“Go back to Oklahoma and rob ever’ bank in sight,” Lulu said. “Spook ’em. Convince ’em bullets can’t kill you.”
“Yeah, but bullets can kill me,” Charley said. “What if one does?”
“You’ll have been a bandit to the end, at least,” Lulu said. “You’ll have a big funeral.”
“Lulu, I ain’t ready for no funeral,” Charley said. “I ain’t old enough.”
“But you ain’t green no more, are you, baby?” Lulu said, touching his face. Despite herself, something in her softened whenever Charley looked at her with those lost-looking brown eyes. It was her old problem with men, picking the wrong ones every time—men that were taken; men that wouldn’t stay put. Every year, as she got older, she told herself she’d learn, do a better job of picking who she softened for. Better to take up with an older fellow, someone she wasn’t likely to be in love with, or even to be so dog-in-heat about, than to keep letting young swaggerers like Charley Floyd grab her heart and leave it bruised. Why don’t you learn, Lulu? she asked herself, even as she rubbed the stubble on Charley’s cheek.
“That’s four killings they’ve put on you,” she said.
“I never done but two of them, and it was kill or be killed both times,” Charley said. “I don’t believe I killed that agent here. I did wing him, but I think Luther Ott was the one that plugged him solid.”
“Don’t matter, they’ve scored it to you,” Lulu said. “You oughtn’t to even be in this town.”
“Maybe not, but Oklahoma’s boiling,” Charley said. “If you don’t advise Canada, where can I go?”
“Try Chi,” Lulu said. “Chi’s a big town.”
“Oh, Chicago, you mean,” Charley said. “I’ve heard it’s windy in Chicago. I get them bad earaches if too much cold wind blows on me.”
“I hear you’ve got a runt driving for you,” Lulu said. “Where’d you pick him up?”
“Oklahoma,” Charley said. “That’s Turnip Breath. He was working for Kelley. When I plugged his boss, he was out of a job. Now he’s working for me.”
That night, an old beau named Ernie Branch showed up at the boarding house, drunk, and tried to paw her. Lulu slapped him hard, and locked him out. Then she went up to her bedroom, and broke down crying. She didn’t want to accept Ernie Branch any longer. Charley Floyd was in town, but he wasn’t here with her. He had been so blue about the killings that she made him three ham sandwiches to try and cheer him up. But Charley had a wife, and a girlfriend, too—how was she going to cheer herself up? She was forty-eight. Pretty boys would be coming around less and less in the years ahead. If they caught Charley, he’d swing. She wouldn’t even have him to visit in jail, not for very long. One minute she’d be wishing she had never met him; the next minute she’d be missing him so bad she’d have to hug the pillow to keep from shaking. Foolish, foolish, she thought. Old women should leave handsome young men alone—that was the wise way. But when had she ever cared to be wise?
Charley came to see her seven more times. The day he left for the last time, he had a desperate look. He had decided to go back to Oklahoma.
“Why, if it’s boiling?” Lulu asked.
“It’s home,” Charley said. “If I went to Chicago, I’d just get them earaches.”
“That’s better than gettin’ a necktie with a fatal fit,” Lulu said; then she wished she hadn’t. She had no place safe to send him—why mention hanging?
“I’ll see you in the funny papers,” Charley said, trying to grin as he was leaving. He was misty in the eyes, though.
“Keep hightailin’ it, baby,” Lulu said. “Keep leadin’ the chase.”
Charley tried again to grin, but the grin came out crooked.
15
Bob Birdwell and Beulah Baird hit it off immediately. Beulah hadn’t been in the Birdwell house two minutes before they started drinking gin, and dancing to the radio. Bob danced in her big shoes with the laces flapping. George Birdwell was nowhere to be seen, and the kids seemed to scream from morning till night.
“The only thing to do is scream louder,” Bob said, so she and Beulah screamed louder. Rose was mopey; she had been, ever since leaving Bradley.
“How long do you think Bird will be gone?” Charley asked. “Staying around here with you screeching hens will soon drive me daft.”
