course if he hangs, it won’t do him no good, but if he can buy his way around a hangin’, he can afford all the steaks he can eat.”

  For the next few days, Charley watched Big Carl Bevo whenever he got the chance.

  “I don’t think I’d care to associate with him,” Charley said. “He’s got eyes like a fish.”

  “He’s kilt three people with his bare hands,” Jerry reminded him. “If he speaks to you, be polite.”

  “Why would he speak to me?” Charley asked. “I ain’t no big-time crook.”

  “You never know,” Jerry said. “Big Carl hears everything.”

  “So what?” Charley said. “What would there be to hear about me?”

  But to his surprise, that very afternoon, Big Carl stopped him as he was on his way to the mess hall.

  “Hey, Choctaw,” Big Carl said. “Hold up a minute.”

  “Me?” Charley said, startled.

  “You’re the only Choctaw I see,” Big Carl said.

  “I ain’t a Choctaw,” Charley said, a little offended. “My name’s Charles Arthur Floyd.”

  “You look like a Choctaw boy to me,” Big Carl informed him. “You got some squaw blood in you, I guess. Come on in here a minute.”

  Charley didn’t like being told what to do, not by Big Carl or anybody else.

  “If I don’t go eat, I’ll miss the grub,” he said.

  Big Carl turned his cold fish eyes on Charley.

  “Worse things could happen than missin’ that slop,” he said.

  “Yeah, like what?” Charley asked. He was beginning to see red, and he didn’t care how many men the old fish-eyed crook had killed with his bare hands.

  “Like me having a couple of screws beat the shit out of you before they throw you back i
n the hole,” Big Carl said, waving to the two guards whose job, so far as Charley could tell, was to see that no one annoyed the famous convict.

  The two guards slapped Charley around for ten minutes or so, while Big Carl studied a racing form. Charley didn’t make a sound the whole time. Big Carl didn’t look up when they hustled Charley off to solitary.

  After they were gone, he put the paper down, and thought about the green kid Lulu Ash had asked him to keep an eye on. He sure was a stubborn little prick—he could see why Lulu had taken a liking to him. He knew the kid had been watching him, too. Charley Floyd might be green, but he was tough, and kept his mouth shut. The kid had a short fuse, though—if he didn’t learn to get a grip, that short fuse would blow up in his face.

  In fact, the kid reminded Big Carl of himself, when he was young.

  Twenty-four hours later, the same two guards yanked Charley out and hustled him back up to Big Carl’s cell. Big Carl was still studying the racing form.

  “Hi, Choctaw,” Big Carl said. “Are you in a better mood today?”

  “No, and you can go to hell,” Charley said.

  The guards were about to start whacking him again, but Big Carl waved them off.

  “You’re a pretty tough kid,” he said to Charley. “I’m beginning to see why Lulu likes you.”

  That was another surprise.

  “Lulu who?” Charley asked.

  “Lulu, the lulu,” Big Carl said. “The dame that’ll come up to you and grab you by the pecker when you least expect it.

  “Does that ring any bells?” he added, when Charley didn’t answer.

  “Why would it be any of your business if it did?” Charley asked.

  Big Carl shook his head. “Aw, scram,” he said. “Lulu asked me to look after you, but you’re so damn bullheaded I don’t know if I can put up with your lip.”

  “She shouldn’t have bothered,” Charley said.

  “I’ll second that,” Big Carl said. “You’re a Choctaw boy with bad manners. Go eat slop, if you can’t be nothing but rude.”

  “You had me beat up, remember?” Charley reminded him.

  “Beat up?” Big Carl said. “Son, that was just practice. If I’d had you beat up, you wouldn’t be standing here yappin’.”

  “That don’t mean I liked it,” Charley said.

  “Lulu’s got a soft spot for you,” Big Carl said. “She told me to school you a little. Lulu’s an old friend. I wouldn’t like to see her get hurt by some rude Choctaw boy—get me?” Big Carl said, sharply.

  “How could I hurt Ma Ash?” Charley asked. “I’m in the pen.”

  “You’ll be out one of these days, though,” Big Carl said. “You might two-time her or somethin’. You wouldn’t know it, but she’s got a pretty big soft spot.”

  “I’m married,” Charley informed him. “I doubt I’ll ever see Ma Ash again.”

  Big Carl shook his head again. “I’m gettin’ disgusted with this line of blab,” he said.

  He didn’t say any more. Charley strolled on down and got in the mess line. He hadn’t had a bite while he was in the hole, not even water.

  When Jerry Jennings saw Charley at the back of the chow line, he dropped back to wait with him.

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “I thought you’d escaped.”

  “Big Carl had me beat up,” Charley said.

  “Uh-oh,” Jerry said. He turned white.

  “Why?” Jerry asked, when he got over the shock.

  “Don’t ask me.” Charley shrugged. “I’m too hungry to think about it right now.”

  27

  Dear Charley,

  I never thought the day would come when I’d be askin’ you for a divorce. But I guess it’s silly to think you know how life’s gonna be, because you don’t.

  Dempsey and me are livin’ on charity now, a little from Brad and Bessie, and less from my folks. I been goin’ it alone ever since they took you off, and I guess I just ain’t strong enough to go it alone no more. It ain’t fair to Charles Dempsey, for his Pa to be gone and his Ma to have to work so hard just to make ends meet.

