Last Call for the Living (2 page)

By 8:10 a.m. he had entered Jubilation County. On either side of the highway the hills were thick with trees. Suburban sprawl gave way to what looked like an endless pine forest in either direction, veined with back roads, the occasional truck stop, a processing plant, rest areas off the highway.

He exited and turned right onto Route 20. A mile down the road he passed through the unincorporated community of Strumkin, in the eastern part of the county. There was a drugstore and supermarket, unfinished sub-divisions. Finally the two-lane road narrowed. Small country homes and abandoned work sheds gave way to horse farms and pastures. He passed the turnoff that led to Momma's old house before she got her job at the hospital and moved closer to the city. But that had been a long time ago.

Charlie remembered little about Jubilation County—the horseflies, summer thunderstorms, the awful smell from the paper plant, playing cards with Auntie Marfa while Momma attended night school—that and how to get to his job at the North Georgia Savings & Loan.

He'd thought about quitting before, maybe finding work closer to the apartment. He was attending school on scholarship, but there were still books to buy, and the car payment and insurance and rent. Not to mention his beloved hobby. Rocket kits, the parts and pieces, the tools. None of it came cheap. That and it was real hard to find a job. Charlie knew he was better off keeping his and suffering the long commute.

He passed by the barbecue place and a motorcycle repair shop. There was a vacant shopping center, most of the businesses going under in the last year. Charlie made a right, then drove around a bend in the road to the bank entrance. It was a modest building, one story, redbrick with a walkway bordered by flowering azaleas. A flagpole rose above the branch, the Georgia state flag and the Stars and Stripes hanging listlessly, waiting for a breeze.

He drove slowly through the one-lane drive-up window on the south side of the building, looking to see if the lights were on in the lobby yet. They were. Good sign. He circled the building once, eyeing the glass double doors at the bank's entrance, the small alcove where the ATM was. There once had been a gas station and fast-food restaurant on the same lot. But like a lot of local businesses both had closed six months ago and never reopened.

Charlie didn't see any other cars and that worried him. He hated being first. Not interested in opening the branch by himself. But as he approached the employee parking spaces, he spotted the teller manager's car parked next to the Dumpster.

His boss, Niesha Livingston, was not in her car. Charlie figured she was inside replacing the tapes in the security cameras before putting the all-clear sign in the window by the employee entrance. This month it was a pink sheet of paper.

At the corner of the west wall was an employee door with a small window set in the center. Charlie parked his car on the other side of the Dumpster and turned back to look at the window.

He waited.

*   *   *

The countryside flattened.
All Hicklin could see were wild tall grasses bordering a tree farm and beyond the crests of yellow poplars and hickory. After a while more houses appeared. He slowed down. In the backyard of a motorcycle repair shop he thought he saw a woman sleeping in a hammock. A coonhound in a run slept while flies played around the dog's water bowl.

Hicklin continued through an intersection. To his left there was a vacant shopping center. Not even the liquor store had survived. Tough times indeed. Around the first bend in the road he slowed and turned his head. The armored car had just pulled up to the North Georgia Savings & Loan. A portly, bearded guard was loading a dolly with cardboard boxes while his partner remained behind the wheel.

Hicklin drove past the bank.

He wheeled the car into the drive of an abandoned house. The yard weedy and littered with the rusty orange wreckage of farm equipment. Hicklin lit a cigarette. Turned the air conditioner higher. He had once spent three days in transit, in a cage so hot and foul he could still smell the urine-soaked heat. It was as if his senses would never let go of the foulness.

But sometimes they never knew where to put him.

Hicklin turned to the backseat. The lid on the aquarium had come undone, but no water had spilled. Next to the tank was a Mossberg tactical 12-gauge with a six-round capacity. The shotgun had polymer grips, a ghost ring and heat shield, a big twenty-inch barrel. He had slipped an ammo caddy over the stock, allowing for five more rounds of high-velocity buckshot.

