But when the little red-haired woman came in—the one who always pinched my cheek and joked about finding a girl friend for me—
I recalled that she came in most often when Donner was out to lunch and Gimpy was behind the counter.
Gimpy had often sent me out to deliver orders to her house.
Involuntarily, my mind totaled her purchases to $4.53. But I turned away so that I would not see what Gimpy rang up on the cash register.
I wanted to know the truth, and yet I was afraid of what I might learn.
"Two forty-five, Mrs. Wheeler," he said. The ring of the sale. The counting of change. The slam of the drawer. "Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler."
I turned just in time to see him putting his hand into his pocket, and I heard the faint clink of coins.
How many times had he used me as a go-between to deliver packages to her, undercharging her so that later they could split the difference?
Had he used me all these years to help him steal?
I couldn't take my eyes off Gimpy as he clomped around behind the counter, perspiration streaming down from under his paper cap.
He seemed animated and good-natured, but looking up he caught my eye, frowned and turned away.
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to go behind the counter and smash his face in.
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