Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗

“Hope you’ve got a good lawyer.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty good, I think.”

“‘Cause you don’t stand much of a chance in this town. The white people are gonna send somebody to the electric chair for that murder. And you’re black, so it might as well be you.”

“Nope. I’m gonna get off. And then I’m moving to Shreveport. Gonna buy me a brand new car.”

“So, you’ve got money, huh? Rich family?”

“Nah. They’re poor. But I’ve got my own money.”

“What kind of car?”

“I’m thinking a Cadillac XLR Roadster. A red one.”

“Really? So, you’ve got $90,000 to spend on a car? Hey—you want to be best friends?” Big Ben laughed at his naive cellmate. “Really—I could use a new car too. How about it?”

“No. I don’t have that much to spend. And I’m sure not buying you one.”

“Maybe you could settle for a Miata. It’s a girly car, but it might be more in your price range—around $25,000, I think.”

“I don’t want no girly car.” Kantrell had not even checked the price of his dream car. To him, $30,000 was a fortune. It should have been enough to buy anything he wanted.

“So, where did you get the money?”

“Where do you think?” A wry smile slowly formed on Kantrell’s face.

“You mean you really did do it?”

“Not so loud.” Kantrell looked down the hallway, checking for guards.

“You killed Sam?”

“No.” His lips lied, but the smirk on his face told the truth.

“You did do it. I can see it in your eyes. But Sam wouldn’t have had that much money in the shop. Somebody must have hired you to do it. But why? Sam didn’t have any enemies.”

“Yeah, he did. He had at least one.”

“You stupid fool! Don’t you realize what you’ve done? Sam Spokane was a great man. I don’t care what color he was. He cared about everybody. When I was twelve years old, and starting to get into trouble, Sam helped turn me around. I grew up poor, and the only bike we had was so busted up we couldn’t even give it away.

“But somehow Sam found out about me, and offered me a deal. He told me that he and I could take an old bike he had in his shop, and rebuild it together, a few hours a day, after school. Then he’d give it to me. It was great. And I didn’t see it at the time, but all those funny stories he told were actually teaching me lessons.”

“Yeah, everybody talks about how great he was. But he was real old. He didn’t have much time left anyway. And I couldn’t turn down that kind of money.”

“Not everything is about money, punk! That old man was like a grandfather to me. I oughta bust your head wide open!”

Without backing away from the table, Big Ben jumped to his feet, flipping the heavy table onto his cellmate’s chest.

Kantrell’s chair tipped backward. He tried to jump out to the side, but found himself pinned to the chair by the weight of the table.

A bicycle helmet might have saved him. But he had no helmet, nor anything else to protect his bare head from the rock-solid surface. His skull crashed into the unforgiving cold, hard concrete. A coconut thrown against a boulder would have produced a similar crunch. But cracking open a coconut would not have caused Big Ben to vomit all over himself.

In a single motion, he yanked the table off Kantrell, and threw it into the wall behind him with such velocity that two of the legs broke off. Kantrell didn’t appear to be breathing. Big Ben looked at him in horror, fearing he had killed the boy.

“Guard! Guard! Call 911! Hurry!”

*

One of the jail guards had phoned Kantrell’s mother right after calling 911. She was pacing the floor in the emergency room when they rolled him through the doors. Kantrell’s eyes were closed.

“I want to speak to my son.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to wait,” the guard said.

“Besides—he’s barely conscious,” said one of the paramedics.

“I don’t care. I’m gonna talk to my boy!” Ella Jamison was a large, strong woman. She grabbed the stretcher, leaned over Kantrell, and whispered, “Kantrell, this is your mama. Do you hear me?”

He opened his eyes a little, but was in a daze. “Yes, Mama.”

“Where did you hide the money?”

“That’s my money.”

“Kantrell, you gotta think about your poor mama and your little sister. Now, where is the money?”

“I’m gonna buy a new car.”

“That’s fine. We’ll hold the money for you until you get out of jail.”

“No, Mama. That’s my money. I earned it.”

“Now you listen to me, Kantrell. You hit your head real hard tonight. What if you die? Then we won’t know where to find the money. Then what are we gonna do?”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

The guard pulled Ella away from the stretcher. And before she could think of what to say next, Kantrell had disappeared through the double doors.

*

Between Cabin 14 and Cabin 15, there was a small road. John X drove down the road until it widened near the lake. He made a u-turn, turned off his lights, and killed the engine. He had finally found the Bonneville. It was parked in front of the last cabin—number 17. He checked his watch. It was 10:45 PM.

Greg and Cynthia would probably be asleep soon, he thought. Unless they were having sex. Maybe he should go now, and find out. It would be fun to crash through the door in the middle of it. But no—that might be risky. It would be safer if they were asleep. Being safe was not normally a high priority for him. But after the fiasco with the 18-wheeler, he was feeling a little more cautious.

He would wait a couple of hours. Then he would walk to their cabin, quietly pick the lock, and slip inside. Then he would flip on the light, and wake them up—with his .44 Magnum in hand. And they would, of course, do whatever he said.

He had decided to use his ‘two hearts for the price of one bullet’ plan. He would set them up back to back, and then blow a big hole through both of them with one shot. He would enjoy watching them cry and beg for mercy.

Of course, the .44 Magnum would be very noisy. It’s a revolver—like an Old West pistol, except bigger and more powerful. And it’s impossible to effectively suppress the sound because of the open chambers. But he couldn’t resist using it. He had owned the gun for over a year, but had never used it on a job. The people in nearby cabins would definitely hear it, but would initially be afraid to go near the source of the blast.

John X would be long gone before anyone worked up the nerve to investigate, and discovered the gruesome scene in Cabin 17. And if anyone saw the Mustang driving away, that wouldn’t matter either. He would dump it a few miles down the road.

*

Greg woke up to the voice of Jay Leno. He had dozed off during the monologue. Cynthia was asleep in her bed. He clicked the remote to turn off the TV, and tried to go back to sleep. But now his mind was wide-awake.

It had been another wild day in a crazy week. And even though they had nearly been killed in a car wreck, he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. There was something about being with Cynthia that made life special. He had never felt this way about any other woman. Even his ex-wife.

Sure, she was beautiful and sexy. Sweet and caring. Smart and funny. He imagined holding her slender, but curvy body in his arms, while kissing her warm, wonderful lips. It gave him chills. The kind of chills you want to feel every day for the rest of your life.

But it was more than just physical. Much more. He loved talking to her about anything and everything. And joking around with her. Just having fun together. How sad and miserable he would be, if he found she didn’t feel the same way. In that case, wouldn’t he have been better off not to have ever met her? No. Even if they were only together for these few days, it still would have been worth it.

Worth every minute of it.