Shred of Evidence

Stuart eased the Accord onto the Van Nuys off ramp and glanced at his rearview mirror. Shit. “Check it out, Eddie. White Navigator getting off, been behind us for a while now.”

Eddie took a look at the sideview mirror. “First of all, that’s an Escalade. Don’t hold a candle to the Navigator. Second, it was a QX4 behind us before. Turned off a couple, three miles back. The Escalade got on after that.”

Stuart said, “Maybe they’re using two vehicles.”

“You thinking they’re cops?”

Stuart nodded, hoping he appeared alert, not afraid. But Jesus Christ, what was he getting himself into?

“Relax, nobody got a clue what we’re up to.” Eddie pulled a cigarette from the pack. “Besides, think about it. Cops driving such nice trucks? No fuckin’ way.” He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, opened the window a crack, and exhaled. “Listen, they’ll want to chase us after, if they can. That’s for sure. But we ain’t done nothing yet, so don’t worry. No one’s tailing us.”

Stuart stopped for the red light at the bottom of the ramp and caught himself biting his lower lip. He turned to see if Eddie noticed, but no problem. Eddie was still looking at the mirror, the Escalade right in back of them.

“You believe it?” Eddie said. “Fuckin’ camel jockey, twenty-something, with a beautiful white girl. Blonde, of course.” He leaned closer to the sideview. “Gotta be a real white girl, huh, Farouk?” He was shaking his head now. “And what’s the matter with you, Blondie? You forgotten 9/11?”

Stuart took one last look in the mirror and made a right, the Escalade turning left. He said, “Judging by the little Mexican flag flying from his window, I’d say the guy’s Latin.” He felt the knot in his gut easing a bit.

“What’s the difference? Young rich foreign fuck. How come they got all the money? What about us American taxpayers?”

Stuart laughed. “You have to pay taxes to be an actual taxpayer, Eddie. You haven’t done that for, what, ten years or so?”

“Well, I would’ve, if they paid better wages in the joint. And who the hell are you to talk?” It was Eddie laughing now. “They put you away for income tax evasion, didn’t they?”

* * *

Ten minutes later, they were eating in the car at Burger King. Stuart thought back to when he was a kid and his folks would take him to the drive-in restaurant in Westwood: A window tray sure beat balancing a coffee and an OJ on the console, crumbs from the Croissan’wich dropping on his lap. Then again, three years, five months, and eight days of eating from metal trays at Lompoc wasn’t exactly a fine culinary experience either. He turned toward Eddie saying, “Bank-robbery capital of the world.”

Eddie said, “Excuse me?” An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.

“You know they call L.A. the bank-robbery capital of the world, right?”

“Really? I thought it was the movie-making capital of the world.”

“That too,” Stuart said. “But the thing is, there’s more banks here than movies. And plenty of freeways to get on and off of.” He put down the sandwich and took a sip of coffee. “I would’ve thought you knew that.”

Eddie cocked his head a bit to the right, momentarily breaking eye contact with Stuart, then looked back. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and pointed it at Stuart saying, “You gonna tell a pro like me, a guy who’s served two stretches—one in Milan, one in Terra Haute—a thing or two about the fuckin’ bank-robbing business?”

“You went away twice? I thought you said once, and then only because your ex turned you in.”

“That’s right. She found religion. Or maybe religion found her. Who knows? Kept nagging me to get straight with Jesus. Morning, noon and night. Straight with Jesus. Messed up my head so bad, I got careless.”

“So she didn’t turn you in.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“You just got caught.”

“Same difference. When you get right down to it, it was her fault.”

“And the first time?”

“Don’t count really. Didn’t have the experience then that I have now.”

It occurred to Stuart that, all things considered, Eddie had more experience in doing time than robbing banks. Stuart felt the knot in his stomach returning. What the hell was he doing here? He reached into his pocket for a Xanax.

* * *

One thing for sure, Stuart was happy he wasn’t riding the MTA bus today. The three weeks since his release from prison had been brutal. Starting your job-seeking day at a halfway house was bad enough. But after walking to and from bus stops in 90-degree heat, it didn’t do wonders for your self-confidence to be sitting in front of an HR person, knowing you looked like Secretariat cooling down from a morning workout.

