I felt right uneasy swigging moonshine in that speak-easy at the Lexington. Long before Prohibition, I had wet my whistle in saloons everywhere north, south, and west. But Al Capone bossed Chicago from this hotel, and I was no young buck.

The cozy room had dark wood everywhere, dim lighting, a nest of round tables and satin chairs. I'd entered this fancy warren wearing my church-going duds. A gold watch dangled from my vest pocket. The suit itself was a decade older'n any of my companions, the watch long-busted.

At the polished bar, scar-faced gents packing rods pressed against me on both sides. They ignored me despite my being as skittish as a razorback caught in a corral of mustangs.

Clots of cigar smoke stuck to the low ceiling like hornets' nests. Hoarse voices muttered at either shoulder, but I wasn't eavesdropping. For nearly an hour, I'd glued my gaze to the bar's back mirror, watching a white-haired galoot at a table behind me. All that time he'd been speaking like a snake-oil salesman, whooping and windmilling his skinny arms. He'd worked hard to sell himself to three much younger chumps, all eager listeners.

Finally, each shook his hand as if he were old Woodrow Wilson still preaching the virtues of a League of Nations. My cue.

I whispered to the barkeep, then slipped him a double eagle for a bottle of prime Tennessee bourbon and two glasses. These I took to the charlatan's table.

"After all that talkin', you look thirsty, friend," I said and sat down across from him without being asked. "Heard yer spiel in the lecture hall upstairs, then bugled my bad left ear to hear yer chat with these gents."

"Ah, you heard my confession, did you?" he chuckled. He grabbed a tumbler and grinned as i filled it three-fingers full.

"I did," I said, spilling half as much into mine. Then I lifted my glass. "A toast?"

"Why sure."

"To Jesse James," I said, loud enough for all to hear. "May he prosper."

"I have," he laughed. "Nigh on to eighty years."

When we clinked glasses, I looked him over. Indeed we both seemed to have the same number of rings on our carcasses. Though he stood a mite taller, his bones packed less gristle.

"In my travels, I read some news clippings 'bout you claimin' to be Jesse," I said. "Been stayin' here at this hotel a spell and seen that poster in the foyer. Stayed over jest to hear ya speak."

"Well, I'm flattered, sir. Hope I didn't disappoint you." He smiled, then gulped a finger's worth of that sweet bourbon.

"Nope. Had me leanin' to hear every word. Didn't miss a one."

He held up his glass, squinted at its contents, and bolted down what was left. then he nodded at the bottle. I pushed it toward him.

"But there's a reason you stayed this long tonight," he said. He filled his glass, but didn't drink. "Why?" The question left his brow furrowed like a newly-plowed field.

"Well, I'm a Missouri boy like you . . . Jesse. And a good parcel of time you've been my hero. Our papers created you into a Robin Hood. Them lies?"

Most all the wanted posters mentioned Jesse James's ice-blue eyes which, at the moment, stared hard at me. A tight smile stretched his lips.

Suddenly he shook his white mane and that snake-oil smile reappeared. His teeth lacked gold, but they looked real.

"That was all myth. The Youngers, Frank, and I split whatever loot we came by with no one but our families."

"Your gang robbed a dozen banks, at least seven trains, and maybe as many stages. All after the War Between the States, right?"

He nodded.

"How many innocents killed? Ten? Twelve?"

The smile vanished. Down flew the bourbon in a single draft.

"Those papers exaggerated everything we did," he muttered.

"But YOU did kill."

He shook his head violently.

"You heard my speech. I told you everything I did . . . and why. Confessed to robbing them banks and trains, but only during the War did I kill anyone. A Union officer who would've shot me."

Smirking, I asked, "Not even Charlie Bigelow?"

Blue flames flared at me. His glass slammed the table. "In my speech I described how it all went down," he snarled. "Charlie's death. Mine. How I got away. You really list'nin?" The last few words came slurred.

"There are details of yer death worth repeatin', Jesse." I pointed at the bottle. "Since it's my booze yer drinkin', do ya mind tellin' yer story one more time?"

Nodding, he poured himself more bourbon. "Where should I start?" he grunted.

"No need to go back to yer beginnin's. Jest tell me when ya wound up in St. Joseph."

For a long moment, Jesse stared at me over the rim of his glass. "Was December eighty-one I be-lieve," he slurred. "That Northfield job had been a fiasco. Most of the gang shot, killed, or jailed. Missed my family, but I stayed on the run five years 'cause Governor Crittenden put out a ten thousand dollar bounty on my head. Had to be cagey, so I became Thomas Howard, grew a beard and colored my hair. I moved into that little house in St. Joseph, and when no one took much notice, Zee and the kids joined me by Christmas."

"How'd them Ford brothers come into the picture?"

"Knew their pa, a farmer in Ray County."

"An' you let Bob and Charlie join up with yer gang jest like that? Why'd you trust 'em, Jesse?"

"In them parts of Missouri we're all kinda blood-related and close as cousins."

"By late eighty-one you were livin' mighty respectable, you say. Why'd the Fords even come 'round yer house?"

"Money. I'd run out of it, but wanted to buy a farm in Nebraska. I'd been planning one last bank job in Kansas City, got the word out, and they agreed to help."

"So the plan all came together when?"

He scowled at me. "I told ya. Early April. Spent most of the night--"

"That would be Saturday, the day before you were allegedly shot."

"Yep." His eyes were slits.

