There were three of them:

Randall Thudgeon — in 1963 Randall was 19 years old. He’d been in trouble with the law from the time he was thirteen. He was over six five and weighed 250 pounds, not an ounce of it fat. His friends, if you could call them friends, said Randall made copper heads look friendly and sociable. He’d been expelled from high school at sixteen after he’d kicked an opposing football team’s punter so hard the boy was in a wheel chair for most of a year. Prior to that, Bear Bryant and a host of other SEC coaches were salivating at the chance to recruit him as a linebacker. After that, Bear said, “Boy like him will never play at Tuscaloosa. Not while I’m in charge.”

Randall’s father, a roller in a steel mill in Birmingham, had preached White supremacy to his son from the time he could understand words. Once he had asked, “Daddy, how come you think we better ‘n niggers?” The question had gotten Randall a beating he planned to revenge when he got a little bigger. He never did buy the supremacy horse shit. In fact, his sexual experiences told him black girls were way better than white ones. And you could mess with them any way you wanted and they wouldn’t tell. Not so with the white ones, especially if they came from money. Those bitches could get you locked up for staring at their butts more than a second. No, when Randall got the itch, the girl or girls was gonna be black or trailer trash.

Randall liked to fight. Just with his hands. Knives and guns were for pussies. He’d never had a problem taking a knife away from some asshole trying to cut him. He was quick as a snake, but mostly he prevailed because he wasn’t afraid of getting cut. One look at his bare torso, arms, and face would tell you that. A buddy had asked, “Don’t all them scars scare the ladies away?”

“Not really. They’re all the time coming up and asking if they can touch ‘em and rub ‘em. Be a fool to say no to that.”

And guns? Randall found them less frightening than knives. Dude threatening to shoot you was hesitating. Otherwise he woulda already shot you. Just walk up and punch him in the face. That strategy had yet to fail. Besides, if he did get shot and died, that’d be okay. Life pretty much sucked. Not much reason to stretch it out longer than you had to.

Arthur Simpson

Arthur had grown up with Randall. They were sort of friends, but Arthur was a stone cold sociopath. Can’t really be friends with a sociopath. They’ll sell your ass out at the drop of a hat. Arthur had never done that to Randall. Death, a slow and painful one, would be the inevitable result. Unlike Randall, Arthur enjoyed living. Plenty of people besides Randall he could sell out when the need arose.

Arthur weighed a hundred pounds less than Randall and was eight inches shorter. Could have gone to Auburn on a track scholarship as a sprinter/hurdler. Wasn’t a cop who chased him had a ghost of a chance of catching him. So much so he would taunt the hefty ones by yelling, “Chubby, show you what a nice guy I am, gonna stop and let you catch up a little. Don’t want you having a heart attack. I gotta do that mouth to mouth shit, you ain’t gonna make it.”

If Arthur had had a conscience, which no sociopath does, he could have have been successful. He was a whiz at math and science, wrote beautifully, and could charm even his sternest teachers. Trouble was, only success Arthur cared about was getting laid and not getting caught for stealing cars or whatever else he fancied.

Wanda Clayborn

Wanda was a little over five feet and gorgeous. She had transferred into Randall’s and Arthur’s high school from Arkansas when she was beginning to blossom as a woman. Both of them wanted to jump her bones from the moment she strutted down the hall that first day of school in September of 1959. Never happened. Something about her said bad things would unfold if they even tried to kiss her. That impression got bolstered when they’d seen her kick the knees of a huge biker bragging he was gonna have his way with her. While the dude was howling in pain, Arthur asked, “What the fuck you do to that boy, sweetie? Happened awful fast.” Wanda produced a shit eating grin. “My daddy was a Army Ranger. Taught me all kinds of self defense stuff.”

Didn’t happen over night, but by the time they’d reached twenty, each had concluded the Deep South was rotten with hypocrisy. Politicians, county sheriffs, preachers, textile mill owners, all spewing out the virtues of hard work and clean living while they made bundles of money off the backs of poor people, especially blacks. Fuck that. They wanted a slice of the pie. Big slice. And thanks to Wanda, they were gonna do it, and do it smart. “Any job we pull is gonna be planned out careful,” she said. “If it takes a month to get ready, even two months, that’s what we do. And if we don’t like the odds after that, we back off. Don’t give a shit how much money we gotta pass on.”

Wanda wasn’t worried about Randall. He might be a nasty bastard, but he had some self control. More important, he trusted Wanda’s judgment and he wasn’t threatened by taking orders from a woman smarter than him. Arthur? Whole other deck of cards. She’d have to watch him. He was smart, but he was way crazier than he was smart.

On their second job, the three of them were lying prone on a ridge overlooking the Holcomb Foundry. If it had been 1985, not 1965, Randall and Arthur would have been wearing camo outfits. Best they could do back then was olive green pants, shirts, and hats they’d gotten at an army/navy store outside of Birmingham. They blended in with the thick bushes pretty well. Each had a holstered 1911a 45 caliber pistol attached to a web belt designed for the Korean Conflict. Wanda was wedged in between the two of them. Her attire was a different. A tight T-shirt and shorts with a baseball cap that said ROLL TIDE underneath which she wore reflective sunglasses.

