“Damn it.” Ryan lays down his box of bullets. “I’ll get it.”
The jingle of the bell stops him dead.
“Well, well, well. Looks like quite the party at Café Flores tonight, huh, boys?” Aaron’s lanky frame fills the doorway. At his back, a throng of men and one woman line up, ready for us.
Ready for war.
38
SCOTT
NINE HOURS AND FIFTY-SIX MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING
What the heck are you doing here on your day off, Scott?” Oscar asked.
Scott laughed. “Just can’t get enough of this place, I guess.”
“Want anything?”
“Whatever’s freshest.”
Oscar filled one of the green Café Flores mugs with the house blend and placed it before Scott. “Something’s wrong.” He narrowed his eyes. “I can tell.”
Keeping his focus on his coffee, Scott shrugged. The steamy brew turned his mouth bitter, matching his mood. He wasn’t sure if it was his conscience or fear; he just knew he was close to losing it.
“I’m fine,” he said after another swallow from his mug.
“Uh huh. If you want to talk . . .”
“Yeah, I know.”
Café Flores thrummed with the daily hustle and bustle—the chatter of patrons, the hissing gurgle of the milk steamer, and plinks and clinks of glasses and dishes. Soon it settled his nerves. Becky never got how he could be so okay with his work schedule, but the little restaurant was the only place where he truly felt relaxed. School was . . . well, school, and at home he was always jumping out of his skin. But in the café, where the air was scented with vanilla and mocha and herbs from the lunchtime sandwiches and the simmering soups in the kitchen, he could let down his guard.
The bell jangled and he heard the click of heels on the black and white checkered tile.
“One large latte, please,” a woman said, her French accent converting that everyday word—latte—into music.
“Mrs. Sommervil, right?”
She turned to survey him, an eyebrow raised.
“I’m Scott Bradley. I go to school with Winny. I met you back in the fall at the science fair.”
She smiled and nodded absently. But now her gaze fell on him, scrutinizing his face. Why had he even spoken to her? Because he needed a distraction. Maybe he was looking for an excuse to bail on the whole plan. He’d been agonizing over it for more than a week, and he’d sworn to himself that one way or another he’d find a way to put an end to his dad’s reign of terror. It wasn’t enough to get himself out from under that iron fist—he had to make sure his mom and sister were safe, too. But nothing had gone as he’d planned.
They were all still in the exact same place as before. Worse, maybe.
Mrs. Sommervil was still looking at him and he cleared his throat, scouring his brain for something to say. “She’s got that art thing today, right?”
“Art thing?”
“At that little gallery on the north end of Howe.”
Mrs. Sommervil’s brow wrinkled and her smile deepened. “That little gallery, right.”
“Her piece looks awesome. You must be so proud.” God, he sounded like a fifty-year-old at a PTA meeting. Real smooth.
“Yes, we’re very proud of our Winsome. She’s going into premed, you know.”
It was Scott’s turn to squint. “Oh. Yeah? Cool. I’m sure she’ll kill it.”
“Here you go.” Oscar placed Mrs. Sommervil’s cup on the counter.
After she paid her bill, she turned to Scott. “Take care, Mr. Bradley, and good luck to you. Where are you going to school next year? You were in Winsome’s grade, yes?”
He ducked his head, fiddling with the handle of his mug. “Yeah. I’m still mulling over my options.” He glanced at her and saw a slight tinge of smug satisfaction there. Heat spread from his palms, which were snugged around his coffee cup, and surged right to his head, where it flooded his face.
“You better not wait too long. Wè jodi a, men sonje demen. Live today, but plan for tomorrow. Opportunity has a way of escaping us if we don’t act.” She clicked her way across the café and out the door into the June sun.
“Whoa.” Oscar stared at the door and the retreating form of Winny’s mom on the other side of the glass. “She’s kind of intimidating, huh? Nothing like her daughter.”
“Yeah.” Scott knocked back the rest of his coffee, scalding his throat, but he barely felt it. “Intimidating, but she’s right.”
Oscar shrugged. “I guess.”
