The Road to Del Rio IX: Only One Thing to Do When the Media Keeps Getting It All Wrong

For about as long as anyone can remember, bandits and other roving outlaws maintained a symbiotic relationship with the media. The outlaws enjoyed the recognition and having their exploits celebrated in dime novels and popular ballads of the day, while the balladeers and publishers liked having content that the public was willing to fork over money for. Also, being held up and robbed by someone you've already heard about is a far headier experience than getting robbed by total unknowns. With the former, you're actually getting something for your money.

So it was with the Barrow Gang. Bonnie and Clyde loved being in the spotlight. They loved having the public look up in awe at them even as they were being robbed. It almost didn't matter knowing it would just be a matter of time before their fate would catch up with them and they would go down in a hail of lead. Being objects of public adoration seemed to make it all worthwhile.


The problem with the media is they aren't always easy to control, expecially when you're out on the road and without any means of controlling the spin. Before Herbert T. Barrow fell into their clutches, Bonnie and Clyde's fortunes were fast fading. Bonnie had been badly wounded in an earlier shootout and even though she'd been convalescing for several weeks, it was obvious she wasn't actually getting any better. The time they'd spent hiding out was time away from the public eye, which also meant the public was now on the verge of completely losing interest in them in favor of someone newer and fresher. But once they got back on the road, this time with Herbert, on a multi-state crime spree, all that changed. They were immediately catapulted right back to the top and that was something they liked very much.

But as their star continued its ascent, Clyde began finally understanding the price that it was coming at. Having Herbert suddenly being seen as the outfit's new mastermind definitely put Clyde's nose a bit out of whack, especially since, as far as Clyde was concerned, his elder cousin was just some damn goody-goody malingering pacifist, who kept acting like he was too good for them. Worst of all were his bullshit reasons for refusing to carry a piece when they were sticking up a grocery store. All he would consent to doing was carry the crippled Bonnie in and out of stores when they were holding them up.

For several weeks the trio drive all over Missouri, Arkansas and Oklahoma, knocking over gas stations and grocery markets. At first the take is pretty decent, but by the end it mostly dries up, most of the places they hit don't seem to have more than five or ten bucks in their cash drawers. That's digging into Clyde bad enough, but now there are all these reports on the radio of some bizarre incident in Arkansas a month earlier where Herbert spectacularly turned the table on Texas Ranger Captain Frank Hamer and his posse of G-Men. Clyde figures that as long as he's got Hamer's gun in his possession, there has to be some way he can get himself written into the story. He figures the most efficient way to do this is to kidnap a cop and tell him all about it himself.

Following is an excerpt from Friend of the Devil (available on Kindle here):


“Got something here I want to show you,” he says to the cop in a confidential voice. Taking out Hamer’s .45, he pops the magazine out of the butt and into his hand, and ceremoniously presents the pistol to the cop so he can examine it. "Now tell me if you recognize it.”

The cop examines the pistol for nearly a minute before exclaiming in surprise. “Why, this is Old Lucky! How did you get it?”

Clyde’s grin widens. “I, ah, shall we say, borrowed it from Mr. Hamer in that little deal last month in Arkansas. But did the papers even report it? No, sir, they did not. Now what I’d like you to do, my friend, is when you get back, let the world know everything you’ve seen here today. Tell them the truth. That’s all I ask.”

“Yessir, I’ll do that,” says the cop, relieved that he’s not going to be killed.

“Everything they’ve said about that incident is a complete lie,” continues Clyde.

“Yessir.”

“Good,” says Clyde. “Now, in a little while, we’ll be letting you go. Just remember what we agreed and your debt to us will be settled and everything will be jake.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that, sir.”

The cop pauses like he’s got something weighing heavily on him.

“Something on your mind, officer?”

“Well, yes, sir,” he says, “I don’t know if I should say this, but...”

“Come on! Out with it!” says Clyde. “I told you, you have nothing to fear from us.”

“Well, sir, it’s just that recently there’s been all kinds of talk within police circles about that whole Arkansas incident. They’re saying now all the initial reports that got into the papers were all hogwash.”

“Oh?”
“To begin with, they’re saying now they don’t think you and Miss Parker were there at all, that everything that happened there was all Mr. Herbert T. Barrow’s doing.”

Clyde looks dumbfounded. “They think Booger here did all that by himself? That’s nuts!”

“Yessir.”

“Dang it! Boy dudn’t even fucking know how to use a dang gun.”

“Yessir.”

“See,” says Clyde. “There’s your proof that Boog here didn’t do any of that stuff. I did. Tell him, Boog.”

I stare out the window at the empty countryside. Why is it that every time I leave Texas, I hope it’s going to be forever, but every time I come back I’m glad. How many days have we actually been gone? Then I see up ahead someone walking along the road, his back to the oncoming traffic, like he’s given up on hitchhiking and humanity in general. It’s that guy who ate my sandwiches. Once again he looks up at me as we pass him. “That’s right, officer,” I say gravely. “Everything Clyde says is exactly what happened.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear,” says Clyde, affably as a politician running for reelection.

I can tell the cop still has something important to unveil. He stares at me, his eyes bugging, like he’s more scared of me than of them.

“They’re saying something else about you, sir, to explain what happened there.”

“Yes?” I ask quietly.

The cop gulps nervously. “What they’re saying is,” he begins, “that you’re in league with...the devil.” Then he adds, “sir.”

“What?” asks Clyde.

“They’re saying that about us?” asks Bonnie, sounding horrified.

