In 1983, I had an apartment on Martin Luther King Blvd. in Newark, New Jersey's Central Ward. I looked out of place in the neighborhood. But the rent was affordable and I worked within walking distance.

Though in that "Brick City" of 325,000 there were at that time zero grocery stores, there was a bodega half a block from my steep stone stoop. I used to go there to buy milk and those tasty cellophane-wrapped FrozFruit coconut ice pops. I became friendly with the store's owner, an amiable, diminutive, mustachioed Puerto Rican gentleman in his forties who often wore a Guayabera shirt.

When I approached the counter one summer Saturday morning, the owner seemed uncharacteristically glum. I said, "Hey, what's up? Is something bothering you?" 

He frowned and said, "Last night, when I was closing, I put all my money for the week, $7,000, in the backseat of my car. But I couldn't remember if I switched on my burglar alarm, so I went back inside to check. When I came back out, my cash box was gone. It took two minutes."