The Accomplice by Bob Johnson

My life was boring, tiresome and dull. I mean it was until two weeks ago. Now I don’t know what it is.

My ride on that old public transit bus was hot and dusty. Every window on the thing was open in an effort to stifle the blast furnace temperature inside that creaky, noisy, shaking bus. At least the smoke from all the cigars and cigarettes wasn’t billowing around my nose. Only good thing.

I was concentrating on the newest action comic I had just bought at Schlosser’s Drug Store. The Terror of the Tiny Robots read the big bold lettering on the front page. I was sure that Superman could handle another challenge, just like always.  Reading was a nice diversion on the three-mile ride I had taken almost every day except Sundays this summer. Our family always went to church on Sunday and it seemed that we spent most of the day there. We never missed.

Thanks to my mother, old Mrs. Jackson had a slave to do all of her yard work, and even some stuff in her house.

“Ah, Mom, do I have to?” I remember saying.

“Thomas James Marshall, poor Mrs. Jackson asked everyone at the church for help and they all decided they had better things to do, but not this family. No sir! She needs help and we will be charitable. No more moping or arguing, besides, she said she would pay for your work. Do you understand young man?” came the order.

 All my friends were playing baseball or riding their bikes, and I was busy stacking wood, or trimming bushes, or even burning trash. I had to admit I liked the part when the gasoline diesel mixture whooshed up at the beginning of the burn. Only once did I have to get out the watering hose and stop the flames from heading for the storage shed. I forgot to tell Mrs. Jackson about that.

I was getting seventy-five cents a day plus a dollar extra at the end of the week if I did good work. I never could figure out who decided good work was, but I always seemed to receive a bonus.

The usual chatter and laughter on the bus interrupted the silence of my concentration although I paid little attention. I was getting to the good part.

“You live around here, young man?” Was a voice I clearly heard from across the aisle but ignored.

“Excuse me, young man. Are you a resident of this community?” came a clear demanding question again.

“Uh-huh”, I said and stuck my nose further into my comic.

“Do you know where the Rosenbaum house might be?” came yet another annoying request.

I look up and stared at the man asking all the questions. He was about the age of my father, had dark hair slicked back on each side of his head. My immediate thought was he used too much Brylcreem. And he had one of those pencil thin mustaches, I thought they were called. One just like the actor, David Niven sported. He wore a black shirt, white tie, and a black suit. His shoe shone a spit shine. Kind of a weird guy to be riding this bus, I thought. Nobody else seemed to notice.

“Uh-huh.” Was all I said and turned to look out the window, hoping this man would quit bothering me.

“Well young sir, I am prepared to offer you five dollars if you would direct me to the immediate front door of that domicile.” He man spoke.

Two things came to mind immediately. One, he talked pretty highbrow, and two, five dollars was a lot of money for me. I could blow off work and only show up when I wanted.

“Five dollars just to walk you up to the Rosenbaum place? You know the house had been boarded up for years and years, don’t you?” I asked.

“It matters not, are you willing to complete my suggested transaction?” he said and held out a bill with Abraham Lincoln ‘s picture on it.

I grabbed the money and stuffed it in my pocket, rolled my comic up and slid it in my back pocket, knowing that whatever outcome of the story was, waiting to read the rest of it could wait. Five bucks, wow?

I pulled the stop cord and as we exited the bus, I stopped to tell the driver that the reason I was getting off early was to show another passenger where the Rosenbaum house was. He looked at me with little interest and impatiently waited as we stepped off the bus.

The heat in Gaynor, Texas was unbearable. There never seemed to get a cool breeze anytime of the year. I guessed desert country would always be that way. And the smell of Texas oil was always in the air. I was going to get out of here as soon as I was old enough, that was for sure. Move to California, or maybe New York, someplace where the weather wasn’t always so miserable.

We walked silently along the side of the dusty dirt road for about five minutes but before we turned a final corner the man asked me my name.

“I’m Tommy.” I answered.

“Pleased to meet you Tommy, my name is Smith, John Smith.” He said and extended his hand to be shook.

I gave him a big shake then looked ahead of us.

 I stared down a long winding driveway leading to a big old house. All the windows were boarded up, the yard was overgrown, and the paint was almost peeled away from the siding. Tumbleweeds filled the big front porch area and weeds grew up where ever that could.

“There it is mister.” I said and once more reached into my pocket to make sure the currency was still there. I started to walk away.

“I’ve got one more business opportunity for you, Tommy, that is, if you’re interested.” The tall man in black said as he peered down at me.

I listened.

“I have another five bill that could be yours if you could crawl through a basement opening and go up through the house to unlock that front door.” He said and again pulled out some money.

I looked over to a small window at the foundation and wondered how I would get in. I hesitated. Somehow getting into that old house without someone’s permission seemed wrong. I was just about to reject his request when things went crazy.

