Page 86 of If Looks Could Kill
“Little miss,” insisted our new acquaintance, “is coming with me.”
To Mother Rosie’s. This time, it would be a door of no return. A fate worse than death.
A white blur of terror filled my head like cotton wool. This was the end.
But he sounded young. And there was only one of him. Not much taller than me.
“Why are you here?” I asked him. “Who sent you?”
“Santy Claus,” he said. “Shut up and gimme your money. And you,” hebarked to Mike. “Keep those hands where I can see ’em. And gimme your wallet too.”
Relief dazzled me. This wasn’t one of Mother Rosie’s boys. Just a two-bit street criminal.
“What’s with you?” my captor demanded. “What’s so funny?”
“You are,” I told him. “How can he get his walletandkeep his hands where—”
“Oof!” grunted my new comrade.
I’d ground the small heel of my boot into his foot with every ounce of my weight.
He swore, and his grip loosened. I twisted out of it and dealt a savage kick to his shin. He doubled over. A sliver of light glanced off the edge of his knife just as Mike closed the gap and landed a punch on our new friend’s jaw. He toppled, and I picked up his knife.
And that was when the police appeared, just in time to see Mike draw his own gun on the man on the ground while I stood beside him, brandishing a knife.
“Officers,” I cried, “thank goodness you’re here!”
“Drop your weapons,” one of them ordered.
Mike lowered his gun, the one I’d swiped from Mother Rosie’s crib earlier, taking care to place it far from where Santy Claus’s elf could reach it. I followed suit with the knife.
“That you, Jimmy?” Mike asked. “It’s me. Mike. From O’Flynn’s.”
Officer Jimmy agreed that it was he, himself, in the flesh, and wondered aloud what Mike was doing out at this hour with a young lady and two suitcases. Eloping? Har har har.
The other officer examined our quarry, a chinless, Adam’s-apple-y thing with yellow hair, and recognized him as Buster Something-or-Other, christened Beauregard, a repeat customer at the Mulberry Street Precinct. He claimed to be our victim and we, a pair of bandit lovers. OfficerJimmy howled, though whether at “bandit” or “lovers,” I couldn’t say.
We made statements to the officers while Mike rubbed his knuckles. Poor fellow. Finally, the policemen and Santy Buster left, and it was just the two of us. Mike pocketed the gun.
“Is your hand all right?” I asked him. “Does it hurt awfully?”
The next thing I knew, he was right in front of me, enfolding me in an embrace so fierce and so startling that I didn’t know what to make of it. As God is my witness, I wondered, did Irish people just do this? Squeeze others hard when they were upset?
Snowflakes melted on my burning cheeks. Slowly, and with all the suavity of a squid, I managed to reciprocate the embrace, thinking it might be the friendly thing to do. I reached my arms around him. He rested his cheek against mine and more or less dissolved there.
“You could’ve died,” he murmured.
“But I didn’t,” I said, and very intelligently, too, I might add.
Eventually, after what might have been a human record for long hugs on city streets, he pulled himself away. He wouldn’t quite meet my gaze. His eyes looked puffy and distressed.
We hefted our suitcases once more and fell into step side by side. It felt natural to take his hand and hold it as we walked.
“When you came to the Lion’s Den tonight,” I said, “to see what I was up to—my goodness.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You got more than you bargained for.”
He squeezed my hand slightly. “That, Miss Woodward, is a true statement.”
“Tabitha,” I said. “Mike, if you hadn’t been there just now, I’d have—”
