In Laymon's Terms

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.