Downward Dog Day Afternoon

Police Detective Sergeant Eugene Moretti puffed his cigarette as the NYPD swarmed the streets of Brooklyn. A barricade was raised around Chase Manhattan Bank while patrol cars blocked the intersections. Comms said ETA on SWAT was twenty minutes.

There were innocent people in there, women mostly. Tellers who’d been taken hostage in a robbery gone wrong. The names of suspects? Sonny Wortzik and Salvatore Naturile. God only knew what those boys were thinking.

“The Negotiator’s here, Sarge.”

Moretti flicked his cigarette. “About damn time.”

The blue sea parted as a woman with tangled, sun-kissed hair, clad in a floral Patagonia sports bra and kaleidoscopic mandala harem pants, nodded her way through the crowd.

“Namaste,” she whispered. “Namaste.”

A greenhorn, who joined the force a week prior, muttered loudly. “That’s the negotiator?”

Moretti looked back. “That’s River Solstice, kid. She’s got twenty years in the field and she’s spent eighteen of them living in a van by the river. Watch and you might learn something.”

River threw her arms wide. “Sergeant, it’s so good to see you!”

The pair hugged. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Oh, it must be awful,” she said. “Your root chakra is all out of balance.”

The Sergeant nodded. “It’s a hell of a thing. What took you so long?”

“Oh, you know me,” she tittered. “I just can’t do anything without my coffee.”

Moretti nodded. “Tumeric Cocunut Latte with espresso and almond foam. I had the boys whip up a couple cups, just in case.”

“Oh, you’re divine.” She playfully slapped him on the chest.

The greenhorn looked around, trying to see if anyone else was getting this. But they were all busy,

“We got two suspects and fourteen hostages. You need anything?”

She placed her hand on her heart. “I have everything I need right here.” Then she thought for a moment. “Actually, could somebody hold the bullhorn?”

Within a few minutes, a curious crowd had gathered at the barricades. Spectators and officers watched in silent awe as River Solstice stood out in the road before the bank, posing on her yoga mat.

“And now we move into the tree position, Vrikshasana.”

She brought up one leg and lifted her hands high overhead. “Very good.” Her voice, carried by the bullhorn, traveled far for all to hear. The bullhorn itself was, of course, held by the greenhorn.

Inside the bank, just on the other side of the front lobby glass, Sonny Wortzik, Salvatore Naturile, and six of the teller girls followed the routine.

Sonny laughed. “This is something else. Ain’t it, Sal?”

“Y-yeah,” Salvatore sputtered, trying to keep his balance, “Something else.”

“And now,” River announced outside. “We will move into downward facing dog.”

River bent forward, contorting her body into a tent. The people in the bank followed along.

Across from the bank, on the highest possible ledge, a SWAT sniper peered through his scope. The back of Salvatore Naturile’s head fell right into his sights.

“Very good,” River said. “Namaste.” Moretti’s voice came over the radio strapped to the sniper’s chest.

“That’s the signal. Take ‘em out.” Ω