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Naomi Dillinger stood at aisle 7’s Tide end display, the nozzle of an industrial wet-dry vac in her hand. An angry customer slashed six of the gallon-plus ultra concentrated detergent buckets.
She knew they weren’t called buckets but look at the size of them.
Annabelle, the other girl on Naomi’s custodial team, petite and mute, backed away from the spill and wiped her eyes.
The floor manager mused, “Must have been some kind of angry to do something like this.”
Naomi handed Annabelle a tissue. “Must have come prepared carrying a knife that’d do this. Those containers are thick-walled, don’t cut easy. And small. Or concealable. A Karambit or Adamas, probably.”
The floor manager stared at her.
Naomi shuffled through the custodial cart’s supplies. “We’ll need to perimeterize this.”
The floor manager backed away. “You scare me, Dillinger. Perimeterize? Kambit and Adam? Those are combat knives? How do you know that stuff?”
“Lot of reading, I guess.”
Annabelle got the spill kit out of the custodian’s cart. Naomi stopped her. “Not yet. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Annabelle wiped her eyes again.
“Yeah, I know. The perfumes they put in these things could gag a maggot.”
took a small, wire-bound notebook from her shirt pocket, clicked a pen, and wrote in precise, block capitals “Where go?”
“Women’s undergarments? Sure you don’t want to teach me sign language?”
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