Tiny Little Thing: Secrets, scandal and forbidden love. Beatriz Williams

Cap reached back for a killer punch to the man’s saggy jaw.

      Jingle, jingle. The door swung open. Cap released the punch regardless. The man dropped like a sack of vanquished flour.

      Cap turned to the door, expecting to see a flood of dark blue, Boston’s finest, but instead there’s another man in a dark suit and a brown fedora, pointing a gun straight to his chest.

      The lookout.

      “Hands in the air.”

      Cap lifted his hands slowly. He couldn’t see the back booth from here. He cast out the net of his senses, hearing and smell and touch, the vibration in the air, searching for some sign that Tiny was still crouching unseen underneath the table, where he left her. Her three-carat engagement ring still sat in his inside jacket pocket. A stupid place to put it, but what else was he going to do?

      “Take off his hat.” The lookout nodded to the man in the first booth, whose wallet sat on the edge of the table.

      “His hat?”

      “Take it off. Nice and easy.”

      The gun was pointed straight at Cap’s heart. This man knew what he was doing, didn’t he? Not like the fleshy idiot lying motionless on the floor. Why was this one, the competent one, stuck with lookout duty? Lookout was the idiot’s job.

      Cap reached for the hat and lifted it gently from the man’s head.

      “See? That wasn’t so hard. No one needs to be a hero. Now put the wallet in the hat.”

      Cap picked up the wallet and dropped it in the hat.

      “Atta boy.” The man raised his voice. “Now, all of you, take your wallets out of your pockets and put them on the table. Nice and easy, so this nice man here can put them in the hat.”

      There was a second of shocked silence.

      Where the hell were the police? Hadn’t someone called from the kitchen in the back?

      The man fired his gun into the ceiling. “Now!”

      A shower of plaster fell on his shoulders. A woman screamed, a faint pathetic little noise. He pointed the gun back at Cap. “No funny business, either!”

      Okay, then. Keep the man’s focus right here, on Cap, until the police arrive. No one gets hurt, that’s the main thing.

      Let the police take care of it, Cap. Don’t be a hero. We don’t need a hero, here. Just a regular guy to keep the gun occupied, to drag his feet until the police saunter on up.

      The man jiggled the gun. Under his fedora, a faint sheen of sweat caught the light.

      “Go on. Next booth. Keep it moving.”

      Cap dragged his feet to the next booth. The woman there, a woman in a cheerful yellow suit, dropped a little coin purse into the hat with shaking fingers.

      “Open the pocketbook, lady,” said the man at his side.

      “But …”

      “Open the pocketbook.”

      She unhooked the clasp and opened her pocketbook.

      Someone was whimpering behind him. The little boy. Mommy, Mommy, he whined.

      The man nudged Cap with his gun. “Empty it out.”

      Cap took the pocketbook and shook it out over the table. A wad of Kleenex, a tube of lipstick, a battered compact, a pen, a couple of rubber bands. A neat roll of dollar bills, the housekeeping money.

      “What have we here,” said the man. He picked up the roll and dropped it neatly in the hat. “Next.”

      Two more booths, three more wallets. The whimpering was getting louder now, accompanied by a low and constant moan, the boy’s mother. The only sounds in the coffee shop, except for the gravelly hum of some electric appliance he’d never noticed before. He and the crook were getting closer to the booth in the corner now, where Tiny was hiding.

      Where the sweet hell were the police? Cap glanced at the door.

      “Lady! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

      Cap turned his head, and Jesus H. Christ.

      There she was, Tiny idiot Doe, shoeless, crawling as silently as a berry-red cat across the floor toward the heap of whimpering child and moaning mother.

      Afterward, Cap found Tiny in the kitchen, cradling the little boy in a soft woolen blanket. God knew where she found it. He’d gone to sleep against her shoulder, slack and blissful, his eyelashes like tiny feathered crescents against his pink cheeks. Above, a single bare bulb cast a glow over them both.

      Cap swallowed back the ache in his throat.

      “His grandmother’s here. Police want you.”

      She turned her pale face toward him. “How’s his mother?”

      “Ambulance took her. I think she’s all right. I’ve seen worse.” A hell of a lot worse. “Looks like the shoulder. No organs.”

      She rose to her feet, lifting the sleeping boy without a sign of effort. Stronger than she looked, Miss Tiny Doe. “Will you take him?”

      “Sure. If you want.” He held out his arms. “You okay?”

      “Yes. I just don’t want to see the police, that’s all.” She laid the child in his arms, taking care as the small head transferred from her slim shoulder to Cap’s. She tucked the blanket around the little boy and wiped away a small smudge of dried blood from his forehead. “Careful.”

      “You have to see the police, you know. Give a statement.”

      She hesitated. “Are there reporters there?”

      “They’re not letting them in. But, yeah, they’re outside the door.”

      She unbuttoned the cardigan from around her shoulders and stuck her arms through the holes, one by one, putting it on properly. The flush was returning to her skin. “Can the police come back here for their statement?”

      “I don’t see why not. I’ll tell them you need some quiet.”

      “And are they finished with you?”

      The boy stirred, made a small noise in his throat. Cap hoisted him up higher to get a better grip. “I’ll probably have to go back to the station later for more questioning. Because of everything.”

      Everything. Cap’s instant reaction when the second man turned toward Tiny, the swift strike to his arm, the struggle for the gun, the snap of bone. Capitulation. Sending Em to the phone to call the police, because the kitchen was empty; the cook and his assistant had fled through the open back door. Waiting, waiting, trying to keep everybody calm while the police came. Tiny taking the child, calling for help for the mother, taking out her own handkerchief and showing someone how to hold it on the wound. Jesus, what a morning. He was getting a headache now, the hangover of battle. Like the melancholy you got after sex sometimes, the departure of adrenaline, leaving only yourself and the paltry contents of your soul.

      “I see. Yes, of course you will. Thank you,” she said, as an afterthought. “Thank you for … well, for saving us. It could have been so much worse.”

      He studied her wide-open eyes, the length of her eyelashes. She looked sincere, and humble. No frostiness now, here in the kitchen of Boylan’s Coffee Shop.

      “You’re welcome,” he said, and walked back into the dining area.

      The grandmother let out a cry when she saw him. She rushed forward and engulfed the boy into her arms, without so much as a word to Cap. Not that he minded. He could take Tiny’s thanks, but not a stranger’s. He kept his hand on the boy’s back until he was sure the old lady had him firmly, and then he turned to one of the cops standing around with notepads.

      “Well? Do you need anything else?”