We wrote a ballad about the Remaley gang.
https://suno.com/song/e622bfd8-6d32-4ba9-bc8f-75b6e9393794
Week by week, we shared the story of the Sea Island, her crew, and her cargo, pieced together from dusty court records, whispered accounts, and a bit of good old-fashioned imagination.
If you haven’t yet experienced our full Six-part fictional saga—based on true events and hidden below—now’s the time to settle in. Grab yourself a cup of coffee—or something a bit stronger, if you’re so inclined—and get comfortable. Because here in Toledo, history isn’t confined to dusty books. Sometimes, it’s buried right beneath your feet.
And now we present THE TRUE STORY.
The Great Toledo Liquor Heist: Smugglers, State Police, and the End of Prohibition
Toledo Tribune – Special Report
Toledo, Oregon, March 1933 – In one of the final dramatic episodes of Prohibition, Toledo became the stage for a midnight heist that would soon join local lore. Under cover of darkness, a gang of bootleggers led by notorious rumrunner Paul Remaley infiltrated the Toledo jail, using acetylene torches to slice through three heavy metal doors and liberate a cache of confiscated Canadian whiskey and three imprisoned smugglers. By dawn, the evidence room lay empty, and the stolen liquor was loaded into trucks before the state police, acting on a series of anonymous tips, closed in on the fleeing gang near Rose Lodge.
A Midnight Operation
Late at night, while most of Toledo slept, Remaley’s crew executed a meticulously planned breach. With two armed men posted on Graham Street to keep watch, the criminals set to work. In the stillness of midnight, the hiss of torches filled the jail corridors as the gang cut through the fortified doors. Within minutes, wooden crates stamped with Canadian markings—containing thousands of dollars’ worth of illicit liquor—were loaded into waiting vehicles.
Sheriff Ted McElwain later discovered the devastated jail the following morning. The acrid smell of burned metal lingered in the air as McElwain surveyed the scene, knowing full well that the thieves had not been gone long.
A Trail of Tips and a High-Speed Pursuit
Within hours, a flurry of anonymous tips alerted the state police. Observers had spotted a convoy—two trucks and a sedan—heading north through Depoe Bay. A third vehicle, a Buick coupe with machine gun toteing occupants, had disappeared into the night. The chase intensified when the trucks, running low on fuel, were forced to stop at a station in Otis. While Remaley, confident and unruffled, had split off and steered his sedan east along the Salmon River Cutoff, the state troopers seized the moment.
Four men—Nels Kruger, George Fisher, Elbert Johnson, and Arthur Adams—were apprehended at the fuel stop without resistance. Under questioning, one of them revealed that Remaley was heading east toward Rose Lodge. Acting quickly, the troopers, now disguised in the jackets of the captured bootleggers, set an ambush on the cutoff. When Remaley’s parked sedan was finally approached by officers with .38 revolvers drawn and shouts of “Hands up!” the gang’s run ended abruptly.
Sentences and a Shifting Legal Landscape
Charged with smuggling, conspiracy, and other alcohol-related offenses, Remaley and his cohorts were soon sentenced to prison. Yet with Prohibition’s repeal looming in December 1933, all the men—Remaley included—served only three years behind bars before many were released early. Despite their freedom, Remaley’s legal battles continued; after his release he faced additional charges for alcohol violations as he tried to adapt to the new legal regime, ensuring that his life of bootlegging would haunt him for years to come.
The Mysterious End of Paul Remaley
The saga of Paul Remaley came to a mysterious close in 1952. Remaley, once a celebrated motorcycle racer known for tearing down highways at 75 mph, met his end in a fatal car crash along the Oregon coast. He was driving near Newport, close to Yaquina Head—a notorious stretch of highway where the rugged coastline meets the relentless Pacific. Though details remain sketchy, authorities later noted that alcohol may have played a role, and rumors of a heart attack or mechanical failure have persisted. Whatever the cause, Remaley’s death marked the final chapter of a life steeped in high-speed chases, illicit liquor, and defiant independence.
A Legacy Preserved
The Great Toledo Liquor Heist remains a landmark event in Oregon’s Prohibition-era history—a tale of daring, rapid escapes, and a law enforcement response that proved even the most carefully laid plans could unravel. Today, Toledo’s Historical Museum on Main Street proudly displays one of the actual liquor bottles recovered from that fateful night. This bottle stands as a tangible reminder of a time when the quiet streets of Toledo were shaken by a brazen heist, and when bootleggers like Paul Remaley dared to defy the law.
