Small Float

One of the rare A. R. Eldridge pieces that does not (explicitly, you can probably find something if you squint) feature the supernatural. I also got paid decently for it. Coincidence? You decide.

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Alan pulled his sheepskin fleece up against his ears as a frigid gust blew down the narrow street. A fel wind, his grandpa would have called it. The kind that could spring up and capsize your boat in seconds.

The lightbox out front read ‘Khoury’s Vegetable Mart and Quick Shop’ in faded vinyl. One of the lights had gone out. Underneath it, an insubstantial aluminium fly screen stood propped open by a grubby wooden chock.

He was going to walk into the convenience store – a non-franchised and low rent affair in suburban Lakemba – and hold the place up. The cashier would put the money in a bag and he would walk out to his unmarked white van and drive off before the guy could call the cops.

Alan put a hand to the replica Beretta M9 BB gun stowed in his jacket pocket. He had sharpied over the orange tip that signified the weapon as a fake. He crossed the road towards the convenience store.

He didn’t really want to hold the place up. He needed the cash. His gambling debts were becoming a problem, as were the butchers he owed them to. This would be quick, simple and basically victimless. What difference would one day of take be to a thriving convenience store?

They were probably insured.

Looking up at the sign now, Alan wondered if “thriving” was the right word. Drawing a long breath, he entered.

The electronic doorbell ding-donged as he entered the poky little shop and he caught awhiff of must and garlic. The cashier was a small man in his mid-sixties, bespectacled and with a shiny pate showing through a tonsure of wispy white hair. He was sitting on a swivel chair at a counter with a cash register and an old landline phone on it. He smiled at Alan as he entered and returned to his newspaper.

Alan could feel his heart thumping.

“Ahem,” he pretended to clear his throat while looking at the produce. The cashier licked his thumb and turned the page of his broadsheet.

“Do you have any, um…” Alan started in a louder voice. The cashier looked up. “Do youhave any lemons?” Alan said.

Upon closer inspection, the man reminded Alan of his own grandfather: a tough, nuggety Glaswegian, shrunken by time, but with a face lined by kindness. Alan felt a twang of guilt in his stomach, like an off-key note in an acoustic song.

The cashier pointed. “Over by the persimmons. You see.”

Alan licked his lips, “Ah. Thanks.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. With a start, he remembered he hadn’t brought a bag to put the money in. He paused, considering.

It was too late now. Things were in motion.

He withdrew the fake weapon and pointed it at the cashier. The man’s eyes widened. The broadsheet dropped to the ground with a sigh of cheap paper.

“Hands where I can see them,” Alan said, “open the till.” He felt a sense of unreality wash over him.

“Please,” the man said, “don’t shoot. I have a wife. I have grandchildren. You want to see?” He began fumbling in his wallet.

“What?” Alan said, momentarily confused. “N-no. I’m not gonna … I mean, I don’t want to shoot you.”

“Please,” the man said. “Please!” he dropped to the floor and Alan almost lost sight of

him behind the counter. He walked closer, the replica weapon still raised. The man was on his knees with his hands clasped and eyes closed. His lips were moving in prayer.

“Get up!” Alan hissed. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want the money in the till.”

Silently, the man picked himself up.

Alan looked at the cashier’s name tag. It said ‘Joseph’.

“Look, Joseph? We can make this quick and painless: just open up, give us the cash and then you’ll never see me again.”

Joseph’s face crinkled into something like pain. “I can’t,” he said, miserably, “I just hit the auto-lock when I saw the gun. Now it won’t open without the code.”

“Jesus on a fuckin’ unicycle,” Alan muttered to himself. This was getting out of hand.

“Ok, can you get the code?”

“I need to turn on the wi-fi out the back. We don’t keep the wi-fi on during the day because it eats into our expenses.”

Alan resisted the urge to explain how a sunk cost worked. He cast a nervous look to the front door. If it was only a minute probably nobody would come in. Probably.

With the gun at the old man’s back, he directed Joseph into the rear of the shop. It was even dingier and more cramped than the front. They walked past a little table strewn with detritus: plates and bowls and a couple of canvas bags. In the middle of the table was a boat in a bottle. Alan paused to look at it. His granddad had made those. The old man had been obsessed with all things nautical.

Joseph grimaced, noticing his interest and pointed to the bottle. “You build it in there, yes?” he said nervously. “The sails are down and then you pull them with the tweezers to make it stand up.”

“Huh,” Alan said, quietly fascinated. “Yeah, I guess I see that.” Then he turned to face Joseph. “Where’s the wi-fi router?”

Joseph motioned to a little maroon curtain. Pulling it back revealed a shelf holding a little dusty white wi-fi unit with antennae sticking up like rabbit ears. Joseph leaned down and hit a button.

They waited for a minute, until a set of lights came on. One of them was flashing.

“Is that it?” Alan said, “is it going?”

“I don’t know,” Joseph said. “My son usually does it.”

