FanStory.com - The Stolen Bikesby papa55mike

Rabbit sees how it's been different at school today. Everybody is dragging around, waiting for the last day of school, which is still three weeks away. He calls it the waiting for summer doldrums.

Rabbit isn't allowed to ride The Tank to school yet, especially after the Pinnacle Hill incident. We still need to figure out who told our Moms or how they even knew. It was an oath-bound secret between the three of us. Sometimes, Moms know things.

Rabbit is walking down Drexel Avenue, thinking about finishing all this homework and starting something for supper. When he crosses Third Street, Allen runs at him, screaming, "They stole it, Rabbit!"

"Stole what, Allen?"

"My bike!"

"Wow, I heard somebody is stealing bikes in this area. I wonder if they got The Tank?"

"Nobody wants that thing, Rabbit."

"Yeah, it is one of a kind."

"And it stands out like a sore thumb."

Rabbit starts jogging up the driveway and then behind our house. The Tank is still there, propped beside the back door. That's when we hear another voice wailing in the front yard.

Roy is moaning away. It sounds like a Blues song. "Oh, somebody stole my bike!" His music comes complete with hand and arm motions to enhance the mood. The tears are also a nice touch.

Allen says, "Well, they got mine, too! But you don't see me acting like that."

"I'm doing it so Dad will get me a new one. The sadder I am, the better the bike."

Rabbit has to chuckle at that one. "Good one, Roy. I hope it works for you."

Roy asks, "Did they steal The Tank, Rabbit?"

"No. Where did you leave your bikes last night?"

Allen scratches his head, then says, "Where I dropped in the front yard, by the road."

Roy answers, "I leaned mine next to the garbage cans."

"That's the problem. Your bikes were easy pickings. It wouldn't take twenty seconds for someone to pick up your bikes and throw them in the back of a truck."

"Do you think they used a truck, Rabbit?" Allen asks.

"It would be too hard to put them in a car. Where would they hide them, though? They can't be out in the open; somebody would see them."

Roy says, "It sounds like Rabbit is on the case."

"Well, maybe," I think for a moment. "We know every square inch on Infirmary Road, but they're not here. We need to keep our eyes open."

Roy and Allen kick some gravel around and finally answer, "All right." They dejectedly head for home.

Rabbit thinks it's time for a bit of payback. He wants to get The Tank and take it for a spin in front of Roy and Allen. He remembers them showing off in front of him when he didn't have a bike. Before Rabbit gets past the side door, he stops and thinks that would be mean. So, Rabbit parks The Tank back in his spot. Besides, he still has all of that homework to finish.

Schnieder's Grocery is a place of wonder for anybody. They have everything in that big yellow building, from groceries to liquor and from charcoal and ice. Schnieder's has it all! Anyway, that's what the sign says. On Saturday mornings, Mr. Schnieder will get him to fill up his outside ice machine for thirty cents - a small fortune to Rabbit, and no, his Mom doesn't know about it.

Mr. Schnieder smiles when Rabbit walks in, his blond hair a mess, and his dark blue eyes barely open. He's holding his coat, gloves, and sock hat under my arm. Mr. Schnieder says with a chuckle, "Here's the keys, Michael. Don't get hurt in there. That cold air will wake you up."

"Thank you, sir. I won't be long."

He's right about the cold air. Rabbit can't get his coat, hat, and gloves on fast enough. There's not much to do, mainly loading bags of ice and a few blocks. Forty-five minutes later, he stumbles out the back door from frost hanging on his nose, gloves, and hat. It quickly melts in the muggy eighty-degree morning.

There's a fifteen-foot gap between the ice house and the store, and it goes back quite a distance. We used to hide back there and play when we were younger. The weeds had grown tall with the early heat, but now they're stomped down. Sometimes, the wine-os would sleep back there instead of the field behind the store.

Something tells Rabbit to walk back there and see what's going on. A giant oak shades the area, and it's darker the farther you go back. Suddenly, the gleam of chrome starts to glisten in the dim light. There are at least twenty bikes back there from several neighborhoods. Rabbit sees Roy's and Allen's bikes - the Murphy twin bikes and many others he doesn't recognize. "Wow, somebody has been busy. What do I do now? I have to let the police know."

He stumbles back into the light, shading my eyes, and hears a deep voice say, "Michael, come here."

A small black man is sitting on a railroad crosstie and waving to him. He's wearing tattered jeans, a black tee shirt, and a flannel shirt almost torn to shreds. "It's okay, son. I knew your Mom a little before I ended up here."

"What's your name, friend?"

"Sammy Boyd."

"How do you know my Mom?"

"She once tried to help me. If I would have stuck it out, I wouldn't be here now."

Rabbit slowly sits down with him, but not too close. "Is this place what you call here?"

"No, Michael, here is more than this empty field. It's a feeling of despair that's deep in my heart. The disgust for letting myself arrive in the most bottomless pit imaginable."

My curiosity is piqued now. "Why did you call me over?"

"I know who's stealing the bikes. Do you know the Hagar's that live on the corner of Infirmary and State Street?"

"Yes, sir. Junior and his older brother Tim. They love to torment me because I don't have a Father. I haven't seen them lately."

"They've taken up new habits, like stealing everybody blind. I heard them talking about selling all these bikes at a flea market in New Lebanon."

"Would you go to the police with me, Mr. Boyd?"

He laughs, then says, "I don't think I'd be a credible witness, Michael. They would take one look at me and start laughing."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a homeless alcoholic. Better known as a wine-o."

"I don't see you that way, Mr. Boyd. You're still a person to me. Mom saw something in you, or she wouldn't have reached out to you."

Mr. Boyd drops his head for a moment and then turns back to me with tears in the corners of his bloodshot brown eyes and says, "Thank you, son. You're the first person who's said that to me in many years."

"No, thank you for your help, Mr. Boyd. We won't forget it. By the way, my friends call me Rabbit, and you can too."

"You're very welcome, Rabbit."

That afternoon, a Dayton Police cruiser pulls into our driveway, startling everybody in the neighborhood. People gaze away from their porches. Rabbit tells them everything he knows about the bikes and says he heard from someone else who stole them. But he leaves Mr. Boyd out of it.

Roy and Allen were watching from across the street and nearly faint when Rabbit and his Mom gets in the back of the cruiser.

The police impounded the bikes for now but said they would return them soon. However, nobody saw Junior or Tim again, and the Hagars moved a month later.

It's Sunday morning, and Rabbit's Mom is working on something from the office at the kitchen table when Rabbit asks her, "How much does a blanket cost?"

"Thin ones start at a dollar, but the thick ones are two dollars at the Dollar Store. Why?"

"I want to help a friend who is in need, Mom, like you do."

She stared at me for a long moment, then slowly smiled. "The Dollar Store is open, but don't take too long."

"Thanks, Mom. I won't."

That night, Sammy Boyd slept under a new blanket with no holes.