Gold, a summer story [11th edition] by Mike Bozart - HTML preview
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Chapter 13
Two small skiffs were tied onto the northern Snow’s Cut wooden bridge-pier protector to stay stationary, while a wily pair of fishermen fished and wished away the night. The angling duo preferred this mooring method, as the current could be fairly strong during the tide changes; it could drag a mushroom anchor, and even a hinged-anvil type could become a sand-hopping plow.
However, this was a great place to sit, chill out, and catch fish. The variety of species was surprising in this man-made, river-to-sound channel between fresh and saltwater; intracoastally between Maine and Florida.
“Catch anything in the last hour?” A bearded Caucasian man on boat one asked a beach-hatted white guy on boat two.
“Hooked a nice flounder ten minutes ago. Where have you been, Ed?”
“I’ve been drinking beer, Walt. Taking care of im-po-tant biz-ness.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Hey, you better sit back down; you may fall off your boat. I don’t want to call in a possible drowning.”
“I could swim the inlet right now, Walt. No problem. No problem, at all. Bring it on. I could swim to China.”
“Wrong ocean, Ed.”
“Ok, Morocco! I could be in Casablanca by noon.”
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“How about I just take your word for it.”
They both were chuckling. Lines were reeled in and recast.
They then went into a period of fisherman’s silence, when no words needed to be said. They both recalled fishing in the same spot one July night ten years ago.
Above them, vehicles passed to and fro over the Snow’s Cut Bridge. There were fewer and fewer vehicles as the night wore on, under such a thin crescent moon, which was viewable through the bridge’s railing, high above.
A lone seagull squawked, then flew away from the power line overhead. Below the surface, the fish seemed to be getting smarter; the fishermen stopped getting bites. They were about ready to call it a night.
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As Mark reached for the large remote control to channel surf, he heard the distinctive chirp from his cell phone. A text message had been received. It was from Susan. She had sent it earlier in the day, but his sucky cell phone had just now got it; it tersely read:
Relaxing at the beach.
Back on Sunday.
He almost expelled a mouthful of beer. What a lying whore!
She’s something else. What a piece of work she’s become.
God, she repulses me! Well, at least she is oblivious to my whereabouts. She obviously doesn’t know I’m down here.
Yey! She can blow every pipe on the beach. I’ll keep the gold. I call that a bargain. The best I ever had.
He continued to flip through the channel lineup, but didn’t see anything that he liked. How can so many channels have nothing on them that interests me? Am I that atypical now?
Have I always been? I’ll just be another anomalous rich dude with an inner golden glow. Ha-ha.
All Mark really wanted to do is get a goodnight’s rest for the drive back to Charlotte later that morning. He thought another movie would get him drowsy. He was still quite cranked; the adrenaline had stopped being secreted, but it was still making its rounds in his system, along with the caffeine.
Mark remembered that he had some SleepPhast tablets. He popped two out of the blister wrap and threw them in his 94
mouth. He chased them down with the last slug of his Guinness Extra Stout beer.
Mark could feel sleep grabbing him twenty minutes later. He turned the unwatched TV off. Then he took his shoes off and laid his tired body down on the bed’s comforter, making sure not to let his hands touch it, as he had seen the reports about filthy motel comforters. Fecal bacteria media.
He turned off the nightstand light and quickly passed out in his clothes.
At 4:44 AM his twilight sleep was interrupted by a nightmare which blended into his real-life surroundings. In the bad dream, he felt that someone – or some evil entity – was in the motel room, lurking in the shadows. When he awoke, it was like a continuation of the bad dream. Where is this person or thing? Who is he or she … or it? Do they know that I have over a million dollars in gold in my rental car’s trunk? Darn, I think they do!
He was getting very agitated and paranoid. He really thought that someone was somewhere in his motel room, hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike like a cobra. He couldn’t sit down; he was pacing about like a madman.
Where is that fucker hiding? “Show yourself, you freakin’
coward!” he screamed across the bed.
He checked the two closets. Nothing. He went to the bathroom. Nothing. He even checked under the bed. Nothing
… but an old receipt from Waxway for tampons and 95
condoms. What an odd purchase. He checked again. And again. He was certifiably flipping out.
It got so bad that he was on the phone – talking with no one.
Only he thought it was the villain – the one who wanted his gold. Mark was now lost in a netherworld, becoming fully immersed in a cruel and merciless unreality.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the dial tone on the handset. “I don’t have any gold. None. You must have me mistaken with someone else – that other person who has the gold. I don’t know where he or she is at the moment. In fact, I won’t ever know who he or she is in all likelihood. So, I can’t help you with that. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s very late, and I must be getting some sleep. Goodbye!”
Mark slammed his cell phone down on the table and ran out the door. He opened the rear passenger-side door of the Ford Focus and grabbed the smaller suitcase. He opened the trunk and began to remove the spare tire. C’mon, let’s go.
Once it was removed, he carefully laid the two golden C-sections under the spare tire’s recessed resting spot. He positioned the golden boomerangs so that they couldn’t be seen unless you removed the spare tire. They fit perfectly under there; they almost formed a circle, nearly matching the circumference of the spare tire’s rim.
Mark’s perception of reality was all askew now. I must hurry.
I must hurry. It’s after me. It’s gonna get me, if I don’t hurry.
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I’ve got to move faster. I’ve got to get the hell out of here!
Why is everything taking so goddam long? Why are the soles of my shoes coated with contact cement? Why can’t my body move faster? What is slowing me down? Have they already drugged me? How did they do it? How?! He was losing it. He was gone.
He quickly replaced the spare tire, tightening the wing nut so that the golden fillets could not move from vibration or from starting and stopping. It was veritably snug. That gold won’t slide a single millimeter. It’s immobilized and completely hidden. That gold-hungry phantom won’t find it if he/she/it looks here. I’m going to win this golden battle, you lousy freaking thief! This gold is mine! “I’ve paid the price for it in humiliation, goddamit!” He was thinking aloud now.
He then put the black plastic piece and carpet section back over the spare tire. He looked around. Where is that evil bastard? Where’d he/she/it go? Poor Mark was in full flip-out mode.
Mark closed the trunk and snapped his head around again.
No one. Good, it didn’t see me. The coast appears to be clear. I’ve got to roll now. I’ve got to get the hell out of here now! I’ve already wasted too much damn time here.
Mark then jumped into the rental car, started the engine and bolted down Harper Avenue to the traffic light. It was red.
C’mon, you motherless whore, change! Change to green now! Do it! Let’s go!
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After waiting what seemed to be a third of an eternity, the light turned green. Halle-fucking-luyah! There is a god after all. He checked his turn signal; it was on.
He made a left turn onto Lake Park Boulevard with his head halfway out the window. In fact, he had opened all four windows so that he could hear the sounds better outside the car. He needed to know if the person or thing was sneaking up on him. He was so delusional that he believed the entity stalking him could fly through the air … and stop on a dime.
It was getting worse with every red traffic light. He looked in the rear-view mirror, there he/she/it was! The shadowy personage was right behind him. Brother mucker! Let’s go!
Go faster! Let’s get the fuck off this goddam island!
Mark didn’t even wait for the red light at Lewis Drive to turn green. He was the only car at the stoplight at 4:57 AM. He depressed the accelerator pedal all the way down in an attempt to shake the person or thing that was tailing him.
See ya later, alligator! You aint getting my gold. Game over.
You lose, pal. I leave with the gold; you go back to wherever you came from empty-handed. You picked the wrong tourist, douchebag!
He shot through the red light and sped up the southern inclined approach to the Snow’s Cut Bridge. It sounded like the Ford Focus engine was going to blow up as he revved up the bridge. You can’t get me. You can’t take my gold! You can’t have it! It’s mine – only mine! And now I bid you adieu, you horseless prick!
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When he got to the apex of the bridge, the Ford Focus was going 82 MPH. He was pressed to the back of his seat. For a fleeting moment, he focused on a blue star in the early morning sky. Is that Venus? Wait, maybe it’s the mother ship. Oh, my God – it is! They’re here!
Just after crossing the crown of the humpback bridge, he thought he saw the phantom on the double yellow line. He drove the white Ford Focus right at him/her/it at full throttle.
The car went right through whatever he thought it was. Wow, it can disappear at will. How can I win against that? It has superhuman powers. I’m doomed. It’s over.
Then he tried to get back on the right side of the road.
However, Mark turned the steering wheel too hard to the right for the high speed. His overcorrection and immense straight-forward momentum caused the little four-door sedan to skid out of control. It crashed into the low concrete railing on the left side of the bridge.
Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic at that moment. In fact, there were no other cars on the bridge when Mark crashed the Ford Focus into the southbound, concrete-toe-walled, galvanized railing.
After the violent impact, the little Ford Focus flipped over the barrier, hurtling sixty-five feet down to the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.
Sploosh! A passing ray paid the ultimate price.
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The two fishermen were untying their skiffs, preparing to leave, when a white sedan dove from the top of the Snow’s Cut Bridge. The smaller skiff was almost struck in the aft by the falling Ford Focus; the other one nearly capsized by the ensuing splash wake. The two fishermen couldn’t believe what they had just witnessed. Holy shit! / Did I just see what I thought I saw?
“Holy cow!” the youngest one in the beach hat screamed.
“I’ve seen everything now,” the older, bearded one said.
“What should we do now?” The younger fisherman’s face had a look of pure shock.
“Well, we can’t dive down there. We don’t have any lights.
The water is pitch-dark.”
The older one called 911. A New Hanover County Water Rescue boat arrived fourteen minutes later. A Coast Guard vessel was just behind them. The boats huddled together.
Information about what was observed was shared.
The white Ford Focus had sunk thirteen feet to the sandy channel’s bottom, coming to rest on its four tires in only fifty-four seconds. A large eel peered in the window, not sure whether to proceed or back up and flee.
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A pair of divers with underwater lights dropped below the surface. They found and extricated Mark’s body. He was obviously dead. His skull was cracked. Severely cracked.
Some of Mark’s gray matter was hanging out, quickly becoming grouper snack.
Mark had died on impact with the concrete wall. Blunt head trauma. His seat belt was still fastened. The thirty-eight pounds of golden fillets were still secured under the spare tire in the trunk.
The Coast Guard placed buoys above the sunken car as it was still too dark to float the car to the surface. Also, they didn’t want any deep-draw vessel to hit the car. Mark’s car had reduced the channel depth to eight feet on the north side of the dredged trench. Quite a few of the vessels that used the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway drew over eight feet.
The Coast Guard didn’t want this accident compounded.
<><><>
At 8:32 AM the smashed 2011 white Ford Focus was up on a barge. It was transported eleven miles up the Cape Fear River to the Port of Wilmington, where it was unloaded into a secure fenced area.
A routine examination of the destroyed front end was performed. The car was a total loss. The trunk was opened and a cursory inspection was performed, but the spare tire was never removed.
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Exceptional Rent-A-Car in Charlotte was then contacted.
The rep then called a corporate higher-up to decide what to do with the totaled automobile. Twenty-four hours later they had a plan for disposition.
<><><>
The cause of Mark’s death was later listed as alcohol-related even though he only had .03% alcohol in his bloodstream when tested, way below the legal limit of .08%. It just became another motor vehicle death to be recorded with a check mark in the box after the question: Was alcohol involved in the fatality?
They never tested for the active ingredients in the SleepPhast product. Fred had warned Mark over a year ago not to drink on it. Mark learned why the hardest way.
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Grug got up first at 7:37 AM, scratched his stubble, then his balls, mumbled something about needing to go, gathered his things, and was out the door and gone in four minutes. A classic rocking-roller one-night stand.
Susan caught a glimpse of his disheveled mullet as he closed the door. Gosh, I feel like a too-old-for-this, pathetic, grade-C groupie. What am I doing? What have I become?
Susan’s head hurt from all of the Zombie drinks last night.
She could deal with the hangover; she had her oxies and she had nowhere to be. She was just glad that Grug ejaculated on her leg. However, from now on, ‘No glove, no love’ would be her motto. In fact, she was going to buy a pack of condoms as soon as she saw a pharmacy.
Susan slid over to the refrigerator and got a bottled water.
She gulped down some St. Joseph’s aspirin. She swore by it for hangover relief. She lay back down on the ruffled bed.
What a day this is going to be. Beach world, please stay quiet.
After three hours of just lying on the bed, semi-watching a series of lame teenage-girl dramas, she got up to take a shower. She stayed in there for thirty-five minutes – until all of the hot water was gone. Is that it? No more hot water?
Well, I guess for this bargain rate, it’s to be expected.
She toweled off while thinking about Mark. How should I ask for the divorce? Or, should I lure him into asking for it by 103
pissing him off? I’m sure he’d bite. Wonder what he’s doing right now in Charlotte?
Then her cell phone rang. Is that Mark? She tapped Answer.
“Hello, am I speaking with Mrs. Susan van Buren?” the official-sounding older male voice asked. Oh, crap, who in the world is this?
“Yes, that’s me; and, who is this?” Susan timidly asked.
“This is Chief Wurroll with the Carolina Beach Police Department.” Oh, no!
Her heart almost missed a beat. “Yes –”
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry; I don’t have good news. Your husband has died.” No way! Did I really hear this?
She screamed, “What?!” She took a breath. “Are you sure it’s my husband?” Was Mark really down here at Carolina Beach? What the hell!
“Yes, we are very certain. Where are you right now?” This can’t be happening!
“I’m at the Dauphin Reign Motel. Oh, my God!” Susan started to cry like a little girl.
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“We’ll need for you to come by our station at 1121 North Lake Boulevard, which is US 421. Do you think you can make it? If not, we can have a patrol car pick you up.”
“No, that’s ok. I know the road. I’ll be right over. Just give me fifteen minutes to recompose myself.”
“That’s not a problem, Mrs. van Buren. I’ll be waiting here for you. Just ask for me.”
“Ok,” she muttered.
Susan sat on the end of the bed with her head in her hands.
She was sobbing. The grief was overwhelming. She felt guilty and dirty. She slowly got herself dressed and made her way over to the town’s new police station.
Her mind couldn’t stop swirling with questions. How did he die? Did someone kill him? Was it an accident? Did he overdose on some drugs? Did Mark commit suicide? Did he know which motel I was in? Did he know about the extramarital affairs? Did he confront Rick? Did Rick kill him?