Suddenly the man grabbed a loose brick on the foundation and smashed the window. He proceeded to completely clear the pane of glass and looked at me.

“Well?” he asked expectantly.

“Okay, I said, but only if I get paid before I crawl through that hole.”

The deal was done and I found myself peering into a dark dungeon of a basement.

I carefully slipped through the window but ended up getting a long arm cut from small piece of glass that was stuck in the pane. I looked at my forearm and saw a trickle of blood, but the damage wasn’t bad so I just ignored it. The drop down to the basement floor was a little scary since it was so dark, I couldn’t gauge the distance. I hit the hardness of the concrete and stood for a moment. First, I needed to let my eyes adjust to the lack of light, and second, to make sure there wasn’t anything or anybody that was going to attack me.

“Just find the stairs and head on up.” A voice from above startled me for a second. I looked up to see the man sticking his head into the opening above me.

Easy for him to say, I thought. I bumped into boxes, felt around and grabbed poles wrapped in cobwebs, and walked right into a jet-black colored furnace, smashing my forehead along the way.  Finally, I saw the stairs, and quietly and carefully climbed to the next level. I pushed a creaking door open that connected to a fairly small kitchen. I quickly walked to the front of the house and the front door. I didn’t need to spend any more time than necessary in this place. It was giving me the creeps.

I turned the massive door’s dead bolt, and yanked the handle with all of my might. The door inched open, and the man in black began to help from the outside. It finally opened wide, and I took off across the yard, glancing back to see that the man had disappeared into the house.

Still, it was ten bucks. I was rich! I began the walk home. I felt for my comic in my back pocket.

“Oh no, I lost it somewhere.” I muttered to myself.

I carefully retraced my steps to the basement window. It was nowhere to be found. I decided to check further. I looked down across the streaming light and saw it laying just about where I landed on the dark floor. I might come back to retrieve it but decided I had had enough adventure for the day. I headed home.

My mother was watching out the kitchen window as I came up the sidewalk.

“Where have you been? You are almost a whole hour late. Did you have to do extra work? Did the bus break down? Tommy are you okay?” she finished the questions when she noticed the gash across my forearm.

“What happened to you? Let’s get that cleaned up.” She said with a voice of concern.

“Aw, it’s nothing Mama. I decided to jump the Larson’s fence to get home earlier and caught my arm and a piece of wire.” I lied.

No way was I going to tell her what really happened.

I, however, took a chance and pulled out one of the five dollar bills I had earned.

“A man on the bus paid me this money to show him where the Rosenbaum house was and I wasn’t going to pass that up, so that’s why I’m late.” I said quickly without emotion.

My mother screeched, “What man, who was he?”

“I dunno, just some guy that was looking for a place and he paid me money to show him the way. No big deal.”

“No big deal! Young man you are twelve years old. What if he had kidnapped you, or, even worse.” she said after a pause.

She made the sign of the cross and looked up at the picture of Jesus hanging in the dining room.

“I’m okay and a lot richer for helping a stranger out. You said we are a charitable family, right. Well, I was being charitable.” I explained with a hope she would settle down.

It worked. In fact, she never even mentioned my adventure to my father, for which I was eternally grateful.

The following morning as I was eating my Corn Flakes, I spoke to my mother.

“Mama, I got enough money that I want to buy something, do think that’s alright?” I asked.

“Honey, it’s your money, you can do with it as you please, but you should give a little of the new found wealth to the church on Sunday.” She said.

I didn’t say anything about any tithing, but I knew exactly what I was going to buy.

Later that morning, after doing yard work I told Mrs. Jackson I was going to take the afternoon off. I walked into town and found what I wanted. The Pawn and Own store had a bicycle parked out in front with a price tag of twenty dollars. I had looked at it last week and wished I had a few more dollars to buy it. Now I did. We had a bike at home but it was for little kids, this one was just right for me. It had a comfy seat, good tires, I thought, but was missing a front fender. Dad had a bucket of black paint in the garage so I could make that baby look pretty groovy. In minutes I was racing down the street weaving back and forth. It was great. Suddenly I heard a bleep of a siren right behind me. I pedaled over to the side of the road and got off my new purchase.

“Mighty fancy riding there, Tommy.” Came a familiar voice.

Sergeant Willie Amos, our neighbor a couple of houses down the street, walked up and examined the bike.

“Thanks, I just bought it with my hard-earned dollars. What do you think of it.” I asked as I beamed a big smile.

“Now you’ll be able to run more errands for your mother without complaining about having to walk so far.” The big dark-skinned man said with a big smile on his face.

His son, Jerome, was in the same class as me, so we knew each other’s family fairly well.

