The Mosaic Murder. Lonni Lees
gun.
“I oughta shoot you for giving me a hard time, old man,” he said as he grabbed the cash with one hand and began shoving it in his pocket. “It’d serve you right.”
The kid heard the click at the same instant he felt the gun shoved into his back.
“It might be a good idea to drop that gun,” Maggie said from where she stood behind him. “And I mean right now, not next week. Drop it. Slowly.”
The kid lowered him arm and placed the gun on the counter in front of Carlos. Then he spun around in an attempt to disarm his unknown assailant. Before he finished spinning he was hit with a knee in the groin that brought him to his knees. He groaned. Then a foot shoved him forward onto the floor and he felt someone’s full weight pressing into his back.
“Put your hands behind your back. Now.”
His head was spinning. Robbing the store seemed like a no-brainer yesterday when he’d come in and seen the old man alone behind the counter. All he had to do was wave a gun and it would be a done deal and he’d have enough money to pay his rent. Maybe even buy a little crack. But now, as he put his hands behind his back and heard the unwelcome click of the cold handcuffs as they wrapped around his wrists and secured him, he got a reality check. Things don’t always go as planned. Especially if you make plans when you’re stoned.
“Stand up, punk,” Maggie said as she hoisted him to his feet and gave him a shove forward in the direction of the glass doors. She stopped and motioned to Carlos, who was still holding his breath, eyes wide.
“Come on over here, Carlos.”
He walked around the counter to where Maggie stood holding the kid, who was starting to squirm uncomfortably against her hold.
“I think he’s got something in his pocket that belongs to you,” she said. “Let’s make life simple here, okay? Just reach in and take what belongs to you. We can fill out the report later. Hey, it might give us a chance for a more relaxed visit, right?”
Carlos hesitated, then cautiously stepped forward and reached into the pocket to retrieve his hard earned cash.
“Gracias, Señorita Maggie,” he said. “Muchas gracias.”
“All in a day’s work, papacita,” she said, giving the kid a shove against the front door as Carlos counted out his money and put it back into the cash drawer. He slammed it shut with a sigh of relief.
Then he noticed the gun where it still lay on the counter.
“Do not forget your evidence,” he smiled, picking it up and walking over to Maggie.
“Thanks.” Maggie had her hands full with the punk and thought for a second. “Just shove it into my pocket, okay?”
“Sí, sí,” he said. Holding the gun with two fingers as if it were a live rattlesnake about to strike he walked over to them, then quickly shoved it into her pocket and took three steps backwards. The kid strained his neck to get his first good look at the person holding him captive.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he said as he locked eyes with her. “You ain’t nothin’ but a skanky little puta!” He let out a few expletives and a nervous, high pitched laugh.
“You tried me once, punk. Are you really dumb enough to try me again?”
“I could take you if I didn’t have these cuffs on.”
“Like you did before?”
“Hey, you caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Ain’t life full of little surprises though? You want to try me before or after you piss your pants?”
Carlos took a few more steps backwards and when he felt he was at a safe enough distance he chimed in his two cents worth.
“Did no anybody ever teach you it eez no nice to point guns at people?” he said.
The kid looked back at him and said, “Like I guess I musta dropped the book and lost the lesson, old man.”
Carlos watched with pride as Maggie hauled the kid through the door and out to the squad car. She be something else, my miss Maggie, he thought with a smile. Like a little firecracker. As she shoved him in the back seat, Carlos could hear her say:
“You know, you really ought to practice some impulse control. It could keep you out of a heap of trouble.”
CHAPTER TWO
A ROWDY RECEPTION
Barbara Atwell walked through the empty gallery, dust cloth in hand. She ran the cloth across the top of the frames that held the artwork and across the surfaces of the table tops. Everything had to look perfect. She put down the dust cloth and picked up the spray bottle of glass cleaner and paper towels and began to clean the glass fronts that displayed the hand made Paloma Blanca jewelry. The gallery was her life. A dream realized with sweat equity, intelligence and the ability to choose art that the public loved. The recession had put a dent in things but she still managed to keep afloat by mixing more affordable pieces with the more costly ones. It was true, she had to lower her standards a bit, but it kept Mosaic in the black. Ten inexpensive items were an easier sell in this economy than one pricey one. Hard times necessitated hard choices. She had seen too many pricey, trendy galleries go under in the last year and was determined not to become another fatality. She’d worked too hard and long to lose it now and would do whatever was necessary to keep afloat.
The back door creaked open on its unoiled hinges, then closed with a bang, causing Barbara to jump.
“Armando? Is that you?”
“I am so sorry, my love,” he said as he entered the room. “The traffic,” he said in explanation in his soft south of the border accent. Armando stood there with a smile, white teeth glistening against flawless olive skin, dark mischievous eyes twinkling under thick lashes as he looked at his wife. He was in his mid-twenties, in contrast to her forties, and every time she looked at him her heart melted like some love struck kid. She couldn’t help it. He stood before her, tall and perfect, looking like some burnished Aztec god.
And he knew it.
“No excuses necessary,” she said, setting down the glass cleaner and walking over to him. She put her arms around him and held his body close. “I missed you,” she whispered.
“And I you, my love.”
He kissed her. Every kiss made this otherwise strong and independent woman weak in the knees. There were times she wanted to kick herself or give herself a hard slap across the face to snap back to reality. But he affected her like a forbidden drug and she had no intention of kicking the habit. Armando was the only man who ever won her over. The others had been a pleasant diversion, but handsome Armando had totally mesmerized her with his Latin charm. Despite the age difference and the unwelcome advice and warnings from well-meaning friends, when he proposed she’d said yes with no hesitation. The wedding was simple, a small ceremony performed by a shaman right at the gallery, surrounded by artists and close friends. Local drummers performed the wedding march while tribal dancers twirled and scattered flower petals along the path.
It was perfect.
After the ceremony, Armando moved into Barbara’s living quarters above the gallery. Their life together was good. And as non-traditional as Barbara herself.
“Should we go upstairs?” she asked him.
Armando pulled away from her and smiled. “I am so tired from the trip, my sweet. I just need to shower and take a little siesta. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Barbara pouted and turned away from him.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “The day will belong to the two of us and we will never leave the bedroom.” He pulled her back to him. “Mañana will be romantico.”
“Sí, mañana.” She started to hum the old Peggy Lee song as she returned to her cleaning. “‘Mañana is good enough for me’.”