rockyrights ®

the story by the Davilas…written by rocky...

A view on how an inside job at the armored car terminal culminates is reflected by daily events.

How does the system work and what leads some people to commit larceny and perhaps facilitate the largest armored car heist in history that occurred during the 1990’s?

As you recall how each situation is handled will you see a pattern emerging.

Knowing where the money is at all times is critical to the master plan.

Inspired by true events, most names, locations and dates have been changed. The events are true as seen and recorded by the author. Any resemblance to any specific person or persons, their personalities or their appearance as portrayed within the story, who may be living or dead is entirely coincidental, the author takes liberty to express fictionalized truth as presented.

INSIDE THE TERMINAL – TRAINING DAY – BASICS
written based on Draft: May 2001

April 1991: A small group of men, all new hires, enter an improvised classroom known as the infamous Room 35. An attractive woman with long black hair, named Morgan, watches from her office in the enclosed main vault area. The office is located near the back of the conference room and has secret access to the vault security video recorder. Morgan’s been entrusted with this information because now she has the responsibility of changing the tape. This job was formerly taken care of by the coin room manager but now it’s been temporarily designated to Morgan. She has complete video and audio access to alternate areas of the Terminal at all times. With the flip of a switch she activates the audio in Room 35 and monitors their chatter. Morgan uses the sound as background noise while gathering her notes on these new guys, something like watching television or listening to the radio but she still retains her focus and intensity as if she were studying for her real estate broker’s exam.

Sitting at her desk, which resembles a dumping ground for everyone's unfinished and discarded paperwork. She realizes it’s impossible to keep her paperwork separate because as the only female administrator, Morgan's authority is being tested. Even her right to have her own desk is an issue among the employees and staff.

This is a far cry from when she worked the dispatch desk at the Hollywood Hilton Hotel in 1987. The walls in the Security Office were the same at the Hotel, concrete blocks, with no windows and near the fume filled garage area. But now, at the Terminal it seemed like protocol was almost non-existent. Gone were the days of high security surrounding dignitaries like the Pope, political figures, like the Secretary of State of California and many Hollywood celebrities. Where the book, which was published daily, provided explicit briefings on all security details, up to a month in advance; such as scheduled events inside and outside the hotel; including any updates. Without reading this publication before starting your shift you couldn’t fulfill your required duties.

A drab blue and black Daily Armored uniform and a Smith and Wesson replaced her high fashion velvet dresses and her trusty walkie-talkie. In armored, every moment is considered high alert, at the hotel, danger involved bomb threats received at dispatch. The bomb threat calls were quite frequent, and always occurred whenever a Middle-Eastern wedding affair was taking place in the ballroom. They seemed to be based on, and at times stated by the caller, that they were offended that the celebration wasn't from their particular Country. The 911 operators would phone in to verify that they’d received a corresponding threat and to confirm that the bomb squad was on the way.

As far as Morgan knew, she gained a good reputation in the armored business. Near perfect scores on yearly weapons tests are part of her legend. She received specialized training on a United States Marine Sonora Mountain Warfare Training Base during the mid '70's by a Master-Gunny Sergeant, Knighted by the Queen of England for bravery. A Russian immigrant with thirty-three years in the Corps, a no nonsense man completely dedicated to Military warrior moral and ethical ethos.

Tapped by Los Angeles Law Enforcement and trained in mountainous areas Search and Rescue Techniques; they informed her of a Holy War taking place in the overall picture of the life; this was what she was being prepared to engage in. She responded quite well to this information, as she’d heard the same comments in earlier years from an Egyptian man in New York City, who told her that Islam would rule the world and strike the American super power in New York City, The White House and The Pentagon. After being initially rebuffed for reporting this anti-American allegation to the authorities, she now felt quite comfortable that she was finally among like-minded people who were training her to be ready for War.

Although she didn’t know much about her family’s past, her Dad always got disturbed when she asked about the family lineage, and angry when speaking of running for public office someday. Her Dad was a Teacher in Connecticut’s first State Tech School, after working as an Auxiliary Connecticut State Trooper for a few years. Morgan's been told she’s Caucasian and French Canadian...what's wrong with that? Why didn’t he want her knowing about her roots? She’d find out someday, one way or another.

Her childhood dentist told her more about her background than her father did. The dentist said Morgan’s teeth resembled those of North American Aborigines. He’d actually never run across anyone in her town with teeth like hers. He took a skull from his dental cabinet and showed her the same extra tooth projection, not usually found in her generation. It creeped her out a little, something like a scene out of the movie Hell Raiser, a film yet to be made. When she told Dad, first the skull disappeared from the dentist’s office...then the office disappeared from the shopping mall.

After graduating Killingly High, Morgan was accepted at Blair School of Art, in New Haven, Connecticut and The Cooper Union, New York City, New York. Her Ma drove her to New Haven and shared these parting words of wisdom about Ma’s cousin serving three Senatorial terms with Senator Prescott Bush, how he’d never run again; and that Morgan’s choice to leave Connecticut would lead to her death, or something called white slavery. That’s her Ma, always there with words of encouragement, especially at this time in her life.