Did he confront Grug? Did Grug kill him? Where was he staying? When did he arrive at the beach? Had he been spying on me the whole time? Her mind was a hundred thoughts per second.
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Chief Edward Wurroll was a large, rotund, balding, white man in his late 50s who had seen plenty of shenanigans in his thirty-two-year law enforcement career at Carolina Beach. He had climbed through the small department’s ranks, avoiding the political pitfalls that sank others. He always knew how to play the current mayor to his advantage.
He had started out as a foot cop in the summer of 1980, working the then-much-seedier boardwalk area, a six-block zone dominated by honky-tonk bars that featured both kinds of music: country and country rock. And featured fights with both kinds of weapons: pistols and broken beer bottles.
He once got slashed on the side of his face by a broken Miller High Life bottle while trying to break up a saloon brawl in the boardwalk area in the mid-70s. The U-shaped scar was very obvious below his left eye. It was hard to stop noticing. He had got used to the stares and recurring gazes.
<><><>
Susan pulled into the Carolina Beach Municipal Office Facility at 11:55 AM. She got out of the blue Dodge Neon somewhat unsteadily and walked over to the glass and metal door and pulled it open. There was an older, white, female receptionist, maybe about sixty-five years old, sitting inside.
She glanced up at Susan as she entered the atrium.
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“I’m here to talk with Chief Wurroll,” Susan stuttered as she whimpered.
“Right this way, ma’am,” the receptionist informed as she led her down a central hallway, turning left at the end.
The chief’s door was partially open. The receptionist spoke through the crack. “Susan van Buren is here, sir.”
“Ok, very good. Send her in.”
Susan entered the relatively new, yet fairly spartan, office.
“Hello, sir,” she mouthed with hardly any force.
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. van Buren. No matter how old I get, this never gets any easier. May I call you Susan?”
“Yes, that’s fine.” You can call me anything.
“Susan, you can see Mark’s body after we talk. His corpse is at the Medical Center’s morgue in Wilmington.” Corpse?!
Gosh, this is real. Mark’s dead. He’s gone.
“Thank you, sir.” Susan looked at the lone framed photo of the chief and his family of four. Two all-American sons and a devoted-looking wife: a portrait of pride.
“Susan, Mark was found in a rental car that went off the Snow’s Cut Bridge early this morning. The car sank in the waterway. Did you two come down here together?” He went off that tall bridge? What in the world!
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“Uh, no, we didn’t, sir.” Does he really think that I had a hand in Mark’s death? Am I a suspect in some kind of heinous crime? Did Mark get involved in a drug deal that went bad?
Was his car forced off the bridge?
“Were you two staying together at the Dauphin Reign Motel?” The chief raised his eyebrows.
“No, we weren’t, sir. We were estranged. Our marriage was on the rocks as they say. I didn’t even know my husband was down here. Maybe he was following me out of curiosity.”
She felt almost proud of her forthrightness.
“You can relax, Susan. I know you’re telling the truth. What you have told me checks out. You are not a suspect – just a person of interest as we say in the law enforcement field.”
Thank God!
The chief leaned to his left side and scratched his lower back with his scarred right hand. I wonder what happened to his hand. It looks like he submerged it in a fryer vat.
Then he sat up straight and continued. “This is a small town on a relatively small island. We already know that Mark had checked into another motel. Just a few more questions and we’ll be done. I know this is hard.”
“Sure. No problem, sir.” So far, so good.
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“Did you ever see Mark down here, even for just a glance?”
The chief looked very interested in her answer.
“No, I swear that I never saw him down here – anywhere,”
Susan stated emphatically. “I was very surprised to learn that he was at Carolina Beach, sir.”
Chief Wurroll then placed Mark’s cell phone on his desk. “Do you recognize this cell phone?”
“Yes, I do; it’s Mark’s.” Thank God I didn’t send him any hateful, four-letter-laced texts. Well, not recently.
“Susan, we found Mark’s cell phone in the motel where he was staying from Friday evening to early Saturday morning, just prior to his accident on the bridge. It was slightly damaged, but our IT whiz was able to restore most of its functionality. I’m going to play for you a short audio recording that was stored on it.” Oh no, what could this be?
The chief then pressed a series of buttons on Mark’s cell phone. The audio file was about two minutes of her and Rick having sex on Friday afternoon, but the chief only played about ten seconds of it.
Susan blushed. She was shocked. She turned her head down in shame. How in the world did Mark get into my motel room and record us? How in the world did he get under the bed without me or Rick noticing? What was he up to?
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“Sir, I feel totally humiliated and devastated. I met Rick on the beach. It was just a casual hookup to boost my self-esteem. I had never done this before. Really. I thought it would be harmless fun. Rick said that he thought I was sexy.
I hadn’t heard that for a very long time. I wasn’t feeling good about myself. My marriage was failing. Mark didn’t love me anymore. It felt good to be desired after being ignored for so long. I never knew Mark was in the motel room, I swear. I’m not that kinky. I would never knowingly have sex with another man and let my husband record the sounds. Never.”
“Listen, it’s ok. Your sex life is not our business. I just want to ask you: Why do you think Mark was in your motel room? Do you think he recorded you two for a future divorce-court proceeding?”
“All of this is so shocking to me, sir. Mark’s death. Mark secretly being in my motel room recording me. I guess that is what he planned on using that recording for. I don’t have any other ideas on why he would do that. I’m really just blown away by all of this, sir. I admit that I wanted a divorce from Mark, but I most certainly didn’t want him to die. I swear I didn’t. This all hurts so much.” Gee, I hope there aren’t any more humiliating tidbits on Mark’s cell phone. Does he have video on it, too? Dear God, I hope not.
The chief digested what Susan served up and resumed the questioning. “Had Mark double-crossed anyone recently?
Say, a bad business dealing? Did he owe anyone money?”
Form questions.
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“No, sir. No one that I know of.”
“Did you have anything that was his?”
Susan thought for a few seconds. “Well, we share the car.
We had two cars, but when money got tight, we got rid of one of them.” It wasn’t really our choice, but he won’t know that.
“I see.”
“Maybe my husband wanted the keys to the Neon. But, didn’t you say that he crashed in a rental car?”
“I did,” the chief restated.
“I really am puzzled as to why he was under the bed in my motel room. I just don’t get it. Mark wasn’t that weird.” What a lie; he was actually weird as hell.
“I hear you, Susan. Another question: Did he use any illicit and/or prescription drugs?” He’s just going down the form to complete the interview.
“No, sir. None that I am aware of.” Thank God he didn’t ask that question about me. I would’ve choked.
“We’ve looked up Mark’s parents and found out that they are both deceased. Does he have any siblings that should be contacted?”
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“No, sir. Mark was an only child. His grandparents on both sides died long ago. He has an uncle in California and an aunt in Colorado. I’ll contact them.”
“That would be great. Ok, Mrs. van Buren, I think we’re done for now. Thanks for your answers. I’m so sorry about all of this. Our receptionist will give you more information about Mark’s body. Thanks for coming down here so promptly. I’ll contact you if we need anything else.” Please don’t.
Susan walked out of the chief’s office very somberly. She got a blue envelope from the receptionist, which contained information about where Mark’s corpse was being stored and when she could see it. She wasn’t interested.
She got in the Dodge Neon and slowly drove back to the Dauphin Reign Motel.
The sights, scents and sounds were pure American-summer beach. The contrast was so great: so many tourists enjoying their vacation right next to the most distraught woman on Earth.
She went into the motel office and extended her stay by one more night. Susan told the desk clerk: “I’ve loved it here so much that I want to stay for the whole weekend.” What a liar I can still be was the thought that echoed in her mind.
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Gerald Zowen was a no-nonsense, now-quite-jaded, Caucasian junkyard man in his late 50s with light-brown-to-light-ash-gray, collar-length hair. He was the owner of Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage. It had been his business for the past thirty-one years. He had won it as a result of a winning poker hand – a jack-high spade straight flush – at the old Barbary Coast tavern in downtown Wilmington.
He had two German Shepherds on his lot. One stayed near him; the other was a roamer. Scout, he called the latter.
Jenny was his office guard dog. Eight other German Shepherds had passed away over the years. Gerald loved that breed. He had pictures of them on the dark lauan paneling in his office.
Gerald had received the initial call from Exceptional Rent-ACar’s uptown Charlotte office around 9:30 AM on that foggy Sunday morning of June 24th. He happened to be in the office updating his online parts inventory, when some guy in Shallotte inquired via e-mail about a 2006 Ford Taurus glove-box door. Glancing out the left-side window, he paused and thought: Just no telling, even after all these years, which part someone might need next. If there is a pattern, it’s way beyond my bean’s pay grade.
He inspected the totaled white Ford Focus that had been deposited in the incoming lot. The left-front of this car is worthless – trash. And since it was underwater for hours –
and in brackish water at that – all the electrical items are junk, too. However, the right-side doors, panels, and trunk 113
are still sellable. That’s about it. I’ll make them a low-ball offer.
Gerald called Exceptional back at 11:11 AM.
“Hello, you’ve reached Exceptional Rent-A-Car in uptown Charlotte,” a female voice announced. She sounds so chipper for a Sunday morning.
“Yes, could I speak with Steve Simonz?” Gerald asked, while rocking in his once-dark-gray-but-now-nearly-black, high-back desk chair.
“Sure, I’ll transfer you. Just one second.”
“This is Steve. What can I do for you?”
“Steve, this is Gerald Zowen at Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage in Wilmington.”
“Oh, yes, Gerald. How are you doing?”
“Well, I could stand to find some gold.”
“I hear ya! Couldn’t we all? Well, are you interested in making us an offer for that gently used, low-mileage, one-owner, white 2011 Ford Focus?” Steve was laughing.
“Gently used? You are a comedian on the side, aren’t you, Steve?” Gerald was chuckling now, too.
“Well, just shoot me a number, Gerald. What were you thinking?”
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“I was thinking three hundred, Steve. This car is toast –
smushy [ sic] toast. You and I both know that it was underwater for at least two hours.”
“Gerald, you’re hurting me. It’s Sunday. Show me some mercy.” Steve was laughing again. “Can we go five hundred, big guy?” Big guy? How does he know my waist size?
“No, that’s a little rich for my blood, Steve. I’m just a poor junkyarder, merely eking out a plebeian existence.”
“Ok, how about four-fifty, Gerald? I bet you will triple or quadruple your investment in six months or less.”
Investment? Is this guy high on dust remover?
“Four-twenty-five. Final offer.” Gerald was serious again.
“Deal. You got it, Gerald. I’ll fax the paperwork over to you shortly.” Darn, maybe I should have gone lower.
“Thanks, Steve. Take care.” Gerald hung up the old, corded desk phone. He loved this reliable landline connection. Now, why in the world did I buy that car?
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Susan opened the door to room 120 and flopped down on the bed. What a nightmare it all has become. Mark is dead. I have no source of income. It’s over. I’m finished. I don’t want to go back to Charlotte. I don’t want to return to Qualla. I don’t want to tell my parents that Mark is dead and that we were headed for divorce. I don’t want to answer any more questions. These questions will never stop. I can tell. I’ll be questioned and doubted the rest of my life. Five, ten, twenty years from now, and they will still be asking me questions. It will never end. I’m that wicked woman to them. I don’t want any more humiliation. How did that yellow stain get on the ceiling? I don’t want to see Mark’s dead body in a casket. I don’t want to see his gray face. No way! I don’t want to attend any funeral or memorial service for Mark. I could never face Mark’s friends again. Never. Charlotte is cursed for me. I don’t want to live anymore. I’m done with it. I quit. I want out of this Earth-life.
Susan opened her pill box and took out the remaining nine OxyContin pills that she was saving. She crushed them and swallowed the chalky powder. She chased it down the hatch with a swig of the now-warm PBR beer-swill that Grug had left on the dresser. Death would be assured now. She had just ingested her exit ticket.
She then made her way to the balcony and sat down on the salt-air-rusted metal chair. She repositioned the foam seat cushion, covering the worst spots. It was still quite foggy, even though it was almost noon. The temperature was only 68°F. Hardly anyone was on the beach, just some runners and a few shell searchers. Then an older man and his 116
apparent grandson walked by with a metal detector and a plastic black-and-yellow spade. Wonder if they find a gold earring.
Her mind began to ebb and flow with the surf. Mark loved these mild, steel-gray, overcast days. I guess this will be the last one that I will ever see. I’ll be joining you shortly, Mark, wherever that might be. Though, maybe you don’t want to see me ever again. I can certainly understand that. But, we had some nice times. It sure was a strange life, wasn’t it, Mark? So sorry about the ending. Maybe it just changes form now, or goes entirely formless. I guess you already know about Heaven, or the next phase: perhaps some metaphysical adventure? Or, maybe eternal, dark, cold silence? No, not that, Mark.
She gazed out at the sea. Waves. It all moves in waves.
Crazy waves.
A lone seagull flew up to her balcony railing. It was loudly cawing as it hovered. It must think that I have some food.
‘Sorry, no bread, winged one. I know that it’s no easy life on this planet for birds like you.’ Yeah, such a constant battle for survival for just about all creatures. ‘I guess to you seagulls, I appear to have it made.’ No food procurement issues. If they only knew how hard it could get mentally and emotionally for a human being. ‘Be glad that you only have basic needs and simple desires, high flyer. Just be glad.’ If only …
Then the bird flew away, alighting on a dead crab halfway down the beach, some thirty yards away.
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Susan’s throat was feeling very dry. She pushed herself up and out of the chair, and dragged her numb body inside. She found her last bottled water and took a swig. She then grabbed her handbag and shuffled back to the balcony. She barely landed on the seat.
Twenty minutes had now passed since Susan had taken the nine pills. She already felt like she was being encased in concrete. Breathing was an uphill struggle. Her heart rate was slowing. Her ability to focus was fading fast. She couldn’t walk back inside her motel room if she had to. She felt totally immobilized.
Her mind meandered further. So, this is where it will end. I never imagined that I’d die at a beach when I was a five-year-old girl, running around on the reservation in the Smoky Mountains. Who will find my body? Ah, who cares? Does that even matter? Transition will occur one way or another.
