Shot in the Heart - Mikal Gilmore [95]
On those evenings when Gary still came home, he had to walk past a large supermarket located up the road from Reed College, on Woodstock Boulevard, about a mile from our house. It was one of my family’s favorite shopping places, and my father had long been regarded as one of the market’s best customers. Once, a few years before, Gary had been caught shoplifting there, and the store manager dragged him by the arm through the store in front of everybody and called my father. My father remained welcome at the market, but Gary was permanently banned. The episode must still have rankled him. Coming home one night, Gary found himself outside the store at closing time. He put a woman’s nylon stocking over his head, walked into the store’s office, and stuck a gun in the manager’s side—the same man who had dragged him by the arm years before. “Unless you want me to put this barrel up your ass,” Gary told the manager, “and then squeeze the trigger, you’ll give me all the money you have in that safe.”
Gary walked out of the store with $18,000 in a grocery bag that night. It held him over for a while. He was never arrested for the robbery. He was never even suspected of it.
ANOTHER NIGHT, GARY was out with a friend named Clyde. They took some pills and went to a Little Richard show. They were celebrating. In an effort to get Gary to straighten up, my father had bought him a used Oldsmobile. This was Gary’s first night with the car. It was a beauty and he was proud as hell of it. Around two in the morning, Gary and Clyde were driving down 82nd Avenue—the main drag on Portland’s east side, and a haven for car lots. Gary’s Olds ran out of gas.
“Shit,” Clyde said, “what do we do now?”
Gary shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked out the window and saw a used car lot. “I guess we steal another car.”
A few minutes later Gary and Clyde were speeding down 82nd in a 1956 Chevrolet, Gary behind the wheel. They ran a red light, and a moment later a cop car was on their tail, its red lights flashing.
Gary and Clyde looked at each other. “What do you want to do?” Clyde asked. Gary smiled and said: “Fuck ’em.” Then he hit the gas.
In those days, 82nd Avenue led quickly and easily to the rural roads around Portland—a no-man’s-land then, a no-man’s-land now. Gary headed for one of the country roads, roared onto it, and had the Chevy up to 110 miles per hour. There were three police cars coming up fast behind them. Up ahead, Gary saw a blockade of trucks. He swung wildly around the blockade at the last moment, cleared it, and kept on going. Behind him, two of the cop cars wrecked.
“Hoo, boy!” shouted Clyde. “We’re gangsters.”
A few minutes later Gary heard a sputter. The car was running out of gas. He pulled into a farmhouse driveway, and he and Clyde jumped out. Within moments, fifteen cops were swarming the place, firing warning shots in the air. They grabbed Clyde before he could run or hide, but Gary got away. The next day, trying to save her brother’s ass, Clyde’s sister told the police: “You can find Gary Gilmore staying at a fruiter’s place in downtown Portland.” She gave them John’s address.
Gary and Clyde stayed in the county jail for a few weeks and were remanded to adult court. Clyde was scared as hell, but Gary seemed to be taking it in stride. His confidence paid off. My father hired a good lawyer—one of Portland’s best political attorneys—who somehow got Gary off with one-year probation. Even got the other kid off too. It was back to the good times.
SOONER