Infinity + One
Page 54
Chapter Fifteen
OUR HOTLINE HAS received multiple sightings of Bonnie Rae Shelby in the company of ex-convict, Infinity James Clyde, ranging as far north as Buffalo and as far south as Louisiana. We even have what appears to be an armed robbery of a liquor store outside of Chicago carried out by none other than the wanted felon, Infinity Clyde, with Bonnie Rae Shelby herself behind the wheel of a dark colored Bronco, waiting at the curb. Other witnesses claim there was no woman in the driver’s seat, but that there was a woman in the backseat, who appeared to be restrained in some way. Witnesses say she even called out to pedestrians. So far these sightings are unconfirmed and police aren’t commenting on leads. Raena Shelby, Bonnie Rae Shelby’s grandmother and longtime manager, gave a brief interview to Buzz TV about her granddaughter last evening. She claims Bonnie Rae was taken against her will and openly pled with Mr. Clyde at one point, to release the superstar.
THE CONVENIENCE STORE in Joplin, Missouri where we dropped William was kitschy and fun, a little of this and a little of that, and I found myself lingering over a display of books, wondering what Finn liked to read when his head wasn’t filled with numbers. I’d never been much of a reader. The words in my head always came with a tune, and I wondered if books would hold my interest longer if they were written in rhyme, so I could sing them.
My hands ran over the titles of the books, cookbooks that boasted “a taste of Missouri,” romance novels from “local authors,” and even a copy of Huckleberry Finn, the cover a picture of a boy and a black man who looked a little like William without all the hair, gliding down the Mississippi. I had to have it and snickered at the thought of Finn’s face when I asked him to sign it. I started to turn away in anticipation of that face, when something caught my eye.
On the top shelf of the display, propped so the cover could be seen, was a flimsy, dusty book that looked like someone had produced it on a home printer. It was the title that caught my eye, and I pulled the booklet from the shelf, my eyes on the picture of a couple dressed in 1930s clothing, smiling at the camera, the girl perched on the left arm of the guy, clutching him as he clutched her, his left arm holding her aloft, almost in a childlike pose, which showed his strength and her affection.
He held a white hat in his right hand, which partially obscured the license plate of the car behind them. Above the picture were the words Bonnie & Clyde. Below the picture, the words Their Story. It was simple and unsophisticated. It wouldn’t take me more than an hour to read it from cover to cover, twice. But I was spellbound by that picture, by the couple that shared our names. I snatched up all the copies on the shelf, a thin stack of them, as if it were our story and the pages held our secrets.
The cashier seemed surprised that I needed six copies of the glorified pamphlet, but was “glad to see them go,” as they’d been sitting on that same shelf for as long as she’d worked there, which would be ten years in May.
“It’s supposed to be pretty accurate, though. The gal that put that book together was a relation or distant cousin of Clyde Barrow’s, I guess. She was real protective of those two—kind of obsessed with them, actually. She said theirs was a love story first and foremost, and people got distracted by the violence. She’s gone now, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them away.”
The friendly cashier bagged my purchases, which included some lunch to replace the sandwiches William had eaten, as well as a couple of homemade suckers and a stack of pralines because I had a sweet tooth and wasn’t in the mood to deny it any longer. Gran had made me ultra-self-conscious about everything I ate because “being thin was part of the job description.”
“You know, you should drive by Bonnie and Clyde’s hideout while you’re here, since you’re buyin’ the book and all. It’s on your way outta town. It’s just off Highway 43.” She indicated the street we were on. “Head south and take a right on 34th street. There’s a big liquor store on the corner, you can’t miss it. The house is between Joplin and Oakridge Drive, on your right.” She took one of the books out of my bag and turned a few pages, finding what she was looking for. She tapped a picture and showed it to me.
“Here it is. It looks just the same. They stayed here in Joplin back in 1933, according to this here,” she quoted. “You can’t go inside anymore, but you can see it from the road.” I thanked her again and strolled out to the car with my finds and climbed in beside Finn. His eyes were focused on a police car parked at another pump, his brow furrowed.
“Finn?” I asked, not liking the look on his face.
“That cop has just been sitting in his car since he pulled up. No big deal, but he keeps looking over here, and a second ago he picked up his radio and started talking into it, still looking at me the whole time.”
I shrugged. Finn was nervous around the police, understandably. But we hadn’t done anything and I was eager to see Bonnie and Clyde’s hidey hole.
“Let’s go. Maybe he just thinks you’re hot.”
“Most likely he thinks this car’s hot—as in stolen.”
“But it isn’t . . . so we don’t have anything to worry about.” But I thought about the scene at the bank and didn’t argue with him.
Finn pulled away from the pump and eased out into the intersection, heading south down Main Street. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, as if expecting to be followed by the police car still parked at the pump. I was too busy looking around me, making sure we didn’t miss 34th street. I’d been part of a group of country singers that had raised money to help rebuild Joplin after the tornado hit in 2011. Sections of Joplin had been completely leveled by the twister. In fact, it had headed straight down 32nd street, but the town was already thriving again, building going on in every direction. The old gas station hadn’t been new, however, and I marveled at the sheer randomness of a storm that would take out one business and leave another, take one life and spare another. It was the randomness that made it fair, I supposed.