Visit the Toledo Historical Museum to see this extraordinary piece of history for yourself. Step back in time and witness a relic of an era defined by bold risks, high-speed chases, and the relentless pursuit of freedom—however illicit it may have been.
Episode 1: Rumrunner Rock
Farrington’s Five and Ten wasn’t much to look at, just another dim-lit hole in the wall dressed up like a respectable department store. The sign out front advertised notions and novelties, but everyone in town knew the real goods were stashed below, behind a door marked “Employees Only.” Down there, beneath the creak of the floorboards and the weight of the Depression, was a speakeasy where the gin was cold, the jazz was hot, and the stories were older than the walls.
The joint was full tonight, every stool propping up a body and every glass half-empty with dreams poured over ice. Behind the bar, the keeper of secrets—known only as Charlie—leaned on the counter like he had nothing better to do, but he always had something better to do. The regulars knew that when Charlie talked, it paid to listen.
“You heard about Rumrunner Rock?” he asked the room, his voice low and deliberate, like the start of a slow waltz.
A stranger at the end of the bar—new to town, judging by his coat still wet with rain—perked up. “No,” he said, his voice just loud enough to show he didn’t know better. “What’s that?”
Charlie smiled, the kind of smile that meant you were about to learn something you couldn’t unlearn. He poured himself a splash of whiskey, leaned in close enough to taste the stranger’s curiosity, and started to spin the tale.
February 7, 1932
The Sea Island wasn’t built for storms. She was a 36-foot Canadian rumrunner with a rusted engine, a bad attitude, and 400 cases of contraband liquor stuffed into her belly. She wasn’t a ship; she was a gamble, and on that February night, the house was about to win.
The Pacific was a howling beast, waves big enough to swallow a man whole. The wind lashed the deck, and rain came down so hard it might as well have been bullets. The captain, a wiry man with salt in his veins and steel in his eyes, gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
“Engines can’t take it!” shouted the first mate, his words snatched away by the storm.
“They’ll take it,” the captain barked. “They don’t have a choice.”
The Sea Island groaned under the strain, the engine sputtering like an old man choking on his last breath. Then came the sound no captain ever wants to hear—a metallic cough followed by silence. The engine was dead, and the sea was alive.
“She’s taking on water!” the mate cried.
“Then we take her ashore!” the captain snapped, his face set like stone. He spun the wheel, aiming for Whale Cove, a jagged scar on the coastline that promised destruction but might just offer salvation.
The Sea Island slammed into the rocks, the impact shaking the world apart. Water poured in through the hull, and the crew scrambled to salvage what they could. The captain shouted orders, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife.
“Get the cargo!” he yelled. “We’re not losing it to the sea!”
They worked like men possessed, hauling crates of liquor onto the beach under the flicker of lightning. The sand turned to mud under their boots as they dug furiously, burying their treasure before the tide could claim it.
When the last crate was hidden, the captain stood back, soaked and grim, and lit a match. The Sea Island was more than a boat; she was evidence, and evidence burned.
The flames roared into the storm, painting the night with shades of orange and betrayal. As the crew watched their livelihood turn to ash, the captain turned to his men.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Before someone comes looking.”
Back in the speakeasy, Charlie poured another drink and let the silence stretch like an unanswered question. The stranger leaned in, his curiosity now a full-blown addiction.
“So,” he asked, “what happened to the booze?”
Charlie chuckled, a low, knowing sound that held more secrets than words ever could. “That’s the thing about treasure,” he said. “It’s never where you left it.”
The room buzzed with quiet speculation as Charlie turned back to his bottles. The storm outside rattled the windows, but down here, it was warm, dark, and full of shadows that told stories louder than the rain.
As Charlie’s tale lingered in the air like the smoke from a spent match, the stranger’s curiosity burned brighter. What happened to the crew after they buried the loot? How did they escape the storm—and the law?
Charlie took a slow sip of his drink, then glanced back at the stranger, his eyes narrowing just enough to leave a question hanging in the air. He leaned forward, the low hum of conversation in the room fading as if the walls themselves were listening.
“Well,” Charlie said, his voice lowering, “I suppose I could tell you what happened next… but it ain’t as simple as ‘bury the treasure and run.’ Not when you’ve got the law on your tail, and a stolen car in the mix.”
