I’d been having a bad week, a bad life, really, but not anymore. This week I was to turn things around. I’d planned it out carefully. After all, a guy with a clean record generally doesn’t have a lot of experience in how to commit a felony, particularly a federal offense. That’s why most get caught right away. The on-the-job learning curve is a real killer. I wasn’t going to be one of those. It all started back when I decided to be a writer. You see, I had a job, but I quit it to write. Problem was, I didn’t have any idea what I was going to write about. Then it dawned on me, the light bulb went off. I’d become a mystery writer. I started studying bad guys, criminal types. I read the true crime stories; I watched the cop shows on TV. I knew the criminal mind inside and out. And I knew they always got caught in the end. But this was real life. My financial situation, however, started to slide rapidly while I was trying to learn the ropes. Seems the publishing industry wasn’t exactly waiting with eager anticipation for me to come out with my first book. Random House hadn’t sent me that big advance I’d dreamed about. Not that the form letter they sent wasn’t encouraging, except that my name was misspelled. I bet they could spell Mary Higgins Clark without a problem. The editor had actually hand-written a note in the margin. Something about keeping my day job. Very funny. It was then I decided to take action to rectify my economic status. So here I am, it’s Wednesday, my day. It’s a sunny day in Seattle, rare, I know. A good omen, I thought. Wednesday is cash day at the local Bank of America branch. I’d been observing it for years. I’d noticed that every Wednesday, the armored car delivered the weekly cash to the branch, right around 10AM. I’d also observed the head teller usually put the bags just inside the vault door, to be counted and sorted after the lunch rush was over. 11AM would be my perfect time. I’d pretty much covered all the bases. The surveillance cameras would record a well-dressed woman, taller than me, with a slight limp favoring the right leg. I must say that in drag, I made a damn fine looking woman. A note, a threat, a bag full of cash, and my hasty exit. Call it my book advance from Bank of America. So in I went. As usual, I picked the slowest line, the one with the little old guy counting out his pennies on the counter. I fingered my pistol as my hand groped through my purse, looking for the note I’d written. I’d flash the note and gun, give her the bag, and keep a close eye on the silent alarm trigger. They’d get the message. The old guy finally shuffled off and I headed to the counter. “Yes m’am,” the teller said. That’s right, you treat this old lady with respect, I laughed to myself. I was just handing her the note when it hit. The floor shook, knocked me into the counter. Someone shouted “earthquake”, and the teller disappeared under the counter. A hanging potted fern came down and hammered the top of my head, knocking me to my knees where I rode out the rumblings and shakings. People screamed, the building rattled, and then it was over. I felt a warm trickle of blood on my forehead as a bank guard helped me to my feet. “You okay, m’am?” he asked. “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, “I’m just dandy.” Unhand me, young man. I made my way to the door. Outside, my getaway car was now wearing a large concrete gargoyle on the roof that must have dropped from the facade of the bank building, judging by the indent it made. Debris covered the hood and trunk. Here I was, dressed as an old woman, armed with a handgun, my robbery botched, my car crushed, my bank account still empty and my heels were killing my feet. Not only that, I had a tear in my stockings from landing on my knees. My life of crime was over. I got home that night and my house was a mess, but my computer and keyboard were still intact. I scrubbed off my makeup, put on my sweats and sat down to work on my novel. “Page One,” I typed. Then I blanked, as usual. If only something interesting would happen to me to write about.