Shot in the Back (25 page)

“Did the Butrum boys show up in Kansas City?” Faust asked.

“Yes, they showed up.”

“What did they think when they learned that Heavy Hunt was a black man and it was his speakeasy they would be providing whiskey for?”

“They were a little surprised, but I think they would have been more than willing to work with him.”

“Would have been willing to work with him? You mean they didn't work with him?”

“No.”

“Why not? Why didn't they work with him?”

“It was my fault,” Jesse said. “I had spent my entire life being aware of everything around me, no matter how small. I could tell if a rock was in the wrong place, if a tree limb was bent in the wrong direction, if the birds were acting different. I should have seen it.”

Jesse was quiet for a moment.

“I did see it. I saw it, and that's what has bothered me all these years. I saw it, but I just didn't pay attention to it.”

“What did you see, Jesse?”

“I saw a green Plymouth parked where a car shouldn't have been parked.”

Jesse, Billy, Heavy Hunt, and two of Heavy Hunt's men were waiting at Union Station to pick up Clyde and Arnold Butrum when they arrived on the eleven o'clock train. They met the two brothers on the platform.

“Clyde, Arnold,” Jesse said. “This is Heavy Hunt, and these are two of his men.”

The Butrum brothers looked at Heavy and the two men with him.

“I came down here myself because I wanted you to see who you will be working with,” Heavy said. “I want to know if my color bothers you. Because if it does, there ain't no need in goin' any further because I can find someone else to give my money to.”

“What color is your money?” Clyde asked.

It took Heavy a moment to catch what Clyde was saying, then a broad, white-toothed smile spread across his round, black face. “It's green,” he said.

“That's the only color I'm concerned with.”

“Tell me, gentlemen, do you like barbeque ribs?” Heavy asked. “Or is that just something my people like?”

“I don't know a Missourian, black or white, who doesn't like barbeque ribs,” Clyde said.

“Then why don't we discuss business over a big mess of ribs, potato salad, baked beans, and coleslaw?”

“Mr. Alexander, I already like doing business with this man,” Arnold said as they started toward the two cars, Jesse and Billy's Packard and, parked just behind the Packard, Heavy Hunt's Cadillac.

A green Plymouth was parked a few feet away on the right side of Heavy's car. Jesse had seen it when it arrived a few minutes earlier, but he had taken no particular notice of it. Now, though, as the seven men started to get into the two cars, four men suddenly ran from behind the Plymouth. All four were carrying Thompson submachine guns.

“Pa, look out!” Billy shouted, and stepping between Jesse and the armed men, he shoved Jesse down.

“Let 'em have it!” one of the armed men shouted.

When the four men opened fire, they were no more than fifteen feet away and diagonally to the right of the Packard. Clyde and Arnold Butrum were killed instantly and fell to the ground. The two men who were with Heavy Hunt were armed, but Heavy was not. They managed to get their pistols out, but they were badly outgunned and the chattering machine guns continued to fire. Heavy Hunt and the men with him went down as the Cadillac was peppered with holes.

Billy opened the front door of the Packard and reached under the seat, trying to get his own machine gun, but Jesse saw him jerk back, then spin around, with half a dozen bullets in his body. One of the bullets was a fatal head wound.

Billy fell on top of Jesse, which saved Jesse's life, not only because Billy's body absorbed more bullets, but also because his blood covered Jesse.

“They're all dead! Let's get out of here!” one of the shooters shouted, hurrying back to the Plymouth. They sped away.

There had been several witnesses to the shooting, and vaguely, Jesse was aware that some of the women had been screaming.

Now, it was deathly quiet.

Faust asked, “Do you feel like talking this morning?”

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “But there's not much more to tell. After Billy . . . well, I quit the whiskey-running business. In fact, I left the outlaw trail altogether. That is, after I took care of one more thing.”

“One more thing?”

“Actually, you might say five more things,” Jesse said. “But since I took care of all five things at the same time, you might say it was just one more thing.”

“The bastard actually wants my band to play in his joints,” Nippy said. “He killed my best friend, but I'm s'posed to just forget about that because his customers ‘like colored music' when they're drinkin'.”

Jesse had come to talk to Nippy Jones, ostensibly to offer his regrets for Heavy being killed. In truth, it was to find out what he could about Rico Costaconti. Costaconti wasn't one of the men who killed Billy, but Jesse knew that the men who had done the job were working for him.

“You see, what happened was, Costaconti sent two of his goons out to bring some sweat on the Butrum brothers, but you showed up while they be there, 'n you off 'em. Costaconti blamed the Butrums for that, so he sent his button men to the depot when the brothers come to town. He figures that if he kills them for crossing him, that'll teach a lesson to anyone else that might decide not to do business with him.”

“So you are saying his target was the Butrum brothers, and not Heavy?”

“Yeah. Heavy, Julius, Lorenzo, you and your boy, you just happen to be there when it all goes down.”

“Are you going to meet with him this Sunday?”

“I got to make a livin',” Nippy said. “You understand that, don't you?”

“Yes, I understand. A man has to do what he has to do. Is he coming here to meet with you?”

“No, he wants me to come to his warehouse but not until after two o'clock. You know why he wants to wait until after two o'clock, don't you?”

“No, why?”

“Because Sunday is the day he meets with his button men. That's the day he tells them who to go put some hurt on, you know what I mean?”

“The same men who killed Billy, Heavy, Clyde, and Arnold?”

“Yeah, and Julius and Lorenzo.”

 

 

Costaconti didn't allow any of his speakeasies to be open on Sunday. It wasn't because of any religious obligation that his speakeasies were closed; it was because he needed one day when he could gather his key people to conduct important business.