Susan gazed back out at the most-distant part of the sea, looking for the horizon. She couldn’t make it out due to the dense fog. This fog is so disorienting. Maybe that’s why Mark loved it so much. Almost like a mind drug in itself. It seems to dissociate the thoughts. You can project your thoughts onto it and watch them go … wow and flutter. A gray wafting canvas. Ethereal etchings. Mark would have loved that one. Points! He secretly wanted to become some kind of neo-beat hipster poet. I know he did. No one makes it big as a poet anymore. Do they? Gosh, what drew me to him? He was a kind and handsome guy with unique features. Almost looked like an international spy when he wore that tan tweed blazer. How I was so intrigued with him at first sight. I am going to miss his cock. It was a perfect fit.
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Such an arty guy. Ah, that time he painted me in the nude, literally, in a mechanical room at WCU. That music he played on the CD player. Really dreamy surreal sounds. It took three days to wash all of that acrylic paint off. Crazy ideas. One after another. With an unmistakable penchant for unprofitability. If there was money to be lost, he was in line.
A constant certainty. I was so naïve back then. A shy studious Cherokee girl. An easy mark for Mark. Mark would’ve written that one down. Always a pen in his pocket.
All those times with Mark in Boone. Howard’s Knob on that cold winter day. Watching the snow squalls move in from the west. He held me tight and kissed me. The ‘I love you’
soundtrack he made for me. Gosh, that music was so cool.
The valley below turning white. Dusted. We almost slid off the mountain coming back down. Our times at the Klan Dike Café. It’s all gone. Irrevocably. Can never go back. The past has passed us by. Wow, am I starting to think like him in my final dying moments? Always playing word games. Why the hell was he in my motel room? And under the goddam bed?
He actually stayed under the bed for at least thirty minutes.
He had to have. What did he think of Rick? Hell, what did he think of me?! I know what he was thinking … ‘What a fucking whore!’ And, he just stayed down there recording my moans.
Too strange. It’s all too damn weird. How’d I end up here? I was going to be a success in the white man’s world. I did it the right way. And, I didn’t cheat on Mark until this crazy weekend. And, it doesn’t count anyway. We were already kaput. Our marriage was already in the casket before I came down here to bury it. Another line Mark would’ve loved. I swear I am channeling his spirit. He’s probably fighting it all the way. Being jostled in the offsets. Dangerous riptides. I 119
wonder when that sign was put up. I wonder when it gets replaced. I don’t think Mark ever cheated on me. No, he didn’t. I know he didn’t. He was a gentle guy. He never hit me. Never even touched me in anger. Not even when I was in full-throttle, bitch-witch mode. I knew he wouldn’t. Maybe that’s why I got so nasty with him. I could get away with it.
But, I was a good girl back then. I got good grades. I was going to be successful. It was going to be a good life. I was not an evil person. Thank God, we didn’t have kids. That would’ve been the worst. I couldn’t have ended it this way if I had a child. I would’ve struggled on somehow living off welfare and food stamps. Probably just become another alcoholic pill-popper on the reservation. I never wanted to get hooked on prescription painkillers, but damn, that stuff is so fucking addictive. I know that I’m not the only one hooked on those damn pills in this zero-tolerance-for-pain nation. I wonder how my parents are doing. What might they be doing at this very moment? Mom is probably watching the We or Lifetime channel in the living room, while sipping her favorite herbal tea. Dad is probably piddling around the house, doing simple projects to stay out of mom’s hair. I’ll miss them.
Immensely. Forever. And, I know they’ll miss me. Terribly.
Gosh, I love them so much. I don’t want to hurt them, but I can’t endure this anymore. My hurt is the greatest. No one else has to walk in my moccasins. No one else. They’ll never understand what led to all of this. My God, the fog seems to be getting denser. Maybe it’s the damn oxycodone. All I see is gray. Soft gray clouds. They look like pillows going on forever. I can almost feel them. Well, I better write that note now. I probably only have ten more minutes left. I wonder who will find it. Does the cleaning lady know English? Maybe 120
she’ll pass it on to someone. And maybe they’ll forward it on to someone who knew me. Maybe. Oh, what the hell am I thinking? This is Mark’s madness. His spirit has invaded my brain. I can feel it. He’s exacting his revenge in my last cognizant minutes. As nice as he usually was, he could be evil that way with his bizarre mind games. ‘Hey Mark, I know it’s you. Ok, you win. Whatever, hon. You’ll only have my brain for another five minutes. Maybe just three. Then, it’s all over, hon. You won’t be able to torment my soul anymore.
Nevermore. Never – that’s a really long time, Mark.’
Susan opened her handbag. Her right hand slowly and lethargically fumbled around inside, feeling the hidden pocket where her car keys were always kept. She could tell that there was nothing in there as her fingers traced the thin fabric. Her index and middle fingers brushed over the pouch once more, just to make sure. Nothing. They’re gone. Huh?
She was startled by the revelation. Where are my car keys?
It certainly doesn’t matter now, but that’s odd. I know they were in there. Did Mark take them when he came to my motel room? Was that what he wanted? But, why did he want them? He didn’t drive off that night in our Dodge Neon.
Was he going to return the rental car in Wilmington and drive off in our Neon, going back to Charlotte, leaving me stranded at Carolina Beach? Well, it hardly matters now. Fuck it! It’s way too late to figure it out now. Gosh, my mind feels like overcooked, mushy spaghetti. I wonder if the guys who built this motel balcony are still alive. I wonder if they’re still pumping. Oh, I’ve lost my mind. And, I don’t want to find it …
ever again. Never.
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She pulled out a small pad of white notepaper and a blue ball-point pen. She sighed and gasped. This simple task had left her out of breath. She was starting to turn blue. Her drugged mind fumbled over her condensing thoughts.
Whew, not long now. Not long at all, Susan. I’m certainly on the exit ramp now. It is really setting in now, like cement in my veins. Hope I can still write. The sea could care less, I know. The sea, the sea, the sea. The sea sees me … and just has another wave-crashing laugh. Another splash. Yes, the sea has seen it all. All of humankind’s nautical foibles and coastal follies. ‘Ah, Mark, there you are again. You bastard, you!’ The sounds, sights and scents of the surf will all be here tomorrow. The morning sea breeze will greet the happy faces of the vacationers and toss their hair. It will still be a great beach for tourists. Just remove my corpse promptly. Don’t let it start to decompose and stink up the place. I don’t want to spoil someone’s summer vacation by shocking their seven-year-old daughter. ‘Mommy, there’s a dead woman there.’ Lovely. Just lovely. Not!
Susan managed to grasp the pen in her right hand, while holding the little pad in her left hand . What kind of closing statement should I write? I can barely hold this pen. This square-shaped pad of paper feels like a marshmallow.
The blue ink’s trail left only a few words as Susan’s life on this oblate spheroid expired.
Floating. Floating farther … away. Not sad.
<><><>
At 11:17 AM Sunday morning, Susan’s body was found by the Hispanic cleaning lady, Louisa. The motel’s checkout 122
time was 11:00. Louisa finally opened the door after three knocks and three “Hello, housekeeping” shouts, even though a Do Not Disturb placard hung from the rusting doorknob.
Louisa scanned the room. She quickly noticed that the sliding glass door to the balcony was open. When she saw Susan’s stiff, lifeless, gray body on the balcony, she freaked.
She ran back to the motel office, hysterically screaming, “El diablo mató a la mujer!” [The devil killed the woman!]
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It was 1:20 PM at the Mimosa Funeral Home in Locust. The Sunday afternoon memorial service for Fred was almost over. Travis had just glanced at his cell phone for the third time. Well, I guess Mark is not coming to his best friend’s funeral service. Wonder why. Did something happen to him?
After the eulogy and miscellaneous closing remarks, Travis started to leave with his wife, Nancy, at his side. They met a common friend in the parking lot. It was zany Jeremy. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Guess what I just read on the internet, Travis?” He was holding up his smartphone.
“Let me guess … Mark and Susan joined a peyote cult in New Mexico?”
“No, but it’s about Mark. He’s dead, man! His car went off a bridge down at Carolina Beach.”
“Are you sure that’s our Mark van Buren?”
“Yes. I saw his picture on the news website.”
“Man, this is too much! Fred and now Mark. Both dead in less than a week.” This is unbelievable.
“Well, I gotta run. Let’s talk later. Try to stay alive.”
“Yeah, you, too, Jeremy.”
Jeremy disappeared around the corner. Travis and Nancy just looked at each other, stunned.
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“Honey, are we in the twilight zone?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Travis stated, while trying to take it all in.
A gust of warm, summer-flora-scented, afternoon air whistled
through
the green-leafed,
kudzu-enveloped,
deciduous trees as they drove away.
There would be no funeral for Mark.
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David Scrapalski was a twenty-eight-year-old bio-tech lab specialist, originally from Pittsburgh, who lived on Kittrell Drive in north Raleigh. His modest one-and-a-half story abode was in Anderson Heights, an older neighborhood that had begun to gentrify. It was flush with mature oak trees and young professionals. There was even a nice little park across the street where he often jogged. He really liked the area and didn’t see himself moving again.
David owned a 2011 white Ford Focus, the model with a normal trunk – not the hatchback version. It was a nice little sedan. It got decent gas mileage and was easy to maneuver and park in the city. He liked it. He washed it weekly and waxed it when he couldn’t remember the last time he waxed it. He was going to keep this car for at least ten years, he told himself.
Hurricane-strength storms rarely make direct hits on Raleigh.
However, tropical storms seem to pass over the Triangle area every few years. On that last Monday in June – the 25th
– a nasty one did just that.
Tropical Storm Dorn unloaded five inches of rain in eighteen hours on the Raleigh area. Every creek in the city had flooded to some degree. Crabtree Creek jumped its banks as everyone in the Capital City knew it would. It became a giant debris flow.
David’s house was up on a hill, so flooding was not an issue for his property. However, the storm packed 50 MPH
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sustained winds with gusts over 65 MPH. By 9:30 PM the wind was whipping the trees. At 11:11 PM he had no power.
The temperature in his house was a comfortable 70°F when the electricity went out, and it was mild outside, too. Thus, David wasn’t too concerned about cooling. He was able to fall asleep by midnight, his usual workweek time. The wind hissed like a nefarious serpent throughout the night, waking him up occasionally. Some dogs howled; one yelped.
At 7:30 in the morning he walked out to retrieve The News & Observer, the Raleigh daily newspaper. A very distressing sight greeted him. The partially diseased sycamore tree in his neighbor’s yard had come down. One of its medium-size branches had crashed onto the trunk of his Ford Focus during the stormy night. The rest of the car looked ok. There was just a nasty series of dents and gouges in the middle of the trunk door.
He opened the dinged trunk and checked the hinges; they were ok. It appeared that the only body piece he needed to replace was the trunk door. He then took a picture of the damaged trunk door for his insurance company.
David went back inside his house. The kitchen light was on.
He warmed up a bagel and made some coffee, and settled over his laptop in the den.
He found his insurance company’s website. He e-mailed them a claim with an attached photo of the trunk damage.
He wondered if his trunk was still water-tight. The trunk will leak now. I wonder how long it will take for them to compensate me. Well, I don’t want to wait around.
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He began to look online for a white 2011 Ford Focus trunk door, first checking the auto salvage yards in Wake County.
Nothing, just a lot of hatchbacks. Drats! He widened his search area to 100 miles. Still nothing. Someone around here has to have this part. It’s not like it’s as rare as gold.
He scratched his forehead. Was that a dried-up zit or a scab? When he increased the search area to a radius of 150
miles, he got a hit. A parts yard in Wilmington had one. He wrote down Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage with the address and phone number. I’ll call them from work to verify that they have it. If they do, I’ll go down Friday morning.
David went back outside. The neighbor had already removed and diced up the fallen sycamore tree with a chainsaw. He apologized profusely to David. David just told him that these acts of God happen and that the insurance companies would sort it out.
<><><>
At 1:05 PM David stepped out of the GroPhirst nano-organic lab in Research Triangle Park, a few miles southeast of Durham, and called Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage in Wilmington. The sun was hot and bright.
“Hello, this is Gerald.”
“Is this Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage?” David cautiously asked to make sure he had the right number.
“You’ve got him.” So, he is it.
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“Excellent. Say, would you have a trunk door for a white 2011 Ford Focus? The sedan model with a real trunk – not the hatchback.”
“Hold on a sec and I’ll check,” Gerald replied as he depressed some keys on his computer keyboard.
“Sure, no rush.” David heard him clicking away. It was hot outside. He looked for a shady spot. Where is a mature healthy oak tree when you need one in the ‘City of Oaks’?
“Oh yeah, I’ve got it,” Gerald suddenly announced. “That car just came in the other day. How could I forget that car? The right and rear body parts are ok, but the left and front sides are shot.”
“Can you hold it for me ‘til Friday?”
“You got it. When can we expect you?”
“Oh, I should be there by 9:00 AM.”
“That’s fine. My assistant will be here at that time.”
“Do I need to give you a deposit to hold it?”
“No, you seem genuinely interested in it. Just come on down and get it before five in the afternoon.”
“Thank you, sir.” David ended the call. So, I’m going to the coast for the weekend. I’ve heard of medical vacations. I guess this will be an auto-part vacation. It’s about time I took a day off. I can’t remember the last time I took any time off.
I’m becoming a work-eat-sleep-work robot. This will be just what the doctor ordered.
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News of the deaths of both Mark and Susan had reached the Charlotte news websites and regional media outlets by Monday afternoon. It was all over the evening newscasts in the Port City and the Queen City.
Common friends were shocked and puzzled. None of the news stories suggested that Mark and Susan were having marriage difficulties. And, only one website even mentioned that they were staying in separate motel rooms, or had arrived in separate cars.
The conclusion that the casual viewer/reader would draw was that Mark was partying a little too hard to be behind the wheel, lost control of his car, crashed and drowned. His wife, subsequently, was overcome by unbearable grief and committed suicide. End of tragic story.
There was no mention of any gold in any news report.
<><><>
At the convenience store on NC 710 at US 74, the store owner was watching the Fayetteville 6:00 PM local newscast. He listened to the attractive, black, female newscaster as he counted the twenties in the till.
