Free High Noon at Hot Topic by Christine Pope Page A

my
ground. My internal alarms were still going off, and they’d been
right enough times over the years that I wasn’t about to ignore
them now. “Our shirts run a bit small, so you might need a
large.”
    “It’s not for me.”
    Just a hint of an accent. I couldn’t place
it. East Coast? Definitely not from Southern California, though. “A
gift?” I persisted.
    Then he did turn toward me, a smile hinting
at the corners of his mouth. Damn. I hated it when customers who
were actually cute came into the store — it didn’t seem
professional to flirt with them, but considering how cramped my
social life was, I’d stepped over the line a time or two. Oh, well.
What Corporate didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. And the alarm bells
had been quieted a bit by that smile. He didn’t look like a
pedophile or a shoplifter.
    “For my nephew,” he said.
    Somehow I got the feeling that the nephew was
purely mythical, but I knew better than to push it. “So is he more
of a classic rock type, or is he into punk or goth or — ”
    I let my words trail off because I could tell
he wasn’t listening. He’d gone alert, like a hunting animal
scenting its prey.
    I swiveled slightly to see what he was
staring at. And then I realized the Trio had entered the store.
    Even after working at this particular branch
for more than a year, I still didn’t know their names. They always
paid cash. No ersatz T-shirts for them, either. They bought the
higher-priced Lip Service and Morbid Threads clothes, along with
some cosmetics. No jewelry or any other accessories. Oh, that
didn’t mean they went without. But (as far as my untrained eyes
could tell) they wore the real stuff. The red stones on their
fingers and at their necks glittered like very expensive blood.
    One man, two women. Joanna and I used to make
up elaborate stories about them — that they ran a high-end fetish
club, or that they were some sort of musicians or performance
artists. Hard to know for sure, since of course they said almost
nothing when they came into the store, except for the few times
they’d wanted to special-order something or asked whether we had a
particular size back in the stockroom.
    Now, I’ll admit that all three of them were
worth staring at, and I don’t even swing both ways. They all had
glossy, perfectly straight long hair that fell almost to their
waists. One of the women had black hair, the other dark red. The
man’s hair was also black, although with a pure white streak at
each temple. They had the kind of skin that could only be achieved
through a series of brutal dermabrasion sessions, and their bodies
— well, let’s just say that every time they came in the store, I
vowed to put in an extra hour at the gym.
    That said, I was just a little irritated by
the attention the stranger was paying to them. A minute ago, he’d
looked halfway interested in me. Now it seemed as if I didn’t
exist.
    I cleared my throat, even as the Trio headed
to the back of the store where the pricier merchandise was located.
“So what size is your nephew?”
    Again that hint of smile, as if he knew I was
only playing along. “Kara, you know I don’t have a nephew. By the
way, I’d advise you to duck.”
    “Wha — ” I began, but I didn’t have time to
finish the word. He was already pushing past me, headed toward the
back of the store in the Trio’s wake.
    As he moved, I watched him reach inside that
incongruous brown coat. When he produced the hidden object, I
realized why he’d chosen a floor-length outer garment — not the
usual sort of attire for L.A., even in the middle of January.
Because he held in his hand a long stake of some pale kind of
wood.
    Despite his warning to duck, I began to
follow him. The last thing I needed at that point was some loon to
commit mass murder in my store. If nothing else, the paperwork
involved would be deadly.
    It happened so fast, I wasn’t quite sure what
I was seeing. The stranger looked like an ordinary enough