by Nic Saint
Then, when the man didn’t stick em up but kept on rubbing his eyes, she aimed the gun at the ceiling, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 3
Rick Dawson was having a bad day. Not only had his editor just called to tell him he was fired, but he’d also just discovered that in spite of his determination to stop smoking, a pack of Newports had miraculously appeared in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t the heart to throw it out so he’d smoked first one, then another, and now knew he would have to smoke the whole pack before he could even think about quitting.
He was a handsome young man and with his rugged good looks, crooked smile, shaggy blond hair and piercing blue eyes, he had talked many a person into divulging secrets they should have known better than to divulge. It was a trait that had helped him greatly in his career as a reporter for the New York Chronicle.
He’d come to Happy Bays both for the happiness the small town’s name promised and to work on his piece on Chazz Falcone, that well-known real estate tycoon and, in his estimable opinion, first-rate crook. Staying at the Happy Bays Inn, coincidentally the only inn in town, he’d been feverishly burning the midnight oil when Suggs Potter, the New York Chronicle’s editor-in-chief, had called to tell him his services were no longer required, nor was the Chazz Falcone piece, which had been nixed.
So here he was, trudging through Happy Bays in the pouring rain, grumbling strange oaths under his breath, and generally feeling sorry for himself and a world where editors-in-chief answering to unlikely names like Suggs could sabotage the careers of brilliant reporters such as himself.
A rumbling sensation in his stomach told him that his body needed more than cigarettes to live on, and as it so happened that he was passing a deli, he decided to stock up on liquor. He might not be a reporter any longer but he was still an artist and as everyone knows, artists subsist on cigarettes and alcohol.
Entering the store and shaking the rain off his person like a mangy mutt, he took one good look at the place and set a course for the liquor section he thought he could hear whispering to him in the back. And he was just musing on Jack Daniel’s perennial appeal, when a loud voice crashed into his meditations.
Yes, there it was again. Some guy yelling. Then it seemed as if the world ended. Loud screams of agony were added to the chorus and then a loud bang assaulted his eardrums.
“Christ!” he yelled, recognizing the sound of a firearm being discharged. Instantly, he hit the deck. As he studied the checkered tile floor, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his journalistic instincts kicked in. He’d been in Iraq, after all, and Afghanistan. He’d even survived more than one Black Friday shopping with his mother.
Crawling across the floor the way he’d learned from a friendly marine, he slithered toward the source of the gunfire. Finally, he reached the end of the aisle and ducked his head out. There, pointing a large gun at some hapless bum, stood a robust woman, her face a mask of determination while she held the weapon in both hands.
Poor guy, he thought. He’d never met a stick-up woman before but he knew just how her victim must feel. He’d once joined a troop of marines doing reconnaissance when they’d come under fire. He’d sweated bullets and wasn’t too proud to admit he’d nearly wetted himself.
This guy hadn’t wetted himself as near as he could tell, but he was definitely sweating. His face was simply covered with some sort of white secretion.
He surveyed the scene, trying to decide what to do. A little voice in the back of his mind told him to stay put. For one thing he was unarmed and at an obvious disadvantage, and for another he was a reporter not a cop, so heroics wasn’t required on his part.
But then again, he couldn’t just let the poor schmuck die.
Deciding he had the element of surprise, and priding himself on his great aim—he’d been something of a prodigy in Little League—he selected a can of Bush’s Baked Beans from the rack behind him and weighed it tentatively. It had the kind of heft he was looking for and he decided it was go time for Rick Dawson.
He drew a bead on his target. He only had one shot at this, so he made sure his aim was true. Finally, with a soft grunt, he let rip with all the power of his right arm.
The can sailed through the air and described a perfect arc. Before the woman knew what hit her, Condon Bush’s gift to bean lovers had done its work and the gun was slammed from her hand.
She let out a yelp of surprise, and the figure kneeling at her feet saw his chance. Moving quickly and without hesitation, he went for the gun. And he would have reached it if the woman hadn’t raised her foot and given the man a kick in the trouser seat that landed him in the prepared foods section.
