“Some day they’ll go down together;
And they’ll bury them side by side,
To a few it’ll be grief –
To the law a relief –
But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.”
- Bonnie Parker, The End of the Line, a poem written weeks before her death in 1934
“An hour passed, then two. At nine o’clock there was no sign of Clyde and Bonnie, but the posse stayed in place. [Frank] Hamer had no doubt he was coming – he knew from months of careful study that Clyde always kept his word about appointments. Finally at 9:15 they heard a car approaching from the north several seconds before it even came into sight. The throaty purr of the engine indicated the automobile was more powerful than most other vehicles on Bienville Parish roads. Then the gray Ford V-8 sedan roared into view a quarter-mile to the lawmen’s right. Clyde as usual had a heavy foot on the gas pedal, and in contrast to the lumbering trucks that had passed earlier, the Ford was moving fast, possibly at 60 miles per hour or more on this long, straight stretch. [Deputies] Hinton and Alcorn squinted at the vehicle. ‘This is him,’ Hinton whispered to Alcorn. ‘This is it, it’s Clyde…’”
- Jeff Guinn, Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie & Clyde
Along with peanut butter & jelly and Batman & Robin, Bonnie & Clyde have to rank among the most recognizable pairings in American cultural history. It has been almost ninety years since they died in a hailstorm of bullets, and fifty-four years since Arthur Penn’s classic film turned them into icons of something they never represented. Though many people would be hard-pressed to provide details about Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, I’d venture that most at least recognize their names, recall that they were outlaws, and know that they went out of this world with a bang.
During the 1930s – a time of dust storms, depression, joblessness, and a looming world war – America’s “public enemies” became celebrities. People followed John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, and Pretty Boy Floyd with the rapt attention that is today given to fantasy sports. Even in a crowded field of debonair thieves with three-piece suits, snappy quips, and remorseless hearts, Bonnie and Clyde stood out. It was not because they were especially good at stealing. As Jeff Guinn points out repeatedly in his excellent Go Down Together, the Texas-born duo was pretty incompetent when it came to heists. Most of the time, they were sticking up gas stations and local businesses for a few dollars a pop, while true professionals such as Dillinger – with deeper underworld connections – were raking in thousands.
What set Bonnie and Clyde apart – what immortalized them – was the admixture of sex and violence. When pictures of Bonnie chomping a cigar and holding guns were published in papers, it created an image that has endured for decades.
In Go Down Together, Guinn sets out to de-glamorize the couple, to push back against the image of slick robberies, fast cars, and attractive young lovers bucking the system. He tries to show Bonnie and Clyde (who he resolutely refers to as “Clyde and Bonnie”) for what they really were: penny-ante crooks with short statures who took approximately thirteen lives for what amounted to pocket change.
Almost every page of Go Down Together is devoted to miniaturizing Bonnie and Clyde, scrubbing them of the sheen of myth, placing them back into context, and presenting them as the flawed – even despicable – beings that they were.
The most surprising thing about this book is that when Guinn is finished giving us “the true, untold story,” we are still left with one hell of an epic and unforgettable ride.
***
Published in 2009, Go Down Together was Guinn’s first book. Since that time, he has become one of the best chroniclers of historical true crime, producing excellent volumes on Charles Manson and Jim Jones.
It is hard to describe what exactly makes Guinn so effective in his storytelling. His prose is not flashy or memorable. His narratives are constructed chronologically, with no non-linear flourishes. While always serviceable, I would not say that he is especially brilliant with scene-setting or set-piece sequences.
For all that, I’ve found his books effortless engrossing. If I had to point to one thing, it’s the details. Guinn does his research, as he demonstrates with his bibliographical essay and annotated endnotes. This digging allows him to recreate Bonnie and Clyde’s world to such an extent that even when their trail goes cold, there never seems to be a gap, because Guinn is able to give a really good guess as to what they were doing.
Guinn also uses those details to give extremely strong characterizations of both Bonnie and Clyde. I’ve often said that one of the marks of a good biography is that you have an idea of what it’d be like to interact with the subject, to know what they might say or how they might respond in a given situation. I got that sense here. I often felt like I was sitting between them in some cramped and stolen coupe, feeling the engine roar as sock-footed Clyde pressed the accelerator; listening to Bonnie happily chatter away; watching the small towns and isolated farms roll past; smelling their body odor because they’ve spent weeks on the run, camping out in the woods.
Importantly, Guinn is clear-eyed about who he is writing about. He lays out the complexities of their upbringings in the West Dallas slums, shows the desperation of their circumstances, but never lets them off the hook, never apologizes for their actions. Clyde was an outlaw and a killer, and in no way a decent member of civilization. Despite Guinn’s soft spot for Bonnie – a wannabe poet who was not likely a trigger-puller – he still shows her as an aider and abettor who refused to leave Clyde’s side, even knowing what he’d done.
***
Go Down Together is neatly divided into four sections. The first covers Bonnie and Clyde’s childhoods and early years, including Clyde’s time in Eastham Prison, where he killed an inmate who repeatedly raped him. The second follows the escapades of the so-called Barrow Gang, as they made a crime-filled circuit of Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Missouri (among other states). About the only thing missing in this section was a map, which would have made following their oft-lethal adventures a bit easier. The third section follows the hunt for Bonnie and Clyde, led by famed Texas Ranger Frank Hamer, which culminated in a controversially excessive ambush near Gibsland, Louisiana. The final, shortest portion of the book is devoted to tying up loose ends and meditating on the twisted legacies of Bonnie and Clyde. Taken altogether, it is hard to find fault with this presentation. It answers just about every question, points out areas of dispute with regard to the evidence, and is written with an understated compassion, especially as to the Barrow and Parker families.
***
Go Down Together is revisionist history. It is what we might call a deconstruction, an excavation of the Bonnie and Clyde legend that scours away romance, hyperbole, and false motivations. From a reader’s standpoint, the trouble with such a deconstruction is that it can leave you wondering why you bothered in the first place. In other words, there are times when you scrape away so many layers that you are left without anything at all.
The minor genius of Go Down Together is that even after power-washing the barnacles of symbolism, gossip, and lore, what remains is quite potent. By adding shade and dimension to Bonnie and Clyde, they become more interesting, not less. By focusing on their bungles, their mistakes, the senselessness of their carnage, the saga becomes richer and deeper than the quasi-Robin Hood antics depicted in the contemporary press, or the antiestablishment overtones of the 1967 movie. By chasing after the truth – elusive as it is – Guinn has created a profound human tragedy that is far more resonant than the fables that have come before.