“Sometimes people choose the safest option they can.”
The girl frowned.
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No.”
“Then somebody should stop him.”
The Vendor held her gaze.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He almost smiled.
“That’s the difficult part.”
The girl picked up her food.
“My dad says nobody cares.”
Then walked away.
The Vendor stood there longer than he wanted.
That evening he told the Federal Investigator.
The Investigator listened.
Then:
“You’re getting emotionally close.”
“She’s seventeen.”
“Exactly.”
The Vendor glared.
The Investigator continued:
“You think I don’t care?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Because I care enough to want this case to survive court.”
He leaned forward.
“The Sergeant has been doing this for years.”
“One emotional mistake from us gives his attorney an argument.”
“Entrapment.”
“Coercion.”
“Selective editing.”
“Improper handling.”
“You want to help that girl?”
“Stay boring.”
The Vendor exhaled.
“Boring.”
“Yes.”
The Investigator smiled.
“Federal investigations are ninety percent paperwork and ten percent waiting for somebody arrogant to do exactly what they always do.”
The Vendor looked at the screen.
“Fortunately, he seems committed.”
Week seven brought rain.
Hard Atlanta summer rain.
The sidewalk emptied.
The Flower Vendor packed early.
The Taco Vendor covered his grill.
The Black Vendor kept the smoker running.
At 11:57, the Sergeant arrived beneath an umbrella.
He looked annoyed.
“Where’s everybody?”
“Rain.”
The Sergeant held out his hand.
The Vendor gave him the envelope.
The Sergeant counted.
Five hundred.
Then:
“Next week, seven-fifty.”
The Vendor looked up.
“What?”
“Business is good.”
“That’s almost my whole weekly profit.”
The Sergeant shrugged.
“Then maybe this corner isn’t for you.”
The Vendor looked toward the Flower Vendor’s empty stall.
“Same amount for everybody?”
The Sergeant smiled.
“Don’t worry about everybody.”
“Worry about yourself.”
The Vendor touched his watch.
“Seven-fifty.”
“Starting next week.”
“Every week?”
The Sergeant leaned closer.
“Until I decide otherwise.”
Then left.
The Vendor watched him disappear into the rain.
Inside the surveillance van, nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then the Federal Investigator said:
“We’ve got enough.”
The Vendor looked toward the van through the rain.
The operation could end.
It probably should.
Then he saw the Flower Vendor across the street loading wilted roses into her old hatchback.
She moved slowly.
Hands stiff.
Earlier that morning she had told him she could not refill one of her prescriptions because the weekly payment had taken most of what she had set aside.
The Vendor pressed the watch.
“Give me two more weeks.”
The Federal Investigator’s voice came through the hidden earpiece.
“No.”
“One.”
“No.”
The Vendor looked toward the empty flower cart.
“Let him collect the increase.”
Silence.
The Investigator knew why.
That worried him.
Finally: