Or he’s got other things on his mind, because he looks towards the front of the store where the cops stand, and then back at the shelf full of Cheez-Its and Ritz crackers and Little Debbie snack cakes. He pats at his back pocket like he’s feeling for a wallet then bends down for something on a low shelf, and that’s when I see the gun shoved into his jeans. It rests along the small of his back and his shirt pulls up just enough for me to get a glimpse of cold, hard steel; then he stands again and it’s hidden from view.
Okay.
This time when he smiles at me, I’m the one to take a step back. He’s got a gun.