Laugh or Death (Lexi Graves Mysteries Book 6) (8 page)

Chapter Seven

I browsed the menu, my mouth watering. "I want to eat... everything!" I
chimed eagerly.

"Everything?" Solomon arched his eyebrows.

"I know you want to, too, so don't pretend you don't. The menu is so close to your mouth, you're practically licking it."

Solomon laughed and moved the menu away. "Am not. I'm carefully perusing it."

"Licking," I whispered, returning my gaze to the menu. I really could have eaten everything, but if I did, my wardrobe would have become obsolete and I'd be left wearing a trash bag. That simply wouldn't do. The problem was, with so many delicious things listed, how could I narrow it down? Indecision and hunger paralyzed me. Then my stomach gave an embarrassing gurgle, just as the waitress reached us. "That one," I said, indiscriminately stabbing a finger at the all French menu. I knew I should have paid more attention in French class, but with Paris so far away, and seemingly out of my reach, I didn't see the point. I really should have expanded my horizons. Perhaps then, I would have known how to say more than "yes," "no," "a glass of wine," and "do you want to sleep with me tonight?" At least one of those phrases would probably have been useful tonight, and possibly, all of them.

"An excellent choice,
madame," said the waitress, her pen poised over the fancy tablet. "And for monsieur?"

Solomon reeled off a long question in French, and the waitress replied. I waited while they discussed... something. The waitress beamed and flicked her hair before
walking away. "Her family is from the Burgundy region," he told me, "and she suggested a nice wine for us to try."

"Is there any language you don't speak?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Name one."

"Zulu."

"Makes sense."

"There are lots of languages I don't speak, but I have a good ear and pick things up quickly. I think you could too."

"Really?"

Solomon nodded, and we quieted as the wine waiter approached, uncorking a bottle in front of us. Solomon tasted it, nodding as the waiter filled our glasses. I sipped mine and smiled approvingly. "Nice."

"This is nice," agreed Solomon, waving a hand around, indicating the whole restaurant. "You and me. Alone."

"I like alone time," I said, winking, and hoping he caught my drift. Judging by his broadening smile, he did.

"Dating you... being with you... makes me a very happy man."

My heart swelled at hearing that, but before I could confess the same, the waitress returned, bearing our plates. She made a little show of setting them in front of us. She barely looked at me, but gazed at Solomon while setting down his plate, then began flitting around him and asking something in French.

"I think our waitress has a crush on you," I said, peering at my entree. What exactly
did I order? It seemed to be some kind of soup. With something in it. I hoped it was something I could easily identify and not something gross.

"Pffft," laughed Solomon. "She's just making sure we get good service."

"She nearly dumped my soup in my lap." I picked up my spoon and prepared to eat as a waft of Solomon's entree caught my nose. It smelled delicious.

"You wish you'd ordered mine, don't you?"

"No," I said, dipping my spoon and raising it to my mouth. Oh yuck-yuck. It was cold. Cold soup. For the love of soup, what was all that about? I barely managed to refrain from pulling a face as I muttered, "So delicious."

"Shall I translate the menu?" Solomon offered.

"Nope. I understand." Immediately, I wished I said yes, but I hated looking like a plebeian who couldn't read a menu. I resolved to ask my mother if there were any language classes at her adult ed school. I was pretty sure if one existed, she'd taken it. She seemed to have tried everything else. Plus, I could win major daughter points by offering to take a class with her. Probably not as many as the time I got roped into her survival skills class, but at least, the knife she bought me for that came in very handy. I still had it.

"No problem. I love it when you do you
r brave
I'm hating this
face."

"I'm not hating it," I said, right before the cold slime slipped down my throat. "I'm immersing myself in culture." Pretty much drowning myself with it, I thought, but
chose not to add.

"You want to get a burger on the way home?"

I pouted, "Yes."

"If you let me translate the menu, I can show you the word for
burger.
Speaking of home, maybe we should talk about..." Solomon never finished his sentence because a terrified scream rang out, which caused all dining conversations to cease. We looked over to the bar where the scream came from. When I saw why, I sat bolt upright and Solomon reached for my arm.

Two gunmen
were standing at the bar. Their faces were covered with black ski-masks, that had only the eye holes open a slit. They wore black jeans, with their jackets zipped to their chins, and gloves. One had a pistol pointed at the barman, now frozen with his hands in the air, and our waitress who was also immobilized at the bar. The other gunman held an automatic weapon pointed at the diners. Even without knowing the magazine capacity, I worried that an indiscriminate shooting could result in a lot of casualties. Around us, the other diners were clearly coming to the same conclusion.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Solomon squeezed my arm as I looked at him in panic. He gave a short shake of his head and dipped his gaze down.
Don't engage them
, he seemed to be telling me,
don't draw attention
.

"No one move!" yelled the gunman pointing his weapon at the barman. "Hand over the cash and no one gets hurt."

The bartender, his body shaking lightly, dropped his hands, reaching for the cash register. I watched as he grabbed whatever cash was inside, planting the bills on the bar. "From the safe, moron," yelled the gunman. "Take me to the safe."

"We... we don't have a safe," the bar
tender replied, his hands back in the air. "That's all there is, I swear."

The pistol man glanced at his comrade and nodded.
The ensuing unexpected burst of gunfire had us all ducking for cover. Ceiling debris rained on the table next to us. "Don't mess with me, man," he yelled. "I know about the safe in the back. Let's go."

"I don't have the code."

