The Impossible Fortress(50)

2330 POKE L1+5,80:POKE L1+6,243

2340 POKE L1+3,4:POKE L1+4,65

2350 FOR I=20 TO 140 STEP5

2360 POKE L1+1,I:NEXT I

2370 POKE L1+4,64

2380 FOR I=1 TO 50:NEXT





2390 RETURN




THE STORE SMELLED LIKE wood and ink and tobacco and Zelinsky himself, as if he were puttering nearby, smoking his pipe and restocking shelves. I turned in a circle, aiming my flashlight into corners, making sure I was truly alone.

Then I got down to business. Zelinsky’s workbench swung open on a hinge, creating a narrow gap that allowed me to squeeze behind the counter. The space was off-limits to everyone except Zelinsky himself, and I felt a little like I was climbing into his bed. Here were the cigarettes and the cigars, the glass case of antique lighters and the rolls of scratch-off lotto tickets, and a rack with the holy trinity of dirty magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, and Oui.

I grabbed five copies of the Vanna White issue, then pushed my mother’s twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the cash drawer. My elbow bumped a small tray labeled “Need a penny, take a penny” and I carefully nudged it back into place, leaving the tray exactly as I’d found it. I didn’t dare touch anything else.

I was walking back through the showroom when the rest of the guys came trampling down the stairs.

“Got ’em,” I said, holding up the magazines. “One for each of us.”

Rene pushed past me, heading to the front of the store.

“We can go now,” I told him.

“Take it easy,” Tyler said. He was following his cousin, and Alf and Clark were trailing behind them.

With the steel shutters pulled over the windows, the store was pitch-dark, but the glow of our flashlights was enough to guide the way. Or almost enough—Alf stumbled into a display of ballpoint pens and several boxes clattered to the floor. He exploded with nervous laughter.

“Be careful,” I told him. “Pick those up.”

Earlier in the week, I had watched Zelinsky build the display, carefully sorting the pens by color: blacks and blues and reds. Alf ignored me, so I knelt down and gathered the pens myself, rebuilding the display exactly as we’d found it.

At the front of the store, Tyler and Rene were studying the alarm panel. It was studded with lights and LEDs, but only one was glowing—a tiny green bulb labeled READY.

Tyler saw me and smirked. “You still think she changed the code?”

“It could be a silent alarm,” I said. “It could be calling the police right now.”

“It could be,” Tyler said. “But I don’t think so.”

Rene unzipped his canvas bag and produced a second canvas bag—nearly identical in size and color. He gave it a shake, snapping it open. Then he raised the workbench and carried both bags behind the counter.

“The cash register’s empty,” I said. Rene was ignoring me, so I turned to Tyler. “You worked here. You know Zelinsky empties it every night. He walks to the cash to the night deposit box at the Savings and Loan.”

Tyler grabbed a Snickers from the candy rack, bit through the wrapper, and spit the shred of paper to the floor. “Relax.”

Alf tugged on my arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “We got what we came for.”

“Seriously,” Clark said. His good hand was wrapped in the bottom of his T-shirt, but this hadn’t stopped the bleeding. Tiny red dots were spotting the floor around his sneakers. “I’m pretty messed up. I need a bandage or something. You do, too, Billy. Your forehead’s all bloody.”

I gave two of the magazines to Alf. “You can go if you want. But I’m staying. If anything happens, it’s going to be our fault.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Alf said.

Rene swung his crowbar at the case of antique lighters. The glass door splintered but didn’t break. It took three more whacks before it shattered. Then Rene set down the crowbar and began plucking lighters out of the case, transferring them one by one to the empty duffel bag. At last I understood why he’d come: the lighters were easy to carry, easy to unload at pawn shops or flea markets, and worth a combined $7,500 or more.

“Stop,” I told him. “You can’t take those.”

Rene ignored me. I was just a gnat in his ear. I turned to Tyler. He picked up the crowbar and was feeling its heft. It was maybe twenty-four or thirty inches long, the sort of wrecking bar used by EMTs to pry the doors off a smashed vehicle. I stepped in front of Tyler and said, “I didn’t come here to steal.”

“Me neither,” Tyler said.

He finished the last of the Snickers and dropped the wrapper. I knelt down to pick it up. Zelinsky was always on me and Mary to keep the showroom neat, to pick up our garbage and recycle our soda cans and get rid of our scrap paper. Tyler watched me reach for the wrapper and grinned. “Don’t bother.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not finished.”

He hooked the crowbar on the candy rack, tipping it forward and spilling all the shelves—an avalanche of gums and mints and chocolate falling over my sneakers. Alf and Clark backed away, but Rene didn’t even flinch. He kept plucking lighters from the case like he was picking apples.

“That’s enough,” I said. “Let’s go.”