The men call to each other and raucous laughter fills the room. It sounds like a roadhouse in here and the door hasn’t shut yet, they’re still coming in. I count twenty easily, twenty-five, maybe another half dozen outside. Oh God.
I clutch the rest of the menus to my chest, a paltry attempt at protection. In a strangled voice, I say, “Delia, you should go on back.”
She doesn’t argue. The customers huddle together by the counter to keep out of the regulators’ way. They eye the door as if watching the swing of a pendulum, waiting for an opening to dash through to safety.
Delia backs away from the register, her face taut with fear. She looks at me and I see her thoughts written in her eyes; all these men, their rude catcalls, their whistles, their laughter. I can almost hear her words as if she’s talking to me. Where’s that Coby now?she’s thinking. I hate to admit it but I’m wondering the same thing. Where is he now that you need him here?