The stranger’s breath caught, but Charlie didn’t give him time to respond. He straightened, flashing a grin as he swirled his glass. “But that’s a story for another time… Maybe next week. Same time, same place. If you can’t wait, well, I’m sure you’ll find something else to pass the time, but if you’re still curious… well, I’ll be here.”
Charlie’s eyes flicked toward the door as if the storm outside had just become a little more threatening, then he turned back to the stranger, a wink betraying the truth he knew well—stories had a way of keeping people coming back for more.
Episode 2: The Chase
A week had passed since Charlie first mentioned the Sea Island, and the stranger was back, perched on the same barstool as before. The rain had followed him, dripping off his coat as he slid it over the back of his seat. The speakeasy hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of glass, but the stranger had eyes only for the man behind the bar.
Charlie caught his gaze, smirking like he’d been expecting him all along.
“Figured you’d be back,” Charlie said, reaching for a bottle. “Curiosity’s a funny thing. Gets under your skin, doesn’t it?”
The stranger chuckled, leaning forward. “You left me hanging last time. I had to come back.”
Charlie poured him a drink, taking his time. “Well, I don’t blame you. The Sea Island wasn’t just a boat—it was the beginning of a wild turn of events. Now, where were we?” He tapped the bar thoughtfully, then nodded as if to himself. “Ah, that’s right. The crew had just buried their treasure and burned what was left of their ride.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “But what came next? That’s where things start to get real interesting…”
The climb up from Whale Cove wasn’t for the faint of heart. Mud sucked at their boots, rain lashed their faces, and the wind howled like a banshee. By the time Ryall, Kerr, and Babcock reached the highway, they looked more like ghosts than smugglers.
And there it was—a coupe idling by the roadside, headlights flicking twice in a signal they all knew. Their contact leaned against the hood, a cigarette glowing in the dark.
“You boys sure know how to keep a man waiting,” he said, his voice sharp with irritation.
Ryall, the leader, didn’t flinch. “We had some trouble. Lost the boat.”
The contact blinked, his cigarette pausing mid-air. “Lost it? You’re kidding me.”
“It’s burned,” Kerr said, shaking the water from his hair. “Cargo’s safe—for now.”
The contact muttered a string of curses under his breath, flicking ash onto the wet pavement. “You better hope it stays that way. Get in. I’ll get you as far north as I can. From there, you’re on your own.”
The crew piled into the coupe, the tension in the cabin thick enough to cut with a knife. Ryall produced a bottle he’d managed to save from the wreck, passing it around as they sped north. The liquor burned their throats, but it didn’t warm the chill creeping into their bones—the kind of chill that came from knowing the law might already be on their trail.
“Now, here’s where it all starts to go sideways,” Charlie said, leaning on the counter as the stranger hung on his every word.
“Their contact, he wasn’t exactly the most reliable guy. Stolen car, no sleep, and a bad habit of thinking he was invincible. Add in a little rain, and, well…”
Charlie shrugged, letting the story tell itself for a moment.
The coupe tore through the storm, its headlights barely piercing the darkness. The crew, lulled by exhaustion and the bottle, had all drifted off to sleep. Behind the wheel, their contact fought to keep his eyes open, his grip on the wheel slipping along with his focus.
Then it happened—a puddle on the highway, deeper than it looked. The coupe hit it at full speed, the tires losing their grip in an instant. The car spun, the world outside turning into a blur before it veered off the road. The coupe flipped once, twice, and came to rest upside down in a ditch.
Miraculously, everyone crawled out alive, bruised and shaken but otherwise unscathed. The contact cursed, kicking at the wrecked car as if it was the vehicle’s fault.
“You’re on your own from here,” he snapped, pointing down the road. “Bus stop’s in Hebo. Catch one north.”
Without another word, he disappeared into the storm, leaving the crew stranded.
Charlie continued, leaning on the bar. “Meanwhile, Trooper Johnson was out at Whale Cove, trying to piece together what the storm had left behind.”
The stranger raised a brow. “Trooper Johnson?”
Charlie nodded. “A man with a face that could stop a clock and a knack for putting two and two together. That night, he got a call about a wrecked boat, and he knew right away something was fishy.
Back at Whale Cove, Trooper Johnson stood on the rain-slicked beach, his sharp eyes scanning the remains of the Sea Island. The smell of charred wood mixed with saltwater, and what was left of the boat told a story of desperation.
