In Laymon's Terms

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.”