“A Charlotte couple died in separate incidents over the weekend at Carolina Beach. Mark van Buren, age thirty-eight, died early Saturday morning after crashing his car on a bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. His rented car went off the bridge and sank to the bottom of the channel. Rescue 130
divers recovered his body around 5:30 AM. Mr. van Buren was still strapped in his seat belt.”
Pictures of Mark and Susan were now on the TV screen.
The newscaster continued. “His thirty-four-year-old wife, Susan van Buren, died eight hours later that afternoon, around 1:45 PM from an apparent suicide. Preliminary testing suggests an opioid overdose. An empty OxyContin pill bottle was found in her motel room.”
Ah, the van Burens! That’s them. What in the wacky wide world happened to them? Ah, Carolina Beach. Still crazy after all these years.
<><><>
While on the internet, scanning the local news, Gerald ran across a short article about the two deaths. But, without any picture of the car, he paid little attention to it, and was quickly on to the next story.
Then his dogs started barking. Then they started to whimper.
It was time to feed them and give them a bone.
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At 6:26 AM Friday morning, June 29th, David was pulling out of his driveway in his 2011, white-suede Ford Focus. The forecast called for a very hot day – possible triple-digit heat.
It was already feeling balmy. It’s going to be a scorcher.
Hope the A/C can keep up.
Soon he was on the I-440 beltway. Traffic was still light.
Great, I beat the congestion. I should be able to make good time.
He took the exit for I-40 East, which really dives south-southeast, as he thought about the weekend. After I snag that trunk door, the weekend is free. I’ll get a hotel room in downtown Wilmington. It’s a nice scene down there. Yeah, one with a view of the river. It would be convenient. Yeah, that way I can just walk if I decide to hit some bars. The car can just stay parked. Or, should I rent a room at a beach?
That’ll be mega-expensive, though. I’ll just see how it goes.
Once on I-40 East, the trip to Wilmington was a pleasantly uneventful two-hour trek. Nobody from work was zapping his cell phone. His hyper-dramatic ex-girlfriend had now gone a whole two weeks without trying to bait him into a text war.
Maybe she’s found someone else by now. God, I hope so.
Pity the poor fellow.
David wheeled into Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage at 8:42 AM. The gates to the wrecked automobile yard were locked. Two full-grown German Shepherds were barking vociferously at him as he stepped from his car. He walked 132
towards a small house that appeared to be the office. He knocked on the door.
The bone-white, wooden door creaked open. A gaunt Caucasian man in his early 40s with sallow skin and a thick brown mustache greeted him. “Hello, and what can I do for you today?”
“Hello. My name is David Scrapalski. I believe that you are holding a 2011 white Ford Focus trunk door for me. I need it for that car.” David pointed to the damaged trunk of his Ford Focus. “Are you Gerald?”
“No, Gerald is not here right now.” Well, he really didn’t sound like Gerald.
“ Oh, ok.”
“ Gerald took the morning off, but he mentioned to me that you would be coming by.” Oh yeah, Gerald said that his assistant would be here. Where’s my memory chip today?
“Yes, now I remember him telling me that someone else would be here.”
“That someone else is me; I’m Dale, his assistant. And, yes, that car is still on the lot. Let me secure the dogs. Give me just a minute.”
Dale walked out the back door of the office-house and called the dogs over to a chain-link-fenced pen.
Three minutes later, he returned and told David where the car was located. He sketched a simple map of the lot on the 133
back of a Krispy Kreme doughnut napkin. Dale then handed David the car keys.
“Thanks,” David said. “And don’t worry, I won’t drive away with it.”
“You won’t be able to drive that car one foot. It’s totaled. It got smashed on the left side really bad. Then it sank in the Intracoastal Waterway.”
“Well, all I need is a good trunk.”
“Ok, good luck. I’ll be here.”
David walked out of the office and located the wrecked 2011
white Ford Focus next to a sideswiped 2005 green Honda Civic and an overgrown blackberry bush. He looked at the driver-side body of the car first. Wow, this baby got creamed alright. I wonder if anyone died.
He then proceeded to the passenger side of the white, four-door sedan. The right side was in great shape except for the mirror; it was cracked. He kept walking to the rear and turned the corner. And right there was the much-sought-after trunk door. Yes! It looks ok.
Surprisingly, it was in great shape. There wasn’t a scratch on it. Amazingly, it had been unscathed by the accident. Yes!
This should work just fine. Well worth the drive.
David then inserted the trunk key and turned it. The trunk door opened cleanly. Score! We got a winner.
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He peered inside. The brackish-water-permeated-carpet odor was strong. The trunk light didn’t come on; the battery had been removed.
The sun was almost directly overhead, so light was not really an issue. The soggy piece of carpet and plastic enclosure that usually covered the spare tire had been dislodged. Half of the spare tire was showing. He remembered that a shard of metal had destroyed the sidewall on his spare. Wow, I could use that doughnut spare, too.
David began to undo the wing nut with his left hand. When he pulled up the spare tire with a slightly rusted rim, he saw the start-up capital for his next venture: thirty-eight pounds of solid gold in two semicircular fillets. Holy cow! That looks like gold!
Just over six days later, Mark’s golden motherlode had finally been seen by another human being.
The C-shaped golden pair was still intact. Yes, right where Mark had secured them on the night of the phantom. The golden duo had waited patiently for rediscovery. Wow! Look at this! This is amazing! Un-freaking believable! What luck!
He grabbed the smaller one and felt it. He ran his right thumbnail along its surface. Damn, that’s gold! Pure fucking gold! And quite a bit of it. Obviously, no one knows that it’s in here. This feels like I’m entering some bizarre Twilight-Zone-like story. Is Rod Serling’s ghost around the corner?
Somebody placed this gold here; molten gold doesn’t just solidify in wrecked car trunks. Was the owner killed? Foul play of some sort? A mafia-esque hit made to look like a 135
collision? I need to find out more about this car later. The gold pieces are too heavy and a little too big to stuff in my pants or under my shirt. It’s just too risky to move it right now with Dale up in the office. He may be watching me.
A colorful dragonfly alighted on the larger golden boomerang. David began to appreciate his golden dilemma.
Now, how do we do this? How do we extricate this gold without detection? Should I try to distract Dale? Wait, maybe we just extricate the whole car from this junkyard by buying it. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll just purchase the whole car. Genius!
And to think my ex said I was stupid because I only got a 960 on the SAT. Ha-ha. I’ll mail her a postcard from Tahiti.
‘Wish you were here – Not!’
David looked back at the house-office, about fifty yards away. Dale was on the front porch looking at him. Oh, shit!
David carefully placed the gold fillets back under the spare tire. He screwed the wing nut down tightly and placed the plastic piece and carpet back over it. He closed the trunk and began walking back towards Dale. I wonder how long he was watching me. Damn. Not good.
When David arrived at the front porch, Dale had already gone back inside the house-office. David opened the door and went inside.
Dale looked up from the desk when David entered. “Will that trunk door do the trick, sir?” he asked in a business-as-usual manner.
“I think it will, Dale. In fact, there are many parts on that car that I could use in the future.” David hoped he seemed 136
believable and not too excited about a horribly damaged automobile.
“Your car looks like it only needs a trunk, but if you want to buy right door panels, I certainly won’t stop you.” Good.
Great answer, pal. This confirms that Dale has no idea what’s in that car’s trunk.
“Listen, I’d like to make you an offer for the whole car. I can use it for future repairs.”
“Sir, there’s something I must disclose to you about that particular Ford Focus ...”
“Ok.” Here comes the catch: It’s not for sale for sentimental reasons. Or, you can’t take the whole car because the left front-end is part of a post-accident investigation. Or, we don’t hold clear and marketable title to the car; thus, we can’t sell it to you as one whole vehicle. No, no. Please, dear God, no.
Dale continued. “That car was underwater for a couple of hours. All of the electrical parts are totally shot. Worthless.
Kaputski. And since the water was brackish, most of the mechanical linkages and small mechanisms – especially those with thin-gauge metal springs – will fail in the near future from corrosion, if they haven’t already.”
“I hear you loud and clear,” David calmly stated. “And, I truly appreciate your honesty by making that disclosure, Dale.
But, I’m still interested in making an offer for the whole car. I plan on driving my little Focus until the sheet-metal welds become unfocused.” Whack-job.
“Ok, what kind of figure did you have in mind?”
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“Would you guys take twelve hundred dollars for it?” David hoped that this number and his facial expression found the right balance. He didn’t want to look too eager to buy at any price – and set off alarm bells – possibly leading to a thorough inspection of the car, nor too disinterested to appear not willing to offer a higher amount. He wanted to let Dale know that he was legitimately – yet reasonably –
interested.
“I’ll forward that offer to Gerald. He has to approve and write up any whole-vehicle purchase. He should be in between one and one-thirty.”
“Ok, thanks. Here’s my card.” Dale studied it as David walked out. Scrapalski? Doesn’t a Scrapalski play for some NHL team? Is it the Hurricanes? No. The Sabres? No. The Penguins? …
Dale walked out of the office/living room as David got into his car. “I’ll make sure that Gerald calls you,” he pledged just before David closed his door. I certainly hope so. But, if not
…
David gave him a cursory wave as he pulled out of the visitor lot. Dale’s expression was hard to read. If Gerald doesn’t call me by two, I’ll call him. I’ll be coming back here alright. /
David saw something in that car’s trunk. I just know that he did.
David headed for downtown Wilmington.
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As soon as David had driven down Shipyard Boulevard far enough to be out of his line of sight, Dale walked down to the wrecked, white, now-of-paramount-concern Ford Focus. He had seen David looking down at some object in the trunk.
What the hell was he looking at in there? He seemed to have handled something. But, what?
He unlocked the trunk. All looked normal. It just had the bold fragrance of L’eau d’ Intracoastal Waterway. It was already 92°F. The trunk was ripe. Whew! What an odor! Send in the crabs, there must be crabs …
Dale scanned the low-pile, tightly woven, still-wet, black carpet. It had a slight ridge in it. He grasped and removed it.
He seemed to have his hands down in the center of the trunk. What was he holding? The spare tire? What’s so magical about this doughnut spare? Most people hate these things. Maybe there’s something under the spare tire.
He lifted up the black, plastic, spare-tire enclosure and unscrewed the tire-retaining bolt’s wing nut. He pulled the tire up and out with both hands. When he saw the two pieces of yellowish metal, he immediately knew why David wanted the whole car. Holy cow! That’s gold! This is why he wants this car so bad – it has gold in it. I wonder how much this gold is worth. My real payday has finally arrived.
Dale wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but he was good at figuring out people’s ulterior motives. He thought about the situation as it now stood. Obviously, David saw the gold in here. That’s pretty much a given. And, just as certain, Gerald 139
has not seen the gold in here; thus, he knows nothing about it. They must’ve never opened the trunk after the accident.
The police would have never knowingly left gold in this car; it would have been impounded. It’s a pretty safe bet that only me and David know that there’s gold in this car’s trunk.
Gerald told me that the driver of this rental car died. And, his wife committed suicide later that day. So, she’s certainly not coming after it. Thus, it must be only David and I; only the two of us know. If anyone else knew there was this much gold in this car’s trunk, they would have retrieved it by now.
Yeah, I would bet my life that only me and David know that there is gold in this trunk. Gerald has to be in the dark. He would never allow so much gold to sit in there. Never.
Especially not in a car in which he intends to sell the trunk door. Obviously, he’s totally clueless. He’ll be back soon.
Must think smart and act fast.
Dale walked back towards the house-office. He got in his burgundy 2002 Chrysler Town & Country minivan, and drove up to the white Ford Focus, keeping his van in between the sight line from the office to the Ford Focus. Please, no customers now. And please, no early arrival by Gerald or David.
Dale quickly loaded the two boomerang-shaped gold nuggets into a couple of black, four-mil-thick, plastic Hefty bags. The extra-thick trash liners were completely opaque.
Even in the bright sun, the gold crescents were invisible.
He then slid the bagged gold under his minivan’s rearmost seat. Then he placed an old blanket over the bags of gold.
Next, he put some milk crates that were full of tools and automotive fluids on top of them.
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He scanned the lot and looked up at the house-office. There was no sign of anyone. The only creature watching him seemed to be a lone crow that was sitting on a 1968 Dodge Polara station wagon’s luggage rack, just a few vehicles down from him.
Dale then carefully replaced the spare tire, the plastic piece, and the black carpet on top. He closed the trunk and got in his minivan. He pulled up to the office, parked, and went inside and wrote a short message on a white piece of notepaper with a bold marker. It was 9:58 AM. The note read:
Back in 15 minutes (10:15)
-Dale
He taped it to the front storm door’s upper glass pane and locked up the office. He went back to the dog pen and let the German Shepherds out. They barked loudly for a minute, very happy to be out of the small, fenced area.
<><><>
Dale lived less than two miles away, on Van Buren Street (as fate would have it) in the Sunset Park neighborhood in west Wilmington. His wife had died two years ago from liver disease; he lived alone. His minivan was on his concrete driveway in only four and a half minutes.
Dale parked at the end of the concrete driveway and closed the privacy-wall gate behind him. The minivan was inside the enclosure now. The whole backyard was surrounded by an eight-foot-high, wooden, double-slatted privacy wall that 141
Dale had installed by himself five years ago. It was still in good condition. None of the gothic tops had broken off yet, and there were no splits or holes in the planks.
He walked to his metal shed and got the medium shovel, and then walked to the corner of the side and rear fences behind the shed and dug a two-and-a-half-foot-deep hole in the soft, grayish white sand. He had his golden burial pit dug in only four minutes.
Dale then placed the two, bagged, golden fillets in the pit. He quickly covered them with the sand that he had removed.
Finally, Dale scattered some adjacent top sand over the excavated area along with some fallen pine needles. People get caught or found out by not attending to the small details.
Don’t make a million-dollar mistake, Dale. Make it look like no shovel ever hit the ground back here. Do it right.
When he was done, there were no signs of digging. From start to finish took less than eight minutes. He looked around while putting the shovel back in the shed; the coast still looked to be clear – not one eye was seen. Success! If I play this right and be patient, I’ll have more than I need for the rest of my life. Don’t blow it, Dale. Stay steady. Keep calm.
