The prospect daunted them, but there was no more time to dodge it. They planned their assault like GIs storming the rebel stronghold.
At the doors they hesitated, crossed themselves, breathed a short prayer. Then onward.
Connor had lost three rounds of paper-rock-scissors in a row to wind up with shoes. Shoes meant the shoe department. The shoe department meant salesgirls. Salesgirls, quite possibly, meant doom. Salesgirls were Charlie. The Enemy.
�For the last time,� he mumbled, �I�d prefer to face the shoe department as a team.�
�You can take �em.� Murphy was scanning the signs that dangled from the department-store ceiling. �Christ, where can you find a damn t-shirt in this place...�
�The kind we want are with the underwear,� Connor said. �See, I know more about that than you do. We should switch.�
�No fuckin� way.� Murphy shook his head adamantly. �You lost three times. You�re taking shoes. Just bat your eyelashes at her, bend over and let her have a look at your arse.�
�I don�t have any self-control with them,� he moaned pitifully. �They can talk me into anything. Christ, Murphy, do you want to wind up with some green suede thing with a heel?�
His twin eyed him suspiciously. �Have you been reading fashion magazines again?�
Connor swallowed and stared at the floor. �No.�
�Christ,� growled Murphy. �All right. I�ll help you. Forget the whole plan, forget divide and conquer, we�ll just take the whole damn list together.� Connor nodded, relieved. No battle plan ever lasted under fire, anyway. �All right.� Murph produced a scrap of very dirty paper from the last remaining pocket on his threadbare jeans. �First, socks.�
The staff gave them long, cool looks as they walked around the store. �I think they think we�re homeless,� muttered Connor, folding his arms across his chest to hide the fact the gaping hole under the left armpit of his shirt.
�If only they knew we were filthy stinking rich with money we stole from the Mob,� Murph said sagely, edging away from a rack of bras like they were land mines. �You�d think they�d put that shit behind curtains or something.�
�If they knew we were paying with stolen Mob money, they�d call the police,� Connor pointed out. �Bad for business.�
�Yeah, I suppose.� Murphy stopped in front of a rack of socks. �Jesus, there�s a lot of them.�
Connor grabbed two twelve-packs of plain black ones. �Keep moving. Snipers everywhere, Murph, keep moving or we die.�
�Right.� He nodded and squinted at the list again. �Jockey shorts.�
***
The problem came, just like Connor knew it would, when they left the relative safety of the underclothes and went into the no-man�s-land of proper clothing.
The problem was that Murphy was a fucking child when surrounded by shiny objects, even of the metaphorical sort.
�Just let me touch it, Con,� he whined, grabbing a sweater from the rack. �Fuck, feel how soft it is. That�s cashmere, Connor. Cashmere!�
�Murphy,� he said sternly, glaring at his brother. �How do you think cashmere reacts to being soaked with blood?�
�We could save it for days off,� he mumbled, still clutching the sweater stubbornly.
�Murph...� Connor was trying very hard to be reasonable as he darted his eyes around the store watching for the Enemy. He had to get his twin moving again before they both wound up compromised. �When was the last time we wore anything other than jeans and the t-shirts that come four to a pack? It�s classic. It works for us. Why d�ya want to change things, you want to jinx us? It isn�t even black. I thought we had a thing going with the black.�
�It�s dark,� said Murphy, clutching it even tighter. �It�s navy blue.�
�For Christ�s sake...� He wanted to throw his hands in the air, but the basket over his left wrist hobbled him. �Let�s just get the jeans and get out of here.�
�Still have to do the shoes,� Murph replied sulkily, putting the sweater back on its hanger.
�The boots can hold out for another season, can�t they?� Connor squinted down at his feet hopefully.
�No. If you won�t let me get the sweater, I�m at least getting some fucking nice shoes that won�t leak and leave me put out with blisters half the time.�
�Fine.� Conn was the grizzled sergeant giving up on the stupid private who wanted to visit the whorehouse before getting the hell back to base. �If that�s what you want. But if you pick out some fucking crocodile-skin fur-edged thing, I�m leaving you here.�
�You know you wouldn�t.� Murphy glanced longingly back at the sweater as his twin steered him to the racks of jeans.
�Just find our size, grab four and let�s get moving.� Connor glanced around and lowered his voice. �I think they�ve got the scent. We have too many items, they know we�re packing cash. Jig�s up, Murph. Get yourself into battle mode.�
His brother stared at him. �You do realize that the store isn�t actually a war zone, right?�
�I realize no such thing.� Connor swallowed hard as a tiny blonde woman turned down the aisle and walked towards them, face fixed in a brilliant white grin.
Even if asked by a hypothetical superior officer, he wouldn�t have been able to give a good accounting for the actions that followed. Quite simply, he panicked.
�Sacrifice the weak one!� he blurted, shoving the basket into Murphy�s arms. �You grabbed the wallet this morning anyway. I�ll be at the pub when you�re done.�
As he fled the store he could hear Murphy�s hiss of irritation, cut off as the salesgirl snared him. He breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him with a solid thunk.
Murph was almost undoubtedly going to leave the store with cashmere, calfskin, and possibly lace. Connor was almost undoubtedly going to make him take half of it back.
Key bit there: make HIM take it back.
He�d put a bullet in his own foot before he�d venture back into that jungle again.
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