All Gone by Stephen Dixon Page B

the rape-murders of three other girls in the area, though those charges didn’t stand up, and brought to trial for the rape-murder of one Jenny Lou House and convicted and sentenced to die by hanging. For three years now I’ve had a stay of execution, since the state I was tried in has a law saying the crime I was convicted of carries a mandatory death penalty, and my lawyer who’s against capital punishment on any grounds except treason and for someone who kills a federal employee who’s on duty, even a postman, contends that that state law is unconstitutional. It’s taken him the three years to get my case to the nation’s highest court and in all that time I’ve never once seen the sun. And when I am allowed out in the high-walled six-by-six-foot space for my ten-minute rest period, I’m always accompanied by two guards with guns—as if I could ever escape to any other place but my adjoining locked cell—and the space is always brightly lit as a main city square might be, making it impossible some nights to see the stars.
    I wish I had another chance. If I did I would never shove another girl, or at least not till I first married her. I think a married man has less chance of being sentenced to death for killing his wife rather than a girl he recently met, even if he confesses to the charge, which I didn’t since the girl I supposedly raped and murdered was actually the one who seduced and nearly murdered me. I met her in this doughnut place she was countergirling at and it wasn’t a minute after I settled on the stool that she said “That your bike?” meaning my motorcycle in the lot, and I said yes and she said “When do you get off work?” and I told her I’m not working now, only riding, and she said “That was intended as a play on words, young man, as what I meant is when do you want to take me for a ride around this dinky town and maybe even out of it?” and I said I really don’t like putting girls on my back who aren’t at least twenty-one and who also know how to sway with the rider, meaning leaning right when I go right and so on, and she said “I’m twenty-one except I look older from working in this nut house and living in another, and I’ve been on the backs of more riders than we have doughnuts in this shop, and besides I once owned a bike myself and if I still had it I could outride you from here to the Coast by a day and a half.” “Bull,” I said. “Buy me a bike and I’ll prove it,” she said. “Ha,” I said. “Want a free cof and French jelly?” she said. “You’re something,” I said. “And you’re something for saying I’m something, and also for having such a big beautiful bike. Now what time did you say you got off work?” “Seven?” I said. “That’s about the time I lay off also,” and she told me to meet her at the corner across the street, not here in front. “This is a small town with big mouths and I don’t want my folks knowing I’m going with riders again. And here—no one’s looking,” and she slipped me a bag filled with French jellies and two containers of chocolate fizz.
    That night I met her at the corner. She ran her hand over the chromium fenders and carb pipes and said “Wow, this is really one striking gorgeous creature you’re keeping,” and was all set to straddle the back when a man walked past. She turned on me winking and said “Excuse me, mister, but I don’t talk to strange customers no matter how big a tip they leave or promise next time—oh, hello, Mr. Denham.” “Hello, Jenny Lou,” the man said, “anything wrong?” “Nothing I can’t handle thanks very much, and give my best regards to Mrs. Denham and Beverly.” “I’ll convey them that,” he said, still eyeing me suspiciously as he walked away. He was