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TOR MADDOX: DISARMED

  A short story

  by Liz Coley

  Copyright Liz Coley 2014

  Cover by Liz Coley, image license purchased from Bigstock.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted without express written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotes for book reviews or critical articles.

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  TOR MADDOX: DISARMED

  by Liz Coley

  None of this would have happened if I hadn’t walked in on my parents in the family room. No—not at all what you’re thinking. Everyone was fully dressed, feet on the floor. I walked in on them having a heated discussion about me and my future. After I’d listened for a minute from the kitchen, just out of sight.

  Mom was saying, “When I was their age I could sling a burger with the best of them.”

  Dad replied, “I’m sure you could, Sunshine, and drain a basket of fries with that. Is that really what you think Tor and Rody should be doing with their last gasp of freedom?”

  From the yelp, I think Mom swatted Dad. “Last gasp? At fifteen?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “Look, I know. I volunteered as a mini-paramedic all through high school. I’m just reluctant to accept that a carefree childhood’s becoming a thing of the past. It’s a—”

  “Rody’s got a job all lined up,” Mom said with unconcealed pride.

  That’s when I burst in. “Rody’s got a job? Since when? Doing what?” A full nine and a half months younger than me, what was my little brother qualified to do?

  A loud descending thump on the stairs signaled that Rody must have been listening from a different vantage, that is, a conveniently sneaky spot.

  “As soon as school’s out, he’ll be working days at the garden center,” Mom reported. “It pays well over minimum wage.”

  “So does babysitting,” I said, stung that Rody’s potential earning power for the summer was likely much higher than mine. “It’s just not as regular.”

  Mom’s mouth twisted in a half smile. “It’s not about the money, sweetie. It’s more about the responsibility and, well to be honest, thinking ahead to college applications.”

  I was responsible. I was pulling in straight A minuses. I danced ballet fifteen hours a week. What was she so worried about?

  At that Dad flumped into a chair. “Suze, college planning? Already? They’re just freshmen.”

  “Only for one more week,” Rody put in to straighten the record.

  “Well, I guess I could do that, too, Mom,” I suggested. “I mean, I like flowers.” I could probably name at least eight kinds. Roses, daisies, gardenias, carnations…oh spit. Maybe not.

  Rody snorted. “Hauling bags of mulch and planting mix is more like it.” He poked my right bicep. “Feel like watering two thousand specimens? Loading cars with eighty pound bags of decorative rocks?”

  “Oh. Ew.” I rubbed my arm. “That glamorous job is all yours, bro.” Manual labor? In the heat of San Diego summer? Not so appealing.

  My original plan for the next twelve weeks of my last gasp of freedom had been to volunteer at dance camp, hang out at the mall with my girls, go to the beach a lot, and do the odd babysitting job for the neighbors. In the end, under the potential cloud of being thought a shirker or an unworthy college applicant some day, I got a summer job at the closest convenience store, working the cash register. I figured on my resume I could put that I’d worked in small business finance. Yes. Close enough.

  So that’s how I happened to be on my own at 8:12 pm on June 19 when two armed gunmen burst through the door. Okay, only one was armed, and they were more like gunboys. And they didn’t so much burst as nervously shuffle in, avoiding eye contact, elbowing each other, searching the shelves. And I didn’t see the gun at first.

  “Can I help you find something?” I asked from behind the counter.

  The first boy spun around, eyes wide, all pupils. “Yeah,” he said, with a little voice crack. Then stronger: “Yeah. You can give us everything in the cash register. And beer.”

  I smiled. “I know you guys aren’t old enough to drink.” Their smooth brown faces had never seen a razor. They looked no older than the kids I babysit.

  That’s when the second kid moved his hand to where I could see it. His grip shook as he raised the weapon to eye level—his, that is, which was about neck level on me. A gun without the little orange thing on the tip that says just a toy.

  I lost the smile. “Are you serious? Is that real?”

  They exchanged a glance, first at each other, then at the door, where I saw a beat up blue car in the handicap spot. The getaway car. And I figured since they weren’t old enough to drive, someone bigger was putting them up to this.

  “Uh, what kind of beer does he like?” I asked, gesturing to the door with my head and eyeballs.

  “Miller, I think?” the unarmed boy offered. “Do you have it?”

  “Sure,” I said, stalling while I figured out my next move. “Guys, don’t get edgy. I’m going to come around to the fridge, okay?”

  I retrieved a twelve-pack box of cans and held it out to gunboy, hoping he would put away his weapon. But he said to his partner in crime, “Take it, Pico.”

  “You want another one?” I asked. But apparently that ploy was all played out.

  “Just the money,” Pico said.

  His friend jittered from foot to foot, his gun arm sinking with fatigue. “Open the register. Hurry.”

