"Hey, guy, any cold sodas?" The kid exuded youthful disdain, hands thrust deep in dark pockets, eyes hard.
Adams observed the swagger. Shoplifter? he thought Stick up guy? "Sure," he said. "Big cooler in back of aisle three."
You could get there from two but the convex mirror had a better view of three.
Adams watched, drumming the cash box with the pistol kept inside.
Serving other customers, it was a while before he realised the kid'd been back there for near half an hour.
He headed down.
The fridge hummed, deep and buzzing like a two ton wasp.
On the floor in the fluorescent light specks of liquid glinted, a small dark scrap of fabric was caught in the door seal like a lolling tongue, and, in the shadows, a gun.
Adams bent, sciatica flaring. Damn kids, he thought.
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