Dirty White Boys (1994) by Hunter Stephen

Author:Hunter, Stephen [Stephen, Hunter,]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-01-13T03:03:16.093000+00:00

Chapter 19.

Lamar would never admit defeat or even disappointment.

Still, $4,567.87 wasn't exactly a huge sum, given what they'd had to go through to get it.

"Now, maybe it ain't a lot," he said, "but it ain't a little either.

Not by a damn sight. Why, there's lots of places to go, lots of places to see, on almost five thousand dollars."

But the truth was, Ruta Beth had over nine thousand dollars inherited from her beloved late mother and daddy already in a bank account, which she was willing to just fork over to Lamar.

"Ruta Beth, that wouldn't be right. You just don't give money to a person, even though you love him."

"It would be right if I said so," she said.

"Well, maybe come a rainy day, that money'll help out.

In fact, maybe we'll borrow against it, though I can't but guess they'd have the serial numbers recorded."

"That would make Mother and Daddy happy," Ruta Beth said.

Lamar smiled. Still, he was secretly upset. A night or two after the robbery, when the little family was gathered around the TV at the news hour, watching for the latest on their own celebrity, a flashy black man came on and said, "Some are calling the Pyes the boldest gang to come out of Oklahoma since the thirties, when Pretty Boy Floyd roared out of the Cookson hills and lit up America with his desperado ways.

But what Pretty Boy had in style and substance, this gang makes up for in sheer firepower. And dumb luck.

They are the gang that could shoot straight but couldn't think straight--the horrifying face of modern crime."

Lamar brooded silently on this for a bit, until his anger at last came welling out during the weather. He suddenly started bellowing like an enraged father.

"All this goddamn shit about Pretty Boy Floyd and Bonnie and Clyde and Johnny Dillinger and how great they were! It's shit, I tell you. What we done, we done better'n them old boys, by a goddamn cocksucking mile."

His outburst quieted them all, even O'Dell, who was working on a big bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats. Lamar seemed to have it back under control, but a vein on his head suddenly began to throb. And then Lamar got tooting again.

"In them days," he said earnestly, looking at Richard, "in them days, the police didn't have nothing. The radios had a range of about ten feet, when they worked, fingerprints was brand spanking new and had to be hand-catalogued by clerks, there weren't no computers, the cars was slow, they didn't have no Magnum pistols, your biggest gun was your .44

Special, they didn't have no helicopters, no infrared, no fax, no nothing. Hell, the FBI in them days was nothing but another gang, with machine guns and BARs.

Nobody did hard time in a joint where all the niggers was uppity. Why hell, any goddamned body could have been a desperado. Now look what we got to contend with. Look what we went through to get a lousy five grand. I'm telling you,

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