Ten After Closing

by Jessica Bayliss

  Snap out of it. You lost her already. Don’t lose Becky, too.

  Maybe he and Becky were always destined to end, but hell if he was prepared to let her go tonight. He tightened the hug, and Becky’s arms squeezed into the minute space between them so she could rest her palms on his chest.

  Then she pushed away.

  The strength seeped out of him, and he let his own arms fall to his sides, trying to catch Becky’s gaze as she stepped back.

  One step.

  Two steps.

  With the third, a wall slipped into the empty space between their bodies. Though invisible, it carried the heft of lead, separating him from her warmth, blocking the flow of air to his lungs. The reek of basement doubled, and the atmosphere curdled around him, no longer cool and musty, but raw, clammy. Rotten. He marveled that he could still breathe.

  “Maybe we should skip the party,” he suggested. “Talk this through.”

  “No.”

  “So it’s all over, then?” His voice came out shaky, weak. “Just like that? Here?”

  “I’m done, Scott. Done coming second to everything else in your life. School. Your parents. This place. They call, and you jump. Your mom. Your boss. You jump for everyone except me. You don’t even ask questions. You just do what they ask. I’m tired of going out alone, explaining to my friends over and over why you’re late or making excuses when you don’t show up at all. I’m done with you changing plans at the last minute.”

  “You know how it is for me.”

  She nodded, just once. “I know, and I’m sorry, Scott. I really am.” Her expression softened, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Maybe Scott didn’t love her the way he should, but he knew her, and she’d just given herself away. If she was uncertain, this could be his last chance.

  But in the next second, her face closed off again. She shut her eyes, avoiding his glance. “I can understand it, but I don’t have to like it. And I don’t have to deal with it anymore.”

  “Real nice,” he said. “Real compassionate.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Whatever. If you want to be everyone’s martyr, fine, but I’m done suffering with you.”

  He clenched his fists—his jaw, too—and forced his next words out. “All right, then. You’re leaving for Portland in a couple months. If we’re careful, we won’t need to see each other again.”

  “Good.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs. “I mean it. Stay away from me.” Without another word, she stomped up the steps and out of sight.

  He almost followed her, almost chased her into the night out to her car, where he could have tried to convince her to change her mind. He’d have blown off the rest of this shift and gone to Brian’s party. Screw Sylvie and Oscar. If they wanted to fire him, fine.

  But Oscar and Sylvie were two people in his life who gave as much as they took. Besides, he needed the money. His family needed the money, and this job was the one thing that hadn’t blown up in his face.

  Yet.

  So Scott did what she asked. He stood in the basement, giving her time to stretch the space between them as far as she could before whatever cord still bound them snapped, leaving them alone again.

  3

  WINNY

  ELEVEN MINUTES AFTER CLOSING

  I’m not even supposed to be here.

  For the tenth time, I scan the room for Scott as the gunshot echoes off the black and white floor tiles.

  So loud.

  The man fired only once, but my ears ring until the ringing turns into a buzz.

  Like a gymnast, Oscar vaults over the counter, scattering organic chocolate bars and flinging a wire basket of apples and bananas to the ground. “Winny, move.” He tugs my arm and tries to shove me behind him, but my legs don’t want to work, and I almost fall over.

  At the register, a woman stands, clutching a paper bag, eyes darting from the men to Oscar and back again. The only other person in the place, an old guy with white hair and a white beard, sits frozen at his table with a book open before him, one finger still resting on a page, a half-drunk mug of tea at his elbow. Chai, I’m pretty sure. Its perfume greeted me when I came in, but now the sulfur stink of gunfire blots out the delicate aroma. The man observes the scene before him like he’s watching a movie.

  But this is no movie.

  Oscar needs to stop these men. Why doesn’t he do something? Why doesn’t somebody do something?

  “Everyone stay right where you are.” It’s the skinny guy, and he’s grinning. “Show us your hands,” he says with a series of giggles.

  I shuffle to stand beside Oscar, but I can’t look at the men’s faces. If I ignore them, maybe they won’t notice me and will leave me alone. Oscar and Sylvie will calm them down, and they’ll go. It’ll be fine as long as I don’t look at them.

