Wanted - Dead or In Love

CHAPTER 1

Friday, May 20th // 8:42 P.M.

Monroe

I deliver a third Bugsy Malone to the old guy at table seven, whose unnaturally dark hair against his wrinkly skin makes him look ridiculous, not younger. He watches me as I lean forward to place his drink next to him, making no effort to hide the fact that he’s staring at my cleavage. He rests his age-spot-riddled hand on top of mine, his diamond pinky ring glistening off the stage lights. What time you get off tonight? I’d like to buy you a drink.

He strokes my hand twice, making a river of disgust rise up my arm. One look at his smarmy smile and I know he’s a rich jerk who’s too full of himself to realize I’m only acting like a promiscuous flapper. I’m a breath away from saying that I’d rather stab myself in the eye with his butter knife than have a drink with him, when I stop myself.

Insulting the customers is definitely not on the list of good business practices.

I chomp on my gum a few times, pull myself back into character, and break out the stereotypical Jersey accent we’re all supposed to use, Sorry busta, but we ain’t allowed to date the customers. I slide my hand out from under his, walking away before he sees me grimace.

Luckily, there are only three songs left in tonight’s performance of Gangsters of Love, our musical dinner show set in the back alleys of Chicago during Prohibition. Once you walk through the doors of The Clip Joint, you’d swear you’re in a bustling, noisy gin mill swarming with flappers and mob bosses. Dad’s owned the place sixteen years now, making this boozy jazz scene such a big part of my life that if there were a time machine, I would fit right in during the 1920s. An era filled with people who live for the moment appeals to me.

Clarissa, one of six servers on tonight, hustles down the aisle in a yellow Charleston dress with layers of fringe. It’s one of the cheap flapper dresses Dad buys in bulk from an online Halloween shop for our waitresses, along with strings of fake pearls and brimless hats. I brush my hand through the beaded fringe on my own dress, a black silk, drop-waist beauty I purchased from a local vintage shop. I just hope these beads don’t fall off as quickly as the last one.

Psst—meet me in back! Clarissa whispers, before doing a double-take. Whoa! Love your hair! She reaches up and strums my shoulder length bob, her eyes wide with admiration.

Thanks, Clarissa, I say, relieved that someone likes it as much as I do. I’ll admit that getting my boring brown locks chopped and dyed into a flapper-inspired black bob three days ago was impulsive. But just like the original rebels, I didn’t want to look the same as every other girl my age—long hair, straightened or curled, or else pulled up into a messy bun. Like my mom used to say, why be a sheep when you can be the shepherd?

Thinking of her makes me send a quick mental message: Hey, Mom. I followed your advice. I smirk at her imagined response, For once.

I gather a few dirty plates before heading toward the busser station, curious to see what Clarissa wants. We’re work friends, but we don’t hang out. She’s a senior too, but she goes to the huge, laid-back public high school in the city, while I attend the small, uptight, busybody factory known as Chicago Preparatory Academy. Not for much longer, thankfully. Only one week until graduation, I think with relief. I can make it.

The second I lay my empty drink tray on the counter, Clarissa gushes, Guess what? I just counted and there’s only eighteen more days until L.A.!

Nice! I give her an enthusiastic high-five, although secretly, I’m worried for her. Clarissa’s super pretty and genuinely nice, but a few weeks ago when Dad gave her a chance to fill in for the small role of the bootlegger named Thelma May, she forgot three of her six lines. In any case, she’s off to Los Angeles hoping to be discovered, whereas I’m only hoping to discover that my roommate isn’t mean or crazy when I start college in the fall.

If NYU doesn’t rescind my admission before then, that is.

The I’m baaacck! deluge of doubt floods into my mind, so I shove it to the side and look onstage. Vinny, our best singer, is crooning Al Capone’s crude love song, Getting Hard Time for You, to his sweetheart, a machine gun resting across his waist in a very suggestive pose. It’s a crowd pleaser, but it’s also the second to last number and our sign to wrap things up.

Clarissa doesn’t waste any time. She taps a few buttons on the touch screen and the printer spits out receipts. I wait for her to tell me whatever it is she called me back here for, but when she doesn’t, curiosity gets the better of me. So… was that what you needed to talk to me about? That you only have eighteen days until L.A.?

She giggles, rolling her eyes. Whoops, I forgot! Hank texted me about a party at his friend Kyle’s house. She glances my way as she grabs the receipts. Want to come with?

I almost blurt out that I’d love to when I remember the warning the judge gave me. I nudge her over and start printing my receipts. I don’t know, I uh…

There’ll be a lot of hot guys there, she coos, elbowing me.

