by Jack Martin
“Of course you needn’t worry about this being good. Even in these times of bank failures, the Morgan Bank stands solid. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a guest upstairs that I have neglected for far too long.” She swept out of the room. Bierce heard light footsteps pattering up the stairs as he stood in silence looking at the door to the library, tears streaming down his cheeks.
CHAPTER TWO
“Say, don’t you remember, I’m your pal …”
The black Ford V-8 coasted to a stop alongside the chain link fence separating the narrow, lonely road from a thriving crop of cotton. Although it was night and the windows were down, the air was muggy and heavy, a typical summer night in Texas. Clyde Barrow lit a Camel, passed it to Bonnie Parker, the woman sitting beside him, and then lit one for himself. He stared with naked hatred past the crops to the buildings looming in the distance. Eastham State Prison.
“Clyde, honey, I wish you would change your mind. Those two troublemakers aren’t worth the risk. I’d die if something happened to you. There’s only two of us, and that is a goddamn state prison.”
“Ain’t no good tryin’ to talk me otter this. We’re getting’ my buddies otter there, and givin’ the goddamn Texas Department of Corrections the blackest of black eyes. Sides, the guards only watch the fences when the inmates are in the fields. At night, when everyone’s locked up, they hardly look.”
For a moment Clyde thought back to his incarceration behind this fence nearly ten years ago, when he had been a frightened sixteen year old, convicted of car theft. The indifferent guards threw him into the same cell with a massive old prisoner who proceeded to bugger him almost every night. This continued until one day he found himself behind the prison machine shop, alone with his tormentor. He’d smashed the old pervert’s head to jelly with a length of pipe. The guards suspected what he had done, but showed no more interest than they had shown in Clyde’s agonized screams in the night. He left Eastham without something he had possessed when he had entered the prison—religiously minded folks would have said it was his soul. In the place of that intangible item, there was now a raging, unshakeable hatred for cops, prison guards, and queers—for society in general.
“Bonnie, we are takin’ Hank Methvin and Ray Hamilton otta that hellhole. They’s my buddies. Besides, I got a little score to settle with Eastham, and I’m going to settle it tonight.”
“Honey, what if we get caught?”
“Hell, we’ve already kilt seven bulls an’ three store-owners. Cain’t hang us more than once.”
Bonnie sighed. A petite woman, scarcely five foot, she had been a part-time waitress, finding rural Texas excruciatingly dull, until she had met Clyde at a friend’s house. She had fallen in love with the dangerous looking gangster the moment she set eyes on him, and swore she would never let him go.
“All right, honey, give me the wire cutters an’ I’ll get to work making’ the hole. You get the BARs out of the back.” Clyde handed her the clippers and eased himself out through the driver’s side door, while Bonnie slipped out of the passenger door and immediately went to work. Although she and Clyde carried pistols as a matter of course, the Browning automatic was their preferred weapon. A man-portable, fully automatic machinegun firing five rounds per second of the devastating 30-06 ammunition. Not only could it pierce through multiple human beings, it could shoot clean through a car’s engine block. The gun intimidated any opponent. To make the massive weapon easier to handle in close combat, Clyde had sawed off half the barrel on each.
By the time Clyde came up to her with the two Browning’s, she had already clipped a man-sized hole through the wire. He tossed one of the BARs to Bonnie, along with a spare magazine and then pushed his way through the hole. Bonnie grinned, hefted the heavy weapon in her arms, and followed her lover through the fence.
Picking their way through the rows of cotton by the light of a quarter moon, Clyde led them straight toward the brightly lit buildings that housed the prisoners. The guards, made careless by routine, focused their attention on the prisoner blocks and did not spare so much as a backward glance for the darkened fields.
“Which one?” whispered Bonnie.
Clyde pointed to the nearest building on their right. “There. Ray’s letter said they would be there.” Jogging as quietly as possible, he headed toward the entryway of the building. Under the illuminated doorway, a lone guard stood idly puffing on a cigarette. His night vision destroyed by the light, the guard noticed nothing until Bonnie and Clyde lunged out of the darkness, both pointing their weapons at his stomach. The cigarette fell instantly from his fingers at the sight of the BARs, and he made no motion toward his holstered revolver. Bonnie relieved him of the gun, while Clyde hissed, “Git that door open, or I’m going to blow your guts all over it!”
