Espresso Shot

and a woman cried out.

I stared in horror, the skewer hanging between my plate and my mouth, as our gentle hostess was pushed through the kitchen doorway so hard she bounced off the wall. Then the waiters and two men in kitchen smocks marched into the room single file, their hands behind their heads.

Finally, three men charged into the room. They were all in dark clothes, and their heads and faces were covered with black ski masks. The tallest of the three waved a big, nasty-looking handgun.

“If nobody moves, nobody gets hurt,” said the tall man with the gun, his voice muffled by the ski mask.

“What’s going on here?” One of the well-heeled guests rose from his chair. “What do you men want?”

You idiot, I thought. Sit down and shut up.

Too late. One of the two shorter bandits stepped forward, snatched a bottle of wine from the table, and clubbed the man with it. The woman beside him screamed as the outraged diner dropped back into his seat, clutching his head.

“Didn’t you hear me?! I said nobody move!” the armed man cried, dark eyes wild behind the mask.

The shorter bandit stepped around the gunman.

“Your wallets, jewelry, watches, and money in this bag.” He tossed a red pillowcase at the woman. “Fill it now, lady! Before jefe decides to pop someone!”

NINETEEN

THE room was silent as the trembling woman stripped off her earrings and dropped them into the thief’s red pillowcase. Beside her, the less-than-brilliant diner who’d protested the invasion clutched a bloodstained napkin to his head.

“Where’s the purse, lady?” the man with the pillowcase demanded.

“It’s on the f-floor,” the woman said, her voice breaking.

The thief placed his gloved fist against the side of her head and mock-punched her. “Yo, bitch, pick it up!”

Silently sobbing, she lifted her Christian Dior clutch and dumped its contents into the cloth sack.

“The purse, too.”

With a sniff, she released the Dior into the sack.

Oh, God. My mouth was dry, my skin clammy. The shock of the robbery was making everything move in slow motion. Stay calm, Clare. Hold it together.

Quinn once told me the best thing I could do in a situation like this was to stay cool and give the robbers what they wanted. “No money or piece of jewelry is more valuable than your life, sweetheart. Just give it up and get away…” I couldn’t agree more. I certainly wasn’t going to put up a fight for my stupid Fen bag or the money inside it.

Waiting for my turn to be fleeced, I placed my hands on the table, in plain sight. A soft whimpering came from beside me. I glanced to my right and saw it was Neville Perry. The man looked ill, sweat was slick on his brow, and he was quivering like a mass of panna cotta.

Wow, what do you know. Under pressure, the crazy, cleaver-wielding Prodigal Chef is no different from the rest of us.

Then I heard another sound, one I couldn’t believe. On the other side of me, Rafe Chastain was softly chuckling. I glanced in his direction and saw the bemused smile on his well-lined face.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered with a glance my way. “This is the third time this year I’ve been robbed.”

Okay, I thought, maybe all of us aren’t quivering masses of panna cotta.

“Shut up, you!” the gunman cried, hearing Chastain’s little laugh. “Or you can eat this.” He gestured to the gun barrel.

Chastain lifted his hands. “You’re the boss, kimosabe.”

Thank goodness Chastain’s being smart. No stupid heroics.

The red pillowcase was passed to the next dinner guest, the bleeding man. He dropped a Rolex and very nice leather wallet into it.

While the tall man held the gun and the other gathered up the loot, the third robber held back, letting the others do the work. That’s when I noticed his back reflected in a wall mirror and saw the familiar dragon design on his jacket.

A chill ran through me. These were the same guys I’d spotted loitering in front of the Taiwan Center on Northern Boulevard. I’d thought they were fellow diners. Now I wondered. Had the men been shadowing Roman and me, specifically? Or had they heard about this dinner from another source?

I jumped when someone nudged my foot. It was Roman. I looked across the table at his panicked expression. He mouthed Breanne to me, and with a sick jolt I remembered the wedding rings.

Oh, God. Oh, no. Roman had promised Breanne that he’d keep the rings until the wedding day, and guard them with his life. I could tell from the look on his face that those one-of-a-kind Nunzio rings were on him right now.

