Short Fiction Robert Sheckley (best romantic books to read TXT) 📖

just stared at me for a second, then dashed out. There wasn’t much to say. Besides, it was an easy gesture. The stuff was as good as worthless. Might as well see the other fellow have a good time.

For once my wife seemed to agree with me. She smiled.

Minnie came in almost as soon as Frank left. She was all dressed up, too, in another dress she hadn’t bought in my store. There was a young fellow with her. He wasn’t good-looking or bad-looking; just the sort of fellow you’d see anywhere. But Minnie seemed to think he was something pretty special, to judge by the way she was clutching his arm.

“Are you going to Texas too?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” she said: “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” Jane asked.

“Yes ma’am,” Minnie said. “Herb and I were going to wait ’til he finished dental school, so he shouldn’t be living off his parents. But now⁠—” She looked very cute, I must say. Her hair was a light blonde. It looked fine on her.

“Here, Minnie,” my wife said. She took the other two thousand out of my hand and gave it to her. “Have a good time these last days.”

“Hey!” I said, when Minnie and her young man had gone. “How about us? We’ll never be able to get in a bank. What’ll we do?”

“Quit worrying,” Jane told me. “Don’t you believe in young love?” She found the one comfortable chair in the place⁠—the one we reserve for customers⁠—and sat down.

“I’ve been too careful,” she said when she saw me looking at her.

“I see,” I said.

“And as far as money goes,” she continued, “haven’t you any faith? The Lord will provide.”

“That’s fine by me,” I said, and sat down beside her. The door opened, and in walked a short man. He was oldish, and dressed like a banker, but I knew right away he was in the dress line. There’s something about the dress line, you can always tell.

“Not much business?” he asked.

“Not much.” There hadn’t been a customer in all day⁠—or all yesterday, now that I thought about it.

“That’s understandable,” he told me. “It’s because everyone is storming the big stores, the expensive stores. Everyone wants to wear the best dresses on their last days.”

“Sounds logical,” I said.

“Logical, but not entirely right,” he said, frowning seriously through a little pince-nez. “Why should the big, expensive stores drive the middle-class retailer out of business? I am here as a representative of Bonzelli’s⁠—to reimburse you for your financial loss.” With that he dropped a thick manilla envelope on the counter, smiled, and left.

“Bonzelli’s,” my wife commented coolly. “They’re⁠—expensive.”

Inside the envelope there was eight thousand dollars.

That wasn’t the end of it. Strangers dropped in every few minutes, leaving money. After a while, I started handing it back. I went down the block to Ollie Bernstein’s store, with twenty thousand dollars in a paper bag. I met him on the way. He had a fistful of bills.

“I’ve got a little gift for you, ex-competitor,” he said. It was about fifteen thousand dollars. Everyone with money was handing it over, and getting it back from someone else.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “How about the unfortunate?”

“You mean the Bronx dress shops?” he asked.

“No, I mean the derelicts, the bums. Why shouldn’t they share?”

“Count me in for fifteen thousand,” he said without hesitation. We talked it over. Plans for going down to the Bowery and handing it out didn’t seem so good. The streets were still impossible, and I didn’t want to leave Jane for long. We finally decided to give it to the nearest church. They’d see it got into the proper hands.

The church on 65th and Madison was closest, so we went right there and formed on the end of the line. It stretched halfway down the block, but it was moving fast.

“I had no idea it was like this,” Ollie said. He shook his head. Perspiration was dripping from him. He was working harder handing out money than he had ever worked to make it in his life.

“What kind of church is this?” he asked me.

“I don’t know.” I tapped the man in front of me. “What kind of church is this, mac?”

The man turned around. He was almost as big as Ollie but older, tireder looking. “How should I know?” he said. “I’m from Brooklyn.”

We reached the inside of the church and a man took our money. He didn’t have time to thank us; there were too many behind, clamoring for their chance. The man just threw the bills on a table. Another man, a Reverend of some kind, was walking back and forth, picking up handfuls of it and carrying it off, then coming back for more. We followed him, just out of curiosity. I didn’t have any doubt they’d dispose of it in the right way, but a fellow likes to know where his charity is going. Besides, Jane would probably ask me.

At the side entrance of the church there was a line of poorly clad, red-faced men. Their clothes were in tatters, but their faces were shining. The Reverend was handing each man a handful of bills, then rushing back for more.

“Be simpler if they formed the line inside,” I said to Ollie as we headed back for our stores. “Just have the guys with money lined up in front of the guys without. Faster.”

“Listen,” Ollie said. “You always have a middle man. Can’t avoid it.” He coughed three or four times. I could see that the strain was getting him. A man Ollie’s size shouldn’t run around handing out money that way.

On my way back to the store someone handed me five thousand dollars. He just grinned, shoved it in my hands and hurried on. I did a double take. It was one of the bums who had just got it.

Back in the store there was more money piled up on the counter. My wife was still in the same chair, reading a magazine.

“It’s been piling up since you left,” she