Three Young, Naive Retail Managers Mix It Up with a Gang of Jewel Thieves
Not what we expected when we clocked-in to our ho-hum jobs
Ages ago, in the time before websites and dotcoms, my husband and I and a close buddy were department managers in a multi-million dollar retail outlet of a major catalog business. You know the kind. They’re still out there — Hammacher-Schlemmer, Lillian Vernon, Williams Sonoma, Sharper Image — though they have scaled back. Many have bitten the dust — Spiegel, Eaton’s, Service Merchandise, and McDade & Co. The Amazon precursors.
We worked for McDade, which, like others, mailed out tens of thousands of catalogs every year and ultimately invested in large brick-and-mortar department stores. Like most of retail, the bottom line was king, and the owners pinched pennies till the pennies screamed. They had to pay out as little as possible to survive, and that’s how McDade got hold of the three of us. We worked cheap.
We three musketeers were in our twenties, unable to exploit our college degrees in a gamey job market where retail was flourishing, but other sectors had unemployment as high as 22%. We were personable, presentable, relatively sober, married, and could pass as adults. We snatched up the jobs at McDade and were put in sole charge of the toy department, sporting goods, and the warehouse. And so it began.
OTJ training
On day one, we were each given a tour of the store, a copy of the catalog, a long set of rules, and a green manager’s jacket. The store manager, Irving, was a 45-year-old rotund, barking ex-marine (my impression). The assistant was a red-haired dork with thick-lensed glasses and the personality of Casper Milquetoast, the original snowflake. The two of them were constantly at odds and continuously unavailable.
It should be noted that the focal point of the store and the catalog was the jewelry department, widely known for selling diamonds and other gems at discount prices. It was engagement ring central. And that’s where the real story began.
FBI bulletin
Irv called an emergency meeting early one morning over the PA system before the store opened. Several of us department managers were mighty annoyed since the meeting would interrupt our morning coffee and the last lap of the race we were holding in the warehouse. We had mounted our Cushman LSVs (indoor low-speed vehicles) and were tooling around, laughing gleefully, and knocking over huge cartons.
We slouched into the meeting, displaying our irritation, and slumped onto metal folding chairs. We looked exactly like characters from a James Dean movie.
Irv intoned, “This is serious business. We been called to action.”
We rolled our eyes in unison.
Our goofball store manager then made a seven-minute speech. We were all aware that a group of jewel thieves had recently walked into one of the other Illinois stores in broad daylight and made off with a sizable collection of diamonds, gold, and gems. Now, the FBI and local authorities had determined the gang was targeting our store in the next day or two.
We thought it was all exciting. Irving handed out surveillance assignments, though I’m certain the authorities never suggested he insert himself into the case. But that was Irv. Impulse control disorder mixed with a lack of common sense.
Channeling Maxwell Smart and the Keystone Cops
It would be a long day, funny now as I look back, but not so much in the moment. Unbeknownst to me, Irving told my husband and our buddy, Dave, to lose their manager smocks, put on their coats, and go sit in our car in the parking lot. He figured they’d get first sight of the thieves and be able to write down a license plate number.
How they were to recognize the crooks was unspecified. My guys didn’t care. It was an adventure, and they had the tail end of a blunt out in the car, so what the heck. Off they went, backslapping and chortling.
I was told later that around noon, the gang entered our store, wandered around, stopped at the diamond displays, and did their thing. I guess it was a sort of distraction-and-pocket plan. Irv and his posse were skulking around behind the showroom’s perimeter walls. They dripped sweat and trembled like squirrels in traffic.
My memory is sketchy, but the thieves got a fair amount of merch and left the store. Undercover cops hiding nearby trailed the suspects. I have no idea if they caught them or not, but the best part of the story is yet to come.
How the Feds found my Mary Jane plants
Meanwhile, my guys were out in the parking lot. When the crooks arrived, the driver randomly parked right in front of our car. This was a professional gang with guns and ammo, sitting in plain view of two 20-something doofuses toking on weed. Apparently, they didn’t have much impact on each other, and the robbery went as planned.
The rest is all on me. When I found out my husband had been sitting nine feet from big, ugly, mean criminals, I freaked out. I mean, if hubby could write down a license number, so could crooks, am I right?
At quitting time, I refused to go home without a police escort. And the local detective listened to my story and agreed. The cops would drive to my house; we would follow.
When we pulled up behind them in our driveway, the detective gave us the international hand sign for stay in the car. No problem at all for me.
At that moment, my husband said, “Oh sh*t. The plants!” Gulp.
We had painstakingly cultivated six 5-foot-tall gorgeous marijuana plants, which were sitting perkily in my sunny kitchen window. I was watching three burly detectives open my back door and hustle into the house. Talk about sweating!
So there we sat, fully expecting to be hauled off to the clink and sent up the river. Remember, this was in the goodle days when nothing was legal or even tolerated. My mother was going to kill me.
And then it happened…
One detective was standing in front of my garden, shaking his head and grinning. He glanced at me, then backed out of my range of vision. Oh god, oh god, I promise I’ll never smoke again if you let me get out of this.
Five minutes later, old Sherlock ambled out my door, walked to my car window, and said this, “There is no one in the house. It’s safe to go in. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you — call us if anything seems odd.” He handed me his card and stepped back.
Foolishly not able to let it go, I said tremulously, “Um. But what about…”
He waved his hand and said, “Nah, I didn’t see nuthin’.” I think we sat in the car a full 10 minutes trying to compose ourselves.
Epilogue:
A couple of days later, from my living room window, I saw a car in front of our house. I kept watching for an hour. Still there. An hour later, still there. I found the detective’s card and called him. I watch enough TV to know that jewel thieves always catch up with witnesses.
The cop called a half hour later. He had come out and interviewed the guy in the car, who turned out to be a private detective surveiling my neighbor, whose husband thought she was having an affair.
This all happened to me, in a small, boring suburb of Chicago where absolutely nothing ever happens. The takeaway? It’s seldom a fine idea to smoke a doob in a parking lot.
If you like nostalgia, here’s a nice video about the bygone days of catalog houses.
What a funny story!
The 70s were just the most fun! What a great story - with a happy ending!