Some Grit

Crime Fiction by C. Inanen

Coalville Oklahoma’s a pleasant little town. I’d been there for two days and gotten to know it a bit. I’d studied it, you might say. It was clean and about as prosperous a town as you’d find in southeastern Oklahoma in 1932, that is to say it had been hit hard by the Depression but wasn’t ready to go belly up or become a ghost town. People were working, some people anyway and those who weren’t, were getting by. It had tree-lined streets, a small business district unmarred by a great number of store closings, and wide well-maintained streets and roads. Things were kept painted and spruced up and it was largely law-abiding. It looked like a good place to settle down, marry and have kids unless of course you were in the bank robbery business, like me.

For me, Coalville had a different and almost unique attraction. It had two banks, as befitted a town that size, nearly 2000 people. One of them, the Coalville First Union Bank was on the north side of Center Street just four blocks from the police station. The second one is the one that caught my eye. That was the Merchants and Miner’s Bank of Coalville, located on the south side of Railroad Avenue. A set of railroad tracks paralleled Railroad Avenue on the north side and most of the rest of the town’s business district was north of that, including the police station. That fact captured my attention the first day I rolled into town in the Ford Sedan I was driving.

You might’ve heard the expression ‘The greater the risk, the greater the reward.’ I don’t believe that’s true. There’s not necessarily a relationship between risk and reward. That’s one of those things people say without thinking it through. It’s one of the reasons I’ve concentrated on small banks in small towns since I’ve embarked on my career in bank robbery. There’s less risk to those and the rewards have proven to be pretty good. There were more and larger banks in nearby Coalgate, just 40 miles away, the county seat of Coal County, Oklahoma but I had my sights set on Coalville. I’m a small town boy.

I’m no criminal mastermind. The situation brought itself to my attention while I was checking out the banks in Coalville as I was stopped waiting for a freight train on Locust Street and Railroad Avenue. Do you want to say I stumbled across it? Sure, go ahead, I’m easy to get along with. There I sat in the 1932 Ford I’d acquired two weeks earlier up in Pawnee. It had been sitting outside the municipal building with the key in it and ¾ of a tank of gas. I really like that car, the chrome and the black paint shine and it always fires right up. In fact I’ve found Fords to be dead-bang reliable automobiles for the most part and prefer them over other makes. This one is lightweight, sturdy and fast, with a V8 motor. I can run ‘er right up to 85 mph, something that those Chevrolets and Plymouths can’t do. It leaves them in the dust.

The freight train, a Fort Smith and Western Railway job was made up entirely of open hopper coal cars loaded with shiny black bituminous coal. It seemed to be slowing down as I watched. I still saw the FS&W locomotive to the east when it stopped completely. Now, I’m a patient man and I can wait for a train to clear a rail crossing in a situation like that but there wasn’t much else to look at. It sat there for a few minutes and then reversed direction, slowly backing up the way it had come. As near as I could figure it was backing those hopper cars onto a siding, where it would connect more. Sure enough, it stopped again for a few minutes. When it pulled out this time and went through the crossing it was working a lot harder. The whole thing took about 15 minutes. After the train left I turned right on Railroad Avenue. There was the bank and the seed of an idea was planted.

  My patience had been refined during an all-expense paid 24 month stay in Jefferson County, Alabama courtesy of the Alabama Department of Corrections. I did have to pay court costs which came out of the $9 a month the Sloss-Sheffield Coal Company paid the state for my services swinging a pick 12 hours a day for them in the infamous Flat Top underground mine. Let me tell you, brother, there are easier ways to learn patience than that.

I wheeled into a parking space in front of the Merchants and Miner’s Bank. I’d walk in, ask for change for a $20 and look the place over. In the back seat of the Ford, on the floor, was a tan canvas military carrying case. Inside was a model 1928A Thompson submachine gun and four 50 round drum magazines. It could fire 600 .45 caliber rounds a minute but wasn’t accurate much over 50 yards and had the tendency for the barrel to climb while firing continuously, which was somewhat offset by the weight of the drum magazine. I used that for withdrawls. It’s the gun that made the ‘Roaring Twenties’ roar. The newspapers sometimes called it the ‘Chicago typewriter’.