"That's why you're going to call the manager over here."

"He's not here."

"Then who's that?" asked Pistol, as I decided to call him, waving his pistol at the navy-suited man crouched by a towering, potted plant in the corner. "You! Manager. Get over here, or you'll be cleaning brain tissue off the whiskey for the next week."

"What do we do?" I whispered to Solomon as we slowly sat upright, our bodies still bent towards the table.

"Nothing. We wait."

"For?"

"I texted a nine-one-one already," Solomon whispered, reiterating, "We do nothing. These men are not pros. They're unpredictable."

"How do you know they're not pros?"

"If I were robbing this place, I wouldn't do it now, filled with diners, and even if I were stupid enough to, I'd round us all up first and take our cell phones."

"You two. Shut up!" yelled one of the gunm
en. He fired off a couple of rounds. As the wine bucket on our table exploded, glass flying into the air, Solomon launched himself towards me. He grabbed me and threw us to the floor before covering me with his body.

"Are you hurt?" he whispered as I gasped for breath
. His hands were patting me, searching for wounds. If I were really honest, the patting was quite nice, but I would have enjoyed it even more if Solomon weren't checking for bullet holes.

"I don't think so," I replied, trying not
to whimper as I mentally assessed myself. Even accounting for the sudden adrenaline spike, I didn't feel any pain, or even worse, any part of me leaking. The little, black dress would live to see another day, and so would I! "You?"

"I'm fine."

I started to move, but a hand between my shoulder blades pressed me back to the floor. "Stay put," said Solomon. "I don't want to be in their sights again."

I nodded my
compliance, which wasn't hard since I agreed one hundred percent. We waited, listening, but I couldn't see anything from my position facing away from the bar. "What's happening?" I asked, noticing Solomon watching.

"The manager took the pistol guy into the back, leaving machine gun watching us."

"Everyone else is on the floor," I said, scanning the room from two inches above floor level. I had an excellent view of table and chair legs, as well as several prone people with frightened faces. I could also see the boots of the gunman. They looked cheap and I hoped he got blisters.

"Let's hope they all stay there. We do not need any wannabe heroes today."

"Including you," I whispered, noticing a trickle of blood leaking from Solomon's forehead and down his cheek.

"I'm armed."

"I don't care!"

"I've taken out more than these two idiots."

"Good to know. All the same, you're bleeding, so please, don't. And why are you armed on our date?"

Solomon didn't answer as he
touched his temple, dabbing at it. His fingers were a little red when he brought them to his eyes, but the scratch already appeared to be clotting. "It's nothing. Probably got caught by a shard of glass. Anyway, like I said, we'll stay put and..." He paused as a shout rang out from somewhere behind the bar. Seconds later, I saw another pair of booted feet hotfooting it into the restaurant. Around us, heads began to rise, and blinking eyes, looking towards the noise. "Let's go," yelled a voice that I assumed belonged to the feet and the two men racing towards the back. A burst of gunfire resulted in everyone pressed against the floor again.

"I think they're gone," I said a moment later.

"Stay down." Solomon pulled himself into a crouch, then surreptitiously peered over our table. "They're gone," he said, audible only to me. "I'm going to check on the manager. Stay down until I get back. Do not move!"

"Okay." There
were times in my life when I would have been happy to ignore Solomon and do my own thing, but this wasn't one of them. The flash of panic, however fleeting, across his face was enough to assure me that he was still worried. I watched from my flattened vantage point on the floor as he made his way quickly from the tables to the bar. I heard him say something to the bartender, or so I assumed, before he was out of sight. I didn't have to wait long for him to return. Just as the alarm began a low hum through the restaurant, Solomon returned with the manager. In the interceding minutes, the manager looked like a different man with his suit now disheveled. Limping, with his head bloodied, I watched a trickle of blood run across the manager’s cheek and drop onto his collar.

"Everyone, we're safe. The gunmen have gone," Solomon announced as I slid my knees to my chest
. Drawing myself into a kneeling position, I had to be careful not to get caught on any of the broken glass. I saw him helping the manager onto a barstool as the bartender's head bobbed cautiously above the bar.

"How do you know that?" yelled a man's voice from the back of the restaurant.

"They ran out the back and set off the alarm," yelled Solomon. "I secured the door and they can't re-enter."

"You can't be sure. They could come in the front,"
persisted the same voice.

"Listen for sirens and think about that," Solomon replied
. The chorus of police sirens began to overtake the soft, piped music and the restaurant's own alarm. "Everyone pick up your napkins, grab a pen if you've got one, or borrow one, and write down what you saw. The police will be here in a few minutes, and the sooner you get your statements down, the better," Solomon ordered.

"The napkins are linen," sobbed the manager, his head in his hand
s. "Brand new! From France!"

"Buy new ones," said Solomon. "Call it a
‘staying alive’ treat."

A
s I dusted off my chair and sat, reaching for a pen in my purse and a dry napkin, it appeared that the other diners were simply too shocked to do anything but follow instructions. By the time MPD burst their way through the doors, the diners were calmly writing their observations.

"Don't panic!" yelled the first officer needlessly,
drawing his weapon as he scoured the restaurant. "Where'd they go?"

"Gone," said Solomon, leaning against the bar.

"Thataway," added the manager, pointing to the rear corridor. "They made me empty the safe before they ran."

"Aww
, man," said the second officer as he stowed his gun in his holster. "We missed it!"

"I got you thirty-eight witness statements," Solomon told them,
approaching me.