[Jimmy and Marco break into the McGill's abandoned corner store to set up another con during their reunion. Jimmy retrieves a Band-Aid box from the ceiling and empties a pile of rare coins onto the counter]
[picking up a coin] Boom! Indian-head penny! Alright, that's worth about three bucks; we polish it up, run the coin game.
Nice. We get a hundred fifty bucks, easy.
Hundred and fifty? We got a hundred ten for a plain vanilla half-dollar. This-this is actually rare—I mean, you can see it, y'know! Three hundred, easy.
Oh, three hundred. Me likey. Now you're gonna tell me what your coin collection was doing up there.
Uh... [huffs] It's a long story. Let's get out of here.
[They freeze as they hear a police car drive by.]
Alright, now let's hit it.
No, there might be another one.
Alright, then give. What's the deal with the coins?
[chuckles] Well, uh... I was what, 12 or so, and I was working the register. Guy comes in, buys a box of Ivory Flakes and a sixer of Old Style. He pays with a couple bucks and [holds up coin] this. Second I see it, I know what it is: It's a George Washington silver. I tell my dad, "Pop, this quarter is rare, it's worth four bucks." Barely get the words out of my mouth, he hightails it outta here to give it back. He can't find the guy, so he tapes it to the side of the register; he's hoping that this guy will come back, so he can return it! After about a week, he starts talking about giving it to Father Mahoney for the poor box, so I make it disappear. Then after that, every day after school, I'm checking the till. If something catches my eye, I stick it in the box, put it up there for good luck. [clears throat] So much for good luck.
It's a crying shame they lost this place.
They never should have bought it in the first place. My dad didn't have it in him.
...What do you mean? Your folks worked so hard.
Yeah, they worked hard; they worked a lot of hours for a lot of years for nothing.
I dunno, Jimmy. Y'know, a lot of customers, everyone liked him.
Everybody liked him 'cause he was a soft touch. Y'know, every deadbeat in the neighborhood owed him money. You come in here with a sob story, you leave with a pat on the back and a gallon of milk. He could've made it work. He could've sold beer and cigarettes to the kids from Mary Margaret's but... heh, oh no, not him. [sniff] He was never gonna do what he had to do.
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