Extensions by Myrna Dey

aisle. He moved along toward me and we both reached for the sesame rice crackers at the same time, his hand pulling away politely until I had taken my package. From there he pushed his full cart to the express checkout counter at the far end without giving any of the closer cashiers a glance. I followed at a distance to where Sukhi was already browsing through a magazine rack at the checkout. The man’s back was to us during this transaction, which was much too brief for so many items. From the other direction, the manager approached and nodded at me. Sukhi followed our man through the automatic doors and I caught up in the parking lot. I hung back, within earshot, when Sukhi confronted him at his own car.
    â€œDo you have receipts for these goods, sir?”
    â€œRight here.” The man held two bills in one hand like playing cards. “This for the big order — you see, mushroom soup, rice, tuna fish.” He pointed meticulously to each item, then to the first bill. “See date.” He waved the second bill. “This for crackers only. I forget crackers and go back. I show cashier first bill.”
    Sukhi took the bills from him. “The date might be right, but you had your thumb over the time. You bought your first big order two hours ago and I’ll bet it’s in your trunk. You thought you could get away with a duplicate set of free items using the same receipt.” When four more bags of groceries were discovered under a blanket in the trunk, Sukhi asked: “And where are the receipts for all this?”
    I stepped forward, as the man dug nervously in his pocket for the non-existent bills. “Here somewhere,” he kept repeating.
    The manager arrived as I cuffed him and guided him into the back of our car. “Pretty nice scam you had going for a while.” He pushed the cart with the stolen goods back to the store.
    â€œWhere do you sell your stuff?” Sukhi asked on the way back to the station. “Who’s your fence?” The man retreated into silence, pretending he didn’t understand a word we said. We left him in a holding cell and headed back out on our main file.
    The video store was part of a little strip mall that housed a copy shop, a dry cleaner, and a Vietnamese takeout restaurant. From a glance through the windows, I figured the tenants were probably all Vietnamese, including the man we were watching. Sukhi picked up two coffees from the takeout place and we cruised around the block once. We saw a woman dressed in a business suit go in and out quickly, a man in a bus driver’s uniform drop off a pile of DVD s, and three teenage boys in baggy pants and baseball caps spend half an hour inside before bouncing out with an armload of movies. No one suspicious yet. I was getting hungry again. I had not brought my usual sandwiches due to my late rising, and much as I tried to avoid the extravagance of buying two meals, I would need something soon to prevent the headache’s return. I told Sukhi so and he stared into space.
    â€œDo you mind — listening?” I asked sarcastically.
    â€œLook.”
    A scruffy-looking guy with a plastic bag in his hand was pacing around the traffic light across the intersection. He was watching the video store. Just as another car pulled up in front of it, he lit a cigarette and changed direction. A few stores down the street he turned around, saw the car leave the video store, and started back toward the intersection. He crossed this time — quickly, I’d say, considering how he had been sauntering back and forth on the corner.
    â€œFeel like a movie?” Sukhi asked, and I was out of the car in time to reach the entrance right behind the fellow. He eyed me nervously, but I gave him a convincing look of indifference and headed straight for the Comedy section. He went to New Release DVD s. The man behind the counter was aware of us both, but did not look up from the computer. I moved to New