I woke up that day knowing something would happen, knowing there would be a bad end to a bad beginning.

But it didn’t matter if I had a bad feeling about it, I spent all week getting ready to pull a job, and I’d made up my mind the minute my feet hit the floor that morning; I was going to do it today. I’d put it off too long. So, I was mostly dressed when I heard the late morning knock on the door.  

Before I opened the door, I tucked in my shirt, tightened my belt, slid my feet into Daddy’s old crocodile oxfords, and shoved a felt hat on my head.

“He can’t talk right now,” I told the kid on the porch even though I knew he wouldn’t go away.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You knock on a door; you should know whose door it is,” I said.

 “I thought I did,” he said.

“So whose door did you knock on?” I asked.

“Buster Weaver’s?”

When I nodded, he said, “When can I talk to him? I’d like to talk with him, get his story.”

“He’s not well. I take care of him.” It’s the truth but not the whole truth. I never speak the whole truth.

“Can we talk about him?” he asked, as I knew he would.

“Depends on what’s in it for me,” I said.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve chased off a dozen of these punks, but this one flashed money just when I needed it. Since, everyone’s hungry ‘round here and so far, FDR ain’t come up with a plan of work for my kind of people, taking this kid’s money seemed better than going out on my own and pulling a job.

 “You’re going to get the story, but instead of the front-page bullshit, you’re getting the real thing. I don’t care if it bores you either,” I told him. He, like others before him, wants me to talk about my father. He wants me to tell things no one alive knows, things no one should.

“I won’t be bored,” he said.

I looked at his smooth shaven cheeks and his little boy spikes of hair at the back of his head and believed him. I showed him into the parlor and told him to sit.

“We’ve done our best to lay low. It’s been hard. Always had some punk kid reporter like you sniffing after my father,” I began.

“He’s your father? You didn’t say that,” he said, excitement showing on his face, hands shaking as he pulled out a note pad from the black leather bag he’d set next to his feet.

I forced a smile, already regretting accepting the deal. I patted the money folded in my shirt pocket and thought back a few years when I could flash the green at these kids. Make them go away smiling--with a small bit of regret showing in the corners of their eyes. Yeah, they were always regretful.

It’s obvious those days are over.

I watched him as he looked around, and I saw what he saw. Ratty velvet drapes over dusty yellowed sheer curtains. Scarred, dark wood furniture and musty wool carpeting.

“Look at the chair you’re sitting in. Cost three hundred bucks,” I said with some pride.

He nodded without looking at the cracked leather and worn wood.

“It’s his,” I told him.

He looked then.

“You’re young, but you don’t look stupid. Maybe you’ll understand how things played into what he became. My demanding mother. His attempts to make her happy. They both played a part. No excuses, just the reasons.”

“Where did it start? When did he begin his, er, uhm, downfall?” The Kid Reporter asked.

“Oh, you’re going to ask questions and I’m going to answer? Is that how this works? ‘Cause I thought I could just tell you the story. Isn’t that what we agreed on?” In a show of indignation, I took the money out of my pocket and acted as if I would rip the pile of bills in two.

He held up his hand, indicating I should stop. “Sure, sure. Just tell the story, Sir.”

“Call me Matt,” I said.

“Yes. Sir. Matt. Tell the story.”

“It began when he realized how women deviled him. Those are his words. You can go ahead and write that down. Women deviled him. Mostly Momma. She had a need for things. She needed her drink. She needed new shoes, a new dress. He needed to get them for her. And always they fought. You get the idea, don’t you?” I sat back on the sofa and thought about momma.

“I only had her for twelve years,” I told the reporter after a minute or two of silence, and then when he arranged his face into the socially required face of sorrow, I said, “Don’t bother getting all sappy and weepy eyed; the memories aren’t all that sweet for me. You can, however, feel bad for my father. He had her for four before my twelve, which means he tried to meet her needs for sixteen long years. Then she died.”

“That’s where it started?”

“Questions again?” I said and waited for the kid to shake his head. “It began there, yes. He had to fill her need, which became his need. The first time he robbed a feed store. Can you believe it? That’s how desperate he was. But he got away with it, and that made the next all the easier. Then we come to the big one. You want me to talk about that one, don’t cha?” I didn’t wait for an answer before I asked if he wanted something to drink.

“That’d be real nice,” he said.

His eyes got big and watery when I reached down, grabbed a bottle from the floor, splashed gin in a nearby chipped mug, and handed it to him.

“You were expecting tea?” I asked and took a gulp from my cup. I waited for him to take a drink and then I waited for him to stop choking and coughing before I spoke again.

“The United States Railway Express Building robbery is what people always call it. Like it’s the only one in the entire U. S. of A. Well, as everyone knows, he got away with a big amount of money on that one. No sense in going into details on how much and what happened to it. Everyone’s heard it all. Besides, what you really want to hear about is how he got caught three years later, right? And how he saved that guard in the joint during the riot and then how everyone turned him into a hero afterward even though every one who knows anything knew that guard was a wire. That guard was his way to bring in the goods from outside. Wouldn’t be real smart to let him get it in the gut and all, not if he was more useful alive. Warden didn’t know that, though. That’s how Daddy got his pardon. Life’s real funny sometimes. Am I right?” I leaned over, splashed another jigger of gin in his cup, then I said real quiet-like, “But first, if you got a little more cash, I can give you a big story. A story he thinks no one else knows. Doesn’t even think I know.”

