Henry watched silently, his eyes narrowing in vigilant disdain as Mr. Crenshaw perused the canned goods aisle.
Come on… he urged silently, as if the elderly man with a cane could hear his thoughts.
Just try to steal something…
Just try it…
"Henry." A voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back into reality.
"Huh?" He blinked, looking up from the floor at Mr. Barnes, the owner of Barnes' General Store.
"Are you done stocking the soap?"
Henry glanced down at the brown cardboard box he was kneeling next to, which was still filled to the top with small, silver boxes of soap.
"Uh…no, Sir." He mumbled, quickly pulling some of them out and putting them in the empty space on the shelf. "I was watching Mr. Crenshaw."
Mr. Barnes rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses up on his forehead.
"Leave Mr. Crenshaw alone!" He ordered sternly.
"But he's stealing, Sir! I know it!"
"He's not stealing! He's eighty-five years old!"
"Crime knows no age, Sir." Henry intoned lowly, glaring at the elderly man across the store, who was leaning on his cane as he examined the label on a can of soup. "I'm telling you, he steals! He comes in every Thursday, and every Thursday the inventory is off by exactly one can of clam chowder."
"Inventory?" Mr. Barnes repeated, looking confused. "I don't do inventory on Thursday nights."
"I know." Henry shrugged. "I do. After I lock up."
Mr. Barnes stared at him in bewilderment.
"I don't pay you for that, do I?" He asked finally.
"No, Sir." Henry shook his head fervently. "It's on my time. I'm building my case."
Mr. Barnes sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, not sure he wanted to know anything more.
And, yet…he couldn't leave it there.
"Your…case?" He murmured, feeling the familiar pangs of a headache starting to form just behind his eyes..
"Yes, Sir." Henry nodded earnestly. "Against Mr. Crenshaw. We can prosecute as soon as I have enough evidence. He didn't have anything incriminating on him last week, but someday--"
"Henry." Mr. Barnes groaned, running a hand over his bald head. "Please tell me you didn't search my customer."
"Uh--" Henry cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.
"Henry!"
"Well, he's stealing soup! I just asked him to empty his pockets…"
"He's not stealing soup!" Mr. Barnes almost shouted, straining to keep his voice quiet so the other customers wouldn't hear. "And even if he was, I'm not going to have you chasing my customers away because you think I'm losing fifty cents a week in clam chowder!"
"But it adds up, Sir!" Henry insisted. "If he gets away with fifty cents a week for an entire year, that's twenty-six dollars he's stolen from you. Which is 260 a decade! It's a crime!"
Mr. Barnes dropped his glasses back over his eyes, glaring sternly at the young man.
"Henry, you're not a cop." He snapped.
"Not yet, Sir." Henry agreed. "But I've read a lot about--"
"You don't have a badge." Mr. Barnes pressed on, cutting Henry off.
"No, Sir. But as soon as I graduate--"
"You have an apron." Mr. Barnes concluded, pointing at the white apron Henry was wearing. "You're a stock boy, Henry. You put things on the shelf. That's it. You're not a security guard. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Sir." Henry sighed in defeat.
"Good. Don't bother Mr. Crenshaw again. And don't do inventory tonight! Just finish putting the soap out and go home. Okay?"
"Yes, Sir." Henry nodded, reluctantly going back to work.
"Good."
Mr. Barnes rolled his eyes and walked away, shaking his head and pinching his nose again as the headache slowly started to spread.
Henry put out a few more boxes of soap, secretly still watching every move Mr. Crenshaw made out of the corner of his eye.
"You might fool everyone else…" He muttered as the old man slowly made his way to the door and walked out. "But you don't fool me."