Gold, a summer story [11th edition] by Mike Bozart - HTML preview
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“Oh, come on now.”
“No, really. Just you.”
“Well, I mean it, princess. Say, is your car unlocked?”
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“Absolutely not.” I wouldn’t leave that car unlocked for a second. Where’s his brain? Down there again, I’m sure.
“Can I borrow your keys?”
“Will you be back by ten?” Chantelle asked, trying to sound like a concerned mom.
“Ok, you sure are in a funny way this evening.” She’s in a great mood. This is going to be a great few days.
Chantelle gave David the keys to her car. He went outside and spritely retrieved the gold-filled plastic bag with the towel around it, and came back inside. He then handed the keys back to Chantelle while grinning hysterically, feeling higher than an over-inflated weather balloon.
“I’ll be back in just a minute. In fact, why don’t you come up with me?” David then motioned for her to follow him up a flight of wooden steps.
“Is that where you finally kill me?” She looked up the stairway. “In your attic.” Chantelle put on the mock-frightened face.
“Will you stop that? I am not ever going to harm you. Wait, let’s reverse this. I haven’t strip-searched you yet. I bet this is where you off me – in my own house. And then, you drive back to Wilmington with all the gold for yourself. Did I guess it correctly?”
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Chantelle just frowned at him. Then they walked up to the attic storeroom, Chantelle behind David. I love that white-boy ass.
Once inside the sweltering storeroom, David laid down the larger gold fillet near the scale and switched on the lamp.
Chantelle’s eyes were wide open.
“Wow, you’ve already started,” Chantelle said while staring at the line of gold ingots.
“Yeah, the crucibles came this morning and I already had the other items. I was anxious to get started. It’s really not that hard. We can start again tomorrow morning. It’s too hot up here now. The air conditioning from my office and the floor fan can’t keep this area cool after two o’clock. The attic is coolest around eight in the morning.”
“Eight sounds great!”
“I’ve heard that line somewhere,” David said with his lips pushed out, looking like an over-animated duck.
“Stop, you’re quacking me up, David,” Chantelle said with a laugh that emanated from somewhere in the Greater Antilles.
“You must be hungry,” David said while making his way back down the stairs.
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Chantelle followed him. “Yes, I guess I could go for a few solid-carbohydrate calories after those liquid-protein ones.
But, just a few.”
“Don’t worry, skinny girl; you won’t get fat.”
They walked into the kitchen. David leaned against the countertop, next to the sink. Chantelle took up residence next to the stainless-steel stove. She studied it.
“Nice range, dude. We could just eat here,” Chantelle suggested, as if she had had a moment of Eureka!
“We could. I have plenty of food in the fridge and freezer.
But, don’t you want to show off your dress in a restaurant?”
“I only want to show off my dress to you, David.”
“Thanks. I feel so honored and so lucky, sweetie.” David walked over and kissed her on the lips. Their tongues searched each other’s mouths. Their hands began to wander. David suddenly stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Chantelle asked, quite surprised.
“Let’s cook and eat now, so I can eat you all night. I need some calories, too, doll.” Doll? That was sweet.
“Ok, sure. No problem, bone boy.” Bone boy? Where did she come up with that? I’m not ‘that’ thin.
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“You certainly have a way with the English language, Chantelle.”
“Do you like my phrases?”
“I love them. Don’t stop. I love your linguistic creativity.
You’re going to be an awesome writer someday, Chantelle.”
“Berci moucoup, sonmieur.” [dyslexic French for ‘Thank you very much, mister.’]
“Scrambled Français?”
“Yes, oui, sí.” [yes in French; yes in Spanish] Yes, we see(?)
“Ok, stop it; you’re killing me,” Chantelle said as she raised her right hand.
They both laughed and began to cook a baked ziti dish.
Chantelle grabbed an assortment of spices from David’s wooden rack.
“We are gonna make it manje kreyòl [Haitian creole] style, mon ami,” Chantelle announced while sprinkling various peppers, thyme, parsley, garlic and green onions into the sauce.
“Sounds good to me, girlfriend.” Wow, he called me
‘girlfriend’ again. I love that.
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Soon they were devouring the delicious Haitian-spiced pasta dish. They split a bottle of Chianti.
“Do you feel different now, Chantelle?”
“A little tipsy-toodle,” she replied while rocking her head.
David laughed. “No, I mean do you feel different knowing that you will soon have over five hundred thousand dollars to play with?”
“Not really. I guess that it hasn’t hit me yet.” But, it’s very close.
“What do you plan on doing with the money, boyfriend?” Ah, very nice, Chantelle. Sounds genuine.
“I really just want to be mortgage-free with no car payment. I hate being in debt to anyone for any amount. I’ll put some of it in safe investments. Maybe use some for a bio-tech project. I’ll actually hide most of it in this house. It won’t earn any interest, but at least it’s where I can get to it fast, and where the government or some lawyer can’t get at it. I’ll keep my lab-tech gig, unless it starts to drive me nuts. I won’t be going on some big spending spree or world tour. I won’t be buying a Maserati or a Ferrari. That’s just not me. Plus, it’s really not that much money when you divide it out over thirty years. Lottery winners often squander away much higher amounts in less than five years.” Good, he’s not going to be foolish.
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“Well, what about you, sexy lady?”
“Well, I’d buy a modest house for my mother in Wilmington.
Or, maybe a small condo, as she’s too old to maintain a yard. I’d give some to my brother to help him pay for college.”
“You are very generous. I like that. How would you like to finish school at Cape Fear and then live here? Or, how about transfer to Wake Tech right now?”
“Are you asking me to move in with you, hip-star?” Hip star?
She’s nonstop.
“I guess I am, mademoiselle,” [‘an unmarried lady’ in French]
David said as he tilted his head towards her.
“Could I write my novel in your upstairs office?”
“Absolutely. I’ll stay out of your way. I know that writers need space – time alone. I know that it’s a solitary craft.”
“Well, that seems like an offer this girl can’t refuse.”
“You could even transfer to the Super Wally World off Wake Forest Road – until you become famous – it’s only three miles from the house.”
“You’re making this decision so easy.”
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“Why make it hard?”
“Why, I’ll make it hard.” She winked at him.
David picked her up and brought her into the main bedroom and laid her down on his king-size, cherry-framed bed. King size, I knew it.
Foreplay was first and foremost. The dark-green bedspread was almost off the bed from all the angling, repositioning, and sliding.
David quickly erected a taut mast. His Viagra-fortified, non-collapsible tower was ready to go the distance. Bring it on, sexy lady. I’m all set for a long sail.
Chantelle condom-wrapped it, licked it, and slid her wet glove down on it. She rode him fast and hard, pounding his gonads with such a wild abandon that they would still ache the next day … and the next.
After eighteen minutes of full-throttle, shaft-sliding action, she slowed down and looked into his eyes. “You took a pill, didn’t you? Don’t lie to me, sausage dog.” Sausage dog? Ha!
David smiled. I knew he took something for his penis.
“Well, I’m still going to outlast you, sportsy,” Chantelle said as she went into overdrive. Seven minutes later, David couldn’t hold it any longer. When he thought of a boring July 294
baseball game, all he saw was an October World Series game, ending with a walk-off grand slam. It felt like he emitted a quart; he just hoped he didn’t rupture his latex-torpedo balloon.
After an exquisite post-coital nap, replete with dreams of floating golden faeries and impossible C-shaped golden mountain peaks, David went to the bathroom to remove his condom. There was blood on it. He was shocked. He removed it and went back to the bed.
He gently grabbed Chantelle’s right shoulder and shook it lightly. “Honey, honey …”
She looked at him, still not fully awake. Huh? Where am I?
“Chantelle, are you ok? You’re not hemorrhaging are you? I found blood on my condom.”
“No, it’s not that, my silly American loverboy. You just helped start my period, menstrual maestro.” Menstrual maestro? I can’t wait to read her novel.
<><><>
David awoke first at 6:46 AM. He looked over at Chantelle.
She was sleeping so peacefully. He imagined her sleeping in her hut in Haiti. Then he noticed that she had entered a rapid-eye-movement phase. What is she dreaming? If only I could know. If only …
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He started a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He found a bag of onion-and-garlic bagels and warmed one in the microwave.
I’ll just let her sleep. It’s the first day of her period. She’s not going to feel like doing much.
Chantelle entered the kitchen in a white bath robe at 7:17
AM. She was rubbing her eyes as she spied David.
“Good morning, stranger,” she said as she grabbed the maroon cup that David had set out for her. She poured herself some dark, black coffee and stirred in some raw-off-the-cane brown sugar.
“No cream?” David asked.
“No, your crème de la bitte [‘penis cream’ (semen) in French]
is enough for me.”
“You never miss an opening, do you, Chantelle?”
“Did you miss my opening last week?” Yow!
“Absolutely.” Hell yes! / I know he did.
“Ok, how many times did you whack off to my Facebook pics? It had better be a high number, mister.” Woah!
David just laughed. She was like no other female he had ever known. “Even more than that,” he finally blurted out to make her happy, hoping the topic would go away.
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“When do we go into production?” she asked.
“Are you ready now, dear?”
“First shift clocking in at the gold lab, sir.”
<><><>
In the attic storeroom, they were all business. They cranked out forty-four more one-ounce ingots and thirty-two two-ounce coins by noon.
“That should be enough for today, Chantelle. Thanks for all the help. We’ll start up again at eight o’clock tomorrow.”
“Are the ones from yesterday cool enough to touch?”
Chantelle asked, just to be safe.
