The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 52

                 

"Is there a hurricane coming or something?" Sam says as we enter Wal-Mart.

Bare spots break up the mess of products still clinging to the shelves. Workers run with their carts from aisle to aisle. Toss in anything within arm's reach.

A display of spatulas spills out onto the floor. Carts plow over them anyway.

Two burly men argue over a pack of batteries. A third one slips the pack into his cart when the others aren't looking.

The deli area is down to mustard packets, potato salad and napkins. Trays of scummy water mark where the sliced meats used to sit.

Lines at the checkout stretch 100-deep at each register. Security guards watch for anyone trying to budge.

And that's only what we see after the first 30 seconds. The whole place is earplugs loud. And dirty.

A streak of dried mud runs along the lower shelves. Probably from the ceaseless stream of work boots. A film of sticky something on the floor rips at my feet. I trace it back a pile of shattered glass.

There's a heat to the floor, too. Radiates up my leg. Makes me itch.

I'm doing that when we finally reach the trash bags. Or what used to be trash bags.

"You've got to be shitting me. They're out?" Sam says.

Two loose bags on the floor are all that remain. I inspect the other shelves. Nothing.

"We could ask if they have more in the back," I say.

"I guess it's worth a try," Sam says.

We find a clerk stocking shelves an aisle over. I try to get his attention. He ignores me.

"Hey, we need some help here," I say.

The clerk just walks off.

"Asshole," Sam says. Loud.

That gets his attention. The clerk walks back to us and unloads.

"Don't talk to me like I owe you people anything," he says.

I'd normally cuss out someone talking to me that way. Can't help but feel for him, though. We just happened to catch his steam. I get that.

Sam, on the other hand, isn't one for sympathy.

"You people? What's that supposed to mean? Maybe you need a reminder," she says. Reaches into her pocket. Pulls out the fist-sized clump of cash. Shakes it. "See this? It means fuck you and get us some trash bags."

Sam crumples a few bills. Pitches them hard into the clerk's chest.

He tries to catch them. Misses. Stoops down to collect them.

"Now get us some trash bags from the back, asshole," Sam says.

"Trash bags. OK," the clerk says. Rushes off.

"Seriously, Sam? That was lame," I say. "The guy's stressed out. Give him a break."

"Good for him. But I'm not getting pushed around by some prick at Wal-Mart," Sam says. Looks me up and down.

I don't give an answer. Spare the whole out-stater-versus-locals thing. Probably the better choice.

The clerk comes back with a pallet of trash bags. I don't wait for him to unload it. Just grab the pallet jack from him. Head for the checkout.

"Hey, you can't do that. That's our entire stock," the clerk says.

"Don't talk to me like I owe you something," I say. Mimic what the guy said before. "Asshole."

Sam smiles.

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