The Prairie Spy

Alan “Lindy” Linda

It was a quiet Saturday morning in Boatville, at Hippie Hardware on main street. I had one of The Young Girls–my daughters–with me that morning. (Yes, this Young Girl–the youngest of the three, was the one I had fired twice and hired three times, which fact most of the people in town considered pretty entertaining.)

At any rate, Saturday mornings were usually pretty quiet, and if a plumbing-heating-refrigeration service call came in, I could leave Three there in the store to somewhat watch over things. As I think back to this pre-cell phone era, it is interesting that Three spent her days with her head buried in the book she was reading. But not like today but kind of, with everyone under the age of 40 now walking around looking at their phone. She walked around with her head in a book.

Saturdays weren’t like they used to be even ten years prior; they were getting slower and slower. I left Three in charge and went over one  block to get the mail. Didn’t waste much time, was back in less than 15 minutes, everything in the store seemed normal.

Three was sitting at a lawn table reading when a 20-something guy in a frazzled leather jacket and several days’ beard walked in, stepped up to the counter, and asked: “Do you give refunds?”

Yes, I replied, upon which he laid a blister-packed nifty little tool set down on the counter.

I looked at it and thought to myself: Hmmmmm.

Today was Saturday. Freight came in Friday afternoon and I had checked all the freight in and got it all hung up on pegboard walls or bins or whatever. That little blister-packed tool set? I had ordered it, checked it in, and hung it on the wall with other various tools. I had ordered it specially because I thought it would work well in one or both of the service vans. Now here was this stranger with it. Hmmm.

I looked at Three and asked: “Did you sell anything to anyone while I was gone?”

She looked up from the book and shook her head.

“Well,” I asked her, “was there anyone who came in to look for something while I was at the Post Office?”

And it turned out some woman had come in, looked around, and left. Now here was this guy, and unfortunately for him, the woman shoplifter had picked the very only item of which I had knowledge.

I told the unruly looking guy on the other side of the counter I’d be right back, and I went down the tool row just to my left, saw that the special blister-packed tool set was gone. And Three hadn’t sold anything. Huh.

I walked back to my side of the counter, looked this guy in the eye, and said: “If you tell me how you got this, I’ll give you the money for it.” Yes, I was angry, and getting angrier by the second. Shop lifting is a national pastime for a lot of people, and stores fight it all the time, and rarely stop it. Over the years I spent in my hardware store, I knew stuff was leaving, but not who or how. But here. Here today. My chance after fifteen years in my hardware store, there was one of them standing brazenly right in front of me.

“One more time,” I told the guy, “tell me how you got this, and no matter what you say, I’ll buy it back from you.” But the guy couldn’t do it. Repeated that his wife had bought it, and they didn’t need it.

“Tell me the honest truth,” I repeated to him, “and I’ll buy it back from you.” I waited a second or two. Said to him: “Come on,” I said to him, a little more edge in my voice, “tell me, and I’ll pay you for it.”

But he was totally dumbfounded. He couldn’t do it. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He knew I knew, just couldn’t figure out what to do.

I had a child’s baseball bat leaned up behind the counter. I picked it up, and said pretty loudly: “YOU PICKED THE WRONG STORE!” And I slammed the bat down on the counter.

“ON THE WRONG DAY!”  SLAM! Stuff on the counter bounced up, with each blow.

“IN THE WRONG TOWN!” SLAM! 

“AND THE WRONG GUY!” SLAM

He turned and was getting ready to deedee mal (Old Vietnam slang) out of this crazy guy’s store.

“Wait!” I told him. “You wanted this! Take it with you!” And I threw it at him. He caught it, slipped out the door.

I told Three, who by now was interested: “Stay half a block behind this guy, see what color car he’s driving and where they go. And I dialed the town cop number, which apparently went to Alaska or something, because we don’t have full time police. I knew there would be no help.

Then I got to thinking. What if this was a crew headed NW up Highway 10 from The Twin Cities, paying their way.

Bob Zozel, Zozel’s Hardware in Wadena, was SE on Ten from me. He had been helpful to me, when I was getting started, so I had gotten to know him pretty well. I dialed their number, told him what I thought was happening, and asked if some stranger had returned some item without a receipt (which wasn’t really a big deal back then). He asked, cussed a couple of mild words, came back on the phone and said yes, they had hit him.

Then I dialed Al Bretz at   Bretz Hardware in Perham, which was NW on Ten from me.   I had worked for him years ago, so I knew him well. I presented my situation. His office was overhead of the entrance, so I heard him shout down at the employees. And I heard him say: “They just went out the back door.” He called the full time Perham police, they knew the car had headed west, and they found them.

To hide, these yokels  had parked their old car, with cardboard and duct tape on two windows, in a row of brand new cars. Yeah, I agree. Not your sharpest criminals.

The County Attorney stopped in my store a month or so later, and told me that the only evidence he could use regarding all this shoplifting was my little blister packed tool set. “The trunk,” he told me, “was full of cash returned receipts.” They had been running this scam all the way up Highway 10.

The wrong guy in the wrong store on the wrong day. Uh huh, uh huh.

P.S.—The Old Girl was a bit less than impressed that I had sent Three after these hardened criminals. Maybe a bit more than less, maybe.