Rick winced. That must have hurt. Cool as dammit, the woman picked up the gun, and towered over the man, her face set in an expression of contempt.
“Try that again and it’s game over, buster!” she thundered.
Rick couldn’t help but admire her sheer chutzpah. She acted as if she owned the place. Shaking his head, he took out his cell and snapped a few quick shots of this latter-day Bonnie Parker.
He figured if he sent these to Suggs Potter, the editor just might reconsider Rick’s untimely termination.
He crouched down and out of sight, not wanting to be discovered by the mad bandit, and while possible headlines presented themselves to his practiced reporter’s brain, he made sure to keep a low profile. He didn’t want to miss a thing but he didn’t want to become her next target either. He’d risked life and limb trying to save the poor bastard now immersed in Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo, but he wasn’t going to be so foolish again.
The woman was a seasoned pro, that much was obvious.
Moments later, he heard the telltale siren of an approaching police car and he relished the coming showdown. He wondered how the boys in blue would respond to this situation. And he had a first-row seat. Talk about luck!
He picked up a Dr. Pepper and a bag of Pop Crunch and hunkered down. This was going to be a great show and he might as well sit back and enjoy it.
CHAPTER 4
Rafi Papandreou stared frantically from one security monitor to the next. Though he’d never really expected his deli to be the target of a hostile takeover by armed bandits, he’d heeded his mother-in-law’s warning several months before and had installed the expensive security system. Now he was holed up in his ‘safe room’ behind the counter, the door locked and bolted, and was trying to assess the damage this gang was wreaking on his precious store.
Rafi’s Deli had only been open for business six months when a thunderstorm wrecked the shop window. Barely a few months later there had been that idiot who’d plowed his truck into the shop and then there was the freak accident with the tree being hit by lightning and taking out the front window yet again.
And now this.
He was starting to believe Mami was right when she told him the place he’d selected to launch his business was cursed. He hadn’t believed it before, but this fourth attack was clearly a sign that she’d been onto something.
According to her, he didn’t have a head for business anyway and should have been a garbage man. It was safe to say Mami didn’t think her son-in-law was marriage material. Mixed marriages were apparently not her bag and when her daughter Leticia had first deposited Rafi on the mat, she’d stared at him as if he was something that had crawled out from under a flat stone.
Her behavior throughout that first meeting had been to induce him to return to the rock which she figured had been his home. The relationship had continued strained until Leticia announced she’d selected him as her husband-to-be. When finally the greatest day of his life had arrived—the day he walked down the aisle to link his lot to Leticia’s—he’d stiffened when the priest had asked the congregation if anyone wished to object to the union. Both he and Leticia had turned to Mami, but the latter had merely smiled sweetly from under the black veil she’d selected to wear. She was, after all, in mourning for losing a daughter.
Wh
en he’d started Rafi’s Deli it was mainly to show his beloved that he was capable of so much more than Mami gave him credit for. He wanted to keep Leticia in the style she’d grown accustomed to and already saw himself as the next Sam Walton, Rafi’s Delis popping up all over the place like warts on a hog.
Now, two years after opening what was still the one and only Rafi’s Deli, he was making good coin and things were going swimmingly. And now this crazed maniac had come charging in, waving his gun around and shouting something about handing over all his cash. Before the man got to the ‘life’ part of ‘Your money or your life’, Rafi had pressed the big red alarm button concealed beneath the counter, which locked the till, and had ducked for cover inside his safe room.
The unsavory-looking crook had cursed a great deal and then decided to venture into the store to hold up any and all customers he could find!
Wide-eyed, Rafi watched the altercation between the gangster and one of his most cherished clients, Felicity Bell. To his chagrin, just when he was about to break into song and praise the Lord that Miss Bell had managed against all odds to subdue her assailant, he discovered that there was a second gunman! This foul accomplice, dressed in a trench coat, was holed up in aisle two, and using a stack of canned beans to take potshots at Felicity.
