In Laymon's Terms

Geoff Cooper

AN I HELP YOU?”

“Holy shit, he’s got a gun!”

“Terry, no!”

Jon had no time to turn before he heard gunshots. Two, maybe three. Someone screamed, someone swore. Something fell. Glass shattered, footsteps crunched wetly through broken liquor bottles.

He hit the deck in front of the cooler, quickly scuttled to the end of the aisle, hoped the shelves would conceal him. He felt vulnerable, exposed. From his position, Jon couldn’t see the men, but heard their exchange with the cashier: demands for money, hurry the fuck up, her pleas to not be hurt. The drawer dinged open. They demanded more, she had none, that was all—and she could not open the safe: she’d just started the job, was not trusted with a key. Over this, Jon heard someone else crying in hysterics over Terry: “Please, Terry, be all right,” she said. “Please, Terry don’t die. Hang in there, Terry. Terry? You listening to me, Terry? Don’t you fucking die on me!”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up before I put a cap in your ass too—you all whining and shit is pissing me off,” said another voice.

Both men were near the register, their attention drawn by the cashier, the drawer, and whoever was crying by Terry. Jon wondered if Terry was going to make it—whoever the hell Terry was.

“You! Into the office—show me where the fuck that recorder is. I see those damned cameras. And hey, yo—keep an eye on this bitch and the door,” he said to his partner. “I’ll be back in a second.” Jon heard them move, the jangle of keys, a door opening, then closing.

Jon wished he had his gun on him. It was illegal to carry in the State of New York without another special permit. He was lucky he had the gun in the first place: it was damned tough to get a pistol permit in this state. Since he bought it, he’d kept it at home, like a good boy, all the while knowing scumbags like this were everywhere, carrying illegally. He never dwelled upon it, put it out of mind, hoped he’d only need a weapon while at home. Yeah. Right. Lot of good it was doing him or anyone else there.

There was only one robber in the front of the store now, threatening the woman crying over Terry. Jon figured this was the best time to move. But where?

Down at the end of the wall, there was a door leading into the cooler. If he could get back there, another wall between him and the robbers, he’d be safer. Unless they searched the store. He didn’t think so—they were going after the security camera tape now, and would probably be gone in a few minutes. If he stayed here, there was a chance of his discovery, and these did not seem like the type of guys who wanted a whole bunch of witnesses. Terry—poor bastard—had already been shot. God knows what was going to happen to the cashier and the woman crying over Terry’s body. Would they kill them, too? Jon didn’t know, but wouldn’t put it past these scumbags. Regardless, they wouldn’t appreciate another witness—particularly a guy. He had to move: staying here was stupid.

The cooler door was fifteen feet away. Jon started to crawl as silently as he could. He reached the end of the aisle, looked down toward the front of the liquor store. Terry was wearing sneakers and jeans, lying in a pool of spilled Jose Cuervo and blood. He saw the pantyhose-covered leg of the woman—she was wearing white ones and they had a run, had soaked up the fluids around her and started to stain. He could not see the woman’s face, or her upper body, only the profile of one leg as she knelt over Terry. He could not see the robber either: the shelves were in the way. He could, however, see the door to the office, and the back of the other robber as he blasted the cashier in the face with his fist. He saw a flurry of blonde hair as she went down past the view of the window.

(Quit watching. Move! Move!)

Jon hid himself behind the next row of shelves, paused a moment to catch his breath—he did not realize he had been holding it. He wiped his hands on his shirt, left two smears of dirt from the floor down his chest. His back to the shelves, he faced the cooler. He could see the reflection of the robber now, as well as the woman who cried, and Terry. Terry was lying on his back, but Jon could not see if he was breathing or not. The robber wore a ski mask, long-sleeved button-down shirt, and loose, baggy pants. He held a pistol in his hand, pointed it at the woman’s chest. The woman had a black shirt on, skirt, and dark brown shoulder-length hair. Her hands were to her face as she cried and screamed for Terry.

Terry looked dead. Those bastards, he thought as he watched her act on her grief. Fucking bastards. If he had his SIG P-220, he’d be able to blast the scumbag in the chest if he stood up straight, drop him with two .45’s to the chest, and end this nightmare. But he couldn’t, because it was illegal for him to carry. As illegal as it was, apparently, to shoot someone as you robbed a liquor store.

He watched her for another moment before the thought dawned on him—that he was looking at her reflection—that, from this angle, if she—or the robber—turned, they would see his reflection off the glass.

