Extensions by Myrna Dey Page A

Releases and for a few seconds we pulled movies off the shelves together. I recognized the shaking hands of an addict, the right missing its index finger, causing his cigarette to tremble between the middle two.
    I would give him his chance. I walked behind him and busied myself in the sale bin, the corner farthest from the counter. My back was to both men as Sukhi walked past the front window with another cup of coffee from the restaurant. I winked. My peripheral vision was well-developed, and while I studied the selection, I could see the guy make his way to the counter. He had two DVD s in one hand and the bag in the other. The owner, or whoever he was, opened the bag without looking at the man. He reached under the counter and handed him some cash, at the same time slipping the plastic bag out of sight. The man turned quickly to leave, the DVD s now the only items left on the counter. I stepped in front of him at the door and showed him my badge. Sukhi came in.
    â€œWhat just happened here?” I asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” He reached to scratch his nose with his whole hand, which shook now more than ever.
    I knew he had been through this ritual a lot, and he knew that I knew. We still had to say our parts as if they had been scripted.
    â€œWhat did you sell him?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œSteve Rutherford.”
    Something so humbling about confessing your name at a time like this. As if it’s all you’ve got left and you’re surrendering it. Rutherford was a refined English name. I had a vision of him saying both names shyly to his kindergarten teacher, and running home in short pants to Mrs. Rutherford with a crayon picture he had drawn. Full of pride and promise. How did he get from there to here?
    The man at the counter called out in a heavy accent: “Your bag. You forget your bag.” Steve did not know where to look, so he stared at the floor.
    â€œHow about the DVD s? He forgot those too,” said Sukhi, walking to the counter and taking the bag from the man waving it. He looked inside, then handed it to me. Three baseball caps with Vancouver stitched on them, six cans of Fancy Feast, four packages of Hamburger Helper.
    â€œHow much did he pay you for this junk?”
    â€œNothing. I forgot it, just like he says.”
    â€œYou must have receipts for it then, if it’s your bag.”
    â€œIt’s not really my bag,” Steve sighed. “I mean it is now, but I found it in the park over there. Was sitting on the bench having a smoke when kids came running out from behind the bushes. Later when I went into the bushes to take a leak, I found this bag on the ground.”
    â€œGive me a break,” I said.
    â€œHonest.”
    â€œBut what brings you to a video store with this bag of treasures?” Sukhi asked. “How much did he give you for it? Five? Ten at most?”
    â€œNothing. He didn’t give me nothing.”
    â€œHow much cash you got on you?”
    Steve took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “I had this when I came in.”
    Sukhi turned on the other man and established he was the manager. “Where’s your store?”
    â€œRight here is my store.”
    â€œYour convenience store? Where you take all this stolen stuff to sell? We’ve got a friend of yours at the station. I think he’s ready to tell us where your store is. Coquitlam ring a bell?”
    I watched the man’s face for telltale signals. None. Steve would probably tell us everything he knew when we got him to the station, but it wouldn’t be much. We hung the Closed sign on the front door and led them both to the car in handcuffs as curious eyes from the other shops in the strip mall looked away. The Plexiglas partition — our silent patrolman — was hardly necessary. The two men sat separate and quiet in the back seat, one unreadable, the other