Miscalculation
by Vinnie Hansen
Yacht Harbor
When the “Guitar Case Bandit” whipped open his case at the teller’s window, Molly’s mouth fell open. The black case on her counter was built for a ukulele, not a guitar! The media were such idiots — this had to be the fifth bank robbery in a month, and they still didn’t have the details right.
Two other tellers froze on command — Susanna and Amber — as well as the loan officer and branch manager. Molly forked over the bills, placing the final band of twenties in the uke case. “There you go, sir.”
Her heart hammered with the thrill of it all. The elusive bandit right in front of her!
“Thank you, Mo...”
Mo?
Maybe he was going to say “Ma’am.” The robber was noted for his politeness, or at least that’s what the Sentinel reported. Or maybe he read her name from her pin.
This guy gave every teller plenty of time to look him over: black Fedora, Bucci sunglasses, and a red ascot pulled over his lower face. Molly couldn’t help staring.
The Guitar Case Bandit had been holding up community banks and credit unions in Santa Cruz County for the last year and yet he’d strolled right in here unheeded, even with the sign on the door prohibiting caps and sunglasses.
“Aim those baby-blues somewhere else, dollface.” The man snapped his case shut.
A telltale mark on the case clasp caught her eye. She’d seen this ukulele case plenty of times. Her knees quivered like a jellyfish. She stared into the robber’s eyes. Dollface. She blushed.
He snapped his fingers like a six-shooter, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and strode out of the credit union.
Molly’s life of serving John Q. Public for fourteen dollars an hour walked right out the door with him.
Molly played her ukulele every Saturday morning with the Sons of the Beach at the harbor mouth. Her new favorite instrument was her Rick Turner Rose Compass C-Tenor. This weekend, she couldn’t wait.
Smoothing Friday’s Sentinel onto her kitchen counter, she reread its crime coverage. In his usual modus operandi, the Guitar Case Bandit had walked away casually from her branch. He’d crossed the street into a hedged parking lot where the police patrol never spotted him. No street camera picked up a departing car with a likely driver. Possibly he had an accomplice or had hidden inside a vehicle. Molly couldn’t tell if the speculation came from the police department or the paper.
The bandit had made off with an “undisclosed amount of money.” But Molly knew the figure. Through the grapevine, she’d heard the other sums too. A cool million total.
The police sought the person of interest shown in a grainy photograph, age about fifty, height about 5'10", weight 170. Gosh, that’s practically the same as me, Molly thought, I’m just two inches shorter.
“Everything about him was average,” the paper quoted the other teller, Susanna. Ha!
Susanna always dressed like the boat salesperson she used to be, before the recent downturn. But if Sue had been the least bit observant, she would’ve said something about the ukulele case. After all, Molly had introduced Sue to the instrument. Once Susanna spent a single morning playing at the Sons of the Beach group, she’d been hooked. Molly sniffed — not that Susanna had ever hired her for uke lessons.
Well, at least she’d kept her cool, Molly gave her that — better than Amber. Little drama queen had hyperventilated and required treatment from an EMT.
Still, Molly was miffed. She’d described the gun as a modern piece, no revolving chamber for the bullets. The reporter hadn’t bothered to quote her. The story didn’t mention the weapon at all.
The article ended with a hotline number.
They haven’t caught him yet and they aren’t about to — unless he decides not to cooperate with me. Molly packed her songbooks in her canvas tote bag and slipped on her wedged sandals and glass pendant that matched. Dress for success.
She strutted down the Harbor Beach breezeway, a bounce in her step. The Sons of the Beach congregated outside in front of the Kind Grind café, up to a hundred at a time.
Susanna stepped right in Molly’s path. Her glittery sandals sprayed sand and startled the seagull pecking up crumbs from her undoubtably gluten-free muffin. “You look like the cat who ate the canary.”
Leave it to Susanna to use a cliché.
Sue brushed off her low-cut Hawaiian sundress. There wasn’t that much to see. “Did you remember more from the bank robbery?”
“Nothing new to report.” Molly jammed her metal music stand into the sand.
Susanna inspected her. “Tangerine nail polish? What’s going on with that? A date?”
Molly glanced away toward one of the walkway benches. A bag overflowed with plastic leis, brought by the bandleader.
“Want a lei?” Molly asked.
“Sure.” Susanna frowned and tailed her.
Molly sighed. “Stop following me. I like privacy for my lays.”
“I swear you are in some kind of mood this morning.”
Molly threaded along the edge of the thickening crowd, mostly ukulele players, but also a keyboard, a mouth harp, and a bass. A black fabric case for the upright bass spilled over a cement bench. A ukulele case rested on the same, but its bright blue fabric sported a design of a topless woman cradling a strategically held uke. Molly lifted the bass case. Nothing buried.
She passed the drummers and the mandolin player, circling toward the harbor side of the beach where more experienced musicians grouped, the exclusive part of the ring where she never ventured. The guys over here sacrificed a view of the water for a view of the backsides of the women volleyball players.
She stopped in front of Rudy Carmona, and his agile fingers quit dancing along the frets of his koa wood instrument. Abalone shell gleamed around the sound hole.
“Well, hello there!”
In Levi’s and a muscle shirt, he looked anything but average. She’d never dreamed of talking to Rudy Carmona. Of course, in point of fact, she hadn’t yet spoken.
“You’re looking fine this a.m.” His dark eyes revealed nothing. Behind him, sailboats glided from the mouth of the harbor off on dolphin and whale adventures. Molly blinked nervously. Up close he even smelled good. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“So, you ditched your ukulele case?” she stammered.
He lifted his brows and strummed three quick C chords and then a B: Dah dah dah-duuuh.
Was he mocking her? Molly flushed again.
He dipped his cleft chin toward the bench. “Right there. Behind the bass.”
“The blue one?” she asked.
“You like it?”
“What happened to your usual case?”
Rudy sighed and scanned the crowd. He nodded to a hula dancer named Linda. She was possibly the Linda he’d had a fling with, although hard to tell — every other woman in the group was named Linda. “All those black cases look alike,” he said.