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* * *
The streets aren’t busy as he comes to the intersection. No doubt Uptown will soon be crawling with hordes in desperate need of a pint, but right now it’s as clear of prying-eyes and bystanders-qua-heroes as ever.
He cuts right, crossing Broadway and staying on the south side of North St—eyeing that caddy-corner storefront and its adjacent businesses—before crossing back after the roundabout, circling westwards through the alley at the rear of the block, carefully noting the contingencies as he pulls on his gloves.
One car parked outside the apartment at the end of the alley; deck free of any late-autumn sunbathers.
Back door of the Italian place propped open with a red milk crate.
No cars in the alley proper.
Asphalt dry and grippy, no new oil spots having materialized. Gravel—swept aside a week ago—still, mostly, in designated nooks and crannies.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
He hangs a left out of the alley, slowing almost imperceptibly as he passes the store’s panoramic western window, scanning discretely inside.
With any luck there’ll only be that one old lady working the counter.
He hopes she doesn’t have a heart attack. He’s not familiar enough with the relevant law to know if he could be charged for murder in the event that the robbery causes her to suffer permanent cardiac arrest. He doesn’t even know if what he’s doing is robbery. Maybe it’s burglary, or that other one—larceny, whatever that is.
Maybe this is just… theft?
What if she tries to stop him—physically? What if she tries to interpose herself between him and the loot? What if, in doing so, she slips; falls; hits her head? Would that catch a charge? Or only if he touched her?
Could a judge tell the difference, would a judge even care?
He debarks that train of thought, at once. Whatever destination it was headed to, whatever conclusion it was set to arrive at, he’s not interested.
The little old lady is not going to have a heart attack.
She’s not going to slip and hit her head.
She’s not going to reveal a can of bear mace from under the counter, nor a shotgun; bazooka, or anything else.
And he’s not going to drop the bag, or lose the hammer, or accidentally knock off his wig, or cut his hand on the broken glass of display cases and leave behind a pool of DNA evidence—perhaps doubling as that slip hazard for Mrs. Proprietor after all.
No, everything will be fine.
Rounding the corner, he saunters casually past the door before stopping and turning. He takes his time putting on the mask.
He doesn’t bother to look up, he knows the camera’s seen him.
He takes a deep breath and exhales, the humidity warms his face. He clenches and unclenches his fists—nitrile crinkling—and walks in the door.
* * *
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