Chapter Thirty-Eight
Quinn pushes the shopping cart through the Albertsons trying to look inconspicuous.
The fake beard is itching like crazy, but his boss at Midwest Investigators of Omaha, Inc.
insists he wear it, says that Quinn is too pretty to go unnoticed when surveilling someone without the disguise.
Quinn suspects it also has to do with his decidedly conspicuous scar, but it’s a fair point either way.
He picks up a box of Count Chocula in the cereal aisle and examines it, his eyes flitting to the woman turning the corner.
She’s dressed up for a Wednesday morning trip to the grocery store.
Tight blouse, short skirt, tall heels. The file said she doesn’t work, but maybe she’s just one of those people who likes to make an entrance.
The woman’s cart has a janky wheel, so he can hear her squeaking along an aisle away, which makes tracking her easier.
Something about grocery stores always reminds Quinn of his father.
They would go together every Sunday at the crack of dawn to beat the crowd.
Mom had enough on her plate caring for George and it gave them some father-son time.
A random memory pops into his head. The time when the guy in front of them in the checkout, who appeared down on his luck and probably homeless, had his purchases declined.
Quinn understands now he was trying to use food stamps to buy items not on the approved list. After the guy left defeated, Quinn’s father held up a finger at the cashier to stop her from voiding the purchases, which were already bagged.
His father then added them to their bill and paid for everything.
Outside, they found the man sitting on the curb, and Dad handed him the plastic bags, said, “They made a mistake and it went through.” Quinn will never forget how the guy’s face lit up, or his own confusion about why his father lied, why he didn’t take credit for the good deed.
“The world has already taken a lot from that man,” his father said as Quinn clung to the side of the shopping cart rolling to their car, “no reason for us to take his dignity.” Mom pretended to be annoyed—“We’re not made of money”—but Quinn remembers the tender look she gave his father.
He realizes he’s lost track of his mark.
Rolling his own cart, which has only one item in the basket—a liter of Coke—he’s stalled by another shopper who blocks the aisle.
She seems to be making the momentous decision of whether to go with frosted or unfrosted Pop-Tarts.
Her kid stands by her cart playing with a toy.
It looks like a long plastic stick. From the device, an electronic voice says, “Twist it! Bop it! Bop it! Pull it!” as the kid twists the end, hits the center twice, then pulls the end, following the commands. It’s both annoying and hypnotizing.
Quinn edges around them and watches as the woman he’s tailing finishes paying at the checkout line. He rushes to the same line. The cashier, a young woman in her twenties with braces on her teeth, smiles at him. “This is it?” she says, ringing up the Coke.
Quinn nods.
“Not much of a shopper.”
Even with the stupid fake beard he senses she’s flirting. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Yes, you mind?”
“No. The answer is yes, you can have my number,” the cashier says.
Quinn smiles. “If I didn’t have a girlfriend…”
“All right,” she moans, “what’s the question?”
“The lady in front of me, what did she have in her cart?”
The cashier narrows her eyes at him, confused, but replies. “She bought wine. Some cheeses and crackers. A bottle opener.”
“You just made my day,” Quinn says, as he fast-walks out of the store.