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  "I don't want to make waves," I assured her, knowing that the last person who'd complained against the all powerful Leeman had been transferred to the South Central branch of L.A. Mu, where she had to go through a metal detector every morning, "but I just want him to stop. It's… inappropriate."

  "I see," she repeated. Still scribbling.

  "We all went to the sensitivity training session last month and they said we had a responsibility to the team to report any inappropriate behavior."

  "Uh huh."

  "So, um, I'm reporting it," I said, craning my neck to see what she was writing. 'Grabbed my ass' seemed like a pretty quick thing to jot down and she was now working on paragraph three.

  She quickly slapped a hand over her clipboard, obscuring her notes.

  I cleared my throat. "Right. So, um, I just want him to stop. Okay?"

  "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Cabot. I'll look into it."

  Hmm. I noticed she hadn't actually said what she'd do. I rose and shook her hand, trying in vain to get a look at her notes, then hopped in my little red Civic (parked two blocks down and behind a dumpster to avoid Mr. Repo) and left the district office for my own L.A. Mu branch, where, I realized looking at my dash clock, I was already five minuets late for my shift. I hated having to tattle on my lunch hour.

  * * *

  "So, what did she say?" Lynette asked. "Are they going to fire The Octopus?"

  Quinn rolled her green eyes up toward her spiked hair. Blue today. "Geeze, Lynnie. The guy grabs Carrie's ass and suddenly he's an Octopus?"

  "He touched my booty, too! In the break room yesterday. My husband hasn't even had his hands on my booty in six weeks," Lynette mumbled wistfully.

  "TMI, honey." Quinn flicked cigarette ash onto the pavement behind L.A. MU. "So, what did she say?"

  I took a long sip from my Diet Coke before answering. Ever since I'd gotten back to my teller window (ten minutes late, Mr. Leeman had irritably pointed out) I'd been running the conversation with the DM through my head. Three hours later, on our mandatory five minute coffee break, I was no closer to a conclusion. "She said she'd look into it."

  "What does that mean?" Lynette asked, popping the rest of her fat free muffin into her mouth. After dropping two babies in twenty months, Lynnie lived on a fat-free diet. "Does that mean he's going to get fired? He should get fired. He's a total perv."

  "And he talks to my chest," I reminded her.

  "He talks to all our chests," Quinn added, making the most of her bee bites in a low cut, V- necked blouse today.

  "God, what I wouldn't give to see him fired." Lynette got a far away look in her eyes, imagining a Leeman-free workplace. I had to admit, the thought filled me with the warm fuzzies, too.

  David, the security guard, stuck his head out of the back door. He was clean shaven, clean-cut, and I'd bet his butt cheeks squeaked when he walked, he was so clean. Rumor had it he'd wanted to join the army – hence his quarter-inch crew cut – but they'd turned him down because the vision in his right eye was only 50%. Lucky us, they let him walk around our branch with a gun instead.

  "Break's over, gals."

  "Thanks, tiger," Quinn said, giving him a wink. David blushed clear to his blond roots.

  "Oh, and Carrie," he added. "Leeman wants to see you in his office. The District Manager is here."

  Lynette raised an eyebrow at me. "Wow. That was fast."

  Yeah. Almost too fast. I bit my lip. Then realized I'd been doing that a lot lately and made myself stop, knowing it'd look like chewed hamburger by the end of the day if I kept this up.

  Quinn crushed her cigarette beneath the toe of one snakeskin pump and we followed her back into the bank. Lynnie and Quinn took their places at the first and second teller windows, switching out their 'next window please' signs. I passed my window, instead swerving right into Mr. Leeman's big, glass office in the back corner of the bank. Leeman was standing beside his massive oak desk, his bald head shining in the glare from the fluorescent lights. His pencil thin mustache twitched on his pasty upper lip as I entered the room.

  "Miss Cabot," he began in a voice that was all nasal. "I have some sad news."

  I looked from him to the stoic DM. "Yes?"

  "We regret that we're going to have to let you go."

  I blinked. "Excuse me?" My gazed rocketed from Leeman to the DM again. "Let me go… where?"

