Cappy Feathers and Tinka Bordeaux were on the lam after robbing the Chrysalis Ballroom. It was supposed to go down easily, like ABC, One-Two-Three. Except it didn’t. Sure, they emptied the till, and 326 clams were nothing to sniff at in 1937, but contrary to their modus operandi, this affair had a wrinkle. The two outlaws had a tried-and-true method – Cappy carried an unloaded .38 Special, employing a confident bluff and bluster technique while brandishing the revolver, which resulted in greenbacks from gas stations, liquor stores, and Mom & Pop Shops deposited into the carpet bag carried by Tinka, with nary a casualty on either side.

While Cappy was an out-and-out showman during their extracurriculars, Tinka, with her sultry looks and stylish couture, stood by silently and seemed to mesmerize their victims, both male and female alike, while they obediently coughed up the simoleons. On this night at the Chrysalis, however, after the cashier dumped the after-dinner spondulix into the bag, a well-meaning, strapping specimen decided enough was enough and made a clumsy lunge toward Cappy, attempting to separate him from the empty pistola and win the day. In a lightning-fast move, a razor-sharp ice pick appeared in Tinka’s right hand, and she deftly plunged the implement into the meaty thigh of the would-be hero a split second before he reached Cappy. She expertly avoided the young buck’s femoral artery, leaving him very much alive, although rolling on the ballroom floor, howling in pain.

At this point, pandemonium ensued, and in the hubbub, the pair made a nimble exit, barely escaping outside and into Cappy’s Ford Coupe. As they roared down the highway, unpursued, Cappy, who would never admit he was a little afraid of Tinka, tried to explain that he could have handled the lumbering lummox without the resulting bloodshed. Tinka sat calmly, gazing through the Ford’s windshield into the moonlit evening, and cooly instructed her partner to keep his eyes on the road. They both knew who called the shots in this outfit.

With the Chrysalis Ballroom farther and farther behind, Cappy eased off the accelerator and said, mostly to himself, that he could use a shot of giggle juice right about now. It was near ten o’clock when they came to the turnoff for the short bridge to Belle Island. Cappy made the turn – he thought the Island Belle Market was just over the rise after the bridge, and hoped it was still open. Tinka wasn’t happy about the detour but kept her objection in check.

The lights were on in the Market as they pulled in, and the pair entered, tinkling the little bell above the door jamb, Tinka with the carpet bag in tow. Kirby Hopper, the proprietor, greeted the bandits with a hearty, “You’re in luck; we’re open for ten more minutes!” Cappy slapped a sawbuck on the counter, saying, “That’s swell, Pops, gimme a pint of Old Nethercutt.” Kirby smiled and said, “Sorry, Pal, nothing stronger here than communion wine; though I keep a special Island brandy on hand.” A dusty corked bottle half-filled with liquid amber appeared from beneath the counter, along with three shot glasses, and Kirby poured. Cappy smacked his lips, downed the shot, and Tinka followed suit, not wanting to appear unsociable.

What happened next is debatable. Cappy claimed, “That Market fella slipped me a Mickey and stole every cent of my hard-earned cash!” Kirby let on that “A nice couple come in and made a generous donation to the Belle Island Children’s Fund.” Tinka would only admit to staying home that night and washing her hair.