Life? What life? Every aspect had always been controlled and strictly enforced for eighteen years. During her High School years she had to run from tree to tree, for cover, to approach the lake house because Ma had told her she’d shoot her one day or slit her throat in while she was sleeping. Needless to say she didn't get much sleep during her High School years. Ma dropped her off, on the curbside at the YWCA in New Haven, Connecticut, but within a week, Morgan left for Cooper Union in New York City.

Armed security was considered a move up in the business. Move up? The pay was a little better but what did this mean on a social level? Not much, carrying a .357 on the job was a point of conversation to be avoided when out on a dinner date and Morgan soon realized she was no longer considered to be on the menu, she had become an article rather than an item. But there was a higher value placed on an officer trained in the use of deadly force. That’s why she’d chosen to attend security school and be well trained, highly skilled and well paid.

Most of all, Morgan missed the ambience and the ritual of a place for everything and everything in its place. Disgusted with the mess Morgan sighs and shrugs her shoulders, turning away, she focuses on her appearance polishing dirt, oil and scuffmarks off of her black combat boots. Pushing her chair back from the desk, she jumps to her feet, grabs her holster belt, pulling it tight around her hips. She doesn’t like her weapon hanging low and loose, she prefers it high and tight.

Morgan signals to Luis, her Spanish interpreter. He’s busy stacking millions of dollars sealed in plastic bundles. Strapped packs of crisp one hundred dollar bills from the Federal Cash Reserve. He doesn’t like the interruption and acts like he can’t hear her. “Luis! Follow me!” she says emphatically. She waves him through the strict vault security procedures.

They walk down a narrow hallway to the classroom area. The men who qualified for today’s review are seated by a row of lockers next to some empty tables and chairs. Several bulletin boards cover the age-worn gray concrete walls in an attempt to cover the earthquake damage from previous years. As a fledgling company there was no money available for esthetic repairs to the Terminal. Luis introduces himself, Morgan and Cruz to the men; some are ex-Military from Honduras, Belize, Nicaragua, El Salvador, the Philippines, the Dominican Republic and Iran. Cruz phoned them last night to inform them that they’d passed their physicals and lie detector tests and asked that them to bring their California drivers’ licenses, working permits, guard cards and a license to carry an exposed firearm with them in the morning. Luis asks them to pull their chairs into a semi-circle near the front of the room. He feels comfortable with their demeanor and leaves to complete his audit of the Fed Account before 07:30 HRS.

The Personnel Manager, Cruz, sits at the only desk, flipping a coin. His arrogance and indifference toward new hires is part of the reason why Morgan is the initial trainer. She tells the group to pay attention because what she says will save their lives some day, “It’s a different world in the armored car industry.”

Cruz laughs. And in one stroke Morgan bends down and whips a gun out of an ankle holster, puts it on his desk, and snatches the coin out of mid air. She flips it and says, “Draw when it hits the floor.” The coin bounces...she pulls a hidden gun from behind her back and shoves it in his face, “Bang, you’re dead, Cruz!” Then she slams the small pistol on his desk.

“Damn you, Morgan! I’m not going to take much more of this shit!” Cruz grabs the gun off his desk and throws it into a drawer. He shoves a clipboard across the desk, “Here! Get started!”

Now everyone listens.This is one of several routines performed by Morgan and Cruz to focus attention on the new reality these guys face. All part of the program, they’re so good at their act everyone always believes it. Morgan’s learned that it’s better to have Cruz on your side than working against you. Morgan appears to have found her niche, this job gives her the independence and relative freedom she’s looking for, even though she has to work six to sevens days a week for it.

She reads the names aloud from the clipboard, while assessing the brief background descriptions accompanying each candidate. “Ed Martinez!” “Si...Here!” “Benny Encinias!” “Right here!” Morgan acknowledges each respondent.

Coming to Thomas J Collins, she slices him to "TJ"! Morgan recognizes him as one of the officers dismissed for taking part in the Rodney King beating. He’s facing charges and needs a job to support his family. These aspects have a way of working against him because most people know his problems. People will probably confront him inside the Terminal and outside on his route. So, she decides to keep him on the truck as a driver, never intending to let him become a courier. She twists around on one foot as she thinks about where to put him on the schedule.

Morgan has an intrusive thought about her Dad’s comment of how, when he was a cop, they would’ve used that video as a training tape, not something to be used against the officers. He was also suspicious of Morgan’ s need to have a computer at home. He accused her of trying to print out her own money with it and insisted that there was no logical reason to have home computer. Understanding? Supportive? Hell no! He rarely shared a kind word with her. Why was she thinking about her Dad now? She hasn’t talked to him in a couple of years. Good ol’ Uncle Don! Yeah right! …the life of the party all right! But not a party to her life!

“Although, TJ's a former cop,” she explains, “this Company's not bound by the same rules as the police. As a matter of fact…never open the door of the truck when ordered to by a police officer. Radio the Terminal that a request has been made and a supervisor will be sent to the scene.”

Walking over to Collins, “This means no letting any of your former friends on board, "TJ"!”