A party full of hot guys sounds amazing, but given that Clarissa is the bubbly actress type, I doubt our definitions of hot guys are anywhere close. She’s probably into buff show-offs who can make their pecs dance, while I only want to meet a guy who is interesting, intelligent, and into me—what I call my three invariables. Insanely handsome would be nice of course, too, but that’s not a deal breaker. I keep telling myself he’s out there somewhere. Maybe even at this guy Kyle’s house. Sadly, a girl on probation has no business going to a party.

Not wanting to talk about my recent stupid mistakes, I blurt out the first excuse I can think of. That’s sweet of you to ask, but I’m super tired tonight. I sigh loudly for effect.

She stares at me as if I just admitted to killing a puppy. Tired? It’s Friday night, Monroe. You can’t go home! She puts her hand on my arm. "Besides, you’d be doing me a big favor if you came. Hank said the football team showed up and there’s hardly any girls at the party, so please come?" She looks at me all doe-eyed, like she really wants me to go.

Being asked to a party because I’m female is only marginally better than being asked so I can be the designated driver. Not to mention that football players are only a hair above stoners on the evolution chart. On the other hand, my entire high school is out dancing their butts off at prom at this very moment, while I’m stuck here at work because the dean, a.k.a. Dickhead, revoked all of my Senior Weekend privileges. So heading to any kind of party sounds better than going home to watch Intervention reruns until I fall asleep on the couch.

Still. I’m sure I shouldn’t go. Definitely not a good decision.

Okay, I’ll go, I hear myself say. As soon as the words leave my mouth, the familiar fingers of regret crawl up my spine. What are you doing? Take it back!

Clarissa claps excitedly. Great! Meet me at the door at 9:30. She tucks the last receipt into the black bill holder and slaps it shut, hurrying off to distribute the checks before I can tell her I changed my mind.

As the cast performs its last number, I place the bills next to my customers, ambivalent about what to do. There’ll be alcohol at the party—a liquid grenade that has gotten me into trouble in the past. But as long as I don’t reach for that pin, I’ll be fine. And what are the chances another party I was at would get busted? Normally I’d say between slim and none, but given my shitty luck, the SWAT team is probably getting dressed in full combat gear right now, waiting to bust me. I laugh at my own joke. Okay, okay. Even I recognize that’s not true.

As I walk from table to table getting signatures and collecting my tips, I let a sliver of hope break through the sludge of the past few weeks. It’ll be nice being with kids who don’t know me, who won’t ask a million questions about that day at school. If Mom were still alive, she would have given me a hug and reminded me that what didn’t kill me would only make me stronger. Turns out her death two years ago didn’t make me stronger, but it did almost kill me. I chase the pity party away with a brisk walk to the register. No time for that.

When the customers have cleared out, I wipe down my tables in a hurry, hoping I’ll have time to freshen up. Halfway through my routine, I find a man’s wallet. I look inside and smile. Looks like Creepy Old Dude’s going to have a hard time buying drinks for any girls tonight. I slip his wallet into my pocket and make my way to the kitchen with my dish cart.

On the way, I pass Dad’s pride and joy, a display case filled with Lucky Luciano’s gray flannel pinstriped suit and black hat. Even though Dad already has six glass cabinets full of cool gangster stuff like Al Capone’s cigar cutter, John Dillinger’s hat, Pretty Boy Floyd’s bulletproof vest, and Carlo Gambino’s blood-stained shoes, he’s always on the lookout for more. I’m excited to find out if he bought anything at the gangster memorabilia auction he went to this evening.

I drop off the last of my dishes in the kitchen before running to change back into my street clothes—black capri cigarette pants, white lace top, and black suede heels. Perfect for a party. Who knows? Maybe I will meet someone tonight. That could maybe even sorta-kinda make up for missing prom. After I freshen up my makeup, I still have about fifteen minutes until I need to meet Clarissa. I’m about to text Dad to see how the auction went when I see that his corner office is lit up. When I walk in, he’s sitting at his big antique desk, checking his e-mail. A cardboard box is in front of him, piquing my curiosity.

Hey, Dad. How’d it go today? I plop down on the fancy swivel chair opposite his desk.

Amazing! He smiles broadly, the first time in weeks. Wait until you see what I bought. Absolutely incredible. He reaches into the box and pulls out three acrylic cases, certificates of authenticity, and a brochure listing all the auction items. There was a little casino in Dallas that went belly up. The owner needed cash fast, so I made out like the devil.

