“Got a direct phone number to contact him,” Clyde says. “No news on Buck, though. So that means—”
I pop my lips. “We’ve got ourselves a whole year. Twelve long months.”
“To save, remember?” There’s a mixture of tension and lightness to his voice, if such a thing exists. I reckon it does when we’re caught in between feeling free and looking over our shoulders.
Before long, we’ve got ourselves a routine. We drive, we sleep, we rob. Not always in that order. Not always all in one day. But we try to add more, week by week, into our piggy bank for the farm.
Sometimes we’ll splurge on a cabin and sleep all day, the shades drawn shut, Clyde holding me. It’s almost become taboo, me wishing for us to do more.
Sometimes Clyde will drive all day. He’ll take off his shoe and sock, getting a better feel for the pedal with his bad foot, and just go and go. I think he likes the rumble of the engine ’round him. Personally, I like the dirt our wheels kick up. It’s like we’re invisible inside, just a cloud of dust.
There are days I think ’bout writing, but then the day doesn’t bring anything different than the last—and I reckon it ain’t bringing anything new tomorrow—so I shrug the idea away.
Clyde buys a bunch of maps, figuring it’s better to know where a road goes. Can’t argue with that. One day, a road takes us to this big ol’ cotton gin, and out of all God’s creatures, there are mules out front pulling wagons. There’s also a shiny new car ripe for the picking, ’cept for the fact it’s locked.
Clyde lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Cotton must be king in these parts. This here is a 1932 Ford Model B two-door coupe. I won’t mind driving her one bit.”
I reckon Clyde stares at the car the same way I did at the Silver Jubilee Hoover electric cleaner I saw in a storefront the other day. The signage propped up next to the machine claimed it had a unique, patented cleaning technique known as Position Agitation that’d vibrate the rug as you ran the machine over it. It’d shake out and suck up all the dirt. I made a mental note to buy one of ’em once Clyde and I get the farmhouse and he starts tracking mud all over the place. Only four dollars and fifty cents down and a few small payments seems worth it to me to save myself the agitation of shaking out rugs on my own.
Outside the gin, I ask Clyde, “You going to stand there? Or are you going to pick the lock?”
“Neither. I’m going to ask the owner to open her up for us.” Clyde eyes the gin. “Bet he’s inside. Come on in with me, I could use some of your Saint Bonnelyn charm.”
It’s rare for Clyde to ask me to get involved, but in we go, and at the office, Clyde makes his voice silky as he says, “Excuse me, sir. Is that your fine automobile out front?”
I put my best smile on my face, my hands folded ’cross my front.
The man, hidden behind a mustache and beard, looks from me to Clyde. “Why, yes, she is.”
Clyde’s grin shows his teeth. “I was eyeing up that exact model last week. I hate to trouble you, but would you be willing to let me see the interior?”
“Honey.” I run a hand down Clyde’s suit jacket. “Don’t bother the nice man that way. He clearly has a business to run.”
It’s no sweat off the man’s back, or so he says. He follows us right outside, and as soon as the Ford’s door clicks open, Clyde has a gun at its owner’s back.
“Watch your head,” Clyde says, putting yet another man in our rear seat. From one Ford to the other, I move over our robbery winnings and anything else we own: clothes and some sandwiches we picked up earlier.
Again, my job is to keep the pistol trained on him, in case he does any funny business. Not that he looks like he will, with how his mustache is twitching from nerves, and not like I want to use the gun on him. I feel bad ’bout taking him, being he ain’t like the cop. But this here man and his car were a package deal.
After driving for hours with nothin’ but the engine’s purr, the silence must get to Clyde. “Tell us a joke,” he says to the man.
Our hostage hesitates; maybe he’s not sure if Clyde’s the one who’s joking. Or ’cause of the gun I have on him. Finally, in a shaky voice, he says, “Why’s it so hard to keep a secret”—he swallows—“when it’s rip-roaring cold?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“’Cause your teeth won’t stop chattering.”
Clyde busts up laughing.
“I got another,” the man says. I offer him a sandwich with my free hand and he takes it. “Read it one time in a book.”
“I like reading,” I encourage him.