“They are. Go ahead and grab a few to take back to Wilmington. Try to sell one at one of those ‘we buy gold’
outfits.”
“Should I start with a coin or ingot?”
“Try to sell a coin first. Tell them that it’s a rare coin from Romania, exact origin and minting date unknown. Tell them that a friend got it in Europe and gave it to you as a gift.” For what?
“You think that’s the best route?”
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“I do, based on what we know at this point. Heck, you may even get more than the going ounce rate. They may fall in love with the mysterious inscriptions on the coins; it may seduce the potential buyers. Tell them that you heard that the coin has a strange history. Embellish a tale. Pique their interest. Who knows? Next, try to sell an ingot at another jeweler or gold-buying outlet. When they ask where the gold in the ingot came from, just say that it came from a creek in the piedmont area, somewhere near Charlotte. Most jewelers in this state know that there was a lot of gold found in and around Charlotte. You won’t even be lying, most likely. Then compare your results. Just remember not to try to sell more than one bar on the initial visit.”
“Sell it in Wilmington? Are you kidding? I bet the police have already alerted the pawn shops, jewelers, and all other gold-buying businesses.” She’s right. Again.
“Wow, great point, Chantelle. I swear I’d be under the jail by now if not for you. You’re worth your weight in gold. Ok, triple that amount.”
“You mean, I’d be under the jail with you right now, if I didn’t think this through for us.”
“You’re right, you’re right. We can’t sell it in Wilmington or anywhere else in New Hanover County.” David thought for a few seconds about cities within a hundred miles of Raleigh.
“I hear your gears clanking.”
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“Is my thinking that loud?” He smiled.
“It looks like you may need some lube on your periscope,”
Chantelle said as she turned in her seat and grappled his package and began to orally service his account. She gave him another fantastic lip-sliding tongue lashing that he had come to expect. Man, I’m so spoiled by her.
Right when he was ready to burst, it came to him as it came to her.
“Fayetteville!” David exclaimed five nanoseconds after climax. “That large army base – Fort Bragg – is there. The soldiers are always bringing back coins and precious-metal trinkets from overseas for their significant others. When they find out that they’ve become insignificant others while abroad, they hock these items in the plethora of pawn shops that dot this town like chicken pox.”
“Fayetteville?” Chantelle asked while wiping her lips.
“Yes, that’s the town to hit, Chantelle. We’ll try our first sale in Fayetteville. They are used to seeing foreign gold coins and all kinds of gold ingot shapes. And, they’re quite accustomed to not knowing where the hell it came from or its purity. They’ve probably got metallurgists on call. Heck, most of them probably can test the gold’s purity themselves with electronic devices.”
“When do you want to go, Mr. Goldseller?” She never stops.
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“Let’s knock off early tomorrow. We can have the smaller fillet finished by eleven-thirty and leave at noon. It’s only sixty-nine miles away. We could be there in just over an hour if traffic isn’t too bad.” Sixty-nine miles? What a map freak he is. But, they’ll be no 69-ing on this outing. No, not this time.
Bloody, bloody. My red river flows heavily. I can feel it. I’ll keep his pecker massaged. I’ll make certain that he’ll never want to be without me.
“Sounds like a plan, my main man.” What did she just say?
Am I just her golden option?
“Is there another guy?” David asked with a stunned look. Is this where she finally tells me that I’m her number two? Who is my rival? ‘Show me my rival.’ Oh, that Steely Dan song is in my head now.
“Got you again. David, you are just too easy. C’mon, let me see you smile.” I always fall right into her mind traps. Thank God we’re on the same team.
David forced a ridiculous, clown-like smile. “I’m a happy boy.
Happy, happy, happy!” I hope he doesn’t go coo-coo on me.
Dear God, don’t let him go mad.
They wrapped up operations for the day and went back downstairs. They had now poured more than $300,000 worth of virtually pure gold into various molds. All was going well.
They were both very content, knocking on ecstatic. This is going better than I ever could have imagined. / This poor 300
Haitian girl sure has found the American dream – the golden American dream.
David didn’t even care that Chantelle was having her period during her visit to see him; he already preferred her oral service. He was addicted to her mouth: He loved the sage words that came off her tongue and he loved the other thing it could do, too.
They rented a romance-suspense movie and ate in again.
They had a glass of wine after dinner. Chantelle, who had taken a Pamprin, was out like a lamb by 10:10 PM. My girl sure was tired.
David started feeling anxious about tomorrow’s trip to Fayetteville. He kept looking at the old popcorn stucco ceiling until he saw patterns and letters. It was a cheap thrill that his mind had grown to love. Popcorn stucco ceilings always did this for him, ever since that peyote trip in the New River Gorge area of West Virginia ten years ago. The stucco ceiling in that cheap motel room off US 19 in Beckley seemed to be a sublime work of abstract art. It was like some astral hieroglyphic. There was a hyper-message in it. It was etched into his brain. He never looked at popcorn stucco ceilings the same way after that.
At 11:11 David’s mind gave in to the rising tide of sleep. It was a wave-less, deep azure, white-foam-striated, sea of tranquility.
<><><>
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The Tuesday morning routine was quite similar to the day before. Though, Chantelle suffered a minor, first-degree burn on her right index finger when she touched a tong that had not yet cooled. David got her some antiseptic dressing and a Band-Aid. He gave her a white, oblong Percocet that he had left over from a tooth extraction with a glass of Chardonnay.
After forty-five minutes, Chantelle didn’t even know that she had been burned.
They completely finished melting down and casting the smaller golden fillet into molds. The sixteen pound, seven-ounce nugget had been converted into 88 two-ounce coins and 87 one-ounce cube ingots.
<><><>
They were out of the driveway in the trunk-door-replaced Ford Focus at 11:13 AM. Most of the journey was interstate travel (I-40 East and I-95 South). They were quiet, both wondering how this would go.
They took Exit 56 for I-95 Business into Fayetteville.
“Well, here we go,” David announced as if they had just crossed the fabled Rubicon River. “I think we’ll be ok. At least we’re not in a murdered person’s backyard at night with a metal detector and a shovel.”
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“Yeah, David, we can do this. I’ll take one coin in.” Chantelle looked at the large, weighty, gold coin. Please be a magic coin! Please.
“Good deal, Chantelle. Text me with an asterisk if I shouldn’t come back and pick you up.”
“What? You’re going to drop me off and leave?” What a scaredy cat!
“You’ll do fine. The only thing I could do is bring unwanted suspicion and screw it up.” Gosh, he’s so paranoid and anxious. Yeah, he might, indeed, screw it up.
“Ok, fine; I’ll go in alone.” Good. I know that she’ll do better than me in there. And, the two of us in there … no … why, we might blurt out contradictory statements.
Soon they were on Bragg Boulevard. They spotted a gold-buying pawn shop on the right. They pulled into the parking lot. Chantelle got out with the gold coin in her purse.
“Wish me luck,” she requested as she started to walk towards the store’s front door. How difficult is it going to be converting these gold objects into cold, hard, green cash?
“You can do it, sweetie; you’ll do just fine,” David affirmed.
Nice vote of confidence. He’s so supportive. Well, of course he is – I’m his rock-to-cash conversion agent. / I sure hope that she does ok in there. Should I go in with her? No. Stick with the plan.
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David pulled out of the gravel lot, kicking up some dust. He began to cruise further up Bragg Boulevard, looking for other possible gold-sale spots.
<><><>
The man behind the jewelry counter looked very battle-hardened. Chantelle noticed deep creases in his face and fingers. There was a nasty scar on his right wrist. He had a silver crew cut with a streak of missing hair on the right side, just above his ear. Is that where he got slashed with a knife?
“How may I help you, miss?” he asked while looking down at some papers on the glass display case.
“I’d like to sell a gold coin that a friend got while he was in Europe. It’s been kept in a safe. No one has handled it.” She then handed the man the coin.
The no-nonsense-tolerated man behind the counter carefully examined it. Then he performed some tests on it with electricity and some chemical solution. It took less than two minutes. When he was through, he placed the unique coin on an electronic scale. He then looked up at Chantelle.
“Well, it’s damn near 100% pure gold, ma’am. It weighs 2.03
ounces. How much do you want for it?”
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Chantelle knew from the financial website that she had referenced earlier that the morning gold fix was $1,538 an ounce. “How about three thousand?”
“You got it. Deal. Just fill out this card. I’ll need to see some ID, too.” That was easy.
“Ok, thanks, sir.”
Chantelle filled out the little index card with her name, address, and phone number. She returned it to the veteran pawnshopper. [ sic] Hope this is sufficient.
He then cursorily checked her driver’s license. He nodded.
Then he threw the index card in a box.
“Would you have any more of these coins by chance, miss?”
he asked, seeming extremely interested in procuring many more.
“I actually have nine more. Could you buy that many?”
“I most certainly can. Just bring them all in and I’ll pay you in cash. Thirty thousand dollars. I’ll give you three hundred C-notes in a brown bag. Just be careful. I’ll cut you a check if you’d like, but then, I’ll only pay you twenty-nine thousand four hundred dollars.” A six-hundred-dollar deduction?! A 2%
check fee?! This guy is crooked as hell. I just hope that the money isn’t counterfeit. Please, not that.
“That’s ok. I’ll just take cash.”
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“The hundred-dollar bills are straight from the bank – crisp, uncirculated, and still in the wrappers.”
“Ok, I’ll be right back.”
Chantelle walked outside and called David. It was already very hot outside. She looked for some shade and walked to the north side of the building.
“So, how did it go in there?” David asked in a low, hushed voice.