Then you had to tell her—it was generally a “her”—that you were still technically in the custody of the Attorney General, convicted of Willful Failure to File tax returns for three straight years. Plus filing fraudulent returns the preceding two. Could you reasonably expect them to hire you to work on their accounts receivable and payable?

Why should they be more understanding than the judge had been? “The Court is mindful of your personal problems, Mr. Green, but there were lawful ways for you to work them out. You’re a CPA, sir, and a tax attorney. You really have no excuse here.” And the judge was right. He could have gone to Gamblers Anonymous. Could have filed the missing returns, amended the others, and negotiated a payment plan with the IRS.

What Stuart had told his son when he asked to borrow the kid’s car for the day was that he felt like a loser taking the bus to job interviews. What he couldn’t tell his son was that he’d feel like a bigger loser taking the bus to rob a bank. After all, he was going to be the wheelman.

* * *

They headed west down Ventura Boulevard. Eddie held the AAA map in front of him like a newspaper, studying it as Stuart explained how the Boulevard, highlighted in yellow, stretched twenty miles or so east to west. How it ran parallel to the 101 Freeway, highlighted in orange, Stuart pointing to the right. Mulholland, in red and on their left, also ran east to west. The San Diego Freeway, north/south in green, was just ahead. Canyons and passes were highlighted in blue.

“Like they taught us in the service,” Eddie said, “planning and logistics are key. Everything else falls into place.” He lowered the map onto his lap. “You ever in the military?”

Stuart shook his head. “Student deferment.”

Eddie said, “Vietnam, ’65 and ’66, 1st Air Cav.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’d a been officer material, for sure. I knew you had brains straight off, first day at the halfway house. Anyway,” he referred to the map again, “you did a damn good job on this.”

“No problem. Whatever streets around here I haven’t driven, I’ve probably walked or bicycled.” But Stuart felt like a stranger now in the neighborhood that had once been his home.

They were approaching the Sherman Oaks Galleria, Stuart saying, “Well, look at that,” the place totally redone open-air style since he’d last seen it. He thought back to when it was an enclosed mall and he took his wife and kids to watch the filming of Valley Girls. Smiling to himself that just a few years later, his daughter sounded just like the girls in the movie. “Like, Dad, you’re totally ancient, for sure.”

In the Galleria parking structure now, Eddie had Stuart pull in between two parked cars facing a wall, asking him if he had a quarter, it would do in place of a screwdriver. Eddie got out of the car, walked to the wall, looked around, then knelt down. He was back within half a minute, sticking his head through the open passenger window. “You got a dime? The notches on the screws are smaller than I thought.”

A couple minutes later, Stuart’s thirty-five cent investment had yielded two license plates.

* * *

They were westbound again on Ventura Boulevard, Stuart saying, “According to Yahoo, there’s better than thirty banks the next three or so miles.”

Eddie nodded, pretty impressed with the guy so far, the guy probably scared shitless but not really showing it. Eddie saying, “Thirty? On one three-mile stretch? You gotta be kidding. Nothing like that in Detroit.” Then again, Eddie realized he really didn’t know what was going on in Detroit these days; twelve years of incarceration had kept him pretty much out of the loop.

Well, he did know about the casinos, the MGM making more money in the Motor City than in Vegas. Man, the place was ripe for a score. But with his daughter currently living in L.A., here he was. And right now he loved this street, Ventura Boulevard. Thirty banks? Fuckin’ A.

* * *

After carefully analyzing the pros and cons of each potential target, Eddie decided that the most promising objectives were a Citibank and a Bank of America.

It was going to happen. Stuart felt his chest tighten; his mouth was as dry as his shirt was wet.

The term “self-destructive behavior” popped into his head, Stuart mentally playing a tape of a session with the prison-camp psychiatrist. Hearing himself telling her that it was all over for him: his wife had divorced him and he was now a disbarred attorney, a decertified CPA. Her telling him that once he acknowledged his problem, he could begin the process of building a new life by making more positive choices.

Stuart wondered what the shrink would say about today’s choice. He looked over at Eddie, the man at ease, acting like a regular Joe on his way to work. No, like GI Joe commencing some special-op. “Hey Eddie, exactly what did you do in the service?”

“Clerk-typist.” he said. “I could outtype a whole fuckin’ company of VC, believe me.”

Stuart could feel the sweat dripping from his armpits now.