I raise an eyebrow at his word choice. Considering what kinds of things you collect, I’d say that’s not too far off. What did you buy? I lean closer, trying to get a glimpse.

He holds up a small container. Behold, the bullets taken from the corpses of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. The silver ones are from Bonnie, the gold ones, Clyde.

Really? My jaw drops open as I stare in awe at the five metal chunks mounted on a black velvet pad. You’ve wanted to buy a Bonnie and Clyde item for a long time.

I know. Wait until you see what else I bought. He lifts a clear square container. Mounted inside of it is a nondescript tan beret. This gorgeous relic cost me seven hundred bucks. Mom would have died if she saw this.

I wince at his accidental slip of the tongue. Despair licks at my heart for a split-second, but I will it away. I did enough crying two years ago to last me a lifetime. Was this Bonnie’s hat?

No, don’t you recognize it? Faye Dunaway wore it in the Bonnie and Clyde movie. Check it out. His voice catches as he slides a color movie photo toward me. It’s a shot of Faye Dunaway leaning against a car wearing the tan beret, looking achingly beautiful.

Ohmigod, Dad! This is, it’s… I can’t finish my sentence, but I don’t need to. Dad nods and squeezes my hand, both of us choked up. Bonnie and Clyde was Mom’s all-time favorite movie. We watched it with her every year on her birthday, a tradition I looked forward to. Now it just makes me sad. Haven’t watched it since her fifty-first birthday, shortly before she died.

I clear my throat. Dad coughs. I bought something for you too, Monroe.

Dad, why? After all the crap I’ve put him through lately, I figured the only thing he’d be buying for me is a bus ticket out of town. I hope this means he’s starting to forgive me.

Think of it as an early graduation present. He holds up another clear plastic display case, this one the size of a magazine. He holds it gingerly, like he’s presenting a newborn to me. It contains a piece of paper that looks yellow and fragile from age. I know you like history as much as I do and thought you might like a keepsake for yourself. It’s worth a couple grand, so you can either take it home or display it here in the restaurant. It’s up to you. He hands it to me with a sweet, genuine smile. It’s a poem Bonnie Parker wrote called ‘The Trail’s End.’

Seriously? Thank you, Dad! I pop out of my seat to hug him—our first time since the arrest. This is so cool! I definitely want to bring it home with me, at least for a little while. This is the poem Faye Dunaway reads to Warren Beatty in the movie, right?

Yep. Bonnie Parker wrote it while she was in prison for bank robbery, when she was only a little older than you are. He pauses, looking at me.

I avoid his gaze, running a fingertip across his nameplate that reads, Don’t Mess with Gordie Baker or You’re Dead, complete with fake bullet holes. I know he’s sending me a mental message: If I don’t get my act together, I’ll be heading to prison too.

He rubs his eye. She won a few writing awards in high school. Who knows what she could have done with her life if she hadn’t dropped out of school at age fifteen to get married.

Something doesn’t jibe with the movie. She married Clyde at fifteen?

Not Clyde—a man named Roy Thornton. He just up and left one morning and never came back. Supposedly Bonnie met Clyde at a party not too long afterwards, and they were inseparable until death did them part two years later.

So Bonnie got hitched at fifteen, ditched at sixteen, robbed banks at seventeen, and everyone thinks I’m a mess? A match made in Hell, huh?

He smiles. That’s what some people say. Do me a favor and read the first two stanzas aloud. I barely got a chance to look at it during the auction. He leans back and relaxes.

Sure. I glance at the clock and see I still have five minutes until I need to meet Clarissa. I pick up the plastic container and am stupidly amazed to discover that it’s written in Bonnie’s own handwriting. Duh. No electronics back then. The idea that her fingers touched this piece of paper and it’s now millimeters away from my fingers makes my heart race, making me feel both exhilarated and dangerous. All the years separating us evaporate in an instant.

I clear my throat and begin reading. You’ve read the story of Jesse James/ of how he lived and died./ If you’re still in need;/ of something to read,/ here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde./ Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang/ I’m sure you all have read./ How they rob and steal;/ and those who squeal,/ are usually found dying or dead.

I picture a girl about my age blowing on the end of her gun, prodding a lifeless body with her shoe. Ya shouldn’t have snitched, she says without emotion. A creepy chill works its way up my spine and I shiver. Pretty brutal—if it’s true.

Of course it’s true. Bonnie and Clyde killed at least twelve people. Most of ’em cops.

