Inmate 1577

15

May 16, 1958

Columbia, Alabama

Walton MacNally adjusted his black fedora. He was standing half a block away observing the First National Thrift building-specifically taking note of the flow of people entering and exiting. Evaluating the quality of the clientele and looking for potential pitfalls and traps.

Last time, he more or less had gone in unprepared and, in the end, that had worked out pretty well. But he knew that it wasn’t worth taking such a risk again. He was smart enough to know that he’d gotten lucky.

This time, he wanted to think things through, have a sense of what the bank looked like inside, where the security guards were located, how the tellers dealt with the customers. He wasn’t sure what he should be looking out for, but he would keep his mind-and his eyes-open.

MacNally made three trips past the bank on foot before going inside. It was a stately interior, with marble columns and intricately carved wood desks, velvet-looking drapes covering the tall windows. This was a classier outfit than the community thrift he’d robbed last time. Three security guards stood at strategic locations, in a triangle formation: one at each end of the teller’s row, and one in the back, amongst the executive desks.

He tapped his foot with nervous energy. This would undoubtedly be a tougher job.

“Can I help you with something?”

MacNally spun around, nearly knocking over the woman who was behind him. “I-I was just looking. I was-I was just thinking about opening up an account and I wanted to check the place out.”

The middle-aged woman with poofed beauty parlor-set hair tilted her head. “Are there any questions I can answer for you? Would you like to come over to the vice president’s desk and talk with him about the ba-”

“No-no, that’s okay,” MacNally stammered. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

The woman nodded slowly. “All right. Well, if you think of anything you want to ask, my name is Nancy and I’ll be right here.”

MacNally managed a half smile and, like he had seen Sinatra do in the movies, he brought two fingers up to his fedora and tipped it back. He then gave one more glance around and walked outside.

MACNALLY SAT AT THE DINNER table, a pathetic spread of food in front of him and Henry. In addition to a hunk of stale bread and a boiled potato, the only thing that held any substantial nutrients were two carrots he’d pulled from a neighbor’s garden on his way home.

“I went by the bank,” MacNally said. He felt odd discussing this with his son. But he had no one else. And Henry, despite his youth, possessed insight and hardened analysis that never ceased to astonish him. “I’ve got concerns.”

Henry put his fork down. He tilted his head, examining his father’s eyes. “You’re afraid. I can see it on your face.”

“No, that’s not it at all.” But of course, that’s exactly what it was.

“We need the money.” Henry looked down at the dinner plate, as if emphasizing his point. “You want me to go by tomorrow, take a look see? Maybe I can think of something.”

“No. I don’t want you going anywhere near there. I’ll handle it.”

Henry stared for a moment at his father, then grabbed the loaf of bread and yanked off a handful. He shoved it into his mouth and looked down at the table as he chewed.

MacNally stared off at the wall. Embarrassed. His pride bruised like an apple dropped on a hardwood floor.

“There’s this guy a few blocks away who needs somebody to mow his lawn. He ain’t got no kids. I can do it, git us some money.”

MacNally did not look at his son. “No.”

“I already told him yes.”

“You-” MacNally locked eyes with Henry, then dropped his gaze to his plate. The hunk of bread stared back at him. “Okay,” he said in a low voice.

They finished eating in silence. Then MacNally took an axe out to the yard and began chopping wood. It would be cold tonight, and splitting the logs worked up a sweat-but more than anything, it worked off his anger and frustration.

MacNally would go back to the bank tomorrow. There had to be a way to get at the money. He just had to figure it out.