The long, narrow shop contained one customer, a tall man in a blue plaid shirt. He stood with his back to the proprietor at the rear of the store, studying the fishing equipment. The check-out counter where the little balding man with the round wire-rimmed glasses and thick gray mustache stood was near the front, against the wall opposite the tall man.
The bell rang, signaling someone's entry. The owner pasted on his best smile and greeted the lady. "Good day, Miss. May I be of service?"
Molly glanced around the store, then turned to the counter. "I need some bullets, please."
Women. As if any old bullets will do. In a friendly voice that he reserved for just such occasions he asked, "Very well. What size, Miss?"
Molly blushed, more from awareness of her own ignorance than the man's flattery. "I'm not certain. I need them for this." She opened the black purse slung from her left shoulder and took out the gun that Bill had taken from the dead gang member.
The man took it from her carefully but quickly. With these dizzy women, he reminded himself, it might just be loaded with the safety off and she'd never realize it until she accidentally shot him. He checked the magazine, then the chamber. It was empty. He glanced at her. "Where did you get this?"
"My late husband left it to me. I don't know anything about guns, but my building has had an increase in robberies. I thought it best to prepare myself in case--you know." She took the pistol back from him despite his reluctance to release it. "Why do you ask?"
"It's illegal. Serial number's been filed away. I'm afraid I'll have to have that piece to turn over to the authorities. They'll want to talk to you, too."
Molly's hands began to tremble. "Please don't. I don't know anything about this weapon. The bullets look like this one. It's all I have to defend myself against the criminals that are looting my apartment building. Why, just last week a prowler attacked the woman who lives below me. He--he--oh, dear God!" She started to cry.
"Here now, Ma'am. Don't do that. I can sell you another one. Don't cry. I'm sure the police won't think you had anything to do with this irregularity."
The tall customer glanced over his shoulder at the scene, then resumed his browsing.
"I don't have the money for something like that." She cried harder. "Can't you just overlook the problem and sell me what I need? I'm--I'm so frightened!" She looked as if her knees would buckle.
The little man shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I just can't."
Molly screamed, "No! This can't be happening! First the hoodlums, then I can't--I can't--" Before the man could move, she opened the slide on the pistol and chambered the bullet. She pointed the barrel at the clerk and said, "Now, give me what I need or I'll shoot you. You know what size I need. If you give me the wrong ones I'll be back. Please get them now."
The man's trained eyes told him two things: first, the safety was off and a little twitch could send him to Paradise. Second, this woman was insane. An insane woman with a gun was not a commodity to be taken lightly.
"Yes, Ma'am. Nine millimeter. Probably want hollow-points for stopping intruders. How many do you want?"
The woman's eyes strained in their sockets. "How many to a
box?"
"Fifty."
"Two boxes, please."
Please? She holds me up at gunpoint and says please? "Yes, Ma'am. Two boxes. Here you are." He set them on the counter in front of her and tried not to look down the barrel.
"How much?"
"Ma'am?"
"How much do I owe you?"
"For--for what?"
"For the bullets, of course."
He sputtered. "Don't you intend just to take them?"
"I'm not a common thief, sir. I pay for what I buy, thank you. How much?"
This was more than the man's constitution could bear. He looked desperately at the tall customer, who still discreetly examined the fishing gear. No help from that bloke. He's too smart to get in the middle of a mess like this. "Eh, just a moment. I'll compute it." He didn't realize he was mumbling as he punched the buttons on the computerized register. "All my 35 years in retail, I've never sold anything at gunpoint before. Strange. Bloody strange. What's this world coming to when people hold you up, then pay for what they take?"
He called out the total. Molly fumbled in her purse and secured her wallet. She gave the man two bills, dropped her change in the bottom of the purse and put the two boxes of ammunition in after it. The wallet went in last. She backed toward the door with the muzzle still trained on the cashier. "Thank you, sir. Sorry to be such a bother." She ducked out the door and vanished.
The man peered after her. "Quite. . . all. . . right. And have a. . . nice. . . day." He leaned his forearms on the counter and said something incoherent.
The tall customer moved hesitantly toward the counter, a look of trepidation in his eyes. The owner saw it and said, "Quite all right, sir. She's gone."
