Read Online Handsome Harry by James Carlos Blake - Free Book Online
Authors: James Carlos Blake
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went to trial without a lawyer and pled guilty—and the judge hammered him with ten to twenty years. His partner hired a lawyer for his own trial and even though he had a record he only got two to fourteen.
That’s the Law for you. Its promise isn’t worth spit. There’s never been a day I haven’t heard or seen something about the Law to make me hate it even more than I did the day before.
Anyhow, John worked in the clothes factory, and I heard he could operate a sewing machine like nobody’s business. As I came to find out, he was a whiz with anything mechanical. He could listen to a car motor and tell you why it was running rough. Show him some gadget he’d never seen before and in ten minutes he could tell you how it worked. One morning at breakfast this guy came up to our table and handed him a pocket watch, saying he’d won it in a bet but it wasn’t running and he wondered if it could be fixed. John put it to his ear and shook it slightly, then fiddled with the stem and said yeah, he could fix it. The guy asked how much he’d charge, and John said Hell, buddy, let’s call it a favor. The guy couldn’t thank him enough.
That’s how he was. Everything you’ve heard about his charm is true, never mind some of his blowups with Billie. And nobody was a better friend, take it from me. Ask Russell. Charley and Red would’ve told you the same. Of course, we were a pretty special bunch. His later friendships were obviously another story. I mean, I don’t know much more about what happened at that Chicago movie house last July than what I read in the papers and heard through the grapevine, but I know what went wrong. He trusted those two whores is what went wrong. He thought they were his friends.
Then again, I never did understand why he made some of thefriends he did. Like that clown, Homer Van Meter. They got to be pals when we were all at Pendleton and they worked on the shirt line together. Van Meter was a real fumbler, and John was always helping him meet his work quota. From the day we met, that guy and I had it in for each other. It happened one morning when John and I and a few other pals were in the yard exercising with the punching bags and dumbbells and jump ropes. The other inmates were keeping their distance from us, as always, but then this goofy-looking guy with a stupid grin comes ambling over as casually as if he’d been invited. He was at least six feet tall but he was skinny as a cue stick and his smirky manner irritated me the minute I laid eyes on him.
He walked up behind John, who was skipping rope and unaware of him, and stood watching the rope whipping around and then suddenly stamped his foot on it, stopping it short. The rope handles slipped out of John’s hands and for a moment he was whirling a rope that wasn’t there anymore. He said What the hell and spun around, ready to start punching, then saw the goof grinning at him. He said Homer, you asshole, and they both laughed.
John started to introduce him all around, but before he could tell him my name, Van Meter said, Wait, don’t tell me, I know who this guy is—he’s the famous big-time bank robber. He snapped his fingers a few times like he was trying to recall my name. Then he made a scared face and held his hands up and pretended to be trembling and said, Oh my God, it’s Jesse James!
If it had come from somebody else, I might’ve smiled to be sociable, but not from this creep. John saw my face and said Ah hell, Harry, he’s just being funny.
He’s funny, all right, I said. Funny looking.
Funny looking! Van Meter says, and goes into a big loud show of phony laughter, holding his belly and slapping his thigh, saying Boy, that’s a hot one, all right! Funny looking— whew!
That did it. I pulled off the bag gloves and said Beat it, clown.
And what’s that fool do? He makes a face of exaggerated ferocityand starts shuffling around me with his fists up in the old-time way of John L. Sullivan or somebody. Mocking
That’s the Law for you. Its promise isn’t worth spit. There’s never been a day I haven’t heard or seen something about the Law to make me hate it even more than I did the day before.
Anyhow, John worked in the clothes factory, and I heard he could operate a sewing machine like nobody’s business. As I came to find out, he was a whiz with anything mechanical. He could listen to a car motor and tell you why it was running rough. Show him some gadget he’d never seen before and in ten minutes he could tell you how it worked. One morning at breakfast this guy came up to our table and handed him a pocket watch, saying he’d won it in a bet but it wasn’t running and he wondered if it could be fixed. John put it to his ear and shook it slightly, then fiddled with the stem and said yeah, he could fix it. The guy asked how much he’d charge, and John said Hell, buddy, let’s call it a favor. The guy couldn’t thank him enough.
That’s how he was. Everything you’ve heard about his charm is true, never mind some of his blowups with Billie. And nobody was a better friend, take it from me. Ask Russell. Charley and Red would’ve told you the same. Of course, we were a pretty special bunch. His later friendships were obviously another story. I mean, I don’t know much more about what happened at that Chicago movie house last July than what I read in the papers and heard through the grapevine, but I know what went wrong. He trusted those two whores is what went wrong. He thought they were his friends.
Then again, I never did understand why he made some of thefriends he did. Like that clown, Homer Van Meter. They got to be pals when we were all at Pendleton and they worked on the shirt line together. Van Meter was a real fumbler, and John was always helping him meet his work quota. From the day we met, that guy and I had it in for each other. It happened one morning when John and I and a few other pals were in the yard exercising with the punching bags and dumbbells and jump ropes. The other inmates were keeping their distance from us, as always, but then this goofy-looking guy with a stupid grin comes ambling over as casually as if he’d been invited. He was at least six feet tall but he was skinny as a cue stick and his smirky manner irritated me the minute I laid eyes on him.
He walked up behind John, who was skipping rope and unaware of him, and stood watching the rope whipping around and then suddenly stamped his foot on it, stopping it short. The rope handles slipped out of John’s hands and for a moment he was whirling a rope that wasn’t there anymore. He said What the hell and spun around, ready to start punching, then saw the goof grinning at him. He said Homer, you asshole, and they both laughed.
John started to introduce him all around, but before he could tell him my name, Van Meter said, Wait, don’t tell me, I know who this guy is—he’s the famous big-time bank robber. He snapped his fingers a few times like he was trying to recall my name. Then he made a scared face and held his hands up and pretended to be trembling and said, Oh my God, it’s Jesse James!
If it had come from somebody else, I might’ve smiled to be sociable, but not from this creep. John saw my face and said Ah hell, Harry, he’s just being funny.
He’s funny, all right, I said. Funny looking.
Funny looking! Van Meter says, and goes into a big loud show of phony laughter, holding his belly and slapping his thigh, saying Boy, that’s a hot one, all right! Funny looking— whew!
That did it. I pulled off the bag gloves and said Beat it, clown.
And what’s that fool do? He makes a face of exaggerated ferocityand starts shuffling around me with his fists up in the old-time way of John L. Sullivan or somebody. Mocking
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