* * *

One mile to go. A billboard, which proclaimed “Florsheim—The Best—Again”, caught Stuart’s attention and reminded him of a guy at Lompoc: manufacturer’s rep, shoes, super salesman. The guy, Alan, making over half a million a year but declaring only a hundred thousand, which really ticked off the IRS.

While in the joint, Alan had lined up a deal with a factory in Guangzhou, China. The factory was currently exporting 55 million dollars in women’s shoes to the U.S. and wanted a piece of the men’s market. They contacted Alan, who projected sales of six million the first year, ten the second, after that who knew? Alan would do the selling but needed a CFO, someone to run the business end. Would Stuart be interested?

It was a no-bullshit proposition: Stuart had seen Alan’s correspondence with major retailers and the factory. And Stuart had done tax work for several companies in the fashion business, so he knew the numbers. On six million dollars volume with fixed expenses of one million, Alan would pull down his half mill in commissions, Stuart a couple hundred grand in salary, and the company would realize a profit of over 400 thou. Not bad for the first year, with the factory putting up all the money. Just before Alan’s release in July, the factory had okayed Stuart’s business plan. All Stuart had to do when he was released in September was to call Alan: 1-800-4SHOES. The job was his.

Stuart’s gaze shifted from the billboard to the road. He pictured himself in front of the judge again. Stuart saying, “I know I should have made that call, Your Honor, but—it’s hard to explain—I just didn’t feel deserving of anything good. It’s like I felt the need to punish myself.” Asking the judge if he understood. If he’d read the psychiatrist’s report detailing his history of clinical depression and low self esteem.

The judge saying, “The Court is mindful of your personal problems, Mr. Green, but you are an attorney, sir, an officer of the Court. You really have no excuse here.”

Stuart slowed down for a pedestrian in a crosswalk, deciding that when the bailiff would be taking him away, the judge would be yelling, “Hey, Stuart.” The judge giving him a look now. “Bank robbery? You’re a fuckin’ dummy, you know that?”

* * *

Half a mile to go. As they entered the underground parking lot, Stuart heard Eddie opening a briefcase, the locks making a loud snap. Stuart swung into a spot and saw Eddie with a glob of something in his hand as he closed the case. “Earthquake putty,” Eddie said, tearing off a few small pieces, pressing them on to the back of each license plate. “Guaranteed to hold fast until yanked off.”

Eddie got out of the car, Stuart watching as he stuck the new plates over the originals. Wondering how the hell a guy from Detroit knew about earthquake putty.

Back in the car now, Eddie reached into the briefcase, this time pulling out what looked like roadkill, saying, “You know what? Quality wigs, they always use real hair from Korean women.” Telling Stuart he wasn’t sure if the hair on this particular piece came from a gray-haired lady, or if they just dyed it up that way.

He slipped the hairpiece over his short-cropped brown hair, getting a look at himself in the vanity mirror, then pressed the matching-color mustache above his lip, saying he’d like to see the Korean woman who’d given that up.

Stuart was surprised at how natural the disguise looked, putting another ten or so years on him. “Unbelievable. You look a little like Ted Turner.”

Eddie said, “I can see the headlines now. ‘Media Mogul Suspected in L.A. Bank Heist.’” He reached into the glove box for the map.

Stuart asked, “Ever see Fun With Dick and Jane? Ted Turner’s ex was in it. Jane Fonda.”

Eddie thought about it for a few seconds. “The one with George Segal?”

Stuart nodded.

Eddie said, “A suburban couple fallen on hard times resorts to pulling bank jobs.” The man sounding a little like Roger Ebert. “Funny flick. How’d it end?”

Stuart couldn’t remember. He shrugged saying, “I hope they got away with it.”

Eddie was looking over the map again. “Okay, this’ll be perfect. Primary target is Citibank, corner of Ventura and Rubio. Rubio takes us to Magnolia. A right on Magnolia and a long block later, we’re on the 101.” The man confident as he could be. “Secondary target, in case things don’t look right at the primary, is the B of A.” He looked up from the map. “You ready, partner?” Giving him a wink.

It was unreal, Stuart thinking now about another movie. The first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan. D-Day, Omaha Beach. He had once heard someone say that there were two kinds of soldiers on the landing craft that day: those who thought they might die and were terrified of it, and those who knew they would die and were resigned to it.