He balled his fists and raised his eyes heavenward, wondering what would happen next. He just hoped that the authorities would arrive on the scene promptly and put an end to the suspense. It was quite frankly killing him.
CHAPTER 5
Felicity was staring down at the man and starting to think she was a little out of her depth. Not only had he apparently brought along an accomplice but the guy was pummeling her with cans of beans!
A quick calculation told her the man was probably unarmed. Why else would he use baked beans as a weapon?
Her patience was wearing thin. Not only because she was being attacked from all sides, but she hadn’t eaten since she left Bell’s. Nothing soured her mood more effectively than an appetite she couldn’t satiate.
Fortunately, she could already hear the police sirens coming closer. The cavalry was on its way and she heaved a sigh of relief, knowing the ordeal was almost over.
The only thing that caused her concern was that the crook hiding in aisle two would manage to negotiate a quick getaway. She stared from the man at her feet to where she knew his associate was lurking and thought long and hard about a strategy to apprehend the second shooter before he made a run for it.
She wanted them both to pay for their crimes.
She thought perhaps it was her grumbling stomach talking, but she wanted to see the man suffer. That can of beans had hurt her hand. She barked to the man at her feet, “Stay!” He nodded grudgingly. She then tiptoed to aisle two, keeping the gun trained on Gangster No. 1.
She stealthily made her way over to Gangster No. 2. She didn’t really have a game plan but hoped her consuming desire to nail the bastard would be sufficient to overpower him. As she approached the aisle, she could see the tip of his shoe. Great. He was still there. It was then that she heard a strange sound. Munching.
Shocked and appalled, she realized the man was feasting on Rafi’s wares. Anger made her see red dots and suddenly a plan formed in her mind. She glanced up at the huge pile of canned baby peas, then to the figure lurking beneath stuffing his face, and she gritted her teeth. With a quick shove she tipped over the entire pile. The cans tumbled down, like lemmings off a cliff, pelting the man beneath.
Howls of pain rose up. This was her cue. Darting around the corner, she yelled, “Stick ‘em up, punk!”
She’d always wanted to do that, and the satisfaction was considerable. The man didn’t hesitate one second but instantly obeyed her simple command.
He stuck em up.
The next few moments were spent in idle meditation on the fact that crime doesn’t pay. She leisurely swung the gun from Gangster No. 1 to Gangster No. 2, making sure they didn’t get it into their heads to try any funny business. The one buried under baby peas was a particularly nasty one. She could tell from the hostile gleam in his eye. A career criminal, she was sure of it. Though he was good-looking in a scruffy sort of way, she didn’t want to take any chances, and kept him covered and holding up his hands until the police arrived.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, Virgil Scattering came charging in, along with one of his associates.
“Felicity!” the tall and gangly police officer cried out. “What the heck are you doing?” His mustache quivered in astonishment at the sight of the two bruised bad guys.
“What does it look like I’m doing? These guys were robbing the store and I managed to overpower them.”
“I’m sorry,” Gangster No. 2 piped up, “but that’s nonsense.” He gestured to Felicity. “She’s the bad guy. Can’t you see the huge-ass gun she’s waving?”
She stared, shocked at the sheer gall of the man. She studied him closely. Apart from the contusions on his brow, and the cans of peas still covering his shoulders and chest, he wasn’t too badly looking. For a gangster, that was. He sported a tousled, blond mop of hair that flopped down over his ears and gave him the look of a shaggy dog. His eyes were a clear blue and as they burned into hers, they seemed electric. The rest of his visage wasn’t too hard to look at either. His nose was slightly crooked, which lent him a goofy air, and his chin was hewn like Henry Cavill’s.
“Don’t listen to him,” she advised Virgil. “He and Smelly Guy over there are in this together.” No pair of electric blue eyes would make her alter her version of the truth. If he wanted to convince the police he was a victim and not the lowlife he really was, he had another thing coming.
The man folded his arms, causing more cans to roll to the floor. “Did you or did you not hold up that poor guy who’s lying face down on the floor?”
