Bicycle Shop Murder 24

John X stole a silver F-150 pickup from a Wal-Mart in Shre­veport. It was easy. The owner had parked it thirty feet away from other cars, probably in an attempt to avoid dings. It was a 2004 model, but looked brand new.

If someone had seen him stealing the truck, he would have been too far away for a positive ID. Even if the owner himself had walked out of the store at the moment John X was popping the lock, he would have had no hope of stopping him. He was just too good. Too fast. Too cool.

He didn’t like the George Strait CD or the preset Country radio stations. But it didn’t take long for him to find a heavy metal station and crank up the volume. He wasn’t happy unless the music made his teeth rattle, even if it blew out the speakers.

He took Interstate 20 West, then Highway 59 North to Mar­shall. Then he merged into Highway 154. Coreyville was fifteen miles away. He knew Marty was much older than he was, but probably a little wiser too.

But he had no intention of giving Marty any chance to avoid extermination. So, it had to be right—on the first attempt. One perfect shot, delivered without warning. Marty was just an ex-con punk. John X was a professional hit man.

Over the past two years, he had averaged two jobs per month, the first few for a measly $5,000 each, and then upped his price to $10,000. He was now ready to raise it again. After all, he’d never failed to complete an objective. A failure could put his employer in jeopardy. And that would mean the end of his career, and maybe his life. It was an extremely dangerous occu­pation, and the salary should reflect that. His goal was $50,000 per hit.

John X liked to visualize a kill before performing it, much like a golfer who envisions a perfect putt before stroking the ball. It enabled him to check every detail of a scenario in his mind, and then correct any flaws in his plan.

First, he would steal a uniform. Next, he would find a dis­carded room service tray outside someone’s door. Then he would carry the tray with his left hand and hold his .45 under the tray with his right hand. The silencer would greatly reduce, but not eliminate the sound of the shot. Cloth napkins draped over the sides of the tray would conceal the gun.

He would knock on Marty’s door and say, ‘Room Service.’ If Marty opened the door, John X would place one bullet per­fectly in the center of his heart. A hole in one. John X would calmly close the door, set down the tray and walk away.

But if Marty looked through the peephole and refused to open the door, John X would shoot him several times through the door. It would not be a clean kill, but it would have to do. Because once lost, the element of surprise could not be regained. A wig and glasses would alter his looks sufficiently.

Once he arrived at the hotel, he would check the layout and the environment, the number of guests, escape routes, etc. Then he would reevaluate his plan.

**********

Marty woke up to the sound of crying children coming into his room. No. They weren’t in his room—they were in the hall­way. One kid was screaming his guts out. Thankfully, the noise faded as it went down the elevator. Marty checked the clock on the nightstand: 5:55 PM. He was surprised that he had been able to take a nap. Someone could have slipped into his room and stabbed him in the heart. He would have offered little resis­tance.

But since he was still alive he would have some dinner. He decided to take a shower and change into fresh clothes. That way, he would be nice and clean for the medical examiner. Marty knew Buford had hired someone to kill him, and he knew the killer was near. He could feel it.

**********

The Hard Rock Cafe in Dallas occupies a building that was built in 1904 as the McKinney Avenue Church. In 1986, it was converted into a Hard Rock Café—the fourth in the country. The front of the building still looks like either a church or a courthouse. Lettering chiseled in the stone above the entrance says it all: Supreme Court of Rock and Roll. Maybe that was one of the reasons Buford Bellowin loved it so much.

After a long day in the courtroom, Buford liked to enjoy a few beers, a big dinner, and a beautiful young lady. Never mind that he had a gorgeous 30-year-old wife at home. She had been deeply hurt and outraged the first time she had caught him with another woman. He had told her he was going to have dinner with a colleague that night, without knowing his wife was in town. She had decided it would be fun to surprise him. She knew he would be at his favorite restaurant.

When she found his table, it looked like he was leaning over to kiss the young woman sitting next to him. No, he’s not kiss­ing her, she thought. He’s just whispering something in the ear of a fellow attorney—probably a confidential legal matter. Then she saw Buford’s hand under the table between the woman’s legs. The patrons’ enjoyment of rock music was rudely inter­rupted by a wild woman screaming and waving her fists. He had been lucky to retain all his body parts on that dreadful night.

But over their seven-year marriage, she had become accus­tomed to Buford’s antics. She knew what he was doing, but she didn’t care anymore—as long as he didn’t try to divorce her. She’d made it very clear that she would destroy his reputation if he ever tried to dump her. She was determined to hang on, hold her nose, and endure the stench of their marriage. It would be worth it in the end. She was going to ride Buford to the gover­nor’s mansion. Maybe even to the White House some day.

The blonde was late. She should have known better than to keep Buford Bellowin waiting. It was 6:05.

He never tired of the Hard Rock Cafe. It was his favorite restaurant in all of Dallas. Sure, a lot of successful attorneys preferred French wine, with filet mignon or chateaubriand. But Buford was a meat and potatoes Texan—and proud of it. He liked fajitas, or chili, or a big juicy cheeseburger and fries while listening to Madonna, or Elvis, or ZZ Top.

Buford wondered if John X had completed his mission. How had things gone so wrong in Coreyville? He’d been fool­ish to think he could use Marty to manipulate the jury and get an acquittal. Marty had tried his best, in his own clumsy way, to get what Buford wanted. But his tactics had been heavy handed, and before Buford had realized it, Marty had gone completely out of control. Every time he had run into a prob­lem, he tried to solve it by killing somebody.

Instead of attempting to sway the jury, Buford could have paid off a guard to kill Kantrell Jamison in jail. And that was still a possibility. If the kid had been smart, he would have parked his bike behind the store, and then gone out the back door after killing Sam. It was dark, and Kantrell didn’t see anybody out front, so he thought he’d be okay—but you never know when a car might go by. Arabeth Albertson. Why did that old hag have to drive by just as Kantrell was leaving Sam’s?

And what about Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman? He was sure they were the couple from Coreyville who had called his office. What did they want, and what did they know? He figured they would just be fishing. If they knew anything of sig­nificance, they would have gone to the D.A. All he had to do was play dumb. They would never discover the truth. His secret would remain with him. His political career had to go on—for the sake of his future constituents.

He looked up from his thoughts and lost his appetite—for food, that is. She was somewhat scantily dressed for meeting a prominent Dallas attorney. But she looked utterly delicious. Those legs. Those breasts. He did a quick check to see if he was drooling.

He tried to act angry. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Tell you what: let’s just skip dinner and go directly to des­sert.”

Buford threw some bills on the table, stood up, put his arm around her bare waist, and headed for the exit. What smooth skin you have, he thought. The better to tempt you with, he imagined her saying.

Tomorrow’s problems could wait until tomorrow. It was time for fun.