OUR HOTLINE HAS received multiple sightings of Bonnie Rae Shelby in the company of ex-convict, Infinity James Clyde, ranging as far north as Buffalo and as far south as Louisiana. We even have what appears to be an armed robbery of a liquor store outside of Chicago carried out by none other than the wanted felon, Infinity Clyde, with Bonnie Rae Shelby herself behind the wheel of a dark colored Bronco, waiting at the curb. Other witnesses claim there was no woman in the driver’s seat, but that there was a woman in the backseat, who appeared to be restrained in some way. Witnesses say she even called out to pedestrians. So far these sightings are unconfirmed and police aren’t commenting on leads. Raena Shelby, Bonnie Rae Shelby’s grandmother and longtime manager, gave a brief interview to Buzz TV about her granddaughter last evening. She claims Bonnie Rae was taken against her will and openly pled with Mr. Clyde at one point, to release the superstar.
THE CONVENIENCE STORE in Joplin, Missouri where we dropped William was kitschy and fun, a little of this and a little of that, and I found myself lingering over a display of books, wondering what Finn liked to read when his head wasn’t filled with numbers. I’d never been much of a reader. The words in my head always came with a tune, and I wondered if books would hold my interest longer if they were written in rhyme, so I could sing them.
My hands ran over the titles of the books, cookbooks that boasted “a taste of Missouri,” romance novels from “local authors,” and even a copy of Huckleberry Finn, the cover a picture of a boy and a black man who looked a little like William without all the hair, gliding down the Mississippi. I had to have it and snickered at the thought of Finn’s face when I asked him to sign it. I started to turn away in anticipation of that face, when something caught my eye.
On the top shelf of the display, propped so the cover could be seen, was a flimsy, dusty book that looked like someone had produced it on a home printer. It was the title that caught my eye, and I pulled the booklet from the shelf, my eyes on the picture of a couple dressed in 1930s clothing, smiling at the camera, the girl perched on the left arm of the guy, clutching him as he clutched her, his left arm holding her aloft, almost in a childlike pose, which showed his strength and her affection.
He held a white hat in his right hand, which partially obscured the license plate of the car behind them. Above the picture were the words Bonnie & Clyde. Below the picture, the words Their Story. It was simple and unsophisticated. It wouldn’t take me more than an hour to read it from cover to cover, twice. But I was spellbound by that picture, by the couple that shared our names. I snatched up all the copies on the shelf, a thin stack of them, as if it were our story and the pages held our secrets.
The cashier seemed surprised that I needed six copies of the glorified pamphlet, but was “glad to see them go,” as they’d been sitting on that same shelf for as long as she’d worked there, which would be ten years in May.
“It’s supposed to be pretty accurate, though. The gal that put that book together was a relation or distant cousin of Clyde Barrow’s, I guess. She was real protective of those two—kind of obsessed with them, actually. She said theirs was a love story first and foremost, and people got distracted by the violence. She’s gone now, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them away.”
The friendly cashier bagged my purchases, which included some lunch to replace the sandwiches William had eaten, as well as a couple of homemade suckers and a stack of pralines because I had a sweet tooth and wasn’t in the mood to deny it any longer. Gran had made me ultra-self-conscious about everything I ate because “being thin was part of the job description.”
“You know, you should drive by Bonnie and Clyde’s hideout while you’re here, since you’re buyin’ the book and all. It’s on your way outta town. It’s just off Highway 43.” She indicated the street we were on. “Head south and take a right on 34th street. There’s a big liquor store on the corner, you can’t miss it. The house is between Joplin and Oakridge Drive, on your right.” She took one of the books out of my bag and turned a few pages, finding what she was looking for. She tapped a picture and showed it to me.
“Here it is. It looks just the same. They stayed here in Joplin back in 1933, according to this here,” she quoted. “You can’t go inside anymore, but you can see it from the road.” I thanked her again and strolled out to the car with my finds and climbed in beside Finn. His eyes were focused on a police car parked at another pump, his brow furrowed.
“Finn?” I asked, not liking the look on his face.
“That cop has just been sitting in his car since he pulled up. No big deal, but he keeps looking over here, and a second ago he picked up his radio and started talking into it, still looking at me the whole time.”
I shrugged. Finn was nervous around the police, understandably. But we hadn’t done anything and I was eager to see Bonnie and Clyde’s hidey hole.
“Let’s go. Maybe he just thinks you’re hot.”
“Most likely he thinks this car’s hot—as in stolen.”
“But it isn’t . . . so we don’t have anything to worry about.” But I thought about the scene at the bank and didn’t argue with him.
Finn pulled away from the pump and eased out into the intersection, heading south down Main Street. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, as if expecting to be followed by the police car still parked at the pump. I was too busy looking around me, making sure we didn’t miss 34th street. I’d been part of a group of country singers that had raised money to help rebuild Joplin after the tornado hit in 2011. Sections of Joplin had been completely leveled by the twister. In fact, it had headed straight down 32nd street, but the town was already thriving again, building going on in every direction. The old gas station hadn’t been new, however, and I marveled at the sheer randomness of a storm that would take out one business and leave another, take one life and spare another. It was the randomness that made it fair, I supposed.
