[h3]1934[/h3] [b]Bakersfield, CA[/b] The big, black ’32 Buick Bonanza came to a screeching halt outside the front of Bakersfield Savings & Loans. Four mean leaped from the four door sedan and hustled towards the bank. All four men wore sharp suits, black and grey, with matching hats. They all wore leather gloves, gloves that held guns. The Two men at the front wielded Thompson submachine guns while one of the men behind them carried a shotgun and the other held on to an automatic pistol. Of the four, the man with the pistol was the only who did not cover his face with a bandana. His uncovered face was handsome, a trim mustache on his upper lip. They glided into the bank. The two Thompsons rang out in the half filled bank lobby. The dozen or so customers and employees all turned in fright. The man with the pistol held it up and looked at the people in front of him. “This is a robbery,” he announced. “Everyone stay calm and nobody will get hurt. Now, please everybody get down on the ground.” Another burst of gunfire from the Thompsons sent the customers and employees down to the bank’s marble floors. The two men with the machine guns hurried behind the counter of the bank while the man with the shotgun and pistol kept their weapons trained on the people in the lobby. “We’re here for the banks money,” the mustached man said calmly. “Not yours. We’re not criminals, folks. It’s the banks that are the true criminals. They take your money and prepackage it back to you in the form of loans with interest rates you cannot afford, for things you do not need. They are a tool of the capitalist bourgeoisie, a means that they use to keep the working class down. They are why we are in this Great Depression, they are why you starve while they grow fat. They are—“ He stopped short when he saw the two men with machine guns come around the corner with their guns in one hand, sacks in the other. The mustached man let out smirk and took a bow as the rest of the men raced towards the door. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. Have a good day.” He winked and followed his cohorts out the door and back into the Buick. Once the doors were shut, the car lurched forward and squealed down the road. Its overpowered engine roared as the man behind the wheel, one of the two with the Tommy guns, navigated through the streets of Bakersfield. “What was that, Vic?” the man with the shotgun asked, scowling at the man without the mask. “Working on my patter,” Vic replied with a shrug. “Something to keep them occupied while Boykins go in, Joey.” “Well, cut it out.” Joey had removed his bandanna, his bushy eyebrows knotted together in agitation as he looked down his beak like nose at Vic. “I didn’t understand half of what you just said.” Of course you didn’t, thought Vic. You and the Boykins twins are just three dump Okie hicks who can barely read. Vic was technically a hick himself, born on a farm in Wisconsin back in ’06. But he was a well-read hick, one who read his history and his economics and knew it well enough to know that Marx was right about the world. The Depression was proof of that. People were dying daily, but all the businessmen cared about were their lost profits. They saw guys like Vic and Joey and the twins as expendable. They were a commodity to be bought and sold and to be sacrificed. “What are y’all gonna do with your share?” One of the Boykins asked, Vic wasn’t sure which, from the front seat. “It’s nothing but liquor, ponies, and pussy for me!” Vic chuckled to himself. This was his fourth straight week working with this crew. They’d been hitting banks across California, all those small and mid-sized towns between the big cities of LA and San Francisco. By Vic’s recollection, they’d hauled in enough money to have four equal shares of twenty thousand dollars. More money than Vic had ever made in his life time, money enough to coast for a few years. “I know what I’m doing with mine,” said Vic. “There’s a little Hooverville I saw when we hit the bank in Palmdale. I’m gonna give them all my share.” That brought yells of disbelief and argument from the other three men. Vic ignored them. Instead, he saw the sign announcing that they were leaving Bakersfield behind and eased back in his seat. The rest of his crew could complain all they wanted to, but Vic knew he would eventually convince them to give their money away too. Vic hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a criminal. In his mind, he was something else. He was fighting for something he couldn’t quite comprehend yet, something he couldn’t put a name to. There was an idea in the ether, but he would soon understand it in a few years time. Victor Hecht wasn’t a criminal; he was a revolutionary. --- [h3]Now Cloud Nine[/h3] [b]1:45 AM[/b] Johnny Leggario watched the blackjack dealer reveal his hidden card. The ace of spades rested beside the king of hearts. “Twenty-one,” said the dealer. The dealer swept his small pile of chips away. Johnny flicked his two ten cards back in the dealer’s direction. He was now down three hundred dollars based on the crude math he was doing in his head. That was okay with him. He’d soon be getting it all back and then some. After a few more losing hands, he stood and walked around the casino floor. He saw Stein across the floor, nominally playing roulette but his eyes watching everything but the little ball spinning around the wheel. Prussian Joe stood at the craps table, his small fist shaking the dice and letting it loose on to the felt. The eight people crowded around the table cheered, several slapping Joe on the back in congratulations. Johnny grinned to himself. At least someone else was winning. Johnny made his way across the floor towards the far wall. You had to look at it closely, but you could just make out the little seams on the wall that revealed a hidden door. The door was how the security staff arrived and left the casino floor. He stopped short of the door and paused to light up a cigarette. While he did that, Prussian Joe and Stein made their way towards him. The little German checked his watch and nodded at Johnny. The hidden door opened a crack. A single, blue eyeball looked out before the door swung inward. David Mather, in his tuxedo and slicked back hair, stepped aside and let the three robbers through the door. Stein pushed him against the wall while Johnny closed the door behind them. “Valestra said if I let you do this, you’ll leave us alone,” he muttered to the men. “You’ll leave Ross alone.” “That’s your deal,” replied Johnny. “We have a different one. If none of your people resist or fight back, we won’t hurt a soul. Got it?” “Got it,” said Mather. Prussian Joe nodded to Stein. The big man pulled a pistol and sap from his waistband. He sapped Mather on the back of the head. The man let out a gaps of surprise and crumpled to the floor. Stein passed Johnny the gun, Prussian Joe a switchblade from his pants pocket, while he held on the sap. “Let’s get to it,” Johnny said as they walked through the corridor with the two others in his wake.