Hicklin reached for a duffel bag behind him and pulled out a Sig Saver model P220, a full-size .45 semiauto with Trijicon night sights. Four magazines of eight and ten single-stacked rounds. Hollow-point plus-Ps, firepower that could turn an arm into a flipper at close range. Hicklin slammed in a magazine, released the heavy-gauge slide, chambering a round. He flicked the decocking lever with his thumb, dropping the hammer safely from single to double action.

He placed the pistol on the passenger seat next to a matching paddle holster and a mask made from a sugar sack.

*   *   *

Charlie cut the
engine when he saw Niesha appear in the window, taping the pink sheet of office paper to the inset. Then she opened the door and stepped completely out, following one of the last protocols of the bank's opening procedure.

Charlie took his time, not really looking forward to another workday.
Only three hours,
he reminded himself.
It'll go by in a hurry.
The door locked shut behind him. He turned right, walked through the lobby and behind the teller line.

Niesha led the way, a three-ring binder in one hand. She made eye contact with Charlie but, as usual, didn't say anything until she was done with whatever task occupied her mind at that moment. She took a stack of deposit slips from a supply cabinet, a spindle of paper and a handful of color-coded money bands. She brought everything back to her station and went to work in the vault log.

The retail banker's life. Money and its paperwork escort that had to be signed, initialed, accounted for, tallied, totaled, secured, strapped, balanced and banded.

Charlie stopped at his terminal, staring at the blank screen of the computer as if the machine had made an untoward remark. He turned an apathetic face to Niesha, who looked up from the thick binder and flashed a toothy white smile.

“Well, good morning, Coma!” she said, then realizing her error, “Excuse me, Charlie Colquitt.”

He smiled.

“Good morning,
Sunshine
—pardon—Niesha Livingston.”

It was one of many inside jokes they shared at the branch. A way to maintain sanity after a day's work with the public. Anything to keep from jumping off an overpass during rush hour.

He put the travel mug between the MICR reader and validator at his station. Walked back down the teller line to the big, floor-to-ceiling Diebold safe. Niesha followed.

“You go first, dear.”

The inch-thick carbon steel door of the vault had two wheel-combination locks. Charlie entered the combination to his assigned lock. Niesha did the same. No one teller could know the combination to both wheel locks.

The vault unlocked with a
clank
and Niesha swung the heavy door open. She regarded Charlie for a moment. His slouching figure accented by a jowl under the chin. Blond hair in need of a trim. An attitude of weariness wherever he happened to be. She had more or less grown accustomed to it.

Inside the vault there were eight teller lockers, a large cash locker and sealed cardboard boxes filled with rolled coins. Assorted binders and inventory logs were crammed into what available space was left. Another locker housed the consignment items. Cashier's checks, money orders, traveler's checks, gift cards in fancy gold envelopes.

Charlie spun the combination to his teller locker and removed the box and coin sorter. He carried them back to his terminal, the box balanced on his right hand like a meal a waiter was returning to the kitchen. Charlie cycled through his key chain until he found the one that opened the teller box. He popped off the lid, removed his cash bin and slid it into the top drawer. He placed the coin sorter on the counter next to the receipt tray and booted up his computer. Looking down, he saw a penny on the floor.

“Check the night deposit, would you, Charlie?” Niesha said.

He nodded, on automatic pilot, unaware of Niesha's lingering stare. Thankfully the commercial deposit drop wasn't too full. Only one bag from the pharmacy in Strumkin.

Niesha remembered when the bank had hired Charlie and she thought,
What is wrong with this damn boy?
He was tall, with lousy pale skin. Slumped shoulders that reinforced an impression of shyness. His face oval shaped, an enigma of blandness. She thought he might have been slightly retarded. But the human resources manager must have felt Charlie would be okay to handle other people's money.

