Peter’s voice, as if a ventriloquist’s, came from behind the counter: “They always park in the alley but usually come in together. I don’t know why he dropped Halloran off, first.”
“He had the trots,” I said.
“What?” the little guy behind me asked, as if surprised I could talk.
“The runs. Diarrhea.”
“Ain’t that the shits,” the hunkered-down leader said, with no irony. Then thought glimmered in his eyes. “Go check the back, Bud.”
“I thought you said no names, Frank,” Bud said contemptuously. “Duh!”
Frank pulled off his ski mask; he was hatchet-faced, pockmarked, with dead gray eyes and wheat-color hair that covered his ears.
“They got us pinned in here,” Frank said glumly. “We’re gonna have a hostage situation soon. They’ll know who we are, all right.”
“I told you we shoulda stole a car,” Bud said, shaking his head even as he pulled off his ski mask.
He was round-faced, an odd shape to top such a skinny frame. His head was almost shaved — black five o’clock shadow covering his skull, skinhead style. His acne hadn’t turned to pockmarks yet, and his brown eyes were alive, in a stupid sort of way, under heavy eyebrows.
They were kids — just kids, maybe seventeen, eighteen at most. But for street kids, into drugs, as I assumed they were, that was plenty old. Ancient, in some circles.
Frank pointed his gun at Bud, gesturing as if it were a finger. “Check out the back door. If it looks clear, maybe we can make a break for it, ’fore those other cops get dug in.”
The loudness of the sirens made that unlikely, but Bud scrambled off to the backroom, pushing open the door, stepping around Halloran; then the door swung shut, swaying as Halloran’s feet disappeared, Bud pulling him out of the way.
“You left your car running?” I asked Frank. “Out front?”
“Yeah,” Frank said, wincing with irritation. Hostages weren’t supposed to talk: they were supposed to be quiet and scared.
I said, “You thought it’d still be waiting for you? In Chicago?”
“We left it locked.”
“You left your car out front, locked, with the motor running? No wonder you gave up on keeping your identities from the cops.”
“Shut up, lady.”
“Can I sit?”
“Huh?”
“Can I sit? Pregnant women can’t crouch long, you know.”
“Sit. Sit! And shut the fuck up!”
I sat, my swollen, stretch-pants-covered legs angling out before me like I was inviting somebody to make a wish. I could hear whimpering in the adjacent aisle, but I couldn’t tell if it was the mother or the little ballerina. My purse, nestled behind the ILLINOIS LOTTERY display, beckoned me; but I couldn’t come.
Two explosions echoed from the backroom — gunshots — following by a clanging sound, and Bud saying, “Shit!” again and again, at varying volumes, with varying inflections.
Frank sat up, neck straining like a turtle having a look around; the sound of scraping, wood against concrete, sang from the back room.
Cueball Bud came running out, saying, “Cops back there already!”
And, eyes wild in his round face, he crawled on his hands and knees over to join his partner and me in the nearby aisle, the shiny little revolver in one hand, like a child’s toy.
“Cops everywhere,” he said breathlessly.
“Can they get in?”
“No. Windows are barred back there and the door’s steel; I bolted it up, and blocked it with some crates just to make sure. They ain’t gettin’ in.”
“Like you’re not getting out,” I said.
Round-faced Bud looked at me astounded. “Who the fuck asked you, fatso?”
I shrugged. “Just thought you better face facts.”
Hatchet-faced Frank said, “Such as?”
“Such as you’re in the midst of a full-blown hostage crisis.” I leaned out in the aisle, nodded toward the street, where the blue revolving lights of several cop cars cut surrealistic paths in the night, and a big Winnebago-style vehicle was rolling in. “Take a look.”
Frank and Bud glanced above a row of corn flakes boxes to have a peek. “What the hell’s that?” Frank asked.
“That,” I said, “is a Mobile Command Unit. Before long they’ll be calling you on the phone from there — to start negotiations.”
“Negotiations,” Bud said stupidly, eyes tight.
I nodded. “So you fellas better decide what you want.”
“I just want outa here, Frank!” Bud said.
“It’s not that simple,” I said.
“What do you know, you fat cow!” Bud shouted, waving his shiny gun at me.
“Play your cards right,” I said, “you can trade us for your freedom.”
“She’s right,” Frank said thoughtfully.
“Well, I’m sicka hearin’ her voice!” Bud said.
Frank thought about that, too, but his expression turned darker. “You know... me, too. Get up and go into the next aisle, mommy — keep that brat and her old lady company.”
“You mind if I take a bathroom break first?” I asked.
“You gotta be kidding,” Frank said.
“I’m pregnant. I pee a lot. Excuse me for living.”
“I can do somethin’ about that,” Bud said with a sneer.
I smirked, then gestured with two open hands. “What say, boys? To pee or not to pee? That is the question.”
They just looked at me stupidly. I’m so frequently too hip for the room.
“Go ahead,” Frank said.
“But keep your fat ass away from that back door!” Bud blurted. “If I hear ya movin’ those crates, I’ll put a bullet in that belly and kill the both of you!”
I hauled myself up. “And here I was thinking of asking you to be the godfather.”
In the backroom, I could see that the pile of crates and boxes blocking the door were indeed something I couldn’t move without getting caught at it — even if I hadn’t been pregnant. Kneeling, I checked Halloran; he was dead, all right — on his back, an angled smeary stripe of red on the concrete indicating how he’d been dragged. Three bloody scorched wounds on his chest, poor bastard — I closed his eyes for him. Wished him God speed. His holster was empty; apparently Bud had taken Halloran’s piece, though I hadn’t noticed him having it — probably stuck under his Cubby coat. The officer’s nightstick, however, was still there. I plucked it from his belt, took it with me into the bathroom, where I again urinated (I hadn’t been lying about the need), even as I stuck the baton up my sweater sleeve, holding its tip in the heel of my hand.
Peter was sitting behind the counter; he gave me a pitiful look, and I whispered from the doorway, “Don’t you have a gun back there?”
And he shook his head no, looking ashamed.
He shouldn’t have, really: half the merchants who trade shots with stick-up men wind up dead. A fascinating statistic that didn’t mean diddly right now.
I came out of the backroom, and around the counter; near the LOTTERY sign, where my purse was tucked, I paused. Frank noticed me.
“Get back over in that other aisle,” he said, “and keep your big fat trap shut.”
I shrugged a response and left my purse where it was. Just didn’t want to take the chance.
I joined the mother in their aisle; it smelled of chemicals there and I glanced at the shelves and smiled. Then I sat next to the woman, who was huddled with her daughter, who clung to her mutely. The mother’s eyes were brimming with tears. She was stroking her daughter’s hair.
I sat. Legs stretched out before me.
The woman whispered harshly. “How can you talk to them?”
I shrugged.
“Just leave them alone!” the woman whispered. “Don’t say anything to them — you just make them mad!”