Evil's Root

Chapter 6

Ernie walked around work in an excited daze. He couldn't get Sandra out of his mind. Not that he would tell, but if he did nobody would believe what she did to him and what they did together. Ernie had been completely Sandra-ized; he would follow her to hell.

The plan to rob the man in Portsdown was a study in simplicity, and another way to show her his devotion. Afterwards, he and Sandra would be in a car and bound for the horizon and endless days of lovemaking. First he decided to add his own touch to the scheme, and he slipped into the stockroom and tracked down an item he planned to use as part of the job.

The toy was a pellet pistol, a replica of a Desert Eagle, 44-magnum. Even police found it difficult to tell them from the real thing. He slipped it under his smock, adjusted the inventory sheet and left in a giddy haste. Sandra would be real proud of his ingenuity.

Except for yellow, opaque-shaded lamps over the tables, the pool hall was so dark Ernie could barely see anything. He paused inside the door, adjusting to the overpowering stink of cigarette smoke, and waited until he could see through the gloom and then went to the high, courtroom style judge's bench along the wall.

"Abe, what's happenin'?"

"Ernie." Abe Feldstone rolled a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and clamped down on it again. Abe rarely answered questions that meant nothing, and even when he did it was terse and concise.

"Skye around?"

"Table four."

"Thanks, Abe."

Abe grunted. Ernie stumbled his way to table four.

"Skye, my man, what's shakin'?"

Skye Groverland sank a ball off a carom and rested his cue stick on the rail, leaning down to peer under the light. "That you, Stark?"

"Yep, and I think I've got something you might like."

"Right now I'd like Germaine to waltz her tight bum in here and—"

Ernie pulled out the toy gun and dropped it on the table.

"Jesus, man, you crazy!" Skye scooped up the weapon and held it below the table.

Ernie giggled and slapped his thighs. "Oh man, I knew it! Take a good look, Skye. Better than Germaine, uh?"

The wiry black straightened up and held the weapon out under the light, turning it over in his large hand.

"It's a fake!" He dipped down and squinted closely at the gun. "It's a damn fake!"

"And a darn good one too, eh, Skye?" Ernie moved around beside him. "It's yours for something small, cheap and real."

"You nuts? I could buy this myself from your store. Why would I trade solid merchandise for this?"

"That toy, Skye, holds one hundred small shot and fires from a compressed slide. Put a hole in a tin can at ten feet. At my store it retails at two-fifty."

"You shittin' me?"

"Two-fifty plus ammo and tax, Skye."

He hefted the gun and sighted down the barrel. "And you want what, a twenty-two?"

"I'd like something bigger, but if that's all you got, I'll take it." He said with a little disappointment.

"You a good man, Ernie, I got a clean thirty-eight I can give you. Deal?"

Ernie high-fived him and grinned happily in the dim light.

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