Chapter 7
Rufus Washington and Lupe Chingamucho were just killing time, leaning against the side of Lupe's '64 Chevy Impala watching the traffic go by on Mission Street. They spent a lot of their evenings doing this. Just watching the cars go by, waving at friends, talking to girls. Talking to the girls is what they liked best. Lupe had the car and Rufus had the lines. Between the two of them they were very successful with the black chicks and chicanos that cruised by.
Both were in their middle twenties, Rufus was black and Lupe, Mexican. They were an odd couple, but complemented each other well. Rufus, as he called himself, was "one street wise nigger". He'd grown up in the ghetto and grown up the hard way. He fought his way through school until he realized that a man, if he was slick enough-if he was cool enough, could talk his way out of almost any situation. And he'd look a lot better for it as a result. Lupe, with English as a second language, had never learned to talk as smoothly as Rufus and so still let his fists do the talking. He took pride in the fact that he'd never let anyone give him any kind of shit whatsoever and that he had a reputation around the barrio as a "crazy dude." Someone not to be fucked with.
When the two of them were together, Rufus supplied the mouth and Lupe the punch. They usually got what they wanted and nobody gave them a bad time.
They were hanging out on Mission Street for another reason, too. Both were broke. Welfare checks weren't due for another week and Lupe couldn't even afford to buy gas for the Chevy. He had to leave it parked. Times were tough.
"Ain't this some kinda bitch?? ? " grumbled Rufus. "Sheeeeiiitt, baby! My motherfucking pockets got no rattle in 'em whatsoever-I got no dough, I got no bread!! It's Saturday night and I can't even get me a bottle of "Night Train" to ease my po' dry troat. Say, what 'bout you, baby.. . . You got any bread, Lupe."
Lupe puffed at his Marlboro, "S'hit, man. I don' got no dinero either. Even my Chevy can't go nowhere. It's too bad, man, that the welfare cheques only venga every dos weeks.. . . "
"You right there, jack. I don't even got no food-stamps left. It's gittin harder and harder, I tell you, to make a living without working these days . . . Mother fucker!! ! ! ! Check that out Lupe!! ! "
A black Cadillac Eldorado convertible with four beautiful blondes had just driven by. One of them had turned and flashed Rufus a big smile.
Rufus went crazy. "Oh, man!! ! Would I love to get into some of that white pussy-so fine!! ! That soft blonde hair and those sweet smelling blonde pussiesI tell ya true, man, I am getting jes a little tired of these funky black bitches, ya reach down ta their pussies and grab ahold a dat nappy, kinky old coarse nigger fur. Well, I am getting tired o' that shit. I want me a fine white woman sometime I want me a fine white woman with blonde hair and blue eyes and she be ridin' down the street in a new caddy, jes like them bitches we just saw. Oh, Lordy!! It'd be so good, it'd be so fine. I's got to have it at least once in this po' nigger's life, at least once I want some of that fine white pussy."
Lupe, as usual, didn't say much, but the glazed look of lust in his Mexican brown eyes informed Rufus that he was in perfect agreement. In fact, all he said was, "Yo tambien."
Rufus continued, "But you see here, Lupe, my man, the bitch of the whole thing is to get them fine white women you got to have bread. You know what I mean. You got to have a fine car and some sharp clothes-because if'n you don't, if you jes a jive-ass buck po' nigger an you wanna white woman, you know what you get? Funky white trash. That ugly shit you see some of the brothers sniffing around at. They be just the rejects that none o' the white folk want. Sheee-iiiiit, I can get some o'dat anytime I want. But, that fine white stuff is another question all together. It takes money, my man. If n you don't got the go, you be grabbing your nut wid raggedy, ugly, nasty kind a woman."
Lupe, still looking cool, puffing on another Marlboror, leaned back, digesting Rufus' speech. "Seguro, man. Listen, ese, I don't even got money for the Chevy, man. I's hard, man."
An idea was beginning to form in Rufus' nappy head. He started moving about in sort of a loose-limb walk.
"I got de plan, man! I got de plan!! ! You 'member my cousin Booker. You know the cat, man!! He's doing some time up in Soledad right now?? Well, that cat was never short on bread-he had that bad-ass Lincoln wid the true-spoke wheels and the gangster whitewalls? And the chicks he had-man he got knee-deep in some fine cotton. Well, you see, Lupe, my main man, the cat used to bump off banks. Like shooting fish in the barrel. All you gots to do is walk into de place, say baby if n you don't give me all your mother-fucking money I'm going to blow your head off-and then we be swinging. We use the welfare checks for tip money."
Lupe face twisted up in thought. "But hombre, what happens if we get caught?"
"You got to think positive, baby. What happens if we don't get caught. That's what you should be thinkin' 'bout. 'Cause if n we don't get caught, we be sitting pretty. Doing our thing down at the Disco every night, get some new threads, fix up your wheels. Oh, yheah!! ! We gonna have us some good times.. . . "
Lupe was still sketptical. "Yeah, man, but what happens if we get caught?"
"Sheeeittt!! ! ! You one yellow beaner if I ever saw one. Big fucking deal-so we get caught. All that happens then is we do a little time in the pen. Be a good chance to see some of our friends and relatives."
Lupe finally went along with the idea, especially after Rufus had called him yellow. Lupe considered himself to be a man without fear, a malo hombre who could and would do anything.
They borrowed enough money to buy a six-pack and talked over the scheme in detail. Weapons were no problem since they are as plentiful in the ghetto as trash compactors are in Beverly Hills. They thought about and talked about all the TV shows that they'd seen where a bank got robbed and finally decided upon a simple plan.
They leave their car parked at the curb with the engine running, simply walk in point their guns at the tellers, demand that the money be put in paper sacks and then split and party it up for a couple months.
There was a bank that was near one of the Discos they frequented and, as far as they were concerned, one bank was as good as the other. So they decided to knock it off. It happened to be the Founder's Bank of San Francisco. The very bank where Mary Jenkins worked.