Bicycle Shop Murder 19

Marty’s king size bed, 27-inch color TV, private bathroom, and air conditioning made him feel like a millionaire. He didn’t miss prison at all.

Cynthia Blockerman’s room was just below his. With x-ray vision, he could have shot her through the floor from where he stood. He liked her. But he wouldn’t hesitate to cut her throat or choke her to death, if necessary. He just wanted to be fin­ished with this job, finished with Buford.

Marty dialed one of Buford’s unlisted cell numbers. There was a different number to call every few days. Buford was taking special precautions. If Marty was caught, Buford didn’t want the police to have a phone record trail leading back to him.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. Troy Blockerman is no longer a problem.”

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“He drank too much beer and passed out in his living room. Then somebody sliced his throat. He won’t be voting ‘Guilty’ anymore.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Hey—you told me to make sure the kid gets off. That’s what I’m trying to do. Troy Blockerman was determined to hang him, and he was convincing the rest of the jury to go along. I had to stop him.”

“But who are the police going to blame for his murder? This could take us both down.”

“Nah. Right now, the D.A. believes the wife did it. Appar­ently, good ole boy Troy was knocking her around every night. The D.A. figures Cynthia just got tired of the abuse. And…there was another problem I had to take care of.”

“What?” Don’t tell me you’ve murdered the judge, thought Buford.

“Dorothy Spokane called the district attorney’s office this morning. Good thing I had her house bugged. She asked the A.D.A. to come over so she could give her information about the case. So, I got there first.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She didn’t tell me anything. She was on the phone and I heard her say ‘Buford,’ so I shot her.”

“You shot her! What else did she say?”

“Something about Buford being responsible for all of the killings.”

“Did she give a last name?”

“No. And whoever was on the other end of the line hung up. But I couldn’t look up their number because she had an old-fashioned rotary phone. I can get a copy of her phone records.”

“That’s okay. I can take care of that. What did you find in the house?”

“She had a letter that was written by her husband. It was sitting on the coffee table, so I think she planned to give it to the D.A. He had written on the envelope, ‘Open Upon My Death.’ So, apparently he suspected somebody might try to kill him.”

“What did you do with it? You didn’t open it, did you?”

“No. I’m holding it for you.”

“Burn it. Don’t open it, just burn it.”

“Okay.”

“Do it as soon as you hang up.”

“I understand.”

“But, Marty, you’re out of control.”

“Come on—you know I had no choice. She was going to tell them something, and I’m sure it was something you don’t want the D.A. to hear. Look, I don’t care what you did, or what’s in this letter. I’m just doing my job.”

“You know what, Marty? You’re done.”

“What do you mean? The trial’s not over. We have a deal. I’m not going back!”

“It’s okay. I just don’t require your services anymore. Your debt is paid. So, slip out of town quietly and go your merry way. You’re free. But don’t forget to burn that letter. Do it now. Goodbye.”

Marty felt like he had just been fired, and he didn’t like it. He wanted nothing more than to be done with this job. But he wanted to finish the job. Marty Crumb might have been one of the lowest of the lowlifes—but he was not a quitter. And he could not allow himself to be fired.

As he walked into the bathroom with Sam Spokane’s unopened letter, he placed a Marlboro between his cracked lips and flicked his lighter. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag, studying the handwriting on the envelope. What was this horri­ble secret about Buford? He would burn the letter over the toi­let and then flush the ashes.

**********

Buford wanted to kick himself for getting involved with Marty. It had seemed like a good idea—a cheap way to get it done. But Marty had become a loose cannon. If Buford let this go on, everybody connected with the trial would end up dead. And eventually the police would be at his door. He had to take immediate action. He unlocked his lower right drawer and exchanged the cell phone in his hand for a different one.

“Yeah?”

“This is B.B.”

“Who’s the mark?”

“Hang on. What’s this going to cost me?”

“Ten Grand.”

Buford felt a sharp pain in his stomach. “That’s too much.”

“Then get somebody else. Goodbye—”

“—wait. Okay.”

“Then it’s agreed? Ten-thousand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Who, where, and when?”

“His name is Marty Crumb. He’s currently at the Holiday Inn in Coreyville, Texas, room 212. I don’t know how long he’ll be there. So, do it as soon as possible, and let me know when it’s done.”

“Got it.”

“I didn’t get your name.”

“John X.”