  I need to divorce you, Charley. And there’s somethin’ else. I’ve met a man here. He loves me, and he’s sweet to Charles Dempsey. He takes him fishin’. He even bought him one of them little baseball gloves.

  He wants to marry me, Charley. I expect I’ll marry him, once the divorce goes through. I guess we’ll move to Kansas. He ain’t you, but Ma says it ain’t common to find a man who’ll be good to another man’s child.

  Here’s a little piece of coloring Dempsey did with his crayolas. Don’t forget him, he’s a fine little fellow.

  I’ll always love you, Charley.

  I expect this is about the best I can do.

  Love,

  Ruby

  Charley didn’t like what he was reading in the letter—Jerry couldn’t help but notice. He took a long time to read it; right away his face began to sag. Then his whole body seemed to sag. At one point, he let a page or two drop out of his hand, and was a long time picking them up.

  When Charley had read the letter a few times, he folded it carefully and put it under his pillow. Then he sat on the edge of the bunk for quite a while, just staring.

  “Bad news?” Jerry asked, finally. He could stand only so much silence, especially the heavy kind that filled the cell when Charley Floyd got morose.

  “Mind your own business,” Charley said. He seemed to barely have enough energy to speak the four words.

  Jerry knew he ought to shut up, but he was too anxious.

  “I hope your ma didn’t pass away,” he ventured. Jerry remembered the day Charley had gotten the letter telling him his pa had been shot dead on the main street in Sallisaw. Old Man Floyd had gotten in a dispute with a man at the hardware store over some lumber he had taken from Floyd’s cotton gin. Old Man Floyd walked out of the store in a high temper, and the man followed him out and killed him with a rifle, on the spot. The jury acquitted the killer, too; evidently, they felt he had good reason to be afraid of Old Man Floyd.

  Charley cried a little about his father, but mostly he got mad. He told Jerry several times that once he got out, he meant to take revenge on his pa’s murderer. Jerry had no doubt that he meant it, too. Charley was not a man to make idle threats.

  But his reaction to this letter was worse. The news, whatever it was, seemed to take the life right out of him. He sat on the edge of his bunk for an hour or more, blank, no expression in his face at all.

  Jerry tried hard not to chatter; he was aware that his chatter irritated Charley at times. But the weight of sadness in the cell became too much to bear.

  “Your boy ain’t sick, is he?” Jerry asked. “He didn’t drown, like my little girl, did he?”

  “He didn’t drown,” Charley said, finally. “He’s movin’ to Kansas.”

  “Well, Kansas is a good state,” Jerry said. “They’ve got that big pen up at Leavenworth. It’s a federal pen.”

  Charley was thinking about Ruby—her smile, and her dark hair, and her long legs. He remembered once when they were courting, and they had set off for a camp meeting. Ruby’s pa had even loaned them the wagon, because it was preaching they were going to hear. They didn’t make it to the preaching, though. They stopped the mule about a mile from the camp meeting, close enough that they could see the lights from the tent and hear the hymns. Now and then, they could even hear the preacher, yelling out his sermon. But he and Ruby weren’t in the mood for preaching; they took their clothes off, used them for a pallet, and made love during the whole camp meeting. They were still doing it when the lights went off in the tent. They were like alley cats that night, yowling and scratching. The wagon rocked so, that the old mule swished his tail and flicked his ears.

  Wagons began to pass near them as the worshipers headed home across the prairie, and Ruby got worried that somebody would see them naked, or figure out what they were doing. But they rested for a while, hunkered down in the wagon, until all the fol
ks were gone. Then, with only the moon to see them, they made love until nearly morning. Charley could still remember how cool the plains breeze felt, on his and Ruby’s sweaty bodies.

  The next day, he fell asleep plowing and let the furrow go crooked. His father yelled at him when he saw the furrow.

  That camp meeting evening seemed like a long time ago. It felt like something that could only have happened in another life. Many a time in his cell, Charley had thought about Ruby in the wagon.

  That was happiness.

  Now she was leaving him, taking Dempsey, and marrying another man. He didn’t blame her; he had left her alone for nearly four years, with no money and no support. But Ruby was still his one true love.

  There was no use supposing he would ever be that happy again.

  28

  “Another ten years, and the Feds will have guns,” Big Carl said, cutting his steak. “When that happens, crooks like us won’t have a chance.

  “You’ll live to see it, but I won’t,” he added—needlessly, Charley thought. Big Carl was due to swing at dawn. He hadn’t been able to buy off anybody high up enough to issue one more appeal.

  Now he was eating his last rare steak, washing it down with straight gin. He had offered to order up a steak for Charley, too, and any other time he would have jumped at the chance for a good piece of beef. This particular evening, though, he couldn’t muster much appetite.

  Big Carl was all right, Charley thought, once you got to know him. He had taught Charley a lot about how the rackets worked, and he had instructed him about how to approach a bank if he had robbing it in mind.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Big Carl had told him. “Not all crooks are yellow, and crime does pay—you just gotta stay smart.”

  He stopped, and lit a big cigar. The two guards rushed over, trying to light it for him—he waved them off, annoyed.

  “Always case the joint first. You gotta know if there’s a guard inside, and how many suits work in the back,” he told Charley. “You gotta look sharp when you’re robbin’ a bank. You wanna look like all the money in there belongs to you, like you got the right to take it. Wear the best suit you can buy, don’t go in looking like a mug.