The Last Customer (6 page)

           
Garth genuinely felt bad. Sometimes his thoughts got the best of him. His idle mind allowed his paranoia to spin out of control.

           
“And as for the God thing, I just like to think that there’s more to life than just eating, sleeping, procreating, and going poop.” Winny concluded. “Otherwise, what’s the point? None of this would mean anything.”

           
At
poop
they both busted into laughter.

Chapter 5

1

The full moon hung high in the night sky, around it, the stars danced brightly across the cloudless black canvas. Below the magnificence of the universe, a beat-up old truck drove down the empty highway. The headlights illuminated the fading yellow dash marks in need of fresh paint. Each dash shot beneath the rusted red truck as it sped forward.

Inside the vehicle, Timmy Sutter, a thirty-two year old, roughneck biker-type with ice coursing through his veins, drove at a steady pace of fifty-five miles an hour. He cruised down Highway 26 with the driver’s side window rolled halfway down. The subtle breeze blew Timmy’s dark brown hair back and around, whipping his thick beard. The fresh air was comforting, making him
feel
at ease. He was careful to drive the speed limit, not wanting to
get
pulled over. Especially, since
he
and Terrance Morton, an African American biker thug with no hair on his face or head, and Cherri Joyce, his beautifully disturbed blue eyed, red-headed girlfriend, had just knocked off a gas station on the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi river.

Timmy’s two accomplices were sleeping on the seats next to him. The seats were small and everyone was scrunched in tight. They were over a hundred miles away from the gas station they’d recently robbed. The station they’d hit was located at the edge of a small river town, making it was an easy
target
. The clerk had been scared, and she didn’t worry about protocol to risk her life for what was in the register. She gave every cent to Timmy. She would have given them anything they wanted, so long as they left fast.

As usual, Terrance stood as a lookout inside the station, near the door. This way, he could identify and deal with anyone that entered. He could control the situation while Timmy conducted the armed robbery.

Like Terrance, Cherri’s job was to act as a lookout while Timmy did the gun work. She would warn Terrance if anyone threatened to enter and Terrance would inform Timmy. Cherri looked innocent and young for her age. She was twenty-three, but easily passed for seventeen. She would sit on the curb, outside the front door, drinking a coke or licking an ice cream cone.

           
The last job had been easy. When the gas station attendant saw Timmy’s gun, she calmly opened the cash register and retrieved all of the money. She stacked the green bills neatly in her shaky hands. She even put the change inside of a plastic bag and zipped it shut. She’d handed the cash to Timmy as if he were a paying customer. Timmy appreciated her cooperation. In all truthfulness, he didn’t like hurting people. He didn’t like struggles. He’d knocked off quite a few gas stations and cooperation was always welcome. Struggles usually occurred when the pump jockey got itchy and felt the need to be a hero. Those were the jobs that ended up messy. In situations like that, someone always got hurt. Luckily—so far—no one had gotten dead.

Timmy hadn’t killed anyone, but he’d gotten violent on more than one occasion. A few of his
uncooperative victims
had spent a good amount of time in the hospital. He could be rough. If it had to be done, he would clock the clerk with the butt of his pistol. A good crack to the nose left the hero dazed. During the course of his criminal career, Timmy had broken a few noses and knocked a few people unconscious. Thankfully, that’s all the violence that had been necessary.

           
Now, driving down Highway 26, about thirty miles west of Dodge Junction, Timmy realized that they needed more cash. More money would be necessary to continue their travels. The last gas station had been a success, but it only amounted to four hundred dollars—not a lot. Four hundred was chicken scratch and it would only carry them for a day or two. They were headed to Detroit, which was a couple hundred miles east.

Timmy’s brother ran a chop shop in downtown Motor City. He’d been attempting to get Timmy to work for him for a couple of years. But a few stints in county jail and a few years of probation had hindered the opportunity.