“You was born daft, honey,” Beulah informed him. “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”
“Don’t be calling me cute—that’s a girl’s word,” Charley said, annoyed. Beulah had recovered a little too much of her spirit, in his view. He couldn’t give an opinion on the weather, or even the time of day, without her contradicting him, or sassing him in some way.
“He’s cranky ’cause he’s broke,” Beulah informed Bob. “Soon as him and George rob a few banks, he’ll be his old jolly self.”
“I don’t know when that’ll be,” Bob said. “George run off with a whore.”
Charley decided this was a good conversation to keep his two cents out of. Rose was in the kitchen, sipping coffee. As Charley walked in, he saw her pour some whiskey in the coffee. A little of the coffee sloshed out on the oilcloth tabletop.
“I hope you ain’t turnin’ into a drunk like your sister,” Charley said lightly.
“I been drinking ever since we left Brad’s,” Rose admitted. “It don’t help much, but it helps some.”
“I guess you and Brad were pretty thick,” Charley said cautiously.
“How’d you know?” Rose asked.
Before Charley could answer, Turnip came in. Charley had shortened his nickname, for convenience. Now everybody called him Turnip. He had been under the car for some reason, and oil had dripped on his hair.
“Hey, girls, we’re rich, Turnip struck oil,” Charley said, trying to inject a little humor into the situation.
“It’s just a dribble,” Turnip said, embarrassed by his own clumsiness—nobody else had oil dripping into their ears.
“Go dribble it outside, I won’t have oil on my floor,” Bob said.
“I’ll go live in a tree, if I can find one,” Turnip said. He considered Bob Birdwell to be overly fastidious, but he went back outside and scrubbed the oil off his head with an old sack he picked up near the windmill.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Charley found himself under attack by both Beulah and Bob, who had become surprisingly drunk in a very short space of time.
“All men are jerks, particularly you,” Beulah said. “Every single man in the world is a jerk, but you’re King Jerk.”
“Hold on, now,” Charley said. “Why would I be the King Jerk?”
“Because you screwed that old whore in Kansas City, I know you did!” Beulah shrieked. “I hate you!”
She screamed the last comment as loud as she could. The three little Birdwell children had been watching from a hallway, quiet as mice, but when Beulah screamed, they scampered off.
“So what, George’s probably screwing one right this minute,” Bob Birdwell said. “She’s a redhead. I seen her once at a rodeo. I’d like to wrap her in barbed wire and roll her off a cliff.”
At that point, Rose Baird burst into tears.
“Stop it, Brad’s no jerk!” she said. “Brad’s sweet!”
Charley began to wish he were home with Ruby and Dempsey. At home, he had only one woman’s temper to contend with. Here, he had three, two of them drunk and the third heading in that direction. Even if Ruby was out of sorts, he could go out in the yard and throw a football around with Dempsey.
Knowing that the Birdwells’ larder was apt to be either bare or else filled with eccentric foods he didn’t care for, like beets, Charley had brought spaghetti, which he could cook better than passably, he felt.
“If the river was whiskey, you gals’d have to learn to swim,” he said. “Get out of the way. Me and Turnip will do the cooking. Maybe you won’t hate me so much on a full stomach.”
“I’ll hate you, full or empty,” Beulah proclaimed, but in fact, her anger wore itself out a f
ew minutes after supper. She curled up with Charley on the couch, and slept like a baby. Neither of them stirred until midnight or so, when George Birdwell tromped in, his spurs jingling. He dumped a saddle on the kitchen floor.
“Where’s Bob, is she in a high fury?” he whispered to Charley.
“She’s your wife, go ask her yourself, you skunk,” Charley said, shaking Bird’s hand. There was something about George that made folks glad to see him—Charley, especially. Turnip was sleeping on a pallet in the corner, snoring like a buzz saw.
“Who’s that little feller with the snore?” Bird asked.
“We call him Turnip,” Charley said. “He does the driving, while me and Beulah fight.”
Bird stood on one leg and took one boot off; then he stood on the other leg and took his other boot off. There was a baseball bat leaning against the fireplace. Bird picked it up as he headed for the hall.
“What’s that for, it’s a little late for a ball game,” Charley said.
“That depends,” Bird said. “I’m so good-lookin’, I might have to beat Bob off.”
