The Bankrobber I Knew - Part Five

For the entire story, click the Bankrobber topic at the end of this post, in the sidebar to your right, or just click here.

One morning I opened my bedroom door while rubbing my tired eyes and standing in front of me was my roommate's parole officer, nearly naked except for a towel around her waist.  Rhonda was exiting the bathroom just as I needed to shower.

“Um hi Officer Williams,” I said while staring at her ample breasts.

“Hi, Rick,” she said as she disappeared back into Westley's room. 

I wondered how awkward that was at the Federal Building.  Westley had his parole check-ins at 9 AM every Wednesday morning.  I had to wait until that night to ask him since I'd changed jobs in order to take more college classes so we no longer saw each other at work.

“Isn't that against the rules?” I asked him when I got home.

“I've always been all about mixing business and pleasure,” he said, grinning.  “Let me tell you about the cute bank teller I once knew.”

As you can imagine, I wanted to hear all about the cute bank teller and the creative bank robber.  It sounded like the start of one of those Penthouse Letters that you just know are made up.

“Well, let's just say that once when I went in to make a withdrawal this cute brunette slipped a note into my envelope.  'Meet me later,' it said and had her phone number.  So I called her.”

“What if it'd been a set-up?” I asked.

“I don't know what you are talking about, Rick,” he said.

“Okay, okay.  Go on.”

“She was wild.  A complete animal who attacked me the moment she hopped on my motorcycle.  She told me that she'd always had this fantasy about having her bank robbed and then being taken hostage.  I played along with her.”

I just had to ask, “What other kind of bank tellers are there?  I mean supposing hypothetically that you knew a lot about bank tellers, Westley.  I understand that this in no way indicates that you were personally involved in any robberies other than that one unfortunate incident where you were caught trying to rob your first bank.”

“You're catching on,” he admitted.  “There was this one bank teller in Alabama who took my note and smiled at me.  The whole time she was filling the bag she kept winking and of course since she was facing away from the cameras, no one ever knew when she shoved a whole pack of hundreds into her pants.”

“Why didn't you stop her?”
“What was I supposed to say?  'Hey, that's my money.'  It didn't seem like the right thing to yell out.”

“Was that the only time?” I asked.

“Hell no.  So many of these tellers are just waiting for someone to come in and rob the bank.  A bunch of them just help themselves.  And there were plenty of notes and phone numbers waiting in the bags.  I only called the one, because she was just too cute.  The one thing that is universally true, they don't sound the alarm right away. They always take their time, or at least when they don't feel in personal danger.”

“But the bomb?”

“I don't think any of them actually believed it was a real bomb.”

Bank tellers must be expecting to be robbed someday and they've had plenty of time to think about what they'd do.  Finding a way to steal the money themselves must be right at the top of the list.  Taking a pack or two of bills seems reasonable, I think. 

“Why didn't they think it was real?” I asked.

“Because I was just too damned happy.  I'm a cheerful guy and when the guy robbing the bank isn't stressed out or nervous and doesn't threaten or rush them they get the idea that they're going to be okay,” he said.

“Must be nice to be a bank-teller Santa Claus,” I said.

“Must be,” he answered.  “If I actually robbed banks and this wasn't just a hypothetical conversation.”

“Okay, tell me about the brunette teller,” I said.

“She met me at a gas station and we drove out to a park.  We had sex every way I could think of and a few more that she came up with herself. The next morning I dropped her off at her house and nearly got shot when her husband came out of the front door with a shotgun.  She never told me that she was married.” 

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I wasn't kidding earlier when I told you that Westley was an electronic genius.  One night after I got used to Rhonda being over at the apartment, we all were sitting around when Westley decided that he needed to build something.  He pulled a box of electronic parts – circuit boards, capacitors, resistors, potentiometers, and whatnot – from the closet.  With a soldering iron he just started putting things together without plans or books. 

Thirty minutes later he put two D batteries to the board and hooked up a speaker.  The rest of the night we were listening to police and ambulance conversations.  He'd just come up with a scanner in a matter of minutes.  It was fascinating.

It was that talent, he told me, that ensured his safety and value in prison.  He'd known he could get along okay before going in.  Being the guy who could fix radios or make tattoo guns from almost nothing made him a floater: one of those guys who doesn't have to join any groups because they all wanted to use his services.  So he'd do favors for the skinheads, the Blacks, and Mexicans and they all gave him some degree of protection and respect.  He'd still had a couple of skirmishes, but people covered for him and he'd never feared for his life the whole time he was in.

Listening to that police scanner made me a believer.  Despite these revelations, I was still surprised when he brought home four disassembled color printers and a stack of different kinds of paper.

“Let's print some money,” he said.

- CV Rick, crazy adventures.

Comments

[a rose is a rose]

grrrls DO fantasize (at the very least) about bad boys.....

[mark]

again, WAY too interesting of a life bud!

[Cherise]

I think I love him!;)

[Sister Mary Lisa]

I KNOW I love him!

[Sideon]

I think I'm lovin' the crazy-sex bank teller, too.

[Graeme]

interesting life indeed. You should write a bio dude.

(btw, thank you for completely destroying beak at my blog. You crushed him)

[CV Rick]

It's official, Westley is sexy. And the sex-crazed teller as well.

I am writing a bio, Graeme . . . you've been reading the first draft for a few months now.

You're welcome for destroying Beakerkin. He's ill-suited to debate politics.