to the bandits as they went by. Hanford Mobley tooted the horn and waved back.
They let pass another three months and then again picked a job west of Lake Okeechobee and well away from their own territory, this time robbing a bank in Fort Meade of a little more than five thousand. Their reputation had spread and some of the patrons seemed thrilled to be part of an Ashley Gang holdup. “I do believe that teller was about to ask you for your autograph,” Clarence Middleton said to John Ashley as Hanford Mobley steered with one hand and worked the levers with the other and his foot danced on the Model T’s left pedal. They made away into the pinelands on the Frostproof Road. “You all see that pretty thing was standin near the door?” Hanford Mobley said happily. He was sixteen years old this day and feeling very much a man. “I thought she was gonna kiss me on my way out. I shoulda slowed down for a minute and give her the chance, what I shoulda done.”
Newspaper accounts of the robberies used such phrases as “bad actors” and “desperadoes” in describing the Ashley Gang. They referred to the “menacing Wild West deportment of these fearless outlaws.”
When they walked into the Avon bank for the second time they did not even take out their guns. The customers nudged each other and whispered, “It’s them! It’s them!” as Hanford Mobley and Clarence Middleton stood by the door with their hands in their pockets and smiled pleasantly at everyone. John Ashley walked past Weatherington at his desk and nodded at him and the manager nodded jerkily in response and dropped his eyes back to the open ledger in front of him. George Doster had seen them come in and had already put all the paper money into two bags by the time John Ashley arrived at his window.
“Hey George,” John Ashley said.
“Good afternoon, Mister Ashley, sir.” The other teller had seen what was happening and now hastily filled a bag with the contents of his cash drawer and handed it to George Doster. Doster pushed the three bags of money across the counter to John Ashley.
“How much, George?”
“About four thousand five hundred, Mister Ashley. We dont keep as much on hand as we used to before your visit last time.”
“You aint lying now are you, George?”
“Nossir, I wouldnt lie to you, Mister Ashley.”
“How about the vault, George?”
“There’s only about fifteen hundred back there, sir, and, well, I was hoping you might let us keep that so we could at least stay open for business through the rest of the day. If we have to close up for lack of money I dont get paid for the lost time, sir, and, well…I’ve got a family, Mister Ashley. Surely you understand.”
“Got kids, George?”
“A boy and a girl, sir. And one on the way.”
“Oh hell, George, keep the damn fifteen hundred.” John Ashley picked up the bags of money and headed for the door. As he passed Weatherington’s desk he said to the manager, “You ought give that Doster fella a promotion, saving you money like he just did. Got a good head on his shoulders.”
Shortly before Christmas John Ashley walked by himself into the bank at Delray with no intention but to exchange a sack of one hundred silver dollars for a hundred in paper money. The silver had come to him in payment for a load of Old Joe’s bush whiskey from a longtime customer who owned a grocery store at the edge of town. The bank manger glanced out the front window and recognized John Ashley coming across the street and he ordered the head teller to empty the cash drawers into a sack and do it quick.
Now John Ashley came inside but before he could say a word the manager handed him the bag and said, “That’s most of the paper money, Mister Ashley, a little more than four thousand dollars. I swear I’m not lying. There’s about five hundred left in the vault and I wish you’ll leave us with that, Mister Ashley—like you let that other bank keep some. To stay open for business.”
The man was near breathless and his face shone with sweat despite the cool dryness of the winter morning. John Ashley stroked his chin and peeked into the bag and saw the money in there and he smiled at the manager whose left eye was twitching.
“Well now, sir,” John Ashley said, “thank you kindly.” He walked out with the bag of silver dollars in one hand and the sack of paper currency in the other and went across the street to his car. Albert Miller cranked up the engine while a Delray policeman stood on the corner not twenty feet away with his hands behind him and stared up at the sky as though utterly entranced by the blueness of it. Now Albert got behind the wheel and they chugged on out of town. As the car passed by, people heard them guffawing.
THIRTEEN
January 1920
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY BILL ASHLEY AND HIS PRETTY BUT RETICENT wife Bertha took supper with the rest of the family at Twin Oaks. The Volstead Act, by which the Eighteenth Amendment would be enforced, was within three weeks of passage. During the meal the talk was of family matters, of Butch and Daisy’s new baby—about whom Ma had lots of news by way of a recent letter from Daisy—and of which neighbors had married and which had died. When everyone had done eating, the women cleared the table and left the room and the men rolled cigarettes and fired up pipes.
Bill beamed at Old Joe and said, “I told you a long time back this Prohibition business was coming, didnt I? Well, pretty soon now we’re gonna be makin so much money we’re gonna need up a whole
Old Joe puffed his pipe and nodded without expression.
“We’re still doin good with the shine,” Bill said, addressing the table in the manner of a finance manager at a stockholders’ meeting. “We’re selling more to the Indians than we ever did and we put up two new camps since Bobby Baker last busted one up. That gives up six in operation. We’re makin enough of the stuff to supply our regular customers all up and down the coast.” He paused to sip at his cup of shine, the only one he would drink all night. “The thing is, we ought to be sellin more to the townfolk, specially to them down in Miami, and it’s two reasons we aint. One is, they been stockpilin the factory stuff since before the Eighteenth got passed, and the other reason is they know can
“By smuggling, you mean,” Frank said, his smiling face brightly eager.
“That’s what I mean,” Bill said. He took off his rimless spectacles and cleaned the lenses with a bandanna and put the glasses back on and adjusted them carefully and then looked at them all and said, “Soon as we start bringin factory stuff over from the islands we’ll be makin some real money.”
“Damn right,” Ed said. The scarred grin pale against his brown face.
“I believe it’s
“It’s been a payin proposition, I’ll admit,” Bill said, his tone patient. “But you been luckier’n any bankrobber I ever heard of. I always said the returns on bankrobbin werent worth the risks and I still dont think so. The longer you keep at it, the less money you’re like to get from any one bank and the more chance there is you’ll get caught or shot, one. On account of you robbin them, none of the banks are carryin as much money as they used to and so the take’s been gettin smaller. And now every town between Fort Pierce and Miami and all the way over to Fort Myers has got an armed guard in it. The local police everwhere are keepin a closer eye. They’re all just hopin you’ll try robbin them next so they can shoot you dead and get a reward. Truth be told, Johnny, bankrobbin’s about the worst business there is right now in terms of risk against likely reward. Smugglin aint near as much risk, not yet anyway, and it pays as good as banks and it’s gonna way pay better still when all that booze they’re stockpiling in Miami starts running out.”
Old Joe looked at John Ashley. “Man’s got a argument,” he said.
John Ashley drummed his fingers on the table. Something there was about his elder brother that irritated him
