Code of Silence: Living a Lie Comes With a Price (2 page)

Hiro stepped in front of him and played with her braid the way she often did when she was thinking or worried about something. In this case it was probably both.

“Maybe he’s up in his office.”

Cooper tried to read her face. “How bad of a feeling are we talking here? Like
bad
bad, or just kind of bad?”

“
Bad
bad.”

Spooky.
He rubbed the goosebumps down on his forearms. For a moment Cooper looked over her head into the lifeless kitchen, listening for any noise from the floor above them.

“Frank,” he called. “We’re ready to go.” Nothing. Like the dead air between stations on the radio dial. No noise, no static. A disconnected silence.

“Where is he?” Hiro’s voice dropped to a whisper. Pacing along the counter that separated them from the kitchen, she stopped in front of the eight foot mascot—the legendary Frankenstein monster. Holding a Chicago-style hot dog in one hand and a monster shake in the other, the green-skinned beast sported a goofy grin.

Leaning to one side to get a better view, Cooper scanned the entire length of the kitchen. The back door stood open a crack. A clear plastic bag jammed with garbage sat just inside it with its top tied into a knot. “He must be taking stuff out to the dumpster.” Cooper jerked his thumb towards the rear exit. “I’ll grab my backpack. We’ll slip through the kitchen and—”

WHAM!
The back door flew open and Frank Mustacci stumbled through like he’d been pushed. He toppled over the bag of garbage and landed on his hands and knees.

“Stay down!” someone shouted.

Two uniformed men burst in from the shadows. One wore a clown mask—the other a slick-haired latex Elvis face. The clown pointed a can of spray paint at the security camera by the back door and blackened the lens.

Instinctively Cooper dropped out of sight behind the counter, pulling Hiro down with him. Adrenalin surged through his body. He glanced over at Gordy who was still sitting wide-eyed in front of the arcade game, like he was bolted in place. He was just out of the line of vision from the kitchen.

“What do I do?” Gordy mouthed the words.

Cooper didn’t dare speak, but he shouted with his eyes.
Move!
Hiro motioned frantically for Gordy to hide. Gordy’s eyes, wild with panic, darted around the room looking for some way of escape. Without a sound he slid off the stool and crawled under the nearest table.

Cooper licked dry lips and leaned in close to Hiro. Crouching, Cooper pressed his back against the only barrier between him and the kitchen. Had the men seen them? Cooper’s heart punched out a warning in his chest.

The door slammed shut.

“Don’t try anything stupid, old man. Do exactly what we say, and you won’t get hurt.” The man’s voice sounded deep and strong. Like a DJ.

Frank groaned. “What do you want?”

Cooper could hear fear in Frank’s voice.

“What do you
think
?” Mr. DJ said. “Empty the register.”

A loud thump and another groan.

Cooper flinched, imagining poor Frank doubled over in pain. He heard a faint whimper escape Hiro’s lips.

“Okay, okay,” Frank gasped. “I’ll cooperate. Put the gun away.”

A gun—and they’d be coming his way. Cooper looked for a way to escape. The windows? They were big enough, but he’d need something solid to break through them. All the chairs and tables were securely attached to the black and white tiled floor—except the metal stool by the arcade game.

“All right, hotdog man,” the other man said, clearly getting closer. His voice sounded permanently hoarse, like he’d been lead vocal for a heavy metal band for too many years. “You heard what the boss said. Keep moving, or I’ll boot you again.”

Cooper plastered himself against the counter.
We’re trapped—and there’s no way out!

C
ooper heard shuffling feet on the other side of the counter. “That’s it, old man. Nice and easy.”

DJ voice was obviously the one in charge, and he sounded way too close.

Gordy pulled his lanky frame into a ball and stopped moving. Barely a second later, the register drawer clanged open.

The hair on Cooper’s arms tingled again. He could almost
feel
the men on the other side of the counter. For a moment his mind looped frantically.
Dear God. Dear God. Dear God—please!

“We’ll take it to go,” the man ordered.

“Wha—?”

“Put the cash in a bag, old man!”

