Going to Chicago

by Rob Levandoski

  Only three months before our own adventure to Chicago a Texas Highway Patrol officer named Frank Hamer—a real tough sonofabitch who’d tracked down and killed sixty-five outlaws in his career—ambushed Bonnie and Clyde on a country road between Sailes and Gibsland, Louisiana. Twenty after nine in the morning. Clyde was driving in his socks. Bonnie was eating a sandwich. In their big Ford V-8 they had a shotgun, a dozen pistols, three Browning automatic rifles, two thousand rounds of ammunition, and fifteen stolen license plates. Hamer and his lawmen fired continually for four minutes. After it was over they counted 187 holes, twenty-five of them in Clyde and twenty-three in Bonnie. I remember reading that the stream of fire was so thick that it slashed Clyde’s necktie in half and cut Bonnie’s dress away from her shoulders. But there was nothing in the papers about Clyde’s manhood getting riddled. A few years ago I saw a documentary on PBS that said Clyde was a homosexual and Bonnie a nymphomaniac. I didn’t know anything about that in 1934, and I doubt Gustavus P. Gillis did either.

  It was clear to me even then that Gus and Gladys were playing Bonnie and Clyde, the way kids might have played the Lone Ranger and Tonto. When I went to see Gladys in Mingo Junction in 1955 I asked her about it. “Who really knows what’s playing and what’s real,” she said. “Gus truly did want to die in a hail of bullets, I know that.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because he hated being a poor dumb hillbilly with no hope of ever being anything but a poor dumb hillbilly. When he heard how Bonnie and Clyde died, he figured that was the way for him. Riddled right out of his miserable existence.”

  I brought up a subject I’d always wondered about. “Did Gus ever kill anybody? He didn’t the week we were with him.”

  Gladys laughed. “Gus never shot anything more alive than those melons in his life. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. Just himself. And it bothered him that Clyde Barrow actually killed people. ‘Clyde Barrow was a great man,’ Gus used to tell me, ‘but shooting people was his one fatal flaw.’” She watched a barge crawl up the Ohio River. “Gus was a good kid. We were all good kids.”

  That brought me to something else I’d wondered about. “How’d you feel about Will that week? The two of you seemed to hit it off. I saw you kissing in the corn.”

  She stared at the river long after the barge slid across her window. “He was a sweet boy, wasn’t he?”

  Both of us were on the brink of tears, so I changed the subject. “Did you really think you’d become a famous radio actress?”

  “Good lord! I’d forgotten all about that.”

  No she hadn’t. Her face said she hadn’t.

  “I was just playing for Gus’s sake,” she said. “I knew that wasn’t really going to happen.”

  And I didn’t think I’d be a famous dogfighter like Eddie Rickenbacker and my father, dispatching Huns into the vineyards. Of course she thought she’d be a famous radio actress.

  “Evolution of the human face—from fish to man—is shown by a series of models in the Paleontology exhibit.”

  OFFICIAL GUIDE BOOK OF THE WORLD’S FAIR

  Eleven/Strictly 9 to 5

  Will woke up angry. It was already Thursday. We’d missed our first day at the World’s Fair. His minute-by-minute itinerary was in shambles. His dream was in shambles. He ate dry Wheaties out of the box and glowered at the scorched bean cans in the fire ashes.

  I woke up ashamed. Ashamed we hadn’t had the guts to escape during the night. The Wild Teuton and my dad would have escaped had they been shot down and captured. Goddamn. Sonofabitch. We could have gotten away easily, too. Gus and Gladys were in the tent snoring like broken accordions. We could have been in the Gilbert SXIII and flying before they could untie the tent flap. Of course I say this now knowing that Gus never shot anybody in his life. We didn’t know that then. Then we knew he’d shoot us down like dogs if we tried anything. We’d seen him kill that farmer’s melons. So we didn’t try to escape during the night and I was feeling lousy about it. I ate some dry Wheaties, too.

  Clyde woke up humming, anxious for his drops. He had a pack of Juicy Fruit gum for breakfast.

  Gus crawled out of the tent happy. Confident this was the day he’d die in a hail of bullets. He pissed in the ashes. Made the bean cans roll.

