Uncommon Thief Page 3

  Chapter 3

  Bank USA

  Steve Robins and Randy Hanson were Fred’s best friends. They had all met and become friends in elementary school. Steve and Randy were both tall and slender, but Steve had a slightly heavier build. That was the extent of any similarity. Steve was quiet and shy, whereas Randy rarely closed his mouth and always wanted to party. Politically they encompassed the entire political spectrum—Steve the conservative, Randy the liberal, and Fred the moderate. They had grown very close over the years since they had spent so much time together and none of them had a brother.

  Randy had just gone off to college at the University of Pittsburgh, where his father and grandfather had gone before him. Steve and Fred, both a year older than Randy, decided to go to UCLA and rent an apartment together. They had gone to Santa Monica in June to select the apartment. They had looked at the campus dorms, but they’d both lived in dorms their freshman year and wanted more freedom and privacy. The new off-campus coed dorms, where male and female students lived together on the same floor, were intriguing but far too expensive. Both Steve and Fred were basically on their own financially. Their parents would have liked to have helped out, but really couldn't afford it. They finally settled on a two-bedroom apartment about fifteen minutes from campus called the Westgate Apartments. The apartment had a typical two-story rectangular design with one end opened to provide access to the pool and common area. It was probably ten or fifteen years old and fairly well maintained. The tenants were mostly students with a few retired couples and blue collar workers.

  Steve and Fred arrived in separate cars, both bursting with all the necessities of domestic life. Steve had a black 1957 Chrysler that used to belong to his father. It was a big car and had lots of room to haul junk back and forth to school. The only problem was that it was a gas guzzler and kept poor Steve financially drained.

  "Let's go to the manager's office and check in," Fred said.

  Steve looked around. "Where is it?"

  "Around the corner. Apartment 101."

  Steve nodded, and they walked around the corner looking for the number. When they found it, they went inside. The manager— ‘Mrs. Walker’, according to her name tag—was sitting behind a desk in the corner of the small room. She looked up at the two of them and smiled.

  "Ah, Mr. Fuller."

  "Yes, that's right. You remembered. You've got a good memory. This is Steve Robins. He's going to be my roommate."

  "Nice to meet you, Steve. Your apartment is ready. Come with me, and I'll take you to it," she said as she got up and walked outside. They followed close behind her, anxious to see where they’d be living for the next several years. She went across a courtyard and down a long walkway to Apartment 118, opened the door, and held it for them.

  "You have a pleasant inside view of the pool area. The apartment has been recently painted, and the carpets have been shampooed."

  "Thank you,” Fred said. “It looks great."

  "Well, if you need anything, just give me a holler."

  "Thanks.”

  After Mrs. Walker left, they carefully checked out each room and imagined how it would look once they’d moved all of their stuff in.

  "It looks pretty clean," Steve observed.

  "Hey, did you notice the chicks working on their tans near the pool?" Fred asked.

  "Yeah. I think we may need to take a swim here pretty soon," Steve suggested with a sly grin.

  "Definitely,” Fred agreed.

  Since the apartment was furnished, getting settled in didn’t take long. After a couple of hours, they’d moved in most of their stuff and had everything in its place. When they were done, they sat down to relax.

  It was a warm day in southern California. The temperature was about eighty-five degrees and, of course, there was no air conditioning since Santa Monica always had a cool breeze coming in from the Pacific Ocean. To take advantage of the breeze, most everyone had their windows opened, which made it quite pleasant.

  Steve was about to turn on the television when they heard a loud moaning sound from the next apartment.

  "Ahhh . . . Ahhh . . . Ahhh . . . Oh. Oh . . . Ahhh," a female voice moaned. "Ahhh . . . Ahhh . . . Oh. Oh . . . Yes! . . . Yes!" she continued.

  Steve looked at Fred with a puzzled look on his face. Neither one of them had ever heard such a noise from a human being. Fred frowned, not quite sure what to make of it.

  "Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh! Yes! Yes! . . .Oh! Yes!" she screamed.

  Just then, they heard a male voice say, "Honey, if you’re going to make love with the windows open, you've got to keep your voice down."

  Steve looked at Fred and began to laugh. "I think I’m going to like this place," he said.

  Fred nodded enthusiastically. "I think so too."

  That night, they went swimming and met some of the girls around the pool area. They were all pleasant and friendly, but as Fred talked to them, he kept thinking of Maria and felt guilty and uneasy. Later, he tried to call Maria, but the switchboard operator didn't know her room number yet.

  On Tuesday, Fred reported to the data processing center for Bank USA in downtown Los Angeles. His transfer had gone through, and he was to report to Henry Sinclair, the Transportation Supervisor, for assignment. Bank USA was headquartered in Pasadena, California. The Transportation Division was divided into seven regions: LA, San Diego, Ventura, San Francisco, Eureka, Sacramento, and Bakersfield, each servicing its own data processing center. Every night, all banking transactions were processed on large mainframe computers. Each morning, bank messengers delivered the night's work to each of 545 branch banks throughout the state. In the evenings, the messengers delivered each branch's work to the data processing center.

