City Of Angels

Candy didn’t notice the dye bags the teller slipped in with the money.  She tossed the purse in the back seat when she got in the car.  We heard the dye bags explode.  They are activated by a timer.  The money was now covered with red dye.  We didn’t care.

Typically, when a dye bag explodes, the interior of the car and the robber get dye all over them.  Sometimes there is even itching powder mixed in with the dye.  It was not a problem for us.  

The bag Candy carried into the bank was no ordinary purse.  In addition to being a makeup expert, Sasha knew how to sew and knit.  She made the outer cover to go along with the steel inner casing I hammered and welded together.  It had strong hinges and dual clasps, and the two halves were sealed by a rubber gasket.

The steel case contained the dye explosion.  When we got home, we filled the bathtub with hot water and solvents .  I donned protective clothing, and put the money in the tub.

We let the money soak.  Each day I drained the tub, rinsed the bills, and repeated the process.  After three days, the money was clean.  The police had not kicked down our door.  As far as we knew, we’d gotten away with it, again.  Twelve thousand dollars, not bad even if it took some extra work.

Los Angeles is the perfect place to rob banks.  The metropolitan area covers 5000 square miles.  It has some of the best freeways anywhere.  Lax state regulations allow banks and credit unions to put branches everywhere.  There are 3800 of them in the city.  Some of them were just begging us to rob them.

We rented a house off of South Main Street in Corona.  That put us near the center of the metropolitan area.  We were close to both Riverside Parkway and I-15.  If we needed to make an exit, we could be heading in any direction, at a moment’s notice.

The house was suited to our needs.  It was on a quiet street.  We told people who asked we worked for a cosmetics firm and were in marketing.  

There was only one problem with the house.  The guy who lived across the street.  I was in the driveway, working on Sasha’s car.  I was rotating the tires and had one side of the vehicle up on jacks.  

I saw him out of the corner of my eye when he checked his mailbox.  I pretended I didn’t hear him when he said hello.  He walked across the street.  When he got to the driveway, I looked up and said, “I didn’t give you permission to come on my property.”

He stopped and raised his arms in mock surrender.  He smiled and said, “My name is Alberto.  What will happen if I come on your property without permission?”

I pulled the hammer and the hacksaw out of my toolbox and said, “After I’ve knocked you unconscious, I’ll cut off your thumbs. It will hurt a lot after you wake up, if you haven’t already bled to death.”  

His smile got wider.  He pulled open the lapel of his coat.  He had a pistol in a shoulder holster.  He said, “I’ve never hit a lady, and I’ve never shot anyone.  And I guess I’d do whatever it takes to defend myself.  So it would probably be easier for both of us if you give me permission to help you with those tires, and tell me your name.”

I looked him over from head to toe.  He was actually a good looking man.  I knew nothing would happen, I wasn’t interested.  But he looked strong enough to handle the tires.  I wasn’t afraid of him.  

He had already shown me his weapon.  He didn’t know about the Glock I kept in the tool chest.  I said, “Go home, put on some old clothes, you’re going to get dirty.  Leave the gun.  My name is Jozefien.”

Of course, before we were done, he asked me out.  I said no.  He wanted my phone number.  I said no.  He asked when he could see me again.  I told him to keep an eye out, tires need to be rotated periodically.