  Gladys came out of the tent brushing her teeth. I watched the foam pour out of her mouth and wondered if Gus had poked her during the night. I hadn’t heard anything. But who knows? Not everybody were squealers and moaners like my parents. They might have poked for hours in there. They had dry Wheaties and melon for breakfast.

  Will and I started to police the campsite. But Gus made us stop. He wanted to leave as much evidence as possible. He even left an affidavit, flying like a flag on his wiener stick: I Gus “The Gun” Gillis camped here with the talented Gladys Bartholomew and my three unwilling kidnappees.

  Gus made Will take several pictures of Gladys and him standing by the Gilbert SXIII. He made Clyde and me get in two of them. Had Gladys take one of him and Will, just so he wouldn’t feel left out.

  We drove back through the cow flops and corn to the road. Drove until we stumbled onto a main highway. It wasn’t much past dawn. The landscape became surprisingly hilly. Below us we could see a muddy river—the grand Weebawauwau itself—and beyond that the silvery roofs of a fair-sized town. Gus was delighted. Told us he had a reign of terror in mind. “I plan to rob as many people possible in as short a time as possible,” he said. “To bring the law blazing.”

  He had me park under the bridge. We were next to a long field of cabbage. The heads looked about ready to harvest. “Well let’s go fishing,” he said.

  “Fishing?” Clyde said. “We ain’t got any poles or tackle.”

  Gus reached back and squeezed Gladys’s knee. “But we got bait, Clyde.”

  Gladys crawled out with her suitcase and started up the embankment for the road. We stayed with Gus under the bridge. I can tell you what happened next because later that afternoon Gladys lavishly recounted every minute of it, using voices and gestures and sound effects. She was after all an aspiring radio actress.

  She walked a quarter mile or so up the road and then waited, one leg up on her suitcase. Soon a little white milk truck came along, heading toward town to make deliveries.

  Naturally the milkman stopped. He drank in her legs and yellow hair. “Trouble, miss?”

  As soon as Gladys saw the truck coming she’d lathered her cheeks with spit to make it look like she was crying. She made her voice tremble. “I didn’t think anyone would ever come along—ever ever.”

  “You’ve always got a friend at Willow Farm Dairy,” the milkman said, smiling heroically, tugging the black plastic visor on his white cap. He was wearing a white shirt, white pants and white shoes. Gladys said he looked like a big bottle of milk himself.

  She staggered forward and grabbed the door like it was a life raft. “I was afraid he’d find me alone out here. Shoot me dead. Just like he did the others.”

  The milkman’s heroic smile froze. Adam’s apple went up and down. “How can I help you, miss?”

  “Just get me away from here. That crazy man could be anywhere. With that big gun.”

  Gladys could barely tell us the next part. She laughed and gasped and pressed on her bladder so she wouldn’t pee. “That milkman curdled right before my eyes. ‘Oh my! Oh my! Get in! Get in!’ he said. ‘I’ll drop you off at the sheriff’s. I’ve got to start my deliveries right at six. But I can drop you! I can do that! You’ve always got a friend at Willow Farm Dairy! Yessiree Bob!’”

  So Gladys got in and the milkman sped off. “I can’t begin to thank you,” she said. “He’s such a deadly shot.”

  With the immediate danger of getting shot behind him, the milkman’s heroism returned. So did his libidinous stare. “It’ll be fine, miss. It’ll be fine.”

  “He is the most jealous boyfriend I’ve ever had,” she told him. “Killed a man once just for admiring my shapely legs. Do you think my legs are shapely?�
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  The milkman’s eyes shot back to the road. “Why don’t you have a bottle of milk to soothe your stomach. Courtesy of the Willow Farm Dairy.”

  Gladys couldn’t resist toying. She opened a bottle of cream and slowly licked it. Wrapped her eyes around his. “He turned straight into cottage cheese,” she told us. “Then I screamed ‘Dear lord! There he is!’”

  The milkman frantically looked out of every window in his little truck. “Where? Where? Where?”

  That’s when Gladys produced the pistol from her suitcase, with the silver kitten on the pink pearl handle. “Hiding under that bridge up there,” she said. “Waiting for his sweet little biscuit to bring him a big white sucker fish.”