“It’s going good. Great, in fact. No problem at all. Très facile.
[‘very easy’ in French] He’ll buy nine more coins for a total of thirty thousand dollars in brown-bagged cash.”
“Excellent. I’m just one minute from the lot.” Wow! Girl done good! VERY good! So glad that I met her. What were the chances? Why am I always thinking about probabilities?
<><><>
Chantelle went back into the pawn shop with nine more gold coins in her purse. She placed them in a 3 x 3 square on the display case top. I wonder where she really got these coins.
Hope they’re not stolen. No police alert about them. I think I’m ok. They’re pure gold. I can resell them for $3,300 each, easy.
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The man, his name was Ed, tested and weighed the nine gold coins. They all passed muster. He then told her that he would be right back with her money. He disappeared behind some swinging doors. Gosh, did he just run out the back door with our gold coins? No, he’s the real owner, I can tell.
He’ll be back … to kill me? Stop thinking such things, Chantelle. Relax, girl.
Five minutes later Ed emerged with a brown bag. He told her that it had been counted twice by his currency-counting machine, and that it was always accurate for the past three years. Moreover, the sale went down without a hitch, or a glitch.
She exited the store and sat in David’s car with the brown sack of cash on her lap. Wow, I did it! I didn’t slip up.
“Guess what’s in here?” she asked him while laughing.
“A lot of loot, I hope,” David said while pulling out of the dusty gravel lot.
Once they were back on I-95 Business, Chantelle opened the brown bag. David saw stacks of machine-wrapped, one-hundred-dollar bills. Wow, we finally converted some of this gold into cash. I was beginning to wonder if it was even possible. Goodbye car payment. I’ll let Chantelle take half of it back with her; she has certainly earned it. I just hope that she doesn’t go wild in the mall. People raised in poverty usually make horrible financial decisions once they have 307
money. And, I need to remember to mail a gold coin to Cindy. I doubt we would have anything if it weren’t for her tip.
“A lot of green in here, golden boy,” Chantelle said with a big smile. No shit! Holy cow!
“Wow, we’re in the money at last! Great work, Chantelle.
We’ll count it at my house. You can have half of it. I’m going to pay off my car loan. I really don’t know if I would’ve gotten this far without you.” You wouldn’t have, loverboy.
“Thanks so much, David. I’m really at a loss for words.”
She then leaned over and planted a big kiss on his right cheek. Life aint so bad … aint so bad at all.
“Well, we’re now at a point where fools get caught. Don’t deposit any of it in your banking account. And, don’t make any outlandish purchases.” Does he really think I’m that stupid?
“Don’t worry. I’m going to do the same thing. I owe about four thousand dollars on my car. I’ll pay it off with several money orders. I’ll buy some basic necessities for my mom and brother.”
“So smart. Wait, you mean you’re not going to buy sixty pairs of shoes at the mall?”
“Very funny, David.” She gave him a mocking laugh that sounded like a goat being strangled.
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<><><>
They were back in David’s driveway at 2:12 PM. It was another July scorcher in the Capital City. Damn, it feels even hotter than Fayetteville. (David had heard that, on average, Fayetteville is the hottest city in North Carolina.) David carried the brown bag of cash into the house. They counted the C-notes in the living room with the blinds and curtains closed. There were exactly 300 neatly wrapped one-hundred-dollar bills.
“So, is this where you kill me and cut up my body into three-inch pieces?” Chantelle asked with a dry expression. Why does she keep thinking that I’m going to kill her? Do I have a homicidal look on my face?
“Will you stop that? You’re giving me ideas. You know what?
I’ve changed my mind. Yep, I want it all for myself.”
David gave her a deadpan expression. Chantelle fell for it.
“What do you mean, David?” She was getting scared.
“Gotcha back, sexy butt!” David announced and started to laugh. That bastard got me good! Does he only think my rump is sexy? What about my boobs?
“Touché. You got me there, Mister Hard Dog.” Mister Hard Dog. She’s too much.
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David placed $15,000 back in the brown bag and handed it to Chantelle. “Be smart, girlfriend.”
“I will. Trust me.” I guess I must at this point.
“There’s another military town close to Wilmington – but not in New Hanover County – that slipped my mind before. Oh, what is it?”
“Jacksonville?” Chantelle blurted out.
“You got it! That’s it – the home of Camp Lejeune. It’s in Onslow County. Fifty-one miles northeast of your house.”
David recited this while looking at his smartphone. “It’s the Marines version of Fayetteville. How would you like to try your hand at selling some gold ingots there?”
“Sure. Why not? Sounds like a lucrative part-time job.” Very lucrative.
David dashed upstairs and brought down twenty, little, one-ounce golden cubes in a small cardboard box and handed it to Chantelle.
“Thanks so much, David. You really trust me.”
“I really have no choice at this point, ma belle. We’re indelibly linked to each other by this gold now.”
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“Would you like to stay linked to me forever?” She still seems to have a hint of doubt about me really loving her. / I hope he does.
“Certainly, princess. Absolutely. Listen, I feel kind of grungy from the summer scum. I’m going to take a quick shower.
Feel free to eat and drink anything you find in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, boyfriend.” I like how she says that.
<><><>
David got in the shower and began scrubbing off the hot day’s grime. All of a sudden he felt a hand on his semi-flaccid schlong. He looked down and saw Chantelle’s thin, black, left-hand fingers on his rapidly swelling member. Oh, boy, here we go again. I’m going to erotically miss her when she goes back to Wilmington. It’s been like living a gold-medal porno fantasy.
Chantelle was crouched down beside the tub basin. Her narrow left arm wrapped around the translucent clear shower curtain. David smiled at her as she stroked his distended salami. He’s loving this, I can tell. Look at that face! He’s going to miss me when I’m gone. I hope he doesn’t replace me. No, he won’t; he can’t now.
When David was just seconds away from eruption, he turned toward Chantelle. She placed her face up against the clear plastic shower curtain just as David emitted his silver stream onto the ten-mil-thick barrier between them. It was like they 311
had the whole act choreographed. She’s better than I could have ever imagined. / I’m going to make him forget about those porn sites.
<><><>
After talking for a few more hours about all kinds of scenarios and strategies for gold-to-cash conversion, Chantelle gathered her things, including the cash bag and the ingot box, and got in her car to leave. She looked at the clock on her dashboard; it was 6:46 PM. She had to work the next day. Do I really want to work at Wally World anymore?
Well, I’ll at least give them notice. I’ll ponder this on the drive back to Wilmington.
“I’ve had a most propitious – and, yes, you can use that word in your novel – time with you, Chantelle,” David said as he stood beside her in the driveway. “I’ve thoroughly loved every minute of it. Please drive safely. Stay smart. Call or text me when you get back.”
“You sound like a concerned father talking to his teenage daughter,” Chantelle replied. Her dad died when she was still a toddler. She never knew him. Does she look at me as some kind of father figure? We’re both in our twenties. I’m less than seven years older than her. / He really cares about me. Why, of course he does. Cha-ching!
“Well, I’m concerned about you, girlfriend.” He leaned in the car and kissed her. Gosh, he is such a nice guy. He’s so different from my ex. So very different. I love my golden boy.
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She said, “Je t’aime, mon chéri,” [‘I love you, my darling’ in French] and then turned her head to drive. She shifted into reverse and eased the clutch out.
David watched as she backed out of the driveway. She waved and blew him a kiss as she passed by his front lawn.
Her silver VW Beetle made a left turn … and she was gone.
Wow, I picked the perfect accomplice. Couldn’t have done better. / I’m so glad that he came through my checkout line.
<><><>
At 9:09 PM he got a text while looking at the remaining coins and ingots. It was from Chantelle; it read:
Back safe and sound. All is ok.
Feel tired. May go to sleep early.
I love you, Chantelle
He immediately replied back:
Great to hear, girlfriend.
Be careful. Talk to you
tomorrow evening. I love
you, too, and already
miss your sexiness.
xoxox, David
David was eyes-shut by eleven o’clock. He dreamed they were living together on some island in the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t hot; it wasn’t tropical. The temperatures were very mild. Chantelle was typing her novel in a very small font on 313
thin sheets of gold. They were in some Escher-like impossible structure. It was so surreal. It was so cool.
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Cindy was in her condo, watching the seagulls and eating her frozen pasta dinner in her living room as a thick-aired night fell over the river and the swamplands to the west, when David leapt on her ever-swerving thought train. Wow, I forgot to tell David about Gerald. I’ll text him. Hope his girlfriend is cool with it. No complaints so far. Does he have a girlfriend in Raleigh?
Cindy got out her smartphone. She texted David: Gerald finally started talking.
He said that he killed Dale in
self-defense. Can you believe
that? Three shots to the face.
That’s self-defense? Crazy, huh?
Hope all is going well. – Cindy
She flipped her flat-screen TV on to channel 8 at 8:59 PM.
She liked to monitor the news teasers that were placed just before the nine and ten o’clock hours. She wondered if they were going to run hers. Sure enough, they did. It was about street-flooding issues near Greenfield Park. My cheeks look too pink. I overdid it with the blush. Darn it!
Cindy was very critical of her on-camera appearance; she always thought that she could look better on screen. The curse of the pretty female.
At 9:05 PM, while listening to some tracks by the Pinoy wunderkind, Blackbird Blackbird, on YouTube, she heard her phone chirp. It was a text from David, which read: 315
Thanks for the update!
Yeah, Gerald’s going to
hang himself with that
story. Oh, where should
I mail your gift? – David
Cindy read his text twice. Then she thought about the best address. Even though she had already met David, and even though she had a growing crush on him, she knew that she must be careful. She texted him back her PO Box number.