“Oh, shit,” he said to himself. Time to move. From his sitting position, he tried to lean forward and get his knees kicked out behind him, ready to crawl, but without making any noise. It was difficult. He shouldn’t have sat down. That was dumb. But he needed to catch his breath—not again. He’d stay ready to move until he reached the cooler, and got inside. Then, he could relax a moment and catch his breath—hell, then, he could even call the cops on his cell phone.

Christ, I hope no one calls in.

He reached into his pocket and shut it off, congratulated himself for his quick thinking. Now he just had to stay alive long enough to use it—and that would take more than quick thinking. Doubt curled his forehead as fear broke in a cold sweat. Just make it to the cooler, Jon told himself. Make it to the cooler and call the cops. End this nightmare.

He glanced at the cooler door. The robber and woman faced each other. He thought the aisle was long enough so that his movement would not register in their peripheral vision. Hoped it would be as he forced himself forward, to pause behind the next row of shelves, but only for an instant as he heard no gasp of surprise or shouts to stop, no gunshots, no footsteps, so he kept going to the last aisle, then reached up and slowly opened the door, just a crack, enough to slip his body through. Once on the other side, he held his hand on the cold metal, easing it shut so he would not be given away by its slam, or a creak of hinges. The door shut.

Jon heard only the hum of the refrigeration equipment, felt the chill of the air around him. His forehead and armpits were sweaty, and instantly, he felt cold. But alive. He was in better shape than Terry, at least.

Jon looked around the cooler. Boxes of wines and beer were stacked upon each other against the back wall, plenty of room for further concealment. He nestled between two stacks of boxes, and took the cell phone out of his pocket. He turned it on and dialed 911.

“Police operator. What is your emergency?”

“I’m in the liquor store on the corner of Waters and Seymour. It’s being robbed.”

“Waters and Seymour. We had reports of gunshots. Officers have been dispatched and are en route. Is everyone okay?”

They’re already on the way! Oh, thank God. “Uh...one dude’s been shot. I think he’s dead. How long till the cops get here?”

“Just a couple minutes. How many people are in the store?”

“Three—well, four, if you count the shot guy. Me, the cashier, and this gal. They don’t know I’m here. I’m hiding in the cooler.”

“The perpetrators don’t know you’re there?”

“No. I doubt they’d be letting me make a phone call, ya know?”

“How many perpetrators are there?”

“Two—that I saw.”

“And they’re armed?”

“They shot the guy. You tell me.”

“Hold the line, please. If you can. I’m going to relay the information to the officers, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, whatever. Call 911, get placed on hold. That’s cool.”

The operator sounded annoyed. “One moment, please.”

Jon rubbed his hands on his arms for warmth while he waited, muttered under his breath. The dispatcher returned after a few seconds. “Okay. Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“I apologize for making you wait—but the officers had to know that information, you understand?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“It’s going to be all right.”

“Tell that to Terry.”

“Terry?”

“The dude that got shot.”

“You know the victim?”

“No. I heard the gal screaming his name, is all.”

“Medical personnel are also coming,” the dispatcher said. “Wait—the officers are right outside. Can you hear them?”

“No. I’m in the cooler. I can’t hear shit but the fridge thing running. What’s going on?” Jon stood, stepped forward to look through the cooler door over the tops of the bottles of wine. He knew no one could see him in there: the liquor store was brightly lit, and the back of the cooler was dark. The glare hid him. He could see the robber, standing, his gun to the woman’s head, and the other one holding the cashier in front of him like a shield. They faced the front of the store.

I could get them from here, Jon thought. The way the robbers were facing, he’d be able to drop them both and not hit the cashier or the other woman. Damnit!

“Where are they?” he asked the dispatcher.

“They’re right there. Apparently, there’s a hostage situation going on. Where are you, in the building?”

“In the cooler. Oh, man. I could make this shot.”

“North wall, south wall?”

“I didn’t bring my compass and protractor, ya know? Christ. Umm...The cooler’s on the right, if you walk into the place.”

“Okay. Can you see the perps?”

“Yes.”

“What’re they doing?”

“Backing up,” Jon reported. “They’re moving against the far wall. They’ve got the women with them.

“Fuck,” Jon said. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Are they moving toward your position?”

“Yeah. Get someone in here already!”

“Stay on as long as you can—”

Jon killed the phone call, shut the power on his phone back off. What fucking good were the cops going to do if they never came inside? Jesus! Why hasn’t someone stopped these fucking guys already? What were they waiting for, a written invitation?

