“I have to take this into H&M and return it,” said Linda as the October wind funneled us down Prince Street. We turned into the store and whiffs of perfume and leather drifted up my nose. As a little boy, holding my mother’s hand, those smells would transport me.

They still do, but with age has come some wariness of seductive things. Maybe Robert Burns was right about “promised joy” in his poem “To a Mouse.” Perhaps he even composed it in the sprawling park just across the way.

“Okay,” I said as I looked over and saw the guy’s face. “I’m gonna chat with this gentleman till you get back.” Not turning around, she scurried off waggling fingers.

He and I exchanged nods as I stood three feet to his right. His head was rock still, but his eyes swiveled from one exiting customer to the next.

“Rather talk with you than endure the negotiations about to unfold.”

“No man would hold it against you.” His brogue was thick and barely decipherable. It stirred something in me. Maybe kinsfolk, centuries ago, hammering out details for a voyage across the vastness of the Atlantic.

“So what would you say is the typical shoplifter?”

“Everybody.” I chuckled. He didn’t.

As I eased into questions about his years in store security, a picture took shape: a hardass who could make short work of knife wielders, martial arts pretenders, and barroom thugs.

“You have injuries?”

“Some. Broke the nose a few times. Stab wound or two. Fingers in the right hand stiffen a wee bit when it rains.”

“Rains here all the time.”

“It does.”

“You fancy a good scuffle?”

“Long as I prevail.”

“And do you usually?”

“Undefeated. A wanker or two might quibble, but they walk with limps. I don’t.”

“And might you have a favorite match?”

“I do.”

“Could I hear it.”

“Sure. As a lad in school I got bullied. One fucker sticks out. Mean prick. Would ambush me with a pack of tossers, all of ’em two or three years older than myself.”

As my expression hardened, he gave me a stare. “Bringing back some of your own memories, are we?”

“We are. But please carry on.”

“So the years pass. Mighta been twenty or more. Then comes a day when fortune throws me a wink and a nod. I’m working a store just down the road. He struts in with the wife. Takes a gander at me. Stops. Says he thinks he knows me. I don’t say a word. Just stare through him. Wife pushes it, ‘Well do youse know each other or not?’ I say, ‘Ma’am, I know him all too well.”

“Was a lovely moment. I proceeded to tell her what him and his thugs did to me. Spared no detail. Then, out of nowhere her hand shoots up and smashes the back of his head. ‘Get your sorry arse out on the street and wait for me, you disgusting excuse of a man,’ says she. As he slinks off, she blows out some air and extends her hand to me. ‘Sir, you have my gratitude for your candor and my apologies for what he did to you. You have my solemn promise he’ll receive a proper thrashing before the day is done.’ With that she’s out the door before I can utter a word.”

“So his wrongs were properly redressed.”

“Wiped clean.”

“No repercussions?”

“Well …”

“Come on, mate. Can’t leave me hanging.”

“Maybe a week later I’m trudging out of my pub about midnight. And there he is, surrounded by six of his curs. Smiling the devil’s smile.”

“Jesus.”

“If you want the truth, it was anticlimactic. Each was moaning on the cobble stones before two minutes had passed.”

“It’s a pity the wife wasn’t there to witness the beat down.”

“I’m glad she wasn’t. She would have jumped in. Coppers would have come. Charges, litigation, and the like would have ensued. Fuck that.”

“You’re probably right. Here comes my own spirited lady. She would have jumped in.”

“Knew that the moment she entered the establishment.”