Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 543

Most nights were uneventful. Others heard the occasional crash of stolen goods, petty arguments, the desperate lunge for a second chance disguised as shoplifting. She let the manager, Luis, handle most of it, but reserved the shooting for herself. Orders were orders, especially when one likes them. Joan simply moved when needed; quiet, firm, absolute. Once, a man pulled a switchblade over a box of cereal. Joan held her pistol and stared at him until he put it down, trembling, muttering apologies to her boots.

But on Tuesdays, she brought dog treats for Max, the stray pit bull who lingered by the dumpster like a ghost. She never called him over. He just came, sat beside her like they shared a secret tour in some forgotten war. They understood each other.

Max didn't judge. Neither did Joan.

One evening, a girl of no more than twelve, slipped a bottle of shampoo into her hoodie. The cameras missed it. Joan didn't. She walked up slowly, knelt down, and whispered, "That stuff burns your scalp. Let me show you the right one."

They stood in aisle three for fifteen minutes comparing ingredients. The girl eventually left with nothing but an understanding. Joan marked it down in her little notebook with an asterisk and a smile.