“See ya later. I’ve got to run.”
39
WINNY
TWO HOURS AND NINE MINUTES AFTER CLOSING
Aaron’s voice mixes with the memory of new-car smell and garlic, and I gag.
“You don’t mind that I brought a few friends, do you?” A leather jacket covers his tattoos now, except the one on his neck, which peeks out from under his collar.
Pairs of stomping feet clad in leather boots or retro Vans or fluorescent Nikes carry his crew inside. They line up at his back. The woman from before is there, too, her hair loose over her shoulders, which are bare aside from the straps of her black tank top.
They’re here early, which means the woman believed Scott’s note. I just wish I knew if that is a good thing or not.
The woman and how many men? One, two, three . . . seven. Eight in total.
Eight against six.
Toto and Ryan weren’t too far off. If we still had Twitch and Pavan, we’d be perfectly matched. Still, we might have a shot.
“How sweet,” Aaron says. “Your little friend is here. Hey, honey.” He winks at me.
“What the fuck?” Scott whispers.
“Not now.”
“You’re early, man,” Toto says. For the first time, his voice carries a hint of doubt, and I want to shout Ha! See how you like it? He moves in front of the gun buffet as if he can shield the table from Aaron’s view and wipe the memory from his brain.
Aaron shrugs. “Yeah, well, change of plans. Sorry. We’ll take our money now. Nice bullet wound, by the way. Is it new? Looks great on you.”
“I told you we don’t have the cash yet. Now, we had a plan, you and me. I can’t follow through if you go changing the rules without giving me notice. Call the Chef and tell him that we need more time.”
A creak of wood makes me turn my head. Oscar’s on his feet, plastic wrap gleaming from shin to mid-thigh, though what he thinks he’s going to be able to accomplish in his state is beyond me.
“More time to assemble your iron?” Aaron nods toward the table and its array.
“Those?” Toto throws a glance over his shoulder and pulls an expression that’s supposed to be all innocent, but he’s not fooling anyone in the room, not even himself.
A slight grin twitches at the corner of Aaron’s mouth.
“That’s got nothing to do with you,” Toto says. “This is for a different deal.”
“Really?” One of Aaron’s eyebrows rises and his slight grin grows into a full-on smirk. “Or maybe you need more time to train up your army there.” He points our way.
“Look.” Barely under control, Toto’s voice comes out as a growl. “If you just call the Chef and ask him—”
“No need.” The woman’s voice slices through Toto’s next words.
He squints, trying to see past Aaron. “Lady, you stay out of this.”
She shoves past the line of men, then levels her gaze at Toto, shaking her head almost as if she feels sorry for him. “You really thought you were something special, didn’t you, Darrel? Some little punk like you with some ludicrous plan.” She extends an arm in our direction. “Using this beat-up peanut gallery to defend you? Two kids, a chick, and Mr. Saran Wrap over there? Some army. As if they aren’t just waiting for a chance to kill you.”
“They’ll do what I tell them to do,” Toto says.
“And who’s this?” The woman strolls over to Twitch’s motionless form and nudges his shoulder with her foot. “
This one’s out of commission, I think. But I guess I know who gun number seven was for. Number eight was the old man, huh? The girl was right. Unbelievable.”
Toto tenses. The woman pauses a few feet in front of him, her gaze steady on his face. “When I read the note, at first I thought there’s no way these fools would try something so ridiculous. But here we are, and the evidence suggests our little doe-eyed friend was telling the truth.”
“What note?” Ryan asks, looking from Toto to the woman then to me.
“Lady,” Toto says. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but if the Chef wants his money—”
“Her money.”
“Oh, fuck,” Ryan whispers.
Toto’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
The woman takes one more step in his direction. “I said her money. And let me tell you, Darrel, she does want her money. She wants it very badly. So, what should she do? Put a bullet in you? Another one, that is?” The woman reaches behind her into the waistband of her pants and pulls out a gun.
“You’re the Chef?” Toto takes her in again, head to toe to head.