  “Yeah. Fine.” I went back behind the counter again and opened the register. “Look, you guys don’t look like hardened criminals. What is this? A dare? An initiation? Because I know it’s not your regular nightly beer run.”

  Pico resettled the heavy box in his arms and peeked nervously at the door. He nodded at whatever signal he received. “Jus’ never mind.”

  I sighed. “Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll get in if I just hand over the kitty here? They’ll fire me.”

  “Kitty?” Pico asked, while his friend re-gripped and raised the gun. A drop of sweat ran down his cheek.

  “Do you—do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll get in if you don’t?” he asked. “They’ll totally kill me.” He illustrated by raising the gun to his own temple, and the blood ran straight out of my body into a pool at my feet. Dear Lord, was the safety on? I had no idea how to tell.

  “Hey, hey, chill.” I waved my hands in the slow-down motion Dad gives me when I’m practicing driving. “Here’s what we’re going to do. It’s a win-win. I’m going to give you all the money in my purse, and you can tell your buddy we already did our evening deposit, so that’s all there was. You got that? Then you don’t have to start a life of crime tonight. Go home and think about your priorities.”

  While they exchanged an unconvinced whisper, I cleaned out the sixty-five cash I had in my wallet behind the counter, made it look like it was coming from the register in case the outside-guy could see me, and handed it over.

  Gunboy dropped the gun with a hint of relief. “Thanks.” He pocketed the money with one hand.

  The beer-laden Pico took a step toward the door. “Come on, Dijon. We’re outta here.”

  I called after them. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Dijon frowned with confusion. “I said thanks.”

  I held out my hand. “That’s fifteen bucks for the beer.�
�

  He smiled. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He dug into his pants and peeled off fifteen of my dollars, which I placed into the drawer. I slammed it with a ding, which the door echoed as they went through. The blue car took off with a roar.

  Little did I know the whole scene had been captured on the security video. And even though there was no robbery, except of me, the store owner was so tickled that not only did I get a nice raise, I got a fifty dollar bonus.

  That might have been the end of the story, but on Sunday, July 12, my little robbers slipped back into the store in broad daylight. I checked the parking lot—no sign of the getaway car.

  “Oh good, she’s here, Dijon,” Pico said.

  “Er, can I help you guys?” I asked, frisking them with my eyes. They looked harmless this time, but Dijon was wearing a big quilted jacket in the middle of summer. I admit, I flinched as he reached into his pocket.

  He pulled out a fistful of dimes and nickels and slid them across the counter. Another two fistfuls followed, till silver disks were cascading everywhere.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Um.” Pico looked at his toes. “Payback. From recycling. I know it’s not enough, but we wanted you to know. It’s like fourteen dollars.”

  “Thirteen eighty-five,” Dijon said. “So we have fifty-one fifteen to go.”

  “Actually, just a dollar fifteen for the beer,” I said. My heart gave a little sigh at their solemn faces. “The store owner paid me back the rest. He’s a really nice man, you know.”

  They looked at me for a second and nodded. “So, that’s good.”

  “Did your friend”—and I said it in quotation marks—“drive you here?”

  “We took the bus,” Pico replied. “I guess we’ll wait for the next one back.”

  “You guys look overheated. You want a cold soda, my treat?” I slid two soda’s worth of change into the register, anticipating the yes.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” they both said with feeling. Someone was trying to raise them right. Too bad they were surrounded by less than helpful influences. I wished I could magic them into a safer setting to grow up in.

  And then I had a better thought. It was only an hour till closing. I could explain to my boss later. “I’ll walk you out.” I opened the fridge. “Take whichever you want.”

  I’d passed the bus stop every day, right in front of the Catholic church. It was probably at least half an hour till the next one late on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe even longer. I strolled the couple blocks with my posse toward the bus stop while they chugged one orange and one grape soda.

  Pico checked the route schedule. “Forty minutes,” he said heavily.

  “Can I ask you two for a favor? Would you come check something out with me inside? It’ll be a lot cooler waiting anyway.”

  They shrugged. “Sure.”

  When I pointed out a trash can on the church porch, Dijon shook his head. “Recycling, remember?” He stuffed the empty can in his coat pocket.

  I punched my own forehead. “Duh. Follow me.”

  It was a lot cooler inside, and kind of daunting, too. I’m of mixed Protestant heritage, so this whole confession thing is kind of out of my comfort zone, but I figured if these guys were convinced to tell a priest that they were turning over a new leaf, maybe his black robe-white collar authority would help them stand up to the threats, guns, and fists authority of the punks who used little kids to run shoplifting errands for them. Or maybe I could do even more.

