Chicky turned with the jingle of the chimes, to see a man step through the door. White guy. Big guy. Kinda guy three shitty white teens might listen to... if he didn't take their side. For the space of a heartbeat, she wobbled frozen between hope and alarm, till her eyes fell on the NYPD shield clipped to his belt and her heart plummeted through her stomach.
The boys had seen it too, and their postures relaxed, fists uncurling. The man was a cop, after all. They didn't have any reason to be afraid. "We're just trying to buy some soap, officer," said one of the boys – Levi or Reggie or the other one, Chicky didn't know. The twisted expression of outrage had already melted away; he faced the cop with a look of earnest perplexity. "We're paying customers, and she wants to charge us extra for no reason."
"It's discrimination," one of the other boys put in, earning nods from the other two.
Chicky stared down at the gaudy statue in her hands, biting down the urge to argue. You didn't argue with cops, even if you were right. You said 'yes sir, officer' and 'no sir, officer' and you never, ever talked back. If you talked back, they might think you were being belligerent, or maybe they'd just use it as an excuse to start shit.