“I’m a cop,” I add. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“Hang on, Danny,” says Christine. She looks at her watch, checks the boy’s pulse. “His vitals are good.”
A waitress-a pal of mine named Ansley Parker-comes running out of the seafood shop.
“Do we need to do the Heimlich, Danny?” she asks.
Guess Ansley’s been studying that poster every restaurant has hanging on a wall for so long, she’s ready to jump into action and pump the kid’s abdomen with her fist.
“Hold up,” I say.
“Does it feel like it’s stuck?” Christine asks the boy.
“Yes,” the boy answers, proving that his airway is clear. He taps his sternum. “Right here. I can’t cough it up.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Pour some water on my hand, please.”
“Oh-kay.”
I grab a bottle of Poland Spring someone at the table had been drinking. Do as I was told.
“Okay, hon,” Christine says to the kid, “we need to upchuck that chunk of food. You willing to give it a shot?”
The kid smiles.
“You’ve thrown up before?”
“When I had the stomach flu,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Yeah.”
“Good. This will be just like that.” Christine looks to the parents.
“What are you going to do?” asks the mom.
“Stimulate his gag reflex.”
The dad raises his eyebrows and makes the classic “gag me now” gesture: two fingers to his open mouth with the tongue lolling out.
“Right,” says Christine.