Morgan looks at everyone and continues, “...the armored services are the blood of the capitalist system and the deliveries of secret valuables, cash, gold, stocks and bonds can’t be interrupted for any reason. And to all of you who have never even spoken to a cop remember, never assume a cop is a cop, and always question his reasoning for approaching your vehicle. Remember, always radio in, you must retain control and authority of your vehicle and your shipment!”

Collins feels the edgy atmosphere, he stands and proclaims, “I’ll be good at this job.” Morgan nods and returns to the front of the room.

Reflective, Morgan is uneasy around cops, always has been, since the day she witnessed a drug-deal taking place in a local park. As she saw it, a drug dealer was standing by his car holding a large baggy full of white powdery stuff up above his head, shaking it like a trophy he'd just won or perhaps baiting the three men approaching toward him on foot, they all laughed at what he was doing. They stepped up and engaged him in conversation, then took that bag under a nearby tree to exam the contents. The park was just over the hill from a school. It was a hot sunny afternoon and there were mothers with little children in the playground area. So Morgan casually walked into the parking lot scene, protesting, “That’s not a good idea to do that here, there’s children around,” she said coyly, “over there, look!”

She gets a quick reprimand from the dealer, “Oh, yeah, well I do it all the time. Suck my dick! Besides, I’ve got friends down the street who might like to meet you.”

This guy was tough, so she got tougher, “Really? What can you do for me? I’m not interested in that white stuff, what else you got? And what do you do for a real job? Oh, and I’ll take one of those beers, you know you’re not supposed to drink in the park either, but I guess you own this place, huh?”

The burly guy assumed an air of confidence now that she wants to become one of the crew. Besides who was this goody-two-shoes, anyway? Doesn’t she know she can be shot at any minute? She’s got to be some puta who got off her lease. He hands her a beer and reaches for his wallet, pulls out his business card and gives it to her. Morgan recognizes the name of a local hot low-rider car magazine, ‘Reality Bytes’, and this guy claims to be the owner/publisher.

“Well, what do you want? Maybe Purple hair, something that'll really trip you out? Oh, yeah, what about some cadmium?” he slugs down his beer and grabs another one.

“Oh no, ...can’t handle any hard stuff.” she says as the buyers return, they seem pleased with the quality of the product, and a large amount of money changes hands.

The dealer quickly guzzles down his beer and throws the empty can into his trunk. He thumbs through the roll of cash and shoves it in his pocket, “I know it’s all here, you wouldn’t fuck with me, now? Would ya?” He pulls his sunglasses down and gives them the don’t-fuck-with-me or you’re-dead look.

The buyers’ chorus as they walk away, “No…never, man! It’s a done deal!”

Like a man on fire, scrambling to make a quick exit, he continues to pull Morgan into his web, “No hard stuff? Come on, you expect me to believe that? I bet you get crazy all the time? Don’t ya? Give me some money and I’ll come back with something really great for you.”

Morgan’s got his card, license plate number; does she really need him to produce? Maybe? What was this scene, anyway? All she wanted was for this guy to put his stuff away and go away, and look what happened. How hard should she play this? Unsure, she explains she doesn’t have any money on her but she’ll call him later. He drives away in his red Chevrolet Mailbu.

Morgan tosses her unfinished beer in the trashcan as she walks back toward her friend who’s lying on the grass, half asleep, and hasn’t seen a thing. She tells him the story and suggests if she calls the cops now, maybe the police can catch this guy. After all, this dealer is pretty bold and just how far will he go? Her friend tells her not to call the cops; that’s not a good idea. And it’s his cell phone, so she backs down and tries to forget about it, like her friend said. Unfortunately for her, she talks him into letting her phone the number on the dealer’s card, to see if it’s real because she’s noticed that the numbers are strange, they end in 1040 and 1041, plus the toll free 888 number matches the zip code. Well, as fast as the speed of light, Sgt Molina returns her page, screaming… “That he’s gonna get her if it’s the last thing he does!” Now she’s done it! It was a cop dealing in the park!

As time goes by, another cop from narco approaches her a few months later at a local shopping center to tell her Sgt Molina wants to see her dead. Why? What did she do wrong? All she did was try to break-up a dope deal in the park. Policemen aren't supposed to deal drugs in the park, are they? The narc tells her he’s doing her a favor and not to tell on him or he’ll lose his pension. Should she care? He told her that he didn’t want to pick her up one day in his special ambulance service. At the time she didn't know he picked up dead bodies for local mortuaries!

Well, momentarily caught off guard, Morgan is a little shaken as the narc continues that Sgt Molina has several partners known for extorting money from drug dealers. And Internal Affairs recently caught them on audiotape in the act. The plan was to promote these guys to get them away from the dealers, rather than have a scandal within the department. So now Morgan is at the top of the short list of the most-wanted people-in-town to be muzzled because of her inside view.

She can’t forget and constantly walks the extreme line, touching and poking the limits. Will she ever learn what the meaning of trouble really is? After all, she rules in a secretive world loaded with facing deadly situations on a daily basis. She snaps out of it and takes an extra glance in at Collins, as she lowers her head in a nod. She’s thinking, “I’ll work this cop like Maria working The Old Dutchman's Mine, he hasn't got a chance with the way he thinks he’s about to work me, does he know who I am, who sent him?”

