Arrested!

Ivan blinked, his mouth dropping open. "What kind of luck do I have?" he muttered, caught between laughter and disbelief. This was his first day in San Francisco, and here he was, caught in the middle of a bank robbery.

Martha watched his expression and chuckled. "I gotta say, at first, I thought you were an undercover cop," she admitted, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I mean, with that traffic block back there, I thought you'd set it up to trap me. But when you didn't even flinch at my story about coming here illegally, I figured you were just an innocent bystander who happened to mistake me for a tram driver."

Ivan scratched his head, embarrassed. "So… are we still heading to KGRO Supermarket?"

Martha glanced down the road, then at her pistol, a look of mock consideration on her face. "Hmm… I probably won't be back for a while. Say, you know how to drive this thing?"

She gestured to the tram controls, which, as she'd adjusted it, were still coasting forward on their own. Ivan peered at the wheel; simple levers and gears, familiar enough to someone with construction experience, but still a far cry from anything he'd driven before.

He leaned in, inspecting the long pull rods, and felt a strange déjà vu, memories of operating heavy machinery on construction sites floating up. "Huh. It's not that different from a bus… only… you know, it's on tracks."

Martha laughed. "So? Think you can handle it?"

Ivan shook his head, snapping out of it. "No way. I'd rather not have my first day in town end with me on a runaway tram. I'll get off with you and just pray they don't think I'm your accomplice."

Martha smirked, holstering her pistol. "Suit yourself." She pulled her hood down a bit lower, making her look even more like a mysterious figure out of some wild dime novel.

As the tram slowed down near a junction, Ivan took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever craziness lay ahead. "Alright. Let's get off this… pirate tram and hope for the best."

They both laughed, stepping off the tram and blending into the bustling city streets.

The tram station was just one block away from the grand entrance of the bank. As the tram creaked to a halt, Martha yanked a rope tied to the throttle lever, allowing her makeshift contraption to keep the tram moving slowly along the track. It would meander forward, a distraction designed to create confusion for any unfortunate souls trying to chase her down.

With a fluid motion, she leaped off the tram, her hand gripping the rope loosely, leaving the tram trundling away like an unmanned ghost in the distance. Ivan followed suit, landing beside her with a slight stumble. Martha extended her hand, palm up, looking at him expectantly.

Ivan blinked, unsure. Hesitantly, he raised his own hand, and they clapped together, a spontaneous high-five hanging awkwardly in the air.

"Aren't you going to wish me luck?" Martha grinned under her black mask, her punk-style outfit giving her the look of a character from an old heist novel.

Ivan hesitated, glancing at the bank and then back at her. "But... isn't what you're doing illegal?"

She rolled her eyes, chuckling. "What a killjoy. I was planning to stop after this one, you know."

Ivan scoffed, folding his arms. "Right. You sound like those gamblers in Vegas who swear they're done right after losing their last dollar; only to come crawling back."

Martha laughed. "You got me there. But seriously, a little encouragement wouldn't hurt."

With a resigned sigh, Ivan relented. "Fine. Good luck, Martha."

She gave a wicked smile under her mask, saluted him with two fingers, and swaggered towards the bank, her steps light and unhurried as if she were simply heading in to make a withdrawal.

Ivan stood alone on the sidewalk, scratching his head. Part of him was tempted to stay and watch the chaos unfold, but a stronger part worried that lingering here might make him look like her accomplice. Could a girl as… eccentric as Martha really pull off a bank robbery? He felt a nagging doubt, yet curiosity rooted him to the spot.

He watched her disappear through the bank doors, waiting for some sort of commotion. Seconds ticked by. No alarms, no screams. Could it really be that easy?

Just as he resolved to sneak closer for a better look, he felt several sets of eyes on him. Turning, he saw an elderly couple seated on a bench, watching him with wide eyes. A family with a baby stroller paused mid-step, exchanging worried glances as they looked him up and down. A group of kids whispered to each other, pointing in his direction, and even more passersby were giving him peculiar looks, murmuring to each other.

Ivan's stomach dropped. It dawned on him: it was six in the evening, the busiest hour in the city. And here he was, giving a high-five and an enthusiastic farewell to a masked "gangster" who had just jumped off a tram and strolled toward a bank with obvious intent. What must this look like?

Thinking fast, Ivan raised his voice and forced a theatrical smile. "Oh, my goodness! I can't believe this! That guy is a scourge to society, a stain on humanity, a criminal mastermind of the worst kind! Why, if it weren't for the fact that he—er, he saved my life with a slice of pizza when I was starving, I'd never have been fooled by him!"

The onlookers blinked, startled by his dramatic performance.

"Yes!" Ivan continued, warming up to his ridiculous act. "I, Dante Sparta, shall sever all ties with this scoundrel! From this day forth, I vow to never associate with that shameless criminal again!"

With that, he spun on his heel and bolted, disappearing around the corner, leaving a baffled crowd in his wake.

…

The next morning, Ivan was brushing his teeth, still jobless and nursing the embarrassment of yesterday's spectacle, when he heard a knock at his door. He paused, spat out the toothpaste, and called out, "Who's there?"

A cheerful voice with a magnetic charm replied, "Your pizza delivery! Please open the door!"

Ivan froze, processing the strange claim. He hadn't ordered any pizza. Rolling his eyes, he replied, "Look, if you have something to say, just say it. That whole 'pizza' thing was… a joke."

Silence fell on the other side of the door, a thick awkward pause hanging in the air. Then, suddenly, a gruff voice roared, "San Francisco Police Department! OPEN THE DOOR!"

Before Ivan could even react, the sound of a battering ram echoed through the apartment. With a loud crash, his brand-new door lock, which had cost him two precious dollars, went flying. In the next second, four police officers stormed in, tackling Ivan to the ground with the enthusiasm of attack dogs on a fresh scent.

With a hard thud, Ivan hit the floor, his head spinning as the officers pinned him down.

"We've got the accomplice of the Kangaroo Bandit!" one officer declared, yanking his arms behind his back.

"Quick, handcuff him!" shouted another, moving fast to tie his wrists.

"Don't let him escape!" barked a third.

Ivan barely managed to sputter, "Wait, what; Kangaroo Bandit? Who?!"

But they ignored him, swiftly cuffing his hands behind his back, then yanking a hood over his head. They hauled him out of his apartment, leading him down the stairs as neighbors peeked out of their doors, watching the commotion with scandalized expressions.

Ivan's mind was reeling. Kangaroo Bandit? Was this about Martha? How had he, a hapless bystander who'd barely known her for a few hours, ended up in this mess?

As they dragged him outside, Ivan couldn't help but think, "Only in San Francisco could your first day in town turn into something out of a crime novel."

Despite Ivan's desperate protests, explanations, and indignant outbursts, he was firmly escorted into the back of a police car and taken to the San Francisco North Beach Police Station. The ride was tense and bumpy, his wrists chafing against the cuffs. By the time they arrived, Ivan was seething with a mix of frustration and fear.