"A lot happened in the next few hours. But little of the story you told us tonight makes sense."

Jesse glared hard at me. I just smiled.

"The well-known version says the notorious Jesse James is sittin' in his parlor Sunday morning readin' a paper. Bob and Charlie are hangin' 'round 'cause yer wife Zee's makin' breakfast fer everyone. Right?"

Jesse nodded.

"She's in the kitchen. Yer kids are elsewhere in the house. Jest you and the Fords in that room." I paused, but Jesse had no comment. "Now here's the funny part. Yer notorious, wanted fer all sorts of crimes, and yet yer not wearin' a gun, but it's within reach. Yer prob'ly a mite dozy and spot yer mother's needlepoint on the wall. It's crooked. When you get up to straighten it, Bob sees his chance and shoots you. Then he bolts and leaps the fence in the back, leavin' poor Charlie to explain what happened. Sheriff comes to find Zee by your side and the kids cryin'." I paused again. "I get them details 'bout right?"

Jesse snorted. "Yep. That's the story been told all these years. Ain't right, though, as I explained tonight and dozens of times before."

The room had become more crowded since I'd joined Jesse, and smokier. I loosened my tie, tipped my chair back a bit, and sipped some of that fine bourbon. When I leaned forward again, I stared hard at Jesse.

"Because here you are. Jesse James alive and well," I chuckled.

Jesse grabbed the bottle and poured until his glass was full.

I continued speaking as he drank.

"Yer sayin' that whole story we've been led to believe is a hoax, that Jesse James' murder was a conspiracy."

He nodded.

"Seems far-fetched to me, Jesse. Too many people involved to stage somethin' that knotty. Yer wife, the kids, them Ford boys, and likely the sheriff who first arrived to investigate . . . all tellin' lies 'bout that body in the parlor."

"Not far-fetched a'tall!" Jesse howled. When a few boys at the bar scowled at him, he continued in a hoarse whisper. "Zee and the kids would do whatever I asked of them. Them Fords got that bounty fer their troubles, and the sheriff jest wanted the fame from findin' the notorious outlaw dead and me gone outa his town."

I glared at Jesse, now slumped in his chair. "So the real plan y'all were hatchin' weren't no bank job in Kansas City, but a ruse that would allow you to escape the law and live quietly near home."

Staring at me now with glassy eyes, he said, "Yep. An' it worked!"

I shook my head and swallowed a bit more bourbon.

"Nah! Ya needed a body, Jesse, an' they don't jest pop up outa the ground, do they?"

He barked drunkenly. "Big-low did."

"Finally, we get back to him," I thought as I made a show of pushing my glass aside and steepling my fingers.

"How and why did this Charlie Bigelow appear?" I asked.

A ring of smoke drifted over, then hovered above Jesse as his eyes skittered back and forth from the bottle to his lap.

"He was this . . . this banty rooster kickin' up a ruckus in Ark-ansas and . . . Mizz-oor-i." Jesse's tongue seemed stuck in his right cheek.

"Robbin' banks and claimin' to be you."

"Yep!" Jesse's head bobbed furiously. "But I . . . never met 'im."

"How'd you lure him to St. Joe?"

"Easy! I put the word out . . . like I said . . . 'bout formin' a new gang . . . Bobby Ford made sure he got a . . . a pers'nal invite."

"And the fool came?"

"Not to the house . . . outside a town."

"That Sunday mornin'?"

"No . . . no. The day before."

"And you shot him."

Drunk or not, Jesse's eyes bore into mine. "No! Charlie Ford did. I--I jest talked to Big-low long 'nuff to distract him."

"And all three of you brought his body to yer house?"

"Wrapped him in the parlor rug. Kept him in the cellar overnight--"

"And got yer wife and kids in on the plan and rehearsed their stories."

He nodded sleepily.

"You run off that night or Sunday mornin', Jesse?"

His lids shut, and he sagged over the table. I pulled myself to my feet and stared at him.

"Jesse James, huh?" I mumbled. I left the bottle with the old fossil, knowing he'd need it when he awoke and no one was around to hear him prattle.

I took the elevator up to my small room. It was late, but I was anxious to write "Jesse's" story down in my journal before I forgot any of it. I retrieved the shabby leather-bound book from a bureau drawer.

The room had a little desk by a standing lamp. I opened the journal, read a few previous entries, and started scratching out his story--all of it, including his speech earlier, using a pen with a slightly bent nib and a bottle of ink, both provided by the hotel.

People who knew me well when I was in my prime said I had a good head for remembering details. "Smart as an owl, cunning as a fox," my brother always said of me. But I was old now, and words failed to stay in my head as long as they used to. I'd say I got down all that really mattered.

Then I took off my suit and badly wrinkled shirt and hung them in the small closet. Kept my socks on though as my feet are always cold these days. In bed I lay there smiling at a crack in the ceiling for a long while. But I couldn't sleep. Too excited I reckon.

Got myself up again and pulled the desk chair over by the window. I had a nice view of Lake Michigan. A hunter's moon hung over some sail boats in the harbor.

"Well . . . Jesse," I muttered. "Tell that story a hunnert times, who's gonna believe ya?"

Then I snorted. "'Course ya could tell it right."

I peered at the moon, but didn't smile.

"Purty moon that night, too, but you were a fool, Charlie Bigelow. Turnin' yer back on me to stare at it. Anyone who ever rode with Jesse James knew to fear, not trust, him. I shot fools. That's why Jesse James still lives."