The customer didn't answer, so the older man continued. "Quick as I bring my legs under control I'll call the police. I'm afraid I'll need you as a witness."
Bill tried out the English accent he had been practicing for a couple of weeks. "A witness? And tell them what? That a hysterical female held an altered gun on you and bought something? Where's the crime? You yourself said she no doubt had nothing to do with the gun problem, which I didn't see in the first place. And the lady was distraught, but she didn't rob you. She paid for the merchandise. Do you truly suppose the police will believe such a tale even if you do tell them?"
The man let his knees go and sagged on a stool. "No, I don't suppose they would. I've just experienced it myself and couldn't swear I believe it."
"Just chalk it up to strange experiences," Bill said. "As for me, I believe I'll go home and fix myself a stiff drink and try to forget the whole incident. I suggest you do the same."
The man shook his head. "Not a bad idea, at that."
Bill took a zigzag route back to the church where he and Molly had met. Since the shooting they had been staying in its basement. It had a small kitchen and enough niches to create separate rooms for them. Two hours after the encounter at the sporting goods store, he skipped down the stone steps at the rear of the church and let himself in.
"Molly, you were terrific! I've never seen such acting. Where'd you learn to do--Holy cow! Molly? Is that you?"
She stood before him and smiled. Her hair was much lighter than it had been and the gray streaks were gone. She had formed it into sassy curls that framed her fresh makeup. He had never seen her with makeup before. Her rosy cheekbones seemed perfectly sculptured, and the full but almost colorless lips had turned a deep crimson. She wore a sleek, well-fitted gray pantsuit that accented her eyes. She struck a model's pose with one hand in the air and the other on her thigh and winked at him. "Do you approve?"
When he found his voice, Bill stammered some nonsense phrases. "Whatever I'm trying to say, it means--WOW!"
She slumped out of the pose and laughed. "Coming from a young man like you, that's the highest form of flattery I could ever hope for."
He wandered to a concrete wall and sat on the floor. "You're beautiful!"
She walked over--even a better walk, he thought--and sat beside him, gazing into the air. He couldn't tear his eyes away. "Why? I mean, how come you--" He gestured lamely.
"I assumed that the man at the store probably called the police. If he gave them an accurate description, I thought I had better look differently than the woman he saw. As I proceeded, I liked what I saw and just kept improving on things here and there." She sighed and looked into his eyes. "For the first time in my life, I looked into a mirror and liked what was there."
Bill stared into the eyes, now ringed with gentle highlighters that made them appear even more sincere. "I like what I see, too." He caught himself. "How come you've never done this before?"
She stood nervously and paced back and forth in front of him. He studied the cut of the pantsuit. To think she's kept all this hidden for so long.
"I suppose I never thought of myself as particularly pretty," she explained as much to herself as to him. "I was never terribly popular, always considered myself a 'Plain Jane' type. When my husband began consorting with all his little pretties, I felt even plainer. A friend of mine suggested that I touch up a few spots here and there, but such things always struck me as extravagance for the sake of vanity."
"You didn't feel you were worth a little extra expense, right?"
"After all, there were much better uses for our--later my-- money than smearing paint on plain little me. To think it took becoming a fugitive to drive me to like myself a little better."
Bill stood. "Well, whatever the reason, you did it. And the results are fabulous. You're gorgeous." He paused, then said to the floor, "You look like the beautiful person you are."
She blushed. "That's trite and uncalled-for. The plan went sort of foul, eh?"
Bill looked into her eyes again. "Huh? Oh, not at all. I mean, it's too bad neither of us knew enough about guns to just go in and buy the ammo. And of course the serial number bit threw a monkey wrench into the plan. But you pulled it off perfectly. I've never seen a better acting job. He was totally convinced you were nuts."
She laughed. "There was no acting necessary. All I knew to do was improvise. But he'll have the police out looking for me."
"No, he won't. I talked him out of it."
She gaped. "How did you do that? Especially since you're one of those 'Bloody Yanks' we keep hearing about?"
Bill assumed his accent. "Perhaps, my dear aunt, he had no idea he was addressing a Yank."
Her eyes grew wider. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"Listening to you."
