Motorcycle Roadkill by S. P. Shane

Author:S. P. Shane
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: teen, motorcycles, drugs, football, marijuana, crime, bullying, racing, laundering
Published: 2014-11-04T13:04:00.765054+00:00

Chapter 21

Tuesday, September 21

Broad Strokes is aflutter with people—mostly out-of-towners--who descend on Main Street, like hippies on Woodstock. Loud, indifferent to the status quo, and tending to run in droves. Cars fill the spaces on either side of Main Street, wrap around the block, and spill over into the alley.

Though State Police cruisers and unmarked sedans represent some of the cars, most of the traffic belongs to jeeps and pick-up trucks.

Marilyn wades through a full house, half of them puffing on cigarettes and sipping coffee. The State Troopers are easy to spot with their gray campaign hats taking up half the table, but there are other law enforcement officers as well. Reporters—young men in pressed white shirts—hound the room with hunting eyes, waiting to eavesdrop on the slightest bit of information. But most of the diners are the blue collar kind of guys—denim shirts and jeans. Guys wanting to lend a hand in the search for Jimmy.

Josh stands behind the counter, wearing the look of someone standing guard rather than someone lending service. The door behind him's not only closed, but padlocked. "Hey, Caleb" is all Josh has time to say. It doesn't look like hanging out's in the cards this evening. "Have a seat. Lindsey'll be with ya shortly."

"Uh... okay."

There's an empty table near the back of the shop—the one below the Jack Nicholson poster. Marilyn pours coffee at an adjacent table. Her face is a concoction of thinly-veiled annoyance. Though it is her shop, it's clear that waiting on a full house was never part of her plan.

I'm half a mind to turn around and leave, seeing how Josh and Lindsey won't be up for their regular chit-chat. But there's Lindsey's voice behind me. "Go on and half a seat, sir. I'll be with ya shortly." There's a cold indifference to her tone, as if I'm just another asshole customer.

"Lindsey it's me." I glance back at her, as I hunker down in a chair.

"I'll get to ya when I can." She doesn't make eye contact.

"Kid, you're an amateur." A rough voice calls to me.

He's a rosy-cheeked fellow with short red hair and a goatee. He wears a crisp blue dress shirt and light gray trousers. I've seen his face before, but I can't place exactly where.

"Excuse me?" My face twist into half-snarl, half-question. I'm taken aback by the gentleman. Amateur? What the hell?

"Pardon me. It's just that I read people pretty well. And that girl..." he nods toward Lindsey "has the tell of a girl that maybe you took on a date, but you never called her afterward."

"It wasn't a date." I notice the defensive edge to my voice.

He holds up his hands with in a don't-shoot-me.

"I'm just saying. Maybe she thought it was."

I nod, watching him carefully. He doesn't speak with the local accent. If I had to guess, I'd say he's from up north somewhere.

"Tim Tolliver. Glassville Gazette." He stands from his chair, comes across the aisle, and extends his hand to me. Just to be polite, I give his hand a quick one and two, but there's something creepy about this guy.

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