Ronny and Kline: An Alternative History Novel

By Kaysee Renee Robichaud

When Ronny and Kline met in a Detroit speakeasy, they hit it off like sparks and dynamite. By the time they pulled their first bank robbery, they had become the hottest of lovers. However, their relationship has found a new challenge when a woman tries to steal Kline's heart. Ronny must keep his man while dodging G-men and rats in the robbers' own ranks.

Kaysee Renee Robichaud's new novel presents a fascinating what-if, reimaging the infamous public enemies of the Prohibition Era and Great Depression as gay lovers and probing their private love lives. The result is both red hot and moving, an American made yaoi tale of star crossed lovers armed with Tommyguns. Twice Told Tales is proud to present this masterpiece of erotic literature and gangster fiction from the author of The Dragonfly Chronicles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twice Told Tales II
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310458248

Kaysee Renee Robichaud

"Kaysee Renee Robichaud ... balances perfect amounts of ... eroticism and adventure." -- Julian van de Camp,Wings of Steam BlogKaysee Renee Robichaud has been publishing her erotica and romantic fiction since 2008, through such well known book pulishers as Circlet Press, Ravenous Romance, Cleis and Alyson Books. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including the Lambda Award finalist Women of the Bite, edited be Cecilia Tan. An audio version of her story "Adrift" appeared as episode 226 of the Nobilis podcast."Kaysee Renee Robichaud's [writing is] intense, nuanced ... poignant, [and] moving..." -- Sacci Green, Erotica RevealedKaysee Renee has lived all over the United States, but currently resides in southern Texas, where the winters are actually a lot like her childhood autumns. The summers, though, are pretty rough. She is eternally grateful for air conditioning, though a little sweat is good for the fiction."Kaysee Renee Robichaud [tells] a ... playful story, written in a breezy style." -- Jean Roberta, Erotica Revealed

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Ronny and Kline: An Alternative History

Private Loves of Public Enemies

By: Kaysee Renee Robichaud

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Fiction © 2014 by Kaysee Renee Robichaud

Cover Design © 2014 by Twice Told Tales, including cover art by Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

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Published by Twice Told Tales

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

If you have any questions, please contact the publisher at [e-mail].

If evil is inevitable, how are the wicked accountable? Nay, why do we call men wicked at all? Evil is inevitable, but is also remediable.

— Horace Mann

If you desire to be good, begin by believing that you are wicked.

—Epictetus

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

—Lao Tzu

Chapter One: Friday, June 25, 1937

Ronny Parker crouched inside the Grange Bank's front doors, shotgun resting upon his lap, and wondered at what point everything had gone wrong.

The alarm bell's trill made a poor music to dance to, but it sped up the thought process. Soon enough, Ronny found himself in possession of two equally valid possibilities for the foul up's origin: either Stan Wydecker's insistence on scaring the bejeesus out of the tellers or the madman's bungled manhandling of the manager.

The niggling notion remained that even before this latest heist went bust, something had gotten terribly screwed up with Kline Barrow, the man Ronny had to admit was the love of his life. That situation was more profound, more messed up and it had a little to do with That Woman, Marlena. Maybe a lot to do with her ...

He stroked the cold gun metal in his lap, hoping the action might bring even a little calm. He remained antsy. Reflective, perhaps, of the situation.

Though Ronny's left ear bore the mangled traces of an old encounter with the wrong side of an axe blade, it still worked well enough to hear the prayers and pleading from the civilians lying face down on the cedar lobby floor. They were all scared but unhurt.

Among the scatter of locals—bank patrons and teller girls and even the octogenarian guard with inch-thick spectacles—a woman with an unsightly pigeon adorned pillbox hat stared at him. He met her eyes; unlike the others, she did not turn immediately away.

Just study the floor, lady, he thought. We'll be out of here as soon as possible.

She would not, though. He knew her thoughts. Despite her panic at this terrifying circumstance, she was appraising him. She saw an athletic man, hair black as soot. Ear notwithstanding, there was a natural ruggedness to his features and highly defined cheekbones, what the papers called a dependable, quiet handsomeness. He was a bank robber and party to a killer. She was attracted and repulsed in equal measures.

Ronny was the one to look away. He glanced once more through the glass doors, to the circus across the street.

Past the lined cars, West Luddock's finest either trained their guns on the building's facade or waved gawking voyeurs back. Despite the warnings—or perhaps because of them—a handful of Indiana locals could not help but push a little closer to see if someone would be shot anytime soon. A vicious cycle: the coppers demanded a safe distance, and the locals offered temporary placation before moving forward once more.

