Chapter 23

Bud was ten when the robbers entered his father's store one summer afternoon and threw the bolt on the front door behind them. There were three of them, two young men and an older fellow with white stubble on his cheeks and very bloodshot eyes. He was the one with the gun, a double-barreled shotgun, 12-gauge Bud guessed when he saw it. All three wore heavy work shoes with high, rounded toes.

"Don' do nothin' stupid," the older man said, waving the gun toward Bud. "Jus' step away from there and go on into the back room an' set." He wore a striped hat with the B & O logo on it.

That was when Sammy appeared with a cardboard box of canned tomatoes in his hands. "Do what he said, boy," his father said, waving him toward the back of the store after he put the box on the floor and raised his hands.

"Smart man," said the fellow with the gun as the younger men began stuffing cartons of cigarettes into big gunny sacks. "You got a safe?" he asked.

"No, sir," Sammy said, feeling both anger and fear. He was well aware that robbery was one of those things a storekeeper had to expect. He hadn't been robbed since his pocket was picked in Cleveland and his kitbag was lost or stolen in France. He was due, he thought, maybe overdue.

"Got a bank deposit ready?" the man asked, spitting tobacco juice on the floor as the hams and smoked salamis hanging above the meat counter began going into paper bags.

"Not today?" Bud's father said as he heard the side door close in the storeroom. The man with the gun did not seem to notice.

"Well then jus' dump your cash drawer into a poke, and we'll be going."

Sammy went behind the counter, cranked the cash register and pulled the drawer open. He put the paper money up on the counter. "You want the silver?" he asked, hoping the man would not pull the drawer all the way out and see the bigger bills in the back, the tens and one twenty.

"Naw," the robber said. "Charlie take care a'that telephone."

The young man tried to pull the wire out of the wall, gave up and cut the cord with his pocketknife. "Want some chewing tobacco, Pa?"

"Why not?" the man said and then he peered out the window behind the storekeeper who stood with his hands on his counter, trying to keep his breathing normal, feeling his heart jumping around.

"Thought I saw something," the man said. "Let's get going; we been here long enough. Shit, it's that boy," he suddenly yelled. "Damn his ass."

He turned to face Sammy, lifted the shotgun until it pointed right at his chest, shook his head and then all three of them hurried outside, threw their bags of loot into the back of their pickup and roared away, heading north on the Pike and throwing gravel as the truck fishtailed over the concrete shoulder.

Bud came running in from the back, skidding to a halt in front of his father, out of breath. "Seven-six-two-Jay-three," he said. "762J3, that was their tag."

"They saw you run past the window," his father said. "I think you just about got me shot."

"Write it down, Paw, 7-6-2-J-3, before I forget." What his father had said did not register; his mind was on his memory.

Sammy wrote the tag number on a paper bag. "Go over to the house now and tell you mother and have her call the police. I've got to figure out what they took and get ready to order some things. Oh, and call the phone company. They cut the line."

Bud glanced at the dangling cord and started to leave.

"That was real smart," his father said, "getting that number. But it was too dangerous." He stopped the boy, his hand on his son's shoulder. "When you deal with men holding guns, robbers or whatever, do what they say. You hear?"

Bud nodded.

Sammy decided was not the time to make him say 'yes sir.'