The store’s windows were cocooned in black iron security bars and bright neon signs advertising everything from Budweiser to the Georgia lottery. For every attempt I made to rise above Chillicothe and put places like this behind me, Sam’s antics always dragged me back. And every time I had to chase after Sam into a place like this, I vowed it would be my last. It always reminded me of the times I had to go into the Blackjack Tavern to pull Martha out when Sam and I were hungry and there was no food in the house. It made me feel guilty for having gone off to boarding school and leaving that awful task to him.
Whatever Sam was into, whatever the reason he showed up at my job, he had stepped too close to the line I drew between my personal and professional lives.
I parked my BMW next to a dingy white pickup truck at the front of the store. Two guys leaning against the building stared at me before they looked at each other and grinned. My shoulders tightened. I carefully placed the strap of my purse over my head and across my body. I hoped they were still watching. I wanted them to know that whatever they had planned, I wasn’t giving up without a fight. I stepped out of the car.
“Hey, gorgeous,” the heavier one said as I paced briskly toward the door.
“Gentlemen,” I said without stopping. I learned a long time ago, with some men, it was better to respond and keep moving, lest I face being called a stuck-up bitch or come back later and find my car keyed or tires slashed.
Inside, the place barely resembled anything close to a convenience store. The shelves were nearly bare, but the beer and wine refrigerator cases held ample selections. Otherwise, this place was hardly a convenient stop for anything else. The store was empty except for the cashier, a slovenly guy with a long unkempt beard who sat behind bulletproof glass.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for someone. I need to get in the back.”
He gave me a deadpan stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What’s your name? Rolly?” I could tell by the quick jerk of his eyebrows that he was surprised I knew his name. “I know you’re a friend of Sam’s. I need to find him. Just let me take a quick look. I’ll be in and out in two minutes.”
“I don’t know any Sam. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He peered over my shoulder like there might be another customer walking up behind me at any minute.
To hell with him. I didn’t have time for his games. “Listen, I’m looking for Sam Littlejohn and so are the police.” I nodded toward the door at the side of the cash register. “I suggest you unlock the door and let me back there before the police come up in here looking for him. They might not be as polite as I am.”
“He’s not here.” He took a sip from a bottle of Peach Snapple.
“So let me see that for myself.” I wasn’t scared of him even though Sam once told me the owner kept a sawed-off shotgun behind the counter for would-be robbers. But I also knew the police posed a bigger threat to him than I did. “Look, just open the door. I’ll be in and out. You never saw me.”
The guy rubbed the end of his beard, calculating how much trouble Sam might bring to his doorstep. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took another sip. He stared at me for a beat before he hit the buzzer under the counter. I heard the lock click and I headed through the door.
I stepped inside what was supposed to be the stock room of the store—if they’d had any stock to sell. It was a pretty good size–room, dimly lit and humming with the low cha-ching of about a dozen slot machines. Every machine was occupied by some poor soul hoping to make a big win. Under state law, Georgia permits what they call “coin-operated skill redemption games”—slot machines where people can insert cash but can’t get cash out. Instead, they can earn lottery tickets or store merchandise. But backroom gambling joints like this one offered real slot machines that were illegally slipped into the state and actually paid out cash. What the people slumped over these machines didn’t realize was that the games were rigged to pay out wins small enough to keep them in the chair plugging more money in than they could ever recoup. Old Rolly out front and his partners were making a small fortune off the poor souls who made this place a regular stop, all without the knowledge of the Georgia state tax commissioner.
I strolled through the first row of machines looking for Sam. I kept an eye on the door, not sure what Rolly might pull now that I had forced him to let me in the back. No one flinched or even bothered to look up as I passed by. They all sat like zombies from some old black-and-white TV show staring, eyes glued to the screens. A young woman sat at one of the machines holding a baby and playing something called “Hold ’Em or Fold ’Em.” For a nanosecond I wanted to snatch the child from her arms and drag them both out of this place.