In an ironic twist, the ashes of Frank the bank robber hid in a bank vault until his wife died in 1944. Now both lie in the Hill Park Cemetery in Independence.
Frank always respected dead bodies. Some folks say he had a hand in the honorable return of one corpse. It happened after the Civil War Battle of Wilson’s Creek near Springfield. During that battle, General Nathaniel Lyon became the first Union general killed in the War Between the States. Not particularly loved by his troops, Lyon’s body was left on the battlefield when the Union withdrew to Springfield. The Confederates recovered the body and took it to a makeshift hospital and morgue. They cleaned General Lyon and prepared the body for burial. They sent a messenger to the Union forces, who agreed to accept the general’s body. A teamster wagon caught up with the retreating Union forces and delivered the corpse. One of the teamsters was Frank James, so the story goes.
There are a million stories about the James Gang. But I know this one is true: My Dad and Frank James were invited to work at the same job. Not at the same time, of course. In his later years, Dad was drafted to become a doorkeeper at the Missouri Senate, a job he held until he died. In 1904, legislators invited Frank to become a doorkeeper at the Missouri House of Representatives. But Democrat leaders got cold feet at the last moment and withdrew their offer. Hell of a thing to do to a lifelong loyal Democrat. That made Frank mad. He never voted for a Democrat again.
I headed south into Clay County, Jesse’s back yard, veering around Smithville Lake, a man-made beauty which has attracted hundreds of homes to its shores. I wonder what Mawmaw would think about all this settlement so close to her homestead on the outskirts of Kearney. She’d probably be more upset to learn that Jesse has been laid to rest three times now. But that’s what happens to real-life legends who won’t hire Pinkertons to guard them.
Personally, I think Jesse would appreciate the fact that today from the James homestead, he could ride two miles west after supper, hop on I-35 in a BMW and be in Northfield, Minnesota, by the time the bank opens. Better yet, he could fly to Northfield from the Roosterville Airport, minutes from his family’s homestead.
If you believe all the stories about his whereabouts, Jesse is the only person who has been to more places in Missouri than I have. I’m okay with that.
The Best Place to Hide Fried Chicken
I don’t know if Jesse James ever ate fried chicken. Historians don’t seem to care much about that. But I care. And I found a spot in Jesse’s back yard that I suspect he would’ve liked. Laid back. Unpretentious. And good.
The first thing Jesse would like about Harmer’s Café is that it’s as secluded as a hideout. At least it’s secluded from major highways. You won’t see a sign on I-29 directing you to tiny Edgerton, home of Harmer’s, since interstate signs won’t point to any town that sits two blacktops away from the highway. And you won’t see any billboards touting Harmer’s charms. It’s the kind of place that relies entirely on word-of-mouth.
Mouth is the operative word. Harmer’s eschews fancy visual cues. There’s no mood music, no corporate brand. The restaurant’s interior offers a refreshing ambiance that’s, well, real. Real linoleum. Real vinyl. Real fake pictures on the walls. In this age of corporate color schemes and themey menus, plastic décor and cardboard taste, Harmer’s hearkens back to the time when small town corner cafés had character. The booths, a victory of function over form, jut from the walls and point to randomly positioned four-top tables in the middle of the room. To paraphrase the Bard: the food’s the thing.
Harmer’s serves catfish on Fridays and Saturdays and fried chicken on Thursdays and Sundays. In between, main courses range from meatloaf to ham, served blue-plate style. Each side gets the loving attention you’d give your fiancée. For example, the green beans aren’t just green beans. They snuggle with onions, brown sugar and bacon.
Because my body is a temple, I had the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes, smothered in cream gravy. Stewed tomatoes added some color. For extra fortification, and upon recommendation, I punished a piece of chocolate cream pie. Satisfied, I pushed away from the table and paid cash, the customary currency of the small town café, although I hear Harmer’s recently began accepting credit cards.
Taking one last look around, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen through the slit where the cooks pass food to the servers. A rush of gratitude compelled me to stride over and shout a thank-you through the hole in the wall. Cooks don’t hear “thank you” enough. Just ask ’em. On my way out, I fished for a complimentary toothpick from the little metal dispenser on the counter. After lunch, a toothpick becomes more than a toothpick. It’s a memory chip, an afternoon reminder of a satisfying meal.
As the Kansas City skyline jumped above the horizon, I could see the old Art Deco skyscrapers standing defiantly against their sleeker, newer sisters. Behind them is the unique silhouette of a penthouse restaurant shaped like a flying saucer atop the old Hyatt Regency Hotel. Even though the hotel has changed names, the flying saucer still sits atop the building, a constant reminder to me that this was the grisly scene of a skywalk collapse in the hotel’s lobby back in 1981.
The collapse killed 114 people who had gathered for happy hour at a Friday tea dance to celebrate the birth of bebop in Kansas City. The huge crowd was jumpin’ to the music, and the highest skywalk couldn’t bear the weight. It gave way, pancaking dancers on two skywalks beneath, all crashing to the crowded dance floor below. I was driving through Kansas City on that day, and I remember seeing scores of ambulances and rescue engines screaming down I-70. I turned my radio to a news station and got sketchy details of the story. I could see the top of the hotel 20 blocks away. Its flying saucer looked normal. No smoke. No fire. But the lobby was a deadly gumbo of steel and concrete and flesh and blood.
Today I thought about a different Hyatt death story.
I heard about it from the lips of a good friend. Among the things Bob Smith does well, storytelling is at the top of the list. He swears this story is true. Bob’s not dead. But for the purposes of this story, he became a dead guy.
Bob got mad at Kansas City’s old Hyatt Regency Hotel. Earlier he had called the hotel and booked a room for the night. As the day progressed, he realized that his work was finished early, and he could drive home. So he called his assistant to have her cancel the room. But the hotel refused. The hotel’s policy said that rooms must be canceled before 3 p.m. of the day of occupancy. Bob’s assistant called at 3:05. So the room was his.
Fine. He went to the hotel lobby and calmly approached the desk clerk, a young man probably in his first job.
“Can you give me Bob Smith’s room number, please?” Bob asked.
“Are you Bob Smith?”
“No,” Bob lied.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the hotel can’t give out information like that. I’ll ring his room for you....”
“Well, that won’t work,” Bob said. “You see, Mr. Smith died last night, and I’m from the family. We’ve decided that since he had this room, and we couldn’t cancel it, we’d just go ahead and have the visitation here instead of at the funeral home. You know, we’ll save expenses. Oh, and the casket will be here in a few minutes. Can we get a couple of bellhops to help us get the casket on the elevator? And that marquee over there... we’ll use that to announce the floor where Bob’s body will be. Mourners will start arriving about 4:30.”
The blood drained from the desk clerk’s face. “Please, sir, tell me you’re joking.”
“I am,” Bob said. “And please tell your management what I think
