Faster than you can say lemon meringue the box was off my carrying hand and running in the opposite direction with the squeaky-squish patter of shoeless feet on frigid floor. Halfway across the car the man leaped up to the warmer terrain of empty seats and kept running.

I found myself wishing the train car wasn’t deserted, if only so I could share the bizarre sight with others.

The gangster reached the far end of the car and abruptly turned, panting, probably expecting to find me in pursuit. I wasn’t. He wheezed a lackluster victory laugh.

I didn’t need this.

“Fine, you know what? Take it. Take the stupid pie! I hope you’re happy, creep.”

I left the pie on the train, and if you ask me, it was an utter waste of a perfectly good pie. But on the bright side, I had acquired a pair of fashionable dress shoes, and I guess that made for a pretty fair trade.