Shoedog by George P. Pelecanos

Friday’s the day they skim their nontaxable income. Which I figure, from what the gentlemen are driving, is four times the amount they declare.”
    “So we just stroll in,” Gorman said. “Right? Is that what you’re saying, Weiner? I mean, it’s that easy. And we wear stockings on our faces, on account of the cameras, and we raise our voices a little, and we walk with a hundred grand. And all we got to worry about is some old spade—I mean,
African-American gentleman
—who works in the back room.”
    Randolph turned in his seat, spoke slowly to Valdez. “You tell the little bitch to watch his mouth, hear?”
    Valdez grinned, gave Randolph the once-over.
    Gorman said, “Maybe after this, you and me take it outside.”
    “Maybe,” Randolph said. “Soon as you pull your head out of that glue bag.”
    Polk laughed while Constantine butted his cigarette. Grimes dragged on his cigar, watching the bunch from the back of the room. Jackson kept his eyes clear and ahead, thinking of Randolph, the driver: he was down but just too sensitive. This here was only business.
    Weiner said, “If the Uptown job’s too simple for you, Gorman, then you’re in luck. You’re not on that team. You’re on the second hit, at eleven-thirty.” He turned the page back on the easel to reveal another diagram. “EZ Time Liquors, on the northeast corner of Fourteenth and R.”
    Randolph said, “Talk about it.”
    Weiner shifted his weight “As you can see, this is a small place, about eight thousand square feet. Liquors, beers, a small selection of fortified wines. And convenience store items, inner city style—condoms, dream books, disposable lighters, a numbers machine—that sort of thing.” Weiner pointed to a small square in the right area of the store. “Here’s the counter where the staff stand. Two Irish gentleman, father and son, and another Irishman, older, an uncle I’d guess. Hard guys, all of them.”
    “Guns,” said Valdez.
    “All over the place,” Weiner said. “No plexiglass between the customers and the staff. The Irishmen wear vests under their shirts. I figure each one of them’s got access to a gun behind that counter. Also, I’ve been in the place on two separate days, and on both occasions I saw the same newspaper spread out—same date, same edition—under the left register. I figure there’s a sawed-off underneath the paper.”
    “So they’re heeled,” Polk said. “What’s the take?”
    Weiner smiled, made a victory sign with his fingers. “Two hundred grand.”
    Polk thought it over. “That’s why the hits are staggered, fifteen minutes apart. You make some noise uptown, where they don’t hear that kind of noise too often, and you draw all the units up that way, and then you make the jackpot hit down on Fourteenth and R. Am I right?”
    “Precisely,” Weiner said.
    Constantine put fire to another smoke, heard Gorman do the same. Everyone stared at the diagram then, all of them considering the alternate weight of money and death.
    Constantine exhaled, blew a jet of smoke across the room. “Why not just rob a bank?” he said.
    Gorman snorted a laugh while Valdez shifted his wide ass. Jackson moved his eyes to the right but did not move his head.
    “What’s mat?” Weiner said. He had not expected the young man with the long hair and blue eyes to speak.
    “Why not rob a bank?” Constantine repeated. “I mean, you’re going in there against more guns man you’ve got, and these guys are protecting their own turf, so why not hit a place that’s got one uniformed gun, a security guy, a guy who’s got nothing at stake?”
    “It’s a good question,” Grimes said from the back of the room. “Answer it.”
    “All right,” Weiner said. “Simply put, we
are
going to rob a bank. For the people of the inner city, the liquor store
is
the bank. Most African-Americans, Hispanics down there, they aren’t able to open checking or savings accounts—they have no credit, or they can’t