Fumbling nervously with the keys, the guard did as he was told. Prodding the guard through the opening, Clyde saw the two night guards for the block engrossed in playing cards at a folding table next to the wall-mounted telephone. They looked up when the guard walked in, hands up. One man froze; the other went for his revolver. Clyde fired a three-round burst, which sent the guard spinning across the hall, dead before he hit the ground. The other guard slowly raised his hands, while Clyde’s hostage flattened himself along the wall, wide-eyed with terror. The explosive burst of automatic fire woke all the prisoners in the block. Shouting, cursing, even crying, echoed through the hallways.
“Bonnie, git that bull’s gun,” said Clyde nodding toward the still-sitting guard. Once she snatched the gun, Clyde prodded his hostage toward the surviving guard with the still-smoking barrel of his BAR.
“Now, you two, you’ve got ten seconds to take me to the cell where Hank Methvin and Ray Hamilton are—if you want to live.” The guards exchanged a single glance, then scurried up to the second story block of cells, Bonnie and Clyde close on their heels. They stopped in front of a cell near the stairwell, and looked apprehensively at the two gangsters.
“Hank, Ray, you in there?” shouted Clyde.
“Hell, that you Clyde?” both prisoners shouted, almost in unison.
“Yep, me an’ Bonnie. We’re takin’ you for a change of scenery.” Clyde then nodded at the one guard with the keys. “Open that door, pronto.”
The guard did as he was told. With a metallic screech the door swung open, and out staggered short, bald Hank Methvin and lanky Ray Hamilton.
Hank said, “Goddamn you Barrow, if this don’t beat all. Bustin’ us out of the state pen.”
As Ray came out of the cell, he eyed Bonnie and said, “Miss Parker, aren’t you easy on the eyes. Thought I’d never see you agin.”
“We’ll catch up later,” said Clyde, his voice gruff. “Right now, we need to move.” With the barrel of his BAR, Clyde motioned for the two guards to enter the cell. They obeyed meekly. Bonnie then locked the door and threw the keychain down the hall.
Ignoring the cries of other prisoners begging to be let out of their cells, Clyde said, “Let’s go before the cavalry arrives.”
The three men and one woman scurried down the stairs and sprinted past the body of the murdered guard toward the outside door. Before they reached it, the door was jerked open and a guard dashed in, revolver in hand. “What the hell—”
Before the man could finish, Clyde fired a two-round burst. One of the bullets missed. The other struck the officer in his lower right stomach, spinning him clean around. With a piercing scream, the man dropped his gun and crumpled to the floor. Clyde walked up to the inert form, peered at the victim, and smiled.
“Well, well, well. Major Crowson. Bet ya didn’t expect to see Clyde Barrow again.” He kicked the man in the head, then shouted, “Come on!”
They were almost to the hole in the fence when the wail of a loud siren filled the night. One minute later, the car was out of sight of the prison.
Captain Hamer of the Texas Rangers took his time walking down the corridor of the Eastman Prison’s infirmary. Normally, the middle-aged, somewhat o
verweight Hamer would have strode along purposively, well aware that he had killed forty-nine criminals and survived seventeen bullet wounds inflicted by said criminals and that he need fear no man. But buried deep within the heart of the efficient killing machine that was Frank Hamer lay a sentimental core of love and respect for his fellow lawmen and the people they had sworn to protect.
Two hours earlier, he’d learned that Joe Crowson had been shot and was likely to die. In those two hours, he had covered sixty-seven miles in his rattletrap Chevy, determined to see his old friend one last time. Yet as he approached the hospital room where Crowson’s body was losing its fight against Clyde Barrow’s bullet, he felt an odd reluctance to enter. He paused for a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and strode into the room.