The farmers and common folk worried Ronny not at all. Even the coppers were not Ronny's real concern. His focus remained on the owner of an all too familiar gray suit and white fedora who advised the blue coats, directed them. He carried himself with calm, this was a man with fingers steadily poised over the situational pulse.

Ronny wondered how the newspaper dubbed Crimebuster Kid could be here, already. His presence seemed impossible. Wasn't he chasing Pretty Boy Ford through the Dakotas or some other big time bank buster further East? Shouldn't he be planning his upcoming radio broadcast, his next pat on the back for cleaning the country of its nefarious ne'er do wells?

Why are you here? Ronny whispered. His legs trembled beneath the shotgun's weight. His hands caressed the weapon's length and pump, coaxing what tension release he could from touch. He did not crave action. Ronny longed to be anywhere but here, alone with his gun as the ceaseless clock in his heart ticked onward. Onward. Onward.

Kline's heist plans stipulated taking no longer than five minutes in and out, and until this job Kline Barrow had never been wrong. Hell, the man carried that golden Goddamn pocket watch to keep the damned time. Yet, here they were seven minutes over schedule with coppers swarming in the streets like ants on a dropped Tootsie Roll. Mostly, they clustered around the Old West style storefront of some place called Juggle's Goods. At least one sharpshooter surveyed the street from the roof.

Ronny had seen enough ants during the formative eleven years he had spent in South Texas. Hordes of red, angry little bastards would emerge from a dirt hill at the slightest provocation. They swarmed with a mission: to bite and bite and bite. He remembered the burn, remembered swearing to himself that he would never rouse their ire again. That had been the silver lining to the thunderclouds building up to Pa loading up the family and heading north to Chicago. Though Pa's factory work prospects had not panned out too well, Ronny no longer had to deal with those cursed fire ants. He certainly did not enjoy seeing this blue-jacketed offshoot of that Texas pest.

Yet, there they were. And Martin Purvis stood among them, guiding them.

Martin fucking Purvis. J. Edgar Hoover's top agent, the Crimebuster himself. His was a lovely face made for the front page and a deep growl of a voice made for radio.

You should not be here, Ronny whispered, as though saying the words might make Purvis vanish in a puff of logic. We left you no tracks to follow, G-man.

Maybe he was not here for either Kline or Ronny? What if he had come for Mad Dog's punks? That seemed terrifyingly possible. Stan Mad Dog Wydecker was a passionate guy and a thief with a reputation for ruthlessness. As far as Ronny could tell, the man earned his Mad Dog moniker several times over. However, he was not known for picking the best help. Loose lips seemed the rule aboard Wydecker's command. It was not out of the realm of possibility for the Crimebuster Kid to be after Mad Dog himself. Wydecker was not even close to being a master planner like Kline Barrow. Hell, that deficiency was the reason Wydecker had come to them about this Grange Bank job. He needed someone who could plot the scheme, someone who could pull it off. Wydecker supplied the bank and the men and the guns, Kline Barrow provided the plan and pocket watch ... It should have worked without any hitches, but someone in Wydecker's crew had left enough breadcrumbs for eager legal eagles to follow.

Ronny cursed his luck.

This was supposed to be an easy job.

Weren't they all, though? Ronny had to chuckle at the notion of a hitch-free robbery. Hell, he could count on one hand the number of heists that had gone off without some incident or other. The total number might even spill over onto his second hand's fingers. There had been the first one with Kline, of course. Straightforward and surprisingly catch free. Except for the little Situation in the vault, which had been anything but fatal ... Recollection warmed his heart and made the current conundrum all the more chilling.

This was supposed to go without any problems. No one was supposed to get shot.

Ronny stared at the civilians or the weapon in his lap or the doors or the coppers outside, anything to avoid looking toward the manager's office, source of both gun smoke smell and the ringing alarm bell. He had already seen too much of that room's occupant—the red splotch on the wall between the plaques for Best Businessman and Champion Pee Wee Golfer, a badge awarded by the gunshot that kicked manager and chair over backwards. The dead man's feet poked up over his desk—no shoes, just a pair of white socks raised like flags of surrender, a yield that came too late to save the man's life—and the fallen pants cuffs revealing snatches of pale, hairy legs ...

Ronny suppressed a shudder.

Mister, a young man said. A civilian whose balls had not yet dropped. The police are here, so you might as well give it up, huh? No need to drag this out, is there?

Ronny scanned the civilians.

The speaker was a sixteen or seventeen year old hayseed in bib overalls and a straw hat with hair the color of dirty hay and eyes as blue and empty of real life wisdom as a brook. His father, a gray mustached fellow with the fattest lips Ronny had ever seen on a man, tried to shut his boy up with hisses and spits. The boy would not have it, however. Don't you think what I'm saying makes sense?