Jon turned, looked for the largest stack of boxes to hide behind. He ducked behind them just as the door to the cooler was opening. He held his breath, afraid the ghostly vapors from his mouth would give him away. “Please don’t hurt—”

“I said get the fuck in there!”

“Just listen to him!”

“But what about Terry?”

“Terry’s fucking dead, you stupid bitch! Now get the fuck in the freezer and be lucky you’re walking in, instead of feet first, you hear what I’m screaming?”

“FUCK YOU! You killed Terry!”

Jon heard the fist hit her, the uugh as she crumpled to the floor.

“Now don’t you fucking move!” one of the robbers told her. “This ain’t over yet.”

Jon saw a line of light sweep across the wall as the door opened and closed, heard the women start a debate. They spoke in intense little whispers.

Jon could not hear much: their words were lost beneath the refrigerator equipment’s constant low drone. He detected no tones of comfort—their sentences were focused verbal exchange, aimed at a specific goal, trying to connect with something almost tangible: survival.

Jon listened to them whisper back and forth, heard the frustration mounting between them as their voices rose. They were like synapses trying to connect in a shattered mind, endlessly firing in the wrong direction, progressing only into further insanity. If they kept it up, they’d get themselves killed. And him too.

He stepped from behind the row of boxes and said, “Shh—I’ve called the cops.”

Both women turned and stared at him with blank expressions. They sat on the floor, knee to knee as they faced each other. The woman in the skirt had streams of mascara down her face, her white stockings soaked in blood and spilled gin. The cashier had one eye swollen shut, a dribble of blood from her left nostril from when the bastard hit her.

“Holy SHIT!”

“Shh! Keep it down—they don’t know he’s here,” said the cashier. “Do they?”

“No.”

“How long have you been here?”

“The whole time. I hid in here right after the shooting started. Called the cops from my cell phone.”

“The cops are outside.”

“I know.”

“Why aren’t they coming in?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said.

“I do,” said the cashier. “This is now a hostage situation. They’re afraid they’d get us killed if they were to barge in here.”

“They’re probably right,” Jon said.

“That’s what I was trying to explain to her,” the cashier said.

“Those fuckers killed my boyfriend.”

“Shit,” Jon said. “Sorry.”

“I’d like to rip their nuts off.”

“Guess you won’t be going Patty Hearst on us, then?”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

“I don’t suppose you have a gun or anything, do you?”

“Not on me. You kidding? You know what you have to go through to carry legally in New York State?”

“It was a thought,” said the cashier.

“Yeah, well, this is the last time I leave the house without it, I’m here to tell you.”

“You have one at home?”

“Yeah. SIG P-220. Lot of good it does us here.”

“My boyfriend has a Ruger .22 out in the car.”

“Lot of good that does us here,” said the cashier.

“I don’t know how to use it. That’s what he was going for when...” She started to choke up.

The cashier reached out and hugged her. “It’s okay,” she said.

“No it’s not!”

“Listen,” Jon said. “I’m sorry Terry got shot—but you’ve gotta hold it together. Really. Because if these guys could get away with it, they’d—” The door to the cooler banged open.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

One of the robbers entered the cooler, a pistol in one hand, a roll of duct tape in the other. He looked at Jon—hate-blue eyes locked on him from behind the ski mask. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I...I’m—”

The robber took a step forward. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“I’ve been—”

Another step. “Motherfucker!” The robber raised his gun.

Jon leaped behind the boxes as the shots rang out. Cold wine cascaded down upon him, drenching his face. The women screamed. The other robber came rushing in, gun at the ready. “What the fuck?”

“Another fucking guy in here!”

“Are you crazy? Fuckin’ Police outside! Trying to get us killed, dumbfuck?”

With the door open, Jon could hear the cops on a megaphone: “What was that? Is everyone all right? We heard shots. I’m telling you guys, if we don’t see those hostages right now, we’re coming in.”

“Tape him up with the rest. Bring ’em all out here. Fuck. Another goddamned hostage. Shit. This fucking sucks. Goddamnit! I’ma go talk to these pigs. Get ’em ready.”

