100 People in 100 Days:iv. Grant Johnson

If Grant Johnson had known he would be murdered that day, he may—may—have spent the day doing things different. But since he could not know about his impending death, he did things the only way he knew how. And even if he knew about his forthcoming cessation of life, he would have only been troubled because that did not fit into his scheduled events.

He started the morning by loading his truck with ceiling tiles, lead pipes, and cans of paint. Then he opened up his suitcase and looked over the balance sheets from the past month. There were large red-Sharpie’d circles around certain numbers. He pulled out his pocket calculator and added up the numbers one more time. $8,745.00. Grant pushed up his glasses that had began to slide down his nose.

His wife came out to the driveway. “Grant, will you be home for dinner tonight?”

“I have a lot of repairs at the restaurants. Then I need to talk to one of the managers about some numbers. I’ve got to stop by to pick up the books for the silk-screen business and then I need to stop by the office to answer requests from clients.”

“Then, no.” His wife’s lips twitched. She opened her mouth, nothing came out, and so she closed it. “We make enough money.”

Grant blinked and put the ledger he had been looking over back into his suitcase. He opened the door to the truck, entered, started up the vehicle, and drove off.

Grant stopped at one of the three restaurants he owned to replace some of the old, rotted ceiling tiles. His nineteen year old daughter was working in the back kitchen prepping food. “Dad, I hate working her. I wanted tonight off. It’s Saturday.”

“I need you to work.”

“But I wanted to go out with my fiancé.”

“I said I needed you to work. Why do you have to fight about this every time, Mary? I pay you tuition. I pay your insurance. For your car. You owe me. You owe me something for taking care of you.” Grant’s usually white stone face had become red.

“Well, I’m quitting when I get married,” Mary said. She wiped a tear from her cheek and some flour stuck to her face.

“Be sure to wash your hands. You shouldn’t be touching your face and then go and touch food. That could be a problem if the inspector was her.” Grant looked at Mary from head to toe. “And why the damn hell aren’t you wearing gloves. Damn it, are you trying to put me out of business.”

Mary closed her eyes, but that could not stop the tears. Grant turned around and pulled out a stepsladder so he could reach the rotted tiles. He could hear Mary crying behind him. Grant replaced two tiles. Mary was still crying. He began removing the third. Mary began to sob heavily. Grant left the third rotted ceiling tile in place and climbed down the stepladder. He put away the ladder and picked up his tools and remaining tiles, walked out to his truck, and left.

Grant arrived at the second restaurant he owned. He did not unload any tools or supplies. He only exited the truck with his suitcase with the ledger and the red circled numbers inside. Ben, the store manager, was inside talking with the cook.

“Ben, can I see you in the office,” said Grant.

Ben gritted his teeth. “I hate this guy,” he whispered to the cook.

“Don’t we all?” said the cook.

Ben entered into the office. Grant had removed the ledger from the suitcase and then asked Ben to take a look at it. “All those voids are during your shift. Those kind of numbers don’t pop at any other time.” Ben looked at the circled numbers. “It’s over eight-thousand dollars, Ben.”

“So, what’s going on?” asked Ben.

“Well, that’s what I’m asking you.”

“You think I’m stealing. Because if that’s what you think you just need to say it.”

“No, no,” said Grant, readjusting his glasses, “I’m just trying to understand why it is so high during your shift and not others. I’m just trying to understand.”

Ben gritted his teeth and rubbed his chin. He eyes looks around the office. Grant stared at Ben. “So how do you explain it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, take a look at the ledger. I’ve got to grab my tools so I can trying to fix the toilet. I want some answers when I get back.” Grant handed Ben the ledger to look over and took his briefcase and left the through the backdoor to retrieve his toolbox.

Behind the restaurant was a motel. Rooms were rented by the hour, the day, the week, the month. Rooms were raided by the police were performed on a semi-regular basis. The employees of the restaurant would often watch as the cops carried out people, meth labs, baggies full of white, clear, or yellowish substances. Then the next day the owners of the be seen throwing out old clothes and belongings and replacing the mattresses.

As the backdoor closed there was a shout and then a bang. And then a second bang. Loud bangs. A man stood over the fallen body of Grant. He reached down and grabbed the suitcase from his arms. Grant wheezed as he repeated the line, “No money in there.”

Ben Racklesford opened the backdoor and saw Grant lying on the ground bleeding from the chest and the right shoulder. Ben closed the back door. He told the cook to keep on cooking. Ben went into the office, crumpled up the ledger that he was to investigate, and dropped it in the trash. Then he picked up the telephone and reported a murder to the police.

Grant closed his eyes. “No money,” he whispered. And then he died.