Executive Times
		2005 Book Reviews
		The Hot Kid by Elmore Leonard
		Rating: ••• (Recommended)
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	Blazing In his 40^th novel, The Hot Kid, Elmore Leonard shifts his talent to Oklahoma in the 1930s and presents young Carlos Webster, who becomes a U.S. Marshall cracking hot cases across the plains. As readers have come to expect from Leonard, the characters are unique, memorable, and described with clarity. Elmore uses dialogue to move the plot, rather than narrative, increasing the exposition of character traits through behavior and words. From a pivotal event in Webster’s childhood through his fame being spread thanks to a friendly journalist, Leonard’s hero reveals himself as a man of destiny. Readers will hope Leonard continues to develop this character in future novels. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 3, pp. 37-42: June 13, 1927, Carlos Huntington Webster, now close to six feet tall, was in Oklahoma City wearing a dark blue suit of clothes, no vest and a panama with the brim curved on his eyes just right, staying at a hotel, riding streetcars every day, and being sworn in as a deputy United States marshal. This was while Charles Lindbergh was being honored in New York City, tons of ticker tape dumped on the Lone Eagle for flying across the Atlantic Ocean by himself. And Emmett Long, released from McAlester, was back in Checotah with Crystal Davidson, his suit hanging in the closet these six years since the marshals hauled him off in his drawers. The first thing the outlaw did, once he got off Crystal, was make phone calls to get his gang back together. Carlos was given a leave to go home after his training and spent it with his old dad, telling him things: What the room was like at the Huckins Hotel. ‘What he had to eat at the Plaza Grill. How he saw a band called Walter Page’s Blue Devils that was all colored guys. How when firing a pistol you put your weight forward, one foot ahead of the other, so if you get hit you can keep firing as you fall. And one other thing. Everybody called him Carl instead of Carlos. At first he wouldn’t answer to it and got in arguments, a couple of times almost fistfights. “You remember Bob McMahon?” “R. A. ‘Bob’ McMahon,” Virgil said, “the quiet one.” “My boss when I report to Tulsa. He says, ‘I know you’re named for your granddaddy to honor him, but you’re using it like a chip on your shoulder instead of a name.” Virgil was nodding his head. “Ever since that moron Emmett Long called you a greaser. I know what Bob means. Like, ‘I’m Carlos Webster, what’re you gonna do about it?’ You were little I’d call you Carl sometimes. You liked it okay.” “Bob McMahon says, ‘What’s wrong with Carl? All it is, it’s a nickname for Carlos.’” “There you are,” Virgil said. “Try it on.” “I’ve been wearing it the past month or so. ‘Hi, I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Carl Webster.’” “You feel any different?” “I do, but I can’t explain it.” A call from McMahon cut short Carl’s leave. The Emmett Long gang was back robbing banks. What the marshals tried to do over the next six months was anticipate the gang’s moves. They robbed banks in Shawnee, Seminole and Bowlegs on a line south. Maybe Ada would be next. No, it turned out to be Coalgate. An eyewitness said he was in the barbershop as Emmett Long was getting a shave—except the witness didn’t know who it was till later, after the bank was robbed. “Him and the barber are talking, this one who’s Emmett Long mentions he’s planning on getting married pretty soon. The barber happens to be a minister of the Church of Christ and offers to perform the ceremony. Emmett Long says he might take him up on it and gives the reverend a five-dollar bill for the shave. Then him and his boys robbed the bank.” Coalgate was on that line south, but then they turned around and headed north again. They took six thousand from the First National in Okmulgee but lost a man. Jim Ray Monks, slow coming out of the bank on his bum legs, was shot down in the street. Before Monks knew he was dying he told them, “Emmett’s sore you never put more’n five hundred on his head. He’s out to show he’s worth a whole lot more.” The stop after Okmulgee was Sapulpa, the gang appearing to like banks in oil towns: hit three or four in a row and disappear for a time. There were reports of gang members spotted during these periods of lying low, but Emmett Long was never one of them. “I bet anything,” Carl said, standing before the wall map in Bob McMahon’s office, “he hides out in Checotah, at Crystal Davidson’s house.” “Where we caught him seven years ago,” McMahon said, nodding. “Crystal was just a girl then, wasn’t she?” “I heard Emmett was already fooling with her,” Carl said, “while she’s married to Skeet, only Skeet didn’t have the nerve to call him on it.” “You heard, huh.” “Sir, I drove down to McAlester on my day off, see what I could find out about Emmett.” “The convicts talk to you?” “One did, a Creek use to be in his gang, doing thirty years for killing his wife and the guy she was seeing. The Creek said it wasn’t a marshal shot Skeet Davidson in the gun battle that time, it was Emmett himself. He wanted Skeeter out of the way so he could have Crystal for his own.” “What made you think of her?” “Was after that barber in Coalgate said Emmett spoke about getting married. I thought