Part 3: Raid at The 333 Club in 1932

The Raid – December 9, 1932

Friday Night – Magnolia, Arkansas

10:05 PM

Francis was jolted into motion by the deafening crack of gunfire. From the dim back poker room, he instinctively bolted onto the balcony—straight into the line of fire.

Federal agents were storming the building.

His building.

The 333 Club.

It hit him instantly: they weren’t here for a bust—they were here for him.

Without hesitation, he sprinted down the staircase and out the alley door to his car. The sharp sting in his left leg barely registered as adrenaline took over.

Away. He just needed to get away. With Stella in Hot Springs, cleverly masking a rum-running delivery as a shopping trip, Francis had the rare chance to think solely of his own survival. East made the most sense, as it was the least likely direction he would travel. He had no true friends in that direction.

Just before entering El Dorado, the Duesenberg that had been showing signs of overheating for miles, sputtered and came to an agonizing halt.

Francis was far enough away from Magnolia that he felt like he could stay with the car and see if he could get it back on the road. He heard the approaching car well before seeing it. Keeping his head under the hood and in the shadows was as much hiding as he could manage.

“Ya need some help?” Was the greeting issued, and it sounded more intoxicated than predatory. Frank S. McAffry was returning to east Arkansas from a reunion of Spanish-American War veterans held annually in Texarkana.  Since it didn’t look like he was going anywhere on his own, Francis accepted the help.

Having left the Club with nothing but his waistcoat and satchel, he transferred both the Frank’s car. The satchel containing his emergency stash of $250,000 being the most important item.  The waistcoat was used to slow the bleeding from his leg until they arrived at their destination.

By the time the men arrived in Lake Village they had swapped life stories and created a new one as well. Francis got into the car as Francis D Miller and emerged as F Dalton McAffry.  Frank’s first stop was at Dr. McGehee’s Infirmary to patch up Francis’ leg.

As Frank had told him, there were many McAffry cousins up North. “Dalton” as he would go by, had made the trip and Frank picked him up from the bus station in Texarkana.  Having lost his wife, Janie, years before Frank was thrilled with the possibility of help taming his houseful of boys, Hugh, Toots, and Jimmy.

Trading his life of luxury, philanthropy, and crime for that of a plumber and adopted Uncle, Dalton would live under an assumed name for the next 40+ years.

Flight from Magnolia

All he could think was: Get away. Fast.

With Stella conveniently in Hot Springs, camouflaging a rum-running drop-off as a shopping trip, Francis had a rare window to focus solely on his own survival.

East. It was the one direction he’d never run. No friends. No ties. No expectations.

But just before reaching El Dorado, his Duesenberg—already sputtering from miles of overheating—finally gave out. The engine coughed and stalled.

He was far enough from Magnolia to breathe a little easier. Maybe the car could be coaxed back to life. With the hood up and shadows on his side, he stayed low, trying not to be seen.

That’s when he heard the other car.

“Ya need some help?” The voice was slurred, but friendly. More drunk than dangerous.

Frank S. McAffry was heading home to east Arkansas after attending a reunion of Spanish-American War veterans in Texarkana. Francis weighed his options. He wasn’t going anywhere on his own.

He accepted the help.

A New Name, A New Life

Francis had left the Club with nothing but his waistcoat and a satchel. The satchel—stuffed with an emergency stash of $250,000—was all that mattered. The waistcoat? It was quickly turned into a makeshift bandage to slow the bleeding from his leg.

By the time they reached Lake Village, the two men had swapped not only stories—but identities.

Francis Dalton Miller stepped into Frank’s car.

He emerged as F. Dalton McAffry.

Their first stop was Dr. McGehee’s Infirmary, where Frank introduced him as a cousin visiting from up north. Francis’s leg was patched up without suspicion.

As Frank had explained on the drive, there were plenty of McAffry cousins up that way. “Dalton,” he said, had taken a long bus ride from Illinois, and Frank had just picked him up from the Texarkana station.

Frank, a widower who’d lost his wife Janie years before, saw in Dalton a helpful presence for his house full of rowdy boys—Hugh, Toots, and Jimmy.

And just like that, Francis left behind a life of speakeasies, high society, and organized crime…

To become a plumber and adopted uncle in Lake Village.

He would live under the name F. Dalton McAffry for the next 40+ years.

What Led to the Raid

After months of surveillance and thousands of man-hours, federal agents from Shreveport made their move on 124 N Court Square—known then as The 333 Club.

Every precaution had been taken to ensure liquor was never visible from the dining floor. But it didn’t matter. The Feds had all the evidence they needed. The connections between Lefty, the Chicago Outfit, and the New Orleans Mafia were well documented.

At around 10 PM, federal agents stormed the club. Patrons scattered at the first sign of drawn weapons, but Lefty—tucked away in the upstairs poker room—didn’t hear the chaos until it was too late.

The agents had strict orders to take Lefty alive. J. Edgar Hoover believed that, given time, Francis would reveal enough to take down the biggest names in Chicago and Atlantic City.

But those same agents, knowing Lefty’s reputation, had already decided:

Force over finesse.

A Hidden Reminder

If you visit Lefty’s today, look closely upstairs.

To the right of the right-hand wall sconce on the balcony, the bullet holes from that night are still visible—etched into the wood like ghosts from a forgotten war.