Stepping through the front door I held it open for an older woman with a face like an iceberg who had concluded her own banking. She looked at me, sniffed and sailed right on though with her nose in the air. No pleasing some people I guess. Even the RMS Lusitania would have changed course if they’d seen her in the water.

The interior of the bank was nicely furnished in oak. The polished hardwood floors and the vanished wood trim were set off by brass accessories and that brass shone like a newly minted penny. Somebody spent some time on a regular basis keeping everything constantly ready for inspection. There were three tellers’ cages which were located behind brass bars, access to those cages was restricted by a gleaming door which was closed. A built in counter afforded a place where customers could fill out deposit or withdrawl slips. It had pens attached to it with little chains for their convenience too and a flip-over calendar to remind patrons of the date. A fella in a blue cotton work shirt and heavy brogans stood at the counter filling out a form laboriously.

There were two oak desks in the front of the bank. One was right in the ornately lettered plate glass window. The other one was contained in a wooden surround with a swinging gate about thigh high. I suppose that afforded the skinny gink who sat at that desk with a measure of prestige if not privacy. He wore a green tinted eye shade and a white shirt with sleeve garters and was going prematurely bald. His eyes flickered toward me as I walked in and then returned to his desktop.

To my left, next to the convenience counter another set of eyes followed me as I arrived inside, those more intently. Seated behind a small square oak table was an elderly bank guard decked out in a dark blue uniform. He wore a gun belt but I wasn’t able to see what sort of firearm he favored. He sat with his arms folded across his chest and wasn’t doing anything other than watching me.

Only one of the tellers’ stations was occupied. A young woman with short bobbed auburn hair stood there ready to help me. She wore a boat neck tan dress with a floral pattern and smiled at me when she said “May I help you sir?”

“Like to change this twenty dollar bill for some smaller ones and some silver change, please” I told her as I offered the bill across the counter. She looked at it in a cursory manner and then held it up to the light with both hands. I knew it was good; I’d gotten it from the bank up in Altus, Oklahoma along with quite a number of others two days ago.

“Of course” she said when the bill passed her perusal. “Is two dollars in change sufficient?” she asked.

“That would be fine” I told her. She handed me back the money with a smile. I hadn’t been able to see into the cash drawer which was below the level of the counter. “Thank you” I told her, pocketing the money, pivoting on my heel and heading for the door. I had plenty to think about as I walked back outside into the sunlight.

Despite being literally on the wrong side of the tracks the Merchants and Miner’s Bank didn’t look as if it would be an easy nut to crack. Getting back into the Ford I reversed out onto Railroad Street and surveyed the immediate area. You’ll find a lot of towns are divided by some landmark into two parts, one more affluent than the other. The area surrounding the bank was less well-to-do than the part of town north of the railroad tracks and got progressively seedier the further west I drove. Not so clean, not so prosperous and populated by people who looked a little more beaten down. There was the almost requisite pool and billiards hall, a ‘sporting club’ which had no doubt been a bar before Prohibition had been enacted and a pawn shop. I drove past the Coalville Café and a bit further up the road saw the Modern Hotel. Right across the street was the railroad station. I pulled to a stop in front of the hotel and parked but I crossed Railroad Avenue on foot and walked into the train station.

Now, I go out of my way to look presentable, prosperous even. Nothing flashy, you understand, I want to give the impression of being a fine upstanding citizen.  I wore a snap brim Panama hat, combined with a soft gray pin-striped suit, a yellow colored silk shirt and a solid gray tie with a pocket handkerchief that matched. I thought I looked pretty good even though the suit was a little rumpled and I had the tie loosened and the top button of my shirt undone. Clean cut, clean shaven and my shoes were shined, you know? I was sometimes mistaken for an oil man. Oil is one of the industries where the money is at in Oklahoma, oil and agriculture, and I didn’t have the look of a successful rancher or farmer.

The ticket agent behind the window wore a dark blue railroad suit and was reading a newspaper. He glanced at me as I walked in and said “Help you?” Coalville was filled with people who wanted to help me, it seemed.

“I’m curious” I told him “about train service to Tulsa. One passenger.”

“Oh, we’ve only got passenger service three days a week” he replied, setting his newspaper down. “Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Train takes you to Coalgate and then you switch trains. Through ticket cost you $4 unless you want a round-trip, then it’s $7.”

I listened intently, looking him right in the eyes. There’s a trick to that. If you can hold a person’s eyes that way they are less apt to be able to describe you and sometimes are more inclined to talk.

