Vintage Rob

Chapter 31 - Detective Woods' Request

Jennifer tried to run out of the restaurant to Gene. "Let me," Rob said.

Another bullet hit the wall. Sylvester stood ramrod straight just outside the awning, pressing a hand to his shoulder and surveying buildings across the street. "Stay where you are," he said to Rob. Further away, Gene swiveled his head at the broken window, his legs motionless. Sylvester called out in a level voice. "Gene, run." Sylvester squinted at the opposite buildings and took a step toward him. "Run, Gene."

A line of bullets struck the street and up the side of the building. Another window shattered. Rob sprinted past Sylvester and yanked Gene's arm. That got him moving. A bald manager with a gun exited the restaurant. A bartender with a shotgun swung its muzzle upward and took a few steps toward the edge of the canopy. They looked to Sylvester for guidance.

Jennifer took hold of Gene at the doorway and pulled him inside. Sylvester swayed and scowled at the opposite buildings. "Wait," he said to the bartender. A small amount of blood stained the white fabric on his left shoulder. He rotated, dancing a tiny jig, and shuffled toward the restaurant, very slowly.

With dread, Rob waited for a bullet to tear apart Sylvester's head. Sylvester ambled closer, smiling sadly. He accepted Rob's support at the awning, and they passed between the armed employees, who flanked the door.

Inside, Gene sifted through an open first aid kit. The coloring in his face had returned. "Is someone calling an ambulance?" Jennifer said. When the waitress nodded, Jennifer stared at the entrance. "Are we safe here?"

"If they were serious, someone would already be dead. Marty, Ryan, ditch the guns." Sylvester reached for the phone atop the hostess counter but winced at his bloody shoulder instead. "Where the hell are the boys in blue?"

Jennifer put her hand on the phone but didn't lift the receiver. Finally, Rob heard the sirens too.

***

In a small, bare room in the headquarters of the Boston Police Department, Rob used his phone to email Sylvester and inquire about his condition. Sylvester had managed a joke on the way to the ambulance, but looked ashen.

Rob placed the phone on the table, in easy reach. Sylvester took a phone call just before they left the restaurant. Maybe there was a connection between that and the shooting. No way he would have knowingly put them in danger, but the shots came as soon as he stepped out from under the awning, like he was the target.

The small room's heavy gray door swung open. Detective Woods poked his head in. His smile engulfed Rob like a bath of warm water. A few curly gray hairs on the side of Woods' head suggested he was not in his twenties, but he reminded Rob of numerous African-American master sergeants he had encountered in Afghanistan and Iraq, men with ageless good looks, agility, and humor.

"You haven't been alone the last hour, have you?" Woods said.

"Nah, officers I know visited. Weren't you listening in?"

Woods shook his head. He had probably been listening to Sylvester's interrogation. Sylvester had to be the focus. The detective placed two white paper cups on the table. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Water?"

Rob rubbed his eyes. It was almost 2 am. "Got coffee?"

"Be right back."

After the door closed, Rob finished his water in one gulp. Why someone would go after Sylvester, he had no idea? An old grievance or misunderstanding? He emptied Detective Wood's water too.

He could not shake a crazy feeling that Mark was the gunman. Even though they parted amicably the other day. Uninvited others had heard of Rob's goodbye party at Milyaro's Garden. Maybe Mark did too.