Free Public Enemies by Bryan Burrough Page B

between two wooded hills. On one side stretched seven ornate bathhouses. On the other were a line of pool halls and taverns that ended at two casinos, the Belvedere and the Southern Club. Brothels and cabarets dotted the surrounding houses. It was all illegal, but everyone, from the governor of Arkansas on down, looked the other way. The mayor and the local police ran it all like a corporation, taking their cut from every whore, blackjack dealer, and pool shark.
    Agent Lackey slowed the car when he spotted Otto Reed on the sidewalk across from the White Front Cigar Store. The two men had brought Reed, police chief in the Oklahoma town of McAlester, because he had followed Nash’s career and knew him on sight. Reed leaned down to talk as Lackey pulled to the curb. “That’s Nash,” Reed said, motioning toward a man standing inside the White Front’s door.
    “I’m not so sure, Otto,” Smith said. “That fella’s got a mustache and he’s got a full head of hair. Nash is bald.”
    “He’s heavier than the description,” Lackey said.
    “That’s Nash,” Reed repeated. “I know him too well.”
    They decided to take Nash themselves. Reed climbed into the car and Lackey made a U-turn, drawing up to the White Front. The store sold cigars and 3.2 beer up front; in back was a poolroom. Run by a gambler named Dick Galatas, the White Front was a hangout for visiting gangsters. All three men checked their pistols, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. Though carrying guns violated FBI regulations, the Bureau had a “look away” policy for certain veteran agents.
    First through the door, Agent Lackey stepped to the counter and asked to buy a cigar. There was no sign of Nash. The others followed. A dozen customers were clustered around a set of café tables; more men appeared to be in back, by the pool tables. Lackey noticed a double-barreled shotgun leaning against a wall. Otto Reed saw it, too.
    Just then Nash stepped out of the poolroom, holding a glass of beer. He walked toward the front door as if to leave. Lackey and Smith drew their guns and took a step toward Nash. Reed produced a pistol and pointed it toward the other customers. Everyone froze.
    “Frank Nash,” Smith announced. “Stick up your hands.”
    No one identified themselves as FBI; no one said anything about an arrest. Nash didn’t recognize Reed; he thought he was being murdered. “Don’t shoot,” he yelped. He was frisked, then hustled out to the waiting car. Outside, Reed shoved Nash into the front seat then ducked in behind him. Agent Lackey slid behind the wheel and drove east out of town, toward the road to Little Rock.
    After a moment, Agent Smith leaned forward, told Nash to raise his hands, and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. He then tugged lightly at Nash’s toupee. It came off. “Take it easy with the hairpiece,” Nash protested. “It set me back a hundred bucks.”
    Smith reached for Nash’s mustache, but the prisoner raised his hands. “It’s mine,” he said.
     
     
    The White Front’s owner, Dick Galatas, was inside the café when Nash was taken. The moment the lawmen left, he was on the phone to Herbert “Dutch” Akers, the town’s corrupt chief of detectives. Galatas said a Chicago businessman named George Miller had just been kidnapped by three men in a black sedan. “Stop ’em! Now!” he hollered. Akers, who knew Miller’s real identity, began phoning nearby police departments. f
    Akers’s calls produced fast results. Twenty miles east of Hot Springs, at the town of Benton, the FBI agents rounded a turn and were stunned to see a group of armed men lined up across the highway. Agent Lackey had no choice but to stop. A man stepped forward and introduced himself as the local sheriff. He explained he was looking for the kidnappers of a “Mr. Miller,” out of Hot Springs. The agents flashed their identification cards and explained who their prisoner was. After a few tense moments, the sheriff waved them on.
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