They swarmed into the store like a plague of locusts. The rows of pants, jeans, and shirts were stacked in neat piles ready to tempt shoppers. The floors were swept, the windows sparkled, and punk music flowed out of the loudspeakers. Reggie Field, the store owner, didn’t much like punk. He preferred Dylan, the Byrds, even Motown, but oldies wouldn’t work for his customers.
He sipped the last of his latte, mentally congratulating himself for finally being in the right place at the right time. A serial entrepreneur, he’d failed more than not, but last fall he’d opened a designer discount store in Evanston, a suburb just north of Chicago. Evanston was a mecca for college kids, not only from Northwestern and the teachers college whose name he never remembered, but Loyola students and high school wannabes too. The store took off, and fourteen months later, he turned a profit. He’d been thinking about opening another store.
He was contemplating whether to flirt with his new salesgirl—it was only her third day, but she was cute, curvy, and blond—when the doors flew open and a horde of young males streamed in. There had to be more than twenty, all converging on the store. Reggie froze as they surged past him without a glance and slithered down the aisles. They planted themselves beside the counters, the wall units, even the display mannequins. Where had they come from? How had they managed to appear en masse, like they’d crashed a boring party and were taking over?
Wearing oversized jackets, backpacks, baggy pants, and gym shoes, these kids weren’t the preppy college kids who usually shopped here. A few had earbuds that trailed white cords and were bobbing their heads. Others grinned and laughed and shouted over the store’s speakers. The pungent smell of weed drifted over. All within a minute.
The new girl tried to ask one or two if they needed help, but they pushed past her, knocking her off balance. Reggie set his latte down next to the register.
“Hey. Watch it!”
But no one answered, and he soon saw why. The kids were too busy raking through piles of clothes and holding them up. It was when they started stuffing them into their backpacks and bags that Reggie ducked behind the cash register, pulled out his cell, and called 911.
“Designer Discount Den. I’m getting ripped off. Right now. About twenty. Maybe more. Get here right away!”
Still behind the counter, he pushed a button and a loud alarm sounded. Any normal person would have been startled by ear-splitting blasts that sounded like the end of the world. Not these punks. They kept grabbing clothes and stuffing them into jackets and backpacks, all the while laughing and high-fiving each other, clearly enjoying the bedlam they’d created. That’s what it was, Reggie realized. Sheer bedlam. Everything he’d worked for was turning to shit.
His pulse pounding, his blood pressure sky-high, Reggie tried to think. The best thing would be to get the hell out of the store. Lock the doors with them inside. They’d be trapped. He’d heard of another guy who did exactly that, but the assholes managed to sneak out the back, smashing windows as they ran. And what about his girl? He craned his neck, trying to spot her. He finally saw her, pinned against the wall by two punks. What were they doing? He couldn’t tell, but her eyes met his. She looked terrified. Fury knifed through him. He couldn’t abandon her—Maya, that was her name—to these barbarians. With a boldness he hardly recognized in himself, he tore himself from behind the counter and shouldered his way through the mob.
“Hey! Get away from her. Right now. Leave her the fuck alone!”
Two guys spun around, releasing their hold on the girl. As she sprinted toward the front door, one of the punks grabbed him from behind, while the other hit him across the jaw. A third belted him with an uppercut to his chin. The last thing Reggie heard as he slumped to the floor was Maya’s scream.