it must be Crystal he’s talking about. I mean if he’s so sweet on her he killed her husband? That’s what tells me he hides out there.” Bob McMahon said, “Well, we been talking to people, watching every place he’s ever been seen. Look it up, I know Crystal Davidson’s on the list.” “I did,” Carl said. “She’s been questioned and Checotah police are keeping an eye on her place. But I doubt they do more than drive past, see if Emmett’s drawers are hanging on the line.” “You’re a marshal six months,” Bob McMahon said, “and you know everything.” Carl didn’t speak, his boss staring at him. McMahon saying after a few moments, “I recall the time you shot that cattle thief off his horse.” McMahon saying after another silence but still holding Carl with his stare, “You have some kind of scheme you want to try?” “I’ve poked around and learned a few things about Crystal Davidson,” Carl said, “where she used to live and all. I believe I can get her to talk to me.” Bob McMahon said, “How’d you become so sure of yourself?” The Marshals Service occupied offices on the second floor of the United States Courthouse on South Boulder Avenue in Tulsa. This meeting in Bob McMahon’s office was the first time Jack Belmont’s name came up in conversation: Bob McMahon and Carl Webster deciding it was between the bank robberies in Coalgate and Sapulpa that Jack must’ve got out of prison and joined the Emmett Long gang. What was different about the Sapulpa bank robbery, Emmett Long walked in and first tried to cash a check made out to him for ten thousand dollars, a NMD Gas & Oil check bearing the signature of Oris Belmont, the company president. Jack Belmont, standing at the teller’s window with Emmett, said, “That’s my daddy signed it. I give you my word the check’s good.” The teller reported that he recognized Jack Belmont from his dad bringing him in since he was a kid, but the signature didn’t look anything like Oris Belmont’s on file. It didn’t matter, by then Emmett and Jack Belmont had their revolvers out, as did another one of the gang later identified as Norm Dilworth, and the tellers cleaned out what was in their drawers, something over twelve thousand dollars. Bob McMahon asked Carl if he knew about Jack Belmont, how he’d set fire to one of his dad’s storage tanks, Jack and this tankie named Dilworth, a former convict. The dad didn’t hesitate to point Jack out in court. Joe Rossi identified Norm, and the two boys were convicted of malicious destruction of property, each drawing two years hard time. Carl said he’d read it in the paper and spoke to the Tulsa police about Jack’s previous arrests. “And I saw him at McAlester,” Carl said, “to find out what I could learn about Emmett Long.” He told how they sat in the captain’s office off the rotunda that must be four stories high, where the east and west cell houses met. “You hear wings beating,” Carl said, “and look up to see a pigeon flying around inside.” He told how Jack sat across the desk from him in a lazy kind of way like he wasn’t interested, his legs crossed like a girl’s. “He smoked the cigaret I gave him and stared at me, wouldn’t say he even knew Emmett, but this had to be where they first met. Emmett was already out when Jack got his release, right after I spoke to him. So they must’ve already decided to hook up and do some banks. I can hear Jack telling Emmett he had a new way to rob them, hand ‘em a check to cash.” McMahon said, “And I bet Emmett kicked his tail.” “But tried the check first,” Carl said. “I’m talking to him, Jack sat there with one arm folded across his chest to the other arm tight against his body, holding the cigaret straight up between the tips of his fingers. He’d turn his head to take a drag, his face raised to it like he’s showing me his profile.” “You mentioned his legs crossed like a girl’s,” McMahon said. “You think he’s a nancy-boy?” “At first I did. I said, ‘There fellas here gonna have fun with you.’ But he did have girlfriends and was accused of raping one, though he was never brought up. He said he didn’t give the other inmates a second thought. He had his buddy with him, Norm Dilworth doing his second stretch and Norm, Jack said, had showed him how to jail. I’m told this Dilworth is stringy but tough as nails. No,” Carl said, “Jack Belmont was putting on a show, letting me know he was cool as a fifty-pound block of ice. He asked me what I was, even though I’d showed him my star. I said I was a deputy United States marshal. He called me a poor sap and wanted to know if I’d ever shot anybody.” “You tell him?” “I said just one. He shrugged like it wasn’t anything special. I told him the next time I saw Emmett Long he’d be my second one.” Bob McMahon didn’t care for that. He said, “I reminded you once before, my deputies don’t brag or speculate. The hell got into you to say that?” “The way he looked at me,” Carl said. “The way he smoked the cigaret. Different things about his manner toward me.” Carl watched Bob McMahon shake his head, McMahon saying, “My deputies do not brag on themselves. Have you got that?” Carl said he did. But thinking that Jack Belmont, with what he was up to now, could be number three. Even if you dislike Westerns or crime stories, you’re likely to find pleasure on the pages of The Hot Kid, thanks to Elmore Leonard’s talent. Steve Hopkins, June 25, 2005
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