  There was, in fact, a confessional booth, and from the green light, I assumed there was a man on duty. “In here guys,” I said. I backed against the seat where the guilty party is supposed to hang out.

  “All of us?” Pico asked.

  “Why not. It’s a group thing,” I said. Chaotic squashing ensued.

  “Ow, you’re on my—”

  “I’m not trying to—”

  “It isn’t closing ri—”

  “May I help you,” a calm and curious voice asked from behind the secrecy screen.

  “We have a little—” I began.

  “Forgive me father for I have sinned,” the kids chanted in unison. Well, thank goodness someone knew what to do!

  “Um, I probably have, too,” I said. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

  “We robbed her,” Pico said. “About a month ago.”

  “But they said they were sorry,” I added. “And they’ve almost paid it all back. So what I was—”

  “Have you confessed this sin to the authorities?” the priest asked.

  “Sin?” I echoed. “Isn’t that a bit harsh? I mean they were being pushed into it by an older boy and it’s not like they wanted to do it and they’ve made resti—restitution. That’s payback,” I added for their benefit.

  “Except a dollar fifteen,” Dijon explained.

  “And besides,” I argued, “isn’t there something about go and sin no more. See that’s what I’d like you to get out of them. That they’ve learned from this and won’t do it again.”

  The priest coughed down a chuckle and did his priestly thing, interviewing the boys about what had gone down and asking if they could say an Ave Maria, which they could, and an Our Father, which they could. He gave them the official waiver, and they tumbled out of the confessional with serious smiles.

  “Hey, Padre, there’s one more really important thing,” I said through the screen.

  “You have a confession to make?” he asked.

  “No, no. I have a request. Is there any way you can get these kids into the closest Catholic school to where they live, on scholarship? I’m just afraid that as good as your blessing etcetera was here today, they’re going to be surrounded by the same influences. It’s going to be hard for them. They really are nice kids, don’t you think? Lost lambs? Or something like that?”

  There was a long pause. “Let me see what I can do. But I’ll have to know who everyone is, you understand, and where they live. We can’t do this part under the seal.”

  I looked up at the blank wooden roof. “Seal?”

  “The anonymity of the confessional, my dear girl.” His voice smiled at me.

  Father Joe somehow worked the miracle I’d requested while I put in as much overtime as I could at the convenience store. At the end of summer, I stopped by church with my summer wages and deputized him to send two laptops to the guys from a secret benefactor. I don’t know for sure, but I like to imagine that the paths ahead of them will be easier, better, safer. And on my resume, I suppose I can say I spent my summer working at not-for-profit, even though the reward in my heart was immeasurable.

  And if I hadn’t walked in on my parents, probably none of it would have happened. So there’s that.

  Dear Readers,

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  And look for additional free short titles, including Practically Invisible and Sticks and Stones.

  And now…turn the page for your bonus material!

  INTRODUCING

  Tor Maddox, a heroine for our times

  “I know that one day, I'm going to have to live in the real world. I'd like it to be a decent one.” - Tor

  Book I Tor Maddox: Unleashed

  When sixteen-year old Torrance Olivia Maddox, self-confessed news junkie, figures out that the mysterious and deadly New Flu is being spread by dogs, she has one question—if the danger is that obvious to her, why hasn’t the government revealed the truth and taken action?

  Her search for the answer will take her farther than she ever imagined. But then again, she never imagined that man’s best friend could become public enemy number one, that men in black might show up in her cozy suburban neighborhood,
that she’d spend her sixteenth birthday as a teenaged runaway, and that her effort to save one dog would become a mission to save them all.

  Book 2 Tor Maddox: Embedded

  Life has been way too quiet for Tor Maddox since her fifteen minutes of CNN fame. Then agent-in-training Rick Turner reappears with what sounds like a simple assignment—to embed herself as his eyes and ears in her own high school. When she agrees to keep tabs on high school state swim champ Hamilton Parker for the Feds, she is plunged into the deep end of a sinister plot. Knowing that freedom, justice, and lives are at stake again, Tor jumps in feet first, but has she gotten in over her head this time?

  When observe and report becomes kiss and tell, Tor’s first mission may blow up in her face.

  Book 3 Tor Maddox: Mistaken

  Eight leotards and a ball gown—that’s what Tor Maddox packed for her summer ballet intensive in New York. Pity she never arrived. Kidnapped once by the good guys and once by the bad ones, Tor finds herself involved in a high seas adventure featuring princesses and pirates, a wedding ring, and the guy she thought she’d never be allowed to see again, junior man-in-black Rick Turner.

  Grab a flotation device and come aboard for more danger, shenanigans, and romance.

  Now here is a sneak peek at TOR MADDOX: UNLEASHED

  TOR MADDOX: UNLEASHED

  by Liz Coley