Free Under a Raging Moon by Frank Zafiro Page B

school, learn English and become an American. Yes, America was good to him.
    Of course, Peter saw some of the evils, too. Six years in this country and this was the best job he had been able to get so far. It paid just above minimum wage, with a few extra cents an hour for working the evening shift. Peter got off at eleven, in time to meet Olga at the bus stop and ride home. She worked cleaning rooms at a local motel.
    Crime. That was the biggest difference he noticed between the two countries. Not language, philosophy, or government. Crime. In Minsk, crime existed but as a subtle presence, if not outright rare. KGB and local police made sure of that. Penalties were severe. People still disappeared, even as of six years ago. Here in America, the justice system seemed almost wort h less. People shoplifted all the time from the store where he worked, or did gas drive-offs, and nothing happened. Nothing could be done. He felt sorry for the police, who had to deal with the same criminals again and again. Even if they caught them, the judges set them free. It was shameful. America was wealthy, but she had too much freedom.
    Peter cleaned the counters around the register for the fifteenth or twentieth time that night. He took pride in his work. He hoped the store manager, a gaunt man with a red nose that reminded Peter of his Uncle Ivan, would notice and promote him to night manager. They could use the money.
    He considered going to the supply closet to get the broom and sweep the floor when a customer entered. The man appeared shaken. Peter wondered if he had been involved in a car accident or something. Even though it was against the rules, he allowed people to use the business telephone for such things.
    The customer’s long black hair fluttered in the artificial breeze created by the closing door.
    Peter started to smile a greeting, when the man shoved a dark gun in his face, touching him on the end of the nose. Peter’s hands flew up i n stinctively.
    “Give me the fucking money in the register. Now!”
    Not taking his eyes off the man’s face, his fingers fumbled with the register. The drawer slid open.
    “All of it, in a bag. Let’s go.”
    What a terrible scar, Peter thought absently, shoving bills into a plastic bag. Flat eyes, like those of a shark, peered out from beneath thick eyebrows. The lids beneath them twitched rapidly.
    Cold realization knotted his gut.
    This man wants to kill me.
    “The money, asshole. Let’s go!” The robber pressed the gun against his forehead.
    It was then Peter remembered something from the newspaper. This is Scarface . He’d robbed almost a dozen stores.
    Peter’s heart raced and his thoughts turned dark. Is he going to shoot me now? I can’t afford a bed at the hospital .
    The man snatched the bag from his hand. He glared at Peter with the eyes of a predator. Peter wanted to close his eyes and pray, but he couldn’t move.
    I have come all the way from Russia to die in River City, Washington . How tragic. Dosteovsky would a p pr e ciate the irony.
    The man removed the barrel of the gun from Peter’s forehead and pressed it roughly against his chin. A single, stoic tear slid down Peter’s face as he waited. He now had the presence of mind to ask God silently to care for Olga and Paul.
    The man paused half a breath, then pushed the barrel into Peter’s chin again. He could see the man’s fi n ger twitch as it pressed against the tri g ger. He repeated his prayer quickly, hoping that God would hear it before he was killed.
    Please, God. Care for my wife and child. Please, God—
    In a rush, the man lowered the gun and ran from the store. The bell dinged to signal his parting.
    Peter stood stock-still, wondering that he was alive and thanking God over and over again. He looked at the clock. 11:10 PM. Every moment from now on was a gift from God.
    His gift was already two minutes old when he thought to push the ro b bery alarm button located under the register drawer.
     
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