She makes an afraid so face, gun never wavering. “I don’t usually make a personal appearance at these little soirees, but after what I found out from our run-in earlier, I just had to come and see for myself.”
“Bullshit!”
“Toto. It’s over.” Ryan’s voice is flat, dead, like he’s already taken a bullet and knows his fight is lost. “How’d you find out?”
Toto throws an arm across his chest. “You shut your fucking mouth!”
“Why, your girlfriend,” the Chef says, strolling in my direction. She grabs my arm and pulls me away from the others, parading me in front of Toto like some old mystery movie detective showing everyone who the real killer is.
Her hands still smell like garlic and celery and something I can’t quite place. I gag again but manage to swallow down the sour bile.
“I have to hand it to you,” she says, addressing me now. “That was a ballsy move, even if you don’t have any balls to speak of.”
“I don’t care who you are.” Toto spits at the Chef’s feet. “You lied to me. This is one big freak show. I don’t owe you anything. We’re done here.”
“Toto!” Ryan barks.
“You’re right, my friend,” the Chef says. “It’s done. You’re done.” Saliva flies from her lips, and a foamy fleck lands on my forearm. I want to wipe it away, but I’m too afraid to move. She’s still got that gun. It’s aimed at Toto, but I’m closer to her. Way closer.
This wasn’t how it had played out in my head. I was supposed to be with the others, with Scott, and the Chef and his guys—no, her guys—were supposed to tell us we were okay. We had nothing to do with this. That we’d be safe.
“So,” she says with a new jauntiness, “this is how it’s going to go. Since it’s clear you can’t get my money, I’ll forgive your debt to me, but only because we’re going to kill every last person in this room. Or . . .” She raises an eyebrow.
“Or what?” Ryan’s voice is desperate now. He reaches out, almost grabbing the woman’s arm, but thinks twice of it at the last moment, letting his hand drop to his side. “Or what? We’ll do anything.”
“There’s one way you don’t all have to die.” She grins and turns to, of all people, Sylvie. “I believe Ryan brought you an offer from me a couple months back.”
“What?” Sylvie asks.
“She’ll make the deal!” Ryan says.
“Sell me the café, and everyone can go free. I’ll even make you a good offer. I did a little research on this place after Ryan here got himself fired. I’ve always had a soft spot for small business owners, especially when said business is food-related. And even more so when the owner is a woman. And this is a very choice location.”
“You mean, you’re the restaurateur Ryan told us about?” Sylvie asks.
“You’re actually a chef?” Scott asks. “Like, with food?”
“Quiet, Scott!” Oscar warns.
“What kind did you think I was?” she asks.
“Uh, the kind that cooks meth?”
She laughs. “I have people for that,” she says, turning back to Sylvie. “So, what do you say? If you really wanted to make good, you could work for me. I could use a new employee. Aaron over there will have his own restaurant soon, and I’ll need some extra help with my side ventures. Middle management stuff. Very desirable.”
“She’ll do it!” Ryan practically shouts the words this time.
“What?” Sylvie gapes at her brother.
The Chef drags me in front of Sylvie. “I’ll front you some product, spread the word that we’ve got a new outpost for our customers. Added flexibility. Shop at any of our convenient locations. A chain, just like Planet Fitness. I might even cut you in on the profits. What do you say?”
“You want me to sell drugs for you?” Sylvie blanches. “Out of my café?”
“Come on, Sylvia, you and I know how hard it is these days for small businesses in this state. And small business owners who are women have it even harder. You can’t tell me you haven’t struggled. Thinking about keeping the doors open, worrying about when this bill is due or that one. Dead days when it feels like you can’t sell a cup of coffee to save your life. What about the dead weeks? And dead months. A business like this is always sixty days away from closing its doors. Why do you think I started my side ventures to begin with? There’s plenty of honor in going legit. Profit, on the other hand, not so much. But having my own restaurant was my dream. So what’s a girl to do?” The woman shrugs. “And now I have three. If you join me, that will be four.”
During her speech, the Chef’s fingers loosened on my arm, and I try to slip out of her grip, but she readjusts her hold and smirks at me. “Not so fast, sweetie.”
