The Bankrobber I Knew - Part Three

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

Westley worked very hard.  When on the job he'd put in twelve hour days without complaint and he'd rush out to repair a substation or pump station when he was on call and he never sighed or rolled his eyes at the inconvenience.  He'd just put on a jacket, grab a toolbox and drive right out.  Even though he was, by far, the most talented electronics tech in the company, he didn't ask for raises and didn't inflate his own worth. 

He also played hard.  When he was off work he enjoyed Bourbon and games. He was in a couple of bar pool leagues as well as one dart league. I wasn't much for pool, but I'd played darts off and on since I'd acquired a dart board and hung it on the basement wall when I was ten.  I told Westley that story and he jumped right on it, bringing me a set of plastic tipped darts with Dallas Cowboy flights as a present.  A present with strings attached, of course. 

He dragged me to the bar with him and before I knew it I was throwing at an electronic board for twenty dollars a game.  Surprisingly, I was competent and it didn't cost Westley any money, so I was on the team.

We played every Friday and since I didn't have any Friday night classes at the University of Oklahoma, I was able to make every match.  The bar we were sponsored by, Wildside, was a raunchy strip club in South Oklahoma City, where the rough-looking strippers were either past their prime or not pretty enough to make money at a place with more neon.  They'd hang around drinking until someone with actual money to spend came in the joint, then they'd plod around in front of him until he picked a favorite.  It was the type of place one would expect to find known felons, but since I didn't ask questions, Westley was the only confirmed sighting.

One of the strippers, Karen, was on the dart team.  Karen was her real name.  Her stage name was Destiny.  She'd been at Wildside so long she had keys to the place and basically ran it when Ed, the owner, wasn't around.  I honestly don't know how she made any money because she never danced and wasn't interested in doing anything for tips, but she did walk around in stripper clothes.  Westley got along with Karen really well, and I know she  liked him because she said so many times. 

Given the fact that we were playing a darts, basically a drinking game, for money in seedy bars with shady people, I expected that there'd be problems, but there wasn't.  Westley knew everyone and they all liked him.  He'd drink a lot but rarely would he seem intoxicated and even then he'd just get happier.  He never took any insult seriously and never shot back with sarcasm or anger, even though I know he was mentally quick enough if he'd wanted to. When conflicts arose he'd put himself right in the middle and buy both sides drinks and get them talking about stuff they had in common, a born diplomat.  Too bad the State Department never got him on their staff.

Knowing all this, the night I got a phone call from him was a surprise.

“Rick, this is Westley.  I'm in county lock-up,” he said.

“Jail?” I asked. 

“Yes. I'm going to need a favor.”

“Are you using your only phone call to call me for a favor?” I asked.

“Only phone call?  I think you watch too much television,” he said.  “I need you to go over to the Crossroads Mall and track down a guy named Jackson Bruell and talk to him.”

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I beat him up tonight and if he presses charges I'm going to go back to prison.”

“Westley, why me?” I asked.  “Wait, are you asking me to strong arm him?”

“Rick, don't be a jackass and quit watching cop shows on t.v.  I don't want you to do anything other than talk to him and tell him it's a big misunderstanding.  Tell him I'm sorry and I'll make it up to him.”

“Westley, what did he do to make you angry?” I asked.  I'd never even seen him angry once. 

“He pulled me over for speeding.”

“Fuck? You beat up a cop?” I asked.

“No, he's a rent-a-cop.”

So I went out in the middle of the night and found a mall security guard.  I was polite and respectful and eventually he took me to the security office where Jackson was lying on a couch.  He was really messed up, both eyes swelling black and his lip busted and still bleeding.  That's what I noticed until he sat up.  He was big.  Big like a camper van in a compact parking spot – round, tall, with shoes that were big enough to be tree pots.  And then he opened his mouth . . .

“You here for that sonnabitch I'm gonna sue?  You his fucking attorney? Cause if you are, I'm gonna have his ass and yours too.”

. . . and I wanted to finish the job Westley started.

I talked slowly and carefully so that Jackson would clearly understand, but it didn't seem to matter.  Jackson was seriously an asshole. He'd stopped Westley, who was riding his motorcycle through the parking lot after leaving a pool match at a bar in the mall.  Instead of giving him a warning or telling him just to slow down or whatnot, he'd tried to get Westley to lie face down on the pavement while he “ran a check.”  You might be confused by that as everyone else is, since mall security guards don't do checks and they don't put people on the pavement face-down.  When he'd insisted and Westley'd told him no, he'd grabbed Westley and pulled him off the bike.  And the end result was Westley in jail and Jackson on this couch.  Trying to think what Westley'd do in this situation, I offered to buy him a drink.  He was skeptical because the bars were closed.

I called Karen, explained what was up and she told me to meet her over at Wildside.

We sat down at the bar and Karen brought a couple of plastic bags of ice for Jackson's face and a double whiskey sour.  I've never avoided conflict in my life and I don't tolerate assholes well because I am one and I think that one in a room is the limit.  For the first time, however, I tried to just talk to a guy and figure out what he wanted, like Westley would've done. 

It worked.  I couldn't believe it.  It was either my charm and sincerity, or Karen's promise of three free lap dances during regular business hours. 

He called the jail and told them not to press charges.  Westley was out of jail and at Wildside in an hour. 

“Rick, I owe you one,” he said.

“Yes you do and you can pay me back by answering one question,” I said.

“What's the question?”

“How much money did you actually steal?” I asked.

“None. They caught me in the act of my very first bank robbery,” he said, smiling. 

“But?” I protested.

“Okay,” he began.  “I'll tell you what I think a very good bank robber could do if he applied himself.  And I'll tell you what the FBI thinks a very good bank robber did and they tried to pin on me, an innocent victim.”

Next week . . . How to Rob Banks.

Comments

[a rose is a rose]

of course this comment is all about ME ME ME

i absolutely INSIST you write and publish your damn books already. i do NOT want to keep waiting a week to get another installment of any of your tales.

[Sister Mary Lisa]

I agree with Rose. This story is great!

[mark]

"charm" heh....

[Sideon]

Add to my list of things not done yet:

playing darts at a stripper bar.

This is a great story, CVRick!

[Reg]

I've read a lot of your writing, Rick. A LOT. This is the best. I second Rose.

[CV Rick]

Rose, Reg and the rest . . . I'm sorry but this is as fast as I can write them while I'm working full time. I just can't put 'em out any faster.

Once they're all written, then I can put it in manuscript form and start shopping it around for the decade-long process of trying to get a first book published.

[Cherise]

Goddess I missed my morning cuppa!! Great story, Rick... It's a page turner, now if only I could turn a page!! This is a fantastic line " I don't tolerate assholes well because I am one and I think that one in a room is the limit." :)