Read Online Swag by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online

managers, you cluck, you dumb, ugly broad, but he played it straight and told her they were getting him a white coat with his name on it. He punched the total and said, “Four sixty-eight, please.”
    The woman was digging in her purse, looking for something. She took almost a minute to bring out a piece of newspaper, unfold it, and hand it to him.
    â€œCoupon for the coffee,” the woman said. “Twenty cents off.”
    Frank took the coupon and looked at it. “Okay, then that’s four forty-eight. No, wait a minute.” He noticed the date on the coupon. “This offer’s expired. It’s not, you know . . . redeemable anymore, it’s no good.”
    â€œI couldn’t come in yesterday,” the woman said. “It’s not my fault. I cut the coupon out and there it is.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Frank said. “It says, see? Thursday and Friday only. Big letters.”
    â€œI’ve been coming here fifteen years, using the coupons,” the woman said. “My husband and I. We buy all our groceries, our dog food, everything here. I’m one day late and you’re going to tell me this is no good?”
    â€œI’m sorry, I wish there was something I could do about it.”
    â€œYesterday Earl took the car, had Timmie with him. All day he’s gone, didn’t even feed Timmie the whole while, and I had to sit home alone.”
    â€œAll right—” Frank said.
    â€œAfter all the money this store’s made off us,” the woman said. “I could’ve been going to Farmer Jack, Safeway. No, I come here and then get treated like I’m somebody with food stamps.”
    Frank was about to give in, but he changed his mind. He looked right at the lady now and said, “I got an idea. Why don’t you take the coupon—okay?—and the one-pound can of Maxwell House coffee and shove ’em up your ass.”
    When they were in the stolen car, the Kroger bags on the floor, turning out of the parking lot, Frank said, “That fucking Earl. He stays out with their car all day, their dog, his old lady gets pissed off and makes life miserable for everybody. Jesus.”
    Stick wasn’t listening. He was anxious. He waited for Frank to finish and said, “The manager, you know what he says when I’m leaving? Honest to God, he says, ‘Thank you very much, sir, and come back again.’ ”
    â€œThat poor fucking Earl,” Frank said. “I sure wouldn’t want to be him.”
    They got a little over seventeen hundred at Kroger’s. The story in the paper said “about three thousand.” Typical. Four days later, to show you how it could go, they hit a place and didn’t get anything. The guy wouldn’t give them the money.
    It was a good thing it didn’t happen on their first job. They would have quit. The guy was Armenian, a little bald-headed, excitable Armenian who ran a party store. No liquor, but imported beer and wine and expensive gourmet items, and the store was in a good location, out North Woodward near Bloomfield Hills. They went in on a Saturday night at ten. Frank took out his Python and Stick turned the OPEN sign around to CLOSED and pulled the shade down on the glass door.
    Right away the little Armenian said, “What do you want to do this to me for? I never done nothing to you. I never saw you before.” He stood there with his hands raised in the air.
    Frank said, “Sir, put your hands down, will you?”
    â€œI don’t want this happening to me,” the Armenian said in his high, excitable voice. “Since I move out here it never happen before. Never. Good people live out here. Why aren’t you good people? You don’t have to do this to me.”
    â€œIt won’t hurt at all, you do what I tell you,” Frank said. “You understand? Now put your fucking hands down!”
    Stick found the guy’s wife in the back room,