Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

Chapter 47

LEO HARRIS WAS LOCKING UP the register in his Smoke and Joke shop when the bell jingled over the front door.

“I’m done for the night,” the black man said without turning around. “Register’s closed. Come back in the morning. Thank you.”

He heard footsteps shuffling toward the counter anyway, baggy pants whiffing around the customer’s ankles.

“I said, we’re closed.”

“I need some smokes,” the voice said, soft and slurry, a young man’s voice asking, “You got Camels?”

“Try the Searchlight Market,” Mr. Harris said. “You can see it from the door. Right on the corner of Hyde.”

The sixty-six-year-old man closed the cash drawer, turned his blank eyes toward the customer, seeing just his outline, waiting for the kid to leave his shop.

“Put the money on the counter, old man,” the voice said. “Back up to the wall. Keep your hands up and maybe I won’t hurt you.”

Harris was aware of every sound now — the deep breathing of the boy, the buzzing of the neon sign in the window, the dull clang of the trolley at the intersection of Union and Hyde.

He said, “Okay, okay. We don’t have a problem. Let me open the register. I got a hundred bucks under the drawer. Hell, take a carton of cigarettes and just get—”

“Get your hand away from that button!” the boy yelled.

“I’m just opening the register.”

Harris pressed the silent alarm under the counter and at the same time heard the jangle of Midnight’s collar as she ran downstairs from his apartment, starting her nightly patrol of the store.

Harris thought, Oh, no, even as he heard the police dog’s growl. Then the click of the gun, the kid’s scared shout: “Fucking get away from me, dog.”

There was an explosion, a gunshot; then Leo Harris called out, “Midnight!” Then came another deafening explosion that seemed to rock the small room.

Harris clutched at his chest. He fell, grabbing at the toiletries and cigarette cartons, hearing the sound of the punk busting out the door, the door slamming, the tinkling bell. . . .

Then he was thinking about his companion and friend of twelve years, hearing poor Midnight’s yelping and whining over the sounds of bottles falling, broken glass scattering on the floor.

“Someone help us, please! We’ve been shot.”