She looked at the Memorial Bridge lights and thought about asking him what he was doing on Saturday. But after typing out the text, she just couldn’t hit the Send key. That would be too forward. It would be like I’m asking him out. I know some American women do that, but I’m just not comfortable doing it. Well, not yet. Maybe it’s just better to text each other about Dale Smite’s murder and the supposed treasure in his backyard. Just let things evolve naturally; don’t try to accelerate anything. I bet the mystery gift is a piece of that treasure trove. I can’t wait to open that package when it arrives.
She switched to a playlist by Natural Calamity. There was a star twinkling by itself in the western sky. Will anyone in my family see that lonely star in three hours? I wonder how they are doing in Daly City. Gosh, I haven’t called them in two weeks.
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She gave her mom a call. They were all doing ok. No big news. Her dad sounded a little weaker. I wish he’d stop smoking!
After she hung up, she found the Dive album by Tycho on a YouTube playlist. It got her mind going. What a strange life this is. Almost feels like we’re the entertainment for some alien civilization. We are all probably already on some higher lifeform’s monitors. Earth is not even worthy of a takeover.
Wow, I may have a science-fiction story here. I need to start writing these ideas down. Where’s that sharpened pencil?
She fell asleep on her Papasan chair with a yellow, no. 2
pencil in her left hand. She often crashed in the bowl-shaped chair. It felt like she was in some primordial egg. She felt safe and secure in the half-cocoon.
She soon drifted off into a dream. In the dream, there was a grayish asteroid headed towards Earth, and David’s face was on it! She was signaling to him. She didn’t want the Eiffel tower to stick him in the right eye. He was smiling back to her. The David-asteroid never impacted Earth. The scene strangely merged into a large, celestial, cereal bowl of stars.
She was going to say, “Hey, I got your Milky Way” … but the scene shifted again. It was all black. And, it was all silent.
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It was another triple-H (hot, hazy, humid) July afternoon in Raleigh on Friday the 13th, when David got a call from Chantelle. He was grilling some tempeh burgers on his back patio, while trying to extract a Kamikaze gnat from his left eye.
“Hello, what’s up, sexcretary?” [ sic]
“Good news, loverboy.”
“Lay it on me.” I sure hope that he hasn’t laid his sausage in any skank while I’ve been away.
“Oh, I’ll be laying it on you alright, come Sunday.”
“I heard that.” Can hardly wait.
“David, you won’t believe it. The twenty gold ingots – well, your sly girl has already sold them all.” My girl is something else. Out of this world. Boy, did I strike gold with her.
“Wow! That’s amazing, Chantelle! Excellent work, girlfriend.”
Yey! He still calls me ‘girlfriend’!
“I got fifteen hundred fifty dollars an ounce at two different places this morning on US 17 in Jacksonville. I used my fake ID at one joint; the other one didn’t even ask me to fill out an information card.” A fake ID?
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“You got thirty-one thousand dollars in cash?” Does he have a calculator in his hand? Or, something else.
“I did. And, get this, boyfriend: I’ve already spent it all on coke.” Oh, no! Don’t tell me that she’s a cokehead. No!
“What?! Are you addicted to cocaine?!” David screamed so loud that the neighbors could have heard him. “Tell me the truth, Chantelle.”
“Gotcha again, Mr. Gullible.” Chantelle was giggling. She sure did. I never stop walking right into her snares.
“Yes, you certainly did.” David was now laughing, too. “So, one place accepted your fake ID, and the other place didn’t even have you fill out an info card. What’s the name of the latter?” F-F/L-L: Former = first; latter = last.
“Buffalo Bob’s Gun and Gold on North Marine Boulevard.”
“Thanks, girlfriend. That’s our kind of place. Let’s try to move some more gold through that outlet. How did the guy seem?”
“He seemed crooked as hell to tell you the truth. A fat, white guy in his late 50s. Nearly bald. A big, bushy, gray mustache that almost appeared to have hair spray on it. He was always looking up at me over his bifocal glasses as he sat on a metal stool. He kept rubbing his eyebrows.”
“Ah, he knows tropical beauty when he sees it. Did you fuck him?” What?!
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“Of course not! I wasn’t even flirting with him.”
“I didn’t say you were. Gotcha!” He sure did.
“Touché.” Chantelle recomposed herself after David’s zinger.
“He didn’t even give me a receipt. He asked me if I had more to sell. I told him that I might in the near future.”
“Perfect. Look no further – and drive no further: We’ve found our one-stop gold launderer.”
“I’ll bring the money up to you this Sunday morning. I have Sunday and Monday off.”
“Keep sixteen thousand for yourself. Just bring fifteen thousand.”
“Why do I get more?”
“Mileage allowance. And, you’re doing the hard work now.”
Hard work? This is a piece of cake.
“Ah, thanks, mon chéri. You are such a generous boyfriend. I love you!”
“De rien, ma chérie.” [French for ‘You’re welcome, my darling.’]
“You’re learning French just for me. I love that!”
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“Well, juste un peu. [‘just a little’ in French] Don’t expect too much. Foreign languages were never my strong suit.”
“Your birthday suit is more than enough, boyfriend.”
David chuckled. “You certainly have a way with English words – already. Your birthday suit is bolt-up trop chaude.”
[‘too hot’ in French]
“Still have both hands on your phone, goldenrod?”
Goldenrod? Ha!
“Do you?” David chuckled. “Listen, my veggie hockey pucks are done. Hang on a sec while I walk in the house.”
“You can still walk? Ok, I’ll be right here.”
David chuckled as he used the old spatula that his father had given him to flip his cultured soy burgers onto the plate.
He shut the grill down and walked back into the house, parking himself in the kitchen.
“Ok, I’m back.”
“What are you wearing?” Chantelle asked in a lascivious, deliberately provocative voice.
“Will you stop that? I’m trying to eat.”
“Would you like to eat me?” Always.
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“You know that I would, my prurient princess.” Prurient?
Another one for the novel.
“Ok, I’ll let you eat in peace.”
“Merci, mademoiselle.” [‘Thanks, miss’ in French]
“Oh, David, me and some friends are thinking of going out tonight. A good friend wants us to hear him DJ at a small club downtown. What do you think?”
“Sure, go out and have some fun. Go! Just be careful.
Remember that it’s Friday the 13th. Don’t let the boogeyman get ya.” Boogeyman? I’ll have to look that up later.
“Oh, yeah, it is, isn’t it? I forgot about that. Well, don’t worry, babe. Yours is the only liverwurst locomotive going in my love tunnel.” Liverwurst locomotive? How does she come up with this stuff?
“I trust you, sweetie.” I guess. “Go out and enjoy the night.
Call me tomorrow. Don’t worry about me.” I’m not; you can’t screw an image on a computer screen. Or, does he have some expensive call girl coming over tonight? I need to stop thinking these ruinous thoughts. But, I just can’t.
“What will you be doing, love hound? Will you be ordering up a couple of escorts? A pair of sexy bimbos for a measly three thousand dollars? Fucking them ‘til dawn while on Viagra?” What?! Why does she think such things?
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“Oh, give me a freaking break, Chantelle! Really? You know I’m not like that. I’m addicted to your thing, and your thing only.” I know you are, boyfriend. He passed the test.
“My thing. You like the happy clapping, don’t you, David? I saw it in your eyes. Admit it.” Her female mind – something else.
“Especially in three-part harmony.” Maybe that will change the topic.
“I’ll let you get a towel now, bone boy. Talk to you tomorrow.
Je t’aime.” Bone boy? Again.
“Be careful in the club. I love you, too. Goodnight, gorgeous girlfriend.” Wow, he thinks I’m gorgeous. That will be the highlight of the night.
David terminated the phone call. He looked out the kitchen window towards the backyard. A hot dusk descended on the North Carolina piedmont. The insect cacophony was running at full volume now. He thought he saw a barn owl in his red maple tree, but on second glance he wasn’t sure what it was. His right hand brushed against the window pane. It was hot to the touch. It’s been one hot-ass summer so far. The A/C is getting quite a workout.
He imagined Chantelle negotiating the gold sales in Jacksonville. Wow, she’s something else. Such mettle. Such savvy. Way ahead of her years. And, so trustworthy. But, why did she already have a fake ID? When did she get it?
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Why did she get it? Probably to be able to get into bars with her of-legal-age friends. Yeah, probably just to buy alcohol and hang out with the older ones in her group. Very common. Hell, I had one, too. But, didn’t she say that there were some issues regarding her residency status? Was she caught using a fake ID? Is Chantelle LaMer really her name?
I love her, but damn, sometimes she feels like a double agent. Has she told anyone else about the gold? She is so smooth – too smooth? Has she done this kind of thing before somewhere? Oh, why do I think such thoughts? She’s one fine lass with a sexy ass, a razor-sharp mind, and a heart of gold – now, almost literally. I guess these damn sleeping pills are making me paranoid.
David grabbed an IPA (India Pale Ale) from the fridge. He then switched the TV on. It was one of those gold-prospecting shows. Those poor bastards have to go out and sweat all day, digging up dirt and smashing rocks.
Sometimes they work a whole day for just five or six dollars in gold dust. They also often go broke trying to find it. All I had to do was lift two thin golden boomerangs out of thirty inches of soft, loose sand. Total cost: less than twenty dollars for a spade and gasoline for Chantelle’s car. You can have the notoriety, boys. I’d much rather be comfortably invisible.
Before the bottle was three-fourths empty, he was asleep on the couch. It had been a long day at the lab. Consciousness quietly conceded.
