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 floor and bounces once.
What the fuck?
For a moment, it seems the world has stood still.
The boy looks down at his finger on the floor in a state of silent shock. Sherman looks at it as a piece of debris that needs to be gotten off the floor, and I look at it in a state of disbelief with nausea developing in the pit of my stomach.
The move had been so brutal and swift in its ferocity, it takes a few seconds for the arterial blood flow and reaction to catch up. The blood starts first, spurting in beats; then, the boy’s eyes blink, and he screams out. Quickly, Wertzel picks the finger up, stuffs it in the kid’s shirt pocket, turns him, and sends him on his way.
Meanwhile, I go back around to my pallet and grab a mop handle off the top of it. I come back to Wertzel’s side with it an upright position, holding it in a way where it can be thrust or swung, depending on how it’s needed most.
He sees me coming and takes a step back. “Easy, navy boy. Don’t make me slice you, Deal Pickle.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask him, getting the handle in more of a swinging pose.
“You do your job, Aquaman, and let me do mine.”
I take my first swing at the psychopath. Keeping the knife out in front of him, Sherman ducks under and slides to the side, grabbing a box of candy bars and slinging them at me. I notice him looking toward the front of the store, and my eyes follow.
Here comes Frances with the boy, his hand wrapped in a large towel, jogging to keep up beside her. A hysterical woman (his mother I’m assuming) is trailing behind. Sherman quickly pockets his knife, and I slide the mop handle under the shelf.
The kid has quieted down now, but his mother has picked up on the wailing. Frances looks at Wertzel first. “Sherman, you need to come with me.” She looks at me. “Mitchell, you don’t look so well. Take a break.”
The four of them walk off leaving me alone. The queasiness is getting worse, so I decide to take her advice. On my way out, I catch Joe Simpson (another stocker) and ask him for a cigarette. I don’t normally smoke, but right now, I feel one is justified. Since we’re near the front door, Joe lights it for me so I don’t have to take his lighter with me. I hurry outside with the lit smoke.
I take a seat on the front bench and take three draws from the cigarette. That’s all it takes for the stomach acids to rise to the top. I go over to the huge trash bin, lift the top, and heave twice. I’m finishing the smoke when Frances comes out.
“What happened in there, Mitchell?”
“I’m not sure, really,” I answer, still in a state of disbelief. “What does Sherman and the kid say happened?”
“They say it was a horrible accident.”
Accident my ass.
“Mitchell, you still don’t look so good. Your face has a green complexion, and it’s your weekend off anyway. Why don’t you take rest of the night off?”
Not