Lloyd's Angel by VirtualScott

by Virtual ScottOctober 2010

It was shaping up to be another busy day. The remote vibrated discreetly in my pocket and I headed for the mall entrance. “On it,” my partner’s voice sounded in my earbud. Angela was there before me, courteously but firmly blocking the progress of a very flustered-looking middle-aged woman. I got there just at the end of the usual speech — “do you mind if we make a quick search of your bag?” We all knew the request was for form’s sake only.

The lady was looking distinctly ashen under her cosmetics when Angela produced the necklace from the bottom of her bag. Unboxed, and unadorned by any of the layers of carefully folded tissue that normally surrounded purchases, it sported only the small RFID tag that had triggered the door sensors. “I have no idea how that got there!” she stammered.

Angela looked frankly disbelieving, but she was always a hard audience. My read of the situation was that she probably was telling the truth. “I’m sure it was an honest mistake,” I told her in my most comforting gentlemanly voice. “Vanessa is always leaving things on the counter, and it probably got caught when she was wrapping your purchases.”

My partner looked briefly rebellious but followed my lead. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ma’am. We truly value your patronage; please visit us again soon.”

Her brilliant smile startled the woman, who mumbled something unintelligible and hurried to put the incident, and us, behind her as quickly as possible. As we walked the necklace back to its rightful place, our minor disturbance was already forgotten by the other shoppers, just like the management preferred.

“Loss Prevention” was management’s buzzword for it, and we were the store’s best team, and a study in contrasts. Angela was young and dynamic and shit-hot; she wore her security uniform in a way that was 100% professional but put those fake-cop strippers to shame. I was forgettably (and intentionally) plain-clothes and old enough to be her grandfather.

We had good chemistry, but what management cared about was that our loss rate was less than half of anybody else’s. When you were the flagship, most exclusive department store at the area’s most upscale mall, that translated into serious dollars. The only knock against us was that we didn’t like working with anybody else and only worked days. Angela was taking classes at night to earn her degree. I could have (and had) retired years ago, and took the job to avoid boredom; I saw no reason to screw up my nights.

The store manager didn’t have any leverage, but probably consoled himself with the thought that our target demographic was rich enough that many of them didn’t work, so we were busier during the days than most of the rest of the mall. Unfortunately, that traffic included the usual proportion of people who preferred to avoid paying for their merchandise.

Angela clearly suspected the lady was one of that demographic. “How do you know she wasn’t lying to us, Lloyd?” she asked me again after we returned the necklace to one of the jewelry counters.

“I don’t,” I replied with a shrug, “but she struck me as genuinely surprised and upset — and not about getting caught. I’ve had practice reading people since before you were born. Besides…” We recited the tired refrain together, she with an air of resignation, “…the customer always gets the benefit of the doubt.”

It wasn’t surprising Angela had pressed me on it; you didn’t get far in this business without learning to play a hunch, and she suspected I had some trick I wasn’t sharing. However, the fact that she was right didn’t change matters. It wasn’t something I could teach, and I wasn’t entirely sure I understood it myself.

It was something I could do with my mind, although I didn’t have a neat name for it. The best description is that I could sort of “push” at another person, and influence them. It wasn’t a “your wish is my command” sort of thing; there was an odd, well, “twist” involved. Several, I suspected. Struggling with its application, and with the murky ethics of it all, had occupied me for several decades. Even if it seemed appropriate, it worked best at a simple emotional level; intellectual things usually required coming at the desired result sideways.

More detailed work was possible, but it was inordinately tricky and prone to outright failure, especially if I wasn’t familiar with the other mind. They looked (or felt?) like fuzzy balls of static, and delicate work required teasing through them like a ball of tangled string.

The immediate point was that, although I couldn’t read minds, I could sense the level of resistance I was getting when I pushed a person. When I’d thought I hate shoplifting at the lady with the necklace, it had been like missing a step on a staircase — I was as sure as I could be that she’d already believed it and hadn’t stolen the necklace.

