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cleaning his fingernails with a matchstick. A cracked mirror hung behind him on the wall above the sink and every so often he turned to stare into it. "I know damn well this ain't everything you took in," said the heavy one to Morris, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. "Where've you got the rest hid?" Morris, sick to his stomach, couldn't speak. "Tell the goddam truth." He aimed the gun at the grocer's mouth. "Times are bad," Morris muttered. "You're a Jew liar." The man at the sink fluttered his hand, catching the other's attention. They met in the center of the room, the other with the cap hunched awkwardly over the one in the fuzzy hat, whispering into his ear. "No," snapped the heavy one sullenly. His partner bent lower, whispering earnestly through his handkerchief. "I say he hid it," the heavy one snarled, "and I'm gonna get it if I have to crack his goddam head." At the table he whacked the grocer across the face. Morris moaned. The one at the sink hastily rinsed a cup and filled it with water. He brought it to the grocer, spilling some on his apron as he raised the cup to his lips. Morris tried to swallow but managed only a dry sip. His frightened eyes sought the man's but he was looking elsewhere. "Please," murmured the grocer. "Hurry up," warned the one with the gun. The tall one straightened up and gulped down the water. He rinsed the cup and placed it on a cupboard shelf. He then began to hunt among the cups and dishes there and pulled out the pots on the bottom. Next, he went hurriedly through the drawers of an old bureau in the room, and on hands and knees searched under the couch. He ducked into the store, removed the empty cash drawer from the register and thrust his hand into the slot, but came up with nothing. Returning to the kitchen he took the other by the arm and whispered to him urgently. The heavy one elbowed him aside. "We better scram out of here." "Are you gonna go chicken on me?" "That's all the dough he has, let's beat it." "Business is bad," Morris muttered. "Your Jew ass is bad, you understand?" "Don't hurt me." "I will give you your last chance. Where have you got it hid?" "I am a poor man." He spoke through cracked lips. The one in the dirty handkerchief raised his gun. The other, staring into the mirror, waved frantically, his black eyes bulging, but Morris saw the blow descend and felt sick of himself, of soured expectations, endless frustration, the years gone up in smoke, he could not begin to count how many. He had hoped for much in America and got little. And because of him Helen and Ida had less. He had defrauded them, he and the bloodsucking store. He fell without a cry. The end fitted the day. It was his luck, others had better.
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    During the week that Morris lay in bed with a thickly bandaged head, Ida tended the store fitfully. She went up and down twenty times a day until her bones ached and her head hurt with all her worries. Helen stayed home Saturday, a half-day in her place, and Monday, to help her mother, but she could not risk longer than that, so Ida, who ate in snatches and had worked up a massive nervousness, had to shut the store for a full day, although Morris angrily protested. He needed no attention, he insisted, and urged her to keep open at least half the day or he would lose his remaining few customers; but Ida, short of breath, said she hadn't the strength, her legs hurt. The grocer attempted to get up and pull on his pants but was struck by a violent headache and had to drag himself back to bed. On the Tuesday the store was closed a man appeared in the neighborhood, a stranger who spent much of his time standing on Sam Pearl's corner with a toothpick in his teeth, intently observing the people who passed by; or he would drift down the long block of stores, some empty, from Pearl's to the bar at the far end of the street. Beyond that was a freight yard, and in the distance, a bulky warehouse. After an occasional slow beer in the tavern, the stranger turned the corner