“No, ma’am, they’re only saying that about him,” he says, nodding in my direction.

The Road to Del Rio VIII: En Route to a Crime Spree with Bonnie and Clyde

Upon hearing the endless radio reports claiming that he is about to join up with Bonnie and Clyde as their criminal mastermind, Herbert does his best to flee Arkansas and then East Texas, but all he succeeds in doing, is running directly in their clutches. For several days he’s their prisoner/guest in a succession of remote abandoned farmhouses which they are using as hideouts. Though Clyde promises to let him go, that day never seems to come. They spend their days smoking marijuana and playing Clyde’s saxophone and talking about their home back in Eagle Ford. It’s not altogether unenjoyable for Herbert, who is at least grateful to not have Stevens or the Other Guy in his face.

Then one day, they pack up and drive off on one of their multi-state crime sprees. Clyde drops all pretense of ever letting Herbert go. He tries to impress on Herbert all the advantages of joining their outfit. Most of the reasons seem to involve fame and meeting girls. But Herbert refuses for a number of reasons, the first being that having already killed too many men in the war, he’s dead-set against ever picking up another weapon again.

But Clyde is adamant:

"Look at us! We’re just a couple of two-bit hoods on our last legs. With you on the team, we could rule the headlines again.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Now I told you I ain’t packing and that’s final!”

Clyde and I stare knives at each other. But Bonnie has an idea. “You know, we can always have him carry me in and out, like a porter.”

Driving through Texas, it all seems like a skylark with lots of high-spirited talk between Clyde and Bonnie with Bonnie endlessly sneaking playful but hungry looks over at Herbert. It isn't until nightfall when they reach the Oklahoma border, that things start feeling serious. They have an evening picnic in a city park just outside Elmer, Oklahoma. After eating, Clyde decides to have a nap on one of the picnic tables. Herbert half expects Bonnie is going to try for some alley-cat action while Clyde snoozes. But instead, she becomes very serious.

For once, Bonnie doesn’t start messing with me. She sits at the end of the bench meditating on her Chesterfield, and the town lights across the field. Does it occur to her that at this moment, once she walked across the field, she could probably disappear into the city of Elmer and go back to a normal life and never get caught? But she’d never do it. Without Clyde, she’d never get the levels of excitement and drama she requires. She has to be the kind of gal that they write romance stories about, not the kind who reads them.

Bonnie crushes out her cigarette. She turns around and says to me in a low voice: “Herbert, you’d better not fuck us up tomorrow. You understand?”

She glares at me, her head quavering, eyes tear-filled and blazing, like she’s half a moment from busting out into a massive crying jag. Then she pushes herself back to her feet and hobble steps over to the other side of the picnic table and crouches down onto the bench where she can caress Clyde’s sleeping head.

She brushes her fingers against the curl of his forelock. “Oh, Daddy,” she whispers, like she could be in church.

After that they drive almost non-stop for several days, sticking mainly to back roads. Finally they reach a prosperous little town in Missouri called Munson. Seeing a grocery store with lots of cars parked in front of it, they decide it's time to swing into action: Clyde goes in first, pistol in hand, followed by Herbert carrying in a shotgun-wielding Bonnie:


“All right, this is a stick-up!” he shouts out. “Nobody move!” He walks up past all the folks with their arms up and goes to the cash desk. He sticks his pistol in the lady’s face and says, give me all your money, now! And he puts a bag on the table and the lady empties out the whole cash drawer into his bag. Even where I am, I can see the fat wad of bills. Unless they’re all ones, we’re going to be pulling all right here.

Bonnie taps my arm. I let go of her and she hop-hobbles over to Clyde, who hands her the bag. Then she hobbles over to the clerk, points her pistol in his face and growls. “Cloverine Salve! All you got!”

Once Clyde has emptied the cash drawer and taken everybody's purses and billfolds, they start their exits.  Clyde heads out first, with Herbert and Bonnie taking up the rear. I lift her and carry her up toward the door. When we get there, she taps on me to turn. I carefully rotate ourselves clockwise so Bonnie can point her pistol back at everyone lying face-down on the floor. Down at the counter, Clyde is loading a last wallet in his bag. Then he gathers it together, holding it with the same hand as the sawn-off shotgun. He nods that he’s leaving, points his guns to the ceiling and starts moving up our way. I turn and push open the door and lift and carry Bonnie outside into the parking lot. Bonnie waves her pistol in every direction as we run over to the Ford and get in. Clyde lets off the brake, gives it some gas and we’re heading up that road.

An hour after that, we rob a filling station and then a little after that, another roadside grocery store and another filling station after that. Each is a piece of cake.

Hours later, they park in a secluded spot and divvy up the loot.  Assuming Herbert is every bit as charged from the robberies as he and Bonnie are, he renews his plea to Herbert to quit being odd man out and start carrying a gun. But Herbert won't budge:

He turns back to face me. “Booger, I ain’t talking anything permanent, just long enough to tide us over and till we can get another boy.”

I don’t like the sound of this, either. I fall back into my seat and start actively thinking about being riddled with machine gun bullets.

Bonnie turns and gleams sweetly at me like I’m just a boy and she’s someone’s older sister. “Come with us, Doc,” she purrs. “It’ll be fun! Wouldn’t you like to see Missouri?”

“I’ve seen it,” I say.

“Don’t be sore, Doc. Daddy’s just crazy about you.” She pouts. “You know, sometimes I think he likes you more than he likes me.” 

(Friend of the Devil, by Brendan McNally, available on Kindle)