No Quit

Chapter 3

Gabe Tucker ripped the tab off his can of beer and gulped greedily, spilling some it on his t-shirt and pants. He gave them a cursory brush and took another, longer swig. The robbery of the diner had been a real bust, netting them a lousy ninety-four dollars and some change—and he'd wasted a bullet on the stupid waitress, although he could still feel the tingle of thrill as her face swam in his mind. He chugged down the rest of the beer, crushed the can in his fist and tossed it out the window of the car.

"We gotta get rid of this thing soon," he snapped at the woman driving.

"Gabe, I know you're mad but it was an accident. 'Sides, nobody prob'ly even noticed." Her concern was not so much that he might have shot someone but that she'd inadvertently said his name.

"You are one stupid bitch, Sandra if you think that guy back there didn't hear you."

"Then why shoot the waitress then, why not him... or both?" She was tired of his continual abuse.

"Just drive the goddamn car 'til I say stop, and shut up." Gabe knew she was right and it made him even madder. Something about the customer just made him want to get out of there and he had shot the waitress, which was nothing but a dumb attempt to show off. Hearing his name wouldn't help anyone; he didn't have a record or any place to check. The car was the problem now. They needed new wheels.

Sandra Lawlor pinched her mouth tight and stared ahead at the hazy asphalt. Ever since she'd reluctantly teamed up with Gabe Tucker he'd become more and more of a bully, taking liberties and always acting like she was stupid and useless unless it was under him in bed. Twenty-eight years old and already she was an ex con, a fugitive from a string of robberies across the country and now maybe even an accessory to a possible killing.

That wasn't so much the bother, it was his attitude and she was getting mighty tired of it. She brushed her hair behind her ear and rested her wrist on top of the wheel, admiring her nails, and relaxing slightly since he'd put his head back and closed his eyes. She let her mind drift and it automatically went to when they first met.

******

The roadhouse was the closest bus stop to the women's detention center from where she had just been released. Sandra pushed through the door into the dingy interior, assailed immediately by the reek of stale beer and cigarette smoke. She paused in the doorway, soaking up the unfamiliar smells of the world outside the prison.

Some country and western whiner twanged away on a noisy speaker system and when her eyes grew accustomed she could see the shapes of several groups at as many tables all adding to the toxic air. A couple of the shadows looked up as she came in but dropped back to whatever they were doing, interest satisfied. She went to the bar and ordered a tall glass of draft then stood and drank most of it while the bartender watched with a flat expression.

"Right out of Caulfield, eh? Just had to make here your first stop."

"This place was all I heard about." She said, bored, finishing the glass and indicating another.

He refilled her glass and held it in one hand with the other out for payment. "This ain't a welcome station; only money's good here."

She opened her small purse and pulled out the envelope she'd been provided with by the system and tossed a bill large enough to cover both drinks on the counter. "Such a pleasure to be out and back among caring citizens." She said. She picked up her change and her glass and moved to a small table in the corner. One year and twelve days for what Sandra called, shoplifting a pair of designer shoes from an upscale boutique. The court disagreed, saying her threat of bodily harm to the sales person upped the charge so the trade for the baggy, prison orange jumpsuit—had not been worth the crime.