The blue electrical spark from the rotary thermostat didn’t smell like a shorted copper wire. It smelled like burned mutton fat and cold surgical alcohol.
Eighteen inches to the right of Register 1, the stainless-steel Starlight Hot-Roller Grill let out a high metallic shriek--skree-clack, skree-clack--as its ten chrome cylinders spun at twice their normal speed. Beneath the sneeze-guard, the Bakelite knob had spun past the 165 degrees Fahrenheit holding mark and welded itself against the 450 degrees Fahrenheit stop.
At the mouth of Aisle 1, the rigid polyvinyl chloride jaw of the Henderson-Tallow Mannequin bolted to the steel endcap clicked open another fraction of an inch. Through the hollow plastic throat where the REGIONAL MANAGEMENT badge had fused into the hospital shroud, a burst of 60 Hz intercom static crackled across the sales floor:
“Attention, Store Number Zero-Four. District Four Loss-Prevention Audit in progress. Prepare the hot-food concession counter for immediate inventory reconciliation.”
Behind Register 1, Julian Vance kept his left palm planted on the cool, scarred black Formica inside the four-by-three-foot boundary of the rubber anti-fatigue mat (Brass Plate Rule #0). He did not yank the roller grill’s power cord out of the counter receptacle. Under standard Starlight corporate regulations, unplugging a heated food appliance during an active audit constituted Destruction of Perishable Evidence. That was an automatic termination offense.