She blushed again. "At any rate, how did you convince him not to report the incident?"
Bill explained, and Molly relaxed a little. "That's one less worry. Have you heard the news?"
"What news?"
"Parliament wants to outlaw Christianity. They're following the French lead."
"Do you think they'll do it?"
"I don't know. If momentum means anything, they probably will. The radicals want to raid churches, monasteries, schools, anything and everything. Imprison whomever they find."
"So we're probably not safe here much longer."
"I'm afraid not."
Bill swept his arm around at the gray concrete walls and cement floor, devoid of furniture and nearly dark from lack of windows. "You mean we'll have to give up all this?"
A week later, they sat on the floor and ate off paper plates. Through a bite of instant mashed potatoes Molly asked, "Did you sell the rest of your 'tourist garbage,' as you call it?"
"Yeah. I think I got some good prices, too. Whatever they offered, I just automatically said, 'That's ridiculous. It's easily worth twice that amount.' They always came up. Did you convince the landlord to buy your furniture?"
She took a bite of cube steak and nodded. "I had to haggle a bit, since it's been sitting there for a time, but he paid me a fair price in cash."
Bill wrestled a wad of money out of his pocket and placed it between them. "So how much have we got?"
She put her plate down and dug in her purse. She shuddered as she took out the gun and boxes of bullets. "I wish we didn't need this."
"Me, too. But things are really getting hairy. My faith's not strong enough to stand there and let somebody blow my head off."
"Nor is mine. I'm rather fond of your head right where it is. Ah, here we are." She took out her own bundle of money and counted the two piles into one. "A little over 800 pounds."
"800 pounds," Bill repeated. "I see. Uh, is that good?"
She smiled and patted his knee. "If we're frugal, it should get us to Switzerland."
"How frugal?"
Her eyes twinkled. "Very light on the foot-feed and eat sardines and crackers all the way." She laughed at the face he made.
They sat against the wall opposite the two tiny windows near the ceiling. Bill had his Bible open on his lap, but couldn't concentrate. Molly gazed out one of the windows at nothing in particular. To Bill's surprise, she slumped over and put her head on his shoulder. He set the Bible aside and let his arm drift around her.
"I really am attractive, aren't I?"
He twisted a bit so he could look at her. "Absolutely. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. It's a little hard to accept, I suppose. And I was just thinking. . ."
He squeezed her a little. "Come on. Tell your favorite nephew about it."
Her lower lip shuddered and her eyes grew moist. "I was just thinking. . . if I had done something like this ten years ago, I might--might--" She lowered her head and her body shook gently.
Bill stroked her hair. "You might still be married?"
A sob escaped and she nodded. Bill quietly prayed for the right words, but the answer seemed to be, "Just hold her."
She cried for several minutes, then sat up and fished a tissue out of her purse. "I've gone and spoiled it, haven't I?"
He shook his head. "Wet or dry, you're the most beautiful woman I know."
"I'm the only woman you know." She wiped her eyes. "My husband--he was obsessed with beauty. I don't know why he ever married me. But if I had paid more attention to my appearance, I might have held him--oh, I don't know."
Bill took her by the shoulders and shook her a little. "Look at me, Molly. Look at me. Listen. If he couldn't see what a beautiful person you are without a lot of external accoutrements--hey, I'm starting to sound like you--then he's the one who lost out. Letting somebody like you get away because you didn't have enough fluff to suit him was just plain stupid."
She sniffed. "Do you really think so?"
He drew her to him and cradled her head on his chest, softly massaging her back. "I know so."
"Thank you, Bill," she muffled through the fabric of his shirt. "You don't know how much I needed that."
"Sure. That's what. . . friends. . .are for." He suddenly realized feelings were surfacing in him that he knew he shouldn't feel. Fighting them down he whispered, "Friends."
He quickly shifted position and tugged at her to sit up. "Sorry. I'm getting a cramp in my back." She smiled, smoothed her hair and stood with him.
"I think it's time we retired," she said. "We should get an early start in the morning."
Bill picked up his Bible, smiled a "good night" and limped to his cubicle. He fell asleep wondering what the ride to Calais on the hovercraft would be like.