Terrance was along for the ride. Terrance and Timmy met in the county jail. They had been cellmates and after they were released, they’d worked a couple of jobs together. They weren’t a team, but they collaborated well. Terrance was outgoing, so there would be plenty of opportunity for him in Detroit. He could unload product
;
drugs, guns, stolen goods. Many of the abandoned neighborhoods around inner city Detroit were serving as cook houses for the manufacturing of drugs. Terrance was the kind of guy who could sniff-out a good operation and excel at it. Terrance’s high wasn’t the drugs. It was the action. It was the thrill of making a deal, holding up a station, getting away with it.

           
Cherri, on the other hand, was Timmy’s woman. Despite how badly Timmy treated Cherri, he loved her. She was loyal. She whined about his career choice, but that was her job, to nag. He’d only gotten rough with her a few times. Usually, after she’d suggested he find a new line of work. She believed in this fairy tale where she could change him, that she could manipulate him into settling down and working a real job and they could live happily-ever-after, on love.

What a joke.

He wondered how long she’d stick around. His lifestyle would eventually turn her away, or get her killed. In this line of business, relationships had a shelf life. Sure, he’d thought about quitting the criminal life and settling down. He wanted to give Cherri everything she desired. But she didn’t understand that this lifestyle was
it
for him. He didn’t know how to do anything else and, truthfully, he didn’t
want
to do anything else. His brother’s chop shop
was
the compromise. She would have to respect that because that’s the way it was. Plus, his brother’s chop shop was a steady job. It wasn’t legal, but it was structured and organized.

2

Cherri woke up when the low rumble of the truck’s engine grew louder and the cab began to shift. The tires juggled over the jagged shoulder of the highway. Small rocks kicked up under the floor panels. The pebbles sounded like marbles on wood. The current terrain was bumpy, indicating, the roads were in desperate need of maintenance. There were potholes scattered everywhere. In the dark, you couldn’t see where the road ended. The paint markings were faded, almost non-existent.

Cherri focused on Timmy. He pulled a brown paper bag from beneath his seat. He dug into the bag, pulled the tab off a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and sipped from it.

Terrance was asleep next to Cherri, on the right. She was seated in the middle, and being cramped was an understatement. She wished that Timmy would have boosted an SUV or even a car. That would have been more comfortable, but Timmy liked trucks. Now, they were stuffed shoulder to shoulder inside of this heap-on-wheels. A dumpy Chevrolet with rusted
everything.

           
“Where are we headed?” she asked, knowing that he didn’t like to be bothered while he was driving.

           
“Saw a sign for a liquor store. It’s about thirty miles ahead. I think we should hit it.”

           
She looked to the digital radio face. It was ten o’clock. Most liquor stores closed up at this time of night. In places like California, you could buy alcohol until two o’clock in the morning. The laws varied from place to place. But around these parts—the Midwest—you usually had to purchase your booze before ten o’clock. In most places you could still buy liquor to take with you, after ten o’clock, if you were in a bar. Bar time was two-thirty.

           
“If you think we can do it.”

           
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Timmy snarled. He stared at the road, never turning his head toward her. He continued sipping from his beer.

           
“I just meant that it’s late. Liquor stores usually close early around here.”

           
His jaw was sliding back and forth. His teeth faintly chattered as he ground them together. He chugged the rest of his beer and tossed the can out the window. “I guess we’ll see.”

           
This was her cue to
shut it.

There was nothing else to say. She adjusted, slumping back against the cloth seat covers. The seat cushions were held together by shredded padding. The truck was old. They’d stolen it from a farmer who probably didn’t know it was gone yet. It smelled musty like a stale fart.
 
Cherri closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, her dreams, too often, took her back to childhood. A place she’d rather forget.