<><> <>
Dale was back at the Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage house-office in just sixteen minutes from the time he left. No one was in the parking lot waiting. No one was on the porch.
Perfect. David is not back, and Gerald is not here yet.
Excellent! Couldn’t have gone any better.
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He took the note off the storm door, wadded it up and threw it in the rubber wastebasket. I think I can safely assume that no one dropped by. There are no messages.
He sat back in Gerald’s desk chair and popped open a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink. He started to think of the possible upcoming scenarios. Gerald arrives at one o’clock. I tell him that David did indeed show up and looked at the car. I’ll tell Gerald that he was acting very odd, like he was high on drugs. Yeah, that’s it; I’ll characterize David as an insane, high-tech, Triangle-area dope fiend. I’ll tell Gerald that he wants to buy the whole car for twelve hundred dollars. But then Gerald may ask me what I think his motivation is. I’ll tell him that maybe he thinks there’s something über-cool about the 2011 Ford Focus. Who knows? I’ll pawn him off as an eccentric hipster type. Maybe Gerald will just say, ‘Sure, you can have that submerged car for that price.’ Or, maybe Gerald calls David and asks for a little more loot. Maybe they settle on fifteen hundred or sixteen hundred. Certainly. Why not? It’s in both of their interests to get a deal done. Gerald will never get that much money in parts from that car, given its history. David will obviously go insanely high with the offers in order to get that whole car, believing that there is still over a million dollars of gold in the trunk. He’ll never stop making offers. The deal will go down at some price.
However, David could give himself away; he could actually surpass the price of a brand-new Ford Focus. No, he’s not that stupid. If Gerald didn’t accept three thousand, I don’t think David would go any higher. It would be too risky. He would try to get into the trunk of that car some other way.
Maybe poison the dogs one night. And get the shock of his life. But, what would Gerald think if an ultra-high offer is 143
made by David? What happens then? What if David isn’t rational and offers a crazy amount for the car? Say, four thousand. What then? Gerald would get suspicious and declare: ‘No sale.’ He’d check every square inch of the car.
But, he would find nothing and maybe let the sale go down.
Well, assuming David isn’t watching him search the car. No, Gerald wouldn’t search the car with David present. Gerald would send him away for an hour; he’d employ some delaying tactic. Maybe Gerald will really believe my concocted, crazy characterization of David. At some point, that Ford Focus will leave the junkyard. At some point, the trunk will open. And to David’s grand dismay, the gold will be gone. Long gone. He’ll be willing to bet the farm that the gold is still in there. He may open the trunk when that smashed Ford Focus is on the flatbed tow truck, just a mile down the road. Or, he may open it in Raleigh in his driveway. It won’t really matter; the result will be the same: He will be on the golden warpath. What will be his method of redress? Will he first come after me? Or, go to Gerald? Would he really tell Gerald that there was a boatload of gold in that trunk at nine in the morning? I really doubt it. He’ll be gunning for me. And when he calls or arrives, I’ll just play dumb. In fact, I’ll play dumb with both of them. What if he goes to the police? So, what? It’s not illegal to own gold nuggets in this country.
Even gold bullion ownership was made legal again in 1974.
All forms and types of gold are legal to own in America. So, would he claim that we stole it from someone? From whom?
From him? Oh, please. ‘Prove it,’ the police would say. ‘And, precisely where did you unearth these unusually thin gold nuggets, sir?’ Yikes. ‘Whose property were you on?’ Gulp.
The police would ask him: ‘How did thirty-eight pounds of 144
raw gold end up in a previously submerged wrecked rental car’s trunk – a car in which the driver died?’ They would press him. ‘And, exactly what do you know about this gold, sir?’ Gulp. ‘Please speak into the microphone, Mr.
Scrapalski.’ ‘No dice, bro. You want the police to question you in a small room under a bright light for hours and hours?
I didn’t think so, sport.’ Going to the cops just makes David look like a suspect in that driver’s death. No, David has no leverage using the law; it would just make him look loony, or worse. He is too smart for that. Will he use a firearm as recourse against me? Will the gold fever hit him that bad?
He doesn’t seem like the killer type, but one never knows how someone will act when there’s over a million dollars right there for the taking. Hands on it one minute, then suddenly snatched away with their dreams and schemes five hours later. He’ll most certainly be choleric. He’ll be devising a recovery plan. For sure. Would he distance himself and hire a hit-man to off me? But, he has to know where the gold is before I die. He can’t just have me snuffed-out without knowing the gold’s new location – which I will never divulge.
He’ll never find it. He’s going to be one frustrated SOB, to put it mildly. Better be prepared; David will be rottenly pissed when he sees nothing but black floorboard under that spare tire. Better practice your stoic face now. It’s gonna get crazy one way or two ways. All ways, most likely.
Someone was knocking at the door. Oh, shit! Which one is it: Gerald or David? Let’s deal with Gerald first – alone. Please not both of them at once. That would be a nightmare.
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Dale cautiously slouched over to the door and looked through the highest glass pane from an acute angle. Thank God, it’s just the UPS man.
A giant sigh of relief from Dale. He then opened the door and signed for the parcel.
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David grabbed an early lunch at the Burger Thing at Dawson and 3rd. He was craving a veggie Walloper and a mango smoothie. He decided to eat inside when he saw the long line at the drive-thru window. Screw that! I’m not waiting in that line. That looks like twenty minutes, easy.
After ordering and receiving his food, he looked for an available table. He saw a two-seater in the corner. Perfect.
Maybe I can eat and think in peace.
He sat down and began to chomp and slurp away. It was what he needed to quickly get his blood-sugar level up again. He wasn’t diabetic, but his doctor had warned him not to go too long between meals. He had fainted just two weeks ago while trying to fast for twenty-four hours, and nearly broke his nose.
Between bites, he noticed a discarded newspaper on the vacant table next to his. He swiped it. It was a copy of the Wilmington Star-News. Only the local section remained. He began to peruse it.
A murder on Wooster Street. A crack-cocaine bust near Greenfield Park. A three-car wreck on I-40 near Castle Hayne leaves two people dead. A man in Brunswick County is actively cultivating Venus flytraps in an attempt to save the rare species. The USS North Carolina Battleship’s lower hull may be rusting faster than originally thought.
Then he saw a follow-up story on the Charlotte couple who died in separate incidents last weekend at Carolina Beach.
The small picture of the wrecked white Ford Focus on a 147
barge arrested his eyes. There’s my lucky car – the focus of my life.
Charlotte Couple Dies at Carolina Beach
The couple from Charlotte who died in
separate events last weekend were not
staying together, authorities say. They
were estranged. It is not known whether
Mark van Buren and Susan van Buren
even saw each other last weekend at
Carolina Beach. To recap, Mark van Buren
died when his rented car crashed and went
off the Snow’s Cut Bridge early last
Saturday morning. He still had his seat belt
on when rescue divers removed his body
from the Intracoastal Waterway. His blood-
alcohol level was .03%, less than half the legal limit in North Carolina. His wife, Susan van Buren, died from an OxyContin
overdose last Saturday afternoon, an
apparent suicide. Investigators are still
seeking more information. If you know
anything about either of these incidents, please contact the Carolina Beach Police
Department.
Wow, so that’s whose gold it was – Mark van Buren. Did he find those golden boomerangs on Carolina Beach? I didn’t know that any raw gold was ever found in that sand. Damn, he had it made; dude had it in his trunk, neatly concealed under the spare tire. What the hell went wrong? Was he being chased? Was he nudged off the bridge? But, the right and rear sides of the car have no dents. Why in the hell does he decide to go flying off a humpback bridge just before dawn on a Saturday morning? Was he up all night partying?
Was he high on psychoactive drugs? Was he hallucinating?
Was it the gold curse? Ha-ha. And, his estranged wife is down there, yet they never see each other. What? If your marriage is on the rocks and getting ready to sink, why go to 148
the same beach? Or, if it was a last attempt to save the marriage, why go in separate cars? And stay in separate motels? Very weird. Maybe he was spying on her? Maybe he was building a divorce case. It’s still way too freaking weird. Hmmm, wonder if they have fixed that bridge yet.
David slid his tray’s trash into the waste receptacle. He walked outside and looked at the directional sign for Carolina Beach. Well, I’ve got some time to kill. Let’s go look at that confounded bridge.
<><><>
Traffic was already fairly steady at noon as David began to ascend the northern flank of the Snow’s Cut Bridge. He tried to go a little slower than the speed limit in order to get a better look at the concrete railing on the right, but the yellow Dodge Dart behind him started to tailgate. Damn, always some fly on your ass at the worst possible moment.
When he was almost at the top of the bridge, he saw where Mark’s dream ended. There was a ten-foot section of new concrete railing; it was much lighter and whiter than the older concrete around it. The impact must have killed him. Lucky for you, Mark; you didn’t drown, bro. You’d have to be flying to take out a concrete railing like that with a little lightweight car like a Ford Focus. Damn, how fast was he going? 75
MPH? It was a good guess.
David continued over the bridge and made a right turn at the Lewis Drive traffic light. He then made a right turn onto Bridge Barrier Road, passing behind the strip mall. He drove down this road all the way to the end and parked. He walked over a mound of sand, and proceeded down a little footpath to the southern bank of Snow’s Cut, the wide canal that cut through the sand dunes, creating Pleasure Island.
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He looked up at the bridge towering overhead. Then he looked down at the water. The northern bridge-pier protector had a vertical scrape on its wood planking. Wow, is that the exact spot where Mark’s car sank? Is that the spot? Right there?
David sat down on a thick log on the top of the channel bank. Someone must have set this log up for long hours of fishing.
He was about twenty-five feet above the shimmering water’s surface. It was a nice view. Boats, motor yachts, sailboats, and noisy jet-skis were passing in both directions. It was already a busy day on the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.
He then noticed that many live oak trees were in the process of falling into Snow’s Cut, due to erosional undercutting.
Mother Nature is always trying to level the playing field.
Always trying to flatten the land and fill in the holes, creases and valleys. I bet they have to dredge this channel yearly.
His estimate was almost correct.
He stayed down there for a few minutes reflecting on what had happened to Mark, and how one’s life can change – or even cease – in an instant. When you’ve got it made is when you really can’t let your guard down. You can’t get cocky and act foolish. That’s where Mark screwed up. That’s the lesson I’m going to take away from this.
He walked back to his car, passing a fisherman on the way.
“The seat’s all yours.”
The nearly toothless, older, ball-capped fisherman just grinned and continued on his way with two fishing rods and an old, army-green, metal tackle box.
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David decided to head back to Wilmington, where his gold was waiting. When he was at the top of the Snow’s Cut Bridge, he saw the skid marks. They went from his lane –
the right northbound lane – all the way over to the new section of concrete on the left side of the bridge. Wow, he crossed three lanes. Did his left front tire blow out? But, this would have been mentioned in the news article. Wait, I just saw the left front tire; it wasn’t blown out. I wonder what his last thought was. ‘Damn, I blew it’? Tough break, Mark. You had it, bro. You fumbled the football at the goal line. I’m running with it now. And, I’m going to score.
David continued driving north up US 421. He began to feel a little thirsty. Then he thought about getting some drinks and snacks for the hotel room, as he knew it had a small refrigerator and a microwave. I’ll get some popcorn, pretzels, chips, soda, beer … and condoms. A man should always be prepared.
He stopped at the Super Wally World in Monkey Junction. It was blistering hot. Damn, it’s torrid today. I wonder if torrid has two r’s or one.
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Gerald rolled up to his unofficial parking space at 1:11 PM in his red 1976 Cadillac, a semi-restored Sedan de Ville. He stepped out with some papers in his hand.
Dale had heard the car pulling in and opened the front door for Gerald. “How are you feeling today, boss?” he ventured.
“Oh, not too bad for being ancient history,” Gerald answered.
“Oh, you still get around pretty good, boss. I hope I can still move around as well as you when I’m your age.”
“I don’t know, Dale; sometimes I feel like one of those Florida scooters is in my imminent future.”
“Florida scooter?” Dale looked perplexed.
“A motorized wheelchair.”
Gerald walked in, put the papers down on his desk, and sat back in his chair. He looked at his desk calendar. Then he turned to Dale. “Anything happen this morning?”
“That David guy came by earlier. I think it was just before nine o’clock. He said that he would like to buy that white 2011 Ford Focus for twelve hundred bucks.”
“Oh, yes, I spoke with him on the phone earlier this week.”
He started to rub his right ear.
“Mosquito bite?” Dale asked.
“Not sure. Just dead skin, I guess. As for his offer … well, as you know, I like to at least double the price of what we paid 152
when selling whole vehicles.” Gerald looked like he was a school teacher.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, boss.” Dale tried to look like the eager-to-learn student. Just act like it’s another day.
“Well, for twelve hundred, it’s his. He can have it. That’s almost triple what we paid for it. The damn car was underwater for Christ sakes. I wonder why he’s offering so much. Any ideas?” Ok, it’s now time to paint David as a techie-turned-dope-fiend flip-out.
“Boss, he seemed high on something. He was twitching and acting strange. His head kept twisting around. He acted like a paranoid cokehead. Maybe he’s loaded with drug money.
He seemed pretty slick. I think he said that he works in the RTP. He’s one of those techies. Maybe money is not an issue with him. Maybe he’s just some weird Ford Focus freak.”
“A Ford Focus freak from the Research Triangle Park? Now, I’ve heard of everything!”
“Maybe it’s the hipster car for his group.”
“Hipster? Wow, I haven’t heard that word in a few decades,”
Gerald retorted. “Keep going.”
“He’s an odd duck, boss. Trust me.”
“Well, if his money isn’t odd – as in not counterfeit – I’ll consider it a done deal. Does he want me to call him? Or, is he coming back?”
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“I think he said that he would just come back here at two o’clock to talk with you and hammer out the deal. Yeah, that’s it; he’ll be back at two. I now recall him telling me.”
“Ok, good enough, Dale. Thanks for covering for me this morning. Any plans for the weekend? Got a hot date?”
“No, no hot date, boss. Nothing too wild. Just chill out, I guess.”
“Well, have a nice weekend. See you on Monday morning.”
“You, too. Thanks, boss.”
As Dale exited from the porch, he glanced towards the wrecked Ford Focus. Things will get interesting very soon.
Very interesting.