On this day, Costaconti was having a meeting in the office at the back of a warehouse that advertised itself as Sicilian Olive Imports. Sicilian Olive Imports was a legitimate business, owned by Rico Costaconti and used by him as a front for his much more lucrative liquor business.

The warehouse district was quiet when Jesse drove by a building that had a large sign out front identifying it as Sicilian Olive Imports. In addition to four trucks, which had the same sign painted on the doors as was on the warehouse, there were two cars. One was a black Cadillac, and one was a green Plymouth. The green Plymouth was the same one that had been at the depot on the day of the shooting.

Jesse parked his car down the street at another warehouse, tucked in between two trucks so as not to be immediately noticeable. Then, with a pistol in each hand, he walked down to Sicilian Olive Imports.

So confident was Costaconti in his invincibility that the front door was unlocked.

Jesse walked through the shadows of the warehouse area, dimly illuminated only by the dust mote–filled bars of sunlight that came through the narrow, dirty windows at the top of the walls.

At the back of the warehouse a door was open, and light splashed out onto the floor. He could hear laughter and talking coming from inside.

“That black son of a bitch was so fat I thought he'd split wide open when I shot him, but the bullets just poked holes in all that fat.”

The comment was met with laughter.

“You boys did a good job,” a weaselly looking man at the head of the table said smugly. “Killin' those hillbilly bastards who wouldn't do business with us will bring all the other bootleggers in line. I don't think we'll have any more trouble.”

Jesse instinctively knew this was Constaconti.

“Oh, you've got trouble all right,” Jesse said, stepping in through the door.

“Who the hell are—” Costaconti shouted, though he didn't have the opportunity to finish his question.

Jesse fired both guns, and it was all over within a matter of seconds. Costaconti and his four button men, the same ones who had killed Billy and the others, lay dead before him.

Jesse turned and walked away.

“I'm sorry,” Faust said, leaning forward in his chair. “I didn't realize that Billy had passed. I'm sorry for your loss, Jesse.”

Jesse wiped his eyes, even though they looked dry to Faust. “Well, so am I, Faust, so am I. More sorry for that than I ever was for anything in my whole life. And I had a lot to be sorry for. Ain't easy outliving your own children,” he said.

“I kinda lost my taste for life,” he said. “Crawled into a whiskey bottle and stayed there for a spell. Whiskey ain't a cure for pain, though—it numbs you to be sure . . . but as any drunk will tell you, the heartache is still waitin' for you right around the corner when you sober up.”

“I apologize, Jesse.” Faust said. “I didn't mean to upset you. Perhaps we should stop for the day?”

“You know,” Jesse went on as if he hadn't heard Faust, “maybe I shouldn't have encouraged Billy. If he hadn't gone law-breaking with me. If he had settled down, met some nice girl—he wouldn't have caught that bullet. Things might've been different.”

“It's no use thinking like that,” Faust said. “We none of us can change the past. Not even the legendary Jesse James.” He smiled weakly.

“I know,” Jesse said. “That's what I tell myself. Sometimes I lay awake all night, just telling myself that . . . but that's why I wanna join this war! Don't you see, Faust? I could help these young fellas. Do right by them. Like the way I shoulda done for Billy.”

“I understand. And I agree. I think there's a lot you have to offer.”

“Like my story?” Jesse raised a silver eyebrow.

“Well, it's quite a tale.” Faust laughed. “If this story was published, I don't think there is a man, woman, or child who wouldn't want to know the
real
Jesse James.”

Jesse stopped smiling and stared into the distance. “Right. The real Jesse James. Whoever he is.”

Faust leaned forward in his chair, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you all right, Jesse? Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

“No, thank you,” Jesse answered, snapping back from reality as if being pulled out of a dream. “But I reckon I'm plum tuckered. Getting old'll do that to you. You don't mind if we call it quits for the day?”

“Not at all. Can I walk you home?”

“Heck no! You think an outlaw like Jesse James needs anyone for to walk him home?” But he was smiling as he said it.

Faust laughed. “Okay, Jesse. See you tomorrow?”

Jesse nodded, a strange light in his eyes. “Tomorrow.”

Jesse left. Faust watched from the widow as the noble old figure walked down the dusty street until he disappeared from view. Somehow he just knew that he would never see the man they called see Jesse James again. He'd seen it in the man's eyes.

Faust couldn't blame him for that. Jesse was a man who lived life, not one to sit around talking about regrets. Faust knew Jesse'd had a bellyful of reminiscing and just wanted to live out his days in peace. Seemed like the way it ought to be.

Faust turned away from the window and stared at the piles of papers and notes stacked neatly on the table. His manuscript. His masterpiece. The true life story of Jesse James.

He walked over to the papers and picked them up. Amazing that an entire man's life could be captured on a few pieces of paper. More than a man's life, really. A legend.

Maybe he wouldn't turn in this manuscript to his publisher after all, Faust thought. Oh, it would mean giving up a fortune. A damned-near gold mine—that was if he could find a publisher who actually believed he wasn't making the whole thing up, or wasn't going crazy.

But there was something else nagging at Faust. Another reason he didn't want to turn in the manuscript. The legend of Jesse James was too big to ever be put down in one book. It was a legend that lived on, in the hearts and imaginations of Americans young and old. And legends never die. Why try to change that? Maybe that's what Jesse was trying to tell him all along.

With the manuscript still in his hands, Faust walked to the fire and threw the papers into the flames. He watched as the orange tongues devoured the pale leaves. Ashes to ashes.

“Good-bye, Jesse.”

 

Sept. 5, 1847–Aug. 15, 1951