His partner, a young trooper fresh out of academy, crouched by the blackened hull. “Canadian registration,” he said, wiping the rain from his face. “Think it’s a rumrunner?”
Johnson nodded. “No doubt about it. They wouldn’t risk these waters for anything else. Question is, where’s the cargo?”
The partner gestured to the churned-up sand. “Looks like someone’s been digging.”
Johnson frowned. “It’s buried. Get a couple of the local boys out here with probes. We’re not leaving until we find it.”
As they worked, Johnson’s radio crackled to life.
“Crash near Hebo,” a voice said. “Car’s stolen from Lincoln County, plates switched. Witnesses saw three men get on a bus headed north.”
Johnson’s frown deepened. “The wreck, the bus, and this boat—they’re connected. Get Portland on the line. Have them pick up those three. And confirm that car was stolen out of Lincoln County.”
Charlie leaned back, swirling his drink as the stranger stared, wide-eyed.
“So, the booze?” the stranger asked.
“Found it,” Charlie said. “All 400 cases. Locked it up in Toledo, right there in the evidence locker. And the crew? Well, they didn’t make it far. Portland police hauled ’em off the bus and sent them back to Lincoln County, Next thing you know, Ryall, Kerr, and Babcock are cooling their heels in the Lincoln County jail in Toledo.
Charlie’s tone shifted, growing darker as he leaned closer.
“Now, here’s where things get interesting. See, there was someone else who took notice when the Sea Island went down—someone who didn’t take kindly to losing his property.”
“Who?” the stranger asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Paul Remaley,” Charlie said, the name rolling off his tongue like a warning.
“Remaley wasn’t your average bootlegger. He ran liquor out of Portland like he owned the roads, and maybe he did. Heard tell he once broke a record riding a motorcycle from Mexico to Canada. Fast, ruthless, and smart. And when he heard that his booze was locked up in Toledo along with his crew…”
Charlie let the sentence dangle, his grin widening. “Well, let’s just say Paul wasn’t the kind of man to let something like that slide.”
The room was quiet now, the storm outside a faint rumble against the windows. Charlie straightened, his hand resting on the counter.
The stranger shivered as the room seemed to grow darker, the corners swallowing the light. Charlie leaned forward one last time, his face half-hidden in shadow.
“Next week,” he said softly, “I’ll tell you what happens when a man like Remaley comes to town. But fair warning—some stories don’t end the way you think they will.”
With that, Charlie stepped back into the shadows, the glow of the bar’s light catching him just enough to show the hint of a grin. Then he was gone, swallowed by the speakeasy’s smoky darkness, leaving the stranger—and the reader—hungry for more.
Episode 3: The Laurelhurst Plan
The speakeasy was quieter this time, the air inside crisp despite the warm glow of the lights. Outside, the rain had been replaced by a biting chill, the kind of cold that slipped under your coat and reminded you it wasn’t quite spring yet. The stranger had returned, as Charlie knew he would, settling into the same stool at the end of the bar.
Charlie was polishing a glass, taking his time, letting the room’s low hum of conversation fill the silence.
“I knew you’d be back,” Charlie said, his grin sly and knowing. He set the glass down and leaned forward. “Last time, we left off with our boys locked up in Toledo. But what I didn’t tell you was who came looking for them—and the booze.”
The stranger raised an eyebrow, and Charlie let the question hang a moment before continuing.
“You ever heard of Paul Remaley?”
The stranger shook his head.
“Figures,” Charlie said. “He wasn’t the kind of man who wanted folks remembering his name, but in his day, he was as fast on a motorcycle as he was running liquor. Used to race for Harley-Davidson, part of their big stunt troupe with a fella named Cecil Brown. Remaley broke records and turned heads—until he found out there was more money in booze than in trophies.”
Charlie poured a drink, setting it in front of the stranger as he spoke.
“He built himself quite the empire. Had an elaborate house in Portland’s Laurelhurst district—big, fancy place, the kind that whispered success and shouted trouble. But Remaley didn’t just sit around counting his money. He rode a Harley, still fast as ever, and ran his gang like a man who lived for the rush. Two of his closest men were Bert Chapin and Sidney Carrick, sharp operators who knew their way around a racket.”