The robber ripped off a strip of tape and put it over Jon’s mouth. The tape blocked part of his nose, too. It was difficult to breathe, and that air he did suck in tasted like wine and adhesive. Then, the robber wrapped a length of tape around his wrists, locking them behind his back. He covered the women’s mouths next, then led them out of the cooler, single file. Jon at the lead, Terry’s girlfriend in the back. The women’s hands were not bound, he learned, when the cashier gave his hand a squeeze as they were marched to the front of the liquor store.

The light hurt his eyes; he had become accustomed to the darkness of the cooler, but was thankful for the relative warmth. Though he went into the cooler by choice, now, soaked with wine and the sweat of fear, he was glad to be out of it—it was far too much like a cell. He heard the other robber speaking to the police.

“Hey, yo...Easy, man. Nobody’s hurt. Just saw a spider, is all. My partner hates bugs.”

“Very funny. Where are the hostages? I’m going to count to five.”

“Easy, easy. We’s bringing ’em out now.”

“One.”

“Hurry the fuck up, willya?” said the robber by the door to his partner.

“Two.”

“I’m coming!”

“Three.”

The robber gave all of them a shove, and they stumbled toward the front. Jon stepped even with the door of the liquor store, saw the cops outside in their riot gear, shotguns and pistols held at a low ready. When he stepped into view, most lowered their weapons a moment. Thank God. He’d had one gun aimed at him today, and that was more than enough.

Never again. I ain’t ever leaving the house without that goddamned gun again. Fuck these democrats wanting to make me a victim.

Jon nodded to the cops. They acknowledged him with subtle movements of hand and head. They knew there were hostages in there, and would not risk them unnecessarily. Just seeing them there gave him an overwhelming sense of relief. He did not want the cops to come in shooting, have himself get caught in the crossfire, and end up like Terry on the floor, there, cooling in a pool of blood and cheap booze. Terry. Poor bastard.

Jon didn’t want to, but he looked anyway. A fly landed on Terry’s neck, right at the entrance wound, and was busily rubbing its front legs together as it flitted around his skin. Jon wished he could shoo it off—it was wrong for the fly to be landing on Terry like that. Jon was offended by its audacity until he realized that he had never met Terry when he was alive—Terry was dead moments after the robbery began. He looked over toward Terry’s girlfriend—whatever her name was. She refused to turn to see Terry’s corpse. Just as well. Jon wanted to offer her a word of reassurance and comfort, but the sentiments wilted in his mouth, for he, like the others, was a duct tape mute.

The robber forced them back along the wall after showing them to the police outside, back toward the cooler. Jon felt disappointment rise within him as he was forced through the door and back into the chill. The wine soaking him felt as though it was turning to ice. He looked at the flesh of his arms. It was running a mottled shade of red and white, goosebumps standing out from his skin.

Once the door closed behind them, the robber bound the women’s hands. He made Jon sit on the floor with Terry’s girlfriend, back to back, and then wrapped tape around them both. He checked the window to the store. Apparently, the cops hadn’t entered yet.

Then he held his gun to the neck of the cashier. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she shook her head, no, no, please, but could say nothing as the barrel traced down her chest, between her breasts. Her nipples were hard from the cold, and pushed out of her uniform shirt.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jon thought. He’s not going to. Not with the cops outside.

Yes he was. He unzipped his fly and dropped his drawers. The cashier screamed as best she could from behind the duct tape. The robber ripped through the fly of her pants and yanked them down. She tried to struggle, kick him off, but with her pants around her ankles, she lost her balance and stumbled back into a case of white wine. Only one or two of the bottles broke. White mixed with the red on the floor: rosé a la concrete.

The robber pinned her down and mounted her.

Jon stood, dragging Terry’s girlfriend up with him. She was petite, didn’t weigh a hell of a lot to slow him down. As the robber was forcing his way into the cashier, Jon drew back his right leg and kicked him in the ribs, just below the armpit. The robber cried out, then spun off the cashier, grabbing his weapon off the floor. He turned, aimed at Jon—for the second time—and fired.

Getting shot was nothing like Jon expected. He felt like he’d been hit with a baseball at the exact time he was burnt with the hot tip of a fireplace poker. The bullet was lodged in his shoulder. His left arm flared in pain, then went numb. If it weren’t held in place by the duct tape, it would be hanging limp at his side.

The robber negotiating with the cops could not justify the second shot. They gave him until five. Then they came in shooting.

The bullet in his shoulder sent him to the hospital. They operated, removed the offensive piece of lead, kept him for observation for 24 hours, then sent him home, where detectives from the Brackard’s Point PD waited for him. Could he come in to the station as a witness? Make a statement? Of course, of course. They even offered to drive him—how sympathetic.