Reminding Vanessa I feel good when I return jewelry to the display cases immediately was like pushing a finger through a sheet of tissue paper — while holding it with the same hand. I usually tried to avoid messing about with people who didn’t need it, but this wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten, and some folks just couldn’t resist an opportunity if they saw one. It was good if we got them at the entrance, better if we could intercept shoplifters still inside the store, but best if they never got an opportunity in the first place.

If only the shoplifters were our only problem. We headed to men’s furnishings, in response to a report of a customer causing a disturbance. As I feared, it was the young asshole who’d been yanking our chains on and off for a month or so. Even without cheating I could see he wasn’t serious about lifting anything, and he only turned up on our shift. My take was that Angela had a fan who’d seen that stupid toilet commercial too many times — the one where the guy stuffs everything he can down the bowl in an attempt to score a service visit from the foxy plumber next door.

That plumber had nothing on my partner, even with the exasperated frown marring Angela’s expression. The idiot had something, probably a pack of socks, stuffed down the front of his pants; Tim, the sales associate, clearly wanted to belt him but was playing by the rules that said, “Hands off and call security.”

“I ain’t got nothin’,” smirked the slimeball when we got within earshot, “frisk me if you don’t believe me.”

I obligingly took a step forward.

“Not you, old dude!” he warned. “I’m not gonna let some random guy handle my junk unless you want a lawsuit. If the store wants to search me, I want a uniformed officer.” All of us were perfectly aware that I was as fully accredited by the store as Angela, and that she was the only security uniform in the store at the moment.

Some people had it coming. “Fine,” I growled. “If you’ll accompany us to the security office?” Angela knew something was up, because his last few visits had ended with an escort to the door and a suggestion not to return that day. She silently led off, followed by the jerk and myself.

“I’d love to tap that,” he confided, as we both watched her tight ass in the form-fitting uniform slacks.

She stiffened, still in hearing range. “Don’t push your luck, punk,” I warned him, but he was feeling invulnerable and in control.

That feeling faded a bit when we both accompanied him into our Spartan detention room. “It’s for your protection,” I sarcastically informed him. “You’ve waved your right to be frisked by a member of the same sex, but store policy requires an observer be present to ensure the inspecting officer does not behave improperly. You also have the right to have this inspection recorded,” I concluded with a nod at the camera in the corner.

I could see him working the angles in his head, trying to decide if it was a trick question. I honestly didn’t care, but he deserved to squirm. He finally decided to have it taped, which probably was smart if he thought we were going to beat the crap out of him.

I stepped out of the room and started the recorder, verifying it looked good and that the red light on the camera was illuminated. I also used the opportunity to give Angela a quick heads-up via the comm while he couldn’t hear me. “Give him the works.” She twitched. “Be nice, but be thorough — at least five minutes.”

Angela growled inarticulately in response but gave me a barely perceptible nod as I reentered the room. “Please stand with your legs spread and your arms out, sir,” she told him, biting off the honorific as if it were an epithet.

“Don’t try anything funny,” I warned him, “she’s a combat vet.” Besides being true, I hoped it would keep him quiet and avoid unnecessary distractions. I leaned against the wall by the corner, where she wouldn’t be blocking my view, and gave Angela a thumbs-up.

She moved in close and began running her hands slowly and carefully along one arm. She didn’t touch him with anything except the palms of her hands, but Angela was nearly in his face, looked like a wet dream, and had good taste in perfume. I waited until the inevitable stiffening became visible, and then I started pushing.

This was a complicated one because I was trying to juggle several things at once. I knew he must be feeling arousal, and Angela’s hands methodically working their way across his body. I left a space for those, and then wove around them desire and the sort of visceral sensations all men had — the pungent musk of perspiration after hard exercise, the feel of stubble beneath your fingers just before you shaved, the feel of hard cock in your hand; who hasn’t masturbated?

I pushed all of it to him, hard, and kept pushing. It was a lot of effort, and it was difficult to maintain the pressure and keep a physical eye on things at the same time. I knew I was getting to him when I felt the pressure start to fade and he started watching me instead of Angela, but I kept pushing anyway. Fucking slimebag.