What I think, son, Ronny said, pursing his thin lips and gazing icicles at the youth, is that you should chew floor a little harder instead of chewing on my ear. He hefted the shotgun in the lad's direction and the boy's eyes bugged in fear. He must have known a scattergun blast at this range would take both him and his father. Would cripple or even kill someone else nearby, as well. Don't you know who we are?

As though on cue, Martin Purvis called, Stanley Howard Wydecker.

Well that answers who he came for, Ronny thought. He's not here for us. It was as good as a confession from Wydecker's gang, but this knowledge did little to keep him or Kline out of the Dutch oven.

You and your boys are surrounded, Purvis continued. Come out with your hands up. Don't force us to come in there after you. People could be harmed.

Translation: We will kill whomever we need to in order to take you down.

Were Wydecker present, Ronny might well have shoved him out the door. It seemed only right, only fair. The stupid son of a bitch—from the same hayseed stock as the Indiana jerks outside—had called the Crimebuster down on all their heads.

Ronny imagined Wydecker would pay lip service to apologies. Well, I'm just sorry as all get out, brothers. Do how's about forgiving me? As though he had not personally pulled the trigger on the Browning Automatic Rifle, which erased the bank manager's sweaty forehead and intolerable stutter from this world. As though he were not responsible for the many delays on this job. As though his boyish face, brown curls and greasy smirk could see him past any blame.

Ronny amended: were Wydecker present and could Ronny roll the fat bastard out the door, then he most certainly would have. Shoving a man who weighed nigh three hundred pounds was no easy task unless that man was treated like a barrel.

We get out of this, Ronny vowed, I'll see you capped myself. Though he spoke to the Mad Dog in his mind's eye, the boy who had been suggesting surrender took this personally.

Golly, Mister. There's no cause for that. No cause.

Chew, Ronny said to the boy, floor.

You shoulda ought to've minded me, his gray-mustached father with the fat lips admonished.

Listen to your Pa, Ronny said. And keep your mind off my business. Then maybe I'll be happy enough to forget all about you.

The boy touched his forehead to the floor, and Ronny heard him praying. From deeper in the bank came raised voices. An argument? This they did not need. Not on top of the cops and Martin goddamn Purvis and a murder rap and ... nine minutes over, now.

Outside, Purvis called, You've got five minutes to make up your mind, Stanley. After that we come in like gangbusters.

They'll come in squeezing their triggers, Ronny translated, and carry us out feet first.

Line these suckers up by the front window.

Ronny glanced back to see the five and a half foot tall fireplug called Terry Tufts skulking from the vault. Tufts scowled and gestured at the civilians with Wydecker's Browning rifle. Ronny was not at all surprised that Mad Dog swapped mohaskas with his number one.

According to Mad Dog's rationale, should they get nabbed then the worst of the murder charge would swing toward Terry Tufts, since he now possessed the actual killing weapon. This optimism was unrealistic, Ronny knew, since they would all hang together. Mad Dog was not exactly a rational, reasonable man. The nickname should have been clue enough.

You listening to me?

I hear you, Ronny said, but I don't see the numbers.

The numbers? Tufts asked, his brow creasing into a serviceable imitation of a radiator. Fucking numbers? Calculate this: the blues come gunning, then they'll blow these hayseeds down before getting to us.

If they blow the hayseeds down, Ronny said, then we've got no bargaining chips. If we're getting out of this, we'll be—

Negotiating? You think the damn hayseed coppers have the brains to—

Martin Purvis is out there.

Who?

Ronny resisted the urges to either sigh or roll his eyes or slap Tufts upside the head. "You can't be serious. The Crimebuster? On the radio? He's got a show. It's almost as popular as Amos and Andy."

Oh, him. The way he said this told Ronny he had no idea who Martin Purvis was.

The F.B.I.?

I said I knew him.

Then you know he's got brains enough for a whole department.

Tufts leered. "Sounds to me like you fancy him."

Ronny suspected he would find comfort in smashing his shotgun's butt across Tuft's cheek, to shatter the man's smile and make him spit up enamel. Ronny only fancied one man, not that it was any of Tufts' business. I know the enemy, Ronny said, so I can avoid a prison sentence.

Tuft's head did the radiator impression again. I thought your man escaped a couple times.

You're thinking of Dillinger, Ronny said. Neither of us has done any real time. We ditched a Podunk cell once or twice, but never prison.

John Dillinger would shoot his way out of this, Tufts said, eyes bright at the name of the infamous American Public Enemy Number One.

Well, John Dillinger is laying face up on a mortician's slab, Ronny said. "Shot