“Nobody will ever give us a chance. Even a demolition job, damn it,
all brawn, no brains, we get turned down. I need cigarettes, Mirko,
sauerbraten, beer. Your father gave you a hundred crowns. But how
often will that happen? ” Duro blew on his hands, spit the cigarette
butt out of the corner of his mouth.
Whom is he trying to convince? Mirko thought. “You’re sure he doesn’t
deposit every day?”
“He’s a cripple, Mirko. The bank is a long walk for him. Every three days.”
Mirko took a deep puff. Stealing an apple or a kohlrabi walking past
a fruit stall was child’s play but this was armed robbery. Prison, not
reform school. Maybe he could still go back to mother’s, smile at his
stepfather, gorge himself. Duro was bound for prison now, or later.
“Where do you want me to stand?”
“Street corner. Whistle if anyone’s coming.” Duro marched to the
newspaper kiosk, pulled the mask down, hefted his wrench, knocked at
the side door. “Evening paper delivery, Mr. Zajko,” he called out.
The door opened.
“Little early today, aren’t—.” The wrench smashed down on his head,
Duro leapt in and out in seconds, stumbled toward Mirko, stuffing
bills into his pocket.
A blonde pranced out from behind a tree across the road. Mirko last
saw her snoring in his father’s apartment. As Mirko ran by, she
rubbed her eyes.