Good, I think, but instantly regret it. Cops are great until they bust you—then they suck. Somehow that jolts my memory about the wallet. I dig it out of my purse and toss it on the desk. One of my customers left this behind tonight. Guy was a scumbag, so it serves him right.

Why? What did he do? Dad growls.

I wave in the air dismissively. Nothing horrible. Just asked me out.

Jerk. Dad shakes his head in disgust. He picks up the wallet and casually glances inside, like he’s looking for identification, but I see him check the dollar bill part. My heart sinks. He obviously thinks of me as criminal first, daughter second. He stands. I’ll be right back. Going to see if Percy can track this guy down. Maybe I’ll have a word with him when he shows up.

Dad, don’t, I call out, but he heads down the hall toward his general manager’s office.

I can’t help smiling. Typical Dad. Always wanting to protect me from the world. I turn the display case over, noticing that the back of the poem is filled with doodles of clouds and flowers, just like I do to my spirals. I imagine a girl my age in a jail cell lying on a cot, writing this poem.

Hello, Bonnie, I whisper. Did you have a lot of stuck-up chicks at your school, too? Is that why you dropped out? I laugh, feeling silly talking to a dead girl. I pull the slug box toward me, thinking how cool it would be to touch one. Like touching death head-on. When I don’t hear footsteps, I think, why not? You only live once. Look at my poor mother and how much she missed out on. I dive for the box, pulling at the clear plastic seal. It’s stuck tight. I slide a fingernail under the edge of the sticker and slowly pry it up, careful not to rip the seal itself.

A rush of bubbling nervous energy makes my fingers tremble as I lift the cover. A puff of stale air with the scent of rancid meat assaults my nose. I breathe through my mouth as I pull out one of the silver gnarled bits. Is this the bullet—the one that actually killed Bonnie Parker? I spy a tiny spot of dark brown nestled between two twisted nibs of steel. Is that her dried blood? Could it be locked inside here after all this time? I lick my finger and touch the spot.

It smudges, turns brownish red. Holy shit—it is her blood! I rub it a bit harder when something sharp pierces my fingertip. A bright red dot from a tiny jagged cut sprouts on the pad of my index finger. I ram my wound into my mouth and glare at the slug. That’s when I realize that Bonnie Parker’s blood was on my finger and is now on my tongue.

Gross! In a flash, I yank my finger from my mouth and vigorously scrape my tongue on the inside edge of my shirt, hoping to remove all of Bonnie’s rehydrated blood cells. A tingling sensation that I’d gotten away with something big rushes through me. I quickly wrestle a Clyde slug out of its slot, close the lid, and smile at my palm. Bonnie and Clyde. Together again. Seconds later, my vision blurs—as if someone smeared Vaseline across my eyes. The slugs in my hand become a swirling mess of flesh and metal. I close my eyes, trying to clear the mess, when a vivid scene floods my mind—one so clear it’s like I’m witnessing it live.

I’m riding in the passenger seat of a car, an old-fashioned one too, judging by the three large dials in front of the steering wheel and the long skinny gearshift knob rising up out of the floor. A sleek gray fishtail skirt hugs my legs perfectly, matched with a gorgeous, cream-colored peasant top. The driver looks to be my age, or maybe a couple years older at the most. He’s got slicked-back dark brown hair, revealing ears that tip slightly away from his head in a cute, elfish way. He’s wearing mocha brown dress pants, a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a striped tie loose around his neck. Like a businessman on a lunch break. Very sexy.

How ya doing, doll? He grins at me, his golden brown eyes lighting up his face. He reaches over, a tattoo of a woman’s face on his forearm, and pats my knee. Sure was fine sleeping in a bed for a change last night, huh?

Yep. Except now it’s already hotter than heck and it’s barely nine o’clock, I say in a strange Southern accent. I reach for the crank handle and lower the window partway. A gust of wind blows strands of strawberry blonde hair into my face.

My elf-eared date takes his hand off my leg and thumps the oversized black steering wheel. Aw, for crying out loud. Will you look at that? Some dumb hack lost his load.

I look ahead of us and see a pickup truck stopped right in the middle of the road, crates of melons scattered everywhere. Poor sap prolly forgot to latch the gate, I say.

I ain’t stopping either, or we’ll be here all day. He grips the wheel harder.

Don’t lose your temper now, Clyde. It might be faster if you help.