Cooper looked out the window towards Kirchoff Road, hoping a car would pull in the lot and scare the robbers away. He focused on the headlights of an approaching pickup, willing it to turn in.
C’mon. Slow down.
Maybe a couple of burly construction workers would come by—hungry enough to stop and tap on the window. Regular customers knew Frank would open the door. Cooper watched for their turn signal to blink on and silently pleaded.
Help us. Please.
The truck passed without slowing. If only Cooper had remembered his phone.

No other vehicles were in sight. Cooper scanned the roads, then shifted his attention to the darkening sky, and then, with dawning horror, Cooper noticed their reflections. The front window reflected the scene inside the diner with mirror-like clarity. He could see everything. Cooper shuddered. Three men stood on the other side of the counter. Frank, easily a head shorter than either of the other two, emptied his own register and stuffed the bills into a paper take-out bag. Frank lifted the tray out of the register and fished a couple of bills from underneath. Cooper could see Frank’s hands shaking as he set the tray on the counter and handed the bag of money to another man in a clown mask.

Cooper fought to control his breathing—keep it shallow. Afraid of making some kind of sound if he shifted his weight, he tried to ignore the cramping in his left calf. He stayed as still as the Frank ‘n Stein’s mascot grinning stupidly at him from the corner.
God, make this be over.

Hiro touched Cooper’s arm and nodded her head toward the window. In the deepening shadows at the base of the counter he could see himself and Hiro huddled like they were caught in the crossfire of a commando raid. If the crooks looked closely enough, they could see him and Hiro. Then it really would be over. A trickle of sweat broke free from his maze of blonde curls and crept down his forehead.

“Now. The combination to your safe,” the DJ voice growled from behind the Elvis mask.

“Safe?”
Frank’s voice cracked.

Elvis backhanded him across the face. Staggering backwards, Frank cried out and groped the top of the counter for support. The register tray slid and clattered over the edge, showering coins onto Hiro and Cooper like a silver waterfall.

Hiro squeezed her eyes shut like she expected the coins to betray their fragile hiding spot.

“We know about the safe, old man, and how you don’t trust banks.”

Coins rolled across the checkered tile floor. Some circled, others spun, but within a few moments every coin lay still—exposed and powerless. Cooper knew the feeling.

“The combination.” Elvis pressed in close.

“Nobody outside this store knew about the safe.” Frank sounded confused. “Nobody.”

“COMBINATION.”

“Seventy-four.” Frank’s voice shook. “Ninety-three.” Cooper heard him suck in his breath and stop. “It’s
him
, isn’t it?”

“Careful, old man. Give me the last number.”

“It has to be,” Frank said, as if it suddenly all made sense. “I gave him a chance.”

“And this is
your
last chance.” The man raised a pistol in a gloved hand. “The number.” He pressed the muzzle against Frank’s forehead.

Cooper heard a metallic click.
Give it to them, Frank. Give it to them.

Frank hesitated, his reflection in the front window ghostly in his white t-shirt and apron.

Coop forced a dry swallow and silently begged Frank to cooperate.
Give him the combination. Please. Play it safe.

“Okay.” Frank nodded. “J-just put the gun down. P-please.”

Elvis jabbed Frank in the forehead once with the gun. “That’s better.” He lowered the handgun and tucked it in his waistband. Holding empty hands up in front of Frank, Elvis leaned in close. “The number.”

Suddenly Frank lunged—pushing the Elvis into the clown. The robbers stumbled backwards into the soda machine, and Frank reached for something under the counter.

Elvis regained his balance and swung at Frank’s face. With a loud smack, Frank’s head jerked to one side and his glasses skittered across the counter and tumbled to the floor.

Frank raised his hand over his head. A glint of steel flashed off the blade of a knife. Elvis caught his wrist in mid-air. The man with
the clown mask slammed himself into Frank, pinning him against the counter. Frank grunted and gasped. The knife dropped from his hand. Elvis picked it up and jabbed the point under Frank’s jaw. Squealing, Frank lifted his chin high.

“Last number.”

Blood dripped down the front of Frank’s t-shirt. Every ounce of strength drained out of Cooper at the same time.

“Eighteen.”

Elvis lowered the knife and tossed it onto the counter. “Smart, hotdog man.”

“Maybe a little too smart.” The raspy-voiced clown spoke up. “He knows.”

Stomach swirling with dread, Cooper watched. If only he could do something. Help Frank somehow.

