Hurricane by Ken Douglas

German accent coupled with a high, almost girlish sound. Broxton would know it when he heard it again.
    “ My mother was a Jew,” Broxton said. “Just something I want you to think about while you’re waiting.”
    “ Waiting?” the voice said.
    “ I’ll be coming for you, but when I light the fire that roasts you alive I’ll be doing it for her, because of what you people did to her family.” The man was screaming into the phone when Broxton hung it up.
    Then he turned toward the small refrigerator behind the cash register. He was hungry, his mouth was dry, almost raw. Inside he found half a sandwich and three cokes. He ate the sandwich and drank the cokes letting the caffeine jolt through him.
    Then he eyed the skylight. When he was younger it would have been easy, but he wasn’t younger and it was going to be hard. The cash register would have to go. He unplugged it and set it on the floor. For a brief instant he thought about checking it for money, but he wasn’t a thief.
    Then he pulled the counter under the skylight. Standing on it, he could reach the ceiling and he wondered if he still had enough power in his arms to pull himself out. But before finding out he’d have to break the glass. He picked up a five foot bolt of floral cotton, climbed up on the counter, squeezed his eyes shut and jammed the bolt up through the skylight.
    The glass shattered and rained down on him, but he was more concerned with the wailing burglar alarm.
    He tore a large piece of cloth off the bolt, then tossed the roll of cloth aside. The high pitched siren urged him on. He bunched the cloth into a bundle and used it to wipe the glass from around the edges of the skylight. When the sides were free of glass shards he dropped the cloth, took a deep breath, held it, thrust his hands through the skylight, jumped, and pulled himself through and onto the roof.
    Blue lights flashing in the distance cut into the hot Caribbean night and he wondered who was pushing the locals. They were operating well above their usual efficiency level. He started to move away from the approaching police cars. The asphalt tiled roof was hot with the leftover heat from the day and it warmed his feet through his loafers as he made his way to the back of the building.
    He looked for a ladder or drain pipe, and finding none, he dropped to his knees, lowered himself over the side and dropped to the alley below. He hit the ground running, charging toward the end of the alley, determined to make it before the police.
    He didn’t.
    The siren pierced him before he saw the car and he dove behind a row of garbage cans as the police car rounded into the alley, lighting up the night like a strobe light on a dark dance floor.
    A second car followed the first and he heard two or more sirens on the street beyond, in front of the fabric shop. They were out in force. The man with the thick German accent had a lot of clout.
    The two police cars braked behind the fabric shop and four cops piled out of four doors, all with guns drawn. Broxton shivered. The largest of the bunch started shouting into the store and two others began clawing at the barred door.
    The barred door had the full attention of the four policeman and Broxton stood and eased his way out from behind the trash cans. The moon was almost full, casting ghostly shadows across the alley and affording him a perfect view of the policeman banging on the door. If one of them turned he’d be seen, cast in moonlight, an easy target.
    He backed away from the cans and out of the alley, afraid to turn his back on the policemen. He crossed his fingers and said a mental Hail Mary, something he hadn’t done since he was fifteen, praying that the car would still be there.
    It wasn’t.
    He stared at the spot where it was supposed to be and clenched his fists. The roti man couldn’t have known it would take him hours, rather than seconds, to get to the end of the alley. It wasn’t his fault.
    And Broxton couldn’t stand