Ryan is at his sister’s side, lips practically in her ear. “Say yes, Silv. Just do it. You know she’s right. You know what it’s like around here. Feast or famine.”
Sylvie puts her hands to her ears. “For once in your life, Ryan, just shut up!” She shoves him away and turns back to the Chef. “My answer to both of your offers is no.”
“Are you sure? You’d be set for life. And you’d have protection.” The Chef gestures at Aaron and the others.
I try to imagine what it would be like stopping in on Wednesdays after choir for a scone and macchiato and seeing Aaron hanging around the café. Would I always hear the sounds of his feet driving into Toto’s stomach and back? His taunting words to our captors? His total creeper comments to me? Then I try to think about what it will be like to come here, knowing hidden somewhere in the back is more of the stuff that destroyed Twitch—the stuff that took a kid with a career in front of him out of college and put him in Café Flores on a Friday night after closing, holding a gun.
I don’t want that to happen to Sylvie and Oscar’s place, but I also don’t want my life to end tonight.
“Sylvie, just for once, do something for me.” Ryan’s voice is a growl, and his eyes have this blank, frantic look.
Everyone waits. The clock ticks loudly. A gurgling hiss comes from one of the machines behind the counter.
“My answer,” Sylvie says, “is no.”
“Then you all die, I guess.”
Aaron laughs, and the sound is like a hundred spiders crawling on my skin.
“Wait!” I shout. “No! You’re supposed to help us. We don’t have anything to do with this.”
The Chef spins me to face her, amused pity playing over her face. “I appreciate your faith in me, I really do, but did you think I’d take care of your friends here and just let you walk out that door? That would be signing my arrest warrant, wouldn’t it?”
“Let her go!” Scott shouts.
I try to look at him, but the Chef grabs both of my wrists and twists them hard, forcing me to stay where I am. Her grip is strong, and images from all those TV cooking shows, chefs slicing produce with lightning speed, flash through m
y mind. Constant kitchen work has given her incredible upper body and hand strength, though she stands only a few inches taller than me.
“Let her go,” he repeats.
Oscar takes a stumbling step forward. “You heard the kid.”
The Chef rolls her eyes. “I’m so over this whole place. All right, time to clean up and get out of here.” She shifts her weight and angles her head to talk to the men behind her.
“Now!” Oscar shouts, and three bodies come flying our way, colliding with us, forcing the Chef to break her hold. I hit the floor a second later, covering my head against the trampling feet around me.
The first gunshot goes off, but I have no idea who fired, not until Sylvie pulls me beside her. Toto has his weapon out, and he gets one of the Chef’s guys. Scott and Oscar have grabbed guns from Toto’s cache, and although Scott doesn’t hit a thing with his next three shots, Oscar gets four guys in a row, only missing on shot number five.
“Shit,” Scott says.
“Shit!” The Chef surveys her fallen men, one squirming and groaning on the ground. Three others doing nothing but lying there.
Tables crash to the floor with an ear-piercing clang, and more bullets echo off the brick, granite, and tiled surfaces.
It’s so fast. Our enemy tally goes from eight men to three plus Toto and Ryan. Then it’s just three plus Ryan, because the Chef trains her gun on Toto, waiting only long enough for comprehension to settle over his features before she fires.
I can’t move. Can’t think. I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Winny!” Scott’s voice jolts me out of my daze. He and Oscar are on the ground behind the barricade of tables they’ve created.
I shove Sylvie in their direction, and she drops onto her belly to avoid the bullets still flying. I’m about to do the same, but something catches my eye.
Twitch’s body, not two feet away. With Scott’s cell lying wedged partly under one leg. In the commotion, Ryan and Toto must have forgotten about it.
I dive for the phone.
“Winny, what the hell are you doing?”
The phone comes free with little effort.
Stray bullets lodge in the wall at the foot of the plate glass windows. Another wild shot, this one disappearing into the ceiling, sends a fine dusting of plaster down to powder my arm.
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