As we approach the pickup truck, the intense rat-a-tat-tat of hundreds of bullets whizzing through our car has me ducking for cover. Tiny missiles whistle past my head, leaving penny-sized holes all around me. Clyde’s limbs flail uncontrollably as sprays of red blood hit the windshield, my white silk blouse, the cracked leather seat. Shards of glass pelt my neck as I cross my arms in front of my face, screaming. The car careens off the road toward the bushes, bobbing and jerking like an old wooden roller coaster as all four tires get shot out. It makes a final heave of exhaled air and comes to rest ten yards further. I collapse against Clyde’s shoulder, my skirt at a jaunty angle halfway up my thigh, but I don’t make a move to fix it. I’m left peering through a crumpled mass of tangled hair and torn flesh, staring at Clyde’s blood-soaked forehead.

The sound of snapping fingers startles me out of my daydream. The image of Dad’s face blends with Clyde’s as his office comes into focus. Earth to Monroe, Dad says, loading his treasures back into the cardboard box—including the velvet-lined bullet case.

I sit up in a flash, inhaling sharply, the slugs still nestled in my palm. How could I have fallen asleep so quickly? It seemed so real, like I was in one of those movie theaters with enhanced sound, scent, and motion. I swallow hard, trying to think of something logical to say as to why I took the slugs out of the box when it was clearly sealed shut, but my mind goes blank.

Dad interlocks the flaps of the box so the top stays closed. I’m going to lock these babies up now. Don’t want dust or moisture to get inside. Ruins their value.

A cannonball of guilt lodges in my chest, knowing I messed up yet again. I can’t bring myself to tell him what I’ve done. After he walks away, I slip the slugs into my pants pocket. I’ll guard them with my life tonight and find a way to return them in the morning.

I call out, By the way, Clarissa invited me to a party tonight. I twirl a lock of my hair, hoping he’s not mad. She’s leaving for L.A. soon and we wanted to hang out before she leaves.

He stops walking and turns to me, his forehead heavily creased. You sure that’s a good idea, Monroe? The judge said you needed to stay clean for a whole year or you could—

I know, I interrupt, unable to bear hearing another reminder of my fate. But I learned my lesson, I promise. I look him in the eye, wanting him to trust me again.

He frowns. You need to make this decision for yourself. But I want you to know that I’m not bailing you out if you get arrested again, nor will I foot the bill for college. Are we clear?

I glance down at my hands, feeling the heat of his stare. Yeah. We’re clear.

Okay, then. He sighs, manages to smile. Have fun and wake me when you get home.

I will. Bye, Dad. I kiss his cheek and race down the hall to where Clarissa stands waiting for me. Seconds later, I hear a high-pitched squeal of laughter.

I glance over my shoulder, but no one’s there.

Clarissa pushes open the door to the parking lot. Ready for the party of a lifetime?

You know it, I say, secretly hoping the party’s not too crazy. If it looks like it’s getting out of control, I’ll just take a cab home. I’d rather die than get arrested again.

Be careful what you wish for, girlie.

How odd, I think, as I dash out into the night. My conscience had a Southern accent.

CHAPTER 2

Friday, May 20th // 9:24 P.M.

Clyde

A sudden jolt runs through my bones, swift as lightning and strong as a Texas twister in May. I blink twice, three times, but I can’t see nothing. I must be in the bottom of a mineshaft on a moonless night because it’s dark and I’m cold. Real cold. I concentrate hard as I can to move my body, one finger even, and finally, after what seems like forever, I give up.

I search my brain trying to figure how I got trapped down here. Last thing I remember was me and Bonnie heading down Potter Lane to go pick up Henry at his pa’s house in the middle of nowhere. We’d all visited our kin for two days but we needed to get back on the lam. I slowed down to drive around a fool truck driver who lost his load, when—Christ. It’s all coming back.

As I veered past the crates, rounds of gunfire blasted through my head, my neck, my arms and legs—jolting me right outta my seat. Bonnie’s spine-chillin’ scream was the last thing I heard before blackness came. It’s obvious to me looking back now that the sheriff’s posse brought along enough ammo to shoot a herd of buffalo. Cold-hearted bastards never even offered us a chance to surrender.

Not that I would, but they dint know that. At least I coulda taken down a few of the laws before me and Bonnie got smoked.

I realize then that I ain’t in any mineshaft—I’m in my final resting place. I have a foggy memory of being told I’d need to stay here until my time was up, but I didn’t know where here was. Then I blacked out. I should prolly be screaming in horror as a man is wont to do when he finds out he’s dead, but cryin’s for sissies. Don’t solve nothing neither. I’d rather plan my revenge, because it’s as clear to me as Mama’s crystal earrings that my execution wasn’t no accident.

My anger festers like an infected wound until I reach a place