Swag by Elmore Leonard Read Free Book Online

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    The one with the six-pack said, “Jesus,” and dropped it on the floor. Stick kept himself from jumping back.
    The other one didn’t say a word, his eyes on the butt of the .38 Special sticking out of the waistband.
    â€œYou don’t want to get hurt,” Stick said, “and I certainly don’t want to hurt you. So let’s march to the rear, see what’s in back.”
    Past the potato-chip rack he could see Frank holding open a paper bag and the man behind the counter dropping bills into it.
    There was a young clerk in the storeroom, sitting on a stack of beer cases holding a sandwich and eating from a half-pint container of coleslaw. He looked surprised to see three men coming in, but he was also polite. He said, “Can I help you?”
    Stick spotted the big walk-in reefer and said, “No thanks, I guess I can handle it myself.”
    He walked over, opened the door to the refrigerator, and nodded for the two customers to go inside.
    The clerk said, “Hey, you can’t go in there. What do you want?”
    â€œYou, too,” Stick said. He held open his coat again. “Okay?”
    When he came out into the store he thought the place was empty and got an awful feeling in his stomach for a moment. Then, near the cash register, Frank rose up from behind the counter with the paper bag.
    As he came over the counter, the bag in one hand—the top of it rolled tightly closed—and the Python in the other, Stick said, “Where’s the guy?”
    â€œOn the floor.” Frank looked over the counter and said, “Stay down there, if you will please. Because if you raise up too soon, if you see me again, then I’ll see you, won’t I? And if I see you again, I won’t hesitate to shoot and probably kill you.”
    Stick said, “Tell him the other people’re in the icebox.”
    â€œYou hear that, sir?” Frank looked over the counter again. “In the icebox.”
    â€œTell him much obliged,” Stick said.
    â€œYeah, much obliged. Maybe we’ll see you again sometime.”
    Neither one of them wanted to look anxious. They walked out, taking their time.
    In the car Stick put the gear into Drive and waited, looking at the rearview mirror, until he saw the big guy with the gray curly hair appear suddenly in the doorway and stop dead. Stick got out of there then, tires squealing as he peeled away from the curb.
    Frank turned around to look straight ahead again. “He saw the car, I’m sure. Maybe even the license.”
    â€œYou bet he did,” Stick said. “Now I drop you off at your car, head back to the picture show, and you pick me up there.”
    â€œIt seems like a lot of trouble,” Frank said.
    â€œYes, it does,” Stick said. “But it sure keeps the police busy, looking for a ’74 Cutlass Supreme, doesn’t it? How much we get?”
    Frank held the bag on his lap, the top tightly folded. “Rule Number Six,” he said.
    As soon as they were in the apartment Stick took off his sport coat. He was sweating. The Duster didn’t have air conditioning. He looked at Frank, who was sitting on the couch lighting a cigarette like he had his lunch in the bag and there wasn’t any hurry getting to it.
    Stick said, “You going to count it or you want me to?”
    â€œWhy don’t you make us a couple of drinks?” Frank said.
    Stick went out to the kitchen. He poured Scotch in one glass and bourbon in another, then got a tray out of the refrigerator and began filling the glasses with ice. It was all right that Frank counted it, but he wanted to watch, at least. He put a splash of water on the drinks and went back out to the living room.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” Frank said.
    He was hunched over the coffee table, looking down at the neatly stacked piles of bills, like a guy playing solitaire. He laid a twenty on one pile, a fifty on another. As Stick