  I study Sylvie’s shirt instead, the same green CAFÉ FLORES polo worn by everyone who works here, but hers is new and crisp. Not faded like Scott’s. No lint fuzzies or pilling stuck to the fabric. Only fresh, smooth green cotton.

  I let my vision blur and some of the tension melts from my muscles, but the green line of Sylvie’s shoulders hitches. She’s sobbing. Even from here, it’s so obvious. I can’t do this, can’t watch her cry, even from behind.

  The floor can’t cry. I stare at the checkerboard at my feet. Much better.

  Si ou kouvri dife, w ap gen dife, my mom says inside my head. Always my mom and her Haitian Creole, which she uses mostly so she can pick at my life choices. My mess-ups. If you cover a fire, you still have a fire.

  I don’t care. I stare at the floor anyway.

  How can this be happening? And where’s Scott? I want him here next to me. I shouldn’t want that, though. If I’m his friend, if I care for him, I should want him to be safe, on his way home or to Brian’s.

  Please, God, let him have gone home.

  Please, God, let him still be here, hiding somewhere.

  He was here when I arrived; that I know for sure. He answered when Sylvie called down the basement stairs. So where is he now?

  I crane my neck to peer behind the counter through the windows in the doors to the kitchen, but it’s no good. The glare from the rainbow-swirl shades of the pendant lights obscures the glass.

  “Ryan,” Sylvie says in a liquid-choked voice. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  “Too late, big sis. You had your chance. You blew it.”

  “Twitch, check the kitchen,” the guy with the sunglasses says.

  “Right, Toto.” Still giggling, the skinny guy—Twitch—marches by us.

  I hunch my shoulders, wrapping my arms tight around my waist. I don’t want any of him touching me as he goes by, not even the breeze he makes. It carries a sweet chemical smell that tries to pull a gag from my throat. I turn my head, but the odor lingers in my nose. When the kitchen door swishes shut behind him, I relax my arms and try to take a deep breath, but the air keeps getting stuck halfway down.

  Twitch’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Look what we have here.” More laughter, high and breathy.

  My skin crawls. This guy is having fun. This is fun to him.

  “Let go of me!”

  Scott!

  Relief rolls through me when I see him. And then a wave of guilt. Scott strains and jerks against Twitch’s grasping hands, though it’s a wonder the guy can hold him with those bone-thin arms.

  Sylvie’s still crying, but silently now. “What are you going to do? Please don’t hurt anyone.”

  “You had your chance,” Ryan says again in a distant, trailing voice, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Two months ago, I came to you with a prime opportunity, but you said no, even though it would have set me up—set both of us up—for a good long time. Then, yesterday, I came to you for help, and you wouldn’t give me a dime.” Something in his eyes hardens. He turns his gaze on his sister. “You wouldn’t give it, so now I have to take it.”

  “You scumbag.” Oscar lunges for Ryan. Ryan can’t aim in t
ime, and he knows it; his face tightens as if he’s about to jump into a freezing cold swimming pool.

  But Toto has his gun ready.

  I look from the barrel to his face, and see myself reflected in the mirrors of his sunglasses. When he fires, I scream and jump back, because I know that bullet is coming for me.

  But it isn’t me the bullet finds.

  With the report of the shot still echoing in the small space, Oscar lets out a bark of pain and crumples to the ground. Sylvie is trying to scream, or maybe she’s gagging.

  “What the fuck, Toto?” Ryan says. “You shot him! Not that I mind seeing this asshole taken down off his high horse, but this puts a real dent in our quick in-and-out plan.”

  Toto only shrugs. “We have to make sure they know who’s in charge.” He glares at Oscar, who’s too busy eyeing his leg, grimacing in pain, to argue.

  Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Ryan paces a five-foot line. “Okay, new plan. We just need a new plan. What are we going to do?” But his attention is snagged by Twitch, who’s back behind the counter. “Shit!” Ryan smacks Toto’s arm and points. “Look what you’ve done! He’s freaking out.”

