The Constant Heart by Craig Nova Page B

in to buy a TV.”
    â€œI’m warning you,” said the guy. “You better give me an answer.”
    That goatee was a lot like Dieckmann’s.
    â€œIt doesn’t do much for me,” I said.
    â€œAnd you,” he said to Sara. “You like to see men like this? All fucked up like this?”
    â€œNo,” said Sara.
    â€œSome women like to see men humiliated, though, don’t they?”
    â€œI guess,” said Sara.
    â€œGuess? Guess?” said the man. He flipped the safety off.
    â€œLook,” I said. “She’s not like that.”
    â€œOh?” said the man. “Prove it.”
    â€œWhen I was a kid she tried to break me into a women’s prison to spend the night.”
    â€œNo kidding,” said the man. “That’s great.” He lowered the gun. “But I’ve got to get some money. I’ve got responsibilities.”
    â€œOK,” said the clerk.
    â€œWhat the hell else have you got in here?” said the guy with the gun, going through the desk. “What else am I going to find? Have you got money in here all ready to take to the bank? A deposit?”
    â€œNo,” said the clerk.

    â€œHere are some deposit slips,” said the guy. “Where’s the money?”
    â€œI gave you what we’ve got,” said the clerk.
    â€œDo you know what an inhaler costs these days?” said the guy with the gun. “Proventil. Forget the steroids. Just Proventil.”
    â€œNo,” said the clerk. “Please.”
    â€œPlease what?”
    â€œPlease don’t,” said the clerk.
    â€œAh, shit,” said the man in the Hawaiian shirt.
    My ears started ringing after that. If I moved my head the pitch changed. The surfer on the Hawaiian shirt the man wore seemed to be having trouble with his balance, his arms out as his board went down a wave. Piles of foam. Stress marks in the wave that curled above him, almost breaking. Lots of palm trees, too. The shirt, the light on the gun seemed very bright and in the distance I heard the muted sound of one of the TVs.
    Sara held my hand even when the gun went off.
    The room smelled like the Fourth of July. I sat down on the floor and put my hands to my head. Sara did, too. We both leaned against the wall. The man with the gun came closer. The clerk leaned against the wall by his desk, sort of trapped there, and held his leg with both hands.
    â€œShit, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to do that. It was a mistake,” said the man with the gun. “I didn’t want to shoot him.” He went back to that funny breathing, although I couldn’t hear it so much as I could see that he was laboring. He looked at me and said, “Goddamned Samsung.”
    â€œWhat? What? I can hardly hear,” I said to Sara.
    â€œMy ears are ringing. What?” she said. “And I’m in such big trouble already. Shit.”

    â€œStop that,” said the man.
    The clerk, in a barely audible voice, said, “Please. Call the ambulance. Please.”
    The man in the Hawaiian shirt went on breathing, although it was getting more labored.
    â€œYou’re one lucky son of a bitch,” he said to me. “You know that? You almost paid the price for buying that Japanese TV.” He pointed the gun at Sara. “And you’re really lucky.”
    â€œI wouldn’t go that far,” said Sara.
    â€œCome on,” I said. “We don’t need to argue.”
    â€œNo?” said Sara. “He shoots some guy and you want me to keep my mouth shut?”
    There she was, coming right out of that ringing in our ears, just the way she had been in the library years before.
    The man took a hit from his inhaler, then patted the money in his pocket and said, “Fucking Samsung. Fucking Subaru. China is going to eat my ass next.” Then, just like that, as though he had bought an alarm clock, he walked out.
    I picked up the phone. A