  Each messenger covered seven to ten branches, which were an average of eight miles apart. This meant the average messenger’s route was fifty to sixty miles and took three to five hours to complete. Most of the routes in the LA Division were short ones between the myriad of cities that made up the Los Angeles metro area. A few routes were longer, however, stretching out north and south 100 miles or more from downtown LA.

  Fred was not totally a newcomer to LA. His father had taken him to a few Dodgers games at Chavez Ravine, and they had been to Pasadena many times to visit his aunt and uncle. Nevertheless, downtown LA was a pretty unique experience for him, having come from a small town like Ventura. As he drove past the tall buildings and hordes of people walking the streets, he felt out of place and a little scared. Then he remembered he was being paid $7.50 per hour for simply driving around. This thought quickly overshadowed all his fear and discomfort.

  All of his life, Fred had been very ambitious. He was the kid who walked the streets selling all-occasion cards, candy, and even a magazine called Grit. He was the newspaper boy, the one who cut your lawn, and the one that waxed your car. If there was any way he could earn money, he would be out there doing it. But all these jobs involved hard manual labor, and he dreaded every minute of them. Not only was the work grueling, but it was also tedious.

  Driving, on the other hand, was a pleasure. He loved to drive anytime, anywhere—a passion he had inherited from his father. Almost every weekend, his father would pack up the family in the old Nash Rambler and take them out on the road. They must have visited every state and national park, museum, monument, fort, lake, river, and dam that had been built—from the depths of Death Valley to the summit of Mt. Shasta and from the magnificent Redwoods to the Mojave Desert.

  Fred often wondered why his father loved to travel so much. As he got older, he realized it was an escape from the boredom of his job. Every morning, he’d go to work at seven and shuffle papers until four. It had to be incredibly tedious. After he got home, he’d eat dinner, watch four hours of network TV, and then end the day listening to George Putnam and the Channel Eleven News. Day after day, he followed the same routine with little variation.

  Although Fred’s father was home every night and always did his best to make life as c
omfortable as he could for Fred, there was very little communication between them. He was forty years of age when Fred was born, and Fred guessed this age difference made it difficult for them to be close.

  But on the weekends, his father became a different man. From a dull office worker, he was transformed into a great adventurer, full of anticipation for what he might find over the next hill or around the next turn. Every Friday at four, Fred’s father was set free to live his dreams, and Fred knew he was fortunate to be able to go along for the ride. So, the thought of getting paid just to drive around was like a gift from God, and Fred was certainly going to enjoy every minute of it.

  The LA division headquarters took up one square block of downtown LA. It was a large, beige, single-story, windowless, brick building that could easily be mistaken for an underground parking garage. A fourth of the area was a parking lot, and the balance the motor pool. Fred was told to report to the motor pool.

  Fred parked his car around the corner and walked into the motor pool area. A tall, lean man about forty years old was pumping gas into a white Impala. He looked up, smiled, and greeted Fred in an Australian accent. "Hi, mate. I am Jim Wells. You must be Fuller."

  "Yes, I am Fred Fuller. Glad to meet you," Fred said, extending his hand. Jim took it and gave Fred a bone-crushing shake. Fred struggled not to scream.

  Jim laughed at Fred’s discomfort. "Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you in the office," he said with a grin. He pointed toward a loading dock adjacent to the building and then began filling up another gas tank.

  Fred thanked him, walked over to the office and went in. A short, grey-haired man was busily writing at a desk. "Mr. Sinclair?" Fred asked.

  He looked up without smiling. "Yes?”

  “Hi. I’m Fred Fuller from Ventura. I was told to report to you.”

  Sinclair nodded. “Oh yes, Mr. Fuller. Come in. Give me a minute, and I will show you around and introduce you to some of the guys."

  "Thank you," Fred said, giving the place a cursory glance.

  Sinclair finished his paperwork and then led Fred around the facility, explaining everything that was going on. Pointing to the parking lot next to the motor pool, he said, "As you can see, the cars you will be driving are over in that lot. Each day, you’ll be assigned a car. The keys will be on a board in my office. If you have any problems with your car, report them to Jim, whom I think you met when you came in."

  "Yes, sir."

  "The cars will be full of gas. When you come in at night, take your car to Jim and get it re-fueled. As you know, it's critical that each messenger stays on schedule, so don't forget to gas up before you leave. I don't want anyone getting a late start or running out of gas because you forgot to fill up your car."

  "No, sir."

  "Do you know the LA area at all?" he inquired.

  "Pretty much. My dad brought me here a lot, and I've got a good sense of direction," Fred said.

  "Good. I don't want any of my messengers getting lost. Now, go report to Jim, and he'll send you out with Jake to learn your route."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you."

