Roy drooled. “Amazing…”
“Always perfect,” I added.
“You’re too kind. Just remember, it’s always better to avoid making decisions on an empty stomach. Here’s hoping Meat’s meat can help make this third date the memorable event it should be.”
I chuckled as the words, “Meat’s meat” processed. I thought back to our earlier conversation. Wait, was she saying her husband’s name was—
Molly left for the kitchen.
Squish—
A shiver struck my back and rolled down into the soles of my feet as I waited for the sound to continue.
I looked to Roy. Now upright, slipping his jacket on, eyes focused to my right, just behind me, where I was sure Molly stood.
“Don’t panic,” whispered Roy, his lips barely moving like he was trying out a ventriloquist act, “everything will be okay.”
There was an arrhythmic and hurried shuffling of feet behind me.
A tray clattered to the floor.
A coffee cup crashed.
White ceramic shards and used silverware mixed in a puddle of coffee on the floor.
With a slow and concerted effort, I looked back over my shoulder to confirm what my head knew and heart feared.
Sure enough, slightly obscured by the booth, was Molly, her face pale as a ghost. A man’s arm, stained with what appeared to be cigarette burns, was wrapped tight around her neck with a wad of cash crumpled in his fist.
My adrenaline wrestled with years of training.
The urge to blindly leap in to save someone I cared about met discipline and procedure.
I couldn’t see his face behind Molly’s head and it troubled me.
I needed to see his eyes. Read his intent. To connect and make everything okay—
Then I remembered. Roy!
I gave him a distinct, yet subtle, head shake.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Let me.”
Calm and collected, he answered, “Trust me.”
I wanted to. More than anything I wanted to trust him. But he was someone I’d only known for a period of time measured in dates, not days.
Brief encounters of awkward and reserved conversations that almost exclusively took place in this deli.
A guy whose security training couldn't have prepared him for a situation quite like this. A guy who—this was Molly who needed help, and that was my duty.
“No,” the volume of my voice raised just a notch as the bass dropped, “trust me. Stand down, mall cop,” I countered.
A look of confusion flashed across his eyes and he returned that big beautiful smile whose charm made me see an innocence and feel greater concern for how this may turn out.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, rising to his feet, hands open and in front of his hips.
Molly gasped as the arm constricted around her neck and spun her to face Roy.
“Is there something I can do to help?” said Roy, his voice unwavering. “It’s a Friday night and I’m sure this can’t be the way you wanted to start the weekend.”
The man’s head appeared from behind Molly, covered in a faded blue ski mask with a torn out hole for his mouth.
His eyes were wide.
Bloodshot.
Darting from side to side.
They kept landing on Roy but seemed unable, or unwilling, to stay.
Judging by his lean and Molly’s body pushing out toward us, it was clear he had a weapon wedged into her back.
“Yeah,” I said, easing to my feet, hands opened and raised to distract the robber from Roy. “If you’re in need of money, you can have my purse. I’m on a date anyway and it's his turn to pay.”
It was a lie. We each covered our own meals, but I was flying by the seat of my pants trying to stop Roy or Molly from getting shot.
“It’s what now?” asked Roy.
I gave him the side-eye, hoping to shush him.
Roy shrugged. “It may be our third date and all, but I was getting the vibe that you weren’t all that keen anyway—”
“But,” I cut in, enunciating each word to make him understand our need to focus, “he can have my purse.”
I reached into the booth to get it.
Molly yelped and skipped half a step forward.
My hands returned to their upright position. “Sorry, I was just getting my purse. Though, if you don’t mind,” I glanced over at Roy, “it sounds like I'll need to keep about fifteen dollars of it for my dinner.”
“If I’m wrong—” started Roy.
“No,” I answered, “I just felt like we were missing something—”
Then a voice, high in pitch and shaky with what I knew was adrenaline-fueled nerves said, “Don’t move. Thish is a robbery. Jush give me the money and nobody getsh hurt. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Can I get my purse?”
It occurred to me that Roy had put on his jacket to hide his weapon. Did he plan to use it? Was he one of those guys who was just hoping to find a reason to play Dirty Harry or John Wick?
The man’s arm snaked tighter around Molly’s throat as he reached up with his money hand to adjust the opening around his eyes.
His lips moved as if talking to himself while his fingers tried to riffle through the cash.
And I realized, he’s counting. He has a goal.
“How musssh you got?”
In an instant, his words played through my brain more than a dozen times, trying to assess if he had a speech impediment or if he was under the influence.
A small but thick crust of white crud sat rooted in the corners of his mouth.
That could be dehydration, I thought.
“One twenty,” said Roy. “I was running late from work and didn’t have a chance to pick up the flowers I ordered for Miranda and Molly.”
He what now?
“Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest,” gasped Molly.
“You’ve been so good to me, plus, I see the way you take care of Miranda and everyone else here. It’s no wonder—”
“Yesssh, she’s good,” said the robber. “Like a mom, but I needs tha casssh.”
Their conversation gave me the opportunity to keep things safe by edging just to my left. It would allow Roy and the man to continue talking but remove the potential for Roy to take a shot.
Matching me, he also moved to the left and did his ventriloquist hiss, “Cut it out.”
I locked my jaw and tried to follow suit. “You can’t shoot him.”
“May have to.”
“Stand down,” I said again.
“Two hundredsh and eighteen,” cut in the robber. “I need two eighteen.”
“Sweetie,” said Molly as if this were just another day on the job, “you take that knife outta my back and I can get you the rest.”
Brilliant, Molly. I made a mental note. It feels like a knife. Can potentially rule out a gun.
Again, I saw his mouth move along with his fingers.
“Can I help?” I said. “I enjoy doing math in my head. How much more do you—”
“I, I...I’m good with maths. Ish. It’s what I can do. I can do mathsss in my head,” he insisted.
He may be under the influence, but I felt sure it was more than that. I saw it too often. An increasing number every day as people struggled to make ends meet. People of all ages, even families, on the street. “Okay,” I said, offering what I had practiced as my reassuring smile.