117. Coppers in for a Pint

We were just sitting there chatting away to Salmon when about a dozen cops barge in and start sniffing around. Salmon practically has a heart attack, nearly dropping dead right there in my beef ravioli. He tells us all to scoot in and not to move. “Don’t say a word,” he mutters through his teeth. He’s got his face over the table, hiding it behind our scooted in shoulders.

“They aren’t doing anything,” I said, watching the coppers wander around with all their battering gear on.

“They’re looking for trouble,” Salmon whispered. “Don’t let it be us.”

“But they’re police. They help people.”

“Not people like…” Salmon stopped short. Like what? “Me,” he was going to say. I just know that’s what he meant, that he was some kind of criminal or at least a rowdy drinker known to get banged up in the slammer every now and again.

We stayed like that for twenty minutes before Lenore declared this was stupid and we had to go to my book signing now, thank you very much, Salmon. He smiled nervously and asked to pay our bill, probably hoping we’d keep quiet about his whereabouts. But Lenore would have none of that and left some cash on the table for the waiter. I didn’t think it was a great idea because Salmon would probably take it.