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a little dark-haired lady with a moustache, clutching her hands in front of her like she was praying. Stick said, “Everything’s going to be all right, Mama. Nothing to worry about.” He moved her into the toilet compartment, closed the door, and poked around the storage room that was stacked high with beer and soft-drink cases.
    Frank looked up from the cash register when Stick came back out.
    â€œHe’s got a safe or he hid it somewhere.”
    Stick shook his head. “Not out there.”
    â€œThirty-eight bucks and change,” Frank said. “For tomorrow. He’s cleaned out the drawer.”
    Stick went over to the Armenian, turned him around to face the shelves, and felt the pockets of his white store coat.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œIt’s somewhere,” Frank said.
    â€œAll the money I have, in the cash register,” the Armenian said to the shelf of canned smoked oysters and clams. “I don’t have no more than that.”
    â€œHey,” Frank said, “come on. All day you make thirty-eight bucks? Where is it? You hide it someplace?”
    â€œI took it to the bank.”
    â€œNo, you didn’t. You been here all day.”
    â€œMy wife took it.” His voice went higher as he said, “Where is my wife—what did you do to her!”
    â€œThis guy here raped her,” Frank said.
    Stick made a face like he was going to get sick.
    â€œNow I’m going to rape her, you don’t tell us where the money is.”
    The Armenian didn’t say anything. He was considering whether he should give up the money or let his wife get raped again.
    â€œCome on,” Frank said to him, touching the back of the Armenian’s head with the Colt Python, “where is it! You don’t get it out by the time I count three, I’m going to blow your bald head apart. . . . One.”
    â€œDo it!” the Armenian said in his high voice.
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œKill me! You take my money, kill me!”
    â€œThree.”
    Frank clicked the hammer back with his thumb. The Armenian’s shoulders hunched rigid and held like that. Stick waited, feeling his own tension.
    After a moment Frank said, “Shit.”
    There was no point in wasting any more time. They could tear the place apart and not find anything.
    Frank said to the Armenian, “You’re lucky, you know that? You’re dumb fucking lucky, that’s all.”
    After they left and were driving away, Stick said, “Shit, we forgot the thirty-eight bucks.”
    There weren’t any textbooks on armed robbery. The only way to learn was through experience.
    They found out gas stations weren’t as good as they looked. Hand the kid a twenty and watch him go over to the manager or owner who’d take a wad out of his pocket and peel off change. But it didn’t amount to that much: a bunch of singles and fives. There were too many people using credit cards now. Also, the high-volume service stations, where the money would be, always had five or six guys working there, using wrenches and tire irons, some hard-looking guys, maybe not too bright, who might see the gun pointing at them and decide to take a swing anyway. In their three gas station hits they went in and got out fast, the best take seven-eighty, which they figured was about as good as you could do.
    They crossed off gas stations and altered a couple of their ten rules for success and happiness, finding it was all right to be polite, but you still had to scare the guy enough so he’d know better than to try and be a hero. It was all right, too, to dress well, look presentable. But they realized they’d better not become typecast or pretty soon the police would be writing a book on the two dudes who always wore business suits and said please and thank you. So they wore jackets sometimes, and raincoats. Stick had a pair of coveralls he liked he’d bought at J. C. Penney. They were