Struggle On Home

Chapter Five

"Uhh, Mr. Clark? Sir? There's this guy at the counter, and....uh....he's got a gun."

Abel whipped around from the fryer, spraying white-hot droplets of oil across the kitchen. "A what?"

"H-he isn't, y'know, shooting it," his youngest waitress quivered. Sweat shimmered on her downy upper lip. "He's just holding it. It's wrapped in a blanket. I-Marvin thinks he's trying to hold up the restaurant on a prank. He's real scared, Mr. Clark-he's already ordered like three buckets of chi-"

"Goddamnit, Tina," Abel hissed, grabbing her by her sharp shoulders and shoving her into the office, "I don't care what the little fuck ordered. Call the police! And don't come outta here 'til I come get you, okay?"

The boy at the counter was very young, about sixteen years old, and the handgun he had wrapped in a child's quilt looked like a grotesque parody of a baby. He held it like one, too. It was probably his dad's. Just another stupid little bastard trying to impress his bastard buddies. Abel relaxed a little, but not much. Nerves can make killers out of cowards.

When the kid saw him, he jumped.

"I-I'm here for the m-money," he stammered, hugging the gun to his chest. "Just g-g-give me the money, and I'll go. Please."

The waiter, a placid college freshman called Marvin Hughes, flicked his eyes at Abel and shook his head.

He wants me to give today's takings to a fucking Downtown brat? Sorry, Marv, but I happen to have a spine. Moving faster than the kid could blink, Abel lunged across the counter and grabbed the would-be thief by the throat. He squeezed until his knuckles went white. Sure enough, the boy dropped the gun to scratch at Abel's hands.

A police siren started up in the distance-one short vwoop, followed by a steady, rising howl. God bless Tina-she had more sense than Abel had ever credited her for. He maintained the pressure he had on the kid's windpipe, lifting him clear off the ground and kicking his gun underneath a table with his foot. The Vietnamese short-order cook came scurrying out from underneath the counter to grab the boy's wrists.

"Atta boy, Wing," Abel grunted, wishing that the little fucker would quit wriggling. "Let's get him on a table or something, my arms are killin' me."

"My name is not Wing, it is-"

"We ain't got time for that," Abel barked. "On the table! Now!"

Marvin rushed to help them. It took their combined effort to subdue the perp, to hold him down on the greasy Formica table without anyone getting hurt. At this point, the kid was fairly screaming-"Oh, God! Jesus Christ, please! It wasn't even loaded, I swear on my mom's grave!"

"Fuck you-what you swearing on your mama for?" Abel shot back, throwing his weight down on the kid's back. "You want her to die, huh?! 'Cos that piece a' yours looked loaded! You were carrying it like it was a Goddamned rattlesnake! You want a dead mama? Is that what you want?!" He grinned and spat on the floor.