Morgan reads off the next name, Wynne, a former counter-terrorist officer. After a decade in the Middle East he’d infiltrated Ayatollah Khomeini’s death squads and Colonel Qaudafi’s terrorists training camps. It's believed that while serving as a driver inside the current Usama bin Laden terrorist network, he'd compromised Intel within the organization. But this information was transferred to bin Laden and he put a price on Wynne’s head.

Morgan knows him only as a former bodyguard to a Saudi Crown Prince and that he decided to take an early retirement. The Prince’s lavish lifestyle brought Wynne into the Los Angeles area quite often; they usually stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel. With his connections it was obvious how he got his last job as a limo driver in Beverly Hills. Born, raised and educated in New England, Harriman Wynne has a knack of fitting in almost anywhere.

“My friend!” gripped with enthusiasm, Morgan continues, “so, you're a friend to the Stars! Any time you’d like to share some insider information with me, written or verbal; you know what I’m talking about, let me know. It's always good to be in a Wynne-win situation!”

Wynne gives her a cold blank stare and Morgan turns away. She slips her leg up on Cruz’s desk, putting the clipboard down; she pulls her long black hair back over her shoulders. Glancing at Cruz, and then turning to the men, she says, “Above all, you guys, no fraternizing within the company. You’re off-limits to each other! ”

“No shit! You’re the only woman in here!" a little mouse squeaks.

Morgan knows they’ll be up against it from a certain vet named Nancy Su Ling. She never shares her thoughts, when asked, she replies with some ancient Chinese saying. It’s a great characteristic for a security-orientated courier; strictly business is her business. Following a family tradition, Su Ling followed in the footsteps of her uncle whom she admired for transporting gold in China. An exotic beauty, Su Ling, lets the men hand her their hearts and then she operates. Returning the hearts with a few pieces missing. She plays hard and fast with her route and her partners. Once they got to know her they admired her from afar. Morgan was counting on her to train at least two of the new hires and Ling was ready for it, as she tired of her drivers easily. “When you meet Nancy Su...” Morgan's interrupted by the intercom asking her to come to the vault immediately.

“Now, all you men, except for this cowboy over here, will be carrying your favorite Johnson on your Sam Brown for everyone to see. What we don’t see, we won’t know.” Morgan points at the young cattle rancher from up state, “Cowboy! We’ll provide you with a pistol till you get one.”

There’s serious eye contact between Cruz, Collins, and Wynne as their minds race. Cruz knows this is quite a bunch to handle. Cruz walks over and shakes their hands and shares a few words while escorting them out of the Terminal through the front door.

Morgan returns to the vault area after the group has left the premises. Luis asks to speak to her in her office. Why can’t he talk to Reicker? He's the regional vice president and on a day like today is more available than she is. Luis insists he wants to speak to her because he can’t wait for Reicker to come in. What if Reicker’s late?

“I’ve come up short on the count! It’ll probably turn up, but I went over the schedule to see who was working last night and it’s all screwed up! There were two call-ins and one substitute filled in, leaving me one man short. I heard Reicker stayed late last night and he worked in the vault. Why’d they let him in here? He thinks can do everything in this Company? He can’t! I want him to stay out of my vault! Remember what happened in the Frisco vault? He was caught sleeping in the vault, wasn’t he? There were diamonds missing, no? You were there! They never found the diamonds, did they?”

“Why, Luis, do you think he had anything to do with the count? Calm down, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. How much is unaccounted for?” Morgan is acting manager until someone from Headquarters takes over next week.

“I don’t understand it! It’s a ripped bag and a hundred thousand is missing. Why wasn’t it recorded or reported last night! What can I say?” Luis paces from the bag to schedule posted on the wall, pointing at the names scheduled for last night. “My best man, Kuda, didn’t show up!”

Morgan phones Reicker at home, explains that the Fed shipment can’t go out until this matter is cleared up. Reicker tells her that there’s been a misunderstanding and to look on his desk, that’s probably where he left his report. Apparently, there was a last minute change during the pick-up at the Federal Reserve last night and they didn’t have time to change the plastic wrapping because their heat sealer was temporarily out of order. The courier had accepted paperwork from the Fed showing the adjusted discrepancy. Signed, unsealed, but delivered to the vault in that condition. Reicker had taken the paperwork into his office to phone the Fed and verify it before he could let the courier go home last night and left it there.

“Fuck! Morgan! Your replacement can’t get here soon enough! I’ll see you when I get there!”

There’s a click, a dial tone, but Morgan continues talking, thanking Reicker for his help and never letting on to Luis how the conversation had ended. She assures Luis that the count is correct and he’ll have the paperwork to support it, but he has to repackage the last bundle and then she’ll sign off on it.

She goes to get the paperwork, on the way, thinking about the bastard, Reicker, and what will happen when he gets in at 09:00 HRS. And what about that story of the missing shipment of diamonds during the time he was in charge of the Frisco vault? It sure was settled quickly as lost in transit insurance claim and no one was dismissed. There's so many rumors about him it's hard to keep them straight. Aftger checking the sealed bundle, Morgan signs the papers and hands them to Luis.