  Eyes glazed over, pupils huge, Twitch raises his gun. “We won’t let them get us. We’ll show them.”

  Toto swears under his breath. “Twitch, man. Chill. Don’t do anything stupid. Stick to the plan.”

  “The plan? What part of the plan is that?” Ryan asks, flapping his hand in Oscar’s direction.

  “Shut up, Ryan,” Toto shouts.

  Twitch is still muttering nonsense I can’t quite catch. “. . . ether . . . they know . . . can’t let them . . .”

  “Twitch, just chill, okay?” But Toto’s words come too late, and he’s too far away to stop what happens next. Without bothering to aim, Twitch fires off four shots so fast they blur together.

  To my left, Scott pulls free and ducks behind the counter. Sylvie drops. Me too, I guess, because I’m on the ground eye-to-eye with the lady by the register, who’s now sprawled on the floor next to us. She’s still clutching her paper bag as if her hands haven’t caught on to the current state of affairs. As if they don’t know they can let go now, rest.

  Because the woman they belong to is dying from the bullet that tore through her neck.

  “Twitch, man! What did you do?” Toto shouts through the painful ringing in my ears. He straightens from his sudden crouch and lunges toward the counter.

  “What? What?” Twitch protests. “It was the ether. We had to stop them. You fired, I thought you needed my help.”

  “You pick today to go all delusional on me? Damn meth heads. Gimme that, you tweaked-out motherfucker.” Toto wrestles the gun from Twitch’s hand and turns to survey the damage. “Aw, man.”

  I can’t stop staring at the bag. Just a brown paper bag filled with bagels, or maybe a sandwich. It’s so normal—until the paper begins turning red. Black dots are swimming in front of my eyes. The floor’s not safe anymore, so I search for somewhere else to rest my gaze. But nowhere’s safe. The ringing in my ears—I can focus on that. It’s dropped in pitch a little, might almost be white noise, like what you use to relax at night before bed.

  But everyone is moving and shouting. Everything is chaos, and I can’t stop it from breaking through.

  Twitch finally sees the dead woman. “Oh, shit,” he whispers.

  “Maggie!” Sobbing, Sylvie tries to go to her, but Toto is faster. He grabs Sylvie under one arm, hauls her up, and shoves her toward the counter until her back strikes one of the black vinyl-topped bar stools. She ignores the jolt and reaches for Oscar, who’s still on the floor, clutching his thigh, red seeping between his fingers.

  So much red. It’s everywhere.

  “Don’t move,” Toto growls, and Sylvie freezes. He looms over me and Oscar, jerking the muzzle of his gun toward where Sylvie stands. “Up. Over there. Both of you.”

  I try to stand, but only make it to my knees. Dark pixels sizzle in my vision and mix with the blood coming from Oscar’s bullet wound.

  A frickin’ bullet wound.

  Oscar struggles on the floor in front of me. When he lets go of his leg, the blood flows faster, causing the black spots clouding my vision to expand and the floor to tilt under my knees.

  “Help him,” Ryan barks at me.

  “What?” My voice is too loud in my ears, like I’m wearing noise-canceling headphones.

  Ryan rolls his eyes and sighs. “Help him up.”

  Putting his weight on me, Oscar is able to get his uninjured leg underneath him and hobble to the stools. He barely has enough time to lean against one of the spinning discs before Sylvie throws her arms around his neck.

  This can’t be happening. In real life, people don’t have bullets in their legs or lie dead on the floor.

  I’m supposed to be with Janey and the rest of my friends at Brian’s end-of-the-year party. Or home where my mother told me to stay. These guys don’t understand. The door calls to me. I should be out there, on the sidewalk in the humid night. Janey will probably be back any second. She’ll realize how dumb she acted and come back for me. I’ve got to be waiting when she pulls up.

  A force yanks my wrist, triggering a jolt that travels all the way to my shoulder. I pull against it, but it won’t let go. Hating to slide my gaze away from the door, I twist and see fingers wrapped around my wrist—strong, tan fingers against my brown skin. I follow them with my eyes and find the rest of the hand, then the wrist bones, dark hair trailing up the arm.

