and Max would chat them up while I did a quick walk-through of the empty store behind them. We were going to need to do a cleanup in these someday. Often I would have to remind someone not to use the back as a urinal, or at the very least to set aside some plastic buckets for it.
It didn’t pass unnoticed that I was doing most of the work as we did our rounds so I asked Max, “How come I got to do this and you get to do the chitchatting?”
His reply? “Because I know what I am doing, and you don’t.”
That was kind of hard to argue with.
I was in the back of the store behind the Apple Couple when I heard car doors slamming and a male voice yelling something I couldn’t quite hear. I drew my pistol and headed back to the store entrance. I held the gun straight up beside my head and thumbed the hammer down, listening to that beautiful clicking sound. I paused at the door, standing to one side. It was a good thing that I did. Apple Couple would have knocked me down if I had been standing in it. They came busting through it, faces frightened, the man pushing his woman, telling her, “To the back! To the back!” As they went, he struggled to dig a handgun from his pocket. The hammer spur had snagged
on the fabric of his pants, and his haste and fear were not helping him.
“Stay here!” I hissed at him—the asshole had scared the crap out of me busting through the door like that. “Hey, look at me!” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. Talk to me: Where and who?”
“Three guys—they are robbing everyone!”
“Where?”
“The Dollar Store.”
“Deep breaths, okay?” I looked at him.
He nodded. “I’m okay.”
“Good, go look after your woman.” All right: Think and go , I told myself.
The Dollar Store was in the center of the strip. I was two stores down. Usually, by now, Max would be at the last store, which was really just a guy with a table. He did leather repair, and I was thinking about having him make me a cartridge belt. Max liked talking to him. Leather Man was a former marine who had done his time in Vietnam. He was old.
He also liked to spit—big nasty lungers, too—which was why he was at the end.
I changed sides and eased a bit out the door. I could hear a bunch of hollering to my right; it sounded like Korean. I could see a young Asian male standing by a yellow Honda Civic in the parking lot. They had pulled directly in front of the Dollar Store. He had some kind of assault rifle, kind of cool looking, with a wooden stock. A remote part of my brain approved of his choice: no plastic crap. Another man was standing about three feet in front of the door to the Dollar Store. Both men were focused on what was happening inside. I didn’t know where Max
was, but I wasn’t worried about it. I knew he would be in the right place at the right time. I heard a woman scream and I stepped out the door.
Stepping out that first second was like what I imagined stepping into space as a skydiver would be, or getting up to speak in front of thousands of people: a lightness that wasn’t disturbing. Actually, it was pleasant. I liked it. I walked toward the door to the Dollar Store. My movement caught the eye of the man with the assault rifle, and he went into motion, shouldering his weapon. The boom of Max’s Colt was unmistakable. The rifleman’s eyes widened. He jerked forward and began to fall, propelled even faster by the second boom. The other man reacted to the sound of Max’s gunfire, turning to his friend. For a precious second he processed that his friend had been shot and that another man was walking toward him with a pistol. He turned to me, his face contorting into a grimace as he realized that he was going to be too late. He was right: I shot him twice in the chest, then once in the head, just as I had been taught, drilling again and again on cardboard silhouettes. It sounds like overkill, but Max explained to me that we were not the only people wearing vests.
My
It didn’t pass unnoticed that I was doing most of the work as we did our rounds so I asked Max, “How come I got to do this and you get to do the chitchatting?”
His reply? “Because I know what I am doing, and you don’t.”
That was kind of hard to argue with.
I was in the back of the store behind the Apple Couple when I heard car doors slamming and a male voice yelling something I couldn’t quite hear. I drew my pistol and headed back to the store entrance. I held the gun straight up beside my head and thumbed the hammer down, listening to that beautiful clicking sound. I paused at the door, standing to one side. It was a good thing that I did. Apple Couple would have knocked me down if I had been standing in it. They came busting through it, faces frightened, the man pushing his woman, telling her, “To the back! To the back!” As they went, he struggled to dig a handgun from his pocket. The hammer spur had snagged
on the fabric of his pants, and his haste and fear were not helping him.
“Stay here!” I hissed at him—the asshole had scared the crap out of me busting through the door like that. “Hey, look at me!” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. Talk to me: Where and who?”
“Three guys—they are robbing everyone!”
“Where?”
“The Dollar Store.”
“Deep breaths, okay?” I looked at him.
He nodded. “I’m okay.”
“Good, go look after your woman.” All right: Think and go , I told myself.
The Dollar Store was in the center of the strip. I was two stores down. Usually, by now, Max would be at the last store, which was really just a guy with a table. He did leather repair, and I was thinking about having him make me a cartridge belt. Max liked talking to him. Leather Man was a former marine who had done his time in Vietnam. He was old.
He also liked to spit—big nasty lungers, too—which was why he was at the end.
I changed sides and eased a bit out the door. I could hear a bunch of hollering to my right; it sounded like Korean. I could see a young Asian male standing by a yellow Honda Civic in the parking lot. They had pulled directly in front of the Dollar Store. He had some kind of assault rifle, kind of cool looking, with a wooden stock. A remote part of my brain approved of his choice: no plastic crap. Another man was standing about three feet in front of the door to the Dollar Store. Both men were focused on what was happening inside. I didn’t know where Max
was, but I wasn’t worried about it. I knew he would be in the right place at the right time. I heard a woman scream and I stepped out the door.
Stepping out that first second was like what I imagined stepping into space as a skydiver would be, or getting up to speak in front of thousands of people: a lightness that wasn’t disturbing. Actually, it was pleasant. I liked it. I walked toward the door to the Dollar Store. My movement caught the eye of the man with the assault rifle, and he went into motion, shouldering his weapon. The boom of Max’s Colt was unmistakable. The rifleman’s eyes widened. He jerked forward and began to fall, propelled even faster by the second boom. The other man reacted to the sound of Max’s gunfire, turning to his friend. For a precious second he processed that his friend had been shot and that another man was walking toward him with a pistol. He turned to me, his face contorting into a grimace as he realized that he was going to be too late. He was right: I shot him twice in the chest, then once in the head, just as I had been taught, drilling again and again on cardboard silhouettes. It sounds like overkill, but Max explained to me that we were not the only people wearing vests.
My
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