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David quickly gathered some snacks and soda in his cart at the Super Wally World at Monkey Junction and began looking for condoms. Where do they stock those damn things? He could never remember where they were located.
At last he found them on an end-cap display unit in the pharmacy area. There was no way that he was going to ask a Wally World employee where they were. Why, he was a man.
He then looked for the quickest checkout lane. A cute, dark-skinned girl caught his searching eye.
“I’m open,” Chantelle said with a big smile. Gorgeous. I bet she’s from the West Indies.
“Thanks,” David said, while reading a copy of The Charlotte Observer.
“What’s the big story?” Chantelle asked while scanning his junk food and assorted, carbonated, diet beverages.
“Oh, it’s not really a big story, I guess, in the global scheme of things.” David then showed her the article about the deaths of Mark and Susan. Both of their photos accompanied the three-paragraph, mid-section article.
Chantelle looked like she had seen a ghost. “Mon dieu!”
Chantelle exclaimed much louder than she intended. “Oh, my lord!”
155
“Are you French?” David inquired, unfazed by her outburst, assuming she was just shocked by the death of a couple at the beach.
“I was born in Haiti, but I’ve lived in the United States for the past five years,” she politely stated in that unmistakable tropical island accent. “I met that man in the photo. Yes, it was him. I am sure of it. Ab-sooo-lutely.”
“You met Mark van Buren?” David wasn’t sure if he could trust her judgment, but was incredibly intrigued by her remark. Is she pulling my leg? I wish she’d pull on my third one later on.
“Yes. I know it was him. He came through my line late last Friday night. Well, actually it was Saturday morning, maybe about two AM.” She sounds convincing. If she’s a liar, she’s damn good. I think she’s telling the truth. I’ll just give her the benefit of my current state of belief.
“Wow, what was he buying, if I may ask? A case of beer, perhaps, Chantelle?” He read her name tag.
David felt confident that he had guessed Mark’s just-before-two-o’clock purchase. Beer drinkers are always aware of the two o’clock hour in North Carolina. They often rush to the stores near the beaches at 1:50 AM on weekend nights to get their last supply of suds.
“He bought a matching pair of dark-red suitcases. And, no, not any beer. Yes, I can see them now. They were wine-colored. A large and small one.” A pair of suitcases? Didn’t he bring luggage down in the rental car? Did he leave Charlotte in that much of a rush? Why does he need to buy a 156
set of suitcases at two in the morning? Man, this gets weirder by the moment.
Chantelle scanned the chocolate-flavored condoms and looked at David. “I bet these taste good.” What did she just say?! / I bet that line got his attention. Yep, it sure did.
<gulp> David was a little flustered. “Uh, yeah, I think so.”
Damn, she knocked me off balance with that line.
“It comes to $18.18. How would you like to pay?”
“I’ll use my debit card. Thanks.”
“Just slide it in the slot,” Chantelle said while licking her upper lip. Slide it ‘in’ the slot? Not ‘through’ the slot? An interesting choice of a preposition, I’d say. Hmmm, this could be a great day followed up by an amazing night. But, I need to stay gold-focused. That’s the only priority. Don’t get distracted by her thing. Sex can wait for now; there’ll be plenty of that later.
David almost missed her salacious signal, but caught her pointed tongue just before it went back into her luscious mouth. He felt a cramp in his crotch.
“Certainly,” he finally responded.
“If you’d like to know more about Mark … or me, just call me after seven – it’s when I get off. Well, actually, that might be later.” Wowzers! Did she just say that?
Chantelle then handed him a piece of blank register tape with her name and phone number just written on it.
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David put it in his wallet next to his debit card. Some days you just can’t lose. My mega-lucky day! Put this one in a bottle for safe keeping.
“Wow, sure.” David was smiling.
“When you call, what shall I call you?” Chantelle asked.
“Oh, sorry, my name is David. Nice meeting you. I’ll call you later.” Damn straight I will. / Yeah, you better, sly boy.
He then walked out to his white sedan with an almost triumphant swagger. A family, tourists to be sure, looked at him as he passed their SUV. He was bulging out of his indigo-blue gym shorts.
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Gerald couldn’t stop thinking about that totaled, egg-white, formerly sunken, 2011 Ford Focus. Everything about it had been unique. He had never bought a car that had been completely submerged; he considered them monetary losers. As soon as he disclosed that such a car had been underwater – which was typically quite obvious – he knew that the potential sales would evaporate like shallow, stagnant,
scummed-over
swamp
water
on
a
hot
southeastern North Carolina day. Why did I buy it? Why the hell was I drawn to it?
Gerald had bought numerous seriously smashed-up vehicles over the years – scores of end results of fatal collisions.
“Deathmobiles,” he often called them; though, he wasn’t the first one in the trade to use that coinage. This particular one, however, had arrested his attention. He mused further. But, this driver went off the top of the Snow’s Cut Bridge when apparently no one else was on it. The steering column linkages were intact; I checked them yesterday. Both front tires still had air in them when it was placed on the barge. I saw the photos. Was it a suicide? That’s a very unusual way to off yourself. And yet, some guy from Raleigh – one hundred and thirty miles away – decides that he wants to buy the whole damn thing, even though all he needs is a trunk. And, all this occurs in less than a week. It’s nuts! It’s crazy! It’s fishy … as fishy as a streetwalker’s twat.
He had never had someone buy a whole wrecked car to be a part source for a car that was only one year old. He was not aware of 2011 Ford Focuses being collector’s items, or 159
becoming such any time soon; Gerald could not imagine this model being a future vintage, highly desired vehicle.
A fly that had entered earlier with Dale whizzed by Gerald’s forehead. The junkyard owner watched the insect loop around the room until it disappeared. His rumination continued. It’s just a ho-hum, basic-transportation, average American sedan – a poor man’s Honda. Really nothing more. But, this David guy most surely wants it. Does he anticipate getting into collisions involving only the right and rear sides of his car? There’s something awfully strange about all of this – something I’m sorely missing.
The fly then alighted on his desk. Splat! He nailed it with his rolled-up Wilmington Star-News newspaper. Gerald still had great eye-hand coordination.
He returned to his musing about the mysterious sedan. This rental car was last driven by a guy who was estranged from his wife, but he goes to the same beach where she is staying, and they stay in separate motel rooms – even separate motels. Well, maybe he was spying on her. That’s not unheard of when one spouse thinks the other is cheating, especially if one takes off for the beach alone. But, why does this guy fly off the Snow’s Cut Bridge at five in the morning? Was he being chased? Were they both involved in some big drug deal? Did it all go wrong late in the night? Did someone – i.e., Mark – steal the drugs from Susan? Did Susan go down there to score a shitload of OxyContin?
Were they all fucked-up and out of their gourds? I bet there are a lot of drugs in that car. Somewhere in that car. Susan overdosed on OxyContin. Maybe she had a case of it.
Maybe David noticed the drugs in the car earlier this morning 160
when he checked it out. Maybe the drugs are in air-tight plastic bags and still saleable. That’s why David is willing to pay big bucks for that previously submerged Ford Focus. He recognized what the stuff is. He’s a bio-tech guy. He’s no idiot. That’s got to be it. But, why didn’t the Coast Guard or the police notice that. Why didn’t they seize the drugs? They had to have searched the car. They had to have had a drug-sniffing dog go over that car. They had to have. The dog would’ve picked up the scent. No, I don’t think that it’s drugs.
But, what? What did David see? Some valuable object, perhaps?
Gerald was correct with that discard-drugs thought. The New Hanover County Sheriff’s Office had let a drug-sniffing canine crawl under the car and run through the car. The dog did her due diligence, sniffing under the seats, in the seats, in between the seats, the headliner, and behind the dashboard, and even sniffing the trunk and engine compartment – or what was left of it.
However, gold doesn’t smell like marijuana, meth, heroin, opium, cocaine, crack or OxyContin. Gold is essentially odorless. The dog did her job satisfactorily. There were no drugs in the car. However, there was a nice bounty of gold.
And, everyone had missed it until David lifted that spare tire up. And now Dale had it buried in his backyard.
There’s something of high value in that car. I can feel it. With that line of thinking, Gerald got up and walked down to the wrecked Ford Focus. He opened the right-rear door and checked under the seats. All he felt was warm, moist carpet.
The odor in the car was nearly toxic. Whew! It reeks in here.
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Then he opened the right-front door and checked the glove compartment. There was nothing but wet literature from the rental car company. He considered taking the dashboard off.
Wait, first let’s check the trunk before we start dismantling.
He lifted the trunk lever. The latch and linkage still worked.
He walked over and looked inside. Just rank carpet. Boy, it smells to high heavens in here! Ah, let’s check under the spare tire.
He removed the plastic piece, moved the black carpet piece aside, and unscrewed the wing nut. He then removed the black-steel-rimmed doughnut tire. Well, nothing under there.
Looks like I’ve struck out.
But, just as he was about to put the spare tire back on the retaining bolt, he saw some yellow matter on the flat-black tire well of the trunk. Hmmm, now what could this be? Was Mark in the sulfur business? He chuckled to himself.
Gerald placed his right index finger down on the yellowish flakes; they stuck to his sweaty finger. The tiny wavy flakes were soft and very bendable. Ah-ha! Inspector Zowen has cracked the case: There was gold hidden under this spare tire! Mark had gold fever so bad it killed him. But, who has it now? David must have seen it this morning when he examined the trunk. But, the gold is gone now. Actually, that rules out David. He wouldn’t still be trying to buy this piece of junk if he already had the gold; he’d be long gone. He must still think that the gold is in here. That’s why he wants to offer me that premium price for this demolished submarine-of-acar. Dale must have gotten curious and checked the trunk after David left the lot. Dale must be the one who has it now.
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It’s got to be him. That weasel took all of it, and didn’t even tell me. What a loyal, trustworthy employee. I knew he was shit.
Gerald heard a car pulling into the front parking lot. It’s probably David. This will be very telling. Just play dumb. Just hear him out.
He quickly screwed the spare tire back down, replaced the plastic piece, and quietly closed the trunk and all four doors.
Gerald hunched down and crawled back to the office the long way, hugging the back fence, staying shielded from David’s roaming eyes.
Gerald kept four rows of wrecked vehicles between him and David. He then stood up once he was on the other side of the house-office, pausing to examine an artificially selected, 2008, rear-ended, blue-pearl Audi A4. Hope he didn’t see me. But even if he did, what is he going to do? What can he do?
Gerald ambled up to the office on the other side of the front porch, making it seem like he was working on the other side of the main lot – not where the foremost Ford Focus was.
The things that men will do for a couple of chunks of gold.
David was on the front porch waiting for him. “Hello, are you Gerald?” That’s got to be him.
“Yes, that’s me. Good to meet you.” So, there he is.
They quickly shook hands. A dog barked.
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“Likewise,” David sputtered. I wonder if he has checked the trunk. Gosh, I hope not.
“So, you met my associate, Dale, earlier?”
“Yes, I did. I’m interested in buying the whole car. Did Dale tell you?”
“Yes, he did. He said that you are offering twelve hundred dollars. Are you sure you really want to pay all that money for that car? You know that it was underwater for some time.
Even the good right-side door panels probably already have rust forming on the inside.” The moment of truth has arrived.
Let’s see how David plays this.
David was puzzled and feeling uncertain about the current location of the gold. Why is he trying to steer me out of buying the whole car? Has he seen the gold in the trunk?
Has it been removed by one of them?
Another dog bark.
“Nah, I think I will still take it,” David finally announced. The dogs then barked in unison. “But, can I just go out and look it over one more time?” And please don’t follow or watch me.
“Sure. Here are the keys.” Gerald handed David a basic silver ring with two keys. He gave his potential buyer a stony look. This should be quite interesting. Very, very interesting.
/ Fingers crossed.
David took the long walk out to the car. He looked back to see if Gerald could see him. There was no sign of him.
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Great, the coast is clear, unless he’s up in that attic window.
Well, time to check this trunk. C’mon, gold stash, be there!
He popped open the trunk door. He noticed that the carpet had been moved slightly. That’s a bad sign. A very bad sign.
I’ve got a very bad feeling about this. This aint good.
David pulled the carpet to the side, moved the plastic housing, and spun off the wing nut. He pulled the spare tire up to see … Nothing! – nothing but black metal floorboard.
He stepped back, still looking at the vacated gold fillets’ spot on the tire indentation in the floorboard, feeling completely deflated. Mother sucker! They’re gone! I knew I should’ve taken it this morning. I blew it. I fucking blew it! Goddamit! I gambled with time and lost. I waited too long. Why did I wait? I should’ve distracted that Dale dude earlier this morning and hauled off with the gold. I could be sitting in Raleigh right now with over a million dollars in gold! In my house! Instead, I’m in this nasty, insect-infested, hot-ass junkyard with nothing. Zilch. Nada. David, how in the world could you misplay this so badly? I’ll be haunted by this for the rest of my life. How did I let this happen? I got overcautious, hesitated, tipped my hand, and lost. I lost out bigtime! Dumb, David. Very fucking dumb!
David slammed the trunk door shut. He looked up at the fair-weather cumulus clouds. The air was as hot as a blast furnace, but there was no gold ore for the infernal sun to smelt.
He looked down at some aphid-covered weeds and started analyzing the less-than-ideal situation. Maybe this isn’t over.
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It’s a safe bet that only one of two people has the gold: Dale or Gerald. Wait, maybe they cut a deal together. No, Dale would want it all and wouldn’t tell Gerald. Dale’s not the sharing type. It was his chance to best his boss and happily move away. I think I can safely rule out Gerald; he arrived just within the hour. But, why does Gerald not want me to buy the whole car for that inflated price? Why? Because he knows something is up. Dale’s behavior or what he said must have got his suspicion up. He knows that I saw something of high value in that car, and he will soon know that I know that it is now gone when I rescind my offer.
A ladybug was now crawling up the weed stalk, heading towards a couple of aphids. I wonder if they can share this weed. Will they go to war over it? Will one of them have to die?
David turned and looked at the attic window. I bet Dale was watching me the whole time. He probably saw me gawking at something in the trunk. He was up there on the porch looking at me. And when he wasn’t on the porch, he was probably observing me from some secret vantage point –
that dark-tinted attic window. Maybe Dale acted odd or nervous when Gerald asked him about me and the trunk door. Maybe that was the tip-off for Gerald. Hell, Gerald’s probably watching me right now. I may even be on camera.