  “Winsome,” Oscar hisses, “what are you doing? Come back here.”

  But I have to get to the door.

  Except the door is blocked by three men with guns. What am I even thinking?

  When my legs finally catch up to what my brain is saying, I shuffle to Oscar’s side.

  “You, behind the counter,” Toto says, “stand up. Nice and slow.”

  Scott! I almost forgot he was here. On the other side of the counter he gets to his feet, hands raised alongside his head.

  “Out here where I can see you,” Toto orders. “Man, someone close the goddamn blinds. Do I have to do everything myself?”

  Ryan rushes to one set of window treatments while Twitch gets the other. I want to cover my ears against the twangy, metallic clang when they crash shut.

  “The ones on the door, too,” Toto says. “And when you’re done with that, we need to lock this place up tight.”

  “She keeps the keys by the register,” Ryan tells Twitch.

  Twitch does not look good, and he’s not giggling now. Pale to begin with, the rest of the blood has drained from his scabby face. When he finishes with the windows, he grabs the keys and takes care of the front door.

  The click of the lock sliding into place makes my eyes prickle with tears.

  Pocketing the keys, Twitch stands at the end of the counter closest to the door and the register and stares at the dead woman on the floor. Just stands there, still as a wax figure—all except his hands, which never stop moving. With his thumbs, he taps each finger—pointer to pinky—then back again, over and over, while his stare remains fixed on the woman at his feet.

  No matter what, I’m not looking at her. I don’t care. I’m not looking at her.

  “We’ve got to get her out of here,” Twitch says.

  “Oh.” Toto throws his arms up, waving the gun in his hand. “Now I’m getting advice from a guy who just killed this lady.”

  “You’re the one who gave him a gun,” Ryan shouts. “I told you this would happen. I told you not to bring him.”

  Toto turns on Ryan. “You also said three people, max.” He shoves Ryan in the chest, and he stumbles backward.

  “Hey, don’t blame me. It was ten after closing. How was I supposed to know they’d still have customers?”

  “That was your job, man.” Wordlessly, Ryan backs toward the counter as Toto advances. “To scout out the place, learn the routine.”

  Going so red, his freckles darken, Ryan spits hi
s words right back into Toto’s face. “I wanted to watch from the street, but you wouldn’t wait. I was right about the cook and sandwich guy being gone, wasn’t I?”

  “Good for you. You got two out of eight. You want a trophy now?” Toto stares Ryan down, breathing hard through his nostrils.

  “You know where I’m supposed to be right now,” Toto says.

  Ryan rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Rochelle will wait.”

  They keep arguing, but it fades into a meaningless drone as I stare at the door. No matter how much I squint, I can’t tell if the glow around the closed blinds is from street lights or a business across the way. Or a car—Janey’s, maybe.

  Moun ki bezwen deyò chache chemen pòt, my mom says in my head. He who must go out must search for the door. Yeah, that’s super-helpful. The door is right there—right there—but totally out of reach.

  And I’m not even supposed to be here.

  4

  WINNY

  FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING

  The slam of Becky’s car door rang in Winny’s eardrum. They were so caught.

  “Shit!” Janey hissed. “Down! Get down!” Janey tugged at her arm, and Winny fell back across the center console, one leg still dangling out the open door.

  “Ouch, you freak!” But Winny’s giggles were a perfect match to Janey’s.

  “Is she gone?”

  “Um, lying down here. You look—” Stupid, crappy timing. The last thing Winny needed tonight was for Scott’s brand-new ex to find her here, about to swoop in to catch him on the rebound.

  “Okay, hold on.” Janey squirmed and, using her driver’s seat as a shield, peeked around it through the back window.

  “You know,” Winny said, half-lying and half-sitting in the passenger seat, “if she did see you, it wouldn’t be a big deal. It’s me who needs to stay hidden.”

  “She’s just sitting in her car. Oh, God! She’s looking this way.” Janey ducked behind the seat again. “And I don’t want her seeing me, either. She might put two and two together.”