“I doubt it, bud,” Charley said.
“Yeah? You don’t know her like I do,” Birdwell informed him.
16
Beulah insisted on going with them to rob the Sallisaw bank. Rose stayed home with Bob Birdwell to help her clean out the chicken yard. Doing rural chores made Rose feel closer to Brad, whom she pined for desperately.
“Rose may end up married to a clodhopper yet,” Beulah said, putting on lipstick. “Rose is the slow one. She ain’t glamorous and witty, like me.”
“You can take your wit and shovel it down the coal chute,” Charley said. “If some deputy shoots you in the head again, maybe you won’t be so witty.”
“Aw, Charley, you know I make you laugh,” Beulah said. “If I wasn’t around, you wouldn’t crack a smile once a month.”
The idea of robbing the Sallisaw bank had been Birdwell’s. Charley half liked it and half didn’t. It seemed a little too much like showing off. But on the other hand, why not?
“It’s your hometown, Charley,” Birdwell insisted. “You’ve robbed five or six banks not thirty miles away. The homefolks are gonna get their feelings hurt if they’re left out.”
“I guess,” Charley said.
But he dressed to the nines—even wore spats—and shined up his Tommy gun anyway. He even made Willie “Turnip” Locust wash his hair under the pump, nearly freezing the young man to death in the process.
“Well, don’t be gettin’ dripped on when you’re crawlin’ under the car,” Charley warned. “We don’t want our driver lookin’ like he works in a garage.
“I want you to go in a store and buy yourself a nice cap,” he added. “Do it before we rob the bank. There’s no excuse for dressing like trash in this line of work.”
“What about me, I could use a new chapeau,” Beulah said. “I haven’t bought a stitch of clothes since we left K.C.”
“Beulah, you own enough duds to dress the Ziegfeld Follies,” Charley said.
Birdwell had been unusually silent on the way into town, thanks to a spat with Bob, during which he had gotten slapped twice. Now that it was too late, he was annoyed by his own restraint.
“I don’t know why I didn’t slap that gal back,” he said.
Charley had developed a healthy fear of Bob Birdwell—a woman of strong opinions, to say the least.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t go slappin’ her back,” Charley advised.
“Why not? Who’s the damn boss, her or me?” Birdwell asked.
“I don’t have an opinion, and I ain’t venturin’ no guess, either,” Charley replied.
The first person Charley spotted when they parked on the main street in Sallisaw was his grandpa Earl Floyd. He was sitting with two other toothless old-timers on the spit-and-whittle bench next to the drugstore.
Birdwell, too, was dressed to the nines, in a white suit, a 30X beaver Stetson, and a new belt buckle. Charley carried the Tommy gun, and Birdwell brandished a pearl-handled .45 that was supposed to have once been the property of Buffalo Bill.
“Grandpa, what are you doin’ here this early?” Charley asked.
“Come to see you rob ’er, Charley,” Earl Floyd said. “That bank’s been open ten minutes, you best get started.”
“Give ’em hell, Charley,” one of his companions said, gumming a plug of wet tobacco.
“Next time, let’s advertise,” Birdwell said, put out at the thought that the law might know their plans. “Place a notice in the paper, so the boys with the handcuffs won’t be late. How’d the news get out?”
“Somebody told somebody, I reckon,” Earl Floyd said. “I heard it at the hardware store, myself.”
“You and your big mouth,” Birdwell said, to Charley. “I’m surprised they didn’t scratch up a parade.”
“Bird, I never told a soul—why would I? Do I look dumb?” Charley asked.
“No comment, bud,” Bird said. “Let’s whip up, before the posse shows.”
“Honk if there’s trouble, Turnip,” Charley said, as they hurried into the bank.
“I’ll take a few hundred, if you got it to spare after the robbery, Charley,” Earl Floyd said.
“He’s a forward old bastard, ain’t he?” Birdwell observed.
Charlene Gordon was the only teller doing business when Charley and George strode in. Charley recognized her at once. He had taken her to a dance or two before he met Ruby. She had been a lively girl then, but now, she just looked sad.
“Morning, Charlene,” Charley said. “I’d be obliged if you’d hand over the money as quick as possible.”