Our hostage almost smiles, and I nod for him to go on.
“There was this young fella, a laywer,” he says. “He had a sign out front with his name on it. ‘A. Swindler,’ it said. So, a man comes in, looking for help, and says something along the lines of, ‘My goodness, don’t you know how that sign looks? Spell out your first name. Ambrose. Alexander. Whatever your name is.’ The lawyer’s got this defeated look on his face and says how it won’t make the sign any better. ‘Why not?’ the client asks? The lawyer sighs and says, ‘My name’s Adam.’”
I work the joke ’round my head. It comes to me. “A damn swindler!”
I laugh. Our hostage laughs. Finally, Clyde laughs.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Clyde asks him.
The man takes a big bite of his ham and cheese, mumbling, “Pistol Pete.”
Clyde and I laugh again, being I’m the one with the pistol trained on poor Pete, who stops chewing when he gets our joke.
Not like we’re going to hurt him. There’s no reason to. Plus, we learn, we’re of like minds. Pete has pistol in front of his name because he’s not afraid to wave one ’round.
“Times are hard,” he tells us. “Desperation is likely to perch on your shoulder and whisper in your ear. Hell, sometimes you got to do things you ain’t proud of to get by. Try growing cotton in a drought, man.” He laughs then, and adds, “And I don’t got a pretty doll by my side. Partners through thick and thin, right? That’ll get you two far.”
I hope so. Right now, I ain’t sure how robbing mom-and-pop stores is going to add up to a farm.
In the end, we tie Pistol Pete loosely to a tree, put some bills in his shirt pocket so he can get home, and Clyde assures Pistol Pete we’ll send a telegram to let him know where we leave his car.
“Are we really going to return his car?” I ask Clyde as we drive away.
Clyde shrugs. “Why not? I sort of liked that Pistol Pete.”
I did, too. I even considered writing a poem ’bout him, but lost my interest before I even began.
We let a few months pass, the weather growing cooler, our piggy bank slowly growing bigger, and sure enough, Clyde stops by a Western Union to send Pistol Pete an address of where his Ford was left weeks ago. Actually, it’s depressing to think it’s been weeks. Even more so to think we first left Dallas eight months ago. It’s been six since I’ve spoken to my ma.
When Clyde’s back in the car, I tell him, “I’m glad ya did that for Pistol Pete.”
“A Christmas present for the lad.”
Soon, we’re driving again. I’m antsy in my seat. Antsy for a lot, but right now, the word Christmas is stuck in my head. “Clyde?”
“Bonnie?” He glances at me again. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
“Can we go home?” I ask, adding, “For the holidays?”
Clyde reaches over, takes my hand and kisses it.
“It ain’t smart. But,” he says, before I can refute how none of what we’re doing is smart, “we’ll be careful.”
* * *
I don’t know why I thought Dallas would look different. It’s not as if the homeless would suddenly have homes. Shops would suddenly be reopened. Folks in glad rags would suddenly, but discreetly, sneak to the basement of a physician’s office once more.
President Hoover’s had years to get us moving again in the right direction. People sure as hell don’t have a chicken in every pot or a car in
every garage, like he promised they would, and that’s probably why Franklin D. Roosevelt won last month in a landslide. I read in the papers the electoral vote was 472 to 59, in favor of FDR. Only six states voted Republican.
If Clyde and I could’ve shown our faces, we would’ve walked into a voting station and handed over our ballots, too. Roosevelt had confidence. Roosevelt confidently pledged himself to a “New Deal” for the American people. The unemployed. The homeless. Our new president wants to help them both. He also wants to help the farmers. Clyde and I, perched on diner stools, listened to it all on the radio. We kept our heads down, but we wanted to lift them and applaud right alongside the others.
I wonder what those people would’ve done if they knew they were sitting beside a wanted man. Now, even as we drive down Elm Street, I can’t help worrying there’ll be big ol’ billboards with Clyde’s handsome face on it. But there aren’t, and I’m too excited to see Ma’s face to give it another thought. She doesn’t know we’re coming. I could walk right into the house, but I want to knock. She’ll scrunch her brows and wonder who’s at the door. And there I’ll be, almost like a Christmas present. We’ll invite over Blanche, put on some carols, and all sit ’round playing cards. Billie, Blanche, Buster, that girl of his, Clyde, and me.
