Bank Robbers

The tears dried up. Khali Olsen sniffled once, then spat on the ground a repulsive splatter of brown tobacco sauce. She chewed. That’s why he liked the girl. She wasn’t afraid to steal a cop car on a whim and drive with him to the Bank of America on Encinitas BLVD. Small town. Small police force. And the girl, a thin little 5’4” French brunette smiled greater than a pleased chimpanzee. “Ready as Freddy,” Khali said, between chews. “Let’s go make some God Damn espèces . . . Français for cash.”

***

His phone rang.

“Hey. Still behind me . . . I see.”

It was her.

“Yeah. You’re a fast driver! I was all in a tizzy this morning thinking about the job. I’m still working up the nerve, you know! So . . . wassup? Why aren’t you talking?”

“Cause you’re talking.”





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