Still thinking about Reicker, she mumbles, “Ignorant, incompetent, arrogant bastard!”

Luis gets defensive and takes it personal; Morgan lets it stand. Any opportunity to look as bad as one of the boys, intentional or not is one up for Morgan.

“Chingadera!” Luis throws the Fed bundles into a large orange cart and pushes it towards the cage for Route 527. “Leticia! ...I mean...Morticia! That’s the new name the men have for you this week, Morgan.”

Morgan stops writing, “They’re convinced I’m a witch, huh? Luis! That’s good! No?”

She thinks to herself how they’ve put her in the wrong witching pool. She fancies herself more of a Jeanne Dixon or Sybil Leek. Called witches for predicting the directions life could be altered by the flow of information shared with the right person at the right time. Of course how that information was gathered had something to do with who installed the phone lines to world power players, as far up as the President. The person who installed the lines also had access to monitoring and recording these conversations and had a family tie, as a nephew to Dixon or Leek. Then they'd analyze the tapes and suggest in writing the different courses of action that would most likely be taken by certain world or business leaders. These suppositions would in turn be printed in their newspaper columns. But that was ancient history; this was the age of the prime time television witch.

A while back they called Morgan, Lilly, then Elvira because she shattered all previous route time records by driving down alleyways, designating the far right lane the armored-car-lane and was credited for creating the armored-car-left-turn. The City even designated the alleyways she used as Streets and posted 35 mph speed limit signs. No one dared to break route control before her and now she was established as a true road warrior. Superstition and fear goes a long way in the industry, and it seems like she's finally gaining some respect on this level, where intimidation plays a major part of the mystique of an armored courier.

“They think you have powers, secret powers. How can a pretty woman like you do a job like this? You must know somebody, sure, you know somebody. A woman like you should be at home, drive a big car? Why do you work in a place like this?”

“It’s good work! I like to be busy all the time, it’s good for me!” Morgan walks down the line of cages inspecting, with a glance, the several carts full of currency as she comes to Route 121 she notices several packages of currency, coin and gold bars on the route sheet.

“What’s this? We don’t have coin on the Diamond Route! Oh yeah, I forgot, today’s the day we have to do the bank.” Stunned, she turns to look at a package about six feet in circumference leaning against the wall, "And what’s this?"

Luis replies, "It’s a diamond-dust rotor blade for a helicopter. Diamond...it’s yours, no?"

Morgan’s got a good partner who'll help her load this unusual package into the armored vehicle. It must weigh over a hundred pounds. The weight limit per package is sixty pounds. She remembers the day she finally got the Diamond Route because it was supposed to be all *Hollywood. Hollywood, meaning the courier was the showcase for the company on Hill Street, downtown Los Angeles and on Rodeo Drive, in Beverly Hills. You actually got to deliver a few diamonds, worth eighty thousand to five million dollars in a box three inches by four inches, light as a feather. No strain on the back like the gold bars weighing from fifty to one hundred pounds apiece, or the suitcases full of gold necklaces weighing seventy pounds. And don’t forget the stocks and bonds, valued in the millions in one envelope. Secret powers, not really, it’s no secret the Diamond Route delivers to the masters of the Universe, the top brokerage firms in the city.

But it wasn't through magic; she had to pay for these powers. Her workload has tripled in the last month. The load went from a half ton of valuables to two to three tons a day, dispersed into three other trucks. The mystery was how she could do it all? Very feminine looking, standing average height, lean and lanky; to look at her you’d think she couldn't lift anything heavier than fork to her mouth and she wasn’t doing a very good job at that. But her eyes were the eyes of a cat on the prowl. She looked right through any conversation and focused on the safety realities of her environment. Luis has a point; this heavy lifting is beginning to wear her down. You have to pretend it’s a Hollywood route while behind the scenes you work your ass off. But her clients had the power to move the world and she loved being part of the daily ebb and flow.

Today, her partner, Zero, said he’d load the truck and let her drive so she won’t have to lift any heavy coin. Zero is flawless in every respect. He never makes a mistake, he has his gripes, but over all, he wins the customers over with his self-confidence and tailored look. Style, well he invented the look, the company look. His loyalty to the company sets the standard. He makes an impression on everyone including Morgan.

Company employees are constantly ragged at the Central Cash Vaults, CCV’s, by competing armored companies’ couriers and drivers. Severe putdowns are aimed at Daily Armored employees for being the lowest paid in the business. They’d never work for less than fifteen dollars an hours and accusations flew. They said the only good thing about being at the CCV with Daily Armored was the eye candy Morgan provided.

The atmosphere was like being in the opposing team’s men’s-only-locker room during game time. Totaling one woman to every fifty men in one location at one time, tension was high. Each sarcastic remark thrown like it was meant to be the final knockout punch. Knee deep, hell no, you swam in it when it came to heroic stories. It’s amazing that these guys worked for an armored car company with all their credentials. You’d think you were working in the company of the Mayor or the Governor, the way they carried on. Claiming to have graduated from Yale or Harvard, with master degrees, or they were just out of law school and were short of cash at the moment. Everyone seems to be a displaced scholar. Claims like this are fluent and rampant. All are designed from the look-at-me book. Morgan is a favorite target because, unlike the female cashiers, who are safe behind the bulletproof glass retainers, she's in the pit with the men. Doing a man’s work required a man’s mindset, to defend her like a man.