“Virgil,” she said, her patience wearing thin, “are you simply going to stand there or are you going to arrest this man?”
“Virgil,” the man spoke, “if you arrest me you’re making a big mistake.”
Officer Scattering, not the most forceful cop on the Happy Bays police force, scratched his scalp as he watched the back and forth between them like a tourist at Wimbledon. “I, erm…”
“Virgil, this man and that man,” she said, swinging her gun from Gangster No. 1 to Gangster No. 2, “were robbing this store when I managed to get the upper hand. Just ask him.”
At this, she swung her gun to Rafi Papandreou, the store owner, who’d joined the debate. At the sight of the gun, he quickly stuck up his hands. “Don’t shoot!”
Felicity rolled her eyes. “I won’t. I promise. Now tell Virgil what happened.”
“Yes,” Virgil echoed, “tell me what happened.”
Rafi, lowering his hands, now used them to rake through his thinning mane. He was a nervous little man of about forty and this store meant the world to him. Which perhaps explained his habit of talking about it—and himself—in the third person. “Well, that man enter Rafi’s Deli with big gun pointing at Rafi, but through quick feet Rafi made getaway to safe room and lock himself. On cameras Rafi saw gangster threaten Miss Bell, but she turn all the tables. Then second gunman approach Miss Bell and hit her with beans! She knock him out with peas! End of story for big, bad gangster.” He grinned happily, displaying a nice row of gleaming white teeth.
Virgil seemed satisfied. “Well, I guess that settles it.” He was rattling his handcuffs.
Gangster No. 2 didn’t seem convinced. “This is all a bunch of hooey. I came in here and saw this woman pointing a gun at that man! So I decided to do my civic duty and try to stop her!”
Felicity rolled her eyes. “What a load of—”
“Crackpot!” cried Rafi defiantly. He pointed at the man. “He gangster!”
“But I’m not! I’m a reporter for the New York Chronicle, and—”
Virgil gave him a dark frown. “I think this has gone on long enough. You’re under arrest, sir. Now please come along quietl
y.”
“But that’s bullshit!” the man spat. “I’m a reporter for the—”
“Come along,” Virgil repeated.
Rafi and Felicity exchanged a look of quiet relief, and watched the two men being cuffed and led from the store and into the paddy wagon. Finally, the harrowing episode was over and the healing could begin. Grasping her shopping basket from the floor, she popped a strawberry into her mouth.
It hit the spot.
CHAPTER 6
As Felicity was walking home, the thought occurred to her that she might have overdone things back at Rafi’s. After all, she’d been waving that gun around like some crazed amazon woman. She might have accidentally shot someone in the foot or leg or some other, more vital, organ. As she proceeded along Colbert Street toward Stanwyck Street where she lived, she suddenly broke into a cold sweat. She’d actually fired that gun, hadn’t she? Into the ceiling. Above which lived…Rafi’s family!
Frantically, she reached for her phone.
“Rafi!” she cried the moment the line connected. “I didn’t hit anyone, did I?”
“Hit anyone, Miss Bell?” Rafi sounded surprised. “You hit bad guy. Baby peas straight to noggin. Bull’s eye!”
“No, I mean did I hit anyone when I fired that gun? Remember? I fired off one shot at the ceiling? Oh, God, please tell me I didn’t hit Leticia or the baby.”
“Oh!” Rafi chuckled. “They’re fine! Perfectly fine! Ceiling thick concrete. No bullet penetrate. Leticia fine. Baby Jesus fine.” He hesitated. “Mami fine.”
These words were spoken with considerably less enthusiasm, as if Rafi had secretly fostered the hope Mami wouldn’t have survived the attack. A missed opportunity, he seemed to feel.
“Thank God,” she breathed from the bottom of her heart. “I was so worried.”
“Everything fine,” he repeated. “Only hurt canned beans. Minor bumps and bruises.” He laughed and Felicity joined him. An episode like the one they’d both suffered through creates a bond, and she knew they would spend many a moment in the near future reminiscing about their narrow escape.
