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Part 6-17: Efficiency
“Cash,” he says, leveling the weapon at me.
By my own assessment, I’ve led an interesting life, but have never had the opportunity to peer into the soulless black barrels of a shotgun primed for lethal use.
I don’t recommend it.
“This is a good analogy,” says Deluxe.
I am nodding at the robber and pawing at the cash register, unable to remember exactly how it works. It’s like one of those lightning round quizzes where some really easy question comes up (what colour is blood?), but you blank on it because of the time pressure. Existential pressure is similar, apparently.
Deluxe is providing commentary. “A pistol would have the same intimidation effect, offer better control and exceed concealment requirements—above and beyond that thing!”
The guy frowns and looks around for the source of criticism. Through random pokes and prods, I coax the cashbox into revealing its paltry secrets. Inside is mostly float, some 200 bucks. The gun is still trained on me.
“Furthermore,” she continues, “of all the places to knock over, you pick a struggling soup shop? There’s a cheap jeweler across the street and a pawn shop run by an octogenarian around the corner. What was your upside risk assessment on this venture? How long did you even spend casing the joint?”
“Listen, girl,” says our guest, swinging the weapon towards her.
Struggling soup shop indeed. Maybe it is the emotional spike provided by the crime-in-progress, maybe it is staring death in the face… but at this moment my fear dissolves into some strange combination of anger and sadness. Robber-boy is not to have my $200; that’s what I have goddamn earned today and even if it never got any goddamn better, it’s what I goddamn have to show. And once this is over, I am going to make it better.
Which means ending this.
The dude is demanding Deluxe’s purse, and she is offering her bag of sea life instead. I slip on my oven mitts and retrieve the special order of carrot medley, now simmering away happily.
“Here’s the cash!” I call out.
He half turns and I freeze. Deluxe sidesteps away from the mouth of the gun, reminding me how to move. I perform my best basketball chest pass.
The pot flips in the air and clangs him dead in the chin, spraying scalding veggies and broth everywhere. I brace, knowing that the gun will go off and hit me and I’ll be dead, but instead there is just a lot of clattering and howling. In fact, the guy disappears. I am so confused, wondering why the door isn’t open if he had fled.
Then there is another wretched howl and I realize he must be on the floor. I lean over the counter to find that this is true. The man is wearing most of the soup and probably now has a melted face. I suppress a compelling urge to puke.
“Now there, that was efficient,” says Deluxe.
“Cops,” I say.
She makes the ‘call-me’ sign with her thumb and pinky.
“Right,” I say and spin around to find my cell. Then another thought occurs. I spin back. “Gun?” I ask.
“Check.” This from Gary, who has somehow ended up with the shooter. He looks entertained.
Then the door opens, admitting a concerned parking enforcement officer. There is a fresh ticket in his hand.
“Tried to rob us and burnt his head,” explains Deluxe. Efficiently so.
“Can you call the cops?” I ask the parking officer. I have no idea where my cell could be at the moment and am not sure I’d remember how to do 911 anyway. I shut the cash register, desperately distracted by a vague concern that I somehow insulted the parking officer by referencing cops and not assuming that they were one, then burst into tears.
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