Bank Robbers by C. Clark Criscuolo Page B

safety’s on. Now you can’t shoot it. You try.”
    â€œIt’s okay, I know how to do it.”
    â€œWell, I just don’t want you to get stuck with the safety on when those mice come around.”
    She glared at him. “How much?”
    â€œOne twenty-five.”
    She swallowed.
    â€œDoes that include bullets?”
    He looked at her incredulously.
    â€œNo, that includes the gun. You want bullets, you go get bullets.”
    She exhaled loudly. This was a lot more complicated than she’d imagined.
    â€œWell—” She shook her head. “How much if I buy bullets from you?”
    â€œYou know in New York City there’s a one-year mandatory for carrying an unlicensed gun?”
    â€œThat’s not what I asked.”
    â€œI know. Another twelve for a box.”
    She frowned, and then looked up at him.
    â€œHow about … if I only want six bullets?”
    He felt the corner of his mouth turn up into a grin at the naïveté of the question.
    â€œYou’re not buying grapefruit here. Bullets come by the box. The box is twelve dollars.”
    She stared at him a long time.
    â€œAll right, I’ll take the box.” She was angry, and she opened her purse and took out the cash.
    He took it, and then handed her the gun.
    â€œDon’t I get a bag with that for a hundred and twenty-five dollars?” she asked sharply.
    He glared at her, then turned around quickly to stifle a chuckle. And then he got angry again. Not only had he been thrown over for a lowlife, but Nathan was using her to get a gun on top of it? He didn’t know what Nathan was up to, but whatever it was, he wanted to slow it down. He needed something to bide the time.
    He grabbed a paper bag and spun around and tossed it at her.
    â€œThere, now get out,” he ordered.
    â€œWhat about my bullets?”
    â€œCome back tomorrow night, at seven.”
    â€œWhat?” she nearly shrieked. This was barely going to leave her enough money to get back downtown. “You don’t have the bullets here?”
    â€œYou know I don’t keep guns around for my personal use. I don’t believe in them.” His eyes were steady on hers. She grabbed the gun, pushed it into the bag with a crackle from the paper and shoved it inside her purse.
    â€œYou want bullets, you come back at seven tomorrow night.”
    She glared at him and walked to the door. She turned around and watched his eyes staring at her legs, and she felt a small tingle go through her in the dim shop, lit entirely by red neon.
    â€œI hate you, Arthur MacGregor.”
    â€œI hate you, Dottie O’Malley, and I always have,” he answered and listened to the sound of the door slamming and the rattle of the mesh gate on the glass.
    He waited until he thought she was a couple doors away, then he quickly slipped the keys out of his pocket and went to the front door. He silently opened it and peeked out. She was down the block, almost at the corner. He slipped out, locking the door behind him, and pressed himself into the little vestibule. He watched her cross the street, and look around lost. He stayed there until she turned and walked onto Arthur Avenue proper.
    Dammit! He had no car.
    He darted across the street, keeping far back, just around the corner, keeping his eyes on her. He watched her look around when she got to the corner, and then suddenly he watched her step into the street. Dammit.
    He whirled around and looked down the street. He could see one cab. He stepped into the street and his arm shot up. He cranked his neck around, and relaxed. She was still standing there and there were no cabs in sight. It seemed an interminable amount of time between the light and the time the cab pulled in front of him. He got in and sank down in the seat and stared at her through the window.
    â€œWhere to?” the cabbie demanded.
    â€œJust run the meter and wait here a moment. Turn your ‘Vacant’