Maybe Dale watched me discover the gold from some hidden camera. What a major fucking blunder! It was right there. Right there. You had it in your hands, David! It was right in your very hands! You blew it, boy! You most astonishingly blew it. What a life-haunting blunder this will be.
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David looked back towards the house-office, trying to settle his heart rate. Yeah, Gerald’s probably observing me right now from that darkened attic window. Gosh, it’s so damn dark; it’s practically opaque black. It’s their main surveillance perch. Has to be. Why else would it be tinted? Yep, I’m sure that’s where they watch people on this side of the junkyard. I bet Dale got curious. When I left, I bet he ran down here and checked out the trunk. Voilà! We have a winner! He then put the gold in his vehicle and hauled it away. It’s probably in his vehicle or in his house right now. I need to figure out where he lives. I need Dale’s last name.
David walked back to the house-office, trying to hide his dejection. He wasn’t sure if he was succeeding. He entered the living room-office and took a seat on the couch. Gerald was still in the desk chair. I wonder if he was really sitting there the whole time. I sincerely doubt it.
“I think I’ll just buy the trunk door, Gerald.” A most interesting change of mind.
“What happened, David? Did you see some rust inside the trunk? Or, was it Jimmy Hoffa?” Gerald peered over the green banker’s lamp and gave him a contrived grin.
“No, nothing like that. I just need to be practical. Money’s tight. All I really need is that trunk door.” David thought that he sounded believable.
“How much are you willing to pay?” Gerald inquired with a roll of the eyes. Well, now we both know that we’re just going through the motions.
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“How about one-fifty if you remove it for me. I forgot to bring my tools.” That’s quite a lowball offer, and he knows it, but I’ll accept it just to get his ass out of here.
“Deal. You got it, buddy. I’ll go out there now and take it off.
You can cool your heels in here. It should only take fifteen minutes, tops. Just relax. You’ve driven a long way.” For nothing! Nothing but mental trauma of epic proportions.
“Ok, thanks,” David replied, trying to mask his crestfallen state of mind. At least I’ve scored a replacement trunk door –
my consolation prize. Hell, he should give it to me for free.
Well, I’ve still got a hot date later with Chantelle. Unless she cancels. Dammit, this is not over. Stay positive. Be smart.
C’mon, David, outwit these fools.
David looked out the window behind the desk. He watched Gerald disappear into the rows of wrecked motor vehicles, carrying just a small, red, top-handled toolbox. I wonder how much Gerald knows. I’d love to be able to read his thoughts.
What a mind match this is.
David scanned the top of the desk. He saw a salvage title, several automobile registration cards, some insurance papers, and a stack of unopened mail – all bills.
Then in the right-front corner under a white McRonald’s bag, he saw two card holders. There were over a dozen dusty, stained, yellowing-from-age business cards in each holder for both men: Gerald Zowen and Dale Smite. Ah, perfect!
Maybe my luck is changing for the better. Hell, it couldn’t have gotten any worse. Time to rebound and make a clever comeback.
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He snagged two of each. Then he put the fast-food paper bag back where it had been.
David then examined the contents of the trashcan. The only items in it were an empty package of strawberry-flavored bubble gum, red clumps of the already-been-chewed gum, a banana peel, a crumpled Mountain Zoo soft-drink can, and a wadded-up piece of paper. He un-wadded the piece of notepaper and read Dale’s message that he had posted on the door earlier. So, Mr. Opportunistic hauled the gold over to his house shortly after I left this morning. The gold is somewhere on Dale’s property, I bet. I just know it is.
Gerald returned in only thirteen minutes with trunk door in hand. David gave him eight twenty-dollar bills.
“You can keep the extra,” David said.
“Why, thank you, sir,” Gerald said while exhaling. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Yeah, I bet it has. How often does a customer tip you off to a million-dollar jackpot that was on your own premises, and is now in your associate’s possession? He’s just way too cool acting. He knows about the gold. I’m sure of it. Though, I’m not sure that he knows how much there is, but Dale sure does. I would still bet the farm that Dale has all of it at his house. In which room?
“I hope that Ford Focus turns out to be a real financial winner for you, Gerald,” David proclaimed after a tense pause. A little parting jab for ya, Gerald. / What a smug smart-ass.
“Oh, I think it already has, David.” Well, that cinches it.
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David caught Gerald’s eye. The three-second staredown was almost input overload for each man’s brain, as both of them were fast-processing the nuances of each other’s expression. White smoke was almost coming out of their ears. Gerald is content with how this has gone down; he got the information he needed by my actions and statements.
But, I got good info, too. He’s planning something. I can feel it in his eyes. He’d give me that trunk door for free just to get me the hell off his lot. He’ll be having a talk with Dale very soon. I’m sure of it. / I almost feel sorry for this techie.
Almost. Enjoy the drive back to Raleigh, David. Close, but no cigar, amigo. Wait, will he really go back to Raleigh? Will he be hanging around? Maybe so. Must stay cautious. He may be scheming already.
“Well, I guess I’ll be heading back now.” I wonder if Gerald believes me. / Good riddance, millennial. Get the fuck lost! I got what I needed from you, tech-boy. Now, don’t let the front gate hit your rear bumper.
“Ok, I’ll put that trunk door in your trunk. Hey, in all my time in this business, I don’t think I’ve ever said that.” Gerald chuckled somewhat awkwardly. Hasta la vista, David. I got business to attend to with my dishonest associate. Happy travels and sappy travails. / So amusing. Not!
David just smiled at him. We’re both total fucking liars, and we both know it. David looked at his car. “Let me get the trunk open for you, Gerald.”
He got in his car and pulled the trunk-release lever. The dented trunk door popped open. Gerald placed the salvaged 170
trunk door inside the like-new-empty trunk and closed the dinged-to-hell trunk door.
David then started the engine, backed up, and drove off, never looking at Gerald. What a weirdly and utterly dispiriting half-hour that was. But, it’s not over. Not by a longshot. /
Must keep my wits about me. David may be lurking.
Gerald watched David’s car until it disappeared on Shipyard Boulevard. I hope that’s the last I see of him. Dale will be much easier to deal with. I’m going to squeeze him for the new location of that gold. The vise man is coming, Dale! I’m going to get you to cough it up, one way or another. I’m going to get that gold from you, you good-for-nothing thief!
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Dale was sitting at his large, round, oak kitchen table, eating a bowl of Manhattan-style clam chowder soup for lunch when his cell phone rang. It was Gerald. He accidentally knocked over the dill-weed spice bottle while answering the call.
“Hello Dale.” It’s showtime! Buckle up. Here we go.
“Hello boss. How did it go with David? Did he buy the whole car for a nice price?” Remember, play dumb. / Yeah, right.
“No, he only bought the trunk door.” Imagine that.
“Oh, wow. What could have changed his mind, boss?” Dale was testing the waters. Gerald was already enraged. The removal of the gold from trunk, you coy fucking asshole!
“Maybe something was missing,” Gerald sternly announced.
Dale could hear Gerald’s teeth gnashing. Oh, boy.
“One sec, boss. The water on the stove is boiling.” Oh, shit!
Did David tell him that there was gold in that trunk five hours ago? No, he’s not that stupid. That would be a no-winner for him. Well, maybe Gerald would give him a reward for being honest. But, would he really believe him? I doubt it. I bet that David still has designs on trying to get all of the gold for himself. I’ve obviously still got to watch out for him. Wait, did Gerald know that there was gold in the trunk before David arrived? That makes no sense, either. If he knew that there was gold in that wrecked car’s trunk, he never would’ve entertained a possible sale of the whole car. Heck, Gerald would have removed that gold long before David discovered 172
it. He wouldn’t have left it in there for more than an hour.
And, no way would he let those gold nuggets sit in there overnight on that lot. Even with the dogs, he loses car parts monthly to nighttime fence-hoppers. No, Gerald must just sense that something of high value was in the trunk.
After a long, uneasy pause, Dale muttered, “Maybe so.” Ok, here we go. / Maybe? The worthless lying mother-fucker!
“I think that you know what was missing, Dale. You took it, didn’t you?” How in the world does he know that I took the gold out of the trunk? How? Did David really come clean and tell Gerald that there was a shitload of gold in the trunk of that white Ford Focus, and that’s why he wanted to buy the whole car? Would David really tell Gerald that? I just can’t imagine him doing that. No way.
“Took what?” The moment of truth has arrived.
“The fucking GOLD, you bastard! How much was there?
Stop lying to me, you fucking thief!” Gerald was shouting with an incendiary rage. Oh my God, David did tell him!
They’re both working against me now as a team. I guess they plan to split it if they ever get their greedy hands on it.
Good luck with that, fellas. Neither one of you will ever find it.
But, why is he asking me ‘how much’? Did David not give him an estimate? Maybe Gerald does not trust the amount that David told him.
Dale tried to recompose himself. “Gold? There was gold in that white Ford Focus? You must be kidding me, boss.” Dale stammered out the syllables, trying his best to sound like he 173
was shocked and completely oblivious to the whole scenario.
That dumb-ass is just playing dumb. I’ll show him.
“Stop it! Just freaking stop it! Stop it right now! Stop lying to me, Dale, and start listening to me. Listen closely to me. I know that the value of the gold must be at least ten thousand dollars. And that’s the rock-bottom minimum. My guess is that its worth is over fifty thousand dollars, maybe considerably more by the way David was acting, and by the way you are acting right now!” Ah, so David didn’t tell him how much gold was in that trunk; he didn’t even give him a ballpark figure. That’s kind of strange. Gerald really has no idea that the gold’s value is over a million dollars.
“Ok, I’m listening, boss.” I could care less what he says.
Gerald continued. “Listen, Dale, we can split it. You can have sixty percent.” He wants to cut a deal with me? A three-way deal, including David? He’ll take just twenty percent?
Totally bizarre. And totally unbelievable. This is confusing as hell. But, ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Just meaningless spoken words. / He better wise up and do what I say.
“How much of a cut will you and David get?” Let’s just play along and see what he divulges.
“David will get nothing! Not a fucking dime!” What?! Nothing for David? Such loyalty and sharing among thieves. / How stupid is he? Why should I give David anything?
“Will David come after us, boss?” Dale asked, feigning interest in Gerald’s proposal. If he does, I’ll frame you, Dale.
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“Hell no. He’s out of the picture now.” Did Gerald already kill David and hide his body? Buried under a wrecked car?
“Oh, really?” Just hear his ludicrous plan out.
“Listen, listen, listen. I can get it sold for us. I know the right people; you don’t. You’ll get questioned and busted trying to sell it.” Bullshit, boss!
“Oh.”
“Listen to me, Dale, and listen closely. With me, you’ll get clean, crisp, untraceable cash.” And a bullet in the back of my head.
“Ok …”
“You’ll have no worries. None whatsoever.” Yeah, right, boss. I’m just so sure that I can trust you.
Dale tried to audibly mask his complete non-interest in Gerald’s proposal. He continued to play along. “Boss, are you sure about that? It sounds so risky. I don’t want you to go to jail. Do you really trust these people? How well do you know them?” Just stop already, you idiot.
“Listen, please fucking listen to me. I will take the goddam risk. All of it. I know how to do this. Don’t worry about me.”
Believe me, I wasn’t.
Dale paused for a moment . I need to throw him a test question – something that will elicit an answer indicating if he knows the type of gold I have. He coughed and then asked his ingenious ruse-of-a-question:
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“Boss, can they buy all twelve gold class rings at one time?”
“I found gold flakes in the trunk underneath the spare tire. I know it’s not a dozen fourteen-carat class rings, you fucking wiseacre!” Ah-ha! Muchas gracias for that information, Gerald. You have no idea of how much gold I have, nor do you know the shape or form of it … and you never will, boss-ass.
Dale hung up the phone. He had got what he wanted. And Gerald did, too, to a lesser degree.
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David drove into historic downtown Wilmington. The area had really become a desirable place to live over the past couple of decades. Most of the century-old houses had now been refurbished. The large, mature, deciduous trees shaded the yards and streets, providing some relief from the scorching sun.
David was heading north on Front Street, his mind momentarily lost in the greenery. After crossing Orange Street, he saw a sign for The Stammering Man Inn on his right. This B&B should do the trick. Most everything is walkable from here. Maybe I can come up with a good strategy here.
He pulled in and parked. It was 2:43 PM. He got a nice room with a large soft bed. He laid his fatigued body down and was out for nearly two hours. The nap eased some of his golden frustration. His mind felt recharged when he awoke. I need a new plan. Remove your dunce cap and put on your thinking cap, numbskull. We can still do this. Think! Think up a new stratagem. You’re not battling rocket scientists.
However, David’s mind drifted back to Chantelle. He pulled the register tape paper out of his wallet. I wonder if the number she gave me is a cell phone or land line. It’s got to be a cell number. Does anyone I know even have a land line?
He glanced out the street-side window. An orange-shirted cyclist sped by. Did I see that guy somewhere else today?
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He then began composing a text to Chantelle. Jeez, what should I say? I don’t want to give away too much information at first. Who knows who may see it? I’ll just assume that she has a boyfriend. I’ll keep it generic and prosaic. He typed: Looking forward to your suggestions.
He mashed the Send key. Who knows? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe I can even use her in my ploy to recover that gold.
David didn’t have to wait long for a reply. Four minutes later he received her text:
I want to taste one of those condoms.
Wowzeroni! Ok, I already know how this night will end.
He was already popping a rod. Down, boy. Not yet.
Three and a half minutes later, David returned fire with: Want to have dinner first?
Just a minute later his cell phone was chirping with Chantelle’s answer:
Sure! Where?
This seems to be going too good. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be like the gold in that trunk at crunch time: nowhere to be found.
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David hunted and pecked his reply: We can start at my hotel. I’m at The
Stammering Man Inn on Front Street
in downtown Wilmington. After you
pass Orange Street, it’s on the right.
See you at 7:30?
Ten minutes went by with no return text from Chantelle. At the fifteen-minute mark, his head was whirling in a world of doubt. Was my cologne that bad? Did my deodorant fail so completely in this sauna-like heat? Can she still smell my ripeness from ten miles away? Or, maybe she got cold feet.
