Day was stirring the golden-brown liquid and was about to take a sample taste when he heard the store’s cowbell ding. Five seconds later he heard a demand shouted by a male voice.
“Don’t move, old man! Empty the drawer right now!”
Then something, or things, went crashing to the floor.
“Don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to hurt you. Just give me the money!” the guy shouted.
Day couldn’t see over the rows of shelves, but from the sound of it, the robber had to be in his late teens, early twenties. Great. Day took his cup and went by the coolers across the back of the store. He peeked down the aisle that God was in and saw him reading the label on some cough syrup as he popped a cough drop into his mouth.
Really, God?
Day eased up to his partner, careful not to make a sound. “Did you find what you needed?” he whispered to God.
“Yep.” God turned to look at him.
“Don’t you hear the place being robbed?”
“Yep.”
“Are you going to stop it?”
“Yep.”
“Now you see me, now you don’t?” Day winked.
“Yep.”
God put the cough syrup and drops in his coat pocket and strolled to the front of the store.
Day went back around to come up the aisle closest to the door. He heard the young man yell again.
“Open the safe! Hurry up. Don’t try to stall me.”
Ugh. Fucking amateur.
God turned at the end of the aisle and saw a small figure in front of the counter shakily pointing a .22 caliber handgun at the terrified clerk. The boy couldn’t be over eighteen years old. He had a red-and-blue Braves ball cap pulled down low on his face, and his black hoodie was zipped up to his chin and pulled up over the cap. The jeans were faded and extremely tight, and God found himself wondering if the guy’s balls were pissed off at him.
God took quiet steps toward the counter and was only a few feet from the boy before he whirled his gun around and pointed it at God.
The kid jerkily moved his head up and down, taking in God’s appearance. His chiseled face, massive bulk, and sheer height had the boy’s eyes widening to two times their size
“Hey! Don’t move! Put your hands up!”
“No,” God said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“W-what,” the boy stammered.
The pain and uncertainty in the kid’s eyes was familiar to him.
He gave God a pleading glare. “Look, man. Just get down okay. I don’t want to kill you.”
“Good, ’cause I don’t want to die,” God said with a stone face.
“I have the gun. Now put your damn hands up!” The young, pimply face was a mask of anger, but his shaking hands betrayed his fear.
“Hey, how much for the cup of coffee?” Day yelled in a voice that was way too loud. “Oh shit, my bad. I didn’t see you over there with the gun.”
The teen whirled around toward Day. “Yeah, so get your hands up,” he snapped.
“Not you.” Day pointed around the kid’s shoulder. “Him.”
When the kid spun back around he was staring down the barrel of God’s very large Desert Eagle, looking like he was going to piss himself.
Now you see me, now you don’t. Works every time.
“Mine’s bigger than yours,” God said casually.
“Literally,” Day said around a smirk.
God rolled his eyes at his partner while focusing on the kid. “Slowly drop your weapon and kick it over, then put your hands behind your head.”
“Okay, easy, man.” The boy slowly eased his small handgun to the floor. “Please. Just don’t shoot me.”
“Not gonna shoot you, kid,” he said while pulling the silver chain from inside his shirt and revealing his gold badge. He saw the kid push his gun toward God’s feet and scramble to get all the way down, putting his cheek on the dirty floor. He hadn’t asked him to lie down. This kid was obviously not a hardened criminal. He took his eyes off his suspect and saw that Day was reading a Muscle & Fitness magazine from the rack. God rolled his eyes again.
“Day, get over here and pay for our shit. I’ll handle ‘world’s dumbest criminal—the high school edition.’ Get your ass up and come with me, kid.” God pulled the boy up by his collar and took the small handgun, tucking it into his waistband at the small of his back.
He walked them around to where he was parked and threw the boy against the side of his truck. He patted him down—none to gently—and yanked a worn Velcro wallet from his back pocket. Fucking Velcro Twilight wallet… are you kiddin’ me? He spun the kid so that he was facing him, and pushed him hard against the truck’s bed.
“Officer, please. I’m sor—”
“Detective,” God barked, cutting him off. “What the hell are you doing, sticking up a mom-and-pop store? How fucking old are you?”