We decided to wait until the cover of night before we slinked back into Dallas. And apparently, Clyde has a plan on how to keep our cover, which is probably why we didn’t go straight to Cement City, my humble town on the other side of the railroad tracks.
I look over at Clyde, breaking my gaze from the glitter of Dallas at night. The darkness covers the dirt and debris, and the lights pull my attention up to the buildings, shooting into the sky, making Dallas seem bigger than it really is. Clyde spins the wheel left, pointing us toward West Dallas.
“Remember what to do when you’re behind a wheel, Bonnie?”
Being Clyde’s normally the one to grip it, I narrow an eye at him. But …
The left lever sets the parking brake. One on the right does the throttle. Other one on the left does the ignition timing. The right pedal is the brake. The middle pedal is reverse. I say, “The left pedal means go.”
“That’s my lass. I’m going to swipe us a new car while you stay in this here one. Then you’ll follow me down to the river, where we’ll make our new car nice and cozy. If eyes start poking ’round this one, we’ll have a backup ride and—” Clyde honks the horn. “I just got myself a better idea.”
Clyde pulls the car over, twisting in his seat to see behind him. There’s a boy walking down the sidewalk. “That there was Jones.”
The name’s familiar. “Kid from the boardinghouse?”
“That’s him. I’ve known him for”—he sucks on his tooth—“got to be ten years now. His family lived next to ours under that ol’ bridge when we first got to Dallas.”
That’s all fine and dandy, but I ain’t sure why we’re stopped here instead of getting done what needs to be done so I can get to my ma. “Are you going to keep driving? Or get out to say hello?”
Jones loiters on the sidewalk, like he’s not sure how to respond to that honk.
“The lad’s got quick fingers.” Clyde presses that middle pedal and the car reverses. “I’ve got a mind to do more than say hello. If Jones nabs the car, there’d be no way it can track back to us.”
“You’re going to ask that boy to steal for us?”
Clyde rolls down his window, Jones now standing right outside. With the streetlight broken, it’s hard to get a good eyeful of him, but I remember him looking more like a boy than a man, small like a pup. He glances over at us. But he does it in a way where he’s trying not to look, his head barely moving.
Clyde laughs. “He doesn’t know it’s me.”
“Clyde,” I say between my teeth. “Leave him be. It’s Christmas Eve. He’s got to be on his way home. Besides, he can’t be more than fifteen.” Not much younger than Billie. I’m shaking my head like Clyde’s lost his sense, probably ’cause he has.
“I reckon he’s sixteen. Same age my sister would be. She used to have a crush on Jones, if her red cheeks spoke any truth.” His eyes sadden a moment, then his cool façade returns. “Bootlegs. Stealing Cars. Picking lots. The lad ain’t green ’round the gills, Bonnie.”
I sigh inwardly; if Jones ain’t a stranger to it, then maybe it’ll save us some trouble. But the whole thing makes me uneasy, relying on someone else, trusting someone else. To Clyde, I shrug.
“Jones,” Clyde calls, his elbow propped on his open window. “It’s me. Clyde.”
If I were Jones, I’d have half a mind to run. The boy takes a hesitant step forward. “Clyde Barrow?”
The one and only, I think to myself.
“Want to make some spending money?” Clyde asks.
Doesn’t everyone?
But I wish for the kid to say no.
Jones grins widely, then he’s climbing into our rear seat, Clyde twisting to give him a welcome pat on the back.
Introductions are made before we drive a ways, ending up in a more remote section of town, where people have lawns and driveways, along with a false sense of security, often leaving their keys in the ignition. They often have nosy neighbors, too.
Clyde slows our car and nods toward a car tucked in for the night in front of a two-story house. “I wouldn’t mind that Model A Roadster. What do you think, Jones, she’s from nineteen twenty—”
“Nineteen twenty-eight,” I say feigning confidence.
Really, I don’t have a damn clue, but I’m ’bout to bust out of our own Ford ’cause of my anxiety, and my mouth opened on its own.