A still form lay on the room’s single bed. Over the form stood a doctor and a male nurse. They both straightened up and looked at Hamer, recognizing him from the many times his face had appeared in Texas newspapers. The doctor walked over to Hamer, quickly shook his hand and said, “Captain Hamer, under other circumstances it would be a pleasure to meet you. I understand that Major Crowson is a good friend of yours. I am so sorry.”
“Thanks, Doc. Be straight with me. What are Joe’s chances?”
The doctor found it hard to look Hamer in the eye. “Captain, they simply don’t exist. I’m surprised he’s held on this long. It’s horrifying what a 30-06 does to a man’s guts. We’re doing what we can for him, doping him with morphine to keep him comfortable … but he can go any time now.”
The hard-eyed lawman choked back a sob, but then took his emotions in hand. “Is he conscious?”
“In and out. I know it isn’t a consolation, but that’s probably merciful.”
“I’d like to be with him a few minutes. Alone.”
The doctor considered for a moment, then nodded his head. Gesturing to the nurse to follow him, he departed and pulled the door shut with a soft click. Hamer took a chair from the corner of the room and placed it so he could sit down and look directly into Crowson’s face. Hamer would have sworn the man on the bed was dead. His breathing was so shallow as to be hardly visible; his skin the color of a three-day corpse. Hamer could take it no longer, he buried his face in his hands and silently began to weep.
With great effort, the figure on the bed groaned, and half opened its eyes. Crowson slowly focused his eyes on the crying Hamer. The faintest ghost of a smile crossed his face, and in a barely audible rasp said, “Well, Goddamnit Frank, what’s with this blubbering like a little girl?”
Hamer’s head jerked up. He swiped his eyes on the arm of his suit jacket and sniffed, a smile erupting over his reddened features. “Hell, Joe, you know how my hay fever acts up this time of year.”
“Hay fever, my ass,” Crowson said. “Inside, you’re soft as my pocket. I remember how you cried for an hour over that little Mex kid that those two white trash bastards had raped.”
“Don’t remember that. But I do remember that I blew those two bastards’ brains all over the wall. By the way, thanks for not telling anyone they had dropped their guns and were trying to give up.”
“Hell, Frank, if you hadn’t done it, I would have. Besides, I owe you for saving my ass during that riot in Amarillo.”
“You don’t owe me nothin’, not after you saved my sorry ass when I turned my back to that Klan bastard and he tried to drill me that time near Austin.” At once, the smile was gone from Hamer’s face. “Goddamnit Joe, why did you have to go and leave the Rangers to work for the goddamn Prison Bureau?”
Crowson chuckled. “You remember the reason, my friend. My wife thought it would be safer than being in the Rangers. She kept after me, saying that I owed it to the kids to stay alive.” The smile faded. “Frank, I want you to promise me something. When I’m gone, make sure she knows this wasn’t her fault. I know her; she’ll beat herself up over this, unless someone like you pounds some sense into her.”
“Hey, you tell her yourself, when you get out of here.”
Crowson, still smiling, said. “Frank, you never were good at bullshitting. You know I’m on my way out, and that’s all right with me. Both of us know the risks that go with the badge. I just want you to let her know I love her and that I don’t blame her.”
Hamer hated himself for the small sob that escaped his lips. “Sure, Joe.”
“Two other things, Frank.”
“Anything, Joe.”
“One, make sure Austin doesn’t try to cheat my family on the pension.”
“I’ll kill any paper-pushing bastard who tries. What’s the other?”
The smile was now gone from the dying man’s lips. “I want you to kill Barrow and Parker for me. I want you to do it yourself—no one else.”
“Joe, I promise you that—” Hamer paused, noting that Crowson’s eyes were locked, staring, and his jaw had fallen open. Slowly, Hamer rose from his chair, and without a backward glance, walked out of the infirmary room. The doctor had been waiting, smoking a cigarette. He started to ask the lawman a question, but stopped, the stunned expression on Hamer’s face revealing all the doctor needed to know. Throwing the cigarette to the floor and crushing it underfoot, he hurried into the room, while Hamer, walked woodenly down the corridor to the door leading outside.