  Leeman cleared his throat. "Terminate your employment here at L.A. Mu. I'm sorry, but we've been going over your last performance review and we both agree that it's substandard."

  "Substandard? You've got to be kidding me."

  Only he didn't look like he was joking.

  "But… but…" I sputtered, appealing to the DM. "But what about the grabbing? And the 'muffin'?"

  She spoke up for the first time. "Miss Cabot, bringing false sexual harassment claims against your manager is no way to hold onto your job. Mr. Leeman tells me your performance has been slipping for months. You're repeatedly late for work and take excessively long lunch breaks. Today's included."

  "But I was with you!" I was shouting now, feeling my face grow hot with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. But mostly anger. What the hell was going on here?!

  "Yes, you were," the DM replied calmly. "Filing false accusations. For which, quite frankly, I'm appalled."

  My jaw dropped open, tears lining up behind my eyes, ready to march straight down my flushed cheeks. They had to be joking. False accusations? Substandard performance? This was not happening.

  I realized Leeman was still talking, his nasally voice droning on like an annoying fly. "… we'll need you to clear out your things immediately. David will escort you back to your window."

  David appeared suddenly in the doorway, looking sheepish as if he'd heard every word.

  I stood up, my mouth opening and shutting, trying to come up with something – anything! – to say in my defense. But I could tell by the look on the DM's face that she'd made up her mind. Leeman was the manager and I was substandard and now I was getting a security escort from the building.

  Numbly, I allowed David to steer me back to my window. I passed by Quinn, who mouthed me a, "What's up?", her drawn-in brows puckering in concern. I managed to mouth back a, "later."

  David, embarrassed by the whole thing, stood back while I gathered my personal belongings. Which weren't many. A couple of clipped cartoons, a pen I'd brought from home, two framed postcards of tropical islands that I'd never have the cash to actually visit.

  Especially now that I was unemployed.

  I heard Quinn ask David what was up. David went into the impression of a lovesick school boy that he always did around Quinn, and Quinn ate it up, flirting the way she always did around David. But I tuned them both out. I was still seething, the embarrassment slash anger thing turning into full blown pissed-off. How could the DM have sold me out like that? A woman even. What had all that crap about team players been at the sensitivity training? That's it, I was going to get a lawyer. A big, mean, pit bull of a lawyer and sue the whole damn L.A. Mu 'team'. Even the dancing cow!

  Had I not been so intent plotting my revenge (and wondering where on earth I could scrape together the cash for a pit-bull lawyer), I might have noticed him sooner. As it was, I didn't even look up until he was already at my window.

  He was average height, brown hair, wearing an Anaheim Angels baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His gym-made build was encased in a non-descript white T-shirt and worn jeans. My eyes lingered a moment on the jeans, tight in all the right places against the guy's fit form.

  "Hi," he said.

  I snapped my eyes back up to meet his. Blue. Really blue, like that fabled clear blue California sky that I'm told resides just above our smog layer. And they crinkled at the corners just a little. Like at any moment his rock-star gorgeous face might break out into a smile. I wracked my brain trying to think if I'd seen this guy on MTV recently.

  "Hi," I said back. Odd. My voice had suddenly go
ne up about two octaves. I licked my lips.

  "Could you help me…" he paused to read my name tag. "…Carrie?"

  "I'd really love to…" Oh, boy, would I! "…but, I'm sorry this window is closed. If you'd like to step over to…"

  But I trailed off as the man slid a piece of paper along the counter toward me. It read: Empty the drawer. Keep your hands where I can see them. I have a gun.

  Oh. Shit.

  I looked up at him. He was still doing that casual half smile thing, his blue eyes as friendly as if we were chatting over coffee.

  I licked my lips again, my mouth dry for a whole new reason.

  "Seriously?" I whispered.

  His eyes crinkled more and he leaned in close. "Seriously," he whispered back, his voice low and deep. "So, go nice and slowly and just empty the drawer. Okay, Carrie?"

  I nodded. Then took a deep breath, my hands starting to shake. I'd been warned about this sort of thing when I'd first been hired, but it hadn't actually happened until now. I tried to remember what the human resources lady had told me. Something about cooperating. Since the blue eyed man apparently had a gun, I was all for that course of action. I punched in my code to open the drawer.