A quick study, Morgan swears like a trooper since joining the armored business. The vault was filling with the smell of exhaust from the morning crews’ trucks being pulled into the Terminal. The noise was loud but bearable. The dispatcher is busy answering the entrance door and identifying each person by code and camera before allowing entry. At the same time he has to allow truck entry into the Terminal by permission only. Six trucks at a time are allowed in with a set time to secure their deliveries in the cage, over the counter, and by sheet. The valuables are dragged out and loaded by the driver because the courier needs to be rested and alert. Besides, the sweat involved might mess their hair. Oh yeah, the egos were sensitive in the morning. “Don’t wrinkle me!” can be heard all over the Terminal. Testy isn’t the word, you can smell that certain smell in the air, and it’s more potent than exhaust fumes.

A striking team, Zero and Morgan hold the imaginations of all who see them out on the route. In Beverly Hills Morgan is seen as the first Anglo-American woman to handle such important cargo. Generally, management went for the fear factor by posing large, burly men with an attitude on the Diamond Route. In the past, this worked but the atmosphere was changing on the street and so was customer demand. Zero’s handsome and charming, standing nearly six feet, muscle bound, and chiseled face, everyone always wonders what he’s thinking behind that complimentary smile. To look at him, you’d think he had eyes in the back of his head. Cool, calculating, and pleasing to look at, Zero was disarming. His style and grace under scrutiny is exceptional. With his history of thwarting more than one hold-up attempt, his reputation precedes him on his route.

Like Hollywood public relations agents, insurance agents from Lloyds of London hit the streets verbalizing the thoughts of many who witnessed the new look presented by Zero and Morgan. Lloyds insures most of the armored companies and is proactive in the coordination of public perception.

Lloyds recently suffered a five to fifteen million-dollar loss by White Knight Armored. A truck loaded with several million in unmarked bills was left in the parking lot until it was to leave for the CCV at 21:30 HRS. Leaving a loaded truck unguarded is strictly against the rules. As the story goes the likely scapegoats were two local gangs, MS-13 and the 18th Street Gang, they were rumored to keep close tabs on the activities of Knight Armored. Allegedly, at dusk, a hole was cut through the chain link fence that surrounded the Knight Armored Terminal. Then, three men snapped the bolt on the truck’s back door and transferred the cash through the fence into a parked car on the street and drove away. How was this possible? The truck was backed into a parking space with the back door facing the fence, which took it completely off security camera range. Just over that fence was the sidewalk to the street, and with the support of the neighborhood, the robbers made a clean getaway. An inside job? Prove it.

All eyes watched as management survived interrogation. The big guys always get away with everything they're in control. Events like these wore down the employees who felt the higher-ups didn't work as hard for the money as they did, and then to get away with it, left an impression. There's always an undercurrent of turmoil. It’s an easy hook to hustle the new hire with the fantasy of just driving away with a full load of cash and other valuables, right over the border into Mexico. Trucks were insured for a hundred million but five to fifteen million was the largest heist ever, how much would be next? Who will dare to attempt a hundred million dollar job? And besides, who could pull it off?

White Knight Armored, Inc. is located near the Rampart District, in the more seedy part of lower Los Angeles. Even though several cops from Parker Center Robbery-Homicide and the Los Angeles FBI did a magnificent job of investigating, they encountered the wall of silence. The neighborhood’s populated with immigrants, legal and illegal, who don’t speak English or just don’t want to. If you keep your mouth shut you can stay living there. Not surprisingly, when questioning the residents, the cops found that not many people were home that night.

Low rent areas are very much a part of the armored scene. The homeless lived in shacks under a nearby bridge next to the Daily Armored Terminal. They made food money by approaching the employees with an offer to watch their car while they worked. Kind of a shake down but it was worth the two bucks a day. Vandalism such as slashed tires, broken windows, and stolen radios weren’t the only problems, employees never knew if their car would still be parked on the street when they got in from their route. Rumor had it that management ran a tow away business and selectively removed vehicles at their pleasure. Some had lasting effects where the employee couldn’t return to work because it was their only transportation. This was a handy tool to get rid of an employee without suspicion when management didn’t have a lawful reason to terminate an individual. Then there were others who made a deal to have their car disappear, collect the insurance claim and buy a new vehicle.

Zero, an ex-Marine, has never lost his desire to be perfectly groomed. He’s the only employee with tailored uniforms. Tight uniforms make it harder for a robber to grab your shirt. He never wears jewelry for several reasons, one being that you’re vulnerable when someone squeezes your ring finger, or pulls on the gold chain around your neck or pinches an earring from behind as they lift your weapon from your holster and put it to your head.