I grimaced, watching the fleecing continue around the table. Finally, they got to Roman.

“Give it up,” the thief snarled, holding the red pillowcase out.

Roman pulled up his sleeve and fumbled with the clasp on his expensive watch. He dropped it into the sack, followed by his wallet and a polished titanium money clip stuffed with bills.

The thief was ready to move along, but the man in the dragon jacket pointed directly at Roman. “He didn’t give it all up,” Dragon Man calmly said. “We need those rings.”

Rings? How does this guy know Roman’s carrying rings?

“Come on, man! Give ’em up,” the thief with the bag demanded.

Roman held up his hands and wiggled his pinkies. “No rings,” he said. “And my navel isn’t pierced, either.” The man cuffed Roman with his free hand, and he nearly tumbled off his chair. “See here!” Roman cried. “That’s not sporting!”

“Let me convince the little shithead,” the tall man with the gun said.

“No, wait! Keep everybody covered,” Dragon Man commanded.

But the gunman pushed past his partner and placed the barrel of the gun against Roman’s temple. Brio’s eyes widened as the armed man leaned down to speak right into his ear.

“He’s says you got those rings. Give ’em up now, or I’ll pop you dead.”

The armed man’s face was two feet away from mine, just across the narrow strip of white tablecloth. I saw the robber’s wild eyes under the ski mask, and I knew he meant business.

Okay, Roman, I wanted to shout, you’ve done enough for Breanne. Give them what they want before they take it off your corpse!

Roman’s lip quivered, but he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was a scuffling movement to my right. I turned to find Neville Perry out of his chair. My God. The chef was attempting to bolt for the back door. But he wasn’t going to make it. The gunman was already shifting his weapon away from Roman’s head. He took aim at the chef’s back. Neville was about to be gunned down in cold blood.

Not in front of me, you son of a bitch!

In less than a second I’d chosen my weapon: the bowl of sambal belacan. I grabbed the blazing hot chili paste and threw it straight into the gunman’s mask.

“Eat that, asshole!”

The man screamed as liquid fire hit his eyes. He dropped his gun, clutched his face, and went down howling.

“Aaaaaaaaah! I can’t see! I can’t see!”

“Nice move, honey!” Rafe Chastain was already lunging at the robber holding the loot. I heard the solid smack of a right hook connecting. The bag went flying, and the punk went down. So did Chastain, whose tattooed arms began delivering nonstop rabbit punches.

A floor lamp crashed to the carpet, sparked, and went black. With shouts and screams, the waiters bolted for the front door, knocking another lamp to the floor and plunging the room into semidarkness. Dragon Man tried to stop the horde, but without a weapon he couldn’t scare anyone.

His screaming partner was still trying to rip the drenched ski mask off. But his movements only put more capsaicin in his eyes, nose, and mouth. He flailed around, grabbing his partner’s legs.

“Help me, man! Help me!”

Dragon Man was dragged to the floor, where he started groping through the shadows for the lost gun.

Amid the chaos, I leaped over the top of the table and grabbed Roman’s collar. “Come on!”

Chubby as he was, Roman still beat me out the front door. We saw the diners fleeing up the dark alley toward the brightly illuminated new town houses. I pulled Roman in the opposite direction, deeper into the gloom.

“Where are we going?” he whined.

“Those guys were after you, Roman, and I don’t think they’ll give up easily.”

“Huh?”

“They knew about Breanne’s rings!”

“Oh, really, Clare? Think so?”

“This is no time for sarcasm! Come on, duck.”

I pulled Roman behind a ten-year-old Honda. Through its windows, we watched the house we’d just fled. One of the robbers burst through the front door a moment later, followed by Chef Chastain, who was yelling obscenities and waving the steel shaft of a broken lamp like he was back in the Australian bush, scaring dingoes away from his cameraman with a campsite tent pole (one of the Exotic Food Hunter’s better episodes).

Both Chastain and his game ran down the alley and around the corner.

Roman began to rise. “It’s all clear.”