“Oh?” I said. “I just saw a train pull through” I told him. This was a Tuesday.

“That was a freight” he explained. “Fort Smith and Western Railway sends a freight train up to the Three Brothers’ Gunbarrel Mine on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No passenger service.”

“I see” I told him. “Must be a going mine to have two trains a week” I added.

“It is” he replied. “I don’t know how many tons they take out of the Gunbarrel Mine each week but they load those cars up regular and have for a couple years. Non-union, of course”

“Really?” I replied looking at him as if he was the most interesting person in Coalville.

“Oh sure” he said. “They tried to unionize down here back in the 20’s and the Three Brother’s Coal Company just shut their doors. The UMWA, the United Mine Workers of America, John L Lewis’ bunch tried to do it. It was quite a thing. Then there wasn’t any mining except for little independent wildcat mines. None at all. That didn’t make the UMWA very popular around here when they finally gave up and pulled out. Three Brothers opened back up and people have been working ever since.”

“These days if you’re working at all, it’s a good thing” I added, to prompt him.

“You’re not a-woofin’ when you say that” he replied. “Plenty of people aren’t as fortunate as me.” He rapped his knuckles on the wooden counter. “Knock wood it stays that way. I’ve got a wife, her mother and three kids that count on me.”

“That was quite a wait for that freight train” I told him. “Must have been 15 minutes”

“They do it like that each time” he confided. “Shuttling empty cars onto the Gunbarrel Mine siding and then hauling out loaded ones. The mine’s just a half mile up the road. Less than that, maybe. Folks gripe about it but what are you gonna’ do? The Three Brothers Coal Company just about gets whatever they want, you know? The FS&W’s not about to do that at night. Why they’d have to put on a whole ‘nother shift. Times are hard.”

“I can appreciate that” I agreed. “Say, thanks for the information”

“Do you want a ticket?” he asked me.

“Not today” I told him. “I’ll be staying for a couple days.” I nodded to him and tipped my index finger to my hat brim in a polite salute. He’d told me what I needed to know.

I crossed the street to the Modern Hotel and looked the exterior over a little better than I had. I figured it for a typical railroad hotel, maybe on the second or even third owner. The trim could use a coat of paint. Some of the bricks needed tuckpointing, if not this year then certainly the next. It would have reasonable rates, worn rooms and a bare minimum of staff. Whether it had the amenities I was hoping for remained to be seen. Hotels where your bellhop can get you a quart bottle of home-made liquor, a friendly play for pay girl or lay down a wager on a horse race or sporting event were the sort I preferred. Those were the ones where if you registered as Jones or Smith there were no questions asked. Whether the room had its own bathroom and if the bed linens were fresh took a distant second.

I registered as Jones. The desk clerk, who had watery eyes explained to me that although he couldn’t get me anything to drink I could obtain what I wanted 2 blocks down at the Southeast Oklahoma Sportsman’s Club as a day member. The bathroom was down the hall and I had to carry my own luggage.

That was no problem, I only had one valise and the tan canvas carrying case. I didn’t even mind climbing 6 flights of stairs to get a room overlooking the street. I’d seen the bank closed at 4:00 and wanted to observe their procedures. That gave me enough time to clean the Thompson. A good workman takes care of his tools.

I laid everything I needed out on the worn bedspread and then removed the magazine and made sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber. I took the Phillips screw out from the top of the stock and gently pulled it away from the receiver. Then I flipped it over and took out the screw that holds the grip in place. I pulled the latch on the left hand side to the rear, sliding the bolt and barrel forward and removed it. I wiped down the stock with solvent and a soft rag using my Barlow pocket knife to get into the crevices, dried it and then did the same with the grip. Holding the barrel up to the bare light bulb in the room I looked through it and saw that the rifling was well-defined with cordite. I’d only fired about 80 shots through it since the last cleaning but it was due again. Using the bore brush and gun cleaning solvent I swabbed out the barrel and then ran cleaning patches through it until they came out clean. Good enough. I looked at the firing pin and the extractor, they were fine. The last thing I want is a jam or a misfire. I lubricated the bolt track and the moving parts, then spread a thin film of oil all over it with the used gun cleaning patches and reassembled it. Takes a long time to reload the drum magazines but I did that too.

