This time, we went to the 7-11 at six in the morning. James’ car couldn’t be used for a robbery — we would need that later for drugs. So we waited at the phone booth, pretending to make a call, until a guy drove up, left his car running, and ran inside for a coffee. We jumped in the car and drove it to my apartment, stashing it for the bank run later.
The take was much more that day. We drove the stolen car to the First California Bank at the corner of Pine Meadows Ave. and Lafayette Blvd. I got out of the car, went in the bank, and came out the back door with $17,520. All were brand new bills. A new stack of $100 bills is one hundred hundreds — $10,000. That went in my jeans. I told James that we had gotten $7,520, which we happily split. And that was all it took; I no longer had cold feet. I looked forward to my turn. I became convinced we’d never be caught.
We became unstoppable. Sometimes I robbed banks with two grand still in my pocket from the last one. I bought my first Chevy truck. I bought my friend his first Chevy truck, too. Everyone I knew had new Levis and Red-Wing boots. My wife and kids weren’t hungry anymore. My dope dealer was in heaven. I told everybody I knew I was doing it. The story about the bank robberies would be broadcast on TV every evening and my house was always full of people. I’d shush everybody and listen seriously, telling them “That’s me and James, man, really, we’re real-life gangsters.” I’m not sure they believed me, but it didn’t matter. I was a generous guy — I could say anything I wanted.