Maybe she just likes the thrill of the fantasy. It’s understandable. A young lady has to be careful in this day and age. Hell, I could be some rapist-killer for all she knows.
But then, 17 minutes and 17 seconds later, her reply came in:
Sure! I’l see you then and there.
Oh, sorry for the delay. I had a rush.
The girl’s got game. She’s got spunk. She’s daring. She’ll be perfect. Damn, I forgot that she is actually at a cash register, ringing up customers. I’m lucky that I got any text responses from her at all. That is one busy Wally World in the summer, overrun by beach tourists. Myself, excepted, of course. He chuckled.
David composed his final text to Chantelle in this initial exchange and sent it. It read:
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No problem, Chantelle. This should be an unforgettable, magical night.
No reply came back. He just assumed that she was busy at work with a long line. And when he re-read his last text, he realized that it didn’t prompt a return volley.
David propped some of the frilly throw pillows under his arms and flipped on his laptop computer. He was able to pick up the inn’s wireless signal. Yes!
He immediately went to Google and ran a search on the keywords: Dale Smite, Wilmington, New Hanover County, NC. He saw a green lizard watching him from the exterior window sill.
Three hits came back. One guy lived at Wrightsville Beach.
That’s not him. That real estate’s way too expensive for him.
Another guy lived in Castle Hayne. No, that’s way too far away. The note said that he could be back in just fifteen minutes. He must live within two miles of the junkyard.
The third Dale Smite lived at 2393 Van Buren Street in Sunset Park. He entered the address on Google Maps.
That’s him! Got ya, pal! Game on! Van Buren Street? What are the chances? Mark and Susan must be pulling and plucking the strings with the gods about now.
David glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was 5:18. I’ve got time to drive by Dale’s house. The drive will relax me and take some of the first-date edge off. Sure, let’s 180
drive down to the gold thief’s abode. Just do a preliminary drive-by for now.
<><><>
David entered the century-old Sunset Park neighborhood via Northern Boulevard, noticing the twin old brick pergolas on opposite corners. Were they bus stop shelters? Where did the roofs go? Did they rot away? Why am I even thinking about this?
When he reached Van Buren, he turned left. Well, Mark and Susan, I hope I’m on the golden street. He slowly passed by the house with the black, plastic, 5-inch-tall numerals 2-3-9-3
on the tan, wooden, horizontal-slat siding. Bingo!
Two vehicles were in the driveway: Dale’s burgundy minivan and Gerald’s red Caddy. The bastards are probably dividing up the spoils of their coup. Maybe I should charge in there.
No, I’d just get shot. I’ll give these two loons some more time to hang themselves. I’ll get that gold back. Just need to stay smart. Stay cool. I just need to think clearly.
When David was almost past the house, he tooted his horn.
He saw the living room curtains move. Gerald was peering out. David winked at him, rounded the corner onto Southern Boulevard and sped away. Hello, boys! I know where you are. What will you do now? Call the police? Come chase me? Shoot at me? Bring it. Let’s get both of you in jail by sundown.
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David took Burnett Boulevard and South Front Street – the back way – to return to his lodgings. He checked his rear-view mirror often. Neither of the two vehicles was following him. He made it back safely.
<><><>
He took a shower and prepared for Chantelle’s arrival. He switched on the 6:00 local news. He missed the first few minutes; it was 6:03 PM.
A stylish, female, Asian American reporter was interviewing a large, black, profusely sweating lady on Van Buren Street at the house next-door to Dale’s. There were three Wilmington Police Department cruisers and a New Hanover County ambulance behind her. What the hell is going on?
What happened? Did Gerald shoot Dale, or vice versa?
“Ma’am, what did you hear?” the reporter asked.
“I heard three gunshots. Boom-boom-boom. I could tell it wasn’t fireworks. No way. It was gunshots. I knew something bad had happened.” The lady was emphatic.
“What time did you hear the gunshots?”
“It was probably about a quarter to six. Yeah, five forty-five. I remember looking at my watch.” Damn, I just missed it. Did my drive-by provoke it? Which one got shot? Has the other one been arrested?
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“Did you know this neighbor?” Did? Past tense? What the fuck! Did Gerald really kill Dale?
“I didn’t really know him. I just know that his wife died a couple of years ago. He kept to himself.” Wow, Dale is dead.
Gerald killed him. What a malicious asshole!
“Thanks for your time, ma’am,” the reporter said as she closed the interview.
The white, middle-aged, gray-haired, male news anchor then asked the reporter a question: “Cindy, has the murder suspect been arrested?”
“No, Stephen, the suspect is at-large.” So, Gerald’s on the run.
“Do they have a description of the suspect?”
“Yes, they do. He’s Caucasian, in his late 50s, of average build, around six-feet tall, with fading-brown-to-gray, collar-length hair. Wait just a second, Stephen; I’m getting some more information from the police.”
A dark-uniformed city police officer hands Cindy a note card.
She nods to him. She then looks back at the camera.
“His name is Gerald Zowen. He was last seen driving a red, 1976, Cadillac – the Sedan de Ville model. The victim’s name is Dale Smite. He lived in the house behind me, which is 2393 Van Buren Street. He was pronounced dead by the 183
paramedics before being placed in the ambulance.” I’ll make sure you do time, douchebag. We all want that gold, but it belongs to none of us. Try to outsmart the guy who has it, dipshit; don’t shoot him. At least not at his home. Killing someone with a handgun – without a silencer – in their own house with your own registered vehicle in the guy’s driveway, in broad daylight, while kids were out playing in the street, while neighbors were out doing yard work …
Dumb, incredibly dumb, dude. You just lost the gold game.
You deserve to suck on the hydrogen cyanide gas pipe.
The anchorman was back on the TV screen. “Thanks for that on-the-scene report, Cindy. Folks, if you see the suspect’s vehicle, call 911. Don’t try to intervene yourself. This individual is armed and dangerous. Let the police handle it.
Any further developments will be brought to you as soon as they occur. We’ll be the first to tell you. So, keep it right here on Channel 8 News.”
A commercial came on, and David began to mindlessly channel surf while thinking about the events of the past half-hour. So, Gerald killed Dale in cold blood. Three shots.
Bang-bang-bang. Probably at close range. Probably head shots. Probably in a fit of rage. Did my drive-by and horn-toot quickly set off a fatal chain of events? Did it signal something in Gerald’s mind? Did he think that Dale and I were working as a team? That I somehow hoodwinked him at the salvage yard? I bet Dale was being interrogated at gunpoint by Gerald. And, I bet Dale wasn’t talking. That’s why he was still there at five forty-five. He probably rushed over to Dale’s house right after I left the lot. He had probably been 184
questioning him with a revolver in his face for over three hours. I’m sure Dale was playing dumb. He didn’t believe that Gerald would really give him most, half, or any of the gold once he had it in his possession. He would take all of it and kill him. He wasn’t going to share it with anyone. Dale was going to lose either way. Dale knew he was in a desperate situation. He was probably just hoping that someone would come to the house and ring the doorbell. A knock on the door to change the dynamics in that living room. Maybe Gerald told him that he would keep him under house arrest all night if need be. He would get his captured canary to sing. He was starting to wear Dale down, I bet. He was using street-smart hardball psychology that only a veteran junkyard owner could know and employ. He had probably threatened to turn Dale over to the police for some bogus trumped-up reason if he didn’t spill the beans on the gold’s exact location. I bet that was what was going on.
Enhanced interrogation. Gerald probably wasn’t up to waterboarding him just yet. But, did Dale crack just before Gerald shot him? Did he tell Gerald where he hid the gold?
Did Gerald then gather up the gold fillets, put them in his truck and leave? But, if he shot Dale right after he talked, the neighbors would have seen him going to his truck with a box, crate or some other container. Hey, I could ask some of the neighbor-witnesses if Gerald left the house with anything in his hands. They would know if he left with those golden boomerangs. I must interview them before their memory fades. Wait, I’m not the one to interview them – Cindy Santos, the news reporter – she’s the one to interview them.
I’ll e-mail a tip to her.
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David flipped back to channel 8. The sportscaster was extremely animated, flapping his arms about in his red-stripes-on-black blazer. “Can you believe that bogus call, folks? The umpire called him out! Wilmington would’ve won that game in the bottom of the 11th if we could’ve got a fair call.” David turned the volume down, way down.
He entered Channel 8’s URL and looked over their website.
In the Contact section he found Cindy Santos’ e-mail address. Wow, should I really do this? I could easily end up getting questioned by the police. So, what? What have I done wrong? Nothing. Nada. Have I done anything illegal?
No. This is my chance to confirm that over a million dollars in gold is still on Dale’s property, either in his house, in the shed, or buried in the yard somewhere. It’s time to go bold or go home.
David clicked on the hotlink and began to compose a brief tip for the reporter.
Hello Cindy,
I just saw your report on the 6:00 PM
broadcast regarding the apparent murder
on Van Buren Street. Excellent work.
However, you may want to go back and
ask those witnesses whether or not they
saw the suspect, Gerald Zowen, putting
a box, sack, or large container into his
Cadillac. I think this murder was over
money. Stolen cash, perhaps. I say
this because I was at Gerald’s Shipyard
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Boulevard Auto Salvage earlier today.
I bought a car part from him. He was
complaining furiously about how he was
sure that his assistant, Dale Smite, had
ripped him off. He kept saying that a very
large wad of cash was missing from the safe, and that he was going to get even
with whomever took it, and that Dale was
his prime suspect. Well, just thought that
I would pass this along to you. Maybe you
can use this tip to get an exclusive. I hope
so. Continued success.
All the best,
David
He actually hoped he would get to meet her someday. She was cute and smart. She could play an important part; her investigative skills and tools could surely and sorely be used in the near future.
David clicked Send. It was gone, launched one-way into the great cyber-ether. What have I done? Have I lost my mind?
I’m now involved in a murder investigation. That’s fine. I’m totally innocent. But, I’ve lied about the lead-up to the murder. Well, not really. Cash is what we all hope to convert the gold into at some point. But, it wasn’t Gerald’s or anyone else’s. The e-mail makes Dale look like maybe he deserved to get plugged; it insinuates that he was a thief. Well, he was no angel, either. He’s dead now, anyway. His mouth has stopped moving. As for Gerald, he deserves to swing from a hemp rope necklace under a tall oak tree. Just keep your 187
mettle, boy. Stay steady. You can surely answer fifteen minutes of benign police questions in return for a million dollars of golden information.
He flipped to the channel that showed the channel line-up with all the shows that were currently on or soon to air. The audio for the channel was light mood music. Sarah Vaughan was singing the Mancini classic, A Slow Hot Wind. “… there in the shade …” Yes, there in the shade … somewhere is the gold. Lying. Waiting. For me.
David changed the TV station back to channel 8. It was 6:28.
Cindy Santos was back on the screen. She was still on Van Buren Street, standing in front of Dale’s house. A Breaking News banner was being projected on the top of the screen, just above her long, straight, jet-black hair.
“We have just learned that the suspect in this homicide, Gerald Zowen, has been taken into custody. Police barricaded his car in a parking lot near Market Street and Kerr Avenue several minutes ago. No one was hurt during the arrest.” Cindy Santos announced the update like a seasoned pro. Hooray, they’ve already got the lousy son of a bitch! Didn’t quite go as planned, did it, Gerald? You’ll have plenty of time to think about your misplay. Lotsa time. You can play tic-tac-toe on the concrete walls in your six-by-eight cell. One fine day, which may be very soon, you’ll place an X
in both upper corners and an O in the middle square, and you’ll be an incarcerated artist looking at your self-portrait.
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He went to the small refrigerator and grabbed an El Hefe, a seasonal beer from Front Street Brewery. I hope she likes these.
David then closely studied the beer bottle’s label. Wow, this is über-kitsch! These microbreweries sure have got some imagination. I guess you need it when you’re trying to get some shelf space in a cooler dominated by the big dogs.
He sat back in the armchair and watched the national news.
Jeez, when did Peter Jennings die? What year was that?
2007? Or, was it 2006? [It was 2005.]
He heard a faint bell sound. His laptop had received an email. Has Cindy already replied to my non-anonymous tip? I wonder if she checked me out on Facebook. David had already checked out Cindy’s page, and had noticed that she was single.
While making his way over to the bed to retrieve the laptop, another train of thought entered his head. What if it’s the police? What if they want to question me right away? What if they want to know where I am? What will I tell Chantelle?
He grabbed the laptop and walked back to the armchair with considerable trepidation. He clicked on Inbox. Whew! He breathed a big sigh of relief. The e-mail was from Cindy.
Hi David,
Thanks for the tip and the compliment.
None of the witnesses saw Gerald
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Zowen leave Dale Smite’s house with anything in his hands.
Still very busy with this story.
Thanks,
Cindy Santos
Channel 8 News
He read her brief e-mail another time. And then another. The gold is somewhere on that lot – somewhere on that eighth-of-an-acre parcel. I can feel it; it’s there. It may be in the house. It may be in the shed. It may be buried in that loamy sand. I really doubt that it’s still in Dale’s car. However, I need to be able to rule it out. How can I – or someone else –
search Dale’s car? Hell, the police have probably already searched it, or soon will. It’s probably already impounded.
How could I find out the results? Would Cindy know?
Probably. Couldn’t I just ask her if anything of consequence was found in either vehicle? I could wait until tomorrow before e-mailing her again. I don’t want to appear like ‘that’
guy who always thinks he’s a master detective after every crime story is presented on TV. These reporters must get barraged with useless tips and false leads for scoops. If I wait until tomorrow, say about lunch time, the police would’ve gone through Gerald’s Cadillac, too. That’s when I could ask Cindy about both cars’ contents. We’ll just sleep on it tonight.
David looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red LED numerals asserted 6:59. Chantelle’s getting off work about now. I bet her thing is something else. Calm down, boy!
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He walked over to the dresser and found the pack of chocolate-flavored condoms in the plastic grocery bag. He opened the box and placed two condoms under the right pillow and one in his left-front pants pocket. All prepared for tunneling operations. When I put one of these on, she may very well think I’m her black ex-boyfriend. Well, except for the length. Ha!
He
actually
laughed
aloud.
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