Charlie leaned back, crossing his arms. “Now, Remaley wasn’t the kind of man to sit idle when his business hit a snag. And when word reached him about the Sea Island wreck and the booze locked up in Toledo… well, let’s just say he didn’t waste time.”
Laurelhurst, Portland
The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the quiet streets of Laurelhurst. The air was clear but cold, a sharp reminder that winter wasn’t finished yet. Bert Chapin’s sedan rolled up to Paul Remaley’s house, a sprawling Craftsman masterpiece that stood out even among Laurelhurst’s well-heeled mansions.
Chapin, a wiry man with a cigarette perpetually dangling from his lips, stepped out, pulling his collar tight against the chill. He made his way to the front door, boots crunching softly on the gravel drive.
Inside, the house was warm and dimly lit, a cigar’s glow illuminating Remaley as he leaned back in a leather chair. He looked up as Chapin entered, his sharp eyes narrowing.
“What’s the word, Bert?” Remaley asked, his voice smooth but edged with command.
Chapin took off his hat, running a hand through his hair. “Sea Island ran aground near Whale Cove,” he said, his tone grim. “Boys buried the load but got picked up by the law. They’ve been locked up in Toledo for weeks—booze, too.”
Remaley’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, the room suddenly heavier. “Toledo?”
Chapin nodded. “Small town. One jail. Sheriff’s got the booze locked up as evidence. But they’re sitting on your property, boss.”
Remaley stood, the leather chair creaking as he rose to his full height. He moved to the window, looking out at the street bathed in cold sunlight. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching like a taut wire.
“Get Sidney,” he said finally. “We’ll need two cars and two trucks. Buick coup for us—with rattlers. Put Sidney and a couple boys in the sedan. Trucks will follow to haul the load.”
Chapin nodded, already making mental notes. “You got it. What’s the plan?”
Remaley turned, his expression cold and calculating. “We drive to Toledo, get the boys out, and take back what’s ours. If anyone gets in the way…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the look in his eyes said enough.
Chapin hesitated. “What about the law? Small town or not, they’ll notice four vehicles rolling in.”
Remaley smirked. “Let ’em. By the time they figure out what’s happening, we’ll be gone. You just make sure everyone’s ready to roll.”
Back to the Speakeasy
Charlie’s voice dropped lower, pulling the stranger in closer. “Now, Remaley wasn’t the kind to charge in blind. He had a plan, sure, but plans don’t always survive the first shot. And in Toledo, with the law and the cold, clear night watching… well, things didn’t go exactly as he expected.”
The stranger leaned forward, his curiosity almost tangible. “What happened?”
Charlie chuckled, finishing his own drink. “Oh, it’s a story all right. Full of twists, turns, and a few surprises. But you’ll have to wait to hear how it all played out.”
The stranger frowned, but Charlie was already stepping back into the shadows of the bar, the dim light casting long shadows across the walls.
“Next week,” Charlie said, his voice almost swallowed by the darkness. “Same time, same place. If you’re curious enough.”
And just like that, Charlie was gone, leaving only the chill in the air and the promise of more to come.
Episode Four: The Cold Road to Toledo
The night was clear, the stars like pinpricks in the velvet sky, but the chill in the air was sharp enough to cut. The convoy moved steadily along the winding roads toward Toledo, Oregon. In the lead was a Buick coupe, its occupants armed with “rattler” submachine guns, their eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of trouble. Behind them, a sedan carried Paul Remaley, Bert Chapin, and Sidney Carrick, followed by two trucks ready to haul back their precious cargo.
Inside the sedan, the atmosphere was tense. Remaley, ever the strategist, turned to Carrick, who was meticulously checking his tools—a set of cutting torches and other implements of his trade.
“Sidney,” Remaley began, his voice breaking the silence, “you’ve had plenty of experience as a boilermaker. How long will it take you to cut through those doors?”
Carrick looked up, his expression thoughtful. “Word is there are three metal doors and a jail cell of bars to get through. If they’re standard issue, I can have us inside in about twenty minutes, give or take. But if we run into anything unexpected, it could be longer.”
Remaley nodded, processing the information. “And the guards?”
Chapin, who had been listening intently, spoke up. “From what we’ve gathered, Sheriff Ted McElwain runs a tight ship, but it’s a small town. Security’s likely lax, especially around dinner time. We might catch them with their guard down.”