  We witnessed the rest for ourselves. The milk truck skidded to stop. Gus, shotgun over his shoulder, climbed slowly to the road. We followed. He waved his fedora at the milkman like he was an old friend. The milkman crawled out, arms over his head, relieved he’d fallen victim to highway robbery and not that jealous boyfriend.

  “Great little actress, ain’t she?” Gus said.

  The milkman agreed.

  “Did you really believe I was a woman in distress?” Gladys asked him. “Distress is one of the hardest emotions to play. And really be convincing.”

  The milkman assured her he’d been completely bamboozled. Gladys was thrilled.

  We unloaded several wire baskets of milk and cream. Gus made Will take a picture of the milkman with Gladys and him, then launched into his speech about the three of us being unwilling kidnappees. He made the milkman promise to report the holdup as soon as his route was finished. The milkman promised and drove off fast.

  That’s the way the ruse went. By midmorning Gus and Gladys had hooked more than a dozen such suckers. Stacked in the cabbage by the river were trays of bread, cases of Coca-Cola, several big bags of ready-mix cement, baskets of eggs, a salesman’s sample case full of doorknobs and hinges, two bundles of the Indianapolis Star, all that milk and cream of course, three gumball machines and a bag of pennies, assorted wallets, watches, pocket change, and jackknives. Every victim got his picture taken with Gus and Gladys.

  After a few hours traffic completely stopped. Which made Gus a happy man. “I’m sure roadblocks are up by now,” he said. “Only a matter of time before we see the law sneaking up. This is all so perfect, ain’t it Gladys? I couldn’t have picked a better spot to die if I was George Armstrong Custer.”

  Clyde asked who George Armstrong Custer was.

  Will, nose in his Official Guide Book of the World’s Fair, told him.

  The morning wore away. So did the afternoon. No sign of the law. Gladys sat on the ground and went through the wallets, then counted the pocket change and finally the bag of pennies liberated from the gumball machine man. She announced the take: “Forty-nine dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

  Gus wasn’t the least bit heartened. He wanted a hail of bullets, not a pile of cash. He climbed to the road and shook his shotgun in both directions. Yelled and whistled. Nothing. That’s when Gladys began recounting her acting job with the milkman, the bread man, the Coca-Cola man, and all the rest. Will put down his guidebook and listened to every word. So did I. Clyde hummed and drank several warm eight-ounce Cokes. Gus gave up and joined us. He cracked an egg in a quart bottle of milk and sipped it lying flat on his back, head propped up on a cabbage.

  “All in all,” Gladys said, “I think my amnesia act with the doorknob salesman was my best work.”

  That’s when Gus blew. “Judas Priest, Gladys! All you ever do is think about yourself.”

  Gladys blew back. “My career is just as important as yours!”

  “It’s important. But don’t forget that you’re not going to have any damn career until I’m riddled with lead.”

  “Just because you haven’t been riddled yet you think it’s the end of the world.”

  Gus wilted. “I was sure today would be the day, that’s all.”

  I was playing with the pile of stolen watches. “There’s still plenty of time,” I said. “According to these it’s still somewhere between 4:50 and 5:03.”

  Tiny rivers of milk and egg yoke were meandering through the stubble on Gus’s unshaven face. “I appreciate your trying to cheer me up, Ace. But you don’t know these small-town badges like I do. They are strictly nine to five. If they ain’t come yet, they ain’t coming. All on their way home to supper by now.” He jumped up and stalked down the row, angrily kicking cabbage heads. He stopped and turned thoughtfully toward us. “How’d you like to be the poor saps who have to pick all these bastards?” Then he lifted one of the bags of ready-mix cement over his head and heaved it in the river. We watched it splash and sink. “Now that’s what I need to do,” he said.

  Gladys was as puzzled as the rest of us. “How do I become a famous actress by you drowning in a river?”

  Gus came back up the row, excited. “Not drown, sweetie pie! Make a bigger splash! I’ve been thinking too small. No hick-town hundred-a-month badge is going to risk his life over greasy spoons and Coca-Cola men. I’ve got to think of a crime so stupendous that the local badges got no choice but to come after me, guns puking lead.”