Stuart calmly started the car.

* * *

Now they were there, the 16600 block of Ventura Boulevard, the B of A on the right and the Citibank farther down on the left. Eddie took a last drag on his cigarette, and snuffed it out in the ashtray. “There it is. Hang a left at Rubio and park across the street from the bank.”

Stuart pulled behind a UPS truck, his view to the front blocked, the Citibank directly to the left. He tilted his head toward the bank and said, “So this is the one you like?”

“No, this is the one I chose.” Eddie started to pull a cigarette from the pack. “Never much liked Citibank. Ever since they turned me down for a stinking MasterCard.” He reached up, lightly patted his mustache and pushed the cigarette back. “Said something about me not being employed. What’d they expect me to put on the credit app? ‘Stick-up man’?”

Stuart said, yeah, no wonder he was pissed off. Took a deep breath saying, “Okay, let’s make sure we’ll be working from the same script here.” Aware now that his hands were clenched together. “Run everything by me again.”

“Sure. Number one,” Eddie’s thumb pointed straight up, “we make a dry run on the route to the freeway. Make sure it’s clear, no surprises. Two,” he added a finger, “we park up the street a bit, far enough down so no one in the bank can see but close enough for me to get to quickly. Three,” one more finger, “I go in the bank, scope the place as I walk to the teller line, make sure everything’s kosher.”

“How will you know?”

He tapped his chest. “Leave it to me. I’ll know. Three,” he held up three fingers, “I go to the—”

“Excuse me? We already had a ‘three.’” Stuart playing with the man a little, surprising himself that he was loose enough to do that right now.

Eddie said, “Okay, wise guy, we’ll call that 3a. This’ll be 3b.”

The guy totally composed, you had to give him that.

Eddie continued. “I go to the window and say to the teller, ‘Stay calm. Everything’ll be okay. No alarm, no screaming, no crying. Okay? That’s good.’ Talking softly to soothe their nerves. I tell ‘em there’s a bomb in the bank. If they hit the alarm or cry out, a lot of people will get hurt. I don’t say ‘die’ because that freaks ‘em out. I tell ‘em again it’ll be okay as long as they do what I say. I tell ‘em to give me hundreds only, no dye packs, no sequential numbers. I say, ‘Do it like this and everything’ll be okay. But don’t fuck around. The bomb’s got a remote control and I can trigger it if you fuck with me in any way. So no dye packs, okay?’ They hand over the money. I say, ‘Gimme two minutes.’ Then I say, ‘A hundred and twenty seconds, not too long to wait, is it?’ I walk out, get in the car, and it’s over.”

“Is there a Plan B?”

“Sure.” Eddie grinned, saying, “Plan B: They nail my ass inside, but you get away. And of course, there’s always Plan C.”

“Plan C?”

“You don’t wanna know about Plan C”—he paused for emphasis, no longer grinning—“believe me.” The man playing a little with Stuart now.

But Stuart didn’t care. What would be, would be.

He noticed the UPS guy returning to the truck in front of them, the driver reminding him of Babe Ruth. Big guy with skinny white legs showing below the brown shorts. Got in his truck and pulled away, giving Stuart an unobstructed view of the block.

And there it was: a parking-lot booth, on the left-hand side of the street, about 35 yards away, opposite the perfect spot for Stuart to be waiting while Eddie was in the bank. And leaning against the front of the booth was the attendant. Stuart nudged Eddie and pointed him out.

Eddie shook his head. “Jesus. How the hell’d I miss that on our way up?”

Stuart wondered what else Eddie might have missed.

“Will you look at the guy?” Stuart said. “Bored to death with nothing to do but look at the car and my face for however long you’ll be. Five, ten minutes.”

Eddie said, “We’ll be changing the plates after, but we’re stuck with your face.” He stroked his chin. “Whatta you think?”

What was there to think about? “Let’s check out the B of A.”

* * *

“Right there. See it?” Eddie was pointing just past the Bank of America. Stuart maneuvered the Accord into the parking spot, then reached into his pocket and retrieved some change, handing Eddie a quarter. Eddie looked bewildered.

“For the meter,” Stuart said. “You know how they caught Son of Sam? Parking ticket at the scene of the crime.”

