The sun beat down on Malcolm’s face as he jerked the door handle, entering The First National Bank. Just before six on a Friday afternoon before a major holiday, he knew the crowd would be slim with an understaffed bank crew, everybody eager to start their three-day weekend. Security would be lax and the teller drawers would be full of newly transacted money.

    He walked over to a display of bank stubs and pretended to fill out a deposit slip. Malcolm scribbled on the paper while he used his peripheral vision, taking note of the one open cashier station, one woman behind a desk, and two customers leaving the bank. Piece of cake.

    Malcolm had spent his life working in a garage as a mechanic, but he was tired of the greasy, thankless job. At forty-five, he was still young enough to enjoy the good life of traveling, fine eating, and sporty cars without having to work on them anymore. His meager salary wouldn’t even begin to offer him these luxuries, so he started robbing convenience stores. The scores were also meager. Now was the time to try something larger. He had selected this bank in the richer part of town, knowing that nobody would recognize him. A disguise wasn’t necessary since he normally wore a uniform and was covered in car grease, but just to be sure, he wore a blond wig and lifts in his shoes.

    The woman behind the desk rose and headed down a hall. Malcolm took a deep breath, satisfied that the time was right. He walked up to the lone cashier station. He balled up the deposit stub and reached in his pocket for the note he wrote earlier.

    "Good afternoon," the young woman with the bored expression named, Roberta, responded mechanically. "How may I help you?"

    Malcolm silently slid his note across the counter. Roberta’s eyes went from tired to bulging as she read the paper with the bold message, "This is a stick up. Give me all the money in your drawer."

    Malcolm pulled a paper bag out of his baggy pants pocket, placing it on the counter next to the note.

    "Be quick about it and don’t sound the alarm," he said quietly as he patted his bulging sports jacket pocket. "I wouldn’t want to have to shoot you."

    Roberta hesitated for a moment. She looked for Marie at her desk, but she was gone. Her training told her to comply with the robber’s demands and let the police handle it. She punched in a code and the drawer opened. She stuffed all the bills into the bag. In her haste, the last twenty floated to the floor. Roberta bent over to pick it up, her head disappearing from sight.

    "What are you doing?" Malcolm demanded, leaning over the counter, worried that she was reaching for the alarm.

    Roberta came back into view, rolling up the bag, her eyes wide.

    "I...I...I dropped one of the bills." She held out the bag. "H...h...here."

    Relieved, Malcolm reached for the loot. He had Roberta so scared she couldn’t talk, much less take any action. He looked around. The bank was still empty and nobody acted like there was a robbery in progress.

    "Thank you, Roberta. Wait five minutes before you sound the alarm." Malcolm smiled at the teller, walked towards the door, and left.

    He hurried to his parked car a couple of blocks away and sped to his apartment; anxious to see how he scored today. He knew that a teller’s drawer wouldn’t hold that much money, but it was a start. If this went well, he would start a rash of bank robberies around town. He might have to start wearing better disguises to thwart the police, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Dye his hair, shave his mustache, or wear colored contacts would be good for starters. At any rate, his profits would grow rapidly and maybe soon he could retire from his day job. The good life just might be within his grasp. Malcolm drove faster as his excitement spurred him into devious ways to attain what was due him.

    Soon enough, Malcolm reached his lair. He parked his car, grabbed his bag and entered his apartment. He locked the door and sat down on the floor of his sparsely decorated living room. He was about to dump out the contents of his score when he suddenly heard pounding on his door.

    A voice shouted, "Open up. This is the police."

    The door burst open followed by four police officers with guns trained on Malcolm sitting flabbergasted on the floor, his hands automatically jerked into the air.

    "Malcolm Denning? You’re under arrest for bank robbery."

    The officers grasped Malcolm’s arms, pulled him to his feet and slapped on handcuffs.

    "B...b...but...how...?"

    One of the policemen held out a piece of paper.

    "Recognize your own handwriting on this note?"

    Malcolm’s eyes widened. It was his hold-up note.

    "It was good of you to use your own ATM receipt. The cashier you held up was able to track you down with this. We’ll just take this bag of loot. You’re looking at a long time in prison."

    The officer reached for the bag and peered inside. Outraged, he grabbed Malcolm by his shirt collar.

    "Where’s the money?"

    One of the other officers looked in the bag, frowned and dumped the contents in the palm of his hand. It was a partially eaten sandwich and a candy bar.

    After giving her statement to the police, Roberta shouldered her bulging purse, and left for her three-day, spur of the moment weekend trip to Reno. She had money to spend, thanks to the unsuspecting scapegoat robber, who was left holding the bag.