Craldo made a booze pyramid display behind the ballistic glass, way too close to the center carousel.
Sam thought it looked cool, and he was the boss, and the sales rep loved it, told Craldo he was a genius, or something close to that, anyway.
Donnie knew it would fall before the 4 pm rush.
Knew he could knock it over himself just by plucking the top two-shot bottle, some new cinnamon cognac.
He stepped back, sucked on a breath mint, looked out at the liquor store.
His cousin’s military buddy first got him interested in America, where the cars all went 1000 kilometers per hour and the girls were all lonely gymnasts.
Then someone knew a guy who knew a guy whose uncle was owed a favor from a wealthy guy and Hamza was on a plane to Canada, a visa loophole.
Hamza and his cousin chose “Donnie” the night before he stepped on the plane, and eleven years later, here he was, selling smokes and lottery tickets (scratch and daily), little glass weed pipes, and neon ice cream bars.
Donnie.
Sold Fiber Joe a five thousand dollar four-digit, and Fiber Joe called him Lucky Donnie. He hoped that the name would stick, but it didn’t.
Snacky shuffled up to the counter, two 99-cent bags of sour cream and onion, marked down forty-nine cents because they were two weeks expired. None of that shit got moldy, ever, but Donnie was starting to feel moldy behind the glass, spinning the carousel holding chips or vodka.
Donnie wondered if Snacky, whose real name he didn’t know, shuffled because of poor nutrition.
It seemed to have gotten worse over the years.
Harriet came in and got her lottery.
Donnie didn’t know her real name either. Nicknamed her Harriet years ago, maybe from a hairnet she used to wear working at the donut place that was a cell phone store now.
Harriet always, always, without fail ordered a four-digit she didn’t want.
Tonight it was 3919, wheel that for me please, making it a 6 dollar ticket, and sure enough, she changed her mind.
Donnie felt saliva surge into his mouth, swallowed the breath mint, wanted to spit at Harriet.
Wouldn’t do it, couldn’t anyway with two inches of ballistic glass between Donnie and the woman.
It was easy to peddle an errant one-dollar ticket. A six-buck wheel in this neighborhood was tougher.
The 4 o’clock rush started, and Donnie glanced at the cognac pyramid.
Jewels got her Pall Malls, some suit picked up a tallboy and a twenty buck scratcher, some girl with Big Ed wanted a two-shot bottle from the pyramid.
Donnie plucked it, the pyramid wobbled but didn’t fall.
Good job, Hamza, he congratulated himself. When he was happy about an accomplishment, in his own head, he was still Hamza, and the congratulations always echoed in his late father’s voice.
A man stepped up to the counter, skinny, wide eyes.
Looked over Donnie’s shoulder.
Behind him, Donnie knew, was the colorful stuff. The Schnapps, the Pucker, all the sugary booze that seemed almost made for children.
The man’s head tilted a little, and Donnie moved the opposite way, giving the man a better view.
Then the man’s eyes followed Donnie.
The eyes weren’t drunk yellow, or crackhead huge.
The man’s face was soft, but his cheekbones were bony.
“Why ain’t nothin’ clicking?”
Donnie thought he heard the man correctly, but said
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