Remaley’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s hope you’re right. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
As they approached Toledo, the convoy slowed. The Buick coupe took position at the entrance of Graham Street, its occupants stepping out, their long coats concealing the “rattlers” beneath. They kept a wary eye on the surroundings, ready to deter any unwelcome attention.
The sedan and trucks pulled up near the jail, the vehicles’ engines ticking as they cooled in the night air. Carrick wasted no time, unloading his equipment and setting to work on the first metal door. The hiss of the torch cutting through steel was the only sound, the glow casting eerie shadows on the brick walls.
Inside, the Canadian crew, imprisoned since the Sea Island incident, stirred at the commotion. Their eyes widened as the door gave way, revealing Remaley and his men. Remaley stepped forward, his pistol drawn, the barrel glinting ominously in the dim light.
The leader of the Canadians stepped forward, his hands raised defensively. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Remaley’s gaze was cold, calculating. “Trouble? You brought plenty of that when you got caught. Now, you’re going to help us get that liquor back, or so help me…”
Before he could finish, a distant sound echoed—a door creaking open, footsteps approaching. Remaley’s head snapped toward the noise, his grip tightening on the pistol.
“Sidney, hurry it up,” he hissed. “We’ve got company.”
Carrick intensified his efforts, the torch blazing brighter as he worked to free the remaining obstacles between them and their prize.
Back at Farrington’s Five and Ten, the stranger was on the edge of his seat, eyes wide with anticipation. Charlie leaned back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
“And that’s where we’ll leave it for tonight,” Charlie said, his tone final.
The stranger blinked, disbelief etched on his face. “You’re stopping there?”
Charlie nodded, already turning away to tend to another patron. “Come back next week. Maybe then you’ll find out how it all ends.”
As the stranger sat back, frustration mingling with intrigue, Charlie disappeared into the shadows, leaving the story—and its outcome—hanging in the balance.
Episode Five: The Great Toledo Jailbreak
The steam engine let out a low, throaty hiss as it ground to a halt at the Toledo train station, sending up a curling plume of white smoke into the cold, clear sky. The stranger stepped down onto the platform, adjusting his hat against the afternoon chill. The scent of sawmill smoke thickened the air, blending with the metallic tang of the rails and the distant hum of a town going about its business.
He walked up Graham Street, past shopkeepers sweeping doorways and the occasional glance from a loafer who had nothing better to do. The Yaquina Hotel loomed ahead, its neon sign buzzing against the pale blue sky. Inside, the desk clerk looked like he hadn’t moved in twenty years. The stranger slid a few coins across the counter. “Room for the night.” The clerk barely nodded as he handed over a key. The stranger climbed the narrow stairs just long enough to toss his bag on the bed. He wouldn’t be needing it anytime soon.
Back on Graham Street, the town moved at its slow midday rhythm. The stranger walked with purpose, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes scanning the storefronts. Farrington’s Five and Ten sat just where it always had—dusty shelves stacked with cans, bolts of fabric, and penny candy for the school kids.
The store clerk, stocking a shelf, glanced up, met the stranger’s eye, and gave a slight nod. Then he jerked his head toward a narrow broom closet door. The stranger didn’t hesitate. He stepped toward it, pulled it open, and slipped inside. A dark staircase yawned before him, the air thick with the scents of whiskey, sawdust, and the faint trace of yesterday’s cigar smoke. Each step creaked beneath his boots as he descended into the shadows of the speakeasy below.
Charlie was there, leaning over the bar, whispering something to an attractive blonde in a sleek blue dress. She laughed, the sound smooth as honey and just as dangerous, then leaned in and kissed Charlie on the cheek. As she turned, she brushed past the stranger, her perfume curling around him like a promise. Their eyes met, held a beat too long, then she winked—slow and deliberate. With a swish of her hips, she headed up the stairs, disappearing into the shop above.
Charlie smirked as he walked over, pouring a drink before the stranger even had to ask. “How was the trip over?” The stranger threw back the whiskey, savoring the burn before setting the glass down. “Cold,” he muttered, the ghost of the blonde’s perfume still clinging to the air. Charlie leaned on the bar, watching him with that knowing look. “Who was that?” the stranger asked. Charlie just smiled, refilling his glass. “Say,” he drawled, “last time you were here, Chapin had just rushed in to give Remaley news…”
Inside the Jailhouse – The Heist Begins
The door banged open, and Bert Chapin burst into the jail, sucking air like a man who’d just run the length of Graham Street—which, in fact, he had. “The deputy’s done eating,” he panted. “Blonde’s got him talking. He won’t move till she asks.” His breath still ragged, Chapin turned and bolted back down Graham Street to keep watching.
