When he drove, he kept his gun nestled in his lap, ready to fire.

When he went in on a pick-up, he strode up to the door with a determined gait, back straight and gun drawn. The shocked surprise on the faces of the straight citizens, at least those who noticed, amused him. They were sheep, and guns made sheep nervous. That was just fine with Barry — he was a wolf.

When he entered a bank, he liked to pretend, just for a moment, he was there to rob the place. He imagined the chaos, the shouting, the rush of it all. Then came the theatrics, slowly sliding the gun into the holster on his hip as he looked around for troublemakers.

When the vault manager handed over the the pick-up, it was usually in one or two canvas bags with tough leather handles. He carried them to the truck in one hand, gun in the other.

The job was harder back when he’d started, back when he’d need a cart to haul out all the bags. These days the pick-ups were smaller. People used less cash than they used to.