He nodded.

I lifted my cup, held it up in the air toward him, waited until he lifted his cup, and together we took another drink. This time there wasn’t any coughing. I held my hand out and he passed over some green.

“Do you wanna hear about how he killed my mother?”

He nodded until I thought his brains would scramble.

“Maaaaatt. Maaatttie.”

We both looked toward the partially closed door where the croaky sounding voice came from. Kid reporter’s eyes were big and watery again.

“I’ll be right back. Stay right there,” I told him.

“What is it daddy?” I asked after entering the room and shutting the door behind me.

“Who do you have out there?” he asked and tried to lift his small and wizened body to a sitting position.

“No one. You’re hearing things.”

“Don’t lie to me, Valencia,” he said.

“She’s dead, you old bird. Momma’s dead. It’s me, Mattie,” I said and smoothed frizzled gray strands of hair from his brow. “Now lay back and rest.”

He looked at me with his cold and confused blue eyes and yelled, “No. Nooo. No. Who are you?” He swatted away my hand and tried to sit again. Then louder, “Who the hell are you?”

I took my hat off and loosened the pins in my hair. It fell in auburn waves to my shoulders. “It’s me, daddy,” I said.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said and rested his head back on the pillow for a few seconds. He sat up again. “Matilda, we got another job?”

“No, daddy. We don’t need to do a job right now.” I pulled the cash out of my pocket and showed him. He nodded, looked relieved for a second, and then as I watched, his mind went somewhere else and the look on his face changed to a sneer. I plopped the hat on my head and tucking my hair into it, headed for the door, wanting to get away before he went off on some other rant.

“What’re you doing in that getup? You look plain ridiculous.” he barked, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time ever in trousers and shirt, as if it wasn’t his big idea for me to dress like a man, put my feet into his shoes, and help him out by driving the getaway car the year after he put the pillow over momma’s drunken face and smothered the life out of her. Never once worrying about what would happen if we got caught. Never once, thinking about how I could survive in the joint. His big concern always was how I survived while he was away. I didn’t ever tell him how easy it was, how much simpler it was on my own. Didn’t tell him how much I enjoyed being the one in control.

His mind went to a new place, and he demanded I bring him a bottle of gin and his gun.

“I don’t think it’s a good time to do that,” I said.

The old coot hollered, “I ain’t asking you. I’m telling you. If you want to stay one of my boys, you’ll do what you’re told.”

“Okay,” I said, knowing things would only get louder if I argued, knowing the kid reporter would be writing it all down in that little book of his. I went to the dresser drawer and pulled out his revolver.

“I’ll be right back,” I said and handed him the gun.

I took off the hat, piled my hair on my head, pushed the pins back in place, and put the hat back on over the pile.

“You’re going to have to leave,” I told the kid reporter when I returned to the parlor.

“But you didn’t tell me anything. You didn’t tell me the story,” he said and then surprised me by firmly planting his scrawny rear end into the far back of the chair before crossing his arms over his chest. “I paid you good money to tell his story. I’m not leaving until I get my money’s worth.”

Picking up the cup of gin, taking a big gulp, slamming it down on a nearby table, and telling him to leave again, didn’t have an effect on him. Leastways he didn’t let it show. That bothered me. In fact, it made me downright angry.

I went over to him, reached down and pulled him out of the chair by his shirt front. “You’ve got bad luck. Did you know that before now?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer, just shivered.  I could see some real fear in his eyes then and that made me feel better.

“Tell you what. I’m real tired of pretending to be something I’m not. So, here’s a little bit of truth for you. I ain’t a nice person and neither is he,” I pointed at the room where my daddy was laying. “But, instead of dragging your ass out of the house and keeping your money, I’m going to let you take his bottle in to him. I’m even going to let you have his gun. He asked for it just now. You can give it to him or leave. How you use it or don’t is up to you. Make a good story whichever way. You understand?”

When I could tell he heard me, I grabbed the bottle and the Tommy gun from the closet, put them in his hands, and pushed him toward daddy’s room. Before I opened the door, I said, “Now, I’m going to go upstairs and put on something more presentable. You can go in that room and get a story from Buster or you can leave real quiet. Anything he says to you, whatever answers he gives to your questions, that information is yours to use as you please. Either way, I ain’t coming back down here ‘til I’m ready to go out on the town. Probably, never come back. One thing’s for certain. From the moment my feet leave these damned shoes, there’s not going to be a man who can tell me what I’m to do or not to do. Ever again. Now, you can get your story or you can high tail it outta here. It’s all up to you.”

***

I had my red dress on and was sliding my feet into silk stockings when the shots rang out. By the time the coppers showed up, I had my fancy black heels on and had thrown the crocodile oxfords in the waste bin.

The End