The Constant Heart by Craig Nova Page A

good,” said Sara. “I’m glad to hear that.”
    â€œMy mother moved to an ashram,” I said.
    â€œAshram, smashram,” said the man with the gun. “More Jap shit.”
    The man with the gun said to the clerk, “The first thing you are going to do is lock the door. So get over there. I don’t want any old women coming in here and pissing themselves because they’re gonna get shot.”

    The keys were on a sort of chrome yo-yo at the clerk’s belt, with a spring-loaded string, and he went over to the door, but his hands were shaking and he kept stabbing at the lock until Sara stepped over, put her hand on his, took the key, and slipped it into the door. It had a sexual quality, that quick slip into the lock. Then she turned the key, pulled it out, and let it go. It snapped back to the clerk’s belt and he said “Ow.”
    â€œYou want to have something to say ‘Ow’ about?” said the man with the gun.
    â€œNo,” said the clerk.
    Sara stood next to me. The clerk put his hands on the counter, a glass one that was covered with fingerprints. I guess he hadn’t gotten around to cleaning it with Windex. Middle of the week. No customers, just Sara, me, the clerk, and the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. The door locked.
    Still, a bald man with a form-fitted T-shirt to show how much time he spent in the gym tapped on the door with a key, tap , tap , tap . Sara took the OPEN sign and turned it around so it said CLOSED. The guy in the form-fitted shirt gave her the finger.
    â€œJesus,” said the man with the gun. “Another asshole. Why, for two cents I go out there and let... ” His labored breathing started again, and he was sweating now, too, not just a film but big drops that began to slide down his face like tears. Tears. Shit.
    â€œCome on,” said the man with the gun. “No one is going to bother us. Let’s go back to the office.” He turned to us. “You, too.”
    He made that asthma-like sound, wet, deep in his chest, labored. It sounded like he was dying. Then he took the key on
the retractable string and gave it a jerk to break it off the clerk’s belt.
    â€œYou think I want to get trapped in here?” he said. “You think I’m stupid enough to get locked in here?”
    â€œNo,” said the clerk.
    â€œAnd I’m not stupid enough to think there’s only this amount of money here.”
    We walked down the aisle, past the boom boxes and the adapters for headsets and a bunch of telephones. Through a door to the back room, and in it boxes had that funny smell of cardboard and new electronics. A lot of clear plastic lay around. The clerk went in first, then Sara, then me. The man with the gun last. Sara began to sweat a little along her upper lip.
    â€œHow could I have been so stupid?” she said.
    â€œFor coming in here to buy some fucked-up Japanese TV?” the man said.
    â€œYeah,” she said. “For not knowing what things are worth.”
    â€œTell me about it,” said the man.
    We stood along the wall, by the door, while the man with the gun went through the desk. Checks, paper clips, Pepto-Bismol, and some spray that freshens the breath. Some books with prices in them. A pornographic magazine in which there were pictures of men who had breasts and who wore garter belts and fishnet stockings. I guessed the breasts had been made by a plastic surgeon. The man with the gun glanced at it and then said to the clerk, “Jesus. Jesus Christ. It’s bad enough that you sell all that Japanese stuff, but you have to have this stuff, too.”
    â€œPlease,” said the clerk.

    â€œWhere did you get the magazine?” said the guy with the gun.
    â€œAt the newsstand. Down the block,” said the clerk. He licked his lips.
    â€œWhat about you?” said the guy with the gun to me. “You like this stuff?”
    â€œLook,” I said. “I just came