Eddie gave a little shrug saying, “Whatever,” then got down to business. “Okay, you know the plan. No need for a dry run. We’ll be taking the freeway.”

Was the guy kidding? “Which freeway? The 101 or the 405?”

“Hmmmmmm.” Eddie scratched his head before pointing straight ahead.

So much for planning and logistics.

Stuart said, “Okay. The 405.” He looked for a while at the steady stream of oncoming cars, then checked out his sideview mirror. Damn. “You notice anything, Eddie?”

Eddie asked what.

“The traffic,” Stuart said, his gaze still fixed on the mirror. “You come back from the bank, get in the car, and we’re liable to be stuck here for, what, two minutes?” He turned toward Eddie. “One hundred and twenty seconds. Pretty long time to wait, isn’t it?”

Eddie nodded and said, “Okay. You got a better idea?”

Stuart figured, shit, he couldn’t do worse. Maybe it was up to him. He started the car and drove around the block, ending up in the parking lot behind Jerry’s Deli, a side street between the lot and the B of A. He said, “I wait here. You come out the back of the bank and get in.” He steered the car toward the exit. “We pull out and make a right.” They were driving up Petit Street now, a long street with big houses and lush landscaping. Coming up on Libbit he said, “We make a left here and go to Hayvenhurst.”

Eddie was following the route on his map as Stuart spoke. He said, “Got it. Hayvenhurst to Calneva, up to Mulholland, et cetera, et cetera. Not bad. You sure you never done this before?” He looked up at Stuart. “We’re a pretty good team, you and me, huh?”

Stuart’s stomach was churning again.

* * *

Eddie said, “Okay, this is it. You wait here with the engine running. When you see me about to cross the street, head over to the driveway. Make sure the door’s unlocked.” He started to open the door, briefcase in hand.

Stuart said, “You’re not taking that with you, are you?” Pointing to the case.

“Well, yeah, I am. Where the hell you think I’m gonna put all that money?”

“I thought you’d have a zipper pouch or something. You see people in the bank with those all the time.” He put his hand on the briefcase, tapping it twice. “Ever listen to the sound this thing makes when it opens?” He snapped his fingers. “Everybody’ll stop what they’re doing and look over at you. Just in time to see the case on the counter, you piling money into it. A bit obvious, no?”

Eddie sighed, pulled the lever to make his seat recline, and lay back. Eyes closed, as if he were going to take a nap. Except Stuart knew that he wasn’t. Was the guy pouting? Was he going to explode? Stuart waited.

Eddie opened his eyes and said, “Here’s how it works in the military,” speaking slowly and softly in order to increase the dramatic effect. “When soldiers volunteer for a dangerous mission, the CO assembles them all—this is before they actually get going—and says something like ‘Men, if any of you would like to drop out now, it’s okay. No one will think any the less of you.’” He raised the seat back and turned toward Stuart. “You know what I’m getting at, partner?”

Stuart had watched that scene played out in several World War II movies, his favorite being Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, Spencer Tracy doing it the best. Stuart was sure that at least one volunteer had to be saying to himself, “What am I, nuts? I got a long life ahead of me. Why would I want to do something suicidal?” Just once Stuart wanted to hear that guy yell, “I’m out.” But the guy never did.

Stuart pictured himself telling Eddie that he was sorry, but he’d be taking a pass. Imagined himself walking to the phone booth on the corner and punching in the number—what was it?—1-800-4SHOES. A fresh start; Chief Financial Officer; good money.

Instead he heard himself saying, “I’m okay. Let’s do it.”

* * *

Sitting in the car, Stuart downed another Xanax as he watched Eddie yank the handle on the B of A’s glass door, then push it. He rattled it back and forth; but the door didn’t budge. Neither did Eddie, who just stood there shaking his head.

What the hell? Stuart was out of the car now, walking through the parking lot, coming up on Eddie, the guy totally fixated on the sign pasted to the door: “Closed in Observance of Columbus Day.”

Stuart held back a laugh. He tapped Eddie on the shoulder saying, “What now, partner?”

Eddie, eyes wide open and searching for something to say, could only manage a shrug. Then his face brightened. “Hey, maybe we can find a parade. Kill the rest of the day.”

“Tell you what, you work on that plan, Eddie.” Stuart was walking toward the phone booth now. “Meanwhile, there’s a call I need to make.”