I picked up a newspaper in the lobby, tucked it under my arm and walked down to the Merchants and Miner’s Bank looking around and gawking at the sights. I was in the vicinity when the bank guard and the skinny fella with the eyeshade stepped out and locked the door. The manager went east, the guard and I went west. He was a big old boy, nearly six feet tall and easily 250 lbs. When he stepped into the Coalville Café I wasn’t far behind. He took a seat on one of the stools at the counter. I sat down one stool away from him and spread my newspaper out on the counter. He ordered liver and onions and bean soup. I had a chicken fried steak.

“Newspaper?” I asked him when I finished the first section.

He glanced at me, somewhat surprised. “Why thank you” he said. “Appreciate that” and he accepted the paper. We both read and ate simultaneously.

When I passed him the second section after I’d looked through it I said to him “Say, didn’t I see you in the bank this afternoon?”

“Yep” he agreed. “Bank guard there. You were in about 2 or 2-1/2 hours ago.”

“That’s right” I said. “How’s the bank guard business?”

“Slow” he told me “which is just the way I like it at my age.”

“Oh?” I commented “How old are you?”

“Be 68 this December” he said. “Three years retired from the County. I do this to pass the time and for beer money.”

“Looks like you might get a chance to spend that beer money if they repeal this Prohibition the way they’re talking.

He snorted. “Dern fool law. I spent 40 years chasin’ Indians and now I’m drinkin’ with them.” He swiveled on the stool to face me “Choctaw beer” he explained. “It’ll do until something better comes along. When I first saw you I thought you might be one of those Federal revenue agents. You’ve got some of the look about you” he told me.

I shook my head. “Far from it” I answered. “I guess you could say I’m in coal.”

“Not a miner by the looks of it”

“No, although I worked underground for two years. These days I’m doing finance and transportation.”

“That’s good” he said. “I’d still be a deputy if I didn’t need to get a sittin’ down job. My old knees just won’t take it anymore. A man’s body gives out on him. Helluva thing.” He shook his head.

“This is pretty good chicken fried steak” I told him, pointing at my plate with my fork. “Do you eat here often?”

“Pretty much so” he said. “I’m not much of a cook and they bring lunch down to me at the bank. Real obliging folks here.” That answered a question I’d wondered about. “This is Three Brothers Coal Company country around here” he said. “You’re not with Three Brothers.”

“Nope” I agreed with him “and that’s what I’m finding out.”

“Shoot” he exclaimed “anybody could’ve told you that and saved you a trip.” He laughed. Friendly old timer and he sure had a size to him. That .38 Special Smith & Wesson he packed looked well cared for, too. Thumb latch on the holster, lawman style. He left for home, I collected my newspaper and headed to the Southeast Oklahoma Sportsman’s Club to see what it cost to become a day member and buy a little bit of sippin’ whisky.

The following day I woke up late with a hangover that made it painful to try and see straight. Whatever they put in that pop-skull whisky which is sold at the Southeast Oklahoma Sportsman’s Club sure had a kick to it. I had all I could do to drag myself out of bed, get in the Ford and drive down to Locust Street where I turned right instead of left which would take me back over the tracks and into the heart of the business district. It took me a while to figure a route out of town that would take me to the State Road but I got it done. Then I drove it again from start to finish.

After that I took a nap. Having started to feel about half-way decent I walked down to the Coalville Café and tried their pork chops. They weren’t bad at all so I had a bowl of apple sauce for dessert. I went back to the Modern Hotel and slept for 14 hours.

Thursday morning arrived. I shaved, bathed and packed. The very last thing I put into my valise was the pillowcase from the room. A few errant goose down feathers fluttered to the floor when I shook it out. I don’t get nervous before deals like this. Some people do but it’s just another job of work to me. Hoe the garden, tip the coal out of the ore cart, swing a pick on your knees in a damp cramped underground shaft for 12 hours straight, they’re all jobs. You do the best you can. I figure I’m pretty lucky to even have one. Plenty of people don’t.

I checked out of the Modern and went back to the Coalville Café where I lingered over a newspaper and breakfast. I was getting to be a regular there. Then I idled away the morning at Damon’s Billiards and Pool Emporium. I was the only customer there. After the first 5 minutes my skills didn’t hold any interest for the man who took my money, he sat down and read a dime novel, never glancing at me again until I left.