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His snoring seemed to control the air conditioning: When he would start to snore, the A/C would kick back on. This would be the observation of a lone fly on the wall above his head.
He dreamed about Chantelle. She was out at a club with her friends, but for some reason it wasn’t in Wilmington. In fact, he didn’t recognize the city. She was in some place that he had never been. Everyone in the club was staring at Chantelle and whispering behind her back. Their stares were like syringe needles, trying to pierce her facial skin. They seemed to be scheming and plotting against her. He heard the malicious whispering but couldn’t make out the words.
He was powerless to do anything as he was locked in a room with a tiny horizontal-slit view of the club scene below.
He watched as a Bengal tiger slowly entered the bar. He feared the worst. However, it turned into an oversize, blue-tailed skink, and slowly disappeared into a floor register. He looked askance to find an older Asian lady wagging her finger at him. He awoke in a cold sweat. These dreams are going to be my downfall.
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It was ten o’clock Friday night in Wilmington – the 13th of July, 2012. Chantelle began getting ready to go out to Pumpers Lounge on Nutt Street with two of her best friends, Leeza and Monique. She was rummaging through her clothes searching for the right look. Must not wear anything too risqué. I’m not trying to get a boyfriend; I already have one. A good one. The golden one.
She had already given her mom and brother three thousand dollars each. She had told them that a generous, old, white-haired lady had come through her checkout line and felt sorry for her for some reason. She told them that when she said that she was from Haiti, it must have struck a sympathy nerve, as the hunched-over lady must have assumed the worst – abject poverty to the max. The sweet, elderly, presumably-well-off lady immediately got out her checkbook.
Her mother and brother seemed to have believed the fabrication.
While looking at herself in the mirror, Chantelle thought about how the night might go. Now, don’t make yourself look too sexy, girl. You don’t want every Dong, Dick, and Hairy asking you out. She even thought about cancelling. But soon, the girls were knocking on the door.
<><><>
The club scene was not too intense. The guys were surprisingly not poon-craving animals on this hot and sultry 326
Friday night. In fact, it was quite laidback. The music was reggae-infused trip-hop. The patronage had a nice racial mix. All was transpiring in swells – no breaking waves.
When a big black guy asked her if she would like a drink, she politely declined and told him that she and her friends would soon be leaving. He didn’t seem too put out by it.
They had been there for two hours already. She had been sipping mineral water the whole time. She didn’t mind being the designated driver this time; she already had what she wanted.
Her two female friends were a little tipsy, but not severely plowed. She ushered them into her silver VW Beetle and drove them home. They would make arrangements to get their cars tomorrow afternoon – after their hangovers abated.
<><><>
She was headed south on 16th Street, slowing down for the red light at Castle Street when thoughts of David filled her mind. When I get home, I’ll call him. He’ll like that. I don’t want to attempt a text while driving. Too many cops out now.
Even though hardly anyone ever gets busted for texting while driving, it would just be my luck.
The light turned green. Chantelle began to make the right turn as if by second nature. She suddenly saw a speeding, dark-colored vehicle out of the corner of her left eye.
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<CRASH!> A black, red-light-running, Lincoln Navigator slammed right into her door at 44 MPH.
328
Saturday, July 14th was the first dry day in two weeks. The dew point was only 53°F at 1:17 PM. A Canadian cold front had pushed all the way to the Carolina coast overnight, somewhat of a rarity for summer.
David had been piddling around the house doing sundry yard projects with one, big, C-shaped idea on his mind: the large fillet of gold – how best to safely convert it into maximum cash. But when he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and didn’t see any messages from Chantelle –
neither text nor voice – his mind quickly refocused on her.
He called her number. It went to voicemail. He left a brief message. Then he left her a short text message that read: Missing you, girlfriend.
Hope everything is ok.
Love you, David
He then went back inside to check his computer for any email messages. Nothing. No updates on her Facebook page in the past thirty-six hours – nothing since they changed their relationship status and listed each other as boyfriend-girlfriend.
He was flummoxed and getting flustered. Is she ok? Has something bad happened to her?
He wasn’t sure what he was going to do next when his cell phone suddenly rang. The call was from Cindy Santos.
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“Hello David, I’m so sorry about Chantelle.” Oh, dear, the tone of her voice sounds so grave.
“Why? What happened to her, Cindy?”
“You don’t know?” I’m surprised he doesn’t know already.
“No. I just tried to call her – no answer.”
“Well, you better steady yourself.”
“Ok, I’m holding the wall up.”
“She died last night. Her car was hit by a drunk driver who ran a stoplight on Castle Street.” No! Goddammit! No way!
How could this happen? What are the chances? Fucking dumb-ass drunk driver. Too damn stupid to call a cab, take a bus, or walk. Ma belle is gone.
“No, no, no. No!” David gasped and then sobbed. Tragedy always wins out in the end. Love is just the bait. Ecstasy is merely a fleeting phase, an impairment to make one stupid to life’s cruel realities. I should’ve known that something terrible was going to happen. Things were going too good.
Way too good. The gods always get even … and go ahead to win again. The good life is just a fiendish tease for people like us.
“I’m so very sorry, David,” Cindy continued. “I saw that you two were in a relationship from your Facebook page. Since 330
you live in Raleigh, I wasn’t sure if anyone had told you, or if you would’ve checked the Wilmington local news. And, I didn’t know if Chantelle’s mother had your phone number yet.”
“No, Cindy, no one had told me. This is a major kick in the gut, to say the least – a crippling blow to the heart, soul and psyche. It feels so unreal. I can’t believe that she’s dead.
She was something very special, extra-special – a very keen, lovely, young lady. Chantelle was my incredibly incisive teammate and lover. Was? My lord, she’s really gone. Forever. I’ll never see that smile again or hear another clever coinage uttered from her lovely lips. Why go on?
“I know it’s hard, David. Sometimes life doesn’t seem fair.”
Sometimes?
“She wanted to be a novelist, Cindy. She was always taking notes. I loved that about her so much. I loved her wit and her way with English words and phrases. I’m crushed.
Devastated. All the sweet memories. She’s already haunting me, and probably always will. God, I am going to miss her so very, very much. I still can’t believe this.”
“I certainly understand, David. As you know, she had a unique last name for eastern North Carolina. When I saw her surname in the overnight deaths, I couldn’t believe it. I had to check it twice. Once again, I am so deeply sorry for your loss, and to be the bringer of such terrible news.”
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“Well, I appreciate you calling me, Cindy. I may not have found out for days what had happened. I’m going to just sit back and take this in. Try to figure out what I do now. Try to figure why I should wake up tomorrow.”
“Please don’t do anything drastic, David. I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks, Cindy,” David said with a distraught look of utter despair on his face for the blue jay perched on the window sill. “Thanks a lot.” He ended the call.
He went out the front door and walked over to the park. He sat on an old concrete bench next to the creek. He thought about the future together with Chantelle that now would never be. He composed a response in his mind: Oh, sweet life, you are one nefarious, capricious, depraved, maniacal son of a bitch! I never believed in you. Not once. Ever. Never did. Not even close. Even when things were going so well, even when things were so exquisitely harmonious, even when I thought we were properly paying our pauper dues, even before I discovered the gold under that spare tire in the trunk of that forsaken car, in the back of my mind I knew you could – and most assuredly would – pull this card – the king of calamity – out of your devious deck. So, yes, I’m saddened. Grief-stricken for sure. But, no, not really surprised by such a usurpation of joy. You see, I always knew you were capable of bestowing such misfortune. I’m down, though not plucked of all pluck. Ha, I knew all of you gods were just bitter old sods. Worthless bastards who are probably getting revenge on the living just for sport. Envious 332
of us for what we had, and what lay ahead. Especially since you lived such deplorably miserable lives prior. So, this I thinketh to you in the singular, plural, and even in between: Fuck off in a most metaphysical way! He was surprised by his can of Rant-O-Roni.
The creek just gurgled. A crow indifferently screeched. A dog barked in the distance. David wiped his eyes.
He then got up and started walking back towards his house.
David stopped and looked at his white Ford Focus in the driveway, focusing on the trunk door. What a strangely exciting – and now devastatingly heart-crushing – odyssey this has been.
He turned his head and looked down the street. A cyclist with an orange jersey pedaled northeast on Kittrell Drive, turned left on Overbrook Drive, and was gone. That guy must have a twin. He must. That or he’s just an optical delusion – a sure sign that my sanity is sailing away.
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Chantelle’s memorial service was on Tuesday, July 17th at 2:00 PM. David got the day off and attended. It was a very small affair in a small chapel on South 14th Street in Wilmington with just her mother, brother, and about a dozen close friends.
At the conclusion, upon walking back to his car, Chantelle’s brother, Louis, stopped to talk to David.
“She told me about you, David. I know she would have wanted you to have this.” Louis handed David a green, plastic-covered, spiral notebook.
“Thanks. What is this?” David was too grief-stricken to make the connection.
“These are the notes for her first novel. She told me that she told you about it.”
“Oh, yes, yes ... on many occasions, Louis. You know, she was always taking notes.”
“Well, when you read through it, you will see your name often. She really loved you.” Another stab in the heart from the gods above.
“Thanks so much, Louis. Thanks so very much. I remember her talking about this many times. I will treasure this forever.”
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“I hope you and your mother can recover and move on with your lives. I’m not sure if I can.”
“We will in time, David. We Haitians are used to tragedy. We are used to people dying early.” Used to people dying early.
Jeez, what a thing to be used to.