Remaley barely spared him a glance. Instead, he turned to Sidney Carrick, who was hunched over the last metal door, torch flaring. The heat shimmered in the dim space, sparks kicking up in the air like fireflies as molten steel dripped to the stone floor. Then, with a final angry groan, the last door buckled and fell—clanging against the floor with the finality of a judge’s gavel. For a moment, they all stared at what lay beyond. The evidence room was packed to the rafters—wooden crates stamped with Canadian markings, bottles gleaming in the low light like treasure waiting to be claimed.
Remaley’s voice was a low growl. “Load it.”
A Well-Timed Distraction
Chapin had planted himself at the corner of Graham Street, keeping his eyes locked on Timbers Restaurant.
Parked in front of Timbers was a sleek coupe. A shapely blonde leaned against it, golden curls bouncing as she laughed at something the deputy had said. The deputy, who should have been anywhere but here, was kneeling beside her car, fumbling with a tire iron. His lunch break had turned into a full-time job, and the blonde? Well, she wasn’t in any hurry to let him clock out.
Chapin caught her eye, gave a sharp motion with his hand—stretch it out. She nodded—just a flicker of understanding—then turned back to the deputy with a smile so sweet it should’ve come with a warning label.
“Oh, I hate to keep you from your lunch, officer,” she purred, lightly tracing a finger along the edge of the car’s fender. The deputy chuckled, rolling up his sleeves. “No trouble at all, miss.”
Chapin checked his watch. Five minutes. Then ten. Then fifteen.
The trucks were almost full, the last crates being hauled out of the evidence room. Carrick’s torch was dark now, but the smell of burnt metal still clung to the air.
Twenty long minutes dragged by.
Then, finally, the deputy wiped his hands on a rag, dusting them off. The blonde looked over at Chapin and gave a small shrug—this is all you get. And then, from somewhere behind him, a low whistle. Chapin turned, heart hammering. One of the gangsters in a long coat stood near the parking lot, gave a curt nod, and jerked his head—go time. Chapin didn’t hesitate. He bolted back toward the jail, just as the first truck came roaring past.
The Escape
By the time Chapin reached the sedan, the job was already done. The trucks were loaded and rolling, tires kicking up dust as they thundered past. Chapin yanked open the sedan’s door and slid in next to Remaley just as the tires caught traction.
Moments later, the coupe roared up. The blonde stepped out of the coupe and leaned casually against the door. One of the long-coated gangsters stood nearby, watching her with a smirk. The other shook his head, muttered something under his breath. The coupe’s engine growled, and then—with a squeal of tires and a burst of speed—it was gone, vanishing into the golden afternoon light.
The Discovery
Meanwhile, the deputy strolled up Graham Street, whistling a lazy tune, boots tapping against the pavement. As he reached the jailhouse, he noticed something strange. The front door was open. The whistling stopped. His stomach twisted. He took off running, boots pounding against the pavement. When he skidded to a stop at the entrance, his breath caught. The jail was empty. The doors lay in twisted heaps, smoke still curling in the air. The evidence room? Stripped bare. For a long moment, he just stared. Then he turned and ran.
Back at the Speakeasy
Charlie let the moment hang in the air, the room silent except for the slow drip of a leaky pipe in the corner. The stranger exhaled, fingers tapping against his empty glass. “So,” he said finally, “they got away with it.” Charlie smirked. “They got away,” he said. “But staying free? That’s another story.” And with that, he stepped into the shadows, leaving only the hum of the speakeasy behind him.
Episode 6: The Chase to Salmon River
Sheriff Ted McElwain stood just inside the ruined jailhouse, his hands resting on his hips. The front door hung askew, kicked in like an old saloon shutter. Beyond it, twisted metal lay strewn across the floor, the air still thick with the acrid stench of burned steel and acetylene. “They can’t have been gone long,” he muttered. A few feet away, one of his deputies, still catching his breath from the run up Graham Street, could only nod. McElwain took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against the fallen debris. The evidence room was stripped bare—not a bottle, not a crate, not a single drop left behind. The job had been fast, professional. A robbery so audacious it would be talked about for years.
