By Jay St John Knight
All that’s left to show for my old pa is this piece of junk car. It can barely outrun a coyote on the straight and I’m sure it wouldn’t hit the state line without falling apart. Piece o’ shit same as him.
My stomach won’t stop rumbling. Haven’t eaten in two days and it’s too hot out to go hunting on the prairie. Ain’t had a nickel for food since I was dropped from the farm and no one wants to hire a nobody who ain’t ever been to school. So I gotta do what I gotta do. If that means sticking up gas stations and shops for a few bucks then so be it.
There’s one now. A little shop in the middle of nowhere, probably run by an old-timer too. He won’t kick up a fuss. Easy pickings. Got me a shooter too. Swapped it for my ma’s gold ring after she passed. Used to use to it keep the coyotes away from the chickens back when we used to have the old house. Back before pa gambled it away. Don’t work no-more, seized up a while back, but they don’t know that.
It’s too hot. I hate this bit. Walk in, case the place, see what’s what and then grab the money and run. Fills me up with nerves. Exciting too mind, like pluckin’ up the courage to kiss a girl. It goes one way or another. Yes or no. No in-between bit, no medium.
He is an old-timer. I can’t see anyone else in this shop save the boys stacking potatoes on the other side. They’ll be easy to handle. Just stroll on up, pull the shooter, ask for the money and go. That’s the plan. Easy. Here goes…
It was a hot day. Outside, the road stretched in both directions towards the horizon where it dissolved away into a rippling mirage, occasionally disturbed by dirt covered pick-up trucks that pulled over every now and then to pick up groceries before going on their way. It was a small shop, right in the middle of the road that went from Louville to Cairn’s Creek, but it was his shop. He’d married into it, the shop originally being owned by his wife’s father and then passed on down to them when he became too old to run it anymore.
It was a slow day today. That was the heat; people kept to the shade on days like these. Old man Lester was shuffling about picking up his milk and other bits and pieces and a couple of the boys from the Shenningham’s farm were dropping off potatoes and other vegetables.
“You got any eggs left, Harry?”
“Should be over there by the chiller, Lester, unless we don’t got none left.”
Lester shuffled off in the direction of the chiller, mumbling as he went. Outside, Harry heard another truck pull across the loose gravel and stop. He chewed a few times, hacked, and spat a brown sludge into a bucket he had behind the counter, before putting another pinch of tobacco in his mouth.
The clang of the door opening shook through the quietness of the shop and Harry looked up from his paper. A man stood in the doorway, quickly scanning the shop. He was sweaty, more so than he should be on a day like today and scruffy looking, his jeans caked in dirt and grime and his hair a thick matted mess of brown. Harry watched carefully from behind the counter as he walked up towards him.
“Afternoon, old-timer. If you could just reach on into that there till and hand over all your money I won’t have to shoot you up and make a mess of this here shop.”
Harry met his gaze. He looked desperate, unhinged. “’Fraid I can’t do that, mister.”
“Well look here…” The man reached into his trousers and quickly pulled out a rusting revolver. “…I don’t want to have to kill you, friend. Just needs your money is all.”
Harry smiled wryly. “Alright, buck. Cool your boots.”
Just then Lester had emerged from an aisle, dropping his eggs the second he clapped eyes on the gun. The robber span at the noise and, as he turned, Harry reached under the counter with lightning speed. A low boom silenced the little shop and the robber dropped to the floor with a quiet thud. Harry stood there, a smoking sawn-off pointing at the lifeless body, and hacked again before spitting into the bucket with a resounding twang.