Blessed Are the Bank Robbers

Smith Chas Smith

Description

A rollicking true story of Bibles and bank robberies in Southern California, from a talented and highly praised gonzo journalistChas Smith grew up deeply enmeshed in the evangelical Christian world that grew out of Southern California in the late 1960s. His family included famous missionaries and megachurch pastors, but his cousin Daniel Courson was Grandma's favorite. Smith looked up to Cousin Danny. He was handsome, adventurous, and smart, earned a degree from Bible college, and settled into a family and a stable career. Needless to say, it was a big surprise when Cousin Danny started robbing banks. Known as the "Floppy Hat Bandit," Courson robbed 19 of them in a torrid six-week spree before being caught and sentenced to seven years. When he tried to escape, they tacked on another year. And when he finally got out, despite seeming to be back on the straight and narrow, Cousin Danny disappeared. Banks started getting robbed again. It seemed Cousin Danny might be gunning for the record. Smith's Blessed Are the Bank Robbers is the wild, and wildly entertaining, story of an all-American anti-hero. It's a tale of bank robberies, art and jewel heists, high-speed chases, fake identities, encrypted Swiss email accounts, jilted lovers, and the dark side of an evangelical family (and it wasn't just Danny; an uncle was mixed up with the mujahideen). It's a book about what it means to live inside the church and outside the law.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique
• California

Informations

• Publié par: ABRAMS BOOKS
• Date de parution: 15 mars 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781647005467
• Langue: English

Extrait

Also by the Author:
Welcome to Paradise, Now Go to Hell
Cocaine + Surfing
Reports from Hell

Copyright 2022 Chas Smith
Cover 2022 Abrams
Published in 2022 by Abrams Press, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021946851
ISBN: 978-1-4197-5473-9 eISBN: 978-1-64700-546-7
Abrams books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [e-mail] or the address below.
Abrams Press is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: Welcome to Paradise
CHAPTER 2: Uncle Dave
CHAPTER 3: A Brief History of Bank Robbery in America
CHAPTER 4: Jesus Freaks
CHAPTER 5: An Evangelical Camelot
CHAPTER 6: Of Cinder Block Mausoleums and Men
CHAPTER 7: Mohegan Sun
CHAPTER 8: A Brief History of Gambling in America
CHAPTER 9: Rob a Bank
CHAPTER 10: Paradise Found
CHAPTER 11: Paradise Lost
CHAPTER 12: Do Not Wear Clothing That Resembles the Clothing That Prisoners Wear
CHAPTER 13: Nothing Could Be More Absurd Than Moral Lessons at Such a Moment
CHAPTER 14: A Brief History of Fugitives in America
CHAPTER 15: Fathoming Secrets
CHAPTER 16: Weird, Right??
CHAPTER 17: Can I Possibly Not Understand Myself That I Am a Lost Man?
CHAPTER 18: A Nice Place for Rough Boys
CHAPTER 19: Intentional Living
CHAPTER 20: Get Down. Get the Fuck Down, Now.
CHAPTER 21: Writer s Retreat
CHAPTER 22: You ve Never Been to Heaven, But You Got Pretty Close Last Night
POSTSCRIPT
What the world requires of the Christians is that they continue to be Christians. -Albert Camus
Love God and sin boldly. -Martin Luther
CHAPTER 1
WELCOME TO PARADISE
So there I was in the front yard, one sun-dappled spring morning, scolding my daughter s Chihuahua, Thunderstruck, for getting into my wife s gluten-free crackers again, when the mail jalopy came rumbling to a stop in front of the driveway. The postman, a bro, seemed happy to chat while handing me an assortment of mail.
You surf today?
No, but heard it was blown out. Probably get on it later, though, if it glasses.
Cool.
He drove off with a shaka, leaving a puff of diesel smoke in his wake, Thunder seizing on the moment to scamper back inside, dang dog. If she s gonna get naughty, she should do better than gluten-free.
I flipped through the small stack. A DMV renewal, an overdue physical therapy bill, a letter from the Federal Detention Center/Federal Correctional Institution Englewood- and paused, electric rush flooding from head to toe, ending in my tingling fingertips.
This was what I d been waiting for, semipatiently, like I used to wait for the Sears Christmas catalog. Letting the unnecessary mail drop, I wandered over to the patio, pulled out a black chair, and sat down, wondering what Littleton, Colorado, feels like in late March while studying the envelope.

