The Living End Read Free

You like Phoenix, and we haven’t seen the folks in almost a year.”
    “Phoenix,” she scoffed, “the folks. The way you coddle them. Any other grown man would be ashamed.”
    “They raised me, May.”
    “They raised you. Terrific. They aren’t even your real parents. They only adopted you.”
    “They’re the only parents I ever knew. They took me out of the Home when I was an infant.”
    “Look, you want to go to Phoenix, go. Take money out of your secret accounts and go.”
    “Please, May. There’s no secret account. When Mrs. Lesefario died I transferred everything back into joint. Come on, sweetheart, you’re awfully goddamn hard on me.”
    “Well,” she said, drawing the word out. The tone was one she had used as a bride, and although Ellerbee had not often heard it since, it melted him. It was her signal of sudden conciliation, cute surrender, and he held out his arms and they embraced. They went off to the bedroom together.
    “You know,” May said afterwards, “it would be good to run out to Phoenix for a bit. Are you sure the help can manage?”

    “Oh, sure, May, absolutely. They’re a firstrate bunch.” He spoke more forcefully than be felt, not because he lacked confidence in his employees, but because he was still disturbed by an image he had had during climax. Momentarily, fleetingly, he had imagined Mrs. Register beneath him. In the store he was giving last-minute instructions to Kroll, the man who would be his manager during their vacation in Phoenix.
    “I think the Californias,” Ellerbee was saying. “Some of them beat several of even the more immodest French. Let’s do a promotion of a few of the better Californias. What do you think?”
    “They’re a very competitive group of wines,” Kroll said. “I think I’m in basic agreement.” just then three men walked into the shop.
    “Say,” one called from the doorway, “you got something like a Closed sign I could hang in the door here?” Ellerbee stared at him. “Well you don’t have to look at me as if I was nuts,” the man said. “Lots of merchants keep them around. In case they get a sudden toothache or something they can whip out to the dentist. All right, if you ain’t you ain’t.”
    “I want,” the second man said, coming up to the counter where Ellerbee stood with his manager, “to see your register receipts.”
    “What is this?” Kroll demanded.
    “No, don’t,” Ellerbee said to Kroll. “Don’t resist.” He glanced toward the third man to see if he was the one holding the gun, but the man appeared merely to be browsing the bins of Scotch in the back.
    Evidently he hadn’t even heard the first man, and clearly he could not have heard the second.
    Conceivably he could have been a customer.
    “Where’s your gun?” Ellerbee asked the man at the counter.
    “Oh gee,” the man said, “I almost forgot. You got so many things to think about during a stickup-the traffic flow, the timing, who stands where-you sometimes forget the basics. Here,” he said, “here’s my gun, in your kisser,” and he took an immense handgun from his pocket and pointed it at Ellerbee’s face.
    Out of the corner of his eye Ellerbee saw Kroll’s hands fly up. It was so blatant a gesture Ellerbee thought his manager might be trying to attract the customer’s attention. If that was his idea it had worked, for the third man had turned away from the bins and was watching the activity at the counter.
    “Look,” Ellerbee said, “I don’t want anybody hurt.”
    “What’s he say?” said the man at the door who was also holding a pistol now. “He don’t want nobody hurt,” the man at the counter said.
    “Sure,” said the man at the door, “it’s costing him a fortune paying all them salaries to the widows. He’s a good businessman all right.”
    “A better one than you,” the man at the counter said to his confederate sharply. “He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
    Why, they’re white, Ellerbee thought.