“Clyde, you lucky dog,” Jones says. “Your lady knows ’bout cars and looks like that?”
I scrunch my brows, assuming that’s a compliment from the kid.
Clyde laughs. “My Bonnie’s something special.”
And my Clyde’s a sweet talker.
“Just get her going,” Clyde adds, ’bout the car. “Be as quiet as a cat with the dogs close, you hear?”
Jones bobs his head and hops out, leaving us idling on the other side of Thirteenth Street, our engine still purring. The house is dark, ’cept for a big ol’ twinkling Christmas tree in their front window. I hold my bottom lip between my teeth, watching for any movement.
The driver’s door opens, unlocked, and Jones is in. From where we are, Clyde and I squint, trying to make out his movements. He’s in the seat, but the car’s not starting.
“Maybe the key isn’t there?” I say. “Can he start it otherwise?”
“He’d be running this way if the key wasn’t there. I’m concerned ’bout her being cold.” Clyde licks his lips, his foot tapping. “Maybe Jones forgot something. Spark up. Key on. Gas down,” he mumbles to himself. “Shouldn’t need to choke her more than once unless she’s been sitting there awhile.” He runs his hands through his hair.
Something catches my eye inside the house. I spit out, “They’re home.”
“Shit, I got to go help, Bonnie.”
My heart’s in my mouth, and I don’t have time to protest before he’s gone. It’s dark, but not dark enough to hide him as he runs up the driveway. The porch light flashes on. And now Clyde’s on full display; bent low, one hand on the driver-side door, his head poking in the open window.
I panic, touching my throat, my leg, the door handle, the whole time my eyes jumping between Clyde and the front door. No one’s coming out. Clyde disappears into the car, Jones’s shadow moving over to the passenger seat.
It jolts me into action, moving over into the seat Clyde just vacated. I put my hands on the wheel.
Come on.
God sends the wrong person coming; the front door swings open. A man runs out, the long barrel of a gun swinging at his hip.
“Clyde!”
I roll my window down, catching the tail end of the man saying, “… my boy’s car. Get out!” His woman runs out of the house, too, hollering.
Get out, Clyde. Get out and
we’ll go. No harm, no foul.
’Cept, no, Clyde shouts, “Stand back now, both of you, and no one will get hurt.”
Listen to him, I silently plead to the man with the shotgun. I can barely watch, not wanting that gun pointed at Clyde.
Suddenly, two becomes three as another man rushes from the house. “Call the police!” he yells. He grabs the man and woman, forcing them back. Pushing them back toward the house. The man takes his shotgun with him, and I exhale.
Then, the second man goes and does something stupid, lunging through the window, his hands leading the way. I sit here shocked, picturing the man half in, half out of the car, wringing Clyde’s neck. There’s a flurry of movement, and it’s as if the window spits him out. Clyde’s voice rises to say, “Stop, man, or I’ll have to shoot.”
The man doesn’t stop; half his body goes through the window again, his feet scuffing the driveway.
I breathe through my fingers—watching, praying, waiting to see if Clyde makes good on his threat.
There’s a gunshot.
And another.
I jump in my seat.
The man slumps to the ground.
The woman, outside again, screams. I didn’t see her return. She collapses on top of the fallen man. The first man aims his gun, but no shots sound. I ain’t sure why, and as luck has it, the car picks that time to come to life.
Before I know it, Clyde has the car down the driveway, down the street. I can’t bring myself to look at the figures in the driveway. I’ve never seen a person get shot and not get up.
I can’t be sitting here—in a stolen car, no less. I go after Clyde, my hands shaking on the wheel.
When they stop, I stop, not even close to the river like we planned, and I fill my lungs with air.
The boys run toward me, and I drag myself ’cross the bench seat, back to the passenger’s side. First thing Clyde does, he kisses me. Hard. I find myself sobbing, and Lord help me, it’s not for the man, it’s for the image of the man’s hands ’round Clyde’s neck. Still, I whisper, “The man’s dead. He’s got to be.”
Clyde already has our Ford going as fast as the city blocks will allow. He glances toward the rear seat, toward Jones, who says, “I ain’t sure which one of us got him.”
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