Daniel Courson 19560023
Federal Detention Center/Federal Correctional
Institution Englewood
9595 West Quincy Ave.
Littleton, CO 80123
The blue ink hovered above and to the left of my own Cardiff-by-the-Sea address. Daniel Courson 19560023. My Cousin Danny.
I had asked him to write every bit of his experience, seeing that he had nothing but time stretching out over that Rocky Mountain horizon, seeing that he had taken the adventurous life to a critical new level. I told him I d critique because, selfishly, I needed every last detail. I d waited patiently, and now here it was.
The envelope s flap peeled open easily enough, a byproduct of prison censors or maybe just lower-quality prison commissary stationary, and I skimmed the introduction. Hey Charlie, greetings from Colorado, my final destination after a tour of the western US courtesy of your US tax dollars, so thanks for that. Rod Blagojevich, the Illinois senator who sold his senate seat, is here as well as Jared, the old pitchman for Subway who was involved in child porn, I believe.
Rod Blagojevich had actually been Illinois s governor and had tried to sell Barack Obama s vacated senate seat. He has Subway s Jared Fogle correctly pegged though, or mostly: fifteen years plus eight months for possessing child pornography and traveling across state lines to pay for sex with minors.
I knew that on his stop through Nevada, Cousin Danny had shared a cell with Cliven Bundy, the lightning rod Oregon rancher who led an armed standoff with the Bureau of Land Management, reaching hero status among radicalized libertarians, the two trading stories while whittling away the hours. He had also spent time in the depressing cement box once occupied by Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh in Denver, the prison guard informing him of its famous ex-tenant while locking the door for the night in an offhanded but proud way.
After a few more general pleasantries, elucidations of prison politics, and a request to read and give feedback, I remember that this is serious and run upstairs, fish my fancy, serious-editing Montblanc from a desk drawer packed with LOL OMG doll clothes, run back downstairs, and tuck in properly.

CHAPTER 1
Bank robbery was starting to get boring. After forty-some jobs, I was beginning to think I d seen it all. But I d read enough online news stories of the jobs gone wrong, failed by an X factor: off-duty cop in line, hero armed customer, goddam GPS trackers . . . it was easy to be unlucky. Still, that didn t stop me from getting back to work. I decided the next bank needed some extra attention. Instead of the usual casing from within a Starbucks or McDonald s across the street, this time I d gear up like a construction worker . . . a large work site encircled this bank- some kind of revamped parking lot was being installed and workers buzzed around everywhere. Perfect cover.
So, with my hard hat, orange safety vest, work boots, and gloves, I sidled up the sidewalk and edged into the churned-up earth just outside the bank, bending over some imaginary task. My dark safety glasses hid my sideways glances at the arriving bank staff: one, two, three, four office and teller workers, no hero ex-military bearings to be found.
Bingo.
I made a couple more trips in my disguise to the work site during the week, checking the flow of customers, timing my escape route, spacing cop patrols.
Friday is the optimal day to rob a bank. It s the day people with actual jobs come to cash paychecks, so banks need the maximum amount of cash on hand.
The morning of the robbery was crisp and clear, and after plenty of strong coffee in my cup I again donned my Village People getup with one important addition- that old standby in bank robber couture, the black mask pulled down around my neck ready for use.
I parked my pickup a few blocks away and quickly hoisted my full suspension Trek mountain bike from the truck bed to under my feet. My backpack hugged my body, only two items inside: a realistic looking Glock pellet gun and a hammer, both tools of last resort. The gun s presence to frighten, the hammer s purpose being to smash glass doors locking me in.
The excuses flooded my brain as I pedaled between buildings, along paths, toward the target.
Too much traffic.
Not enough traffic.
Cops could be close.
Something doesn t feel right.
Still I pedaled, fighting fear, fighting anxiety. Do this. Make it happen. Just get it over with.
I rode right up to the bank entrance, past the morning swarm of similarly dressed workers. Not a second glance my way. I leaned my bike against a bank wall.
Now, the moment, the border between nothing and everything, my throat tight with invisible hands squeezing, sweat trickling down my back. Same drenching of forced anticipation every time.
Fuck it.
Oh, man.
I scribbled my first note in the prison paper margins. Lose goddam. Even poorly spelled it clangs off my soul, and it must have clanged off Cousin Danny s soul too.
My second note, more a curiosity, is why he is writing as a hard-bitten East Coast Italian-American mafioso bank robber starting to get bored, looking out for hero and/or military armed customers, goddamn GPS trackers, construction worker getups, casing, bingo, Village People, fuck it?
Cousin Danny, like me, is not an East Coast Italian-American or even an East Coast Irish-American but rather the dictionary definition of West Coast WASP. Tall, thin, blue-eyed, almost brown hair that turns blond with enough surfing, an Anglo-Saxon genetic mixture that is neither fancy nor interesting. Just white. He grew up in Carlsbad, named after a mineral spa town in the Czech Republic, a stone s throw from my now Cardiff-by-the-Sea address, named after the Welsh capital, a short hop north from San Diego. America s Finest City.
We used to boogie board Warm Water Jetty, a beach that had a power plant spewing warmer water back into the ocean, after it had been sucked into cool turbines or whatnot, then made drip sandcastles with warm sand when my family drove down for summer vacations from perpetually gray, cold, windy, depressed Coos Bay, Oregon. Or go to the local surf shop, Carlsbad Pipelines, where I would press my nose against the glass counter, carefully selecting the two stickers I was allowed, inhaling the coconut scent of Sex Wax while trying to not get caught looking at the word sex.
I hated my hometown.
Oh, my parents were wonderful, generous, kind. They both worked extremely hard to give us- my older sister and younger brother, great siblings- everything they could. Looking back, it was a storybook existence. Our house, perched on a high hill, overlooked