  "This has got to be the worst fricking day of my life," I mumbled under my breath. I glanced behind me, trying to catch David's eye. Unfortunately it was firmly rooted to Quinn's rising hemline as she leaned over to help a customer.

  "Crack security team you have here." The man grinned, nodding toward David.

  "L.A. Mu only hires the best."

  "I liked the guy in the cow suit outside. Nice touch."

  "Our manager has a thing for puns."

  "So I noticed."

  "Lousy sonofabitch."

  He raised one eyebrow.

  "Not you," I explained, remembering the gun. "The manager. He just fired me because he grabbed my ass."

  "Hardly seems fair."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Maybe you should sue him," he offered.

  "I was thinking the same thing," I said. I noticed he was oddly easy to talk to for a bank robber.

  "I don't mean to cut this short, Carrie, but could you hurry up a little?"

  My hands were shaking so badly I was having a hard time getting the cash out of the drawer. I took another steadying breath, trying to keep him talking. If he was talking, he wasn't shooting, right? "So, what are you going to do with this money anyway?" I asked.

  "I thought I might run away to the Bahamas."

  I paused, a twenty suspended in mid-air. "Really?"

  He shrugged his captain-of-the-football-team shoulders. "Or, maybe I'll buy a llama farm."

  "You're pulling my leg."

  "You have nice legs."

  Crap. The best compliment I'd gotten in weeks and it came from a felon.

  "You know, there are seven security cameras in this place," I said, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. "You're not going to get away with this."

  His eyes crinkled again. "Maybe. But I know for a fact that only three are hooked up, the other four are dummies. The three working cameras are trained on the door, your blue haired co-worker's window, and the outer office to the vault."

  Crap. He'd done his homework. Even I hadn't know about the camera on Quinn. I made a mental note to warn her not to make a rude gestures behind Leeman's back anymore. He probably catalogued them from the tapes after hours.

  "Look, if it makes you feel any better," he said, "this place has insurance up the wazoo. They're expecting someone like me to come in and relieve them of a little cash. They'll be fully reimbursed. Heck, they probably won't even bother looking for me."

  "It's still stealing."

  He grinned, a dimple showing in his left cheek that would have been boyishly handsome if he hadn't had a gun pointed at me. "Hey, I never said I was a saint."

  If I'd have been the kind that went for bad boys, I'd have swooned right about then. Luckily a lifetime in a trailer park had cured me of that girlish obsession and my hormones just did a mild 'yowza' at the wicked twinkle in his blue eyes.

  Mr. Bank Robber did a quick glance down at his watch. "Okay, Carrie. That's all the time I have to chat. The cash, please?"

  I handed over the stacks I'd pulled, surprised to see my hands had almost stopped shaking. Almost.

  He must have noticed them still quivering a little because he covered one with his. "Hey, sorry you're having such a shitty day," he said. And if he wasn't still pointing that gun at me, I might have said he actually sounded sincere. "But, chin up," he said, stuffing the money into the duffel bag. "You're too cute for this place anyway." Then he winked one blue eye, pulled his Angels cap down low, and turned to walk out of the building.

  I stared after him. Damn. The man with the gun had made me blush. I waited until he'd cleared the front door and passed the cow handing out interest rate fliers.

  Then I hit the panic button.

  * * *

  After the police took my statement and left, David helped me carry my pathetic file box of belongings to my Civic. I drove straight to the nearest 7-11 and picked up a pint of Ben and Jerry's, figuring being fired and robbed all in the same day negated any calories consumed that night.

  I pulled up to my three story apartment building in the fringy neighborhood of Chatsworth. Two blocks to the east, paradise. Two blocks west, the ghetto. But at least it didn't have roaches. Okay, not that many roaches.

  I did a slow drive-by of my building, checking the street for the repo man's black van. I didn't see him out tonight but I circled the block and parked behind a dumpster in the alley anyway. Better safe than sorry.