“Sun’s barely up and this goddam heat’s got me soaked like a water rat,” said Wanda.

“Wasn’t gonna say nothing, baby. But right now you could win any wet T-shirt contest in the continental United States,” said Arthur.

“Arthur, could you fuckin’ put a lid on it? We don’t focus here, we won’t get no money and we might could end up in jail,” said Randall.

Wanda was trying not to chuckle. “He’s right, handsome. Less you want to end up being some huge negroe’s prom date for five to ten at Draper.”

“Shit, Wanda, can’t be your prom date, big ole black boy’s gonna have to do.”

Randall was about to punch the shit out of his skinny ass when they heard it before they saw it. Then there it was, whining its way up the steep grade that lead to the foundry gate. A red armored car. Not a Brinks but might as well have been.

Wanda had made them study how the vehicle was built with its bullet proof glass and what not. Moreover, she’d made them all climb up onto the same ridge four Fridays in a row to see when the car would arrive and what the routine was for bringing the payroll satchels into the building. She didn’t know the exact amount. Arthur’s math guesstimated $10,000. Not bad.

“Here we go, gentlemen,” she said as she sprang up and charged down the hill with her arms spread wide and yelling “Help, help!” She executed a somersault that made a whole bunch of dead leaves and grass stick to her sweaty outfit. She looked a fright to the uniformed guard who’d just climbed down from the passenger side of the car with his pistol drawn. The driver stayed inside with both doors closed.

“Oh, sir, please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.”

The guard stared at her ample chest, but he didn’t panic. “Ma’am, I can see you are in a state of severe distress, but I can not assist you at this time. Please wait by the side of the road and try to calm yourself. Once my partner and I leave, you can go into the foundry. Someone in there will help you. I am certain of that.”

“Put the fuckin’ gun down, asshole,” said Randall. He had a massive arm wrapped around the guard’s neck with a 45 pressed against his temple. The guard dropped the pistol.

“You will not get away with this, sir. My partner is trained to drive off at the least sign of trouble. He is completely protected in there. You can not stop him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. See, right now MY partner is up on the running board explaining the situation to your partner. He’s explaining how I’m gonna blow your redneck brains out if he don’t just sit there stock still while you give us all those payroll satchels. What you think he’s gonna do? Follow company policy or save your life?”

“Fuck it, sorry ass job ain’t worth dying for. You win.”

“Your momma didn’t raise no stupid children.”

“Thank you for the compliment, sir. But you have not met my older brother. Him? You would’ve had to pull the trigger.”

Randall almost never laughed. Today was an exception.

…

A few days after that job, the three of them were scrunched into a little booth in a crowded road house. The noise was deafening; they didn’t need to worry about being overheard. Wanda was adamant. “We gotta give it a rest for awhile. We didn’t waste nobody, but that foundry is owned by some nasty Italian assholes from New Orleans. That’s on me. Didn’t know about that beforehand. Got a girlfriend from Louisiana told me all that just yesterday. She dates one of the guys. Says they don’t fuck around. They catch whoever stole from ‘em before the cops, ain’t gonna be a trial. They’ll torture ‘em for a month and then throw em in a furnace.”

“Your girlfriend planning on marrying this boy? Bring him home, meet the parents, shop for the ring and all?” said Arthur.

“Yeah, that’s real goddam funny, Arthur. Those cocksuckers catch us, hope they throw you in the furnace first. I’ll enjoy the yelling and screaming,” said Randall.

“That’d be fine, big man. Know I’m going to the hot place anyways.”

Wanda shook her head, got up, and said, “About to go find me a nice gentleman to dance with.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with me? I dance good,” said Arthur.

She didn’t turn around as she melted into the crowd of cowboy hats and baseball caps.

Over the next two years the threesome pulled some kind of robbery every other month or so. Like the first two, each job was carefully planned. All their meetings were held in deep woods. If anybody saw them, it’d most likely be hunters more intent on deer or wild boar than anything else.

After the fourth job, Arthur said, “We don’t seem to be attracting much attention. I’m a little surprised. Nothing on the TV to speak of. No front page stories about a huge dude, a handsome boy, and a real hot chick, all trying to enrich themselves extralegally. Truth told, wouldn’t mind some notoriety for all our hard work and planning.”

“Arthur, let me ask you a question,” said Wanda. “Do you enjoy living on the edge, tempting fate, risking your life, thinking every day might be your last? All that good shit?”

“Well, I think you know the answer to that, baby. ‘Course I do. Otherwise, my existence would be, what? Like watching grass grow or paint dry. Rather be dead.”

“Wanda, why don’t I just shoot this fucker right now? Got one in the chamber with his name on it,” said Randall.

She walked over, stood on her tippy toes, and patted his cheek. “Hold your fire, sugar. But you should pose that very question to me each and every day.”

“It’s so nice to feel loved by the two of you. And I mean that from the very bottom of my heart.”