           
Cherri’s mother, Dawn, was a nice woman. She was pretty and she loved Cherri. But she loved her abusive husband more with booze coming in second. On more than one occasion, Dawn was taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. Dawn drank in extreme when she needed to ignore what her husband was doing. She needed to ignore him because he often ventured into Cherri’s bedroom. Her husband was doing things to Cherri that he should have been doing with Dawn. On those nights, Dawn would suck down a fifth of Jim Beam, sometimes more. She would sit at the crappy wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. There was a huge crack running down the center of it. She’d slump down over her elbows, lean into the bottle, and wait for the sting of alcohol to dull her sorrows. When Cherri’s stepfather, Garry, was done with her, he’d go to the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and sit with Dawn. They would remain silent, but Gary would stare at her. The stare, Cherri thought, was to confirm that Dawn knew what would happen if she ever told anyone about what was happening in her daughter’s bedroom. The rest of the world wouldn’t understand Garry’s needs. That’s how he explained it to Dawn. She never bought into the argument, but she was powerless against him and her rage was silent. She hadn’t the nerve to do anything about it. She couldn’t.

           
Cherri shared only one bonding moment with her mother. It was the night that Dawn killed the vile son of a bitch.

Garry came home from work. It was winter and he was drunk. He stumbled to the bedroom, shrugging his shoes off as he tripped down the hallway. After he undressed, he made his way into Cherri’s bedroom. Dawn was waiting for him in Cherri’s room with a Remington double barrel shotgun. The gun was neatly polished. Garry flew out of his boots. The lead slug that Dawn unloaded into his chest sent blood splattering across the walls. Garry hit the wall and slid to the floor near the door, leaving a trail of crimson gore. The skin around his sucking chest wound sizzled from the heat of the round.

           
Cherri hadn’t been scared. In all honesty, she was glad and relieved. Gary would never
have her
again. Cherri felt her mother’s humility. She watched her mother take a seat on the edge of the bed. The sad look in her eyes suddenly gleamed and her mouth perched into a smile. She’d forgiven herself. She quickly turned away from Cherri and lifted the barrel of the shotgun to her lips. Her eyes, again, turned toward Cherri. She attempted to say, “I’m sorry” and then wrapped her thumb over the trigger. Her face caved in. She punched the contents of her head across Cherri’s bedroom. Some of her brain matter stuck to the ceiling.

Cherri stared at her dead mother, lost. After a few seconds, she spit on Garry and kicked his lifeless corpse, furiously.

When she finally settled down, Cherri inspected the grotesque scene. Broken skull fragments peppered the floor, wall, windows, and drapes. Leaning down, she gazed into the wide hole ripped through Gary’s chest. For a moment, she thought she could see his heart. It looked black.

Once her fascination was curbed, she became frightened.

What came next?

She would have to call the police and explain what had happened.

A short investigation ensued and not much occurred. The police took Cherri at her word. At one point, they’d asked her if she pulled the trigger, but they didn’t pursue her further once she said ‘no’.
 
Cherri wasn’t capable of murder. She was a scared little girl and the crime scene had told the story.

           
Within a year, Cherri was shuttled into foster care and that was where she met Timmy. He was nice, yet he had a violent temper, but nobody’s perfect. Cherri and Timmy became friends. During social time, they would play board games. They would talk until lights out or until the foster care givers sent them to their state sanctioned dorm rooms. Sometimes they would
get
split up and sent to random foster homes, with random families.

Timmy would run away. Sometimes, the family he stayed with would prove to be unreliable. But, Timmy always found Cherri, no matter where he was sent. He’d
get
kicked out or run away, and he’d find her. After a few years, he was finally sent to a juvenile facility and they didn’t see each other for a long time.

           
A few years later, Cherri landed a job as a waitress. It wasn’t much. She worked at a small bar and grille, a road stop in
Clyman
—a map-dot town in southern Wisconsin. Timmy happened to pop in for a burger and fries. It was pure coincidence, with both of them reading it as fate.

The burger was fine, the fries were good, but the girl was great. After paying the tab, Timmy took Cherri away. She hadn’t even changed out of her uniform.