“Aw, Charley, don’t rob us,” Charlene stalled. “We’re about to go under as it is.”
“Now, Charlene, just ’cause we kicked up our heels together once don’t mean you can play on my sympathies,” Charley said.
“That’s right, lady—we didn’t come here to engage in conversation,” Birdwell said. “Just give over the money.”
“You knew about the tractor flippin’ over and killin’ Bill—we was married eight years,” Charlene said.
“No, I didn’t, Charlene. Sorry to hear it,” Charley said.
Just then, a young couple who went to the same church as Brad and Bessie popped in the door. Charley knew their first names, but was at a loss for their last.
“Why, hello, J.W.,” he said, “Mornin’, Bea. I’d be much obliged if you’d step behind the window there with Charlene.”
“Is this a robbery, by any chance?” J.W. asked.
“Shut up, J.W., it ain’t none of our business,” Bea badgered. It was well known in the community that Bea treated her husband like a puppy.
“I just asked,” J.W. said, with a pained expression.
“If it is, we’ll read about it in the papers,” Bea said, as they quickly scooted behind the teller’s cage.
Birdwell, meanwhile, was raking bills into a sack as Charlene looked on, an unhappy expression on her face.
“This job’s the only way I got to feed my younguns,” she reminded Charley.
“We ain’t meanin’ to take every cent, Charlene,” Charley told her.
Then, two farmers and an old lady came through the door. Charley at once tipped his hat to the old lady.
“Howdy, Miz Waggoner,” he said. “How are you, Mr. Stevens … is that Mr. Prideaux there with you? How you all doin’?”
“Poorly, I got the rheumatism,” Mr. Stevens said. “What’ll you take for that Tommy gun? I could shoot me a pack of wolves if I had me a Tommy gun.”
“Can’t spare it, sir. Could you please stand over there?” Charley directed. Even as he said it, a short cowboy named Red stomped in.
“Hi, Red,” Charley said. “Would you mind just standing over there with the crowd? We won’t be but a minute more.”
“I got stock that needs tendin’ to, though, Charley,” Red replied.
“Won’t be but a minute,” Charley repeated.
Birdwell was filling his third sack; even though, the gathering crowd began to vex him.
“What is this—a robbery, or a town social?” Birdwell queried.
“Little of both,” Charley said, grinning. He was hoping Bird would get into the spirit of the thing.
“If this bank goes under and me and my younguns gotta live on the road, I’ll curse your name, Charley,” Charlene said, grim.
“Charlene, just get in touch with Brad if there’s trouble,” Charley told her. “I’ll see that your younguns don’t suffer.”
“Okay, Robin Hood, let’s get movin’,” Birdwell said. “This is hard work, I don’t do it for charity.”
Just as he said it, a man with a camera burst in. Birdwell leveled the pearl-handled .45 at him.
“Who’s this drummer?” he asked.
“Don’t shoot him, Bird, it’s John Elmer,” Charley said. “He runs the local paper.”
“Charley, could I get one shot?” John Elmer asked. “We ain’t got no fresh picture of you.”
“Okay, but just one,” Charley said. “I’ll stand here, in front of the folks.”
Birdwell, a little jealous that Charley was getting so much attention, glared at his partner.
“Come on, Bird—I want you in this,” Charley said, trying to appeal to Birdwell’s vanity. It worked; George stepped right into the picture. He adjusted the set of his Stetson and smiled, just as John Elmer popped the flash.
“Thanks, Charley,” John Elmer said.
Beulah was incensed when she discovered Charley and Birdwell had had their picture made without asking her to be in it.
“I didn’t even get to shop. The least you could’ve done was invite me to be in the picture,” Beulah said. “It’s gonna cost you, Charley. I don’t know what, but it’s gonna cost you.
“Bonnie Parker gets her picture in the paper all the time,” she added, fuming.
As they tooled on out of Sallisaw, Charley was trying to imagine how mad Ruby would be if he had his picture in the paper with Beulah on his elbow, let alone robbing a bank.
“These little banks don’t keep enough hundred-dollar bills,” Bird-well observed. He always counted the money as soon as he could. “We mostly got tens, and tens add up slow.”