“She was an amazing lady with a generous heart and a great mind. I’ll never forget your sister, Louis. Never.”
“Thanks for being so nice to her. She said that no man ever treated her so kindly and respected her so much.”
“Gosh, Louis, you’re going to make me cry again.”
They hugged each other. Louis’ mother came over. David hugged her, too.
“I am so very sorry, Mrs. LaMer,” David said softly.
“My daughter is in perfect peace now, David. We will grieve, but we will be happy knowing that she has already safely arrived at her final heavenly destination.”
David looked at Louis. “Louis, could you give me your mailing address? I want to send you something.”
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“Sure.” Louis wrote the address down on the back of one of Chantelle’s memorial-service pamphlets and handed it to David.
“Thanks. Keep an eye on your mailbox.” (David would soon be sending him and his mom six gold coins.)
They said their sad goodbyes. David looked at Louis and Mrs. LaMer as he drove off, raising his left hand, but we couldn’t even wave. I hope they’ll be ok. Will I be ok?
<><><>
David exited Wilmington, driving north on US 17 in a state of numbing sadness. Sorrow permeated his whole being. He was morbidly melancholic. He felt like the car was a casket in autopilot mode. Should I really even bother doing this?
This soon? Just after Chantelle’s funeral? Well, I could see her wanting me to keep going. I can hear her laughing. ‘Now, don’t you fuck this up, bone boy!’
He decided to stop in at Buffalo Bob’s in Jacksonville. Soon he was in front of the man that Chantelle had described to him. Well, that’s definitely him. Here goes.
“What can I help you with, sir?” the shop owner asked while sitting behind a jewelry display case, reading the local newspaper.
“I have some one-ounce gold ingots that I am looking to sell,” David announced. I hope this works.
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“Sure. Show me what ya got.”
David placed a small cardboard box on the glass counter and opened it, displaying a 4 x 3 arrangement of a dozen gold cubes.
The owner then stood up to take a closer look. “Why, these look like the same ones that I bought last week. Let me just do some quick tests for purity.” The owner grabbed the box and put it on his little table behind the display case.
“Sure. No problem.”
“Do you know a young, black female named Marie? I bought ten of these, exactly-the-same, one-ounce cubes from a Marie last Thursday.” Marie? Ah, Chantelle used a false name. I’m going to miss her wily wit.
“Yes, I do. Marie was, I mean is, a very good friend.” Gosh, I hope my brain-dead slip-up didn’t tip him off to something being fishy. / Something’s afoul here.
“Did you two have a fight while splitting up the spoils?” What the hell did he just ask me? Oh, just calm down.
“No, nothing like that.”
“I sure would love to know what Charlotte creek you found the gold pellets in.” He chuckled. “But, I know that’s your little secret.” Chantelle must have told him some story.
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David offered a short, nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I think we need to keep that to ourselves for the time being.”
The owner laughed. “I’m sure you do.”
David watched as he performed a series of tests on a few of the gold cubes. Please come up pure. At least 99.9%.
“These cubes are ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent pure gold. They are some of the best gold ingots I’ve seen come through here in a long, long time. Will fifteen-twenty an ounce suffice, sir?”
“Certainly. Deal.”
“You want it in cash, or as a check? A check will cost you three hundred sixty-five dollars.” He doesn’t want the sale traced. And neither do I. Perfect. He’s just as my dear Chantelle described: crooked as a fish hook.
“In that case, I’ll take it all in cash.” Just like Marie.
“Ok, just give me a minute.”
He then walked away with the gold and disappeared into the back of the shop. Five minutes later he returned with a brown-paper grocery bag, which he handed to David at the counter.
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“There ya go, pal. Eighteen thousand, three hundred dollars.
That’s 183 United States Treasury C-notes. I even threw in an extra sixty dollars. Trust me, it’s all there. My currency counter never misses a note. If you have any more to sell, come back in about three weeks. I’ll need a little bit of time to resell it and build up my vault again.” Chantelle was right: This guy is totally under the radar. The perfect buyer.
“Ok, will do,” David said as he walked out of the store with the brown-paper sack under his right arm. Do I sense a red laser dot on the back of my head? I guess it’s just first-time bullion-sale paranoia.
<><><>
David was back in his house on Kittrell Drive with his paper bag of loot and Chantelle’s green notebook two hours later.
It was 6:06 PM. What a day. How I wish Chantelle were still alive. How I wish she were here right now. I wish I could buy her life back from the gods with this golden cash. How I wish I could sever the finality of her absence.
He looked at the wrapped hundred-dollar bills. Success, but such a hollow victory. I would trade it all just to have her back – alive – in my arms. I already miss her smile, her sensuous kisses, her skinny legs, her bony fingers, her devilishly erotic ways. Gosh, if there’s really a God, I’m sure that I’ll pay for that thought somewhere down the line.
David put the sack of cash to the side and picked up Chantelle’s notebook. He started to thumb through the 339
pages. He read her notes for her first novel. He noticed that her description of the male protagonist was very much like him. Wow, that’s me! She was going to use me as the main male character. I was the star! It’s all too heartbreaking.
He continued to read notes on various places. He saw a section with a heading of Adjectives to Use. Many of the words that she had heard him use were listed. When he read the word disconsolate, a tear fell on the page, causing Chantelle’s red-felt-tipped pen’s ink to run. What is this life about? It’s all ultimately sorrow, isn’t it? Brief island-moments of joy, only to be submerged once again in a sea of sorrow. Inescapable heartbreak and tragedy. When and where do I meet my pitfall? Ah, who the hell cares?! I don’t give a damn what happens to me anymore. Bring it! Gimme your best shot. I’m right here waiting. Are you chicken?
C’mon, take me out right now. What are you afraid of, Zeus?
Do it. Chuck a lightning bolt at me. Make it two. Make it ten!
Are you scared, Yahweh? … or, just waiting for an unsuspecting moment to completely annihilate my psyche? I can tell: I’m going to go mad.
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It was a stiflingly hot Friday the 20th. Cindy was glad not to have any plans for the night. It had been a grueling day. A minor freight-train derailment in Leland. A small fire at the port. A new mixed-use development planned for downtown.
Her red dress had become sweat-saturated.
After a much-needed shower, she logged into her Facebook account and sent David a short message, which read: Hope you’re doing ok.
I got the gift last Monday.
Thanks so much!
Oh, Gerald got a lawyer;
he’s no longer talking.
Well, just checking in.
Take care of yourself.
~ Cindy
David happened to be on Facebook in his Raleigh home at the same time. He quickly responded with:
Glad you got the gift. I was
beginning to think that it had
been stolen or lost in transit.
Well, it gets a little better each
day. Just takes time, I suppose.
So, Gerald lawyered up and
shut up. So typical. Ha-ha.
I’d love to talk again about
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our golden topic. Have a nice weekend. – David
Cindy read it. I knew it; he wants to talk some more with me about his golden quandary. He’s probably already thinking about fucking me. I hope he is. I know he is. He’s probably typing with one hand right now. I won’t rush him, but I don’t want to lose him, either. How many of those gold coins does he have? Will he tell me? He seems comfortable divulging very sensitive information to me. I can tell that he trusts me.
Maybe he’s loaded with cash now. How rich has he suddenly become? Hmmmm …. I’m off next Saturday night. Yeah …
that’s it ….
Cindy returned fire five minutes later.
How would you like to have dinner
next Saturday evening, the 28th?
We can compare our golden notes.
Cindy rubbed her hands together and smiled. Gosh, I just asked a man out. Am I a liberated American woman now?
She found her previous trepidation amusing. She was proud of herself for having enough courage to hit the Enter key.
David saw her message pop up on his screen. He was going crazy in his house the past three nights, looking at pictures of Chantelle over and over again. He was still grieving, feeling as sappy as molasses dripping down a wilted sugar cane stalk on a hot-as-Hades day, just like this one. I’ll never forget Chantelle, but I need a living female to talk to. I can’t 342
go on talking to a ghost. I need to get out of here before I go completely insane.
Sure. Where do I meet you?
Cindy noted his quick reply. He’s lonely … or horny.
Probably both. Gosh, men are so darn easy to read. She typed back the place and time.
Engorged on The Walk
8:00 sharp. Don’t be late.
See you then. ~ Cindy
Cindy knew that he would probably quickly respond with another question. She wanted to leave it right there for now.
She was feeling drowsy. She logged out and put it on Sleep mode. I’ll check my account tomorrow. That’s enough for now.
Cindy fell asleep once again in her favorite piece of furniture: the Papasan chair. She dreamed that she was introducing David to her parents in Daly City. Low-floating, silvery gray clouds were streaming over their heads at an incredible, unearthly speed. Her mom kept smiling at David, and David just kept smiling back. Her dad was asking her how she met this kano (Filipino slang for an American).
In the strange dream, her dad was holding her field microphone, interviewing her. She was tongue-tied. She was trying to hide her gold coins from her parents. One was under each shoe. She tried to stay still, keeping the coins 343
completely covered by the soles of her tall blue platform shoes. But then, a gust of wind came along and lifted her three feet off the ground. David grabbed her left arm to prevent her from flying away. However, the damage had been done: Her parents had seen the gold coins. They looked at her with such exaggerated consternation. Then a cyclist in an orange jersey rode by, pulling the whole scene away with him; it was being reeled up on his rear wheel’s sprocket, like a take-up film reel in an old movie theater.
When Cindy awoke at 6:45 AM, all she would remember is the look on her mother’s face … and the orange-clad cyclist.
