Out of Order. Barbara Dunlop
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criminals would drop in for a round of Midnight Run between heists. But, what did she know? Once you’d robbed the bank, she supposed you had the rest of the day to kill.
Squat and broad-shouldered, his divided chin tipped at an arrogant angle, the pug-dog cop came to a halt in front of Shelby.
Her hand reflexively tightened around a fistful of game tokens as her stomach clenched to the size of a walnut.
He tipped slightly forward, his unibrow dropping even lower over his dark eyes. “I’m lookin’ for Gerry Bonnaducci.”
The unexpected statement surprised the fear right out of her. “You want Gerry?”
“Where is he?”
“What did he do?” Gerry had been right here since ten o’clock this morning. Shelby could vouch for that.
“Put your hands on the counter.” Pug-dog’s voice lowered to a growl as he trained his gun on her.
Staring down the steel-gray muzzle of his .38 was definitely enough to convince Shelby to give up Gerry. Employee loyalty only went so far.
“He’s in the back,” she said.
“Put your hands on the counter where I can see them”
“But—”
“Now!”
Right. Shelby slapped her palms against the faded, gray Formica countertop, crunching the metal tokens against her palm.
A muscle in the cop’s cheek twitched and he shifted his gun, barrel pointing to the ceiling. He nodded to his partner, who nodded back and fixed his attention on Shelby.
Then pug-dog crept along the counter toward the office where Gerry was feeding coins into the separating machine. The sound of quarters, dimes and nickels clanked and clattered through the closed door, counterpoint to the repetitive rap music and synthesized voices patiently giving next instructions to the frozen players.
Shelby wondered if she should give the players refunds for their interrupted games. Gerry was a bit of a tightwad, but surely under these circumstances they deserved a replay.
Pug-dog kicked the office door open with his black boot.
“Freeze,” he yelled, planting his feet apart, both hands training the gun on Gerry.
Gerry swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened, and the cigar dropped out of his mouth, knocking once against his striped tie before hitting the concrete floor, leaving an ash trail as it rolled to a stop.
He didn’t protest or ask any questions while pug-dog slapped the cuffs on his chubby wrists and began reciting his Miranda rights. He looked for all the world like he’d done this before.
Great. Now she was working for a criminal. What was with her? Did she have a bad-boss magnet stuck to her forehead?
Last week, her cheating, scumbag boyfriend had fired her from the Terra Suma Cocktail Lounge in Minneapolis. That time she’d lost her job, her home, her boyfriend and her future all in one fell swoop.
At least she hadn’t been sleeping with Gerry. Thank goodness for small favors.
Really small favors.
She was jobless again. And who knew when or if she’d get a paycheck for this week’s work.
This did it. She was getting a real job next time. Even if it meant college courses at night. Even if it meant, Lord help her, moving back in with her parents.
She never should have dropped out of philosophy in third year. Come to think of it, she never should have taken philosophy in the first place. She should have taken accounting or business management or nursing. Something with a future—
“Hands behind your back, ma’am.”
Shelby turned to see cop number two circling around the end of the sales counter.
“But—”
“Behind your back, ma’am.” He was taller than his partner, younger, with dark, wavy hair and brown eyes. He strode toward her, his broad chest a wall of silver badge and imposing navy-blue uniform.
“Why?” It was more a squeak than a question as she tipped up her chin to maintain eye contact.
“You’re under arrest on suspicion of selling pirated software and prohibited firearms.” He unclipped the handcuffs from the back of his utility belt.
Shelby stared at the dangling steel bracelets in morbid fascination. “Firearms?”
“Hands behind your back, ma’am.” The cop latched onto her nerveless wrist, twisting it neatly into the small of her spine.
“But I didn’t…I’m not…”
“You can tell it all to the judge.”
“The judge?” A series of rapid clicks echoed in her ears as the cold cuffs clapped tightly around her wrists.
“Gerry,” she called, trying not to let panic collapse what was left of her stomach. “Tell them I had nothing to do with this.”
“Nothing to do with what?” asked Gerry as pug-dog steered him toward the exit. He shook his head in apparent disgust. “It’s a bogus bust.”
“The detectives are out back searching your warehouse right now,” said pug-dog, shooing the twelve teenagers out of the Game-O-Rama in front of him.
“But, I’m innocent.” Shelby couldn’t get arrested. It was nearly four-thirty, and Allison was expecting her. They were going dancing at Balley’s tonight.
She’d hauled herself out of bed early this morning to drop her emerald dress off at the Flower-Fresh Dry-cleaner’s. Which, by the way, closed in half an hour.
“So am I,” called Gerry.
The second cop clapped his hand on Shelby’s shoulder, and she felt a renewed jolt of panic as he urged her into a walk.
“Don’t you need evidence or something?” she asked, mind racing for a way out of the predicament. She wasn’t a criminal. She was a cashier, a cocktail waitress. Sure, maybe she didn’t have the best judgment in the world, particularly when it came to men, but that was hardly a crime.
His look was grim, all business. “We have some pretty compelling evidence.”
“On me?”
“On you.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Did you or did you not make a pickup in the company van at Michigan and Eighteenth yesterday afternoon?”
Shelby searched her memory as they cleared the counter and headed for the door. “That was coffee.”
The cop rolled his eyes. “Two hundred-pound crates of coffee?”
“Two sixteen-ounce cups of coffee.”
“I’m talking about the merchandise they loaded in the back.”
“Who loaded? What back?”
“The two crates of Uzis. Surely you remember that little detail. We have it all on videotape.”
Uzis? Shelby blinked. “Uzis?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She’d been inside the coffee shop all of three minutes. “How can that be? It was coffee. I bought coffee.”
The cop pushed the door open in front of her, and car horns and engine revs overtook the beeps of the computer terminals. “That’s your story, and you’re stickin’ to it?”
An exhaust-filled breeze hit her square in the face. “It’s the truth.”
“Right,” he drawled. “The Uzis in your warehouse tell a different story.”
“I