  I’d already driven a wedge between Will and me by not shooting Gus in the head when I had the chance at Hal’s Half Way. Now I drove it further. I grabbed one of the cabbages Gus kicked off its roots and hurled it into the river. It didn’t sink like the cement, but bobbed like a headless green duck. “You ought to rob a bank.”

  Will’s rebuke was instant. “Jeez, Ace.”

  Gus hurled a cabbage into the river, too, several feet farther out than mine. “You’re thinking big, Ace. I like big thinking. But there ain’t no money in robbing banks in Indiana no more. What John Dillinger hasn’t stolen by now, the damn bankers have themselves.”

  “How about a train, then?” I said.

  “Jeez! Now we’re going to play Jesse James!”

  Gus threw another cabbage. “Don’t stifle Ace’s imagination, Will. Robbing a train is a good idea. Unfortunately what we need here is a great idea.”

  I threw another cabbage, too. I was straining to think of a great idea. Gus laid back down and pulled his fedora over his eyes. Sipped his milk and egg.

  Now Will threw a cabbage in the river. It went farther than all the rest. “You want a great idea? I’ve got the greatest idea in the world.”

  Gus slipped back his fedora, very interested. “What is it?”

  “Let us go and then kidnap someone who isn’t on such a tight schedule. Then you can take all the time you want thinking how to get yourself riddled.”

  Gus’s fedora went back over his disappointed eyes. “Judas Priest! You’re as selfish as Gladys. You ain’t going nowhere until I’m dead. The sooner you all get that through your heads, the happier we’re all going to be.”

  “Who’s Jesse James?” Clyde asked.

  “Jeez!”

  “Judas Priest!”

  We all took a nap. Cabbages for pillows.

  Somewhere around six I heard the sky chattering and opened my eyes. Airplane. I watched Gladys’s chest swell and fall. The chattering got louder. Today there’s not an inch of America where your ears aren’t filled with the chainsaw of a jumbo jet or at least the bee-buzz of some little puddlejumper—Bennett’s Corners is right on the southern flight path into Cleveland Hopkins and the air there shakes continuously—but in 1934 hearing or seeing an airplane was still an event. I stood up and searched the tree lines. I couldn’t see it yet, but I could tell it was coming straight toward us from the west. Low, too.

  Finally a double set of wings popped over the treetops. The air quivered like the inside of a church bell. The plane sank to within a few yards of the field. Came right toward us. There was an explosion of white powder. I could feel it settling on my face. See it settling on the cabbage heads. On Gus’s head. Gladys’s head. Will’s head. Clyde’s head. We were being crop dusted.

  The plane slipped over the river and climbed. Turned f
or another pass. Everybody was awake now, coughing and pawing at their hair and faces. “It’s a Curtiss JN-4,” I said. “A Jenny! Just like my father trained in before going to France.”

  Gus didn’t care what kind of airplane it was. “Judas Priest! Can’t he see us?”

  Another cloud of insecticide boiled down. “Get that thing of yours cranked up, Ace,” Gus shouted. “We’re going to blast that crazy bastard out of the sky.”

  By thing Gus meant the Gilbert SXIII. A minute later Gus and I were in rabid pursuit, chasing that real airplane all over that field of cabbage. Squished heads flew in every direction. “Stay on his ass,” Gus shouted. “Stay on his ass!”

  It was the strangest thing. Eight years later when I returned to Weebawauwau County and looked the pilot of that old Jenny up—his name was Bud Hemphill—I asked him why he’d let us chase him around that field. “You were in a real plane for christsake! Up in the air! You could have just flown off!”

  “I was a’scared,” Bud said.

  “Of a Model T?”

  “Not of you,” he said. “A’scared of losing my job. My boss Bill McDougall said if I didn’t get them cabbages dusted by six I was fired. Couple nuts in an old car with wings wasn’t going to get me unemployed.”

  So that’s why the Jenny stayed over the cabbage field, boiling insecticide, while we gave chase in the Gilbert SXIII. I tried to apply the Dicta Boelcke to our pursuit.

  Tried to close on his tail so Gus could get off a useful shot, but Bud had the upper hand. He was really up in the air. Soon as I’d close the gap he’d fill our faces with insecticide and roll out of the way. “Land, you damn fool!” Gus kept yelling. “Land, you damn ding-donged fool!”