“Can I help you?” said Marchione.
Louis favored the classic approach. He pulled his shotgun out, stuck it in the other man’s face and said, “OK, muthafucka, this is a stick-up. Let’s have the cash drawer, NOW!”
Marchione did as ordered. He’d been robbed before and knew the routine. He pulled the cash drawer out and slid it across the counter.
“Now take out all the bills and put them in a bag,” said Louis. “No, not no paper bag-use the cash bag from the bank.”
Again Marchione complied, stuffing about $500 in bills from the drawer into the plastic zipper bag supplied by Bankers’ Trust. (What was with this guy-did he want a deposit slip too?) The shotgun never wavered from his face.
“That’s good,” said Louis. “Now go and stand in the corner and be still.”
The proprietor walked down the aisle behind his counter and stood with his back to his high-priced cognac display. He watched the gunman open a leather attaché case and put the money bag inside. He seemed to be in no hurry.
“This your only store, hey?”
“No,” said Marchione. “We got another one over on the West Side, Eighty-seventh and Broadway. My brother runs it, we’re partners. That’s where we get the name, A and A. I’m Angelo, he’s Alfredo, we call him Al.”
“You know anything about franchises?”
“What? What franchises?”
“I mean like franchising, somebody figure out a good way to sell liquor, do the overhead, buy the stock, then get a bunch of guys to run the stores for him. Like McDonald’s and all.”
Marchione stared at the other man, at the engaged, interested expression on his face and at the black circle of the shotgun barrel’s mouth. (This is crazy, I’m having a business conversation with a robber. Only in New York.)
“Well, there’s not much of that in the liquor business, not in New York. I hear they’re starting it out of town.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. I guess if you got a franchise operation everything has to be the same, so you can get your discount from the supplier. I mean you got to move a lot of the same product, and you got to have a limited inventory. In the city, it’s all fashion, like clothes. One weeks it’s Galliano, next it’s Pernod, whatever. On the stuff that sells steady, well, it’s hard to beat the department stores. A franchise operation would have to beat them on cost on the low end and beat the neighborhood stores on selection on the high end. Then you got the good will …” His voice tapered off. What was going on here? The thought entered his mind that this guy could be a real wacko instead of a regular out-and-out robber.
“I get it,” said Louis. “It don’t really apply to the operation I got in mind, though.”
He closed and snapped his attaché case. “Well, time I was goin’,” he said briskly, and shot Marchione in the face from a range of about five feet. The blast exploded Marchione’s head and a dozen bottles of fine cognac and hurled his dead body back against the shelves. Louis placed his shotgun on the counter and approached the body, being careful of the broken glass. He patted down the man’s pockets and was rewarded with a thick roll of bills. The dead man had done a substantial cash business and routinely kept a good part of it outside his bank and out of view of the Internal Revenue Service. Louis smiled. He was something of an expert on the cash-diversion practices of dead storekeepers and never missed an opportunity to check in places other than the obvious cash register.
He walked out from behind the counter and placed the shotgun and the additional cash inside the attaché case. As he snapped it shut he was feeling good. The old man had about a grand in the roll, plus the $500 from the till-probably not as much as they would’ve got from the supermarket but sure as shit better than nothing, which it would have been on account of goddamn Walker being late. That boy is not cut out for this business.
Louis’s hearing had been slightly impaired by the blast of his gun, so that he failed to hear the footsteps coming up the stairs from the cellar or the door opening behind him.
“Oh God! Dad … what, Oh, no!” Louis spun around and saw a good-sized kid of about seventeen in a tan shop apron and a college sweatshirt. The kid saw him at about the same time and for a heartbeat they just stared at one another. The stink of death and cognac was strong in the air.
Then Louis slammed his case down on the counter and began fumbling frantically at the snaps. The youth picked up a bottle of Scotch by the neck and with a bellow of rage came around the end of the counter, the bottle raised high over his head. Louis lifted the case to block the blow, but not quickly enough. The bottom of the bottle caught him a glancing blow above the ear. He dropped the case and went down on one knee, with hot stars exploding behind his eyes. The kid was on him then, trying to grab at his clothes to hold him steady so he could get a good blow in with the bottle, Louis squirming and trying to kick away across the rough wooden floor.
Louis was not much of a street fighter and the kid was big enough and mad enough to be very dangerous. Now he was trying to press Louis down with his knee, his hand wrapped tightly in the cloth of the other man’s jacket. Enough of this shit, thought Louis, cocking his right leg to bring his ankle holster within reach. He heaved the middle of his body up and as the kid went over to one side Louis brought the Airweight out, stuck the muzzle in the kid’s belly and fired three times.
Louis sat up. The kid was lying on his back not far from his feet. He was gasping and his hands were pressed into the widening stain of blood forming in the center of his body. Louis stood up and straightened his clothes. He was irritated to see that his suit-jacket lapel had been torn in the struggle. Walking over to the shelves behind the counter he inspected the stock and then selected a quart of J amp;B Scotch, bagging it neatly from the supply underneath the register. He picked up his attaché case, stuck the bottle under his arm, then walked over to the wounded youth and shot him twice in the forehead at point-blank range. Then he walked out of the store.
The ten minutes Louis was away were the longest ten minutes in Walker’s life. He was itching and shivering. The last hit was hardly enough to keep him calm; after this, he deserved another, but damn, that was his absolutely last stone empty bag of dope. He glanced up and looked at the man in the backseat through the rear-view mirror. Pres was leaning back in his seat, eyes half closed, a faint smile on his lips. Walker studied his face. The dude was cool, no lie. Walker said, “Say, Stack been gone a long while, ain’t he?” The other man’s eyes came open a fraction and he met Walker’s gaze in the rear-view mirror.
“No, it’s just a couple of minutes. Take it easy.”
“Maybe we should drive around the corner, maybe something went wrong.”
“We staying right here. Jus’ be cool.”
There was a muffled bang from around the corner. Walker jumped.
“Uhnnh … ooh, shit, what was that?” he said, although he knew very well what it was. Walker’s legs were twitching uncontrollably by now, like a four year old who needs to go potty. There were three more popping sounds, sharper this time, and then two more.
“What the fuck he doin’ in there, playin’ shootin’ gallery? Oh, come on, les go, les go!” he moaned, banging the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.
In the back Pres thought, “This boy comin’ apart, now. Might have to whap his head a couple times, settle him down.” The idea gave him some small pleasure. He felt in charge, cool, a little tingly. It’s wonderful to find one’s métier while one is still young.
Then the car door was opening and Louis was getting in. He had recovered his composure, and flashed a grin at Elvis. “Alright, my man! Nice score.” He turned to Walker. “Damn, Snowball! You look like death eatin’ a sandwich. Was you worried about your Uncle Stack?”
“No, Stack, it jus’ like … seem like you took a long time an’ all.”