"Good night," the bar manager said, as he tapped a stack of bills on their side to even them out. The waitress dumped another pile of crumpled bills, coins and receipts on his desk.

"Good as any other," she said. The manager paused in his count and looked up from beneath a heavy forehead.

"Something wrong sweetie," he asked.

"No," she said and left the office, heading back to the front. The manager watched her walk away, thinking about what her ass looked like twenty years ago, and smiling to himself. He finished counting the money she'd dumped and dropped most of it in in the steel case. He kept three hundred dollars aside, put it into brown envelope and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

He was just about to close and lock the strongbox, when he heard a noise in the doorway.

"You decide to be a little friendlier," he said as he looked up.

But instead of the waitress, a man in a ski mask stood there, pointing a revolver at him.

"Close that and it'll be the last thing you do,"