remember that.”
* * * * *
By the third night, I’ve caught on to the system. I’m teamed with a kid fresh out of high school, and by the fifth night, we’ve doubled the output of the other four teams.
The kid’s name is Robbie Simms, and he plans to join the service. I think he kind of idolizes me because of the time I put in.
“I’m thinking about the army. What do you think, Mitch?”
“If you don’t like flying or care much for water, infantry is what I’d suggest.”
“Cool.” He looks at me dead serious. “Did you ever kill a man, Mitch?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No, kid. They taught me how, but there was no reason to do it when I was in.”
His eyes tell me I may have fallen a notch or two on the idol chart.
* * * * *
The sixth night is the first night I meet the chief of store security and loss prevention. Frances brings him to the back to meet Robbie and me.
“Sherm, I want you to meet my best man. This is Mitchell Deal and his sidekick Robbie. They are my Batman and Robin team. They get the job done. Mitchell, this is our head of store security, Sherman Wertzel.”
He gives an animallike grin and sticks out his hand. “You can call me Sherm, all my friends do.” His hand is cold and moist, and he tries to squeeze with force, but it doesn’t work; my hand is larger.
Has your sixth sense ever nudged you on the shoulder, bumped you in the back, trying to tell you something isn’t right with a situation or certain individual? Well, mine is shoving the hell out of me right now.
It’s not because the guy just looks creepy (though that’s certainly part of it), but he gives off a bad aura. Something in his manner screams warnings you are probably familiar with: “Beware of Dog,” “Do Not Feed the Bears,” “Killer on the Loose!”
Anyway, Frances goes on to say that Wertzel works five Super Sale stores in the region, that he usually works days, but that he’s brought in at any store on any shift whenever problems arise. She goes on to say that our shift has seen a marked increase in theft and shoplifting over the past quarter.
Wertzel shakes Robbie’s hand and turns to me. “I’ll be seeing you around, Deal Pickle.” He turns back around and follows Frances Gould to the front of the store.
I don’t think of Sherman Wertzel anymore that night, because I don’t see him anymore that night.
* * * * *
The next night is different: Wertzel is at the door to greet me when I come in to start my shift.
“What’s up, Deal Pickle?”
I’m guessing that’s his nickname for me.
“Wertzel,” I say back acknowledging him. I should have said “Weasel” because that’s exactly what he reminds me of. He’s a long, lean fellow with a pointed snout and shifty eyes that dart here and there and fur that grows from his shoulders up around his neck. All he needs now are whiskers growing from his nose and a tail hanging over his ass.
His eyes dart quickly to the right as a customer walks past. I figure he got those eyes from years of watching for shoplifters or looking over his shoulders and behind his back. And besides his eyes, his body seems to be in a constant fidget even when he’s standing still. “I might need your help tonight, Mitchell.”
“How’s that?”
I notice he’s wearing the same type of getup he wore last night: boots, patched jeans with a chain-link belt, and a Def Leppard sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. Where all other store personnel are required to wear white Polo shirts and the red Super Sale smock with name badge, he’s allowed to wear this. I guess it’s a disguise to aid in his fight against shoplifting.
He keeps his hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he sometimes wears shades. He’s either playing the part of barroom bouncer or biker tough. Neither works because he’s too malnourished.
“I need you and your little buddy to watch out for thieves tonight while you’re working. This place is crawling with them.”
I glance at him sideways. “They pay me to stock merchandise, not collar shoplifters. We don’t have time to do both.”
He gives me a pleading look. “Help me out, man. You don’t have to do much. If you see anything suspicious, just get on the intercom and say, ‘Code six, aisle seven,’ and I’ll come running. Can you do that for me, Deal Pickle?”
“I’ll try, Sherm.”
“Good deal, ha ha, pardon the pun. I know you’re ex-military and probably familiar with recon. I can get you on with me. It would mean more money.”
“I’m happy doing what I’m doing right now,” I tell him. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”
Most of our pallets are in the pet supplies section tonight. And since it’s in the rear corner of the store and since those items aren’t in high demand this time of the morning, I hardly see anybody else at all and no more of Sherman Wertzel.
I’m busy putting dog collars on pegs and dog toys in bins, and Robbie’s building a display of birdseed when we hear the first code six from somewhere else in the store.
* * * * *
Friday night is one I will never forget. It’s payday, I’m off the weekend, and I witness one of the most horrible sights I’ve ever seen.
It starts off fairly normal. Robbie and I are on the opposite side of the store working sporting goods and automotive. He’s doing fishing lures and trolling motors; I’m busy with motor oil and car batteries.
“That Wertzel is a strange one,” Robbie comments.
“He’s got one screw missing and two need tightening.”
Robbie laughs. “That’s a good one. The way his eyes move around give me the creeps, looks like a damn chameleon. And he has that nervous tic about him whether he’s walking or staying put.”
“Like a coked-up hamster on his treadmill wheel.”
He laughs again. “That be Sherm.”
We eventually move our way to the housewares section. Robbie is working on a pallet two aisles down, and I’m straightening up some brooms and mops on the aisle that backs up to the last one for snacks and candy.
That’s when I hear a “gotcha” on the other side. I walk to the end of my aisle and look down the other to see what’s going on. I see Wertzel there holding a boy who looks to be eight or nine by the wrist. He pulls one of those supersized candy bars from under the boy’s shirt and tosses it onto a shelf.
Still holding the boy by the hand, he says, “You don’t shoplift at Super Sale,” and in one quick motion, he whips out a survival knife from under his shirt and lops the kid’s forefinger off. It hits the hard
