Fleur De Lies(121)

            “Not if we keep standing where we are,” said Margi. “I think we’re far enough out of range to avoid splatter.”

            George scratched his head. “I hate to bring this up, son, but the notion behind taking a hostage is to threaten someone else’s life, not your own.”

            “My life?” wailed Patrice. “It is worth nothing now. I will kill myself, and you will all watch!”

            A trickle of blood streamed down his throat as he prepared to make good on his threat.

            “Okay!” I yielded. “We’re moving back. Put the corkscrew down. C’mon, everyone.” I began shuffling backward, motioning the gang to move back with me. “Nice and slow. Everybody back.”

            “Faster!” yelled Patrice. He grabbed something off the bar and hurled it toward us.

            A shot glass bounced off Dick Stolee’s shoulder and hit the floor. “Ow!” he howled. “Hey! Cut that out.”

            Lucille ducked as the bottom half of a cocktail shaker sailed toward her. “Take cover!” she cried.

            A martini glass crashed onto a table and shattered. A champagne flute hit a vertical column, spraying glass everywhere. We took refuge behind chairs and sofas as Patrice unloaded his arsenal, pelting us with margarita glasses, wine glasses, highball glasses, lowball glasses. A bottle of Tanqueray flew over my head and smashed upon landing, exploding like a homemade bomb.

            “SHTOP!” screamed Irv. “Not the booze!”

            “Who’s got a phone?” I shouted out.

            “I do,” they all replied from their hidey holes.

            “I’d prefer not to talk about it,” sniffed Margi from beneath a nearby table.

            “Call the police,” I instructed.

            “What’s the number?” asked Dick Teig.

            “Try one-one-two,” said Tilly. “That’s a general emergency number for Europe.”

            “Can’t we just call the boat and let them handle him?” asked Grace.

            I poked my head above the armrest of my chair, diving to the deck when I saw a projectile hurtling toward me.

            BOOM went the bottle as it burst over the floor.

            “Waz that Crown Royal?” shrieked Irv. “Do you know how expenshive that shtuff is?”

            “Hello?” Dick Teig said into his phone. “I’m trying to call the police. Po-lice. POLICE.”

            “Does anyone know the phone number for the boat?” asked Grace.

            “Are you speaking English?” snapped Dick. “It doesn’t sound like English.” He waved his phone above his head. “Anyone else wanna give it a try? I can’t understand what she’s saying.”

            “Slide it this way,” Margi urged from beneath her table. “I’ll try out my new language skills.”

            “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” shouted Dick Stolee, who’d slithered his way across the floor to reach the bowl of fruit. He lobbed a cantelope through the air toward the bar.

            CRASH! Boom! Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

            “Où est la bibliotèque?” Margi asked into Dick’s phone.

            Patrice retaliated with a bottle of Jim Beam, followed by a handful of nuts and a bowl of pimento-stuffed olives.

            “Why is Margi asking directions to the library?” inquired Tilly.