An Ordinary Decent Criminal by Michael Van Rooy

laminated sign hanging in the door and put it on a post with several others. As he went to turn on the lights, I read the signs. One said “Deer Season!,” another said “Gone Fishing,” and the last two said “Coffee at the Greek’s, be back soon” and “Lunch, be back later,” respectively.
    “Ya gotta tell your customers straight what’s going on.”
    I hung my coat and vest on a circular rack of odd-looking bows in the middle of the room and looked around at an incredible mess. Along one wall were racks of bows for rent, along another were more for sale, and several large machines full of rollers and counterweights sat near the cash register. Shelves in the middle of the room held racks of camouflage clothing, bags, accessories, quivers, and a bewildering variety of arrows and other equipment. The back end of the room was given over to two ranges about twenty yards long that ended in a wall lined with several hundred sheets of pressboard stacked on top of each other and held down by industrial-sized clamps attached to the ceiling and floor braces.
    “Nice place, huh?”
    “I do not have the words. Is there really this much need for archery supplies?”
    The old man was checking the answering machine and making notes on a clipboard attached to the wall. “Yep. I get hunters, Olympic wannabes, target freaks, schools, and clubs. Hell, these days I even get couples coming out on dates. I do fine.”
    He scratched his nose and then continued. “Now, don’t get me wrong. Business could be better. It could always be better, betcha even Izzy Asper said that. Before he died. Here, I’ll open the back door for you.”
    He walked down the lane to where an old, pocked target was still pinned to the wall. Inset near one corner was a steel door with a complicated latch, which he opened and then propped into place with a stop carved from a piece of two-by-four.
    “The truck should be here any time. My name’s Frank, by the by, yours is . . . ?”
    “Oh. Sam Parker. Glad to meet you.”
    We shook hands and then he scratched his nose again. “Well, when he comes, unload the stuff into the middle of this range here and then we’re square and I’ll pay you. Okay?”
    The bell that announced customers rang in the front of the store so Frank headed off while I waited for the delivery. In twenty minutes the driver showed up, pulling a five-ton diesel truck into the back lane and scraping the buildings on both sides. The driver hopped out, bringing with him a cloud of smells, dried urine and testosterone, flatus and halitosis, and coming towards me with a rolling gait like a sailor. He was a short man with a big belly and a wart right at the corner of his left eye.
    “Where’s the old man?”
    I could hear archers talking inside along with the regular thud of the arrows into the target. I pointed over my shoulder. “He’s in the front. Does he have to sign for something?”
    The driver pushed a battered clipboard into my hands and belched. “Yeah.”
    As I took the delivery sheets back to Frank, I idly flipped the forms back to reveal that the driver had taped a centerfold to the clipboard itself. The picture was of a fat, ugly woman with bad teeth who had both hands locked into her vagina and was pulling it apart with what looked to be satisfaction at a job well done. I shuddered and flipped the pages back into place and let Frank sign.
    “You look spooked.”
    “Never mind.”
    “You looked at the picture, didn’t ya?”
    “I said never mind. I meant never mind.”
    Frank scratched his nose with the tip of a broad-headed arrow. “Actually, I think it might be his wife.”
    I started to walk back and he shouted at my back. “Or his sister.”
    When the driver had his papers back, he opened up the side doors and stood back.
    “There you fucking go. First two fucking pallets and don’t leave any fucking wrap behind. Fuck.”
    The pallets were maybe two yards square at the base and three yards high, and