From the classified ad I guessed the job was delivering packages and paperwork, but in no time at all I found myself with a badge on my chest, a gun on my hip, roaring around in an armored car. What was I thinking? I didn't let myself think about the danger: I figured that if anybody ever tried to stick me up I’d just hand over the money. In a few weeks I had the combinations to the safes in dozens of businesses and banks in Honolulu memorized, and I was bonded in case I absconded with the funds.
The hours were good: just weekends and filling in for regular drivers when sick or on vacation from time to time. It was enough money to survive and it left me time during the week to write the Great American Novel. I hoped the job might give me some exciting adventures to write about, but once the novelty wore off, the greatest danger by far was utter boredom. To keep things interesting, the genius of the shop was to drive as fast as possible at all times, tailgating and honking at the traffic in front of you until it parted like the Red Sea.
The driver was supposed to stay with the car while the courier, who rode in the back where the money was kept, made the pickups and deliveries, the more risky of the two jobs. With a little seniority, the latter was usually mine. Though the outfit was called the “Security Armored Car And Courier Service,” one time when my partner and I locked ourselves out of the car we were able to break in with a coat hanger. When there was enough time between stops, smoking a joint was de rigueur.
Newspaper stories about the armored car business were put up on the bulletin board in the office. There was one which described a big shootout in France, complete with automatic weapons and explosives, and casualties on both sides, before the attackers were driven off by our valiant brotherhood.
But there was one that really spoke to us all. A courier somewhere had worked it out with a driver so that he could visit his girlfriend over lunchtime a couple of days a week. The arrangement went on for months, perhaps years. One day he arrived at work with a couple of suitcases which, he explained, he wanted to drop off at his girlfriend's place for the weekend getaway they'd planned. There was no girlfriend. He was never seen again, nor was the money he had stuffed into the suitcases.
Not long after a friend called me a “rent a cop” I turned in my gun and badge.
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