Jody was intrigued by the notion of Cole. No, it was more than that. He was captivated. Enchanted. What red-blooded boy wouldn’t be. The danger. The romance. The freedom.
Cole was all anyone could talk about that summer. He had crisscrossed the county shooting up banks, jewelry stores. Wherever he could steal.
To a nine-year-old boy he seemed like a mythic figure. Brave. Daring. All flash and pinstripes. Panama hat. Diamond stick pin. Two-toned saddle shoes. Tommy gun.
God knows there was precious little excitement at home. The old man was a dour warden handing out rules. And consequences. Mom treated him like a baby.
Jody sat swinging his legs on a sidewalk bench downtown. Killing off another boring weekday. He’d done his chores. Mom said he was too young to swim alone. He didn’t like what she played on the radio. So here he’d come. Trying to escape the humdrum. Seemed like it would be just another long, slow, wait for supper.
Until there pulled up to the curb right in front of him, kicking up dust and rocks, a long green Duesenberg with gleaming whitewalls. To Jody it was a magic carpet compared to the old Ford they rode to church each Sunday.
The gangster popped out of the driver’s side. Cole himself. Smoothed out his gaberdine suit, patting down the iron bulge in his front pocket.
He eyed Jody eying him as he mounted the sidewalk to head into the savings and loan.
“You look like a capable kid.”
Flipped him a fat silver dollar with an impish grin.
“Keep an eye on old Bessie here,” nodding to the sleek sedan. “There’s another one in it for you when I get back. I’ll have plenty to spare.”
He laughed, through blinding enamel.
Jody gasped. Near swooned. A real outlaw. The outlaw. In the flesh. Nobody will believe any of this, he thought. Least of all the two bucks. Finally, some excitement. Somebody who saw him as useful. Not just a kid to order around.
#
Ten minutes later the dime store Dillinger lay in the gutter leaking oil badly. The sheriff stood over him having dispensed a single conclusive dose of humility.
He holstered and directed a deputy to arrange for hauling the body and the vehicle to their respective impounds. Then he strode around the corner to find the young boy he’d ordered to stay put right there. For safety.
“I’m glad you came and got me.”
“Yes sir.”
“You should be proud of yourself for what you did today.”
“Yes sir.”
“Not every boy would have done what you did.”
“Yes sir.”
The sheriff reached down and took his hand.
“What do you say we head back home and see what your mother’s cooked us up for lunch.”
THE END
BIO: Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com and on Instagram @scottmacleod478, on X @ScottMacLe59594 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334
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