Tempted by Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page B

robbed actually had a smile that told him they loved the bad boys, had grins that said they were stimulated by the crime.
    Cars stopped in front of the bank. People too arrogant or too lazy to park and walk ten feet blocked the exit that led to Stocker. Fifty yards beyond that was the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza and one of its anchor stores, Walmart. Beyond the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza was a strip of vanity shops and low-end businesses that lined this end of the Crenshaw District, the land of the underpaid hardworking man and woman, the people who went to bed with aching backs and swollen feet, then woke up before the sun warmed the palm trees.
    The wail of sirens jarred me from distraction. LAPD blared down Crenshaw Boulevard, sped toward a different crime scene.
    One minute and thirty seconds. They should have had the money in the bag by now. The people should have been facedown on the floor, following Sammy’s instructions. Sammy would give the instructions in English and in Spanish, the languages of America. The bank managers should have been following procedures and surrendering every dime without hesitation. Sammy should have had everything under control while Rick loaded up the cash. Twenty more seconds went by, each tick of my watch reverberating like a mallet striking a gong. There was a popping sound, like a firecracker exploding. Then there was another popping sound. There was a commotion at the entrance to the bank. People who were about to walk inside looked startled at first, then two older Asian men became terrified and backed away from whatever horror they saw.
    Rick hurried out of Wells Fargo first and Sammy was right next to him. I saw Rick’s black three-button suit, then caught a better view and saw his crisp white shirt open at the collar. He had taken off his golden tie since he’d stepped inside. Rick had the bag in his left hand, but he was damn near carrying Sammy, and Sammy had his loaded .38 down at his side, exposed to the public. A bright red spot had opened up in Sammy’s chest. My breath shortened and my heart enlarged, drummed against my chest.
    Customers queued at the ATM witnessed what was happening. A few reacted immediately, some ducked, but it took most of the crowd seconds to register that they were standing in the back end of a bank robbery. We were eight miles from Hollywood. Some probably thought they were watching a Tinseltown blockbuster being filmed. People craned their necks like they were expecting to catch a glimpse of Robert De Niro or Brad Pitt.
    Car in drive, teeth clenched, I knew we had to get the hell out of there before we ended up in hell.
    Rick dragged blood-soaked Sammy toward the car, but too many cars had pulled between us. Sammy held on to Rick like he was lost at sea and gripping a life preserver.
    A Latino security guard staggered out of the bank. He was overweight, wore a dingy white shirt and pants that were as dark as this situation. His white shirt was covered with blood, new holes in his left shoulder and stomach. The loyal employee yelled, stumbled after my coworkers, raised his gun, and fired. Sammy fired back at him. The security guard returned fire like he wanted to prove he could dish it out as good as the next man. People ducked behind stucco columns. Traffic screeched and cars stopped. Horns blared. The guard used the stucco wall to hold himself up. Sammy fired again. The wounded guard grimaced, made a determined and diabolical face, then he fired another round. Sammy’s head opened up like a watermelon being smashed with a sledgehammer.
    His face erupted. Half of his face was gone, blood and gray matter all over the pavement.
    It was a nightmare.
    Rick let Sammy’s body slam to the ground, two hundred pounds of warm flesh that had become dead weight. The security guard kept firing. Rick reached to pull his .38 from underneath his suit coat.
    The bag with the money exploded and shot bright red dye all over Rick’s hands, suit, and face.
    The