  Three cars were parked at the gas pumps, and the messengers were standing around talking to Jim. Fred walked over and stood near them, waiting for Jim to get finished so he could talk to him. Jim was telling the other messengers a story, and they were listening intently.

  "Well, I was in the Alley Cat last night, and I saw this wench that would knock your bloody socks off. Every guy in the joint was staring at her, wondering what line he could use to get into her pants, but everyone that tried got a chilly rebuff. So, my buddy bets me ten bucks I can't get to first base with the pretty lady. I told him it wasn’t a problem and took the bet. I promised him I’d have her in the sack inside an hour.”

  “So, what happened?” someone asked.

  “Well, I go over to where she’s nursing a drink, sit down beside her, stare straight ahead, of course—not wanting to look her directly in the eye, you see—and then casually mention ‘You probably haven’t had decent sex in months’.”

  Everyone laughed. “What did she say to that?” someone asked.

  “She turns and looks at me, trying to act offended, but I knew I’d got her interest. So, I casually observed that the young bucks in this establishment didn't know how to please a lady. The moment they got inside a woman it was slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, and it’d be all over in a jiffy. Of course, they'd all be happy as a hog in garbage heap, but the lady’d be left so bloody frustrated she could scream.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “By this time, the wench had drawn herself up indignantly, but I kept on talking. I informed her I just wanted her to know that I, myself, was not like the young boys she was used to and that I knew how to please a woman.”

  “How do you please a woman, Jim?” someone asked.

  “Well, I don’t like to brag, but when I get inside a lady, I roll and thrust like ocean waves pounding on the beach—not just once or twice, but all night long, from dawn to dusk, bestowing on the lucky recipient of my relentless passions an incredible sexual experience.”

  They all laughed.

  Jim continued. "She just stared at me, a bit overwhelmed and incredulous, so I tipped my hat, pointed to my drinking buddy, and told her I'd be with my friend over there if she needed me. Then I turned around and went back to my seat.

  “She stared at me for several long seconds and then turned away. My buddy laughed in delight and suggested I pay on the bet, but I told him he was a bit premature in claiming victory."

  “She surely didn’t fall for that line?” someone asked.

  Jim shrugged. "Well, we sat there maybe five more minutes drinking our beers. All the time, the lady keeps looking over at me nervously. Then, suddenly, she jumps up and marches straight to me. My buddy's mouth falls open as she gets right up next to me, looks me in the eye, and says I better not be shittin’ her! Then she drags me out of the bar to go to her place."

  The men roared with laughter, and Jim stood before them, glowing with masculine pride.

  "Hey, Jim, were you bull shittin’ her?" one of the drivers asked.

  "Not at all. She's at my place right now, too sore to walk."

  The drivers again roared with laughter, this time so loudly that Sinclair heard them and came outside to see what was going on. "Hey, come on! You've got routes to run!" he yelled. “Get your gas and get out of here."

  Jim saw Fred finally and said, "Hey, Fuller, you’re going out with Jake Johnson.” He pointed to a dark-haired, stocky man of about twenty-eight. "Hey, Jake, this here’s your shotgun. Sinclair wants you to take him with you to learn the route."

  Jake turned around expressionless and motioned for Fred to join him. Fred walked over and introduced himself. Jake shook his hand with little enthusiasm and told him to get in the car. Fred was a little taken aback by Jake’s demeanor. What’s eating at this guy?

  "Where are we headed?" Fred asked cautiously.

  "This is the North Beach route,” he replied stiffly, “Palos Verdes, Redondo Beach, Hermosa Beach, Venice Beach, El Segundo, and Santa Monica."

  "Is this your usual route?"

  "Yeah, at least it was until yesterday."

  "What happened?" Fred asked, hoping for an explanation for his rude behavior.

  "Nothing you need to concern yourself about."

  "Oh. Okay. Never mind then if it’s a sore subject,” Fred said reeling a bit from his rebuff.

  Jake didn’t respond and it was obvious to Fred that he resented having to teach him the route.

  Then Jake let out a long sigh. “Okay. If you must know. I’ve been with the bank seven years now. You’d think they’d let one little misstep slide, but no, I lose my route and then they rub it in my face by making me train my replacement.”

  “What misstep?” Jake asked.

  “I was way ahead of schedule so I stopped at a bar and had a beer. Big fucking deal!”

  Drinking was one of two things that weren’t
tolerated by the bank; the other one was picking up hitchhikers. Jake had been lucky he hadn't been fired right there on the spot. Instead, as his punishment, Sinclair assigned him to thirty days of sorting bags and distributing them to drivers, the worst job in the motor pool and usually reserved for rookies. Fred knew even though he had nothing to do with what had happened or the reprimand that every time Jake saw Fred it would remind him of his humiliation and he’d get angry. Fred wasn’t used to having someone hate him, and he didn’t like it much. Worse, he feared Jake would try to make his life miserable and, as it turned out, he was right.