Zero’s in the Terminal, just returning from the morning stocks and bonds route. Kuda is his temporary partner on this early morning shuttle until Morgan’s relieved of her acting manager duties. The Diamond Route is on a split schedule resuming with Morgan as his partner after all the other routes have left the Terminal which is usually around 10:30HRS. Conscientious and wanting every opportunity to learn everything about the business, he requested entry into the vault to log in some volunteer work with Morgan.

Cruz grabs a coffee from the break room and decides to visit with the front office secretaries before doing his paperwork. He knows they’re waiting for their daily dose of gossip and he seems to know everything about everybody. It’s easy because he reviews all work applications. The latest tidbit will be about Morgan, and Cruz is about to put his spin on it.

“Buenos dais, Coma Estés.” Cruz prefers the company of women, especially these Mexican women. Most of his stories are generated for their benefit, as if it's part of his job to entertain them. Schooled in method acting, but unable to find a good casting agent, he'd supported himself with various security jobs over the years. Never letting go of his dream to eventually star in his own movie, he maintained his stage presence whenever he could. He'll stoop to any level to up-stage and manipulate the scene.

Always flirting, he compliments the girls on their dresses and hairdos and they love it. Like they live to dress for work, these ladies enjoy their workplace gossip, especially with the morning cup of coffee and doughnuts. Their fingernails are so long, not only do they not know how to type, but also they’re not able to type. A pretty face to greet you in the morning fits the bill. All these girls are beautiful and they know it. Management needs a distraction, and the front office provides a curse free zone. This auspicious circumstance provided an air of respectability, although, unfortunately, they weren’t off-limits to sexual harassment. They were available targets for the salesmen and were unwitting pawns in some business deals. Many a time, a deal is struck if a certain secretary is available for lunch or dinner. Tight, short skirts, low-cut blouses, big hair, heavy eyeliner, bright red lipstick, and they barely spoke English, an out-of-town’s salesman’s dream. The girls were compensated for their overtime.

Cruz, relies on the tried and true sexist put-down remark applied to a female when the male pursuer's advances are deflected by the word, "No...” such as, "Oh, you must be a Lesbian!" or "What's your fee for your precious time?"

He confidently engages the girls in a conversation that they can easily relate to, “Hey Melissa! You know what I found out about Morgan?” Cruz confided in Melissa the day he hired Morgan that he'd hired her "for him" and he had to keep the story alive...besides Cruz always has a certain gleam in his eye whenever he speaks to Melissa, “I think I've found out that she used to be a high-class call-girl!”

“Viejo!” All three girls stop and come closer to the partition separating them, Melissa responds, “No? Who told you that?”

Rarely allowed into the front office, Cruz is only able to talk to them through a speaker in the bulletproof glass, “Sweeties, you know I’ve got low friends in high places!”

Reicker comes in the front entrance as Cruz continues, “The thing is this, she…oh, ...morning, Bill.” Reicker pushes his way past Cruz. He’s not pleased to see him in the front office area chatting with the girls. He ignores them all.

“Ahijó lié! What’s wrong with him today?" Cruz sips his coffee, "The thing is this...” the girls are riveted on his every word, "she never goes to lunch with us unless I pay, no? Why? You see? That’s just it… so, I’m thinking that maybe she doesn’t do anything unless you pay her."

He winks at Melissa and whispers through the speaker, “But watch, she’ll get a promotion because she’s white.” Both he and Melissa look at Reicker to see if he overheard them. Reicker realizes this is not work related conversation and asks Cruz for the I-80 forms. Cruz gets the hint and returns to his office.

Cruz is Reicker’s personal nemesis, always contrary to anything Reicker proposes and quick to tautologize anything he says. It's Reicker’s personal mission to get rid of Cruz as soon as possible. Reicker holds prejudicial views and has trouble fitting in on the West coast. Overweight, he sweats like a pig, and constantly battles his hangovers. No one wants to deal with him till after lunch. Lunch is served at the nearest bar but at least he’s loosened up after a couple of Scotch-on-the-rocks with a twist.

A former prison guard from Terminal Island, Cruz, retains his magnified cynicism. Always first to point out any discrepancy in everything that’s said within his hearing range. Bullying his way in and out of everything, he’s adept at playing the victim. It gives him a platform to present the opposition as the agitator. The man to some, but from others he seeks sympathy, especially from women. With his lingering back pain it’s easier sitting behind a desk than walking the floor or loading coin.

He feels entitled to Reicker’s position and is on the hunt to bring him down. Reicker's an outsider and doesn’t understand immigrants like Cruz does. As Human Resource Director, Cruz is good at throwing the bull and puts potential new-hires at ease, that's his forte. He doesn’t like technical procedures and he's got the secretaries to run interference for him. Paperwork not done? Well, the secretaries haven’t finished typing it, or the secretaries say they never received it. Quick on his feet, he denies any wrongdoing and always blames it on another person. It’s a paper chase in personnel, this way he’s never caught up and can prove that the operation can’t run smoothly without him. Plus he’s set up a new filing system and no one can find anything.

Reicker passes by the Personnel Office and asks Cruz again for the I-80’s. Cruz explains that they've been moved into storage, that the company no longer uses those forms. Reicker demanded to have the last I-80’s filed, “How can I forward this guy’s employee DOT-221 package to the attorney without his I-80?”