Frank grabbed for the knife. Elvis blocked his reach with one smooth move and hammered him in the head with his fist. Frank’s head snapped backwards. The clown, moving quickly, twisted Frank’s arm behind his back.

Cooper tried to look away, but couldn’t. Hiro buried her face in her sweatshirt. He prayed she wouldn’t cry out.

With Frank unable to move, Elvis squared off and slugged him repeatedly in the gut. Cooper felt the force of it right through the counter and flinched with each blow, with each grunt from Frank. A raging growl came from under the Elvis mask that grew louder with each frenzied hit. With an inhuman roar, Elvis hauled back and delivered a crushing blow to Frank’s temple. Immediately the owner buckled, and the clown let him drop. Frank’s head whacked the open drawer of the register on the way down, and he crumpled to the floor with a dull thud that vibrated through the counter.

“Crazy old fool!” Elvis panted and massaged his knuckles with his other hand. “Did he think we’d just trust him not to talk?”

The clown bent down out of sight. “Looks like his neck is broken.”

“Then he’s double-dead.” Elvis raised a lethal fist to his mouth and kissed it. “Sent him to the great hotdog stand in the sky.”

The clown snickered, and Hiro’s whole body started shaking. Cooper held her tight.

“I’ll get rid of the other stuff,” the clown said. “If someone looks in the window and sees the coins and money tray on the floor, the game’s over.”

Cooper held his breath—and clenched his fists.

F
orget it.” Elvis grabbed the moneybag. “Mr. Lucky can do that job—and yank the surveillance tape. Let’s get the safe.”

The two men hustled out of sight.

The tapes! They’d be on them!
Cooper could see one camera mounted on the ceiling in the dining area. It was recording all three of them. He heard the back door creak open.

“Are they gone?” Hiro whispered. Her face was drained of any color except the wash from the red-orange neon lights.

“Not for long,” Cooper said. “We have to hide.”

Chalky-faced, Gordy poked his blonde head out from under the table. “The bathroom?” He mouthed the words and pointed to the far end of the eating area.

Anyplace would be better than where they were now. Cooper nodded. “Let’s go.”

Hiro clung tighter.

“C’mon.” Cooper jostled her. “We gotta hurry.”

Releasing her grip, she crawled ahead of Cooper toward Gordy.

The back door slammed. Cooper and Hiro dropped flat on their stomachs. The hinged top overhead shielded them from immediate view, but Cooper still felt exposed. He inched backwards.

Frank lay belly up, partially blocking the other side of the
skinny opening leading into the kitchen. Thankfully, only his motionless torso was visible. Endless stains marked his white apron—the most recent made in his own blood. Dizziness swept through Cooper’s head.

The burglars returned with a third man. Elvis thumped up the stairs, the other two headed through the kitchen toward Frank. Cooper caught a glimpse of their legs. One wore commando boots and gray-blue pants with a dark stripe running up his leg along the outside seam. Cop pants—it had to be the Clown. The other, Mr. Lucky, wore blue jeans and pointy cowboy boots with alligator skin stitched at the toes. He stepped close enough for Cooper to see the loopy stitching on his boots. He paused next to Frank and nudged him with one sharp toe.

“Take a rag and wipe down this counter real good,” Mr. Clown said, sounding as calm and detached as if he were ordering at the drive-thru window. “Then come up and pull the surveillance stuff. I’ll hit the safe.” The sicko turned on his heel and left.

Except for the ceiling creaking overhead, the room was eerily quiet. Cooper closed his mouth as if somehow that might muffle the noise of his heart drumming.

Mr. Lucky moved quickly. Straining to hear, Cooper froze and held his breath. He steeled himself to pounce on Lucky if he stepped on their side of the counter.

Cooper couldn’t rip his mind free from the surveillance tape. He ran through his options. If they hid in the bathroom, the robbers might leave without ever noticing them. But what if there were monitors in the office? If one of the men caught a glimpse of them sneaking to the bathroom they’d be trapped. That left only one choice, but it was a long shot.

A muffled whoop sounded from upstairs. Apparently the combination worked.

“Bring a couple of bags up here.” It sounded like Elvis. “There must be good money in hotdogs.”

Mr. Lucky jogged through the kitchen toward the stairs. Cooper
stole a quick glance at him from behind, but the man wore a sweatshirt with the hood up.