It was on display near the Himalaya ride, by the petting zoo where a goat ate my dress; you forget sometimes where the shadows begin. The tan V8 Ford they stole in Topeka was a ’34 model. Good pick-up, good speed. A good getaway car.
For breakfast that morning they had donuts and coffee. They ordered some sandwiches to take with them for later. A BLT and a fried bologna. They got back in the car around eight-thirty.
The late May air was thick with mosquitoes. Six officers sat on a dusty back road, three on each side. They had automatic rifles, shotguns and pistols. Their pictures would be in the newspapers later. Some would have shadows and others would not. You forget sometimes there was sunshine back then.
At 9:15, the tan colored Ford turned down the road where the officers waited. The driver, the man, was shot seventeen times. The woman, his partner, was shot twenty-six. The undertaker said they had so many holes, embalming the couple was almost impossible. In the end, a hundred and sixty-two rounds had been fired.
The tan V8 Ford went to state fairs and carnivals all over the country, with blood-stained seats and bullet holes in it. You had to be ten for the Himalaya ride; you could be any age and see the “Death Car”. Last driven this day, May 23, of ’34, when I was a kid admission to see it was fifty cents. But a dollar more and you and your sweetheart could sit at the wheel, in your best imitation of Bonnie and Clyde.