But they weren’t ghosts. They left tracks. He turned on his heel. “We need the state patrol. Now.”
Southbound in Depoe Bay
An hour later, Paul Remaley lit a cigarette as his convoy rumbled through Depoe Bay. He sat in the sedan, leading the two trucks heavy with stolen liquor. The ocean crashed against the rocks to the west, but he wasn’t looking at the sea. He was watching the highway ahead when a state police car passed going south. For a tense moment, nobody in the convoy breathed. The troopers didn’t slow. Didn’t turn around. Remaley smirked, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Boys,” he muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose, “we just might pull this off.” He let out a low chuckle, flicking his ashes out the window. Behind him, the tension in the trucks eased. For the first time since they cut through the last metal door in Toledo, it felt like they might be in the clear.
Newport: The Alarm Goes Out
Sheriff McElwain flagged down the state patrol car just outside Newport. The troopers—tall, broad-shouldered men with serious faces—listened as McElwain laid it out. The jailbreak. The stolen booze.
“We just came from Depoe Bay,” one of them said. “Saw two trucks heading north.” McElwain’s jaw clenched. “That’s them.” One of the troopers leaned back into the car, grabbed the radio. “We got a liquor heist in motion. Convoy headed north.” The chase was on.
The Fuel Stop in Otis
The road north was a winding, narrow stretch of pavement, the kind of highway where a fast car could disappear into the trees with the right driver behind the wheel. Remaley pulled the sedan off the road just north of Otis, stepping out as the trucks rumbled in behind him. The drivers—Nels Kruger, George Fisher, Elbert Johnson, and Arthur Adams—were already checking the fuel gauges. Low. Remaley dropped his cigarette, grinding it into the dirt with his boot. He didn’t like it, but there was no way around it. “You boys fuel up,” he ordered. “Soon as you’re done, head east. I’m taking the Salmon River Cutoff.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He climbed back into the sedan, and with a rev of the engine, he was gone. The truck drivers went to work, filling the tanks, glancing nervously at the empty road. They never saw it coming.
The Trap is Sprung
The state patrol cars tore into Otis just minutes after Remaley disappeared. Before the truck drivers could reach for their pistols, the troopers were out, guns drawn, voices barking commands. “Hands up!”
The four men hesitated—just long enough for one of the troopers to press a revolver against Kruger’s temple. “Now.” The men obeyed.
Within minutes, Kruger, Fisher, Johnson, and Adams were disarmed and lined up against the side of the truck. They were big men, but the troopers were bigger. Every one of them stood six feet or taller, towering over the liquor thieves like giants out of a bad dream. It didn’t take long for one of them to break. “Remaley’s not headed north,” the man blurted, eyes darting between the troopers. “He took the Salmon River Cutoff.” One of the troopers smirked. “That so?” The others nodded. That was all the troopers needed. They exchanged looks, then tore off their uniform coats. They tossed them aside, grabbing the jackets of the captured bootleggers and pulling them on. Then they climbed into the trucks and turned onto the road east—toward Rose Lodge.
The End of the Road
Remaley sat in his sedan, engine idling, just off the side of the road. The Salmon River Cutoff stretched ahead, a dark ribbon of pavement cutting through the trees. He had stopped to wait for the trucks, lighting another cigarette while he considered his next move. Then he heard it. The low, familiar growl of approaching engines. He straightened, tossing his cigarette aside. Here they come. The first truck rolled into view. Then the second. Good. The boys had followed orders.
Remaley stepped out, dusting off his coat, a cocky smirk already forming— Then the doors of the trucks slammed open. Troopers burst from the cabs, .38 revolvers drawn. “Hands up!” It hit him like a punch to the gut. They’d been played. For a split second, Remaley’s instincts screamed at him to run. But there was nowhere to go. He raised his hands slowly, his smirk vanishing as fast as the getaway he’d imagined. Just like that, the gig was up.
Back at the Speakeasy
Charlie let the moment stretch, the air thick with cigarette smoke and expectation. The stranger exhaled, setting his empty glass on the bar. “So that’s how they got him.” Charlie smirked, pouring another drink.“That’s how they got him,” he said. “But you know what they say—a man like Remaley don’t stay down easy.” The stranger narrowed his eyes. “You mean—”
Charlie stepped back into the shadows, his voice a low drawl. “Next week,” he said, “same time, same place.”
And just like that, he was gone.
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