In a way Niesha pitied him.
Never talked about friends, especially a girlfriend. Just Momma for lunch every Saturday
. He was in engineering school, taking classes year-round so he could graduate early. Wanted to work for Lockheed because he loved rockets. Niesha knew he was bright, honors student smart. Also, he was good with the customers, though sometimes his demeanor could exasperate a person who had never been waited on by Charlie. At times he suffered from a peculiar aloofness, as if caught in a kind of meltdown. But just when someone might lose patience with him, Charlie snapped out of these funks to complete a transaction or laugh that hee-haw laugh of his or say something unexpectedly thoughtful and appropriate. It reminded Niesha that some people are just different but not hopeless.

Destined to be lonely and largely unnoticed.

Niesha usually picked up some donuts and coffee on Saturdays and today was no exception. She offered a coconut glaze to Charlie, leading with her right hand to show off the engagement ring courtesy of longtime boyfriend Da'Sean. Charlie shook his head, opted for chocolate with sprinkles from the to-go box.
I'll find that donut in the trash with one bite gone,
she figured.
As usual.

While Charlie thought to himself,
Thank god Da'Sean finally asked her.

Niesha took her coffee and donut and walked back down the line. She logged on to the bank system, unlocked the drawers and mini-vault of the standing-height pedestal at her teller station. Scanned the money supply. They probably had about fifty grand between them.

The bank didn't open for fifteen more minutes. The financial specialist and branch manager were both on vacation. A travel teller was on the schedule but had called out sick. Niesha and Charlie would be the only employees working that Saturday, abbreviated hours that ran from nine till noon.

“You need to order cash?” she said, mouth full, chasing a bite of donut with a sip of coffee.

Charlie opened his cash drawer and did a quick count.

“I should be fine,” he answered. “Maybe a couple rolls of quarters. Saturdays are slow.”

“Don't bet on it being slow
today,
Charlie,” she said, finding some satisfaction in the torment of her favorite teller. “Delivery didn't come yesterday. You should have heard me on the phone. I let that lady down at the distribution center have it. Forgetting us on payday like that! Be glad you took off to take that exam of yours. I thought we'd barely make it when those boys from H and P Construction came in with their fat checks. More of 'em will be by today. That's why I ordered extra large bills …
just in case.
”

Charlie sighed, the prospect of a lobby full of check cashers was enough to ruin his morning. Paydays were the worst. Most people didn't have an account with North Georgia S&L. In fact, hardly any at all spoke English. He looked over at Niesha blankly, tried to make a face like he'd heard and agreed with her. But sometimes he knew his expression didn't let people know he was paying attention. As though he was only partially present for any human interaction. Niesha ignored him or was used to his distracted nature.
Just talking to myself. As usual.

She just wanted to fill the air with something.

The radio was broken.

“There they are now. Late as usual,” Niesha said, nodding to the armored car pulling up to the front doors.

The guard was in and out of the bank in five minutes. Charlie helped Niesha with a quick inventory. They both initialed the log and secured the shipment. Niesha still had to verify every strap of cash, and that was going to take some time. But they had to open in five minutes. Which meant cutting corners, bending the rules and, Charlie's favorite of all the middle-management talking points,
doing more with less.

“You mind taking customers while I verify the shipment?” she said.

Charlie shrugged, knowing it had to be done. And it wasn't worth complaining about. He kept reminding himself it was only three hours. Three hours and he could get back to that workbench, back to his models.

He settled into his pneumatic stool. The lighting in the lobby made everything look synthetic, like props on a soundstage. The ATM in the alcove emitted a series of beeps. Beyond the panels of bullet-resistant glass not a car or person showed in the parking lot. For Charlie another workday was about to begin.

 

I'm runnin' out of river, I've seen what the water's done to everyone and everything.

I watched Jesus pass me by.

Out here where the river can carve me, too.

He said, “Never surrender, never surrender.

Polish your guns. Polish your guns.”

 

TWO

Hicklin turned the
car into an empty lot where there had once been a fast-food restaurant. The night before he'd boosted the Toyota Camry from an AMC 12-plex. He imagined the owner, laughing at some dumb comedy inside. His or her car vanishing into the night.