“Ya, I spose, never thought of that.” I surmised.

“Anyway, keep that bike on the very right side of the street when you are riding, otherwise I might just have to give you a ticket for reckless driving, okay?” Sergeant Amos said and returned to his black and white police car.

I wondered if I should have mentioned something about that weird man I ran into the day before but decided not to since I was paid to sneak into the Rosenbaum house.

I jumped on my ride and pedaled home to show off my new bicycle.

Wednesday was just a little cooler weather and people were outside of their houses enjoying the fact that they wouldn’t burn up if they did a little yard work. I, however, was inside Mrs. Jackson’s house moving boxes and a whole bunch of other things around up in the miserably hot attic. She slowly followed me up the back stairs and quickly sat on an old rocker, then directed me as to where she wanted everything. She found an old photo album and started looking through it while I worked.

“Mrs. Jackson, did you know the people who lived in the Rosenbaum house?” I asked offhandedly.

“Why dearie, what brought up that question?” she asked.

I explained that there was a man who wanted to take a look at the house and I gave him directions.

“Yes, poor Asa and Rachel Rosenbaum had quite a life but it didn’t end well for them. He owned a few wells up by Oilman so they were fairly wealthy. They built a big beautiful house down toward your side of town. They were pretty high society folks but very nice to those who didn’t have much. They had a son, Jacob, I think was his name. Now he was one spoiled kid, and drove his parents crazy. The boy was always getting into some kind of trouble or the other.” She finished talking then looked back at the album.

“Well, what happened to them?” I asked, hoping she would continue.

She looked up and thought for a moment then spoke softly, “That son of theirs ended up being murdered somewhere around Houston. The police caught the guy who did it and put him away in prison. Of course, there was all kinds of gossip and rumors about Jacob being involved with the Italian mafia, or being a fascist, or about being part of gang that robbed a bank, all kinds of things.”

“They just kind of, well, kind of disappeared from society after Jacob died. I rarely saw them after that time. Asa passed not too long after of a heart attack, and I don’t remember what took poor Rachel. There wasn’t any more family that anyone knew about so the bank just boarded up the house and it has sat empty all these years. Such a sad ending.” Mrs. Jackson concluded then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

I got off the bus after work, jumped on my bike and rode a short distance back downtown. I wanted to get my comic back if Mr. Smith hadn’t boarded up the window he broke. I arrived at the Rosenbaum house with high hopes, but, darn, no such luck. The window was covered with wood. I took a chance and walked around to the front door. I banged an old metal knocker hanging on the door. It was loud. I just hoped someone was in the house.

“Who is it?” came a voice from behind the door after a few minutes, causing me to jump.

“It’s Tommy, I dropped my new comic book the other day and it is on the basement floor. I came to get it if I could.” I yelled through the thick front opening.

Soon I was standing in the middle of a large front room, looking around at things in disarray. It looked like a hurricane had gotten loose inside the house.

“Sorry for the mess, Tommy, but I’m kind of looking for the same thing as you came to retrieve.” The man, still dressed in black, said apologetically.

“A friend of mine, years ago, promised to keep a collection of books and comics that I had obtained over the years. They are very valuable and some of them are first editions. So, you can see I am anxious to recover them.” He explained.

“My friend died, but not before he told me my possessions were in this house. Unfortunately, he never told me the exact location.” He continued.

“Are you talking about Jacob Rosenbaum?” I asked.

The man turned toward me with a surprised look and said nothing. Finally, he spoke.

“Why yes, he was a very dear friend I had known for a long time.” Mr. Smith explained.

“Mrs. Jackson said he was murdered.” I blurted.

“Why yes, that is what I heard, too. Poor Jacob, such a fine fellow, too.” He said in a follow up statement.

“I’ll tell you what, make your way down to the basement and get your comic and maybe we can talk some more business when you get back.” He suggested.

I carefully walked down the creaking steps and found my comic right where I had seen it lay. I rolled it back up and stuck it in my back pocket. The place was a much bigger mess than when I had slipped through the window a few days before. I hurried up to the first floor.

“Good, you found your comic. I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay you five more dollars to help me look around for my books. If you find my collection, I’ll give you five dollars more. Are you interested?” Mr. Smith asked.

I had time before supper and the chance to make that kind of money was exciting.

“Sure, I said, where do you want me to start.”

The man suggested I do a thorough search in the basement, and gave me a large flashlight for the effort.

I could hear loud noises from upstairs as Mr. Smith was searching everywhere.

I spent about thirty minutes digging in boxes, looking on shelves, and under tables, and even up on the support rafters. There was nothing. I began to consider quitting when my light beam fell on the big old black furnace I had bumped into when I first was there.

