Hunter, Stephen by Dirty White Boys.1994

Author:Dirty White Boys.1994 [Boys.1994, Dirty White]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-10-06T23:37:46.322000+00:00

"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, no Charlie Floyd, no Bonnie Parker, no goddamned Johnny Dillinger could have pulled off what we pulled off.

We don't get no credit. They're saying we were just goddamned lucky.

Well sir, lot more to it than luck, by goddamn God. Yes sir. Yes sir."

He sat there, seething.

"You should write that boy a letter, Lamar," said Ruta Beth.

"No ma'am. Another way of how come our type is better than them old-timey ones. The cops been using that trick for years. Go on the radio or the TV and disrespect an honest job of thieving, so that the thief goes and gits himself all smoked up, and pulls a rash job or sends a letter or something. No sir, what we have is self-control.

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