The cashier was leaving the station when he arrived. She recognized him, gave him a hug, careful around the wounded shoulder, thanked him for his intervention. He downplayed it, said he didn’t do anything special. She insisted he did, threw the word “hero” about no less than three times in as many sentences. Jon didn’t feel like one, and told her so. As they were starting to launch into a real conversation, the previously sympathetic and understanding cops became impatient and annoyed, urged the two to hurry it along. The cashier reached into her purse, wrote down her number and handed it to him. “Gimme a call,” she said.

Jon took the piece of paper, looked at the name and number.

“Nice to finally meet you, Meg. I’m Jon.”

“Gimme a call, Jon.”

“You bet.”

Jon replayed the entire ordeal for the detectives—all he could remember. He omitted nothing. They seemed most interested in the details surrounding Terry, which, for Jon, was a large blank. He hadn’t seen it happen, only heard Terry’s girlfriend screaming, a point he had to explain numerous times. He mentioned the irony of never knowing anyone else’s name—only the dead guy’s—then apologized for sounding callous. The detectives forgave him. The older of the two even laughed at the irony, once pointed out.

“I’d like to thank you for coming in,” the detective said as the interview (Jon felt it was like an interview, even if they insisted it was “making a statement”) concluded. “I realize going through this all again is difficult for you, but it does help us out a lot.”

“I don’t get it,” Jon said. “I saw the guys go down as you came in. What’s left to prosecute?”

“One of them is in ICU,” the cop explained. “He might make it.”

“No shit?”

“None.”

“Which one?”

“The one who tried raping Miss Carter.”

Jon’s fists clenched. “Too bad.”

“I can understand how you feel.”

Jon looked the cop in his flat, cold eyes.

“No you can’t.”

Jon and Meg’s first date started at the Cafe Xelucha over double tall americanos and scones, then progressed to Gethsemane Cemetery. They stood at the gates, but did not enter as a dark motorcade parade of limousines passed, lights on, though the day was as bright and the weather as fair as New York’s geography permitted—especially in Brackard’s Point, where Hook Mountain loomed over from the west to cast dusk early.

They didn’t know Terry. Neither had the stomach to attend his funeral, yet both felt obliged to pay him some type of respect. They said their final words to the memory of a stranger in silence. They turned their heads and watched the hearse enter the cemetery, followed it with their eyes as it wound down the gravel path, twisting around through rows of tombstones and concrete angels.

From there, Jon and Meg walked for a while, no destination in particular, found themselves sitting on a bench at the War Memorial Park, sharing life stories as they watched the sailboats and ships out on the Hudson. She told him how she almost made it onto the television show Castaway, for the doomed seventh season, how broke up she was about it, yet thankful at the end, considering how it all turned out. He told her about his teaching job, how he’d been at the World Trade Center the day of the murders, leading his class on a field trip when the first plane hit.

After a lull in the story-swapping, Meg looked at Sing-Sing, the state penitentiary in Ossining, on the Hudson’s other bank. “You think they’re gonna send that son of a bitch there?”

“I hope he gets the chair,” Jon replied.

“You and me, both.”

“You don’t think there’s any chance he’ll get off, do you?”

“If he does,” Jon said, “I’ll be ready for him.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon opened his jacket. Meg looked in, saw the handle of his SIG. “Illegal or not, no damned politician is going to force me to be a victim again.”

“You ain’t worried about getting caught with it?”

“More worried about needing it and not having it.”

Meg nodded. “I hear you there. I’m glad you have it on you,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Feels a lot safer. After last week, I didn’t know if I could ever feel safe again.”

Jon didn’t know what to say, so he held her. As she nuzzled against his neck and placed her leg over his, he knew he’d done the right thing. They stayed that way until the shadows from Hook Mountain grew long. The sun was two hours away from setting, but the cliff to the west darkened the streets early. With the sunlight almost gone, the wind blowing down the Hudson, they started to get cold.

“Dinner?” Jon asked.

“Sure—I don’t live too far from here. I’ve got plenty at the house, couple steaks, some chicken I oughta cook up sometime soon. A few bottles of wine.”

“You mean dinner at your place?”

“Yeah,” Meg said. “It’ll be safer.” She patted his gun through his jacket, and stood. She led him up by holding his hand. Jon rose without understanding what she meant. He was going to ask, but decided that it didn’t matter. Instead, he asked: “White or red?”