"I love it, man, I really dig workin' with kids."

"They give you a raise?"

"Nah, I'm workin' there three days, whadya you want?"

"Just remember, Stones, in two weeks you're comin' in with me. You promised."

"Don't remind me."

"Don't make me remind you."

***

Frank's Hosiery House was a small, cramped store with an ancient ornate pressed-tin ceiling. One wall was completely covered with white pegboard on which hung cheap two-dollar earrings and three-dollar necklaces. Under the pegboard were cardboard boxes filled with cellophane-wrapped red and blue slippers, two pair for three dollars. Toward the back was a seven-foot-high rotating fan; next to it a black curtain separated a small storeroom from the front. The other wall supported two five-foot-long glass counters filled with more jewelry, evening purses, long pink tubes containing girdles, garters and assorted corrective underwear. At the edge of one of the counters sat an old-fashioned gilt cash register. Next to the register was a box of rayon panties, three for a dollar. Two snapshots were taped to the register—one of Frank smiling behind the counter and one of Frank's daughter, Cissy, holding two of her kids in her lap in front of a Christmas tree. Also taped to the cash register was an index card with the slogans "If you believe in credit, lend me five dollars" and "In God we trust; others pay cash." Two foot-high cards leaned on the other counter. Brown and red key holders, a dollar each, were advertised on one card. The other had dime and quarter slots, a picture of Joe Namath along the top and the legend "Fight Muscular Dystrophy." Three quarters and five dimes were Scotch-taped in the slots. Behind the counter, flush against the entire length of the wall, were six-foot-high shelves stocked with thousands of boxes of stockings and pantyhose.

Butler stood behind the counter reading the Post.

"This is a stickup."

"Hey! How's it goin'?"

"Awright." Stony walked behind the counter.

"It's like creepin' Jesus in here today, man." Butler exhaled wearily.

"Where's your uncle?" Stony pulled up a chair by the cash register. He felt a strange giddiness about being behind the counter.

A six-foot-tall woman with an expression like she just chugged lemon juice entered the store.

"You wanna take this one?" Butler side-mouthed to Stony. She threw a small wrinkled brown bag on the counter. "Mrs. Di Angelis." Butler smiled.

"I bought these yesterday. I specifically asked for thirty-eight-inch opera length. I put them on last night, they came up to here." She pulled up her dress above her knee. Both Stony and Butler leaned over the counter to look. She had legs like a road map. Butler removed the stockings from the bag and stretched them thigh to heel against a tape measure thumbtacked along the inside of the counter.

"They're thirty-eights, Mrs. Di Angelis." Butler's smile was wearing thin.

"Impossible."

"Here, look for yourself."

She walked behind the counter. "Well, you're stretching them!"

"They stretch on your legs, Mrs. Di Angelis."