The Bubble Gum Thief
Read The Bubble Gum Thief Online
Authors: Jeff Miller
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Jeff Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612184838
ISBN-10: 1612184839
Dedicated to Kate, for reasons longer than this book
CHAPTER 1: January 1—Bethel, New York
CHAPTER 2: January 1—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 3: January 7—Brooklyn, New York
CHAPTER 4: January 15—Warwick, Rhode Island
CHAPTER 5: January 16—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 6: January 17—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 7: February 1—Chula Vista, California
CHAPTER 8: February 14—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 9: February 15—Columbus, Ohio
CHAPTER 10: February 26—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 11: February 27—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 12: March 1—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 13: March 3—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 14: March 12—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 15: March 13—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 16: March 14—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 17: March 15—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 18: March 15—Quantico, Virginia
CHAPTER 19: March 15—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 20: March 16—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 21: March 17—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 22: March 18—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 23: March 19—Bethel, New York
CHAPTER 24: March 23—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 25: March 23—Coleman, Florida
CHAPTER 26: March 24—Covington, Kentucky
CHAPTER 27: March 25—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 28: March 26—Saint George’s, Bermuda
CHAPTER 29: March 29—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 30: April 1—Salt Lake City, Utah
CHAPTER 31: April 2—Salt Lake City, Utah
CHAPTER 32: April 6—Columbus, Ohio
CHAPTER 33: April 8—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 34: April 9—Nashville, Tennessee
CHAPTER 37: April 15—Nashville, Tennessee
CHAPTER 38: April 16—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 39: April 17—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 40: April 25—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 41: April 26—Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
CHAPTER 42: April 27—Chula Vista, California
CHAPTER 43: April 28—Nashville, Tennessee
CHAPTER 44: April 30—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 45: May 1—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 46: May 1—Atlanta, Georgia
CHAPTER 47: May 1—Arlington, Virginia
CHAPTER 48: May 1—Tracy, California
CHAPTER 49: May 2—Tracy, California
CHAPTER 50: May 3—Tracy, California
CHAPTER 51: May 6—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 52: May 7—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 53: May 9—Cincinnati, Ohio
CHAPTER 54: May 13—Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
CHAPTER 55: May 14—Washington, DC
CHAPTER 56: May 16—Leesburg, Virginia
CHAPTER 57: May 23—Alexandria, Virginia
CHAPTER 58: June 1—Alexandria, Virginia
PART I
CHAPTER 1
January 1—Bethel, New York
Sometimes big things start small.
Waller’s Food Mart felt like the smallest place on earth to Crosby Waller. The gangly teen sat behind the register sipping a Jones Fufu Berry Soda and leafing through a copy of
Sports Illustrated
with Shaquille O’Neal on the cover. A bead of sweat fell from Crosby’s forehead and landed on the magazine page, drowning the “Man” in “Manning” and blanching the “Green” from “Green Bay.” The radiator was stuck on high, and there was a four-day wait to have it fixed. Crosby tore off his sweater, stripping to an Arcade Fire T-shirt. It was three years old and too small for his frame. It had shrunk, but mostly, he had grown.
Twenty years of his father’s cigarettes had left an odor in the store that Lysol couldn’t fix, but Crosby was used to it. He wasn’t used to the soft flicker of the dying fluorescent bulb above, and it was giving him a headache. Maybe it wasn’t the flickering light. Maybe it was just boredom. Business had been slow since the Walmart Supercenter opened in Monticello, and this day had been slower than most.
The door chimed.
A cold blast of air sent a shiver through Crosby. The appearance of the tall, fit man walking through the door sent another. He wore black jeans and a grey sweatshirt, the hood of which was pulled tightly over his head, masking most of his face. The big orange lenses of his aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. Thin white gloves—not winter ones made of leather or wool, but shiny, tight hospital gloves made from rubber or latex—covered his hands. He looked, Crosby thought, like a serial killer.
“What’s up?” Crosby asked, surprised by the crack in his voice.
The man nodded in his direction and then wandered down an aisle. Crosby returned to his sullen perusal of the magazine. It was only two fifteen, and Crosby was stuck there for another four hours. When he’d agreed to work weekends and holidays in exchange for a 2002 Alero, it had seemed like a good deal. Selling Manhattan for a handful of beads had probably seemed like a good idea at the time, too.
Stuck. It’s how he felt most of the time. Stuck at his parents’ store. Stuck in Bethel. Stuck in a world of mediocrity, tedium, and boredom.
When the hooded man reached the soda fountain, he looked over at Crosby and spoke in a deep, deliberate voice. “You’re out of the big cups.” To make his point clear, the man pointed at the empty cup dispenser below the fountain drinks.
Crosby set his magazine down on the counter. “Give me a second.” He glanced at the rifle on the shelf under the register, then walked through the door to the back storeroom and tugged on the chain that hung from a bare bulb. When the light didn’t come on, he yanked four more times before the chain broke and fell to the floor. Crosby kicked the nearest box in anger, then squeezed between some shelves toward the lone window. He twisted the rod on the window blind, and bright rays of sunshine permeated the dusty air.
Along the side wall, boxes of various sizes were piled from floor to ceiling. He found one labeled “Biggie-Gulp,” pulled it from the stack, and tossed it to the center of the room. When he tore the top flap open, the sharp edge of a one-inch staple cut his index finger. He cursed, shook his finger, and licked away the blood. Reaching into the box, he grabbed a long sleeve of sixty-four-ounce cups.
Boom.
It sounded like a gunshot.
Crosby dropped the cups and dove to the floor. This was his time. Everyone who works at a convenience store is eventually shot, and this was his time. He should have been at Suzi Fenner’s New Year’s Day party, but instead, he was going to die in his parents’ store. At least they’d feel guilty for making him work. The sound of a car door snapped him back to the moment. Standing up, he brushed his hair out of his eyes and peeked through the small square window in the storeroom door. The front door was flapping in the wind, and the man in the hooded sweatshirt was starting the engine of a black Ford Explorer. Crosby watched it kick up gravel as it sped away.
Crosby jogged to the store entrance and tugged the door closed, then ran behind the counter, punched in the security code, and opened the register. He counted the money, and then counted it again. All there. Beer, Crosby thought. He ran back to the refrigerated shelves. Nothing was missing. He must have stolen something, Crosby thought, as he wandered up and down the canned-goods aisle, then around the hot-dog roller. When he turned down the candy aisle, he saw it.
