NICK KNACK

by Stephen D. Rogers

Nick had considered himself a lucky guy, until now. Now he considered himself very lucky, the luckiest guy in the world.

He'd thought -- tops -- he'd take the souvenir shop for a few hundred. Not bad for ten minutes work. Instead, he was striding towards his car with at least fifty thousand dollars stuffed inside his windbreaker.

Nick had always had a knack for landing the easy score.

He opened his car door and turned to take a last look at The Sand Dollar. Postcards! Shells! Taffy! Trinkets and sand globes and sun catchers. Must have been fifty thousand pieces of junk in that place.

Fifty thousand dollars.

Nick closed his door, shutting out the sound of screeching gulls and a winter surf. Started the engine. Drove past The Sand Dollar and flipped around in the empty parking lot.

Nobody walking down the path to the ocean today, not in the off-season with a nor'easter coming. Couple of minutes and Nick would be out on the highway, 50k richer, and no one the wiser.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw the front door of The Sand Dollar burst open, the old-timer from behind the counter march out onto the porch with a large cardboard box that he tossed out in front of Nick's car.

Nick pulled right to avoid the box and plowed into the dune, his airbag exploding.

He pushed against the rubbery material until he could spill out of his car and roll onto the pavement. Shaking his head, Nick stood, twenties blowing away in the wind.

Nick clutched his arms around his middle to protect the rest of the money.

A glass paperweight bounced off his chest.

Nick looked up to see the coot winding up for another pitch, a second open box at his feet, and Nick turned away to protect his face.

The paperweight hitting his back caused Nick to call out in pain.

The next two drove him to his knees.

One to the head left him lying flat in the sand.

Nick had always considered himself a lucky guy.

Until now.