I walked over a opened a heavy duty latched door and peered in. There was soot everywhere. I figured the Rosenbaums had burned coal in it at one time. I searched the insides and spotted a brown suitcase set just inside the door. I figured that must be what we were looking for. I pulled on the handle and jerked it out. It was plain looking without any labels or nametags on it. I set it down on the floor and unclicked the two latches that held the top lid to the bottom, and opened the case up.

I stared at a suitcase full of money, all denominations including one-hundred-dollar bills, a lot of them. I was temporarily stunned.

“Ah, I see you found my treasure.” Came a quiet voice from the stairway.

The man in black bent down beside me and ran his hand over the money.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to claim what was mine. If that double crossing Jake had been a little more foresight in his explanation of where this valise may be, he might certainly still be alive. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. He was stupid and greedy. “The man said.

I looked up at the man.

“You killed Jacob Rosenbaum, didn’t you?” I asked while trying to breath normally.

“Yes, I did, and I paid for that act by spending almost twenty-five years in prison. Twenty-five years because that spoiled wormy Jake decided to take the bank money all for himself, and I had to teach him a lesson on being trustworthy and honest with his fellow robbers.” Mr. Smith answered.

“Now, I’m leaving with godforsaken house and town and plan to live it up with what is rightfully mine.” He said with a faraway look in his eyes.

“I’ll just go home then; I won’t say anything to anyone.” I volunteered.

The man stood thinking for a moment.

“You know that you are an accomplice now. If get arrested, you will too. You’re the one who broke into this house, and you helped me search for the money.” He said pointed first at me then at the suitcase.

“I don’t think you would like to be in jail. It’s not a nice place to spend your life.” He continued.

“Tommy, I’ll do you a favor. You stay down here until it gets dark then head on home. You better act like nothing has happened, that way the police won’t ever bother you. Do you understand?” he ordered.

I nodded my head and backed up as far away from the man as I could. He started up the stairs with the suitcase, and the flashlight, then stopped and turned.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He said as he tossed money toward me.

“Thanks for the help, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He laughed.

The man went up the stairs, and I could hear the door lock.

What an idiot I was, I thought to myself. I ran up the stairs that was lit by filtered light shining through the window boards.  I pushed on the door. It wasn’t going to budge.  I wondered if I should stay here until dark like the man suggested, then try to escape.

No way, I thought, the most important plan was to get out of here.

I pushed a table across the floor until it was right beneath the window which I had crawled through just days before. I saw, sadly, that I needed more height. I found a rickety wooden chair, set in on the table and climbed. I began to bang on the wood with my fists but to no avail. I looked around for something to use to loosen them.

I remembered that one of the boxes I had dug through had a fireplace hearth set. I finally found the right one and pulled out a heavy metal poker with a wooden handle. I hefted the discovery, and figured it might work.

Ten minutes later I was crawling frantically through the bashed and broken window. I was afraid the man was waiting outside for me so he could murder me too. I ran as fast as I could to my bicycle and jumped on, pedaling like my life depended on it. I headed down the street to my neighborhood and saw, with a bit of relief, the familiar black and while police car parked in its usual spot.

I ran up to the Amos residence and began banging on the door. I was shouting and crying the whole while. Suddenly the door opened.,

“Tommy, what’s all the racket.” Sergeant Amos asked.

I was wild with fear.

“I “m a , a complis to a crime and will probably go to jail because I helped a murderer find some money and he’s leaving town and I’m in a heap of trouble, but you have to catch that man in black right away.” I blurted.

“Whoa, slow down, now. What man, what money, what murder?” the policeman asked quickly.

“The man who murdered Jacob Rosenbaum was searching in the family home and I found a suitcase full of money from a bank robbery, but Jacob wanted to keep it all for himself and that’s why he’s dead. Now the man, Mr. Smith, says I’m responsible just like him and I’ll go to jail.” I finished.

“Did the man have a car?” Sergeant Amos asked.

“I don’t think so, when I first saw him, he was on the city bus.” I answered.

I quickly gave a description of Mr. Smith to my neighbor and described what kind of clothing he was wearing.

I was given instructions to head on home and stay there until someone from the police department contacted me.

That night and the next day was crazy as I was questioned endlessly by a police detective, and even more so by my parents. I was grounded for a week for crawling through a broken window and, by doing so, helping a complete stranger illegally enter a home. And taking money to do it!

Well, the upshot was that John Smith, also known as Carl Ryder, was arrested as he tried to board a Houston bound bus. The money from an unsolved bank robbery committed years ago, was returned, Ryder was in jail, and I was going to be given a reward for my part of the investigation.

Unfortunately, I was promptly told by my mother the entire sum would be given to the church so that good may come from bad.

So here I stand, looking out over Mrs. Jackson’s big lawn, wondering when all of those leaves would quit falling.  I guess things are still boring, tiresome and dull.