“No, no, no, I'm saying the thing is this, Bill, we don't use I-80's. What guy? What attorney?” Cruz has no idea what Reicker’s talking about.

“Never mind, never mind, I’ll have someone else get the files.” Reicker wipes the sweat from his forehead and pulls on his sticky white shirt. Yellow perspiration rings are evident around his armpits, and down his back is a wet impression of his car seat. The large stack of papers he’s carrying seems to be sticking to his chest as he jostles them into a more comfortable position. “I gotta organize this place so it at least appears to be functioning properly, right! That’s what I’m here for, right!”

Cruz buries his face in his file cabinet, resenting the implication that his way is not acceptable to Reicker. “Here it is! I knew it was here!” He takes two files and sits at his desk pulling white papers out of the manila covers. “There! Now it make’s sense.”

Reicker knows nothing he’s said affects Cruz and turns to leave when Morgan walks in, "Cruz, we need to talk, I've been reading this...”

“Morgan! Read any good novels lately?” Cruz looks up at her, as she realizes they’re not alone.

“No, I haven’t been into novels since I read Moby Dick in high school.”

Reicker can’t pass this up and says,“And there was no dick in it, huh?"

As if he expected an answer and losing patience he grumbles, "My office, Morgan!" He storms out mumbling, "Damn it! I gotta take care of these imbeciles in the vault first! Idiots! Fuckin’ morons!” Passing by Morgan he slaps her on the derriere. Morgan jumps out of his way with her back to the wall.

Reluctantly, Morgan follows Reicker. He drops his paperwork on the chair Morgan was just about to sit in, and plops himself down in his chair. “What happened to the Fed shipment? You had plenty of time to get it straight. Well?” He flings his arm wildly in the air, “Fuckin’ shit, these damn flies! Damn it! Get the fuck away from my face! You obviously found the paperwork! I don’t see it here on my desk and I told you to make a copy for me!”

Standing there, Morgan sees a reflection of how she’s been on the receiving end lately. Last night for instance, driving home on the freeway, dreading the drive home, not only because of the two-hour bumper-to-bumper freeway traffic but also because of what awaited her at home. Home for Morgan was a Studio apartment in a high-end rental apartment building in Studio City. A perfect second story, with a beautiful view, but now the Mayor and Mayor pro-tem were involved in a scheme to move out any tenant who wouldn’t be able to afford the price of a condo as secret deal was going down concerning the sale of the apartment building in order to go condo. Pro-tem, what ever happened to Deputy Mayors?

This secret deal meant more money and taxes for the small city, located within the jurisdiction of the city of Los Angeles. So, a shill had been brought into the building to create loud noises by lifting and dropping weights from 08:30 HRS till 06:30 HRS the next morning. Morgan wasn’t financially set to afford the down payment on a condo, and management knew it, so every time she complained to the manager, she was told that she was imagining the noise and they’re tired of her constant calls. All Morgan knew, at the time, was that she was losing her precious sleep time and management was irresponsible, as the new manager was growing pot plants inside his trashed-out hippie van parked on the street near the building.

And then, who drives up beside her? A burgundy Jaguar, it’s the diamond broker who’s been watching her on her route for the last few months, he’s signaling to her. Now what? What the heck is he doing following her? He’s not one of her clients, but they exchange eye contact whenever she's parked in the truck outside the International Diamond Building on Hill Street. The Pershing Square Subway stop is exactly right across the street from this building.

Tall, dark and handsome, wealthy and powerful, and he seems to be fascinated with her presence. Morgan just asked about him that afternoon when she’d met a well-know diamond Middle-Eastern diamond street courier limping down the hallway of the International Diamond Building. He’d recently acquired a broken ankle, which was common in the Diamond District to send certain messages throughout the street. She asked him what this businessman’s name is, because she’d seen him speaking to him several times, but his name was so unpronounceable she couldn’t remember it. So what’s in a name anyway? More than she could ever know.

The courier told her that this man is Pakistani, although he imports his diamonds supposedly through Bombay. Ah, the Bollywood connection, yes, that figures, that’s why he’s so dapper. He’s known as a major Hindu diamond broker on the street. Morgan never encountered a man like this before. How far could this mutual admiration thing go? Did he even speak English? He's always in the company of at least five other Middle-Eastern businessmen who are aware of his curiosity with Morgan. They first appeared to not like this, but lately they also started smiling at Morgan. What was on their minds?

These classically dressed associates would gather outside the International Diamond Building every day in the late afternoon, but they never spoke English as they coordinated what seemed like what each other had experienced during that particular business day, then finalizing their plans before departing on their separate ways. Morgan wondered how she’d ever get to speak with him because she was usually always stuck inside the armored truck or the armored Cadillac and she’d never breach security to speak to him. But now here he is chasing her down the freeway. And now he’s signaling to her to follow him, he’s got his blinker on to get off at the next exit. What to do? What was the attraction? Was it business related or physical? Must be personal, she thought as she waved back at him. Well, strange things happen in the business and you’ve got to be ready to roll with them.

to be continued…maybe…but it’ll always a be a little different…

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