The liquor store was only a small distance up the street. Ben Cotsell made it. From time to time he saw other figures, but he brushed them from his mind. What difference did anything make?
The liquor store had been sacked, but not totally. He scrambled among the broken bottles. He found a carton and began to load it. Whiskey and gin were all gone, but he found a windfall in several bottles of Metaxa, the Greek brandy. He also found odds and ends of liqueurs and several bottles of Pomerol. He closed one eye. 1955, a very good year.
He took up his cardboard carton and headed back for the apartment, mildly surprised that as yet the first attack had not come off.
* * * *
The stranger, shotgun at the ready, growled, “Stop, right there!”
“All right,” Bette said agreeably. The two girls came