Once the door closed behind him, Hamer stopped and stared for nearly a minute at the volcanic red sunset. Then, in a quiet, clipped tone, he said, “Barrow and Parker, I’m coming for you.” He paused again, then bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the prison yard, “BARROW AND PARKER, I’M COMING FOR YOU!”
Harry Bierce sat in an easy chair in the living room of the late Mr. Rocha’s French Quarter apartment, calmly reading a leather-bound notebook. Around him was a wild clutter—contents of drawers scattered about, the stuffing of furniture ripped out and tossed onto the floor, and the pages of books, their bindings slit, lay in heaps. The flash of his badge to the doorman of the building had been enough to gain Bierce access. Fortunately, the squat, surly man did not ask him if he had a warrant. Finally, after hours of methodical searching, Bierce had struck gold.
The notebook in his hands contained surprisingly explicit records of Rocha’s transactions—exact amounts received from criminals and lowlifes, and exact amounts paid to certain corrupt government officials in New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Apparently, Rocha had kept such records as insurance, should his protectors in the Louisiana government ever decide he had outlived his usefulness. It would appear that Rocha’s insurance was not nearly as comprehensive as he had supposed. Although no Federal crimes were indicated in the records, in most states the notebook would have resulted in various state charges and scores of prosecutions.
Bierce was well aware, however, that Louisiana was not most states. Former Governor, and now United States Senator Huey Long, ran the state from top to bottom with an iron fist. Even the current governor was well known to be a slavish puppet to Long, a current joke holding that he didn’t dare sneeze unless Long said so. The state judiciary was equally indebted to Long.
When one judge had dared to defy his wishes, Long ordered the state legislature to eliminate the judge’s position. It was not merely corruption that gave Long an iron hold on the state, Louisiana’s black population also adored him because he had built hospitals and schools that admitted blacks. The rural poor of both races worshiped him because of the roads, schools, and free textbooks he provided for them. They did not care that Long’s construction companies provided most of the concrete for the schools and roads, or that he got a cut on every textbook the state bought. His control of the state was cemented by the fact that there was no civil service in state government, and that literally every state employee was appointed by the Long organization, and each served at his pleasure. With unemployment over twenty percent, this guaranteed the loyalty and support of every state employee, despite the fact that Long demanded each donate ten percent of their salary to his organization, “voluntarily,”
of course.
A sigh escaped Bierce as he tucked the slim notebook into his inner coat pocket. The book was proof of the massive corruption of the Long machine, but he was well aware that there seemed to be no federal charge on which Long and his cronies could be prosecuted, and that no Louisiana court would dare convict them. He also knew that information uncovered in the future might, in combination with Rocha’s records, lead to Federal charges. A long shot to be sure, but Bierce had seen long shots come in before. In fact, he had often helped those long shots come in. So, he was determined to keep the book.
There was a brisk knock at the door to the apartment. In a loud, Southern drawl, the intruder called, “Agent Bierce, please open the door.” In one fluid motion, Bierce came to his feet while drawing and cocking his Colt .45. He gained the door in three long steps, threw it open, and stuck his gun into the face of one very surprised young man.
“How do you know my name?” Bierce commanded softly.
To his credit, the stranger did not seem unduly panicked or afraid. “Why, the doorman told me your name, Mr. Bierce.”
Bierce’s gun was rock steady as he continued to point the .45 at the man. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The young, dark-haired man smiled, a smile Bierce did not like. There was something abnormal, something demented behind it.
“Why, I’m Earl Long, sir. My big brother is Senator Long.” Unperturbed by the gun in his face, Earl brushed by Bierce and continued, “You are a hard man to track down, Mr. Bierce. Very hard indeed. But what Big Brother Huey wants, I do my damnedest to do.” Earl turned around to face Bierce. “Huey likes having me do this and that for him. And just now, Huey wanted me to track you down and invite you for a little meeting. Nothing formal, mind you, Mr. Bierce. Just a little talk, private-like, between two gentlemen having mutual interests.”
