Chapter 7
He stacked and re-stacked the piles of money, each the same height according to denomination and an inch apart from the next, all neatly displayed like stepping stones along the baseboard of his bedroom. These were his friends. George Washington faced to the left on all the one-dollar bills heaped in three six-inch-high piles at the farthest end. Abraham Lincoln stared at George from the fives in an even stack but Abe required more real estate. Five mounds of fives. He liked it.
He nodded respectfully to Alexander Hamilton and Andrew Jackson, both in a neck-and-neck race at the moment for their space along the wall and beating Abe by two piles, both approaching the eight-inch mark. The stacks were banded in bundles, easy to tally. But he had no need to count his friends. He knew their exact number.
He snapped his heels together and saluted Ulysses S. Grant. “Don’t worry, you’ll grow,” he whispered to two three-inch stacks of fifties.
Last, but perhaps his most cherished friend, Benjamin Franklin kept a watchful eye on his cronies, like a doting father. Ben eyed him from atop a short stack of one-hundred-dollar bills, only three inches high. Ben and he were buds. Both geniuses in their own right. Both men of vision with goals and the commitment to achieve those goals. He winked at Ben. “I’m graduating to the vault. You’ll be the tallest soon.”
He caressed the hundreds, so clean and crisp it aroused him. Ordinary people didn’t regularly carry bigger denominations so they weren’t handled as often as the others. They even smelled different.
Stepping back to admire the exhibit, he smiled as he nudged one stack a centimeter to the left. People said he suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder but they were wrong. His IQ had tested near genius. That was why he’d outsmarted the FBI so far. He had a brilliant mind. Just like Ben Franklin.
And now, a new opportunity loomed. He wasn’t out of money and normally, this would be the time to lay low. Every news cycle featured a story about the rash of bank robberies carried out by unknown persons and broadcasted blurred pictures from bank surveillance tapes that might as well have been pencil drawings scrawled by a toddler. That’s how useless they were. He loved hearing himself described in the plural: persons. No one knew one smart dude was getting the best of the state and local police, and, as a bonus, the FBI. Well, that fact registered more like a boner. And better still. No one knew it was him.
Ordinarily, he’d just enjoy the ride. But next week, opportunity would knock. He’d have the advantage of driving a different vehicle for a full week. Not that anyone had picked up on the car he drove, at least not according to the news accounts. In fact, the reporters said no one had noticed a getaway vehicle. He’d counted on people inside the bank being too scared to look at him once he fired his gun at the ceiling. As for the general public. Well, they were too busy with their own lives to pay attention to him. God bless cell phones and texting.
All the police could use was film from both bank’s surveillance cameras, one that showed him hunched over and running out the door and one that depicted a nerdy-looking man who kept his face down at the teller window.
With little fact to report, the media speculated about the robbers, whether the incidents were connected, if someone had a vendetta against the Good Neighbor bank, or if each hold-up was a random act of violence. They were clueless.
And now, another chance.
His friend owned and drove a two-seater pickup but was part of a car pool with his workmates. So one week a month, they swapped vehicles. Next week, he’d be driving around town in his friend’s green pickup, instead of his own beat-up Chevy and the prospect of another job and escape in a different vehicle appealed to him. Usually, he smeared his rear license plate with mud so the digits and letters were partially covered, making them difficult to identify. But he had an ingenious idea to disguise his friend’s license. The inspiration came to him as he watched late-night TV and a commercial for women to temporarily conceal their gray hair by spraying an aerosol product on it. The darker color lasted until the woman washed her hair.
Knowing that his friend’s license plate included the numbers five, nine, and zero, he planned to use some of the color spray to change the five to a six, the nine to an eight and the zero to an eight. Even if someone noted the plate as he drove away, the number would be bogus.
Starting research on his newest target titillated him, like the promise of sex at the end of a dinner date. The objective definitely could not be a Good Neighbor branch this time. That would tempt fate. As always, he’d be methodical. By the time he strolled in the building ready to make his demand, he’d know everything about the branch, including the number of tellers and guards, the distance to and from the police station, all highway accesses, peak hours, and more. And if he didn’t complete the spreadsheet he carefully filled out for each job, he could afford to wait until next month. He definitely liked the idea of driving another vehicle.
A new disguise was necessary as well. This time, it just might be a woman behind the wheel of that pickup. A donation center in the next town likely had everything he needed. A dress, wig, pocketbook, shoulder shawl, even plus-size bras that he could stuff. He’d look for women’s shoes as well, something orthopedic.
Switching on the bathroom lights he studied his face in the mirror. His skin was smooth, his features sharp. He’d add a swipe of lipstick and red color on his cheeks. And false eyelashes to wear behind a new pair of pink glasses. Laughing, he strolled to his desk to get started. This was going to be fun.