I kept an eye on the parking spaces in front of the Merchants and Miner’s Bank. When the one I wanted opened up I motored the Ford over there and backed in. I took the Thompson out of its carry case along with a spare drum magazine. 50 rounds should be plenty but you never know, I might run into some kind of a jackpot where I needed more. The drum went into the pillowcase and I sat in the front seat with my arm up on the seatback and the newspaper propped up on the steering wheel, the tools of my trade on my lap and waited.

The crossing gates went down at Locust Street, bells rang and lights flashed. That was one of the new-styled automatic gates. They didn’t require a man from the train to lower and raise them. I suppose those men were standing in the unemployment lines now. The train was right on time. You can count on the Fort Smith and Western railroad. When the steam locomotive came into view I left the car and walked casually to the sidewalk with the Thompson under my arm. I opened the door to the bank and stepped in, raising the barrel of the gun until it pointed at the ceiling and let off a 2 second burst. It sounded like the sewing machine from hell. Plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling like an indoor snowfall. That got their attention.  I shouted “This here’s a bank robbery! Put your hands in the air and your knees on the ground!”

I yelled loud enough for everyone to hear me but I was looking at the old bank guard seated behind his table. Recognition was one of the things I saw in his eyes as he stood up, pressing an alarm button on the table. A high pitched constant clatter of a bell started immediately. He reached for the thumb latch on his holster and I shook my head. I shouted again to make myself heard over the alarm. “Everybody does what I say, nobody will get hurt.”

The guard had unlatched the retaining strap and had his hand on the grip of his Smith & Wesson. “Don’t try it, old-timer” I told him.

“Coal business my ass” he said. He tried it. I fired another burst into his midsection, right in his belly. His eyes bugged out and he stood stock still for a moment. He’d never cleared leather with his revolver. Then he collapsed onto the little table. With 8 or 10 rounds in him he fell to the floor and the table tipped over. I reached down and slid his pistol out of the holster.  I didn’t see right off how to swing the cylinder open so I put it in my pillowcase and turned to face the rest of the room.

One of the two women standing in line at the teller’s window had gotten down on her knees with her hands in the air. The other one had her hands over her eyes and was sobbing. The teller stood still, shocked. The skinny balding gink still sat at his desk, his mouth open in a wide ‘O’ of shock or disbelief. I flipped the latch on the door and said it again. “Hands in the air and knees on the ground! Do it now! You do what I say and nobody else needs to get hurt.” Slowly they all complied except the woman who was sobbing. She just stood there crying. I walked over to her and slapped her face hard. “Get down on your knees” I told her. She finally did. I looked at the old bank guard; he was on the floor, curled into a fetal position. Blood was already pooling around him on   the polished hardwood. I gestured with the Thompson toward the skinny manager or whatever he was. “Open the door to the back” I told him.

The alarm clattered. The freight train across the street clanked, rattled and clashed connecting hopper cars then it began to chug forward. The dullard at the desk said, apparently to himself “I’ll need my keys” before he rose and walked to the door leading to the back. His hands shook so much he couldn’t insert the key in the lock. I finally had to do it for him.

“You two” I told the women who had been waiting in line “Come over here” The first woman who had knelt ushered the crying woman across the floor toward me and I pushed them into the enclosure behind the tellers’ windows. With 4 of us in the room with the safe it was crowded. The man with the eyeshade couldn’t open the safe, either. I had to do that, with him repeating the combination for me.

When I came out of the back, the pillowcase bulging with cash, the bank guard was nowhere to be seen. Following the blood trail on the floor with my eyes I finally saw him, behind the desk in the front window. He was lying down flat with just his head and shoulders visible and he had a small pistol gripped with both hands. He’d been carrying a belly gun. He fired as soon as I saw him and a sharp tug at my left calf was immediate.

I fired a good long burst from the Thompson. Wood splinters from the desk flew and he dropped the gun. I hurried to the front door, unlocked it and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He’d shot me in the leg. Some of those old timers had an awful lot of grit in them.

The FS&W train was still blocking Locust Street to the north when I turned right and headed out of town. 

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Bio: Craig Inanen lives in the Midwest USA by way of Texas, California and Oklahoma. It took a lifetime to make the trip but he did a lot of stopping off.

Cover photo by Getty Images

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