There was the electronic ding-dong of another customer entering the store. A pit of dread opened up in Alan’s stomach. He should have closed the door. He could have put a ‘Back in five’ sign up, but he hadn’t. Too impatient, his grandfather’s words came back to him. You have low impulse control.

“Shit,” he said. “Ok, this is what we’re going to do. You’re going to go out there and I’m going to walk very close behind you, talking. Whoever is there, you keep your body between them and the gun, got it?” Alan wasn’t sure if he was demanding or pleading. This whole situation was spiralling.

Joseph nodded.

“Take me behind the counter, then log onto the wi-fi and unlock the till. Put the money into –” he picked up one of the canvas bags on the table and handed it to the cashier, “– this bag and hand it to me.”

Alan turned and saw the little model boat in the bottle. On a whim, he leaned over and grabbed it. “Ok, let’s go.”

He prodded the BB gun into Joseph’s back and they started to walk. “It’s a great spot, I reckon,” Alan said, eyes scanning as they walked out onto the floor. “You’ve done wonderful things with the place. Really brought it to life.”

His heart sank when he saw who it was. A cop. Naturally. Of all the people in the world that could have walked into this store at this exact moment, it had to be a cop. His brain whirred. For the second time, he considered abandoning the whole thing. He could just drop the gun when the cop turned his back. Run. He could probably make it to his van and drive off before they could come after him.

He immediately abandoned the thought. If he could just get himself and Joseph behind the counter they could wait it out. The officer was over by the wall mounted spice rack, perusing. Alan prodded Joseph in the back again. The old man whimpered.

They began to walk over to the counter.

“That’s right, easy does it,” Alan murmured. The cop turned and for a second Alan thought he’d seen what was happening, but he merely looked down at a box of parsnips. Alan could see he was older, with a white moustache and salt and pepper hair.

“How you goin’, Joe?” the cop said, still not looking up. “Didn’t see you down at the Arms last night.” With horror, Alan realised the cop was a regular. Perhaps even a friend.

“Answer him,” he said.

“Oh,” Joseph said in a high, faint voice. “Oh yeah, I was a bit, uh, sick.”

“Winter cold gotcha, huh?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

They made it behind the counter and Alan let out a breath.

“Ok, we’re just going to have a little chat until Elvis over there leaves the building,” he said.

He could hear the strain in his own voice, feel the sweat tracing a path down behind his right ear.

Trying to keep his breathing steady, he said, “Tell me about your wife and kids.”

Joseph looked at him blankly. Terror had melted his brain into mush.

“Didn’t you say you had a picture of them?” Alan said.

“Oh! Yes!” the cashier rooted around in his wallet, pulling out a faded picture of a pretty, dark haired woman. She was smiling. Joseph’s entire demeanour seemed to change, his mind clinging to the escapism of his family the way a drowning man might to driftwood.

“This was her in the 70’s,” he said, “so beautiful. We had just come over from Beirut because of the war. She was so excited to be in Australia.” Then he produced another of four young boys grinning toothily. “All brothers!” he said proudly, “they’re older now, with their own families, but they all look the same.” He laughed. He seemed to have almost forgotten the gun.

The cop walked over to the counter. “Got any of those little vapes back in stock, Joe? I quit smoking years ago but I’m hooked on those grape 250’s.” He winked at Alan. Then his eyes trailed down to where the replica weapon intersected with Joseph’s midriff.

Everything that happened in the next few seconds happened both very quickly and yet with the sluggishness of a dream.

“Drop the weapon and raise your hands!” the cop yelled. His hands went to his gun.

Alan began to put the replica pistol down. The cop raised his own weapon to Alan’s chest.

If there really was a fel wind, it chose that moment to make mischief. The gale outside howled, popping out the little wooden chock and slamming the flimsy fly screen with a bang.

Startled, the cop whipped his gun past Alan and fired.

Almost on instinct, Alan lifted the little boat in the bottle in his hand and in a huge overhead left-hander, brought it down. It collided with the side of the cop’s skull.

Splinters of mast and hull, shards of glass and spatterings of blood went everywhere.

The cop went down like a wet sack, sprawling on the floor.

For a long moment, the three of them were frozen in tableau. Then Joseph moaned. Alan turned and saw that he too had slipped to the ground. He had a hand on his neck and dark, red liquid oozed from between his fingers.

Alan walked over to the cop, put his fingers to the side of the man’s neck.

He couldn’t feel a pulse. Returning to the till, he noticed too late the big mechanical button that said “Open Register.” The wi-fi had been a ruse. Joseph had been stalling. He hit the button and the cash register flew open.

There were two $10 notes, a five and a few rolls of coins. Maybe $40. A pittance.

“Thursdays…” Joseph wheezed. “Are slow. It’s a … small float.” Alan looked from him, to the old landline, and finally to the door. They both listened as the unearthly howl of wind wracked the fly screen, bashing it against the shopfront again and again.