Locomotive to the Past - George Schultz (famous ebook reader .txt) 📗

“Jeez! That’d be great! Any idea… where I could buy one? A new one? (He’d had his fill—more than his fill—of old bicycles!) Where I should buy one?”

“Well, they say that the really hep place, to buy a bike… is Jerry’s Bike Shop. He’s located down Grand River… just this side of Wyoming. But… ahem… I do work for “Monkey Ward’s”, y’know! And we do sell bikes! There’s a kind-of-maroonish Hawthorne bike, down there… that I’ve always thought looked really neat! A boys bike! Nicest bike, I’ve ever seen! And I’ve never seen one of those… in a girls bike. Nowhere near the same style. Fenders mostly. They’re so… so neat . . . on the boys model. I assume that they must still have a number of them, down there. Seems like… every time I’m down, in the basement level… I’ve always seen one, on display. At least one. They wouldn’t show ’em… if they didn’t sell ’em.”

“You, personally… ah… don’t sell bikes, for a living… do you?”

“No,” she replied—laughing heartily, again. “I work, up in the office. On the second floor. Figure out employee hours… for payroll… process invoices, and do a little inventory control. Stuff like that.”

“Well, that’s what I’m gonna have to try and do.”

“Try? Try to what? To work on payroll? Process invoices? Buy a bike? Any of the three? All of the above?”

Well, I do work all day.” Some degree of his exasperation seemed to be returning! “By the time I usually get home,” he explained, “it’s usually close to six o’clock. I’m gonna have to wait, till Thursday . . . till you guys are open till nine o’clock. I can’t expect Eric, to give me the day off . . . so I can go out, and buy me a bike. So, if they’ve still got one… one of those ‘Maroon Specials’ . . . on Thursday night. I’ll go ahead, and get me one.”

The approving look, on her face—that magnificent smile—had returned! It served to calm him back down. Significantly!

“I’ll get the manager, down there… his name is Phil… I’ll get him to save you one!” She was definitely brighter-of-eye, and bushier-of-tail! “When you go there… on the lower level… just ask, for him. For Phil,”

“You would do that . . . for me?”

“Soitenly!” She was beginning to sound like Curley, of The Three Stooges. “All part of the soivice!”

But, she was much prettier! (Sorry about that, Curley!)

EIGHTEEN

SEPTEMBER 27, 2001 9:35AM

Sheila Rutkowski stirred, in bed! There seemed to be a constant knocking—on some door! Somewhere! As the cobwebs began to—ever so reluctantly—give way to reality, she finally managed to determine that the frantic rappings were real! And the cacophony was taking place—in her own front room! Involving—quite insistently—the door. to her apartment!

Uttering an unprintable oath, she pulled herself out of bed—and took a hasty inventory, regarding the out-of-control condition, of her disheveled nightgown! Making an “executive decision”—that it would be unacceptable to try and receive anyone, in the ratty-looking frock—she scrambled to locate her not-a-bargain-either robe. The wrap was lying on the floor. But, its location, was the other side of the rumpled bed—which made it difficult, for the upset woman, to find.

And—all this while—the unrelenting, getting-louder-by-the-second, knocking was continuing! And, as indicated, the person dispensing those bone-rattling blows, to the under-siege portal, was—obviously—becoming, more and more, impatient!

“All right, goddammit!” she shouted. “I’ll be right there! Keep your goddam pants on!”

The knocking decreased, in tempo—and fury! But, only slightly! The drumbeat never actually ceased! Not altogether!

After—finally—zeroing in, on the recalcitrant frock, Sheila hastened to don the frayed, terrycloth, wonder—as she hurried across the living room, toward the unwavering, still-semi-ear-splitting, barrage!

She usually opened the door—in such instances—a mere few inches! The better to identify the intrusive caller! In this case, however—because the situation was so fraught with, uncalled-for, bombast—she flung the door wide open! And regretted the impulsive action! Immediately!

Standing in front of her were two male uniformed Dearborn Police officers! As well as an (obvious) law-enforcement man, in plainclothes! The latter might as well have been decked out, in uniform, as well. He was—definitely—a cop! Beyond a doubt!

Behind this trio—all three of which were, intensely, shifting their weight, from one foot to the other—was a “civilian” woman! Mrs. Roth! Everybody knew Mrs. Roth! The busybody! The one who lived, in the third-house-on-the-right—located, on the side street, where Sheila had always parked “her” Buick! The jig—it would seem—was, patently, up!

“That’s her,” the lady advised the male members of the agitated “posse”! She’s the one! Mrs. Rutkowski!”

“Is that your car?” asked the plainclothesman—in a most-snarly tone! “The one? The Buick? The one that’s parked… in front of this lady’s house? On Whipple Street?”

“Uh… well…”

“Don’t listen to anything she says,” Mary Ann Roth half-shouted. “She’s the one! The one… who parks that daggone car there! Just about every day! Well, two or three times a week, anyway!”

“Is that true,” asked the plainclothes cop—who seemed almost as upset, with his, obligatory, female companion, as Sheila was. (Almost!) “Have you been driving that ninety-nine Buick? Driving it? And parking it… over on Whipple?”

“NO!” Sheila half-shouted. “This woman… this know-it-all bitch . . . she has no idea! No idea… at all . . . of what the hell she’s talking about! As usual!”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to ask you to accompany us… down to Police Headquarters, Mrs. Rutkowski.” The cop, in civvies, seemed apologetic—while staring, unending, daggers, at Mrs. Roth. “We’ll allow you time… if you wish… to get yourself dressed!”

“Do you want me to go into the bedroom, with her?” asked Mrs. Roth. “To make sure that… to be sure that she’s not doin’ anything? Anything funny?”

“No Ma’am,” responded the police spokesman. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure she’ll be all right. She’ll be fine!” Turning to Sheila, he announced, “I’m Inspector Gordon… Dearborn Police.” He fished a legal document—from inside his suit coat—and handed it, to the distraught woman! “I have this warrant . . . this one here,” he continued. “This here warrant… for your arrest!”

“My arrest? My fucking arrest? Listen! If you’re tryin’ to pull