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The next week was a little better for David. The loss of Chantelle still reverberated through his brain and ached his inner core, mostly in low-frequency groundswells, but he had a new realization: He really felt that she was content in whatever meta-space her spirit-energy now inhabited. He knew he would see or experience her and all of his dead relatives and deceased friends at some point in time. It would all work out; he was no longer gasping for air at night.
He was no longer cursing the gods, calling out the God, or conceding his life to a joyless somber fate. He stopped biting the top knuckle of his right ring finger.
He departed for Wilmington at 8:35 AM on Saturday morning, the 28th of July. When he saw the date on his desk calendar, he remembered what his meteorologist friend had told him: July 22nd through July 28th is statistically the hottest week of the year for most east-of-the-Mississippi (River) US
cities. And, today was no anomaly in the Triangle: It was expected to be 103°F at RDU and 99°F in Wilmington. With the humidity figured in, the Port City’s heat index was expected to be 109°F. Summer swelter was in full force, cranked up to the max. But, David was more concerned about another kind of heat, and Cindy most certainly had plenty of it.
David wanted to drive around Wilmington and maybe check out a beach before meeting Cindy for dinner. He drove by Dale Smite’s house at 10:55 AM. He put a spy-music compilation CD in the stereo’s horizontal slot. You Only Live 345
Twice started playing as he cruised around feeling like a wealthy secret agent – like a spy on a mid-Atlantic coastal assignment. My mission, which I wholeheartedly choose to accept: Investigate all golden facets of the local, hot-as-the-steamy-air, Asian, female TV news reporter. Get her tongue loose with some good booze. You certainly now have the money for it. Schmooze her and ooze her. Drive the point home like the last nail in the devil’s coffin. Jeez, what the hell am I thinking?
He drove by Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage at 11:01 AM
as Escape by The Man from RavCon began to audibly fill his sedan’s air space. He looked over his left shoulder. There were no cars parked there. It appeared to be all locked up.
‘ Gerald, mi amigo, [‘my friend’ in Spanish] sales aint so good these days, are they, mate?’
He looked for – but didn’t see – the trunk-door-less white 2011 Ford Focus. Wow, it looks completely closed. Totally shutdown. Well, that’s where I contracted gold fever. God only knows where Mark contracted it. Hope it’s not fatal for me, too – at least not for fifty or so years.
Soon he was on Oleander Drive headed east. David was on Lumina Avenue at Wrightsville Beach at 11:14 AM. He was hungry. He pulled into the Queen Venus parking lot. A multicolored poster taped to the back wall caught his eye: Tom Montefusco plays red-hot blues at The Palm Room, Saturday Night, August 4th. That looks pretty cool. Darn, I’ll miss that one this time.
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The restaurant was by no means crowded at this early lunch hour. He asked for and got a booth with a tall back. It was very private. He could leisurely write some talking points down for his dinner with Cindy without looking like a food critic or miscellaneous nut-job.
He started to write on the back of a business card while waiting for the waitress to come back with the menu.
Things to remember to ask Cindy:
1. Status of police investigation
2. What do the police think the motive was?
3. Amount of gold she thinks I have
4. Is she dating anyone?
The waitress, a short Latina with a voluptuously curvy body, arrived before he could come up with number five on his list.
She glanced down at his note card. Damn, she’s nosy.
“Are you ready to order?” she brusquely asked.
“Yes,” he calmly replied.
“Will Cindy be joining you?” What the heck? Such a snooper, she is.
“No, not now. We rendezvous later. She has almost cracked the case. All of our field work is paying off. We’re closing in 347
on the Wrightsville Beach jewelry thief.” That should send her brain into a tizzy.
“Oh, ok.” The look on her face signaled that her mind was caught somewhere between genuine puzzlement and knowing that she was being pranked. She just wasn’t sure which one it was. “Would you like to hear about our lunch specials?”
“Sure.” Whatever.
The waitress, Juanita, recited the lunch specials while David feigned interest. When she was finished he looked up, smiled, and said, “I think I’ll just have the seafood chowder and some sweet iced tea.” Bastardo barato. [‘cheap bastard’
in Spanish]
The soup was good and so was the tea. It satiated his caloric demand and stabilized his blood-sugar level. He left a 17.17% tip with a Psecret Psociety card under the bill. This should get her goat. Let’s see if she joins.
He then exited the restaurant while Juanita was still in the kitchen flirting with the new surfer-cook.
<><><>
David got back in his car and continued heading north on Lumina Avenue. He still had quite a bit of time to kill; it was only 11:54 AM. He went all the way to the end of the street and turned around in the circle. He stopped for a minute and 348
began to ponder what he could do to pass the time as he watched the sea oats on the sand dunes blowing in the hot breeze. Maybe I could go jogging at Hugh MacRae Park. No way – too damn hot. I’d be a sweaty mess and smell like a wildebeest. Maybe go check out some art downtown. Yeah, that’s it: an indoor, air-conditioned activity. That’s the no-sweat winner.
He proceeded back towards Wilmington. The Bradley Creek
– Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway – drawbridge’s leaves were up. He slowed down and waited in line on Harbor Island as a tall-masted sailboat putted through. Then his cell phone rang. It was Cindy.
“Hello,” David said, somewhat surprised.
“Just thought I’d let you know that I’ll be getting off work earlier than expected. If you want to come down sooner and hang out, that’s fine.”
“I’m already in the area.” Why did he come down here so early? Is he screwing one of Chantelle’s friends already?
“Oh, where?” She sure seems very curious.
“Wrightsville Beach. I just had a light lunch at the Queen Venus. Wish you could’ve joined me. It’s kind of boring eating alone.” Was he really alone?
“I see. Well, I should be done in an hour. Where do you want to meet?”
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“I was thinking of taking in some art in downtown Wilmington. Maybe meet somewhere near Front and Market?”
“That sounds great. I can be at the MetaGallery at one-fifteen. It’s just off that corner. You’ll see it. I believe that it opens at one on Saturdays.”
“Ok, that sounds great. See you then, Cindy.”
“Drive safely.” Why did she say that? Does she think that I’ve been drinking?
David continued driving west on Wrightsville Avenue, arriving in front of MetaGallery at 12:17 PM. He parked and walked up to the door. Cindy was right; the art gallery didn’t open until 1:00. Well, I’ve got almost ¾ of an hour to kill.
Maybe just stroll around and check out some shops.
After sampling various boutique businesses, from handmade soaps to aromatherapy candles, he wandered down Quince Alley and came across a funky, little, cool-looking coffee shop called Java Lava. He walked down the concrete entrance steps and took a seat at a small, round table.
The only other person in there was the barista. She was an incredibly tanned brunette. He imagined that she was a student at UNCW who regularly sunbathed in the nude.
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He ordered a medium cappuccino and looked for something short to read. There was a folded-up, light-blue piece of literature on the next table. He reached over and seized it.
The bold heading at the top of the half-page read:
another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory
There was an aerial photo of Wrightsville Beach Island below the heading. And, under it was the title: Wrightsville Beached
He studied it before opening the pamphlet up. Wow. I wonder which agent wrote this one. Ah, 33.
It was a fifteen-hundred-word short story that seemed real then surreal then quite real again. He wasn’t sure what parts were pure fiction and what parts were real-life occurrences.
It was the perfect time-filler.
Then the barista came over to his table. She noticed him looking at the cover of the small-format short story on the table after he had finished reading it.
“A bizarre story, huh?” she opined, feeling confident that he would agree.
“Yeah, it certainly is. Did you help write it?” What?
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David’s question surprised her. “No, I had no hand in it.
Some red-haired guy left that in here last week.” Ah, a Mike van Tryke strike.
“So, have you joined the Psecret Psociety yet?” David asked, looking at her with an out-of-a-spy-movie expression.
“No, I haven’t. What is it all about?” How to succinctly answer her question?
“Oh, it’s just a loose confederation of surreal intrigue and meta-real mania.” Huh?
“Surreal? Meta-real? I’d be up for that? Who runs it?”
“Ernie the Earwig.”
“Gross! That’s his real name?”
“Yep.” Wow, she seems to believe it. / This guy is full of it –
full of shit!
“Does it pay?” She had to ask.
“All I ever hear is ‘Check’s in the mail’. I wouldn’t waste time watching your mailbox.”
“Well, what do you guys actually do?” I bet they shoot sex films and call it erotic video art. Probably just an assortment of reprobates.
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“We post cryptic pics, leave surreal clues, and pretend to be a coterie of esoteric, global-to-local, next-game changers.”
Yeah, right, dude. Whatever. Lay off the nitrous oxide. Next.
“A band of modern-day Don Quixotes, it sounds like.”
“Cervantes just spun in his grave.”
“Like a broken-string gold yo-yo?” A broken-string ‘gold’ yo-yo? What does she know?
“You’ve already snagged it,” David proclaimed as he prepared to leave the tiny café. “You’re a preternatural.” A what?
She watched him leave as she shook her head. Another absurd fool. Where do they come from? Where do they go?
When will they stop coming in here?!
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Cindy was back at her condo at 12:56 PM. She retouched her make-up and gave the perfume bottle a few pumps. She was back out the door in her black miniskirt and electric blue blouse at 1:07 PM. She was feeling very confident about her look. I hope David likes my outfit. I know he will.
At 1:13 she was approaching MetaGallery on Front Street.
When she got to the large, street-front window, she saw David inside studying a piece of lurid, semi-abstract, quasi-surreal artwork. So, he likes modern art.
She walked in and tapped on his left shoulder from behind.
David quickly whirled his head around, like he thought it was a hit-man.