  I climbed the stairs to my third floor apartment and opened the door. Once inside, I found an envelope had been slid underneath. I tore it open while I fished the B&J's out of my grocery bag. Only I paused as I read the note, that first spoonful of Cherry Garcia hovering halfway to my lips.

  "Dear Resident,

  We're happy to inform you that the building is going condo. As of the first of the month, you will have the option to buy your current apartment at a reasonable market price. If you do not wish to purchase, please be advised that you must vacate by said date."

  I continued reading the fine print, my mouth dropping open, B&J's dripping onto my linoleum floor. When I got to the bottom, the listed price for my apartment turned condo, I felt tears well in my eyes. There was no chance in Hades. Especially now being unemployed. I looked up at my Betty Boop calendar. The first was three weeks away. Great. Fired, robbed, and Mr. Chen was evicting me.

  I was so pissed off at Fate I could spit.

  Instead, I crumpled up the letter, grabbed my pint of B&J's and went to bed, consoling myself that at least the day was over. At least life couldn’t get any worse.

  Famous last words.

  * * *

  "Well this just sucks big fat donkey balls," Quinn said, rereading the condo notice as she sipped her margarita.

  "You know you could always come stay with me," Lynette offered. But considering she was currently wearing both cupcake colored drool and baby spit up on her blouse, I decided that was Plan B.

  Or C.

  "Thanks," I mumbled. Then did another tequila shot. I'd been holed up in bed for the past three days, existing on cheese doodle crumbs and ice cream until Quinn and Lynnette had staged an intervention. They arrived with chips and salsa (Lynette's contributions) and margarita mix and a video entitled 'Huge Hung Hunks' (Quinn's contributions). Somewhere between the hunks and the chips I'd abandoned the margarita mix and switched to straight tequila.

  "It's not fair," I said, slugging back another shot. "I've worked hard. I've paid my dues at the bottom. And every time it seems like I might claw my way just a teeny bit closer to the top, Fate knocks me down again. I'm homeless and unemployed. Even my dad has a job making license plates!"

  "I'm sorry honey," Lynette said, patting my arm.

  But I wasn't going to be that easily consoled. One of the benefits of tequila.
"And you know what? I think the repo man found my car last night. Bastard."

  "Leeman's blaming you for the robbery, you know," Quinn said.

  "No!" I poured another shot. "He isn't?"

  Lynnie nodded. "I heard him in the break room telling the cops that they should look into the disgruntled employee theory."

  "Snake." I threw another shot back.

  "I heard that he's sleeping with the DM, " Quinn said, rewinding a particularly interesting section of her video. We all paused, turning our heads to the side to get a better view of just how hung the hunk was.

  "Figures," I mumbled. "No wonder she didn't believe me."

  "Well, if it makes you feel any better, at least you won't have to endure the octopus any longer. I'm sure you can get another job at a different bank."

  "Not if the cops really do start investigating you," Quinn added oh-so-helpfully.

  "Shit." I did another shot. Was that number four or five? Or fifteen? I'd totally lost count. "You know what's the least fair thing in all this? He's free as a bird, off to the Bahamas and I'm stuck here unemployed and soon to be homeless!"

  "Who's going to the Bahamas?" Lynette asked, popping another chip in her mouth.

  "The guy who robbed me. Mr. Blue Eyes. Twenty five thousand, three hundred and twenty-two. That's' the price of his freedom. I know," I said, waving my empty shot glass in the air. "The cops made me count."

  Quinn made a low whistling sound. "Wow. I could pay off my student loans with that."

  "You know how many diapers I could buy with that?" Lynnie chimed in.

  "Well, hell, maybe we should start robbing banks," I said, giving up on the shot glass and swigging straight from the bottle.

  Quinn laughed. "Yeah, and we'd start with L.A. Mu. Could you just imagine Leeman's face if you showed up waving a gun?"

  Lynette snorted. "He'd pee his pants, the little weasel."

  "God, that alone would be almost worth it," I mumbled.

  "But wouldn’t that be weird? I mean, the same bank getting robbed twice in a row?" Quinn asked.

  "But that’s the genius of it," I argued. "No one expects it to get hit twice in a row. They're not ready for it."