Security is there. Mama Ortiz is there.
And in the centre of the crowd is Mr. Bromley.
He is not swallowing anything this time.
He is stuck.
Specifically, his head is stuck between the bars of the banister. He is kneeling on the marble floor, looking sheepish.
“Mr. Bromley,” Max sighs, walking up to the railing. “How?”
“I dropped my lucky quarter,” Bromley explains, his voice echoing slightly in the metal trap. “I went after it. Physics happened. Also, I think I may be allergic to iron.”
“We need the fire department,” a security guard says, revving a saw. “We have to cut the bars.”
“Absolutely not!” I intervene, stepping forward. “That iron is nineteenth-century French scrollwork. If you cut it, my father will feel it in his soul. He will come down here and lecture us about metallurgy for three hours.”
“He’s stuck, Preston,” Jax says, crossing his arms. “Unless you have a magic wand.”
“I don't have a wand,” I say, taking off my suit jacket and handing it to Luke. “But I have a protocol.”
I look at Luke.
“Lube,” I order.
“Lube?” Luke asks.
“Surgical lubricant. Gallons of it. And a shoehorn.”
Luke grins. He turns to the nurse. “Get the man some lube.”
Five minutes later, Mr. Bromley’s head is coated in a thick layer of medical-grade jelly. I am kneeling on one side. Luke is kneeling on the other.
“Okay, Mr. Bromley,” I say, gripping his slippery ears. “On three. You are going to exhale, and we are going to pull. Do not panic. Think thin thoughts.”
“I’m thinking about gazelles,” Bromley says.
“Good man. Luke? Ready?”
Luke nods. He grips Bromley’s shoulders.
“One. Two. Three!”
We pull. Bromley groans. There is a wetshlunksound.
And then, pop.
Mr. Bromley slides free. He tumbles backward into Luke’s arms. He is covered in slime. Luke is covered in slime.
The lobby erupts in applause.
“The quarter!” Bromley yells. “I see it!”
He lunges for the coin on the floor.
“NO!” Max, Jax, Luke, and I shout in unison.
Jax grabs Bromley by the back of his sweater and hoists him up.
