NOVEMBER 24, 1934
I WENT INTO THE FIVE and dime like nothing was wrong. I even got as far as putting my fingers on a glass bottle of delicious, amber-colored Listerine before I heard the shotgun c**k. I cleared my throat—there was a roach in it. “Just got a little halitosis, mac.” I tried my best to disguise my voice.
“Whyn’t you just vamoose, Jones?”
“Damn it,” I muttered. I sighed, watching the sweet bottle of mouth rinse—which had been so close to being mine—slip away, back into the shelf that housed it. I turned and looked at the storekeeper. He had real thin wireframe glasses and a white shirt like he was a druggist, but he wasn’t one. I couldn’t read anything in his eyes. He wasn’t shaking, but he was one of our kind, and I don’t know that we do shake when we’re nervous. It was my