“Hello there,” David said while recomposing himself. “I believe that we’ve met before.” Wow, she looks hot!
“You do look suspiciously familiar.” Cindy played along. God, I want to ride his pole.
“Are you familiar with this neo-surreal artist?”
Cindy looked at the strangely nebulous artwork, then looked down at the title card on the wall. “Mike van Tryke … hmmm
… no, never heard of him. No, wait; I have actually heard of Tryke. His work was mentioned in a novel by Patricia Cornwell. Oh, what was the title? I just read it three months 354
ago. Ok, I just remembered; it was Hornet’s Nest. It was set in Charlotte.”
“Good memory. I read that one, too.”
They then walked over to a wall of radical-symbol () art by Lepton Neutrino (Steve Holt). They noticed that he was working out of Charlotte, too. What’s the square root of imagination?
David then walked over to a table that was covered with whimsical mixed-media creations by an artist going under the nom de brosse of Grandé Love. What a wig-out!
“It must be the Charlotte Invasion show, Cindy. Another Charlotte-based artist over here.”
“Yeah, it must be,” Cindy said while looking at the back of David’s legs, about fifteen feet away. I can’t wait to feel those limbs in action.
Cindy rejoined David in the gallery’s small lobby. The curator
– and presumed owner – just glanced at them from time to time. He seemed to be sending out e-mails and text messages.
“So, why exactly did you come down here so early, David?”
Relax, the female mind often assumes the male is up to the worst.
“Exactly?” David gave her a teeth-clinched smile.
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“Yes, exactly. Don’t be evasive, David.” She’s definitely a reporter.
“I just knew that I would be anxious and bored in my house in Raleigh all day, just thinking about our dinner tonight. I thought, might as well get down here before it gets super-hot.” I guess I can believe that. I’ll try my best to assume he’s innocent of pumping some puday [Filipino slang for vagina] until proven guilty. His facial expressions don’t seem to indicate that he’s lying. I’ll give him a pass for now.
“Already bored with your treasure?” Wow, that’s right; she knows about the gold. Remember, you sent her the two gold coins? Where is your mind, boy? Wake up! Stop looking at her breasts – you can’t think when you do that. And, she’s probably aware that you are staring at them. She was.
David chuckled lightly. “I think we need to continue this conversation elsewhere. The curator’s ears are getting larger by the second.”
“How about in my condo?” Wow!
David hoped that Cindy didn’t notice him swallow his saliva.
But, she did. That sure got his attention.
“Sure, that sounds great. How far away is it?”
“Just a few blocks away. I walked here.”
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“Cool. I’ll give you a lift back to your condo.” I guess it’s safe to get in his car. We’ll be pumping in twenty minutes.
<><><>
They were silent on the short drive. The sexual anticipation was intense. I hope he brought a condom.
Cindy led him up to her condo. Once in the living room, David looked out the bay window. The sky was unusually clear for an afternoon in late July. The Cape Fear River was slate blue, and was lazily flowing southward.
“You’ve got an amazing river view here, Cindy. I love it. You scored. It’s a great pad.”
“A great pad? Is it extra-absorbent?” Cindy laughed at her juvenile wordplay joke. David did, too, a second later.
“Let’s just cut to the chase, Cindy. What do you think I have?”
“Two gonads and a seven-inch, white-guy penis.” Wow! Holy smoke! She wants to get down right now. Where is that condom? He felt his left-front pocket and was relieved to feel the latex ring.
“Uh, yeah, I have those items, too.” I’m going to pounce on him. I can tell he’s already firming up his pistol.
“Let me check to make sure.” Oh, my dearest demigod!
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As David stood looking out the window, Cindy crouched down below the wainscoting and unzipped his black jeans.
He was already partially aroused. She sucked his lollipop like the girls that she had seen on an Asian porn website a few nights ago. God, he’s starting to ooze his gooze. [sic]
Tastes great!
They made it over to her queen-size bed and David satisfactorily performed his manly duties. Cindy loved his maximum pumpage, [ sic] replete with much happy-clapping.
And, David loved the taste of her bilat (vagina in Filipino), and the feel of her soft-yet-firm breasts. He thought about Chantelle for a few seconds while pounding it in Cindy as she kneeled on the edge of the bed, moaning louder and louder. I think Chantelle would approve. She wouldn’t want me to be lonely. If it was reversed, I’d be cool with her hooking up with a cool dude. Oh, why the hell am I even thinking such thoughts? Maybe I’ve got Mark’s disorder: golden insanity.
After their inaugural sexual romp, Cindy went to the kitchen to make some ice-cube-filled mint tea. David got dressed and took a seat on her blue, floral-patterned sofa. Soon Cindy returned and sat next to him. David loved the sight of her sexy, bronzed legs. Such a perfect natural tan these Filipinas have. If someone could bottle that tan, they’d be a billionaire from sales in America and Europe.
“How long have you had this place, Cindy?”
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“I got it about a year ago for a bargain price. Thankfully, I didn’t buy it before the real-estate bubble popped.”
“Cool deal. A lot of my friends are upside-down with their mortgages now; they bought in 2006 and 2007, right before the market crashed.”
“Did you like getting upside-down with me?” Wow, looks like there will be a second round. I need some time, though. At least forty minutes. And, I need to get another condom out of my car. That’s when I’ll bring in the big surprise.
“I most certainly did, you erotically charged, sexy Filipina.”
“Thanks for reawakening my libido, dodong.” [‘handsome man’ in Filipino]
“Doe dong?”
“A charming male.”
“A male?” I guess that I’m channeling Chantelle.
“A sweet, affectionate, kind, endearing male. The man who I am looking at right now.” She really likes me.
“That sounds better.” He wants my thing again. I can feel it.
Cindy looked out the window. It was becoming a picture of a swampland sauna as the temperatures soared. Heat waves were readily visible.
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“The heat and humidity are coming back later today. It will feel just like Manila by the evening.”
“Do you miss the Philippines, Cindy?”
“At times. But, I don’t want to live there. Well, not now. Not for at least thirty years. Maybe when I retire. Making decent money over there is just too hard – too few legitimate opportunities right now. However, after I accumulate a nice nest egg here in the States, I may very well go back. The dollar goes so much farther over there – almost triple, David.”
“What did you think of those gold coins?” A test question?
“I love them! Thanks so much, David! And, how many more might the goldsmith have? Relax, it’s just a rhetorical question.” Not really.
“It’s a fair question for someone who provided me with gold-medal-winning, time-sensitive, invaluable information one Saturday evening. Let’s just say that I still have to work, but I’m totally debt-free, or soon will be. I already took care of the balance on my car; the house is next.”
“Excellent, David. That’s very smart.”
“I feel that I owe you more than just sixty-three hundred dollars – the approximate value of those coins, based on the Friday gold close.” Yes, keep going.
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“You didn’t have to give me anything. Really.” But I’m certainly glad you did.
“If you didn’t throw me that bone of advance notice, I wouldn’t have anything. Really. It’s the truth.”
“It’s funny how life works in unexpected ways.”
“Yes, sometimes very fortunate and sometimes very tragic.”
He thought about Chantelle. She knew he was.
“When I first met you, I wanted you, David, but you were with Chantelle. I respect relationships. I don’t interfere with them.
I am very sorry she died. She seemed like a lovely, young lady. I certainly would have wanted us to end up here under different circumstances.”
“She would be happy that we are here together. I know it.
She would not want me to remain alone the rest of my life chanting Latin psalms while staring at her candle-lit, eight-by-ten-inch photos.” He must have been raised Catholic, too.
“You paint quite a picture with your words, David.”
“Maybe I just channeled her; she wanted to be a novelist.
She was always taking notes.”
Cindy walked over towards the main window and looked down. A gaggle of canoes were methodically making their way up the languid river.
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“I hope that they know which fork to take,” she remarked.
“The river splits going upstream, doesn’t it?”
“It most certainly does. And, what’s weird is that the wider right fork, when viewed going upstream, is actually just the northeast branch of the Cape Fear River; the narrower left side is the Cape Fear River proper. I know this because just last year, some friends and I kayaked up there. We took the right fork thinking it was the main channel of the river. We never saw the oxbow lake that was our turnaround destination, because we were on the wrong side. We paddled for three hours on the wrong channel.”
“Sometimes I wish that I hadn’t sold my kayaks.”
“Well, I guess Mr. Gold Coins has plenty of money to buy many more.” Mr. Gold Coins? Very Chantelle-like.
“Cindy, please excuse me for a minute. I’ve got to get something out of my car.” A gun?! Please, not that.
“Are you going to get a revolver to kill me, now that I know so much?” What the fuck! Is that why the sex is so good with these women? Do they think I’m mega-rich and just might kill them for sport? Do I really look so unpredictably dangerous?
Is there that much latent homicidal drama humming from inside me?
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“I’m going to follow through with Gerald’s plan,” David said with a suddenly serious expression. “I’m very sorry, Cindy.
This is where your story ends.”
“What?!” Cindy screamed out of sheer fright. Oh, no!
“Gotcha!” David announced and began to chortle.
“You lousy kano! You son of a glitch! Son of a glitch?
Chantelle’s spirit is in the room.
“You fell for that one, hook, line and sinker, Cindy.” I sure did. He might be a good actor. Has he taken drama?
“Yeah, you really got me, David.” She removed her hands from her face and forced a laugh. I’ll get him back later.
<><><>
David returned two minutes later with a wide, flat, red toolbox in his hand. Please don’t let there be body parts in there. No fingers. No toes. Please, dear God, no!
“Would you like to open it?” David asked as he offered the box to Cindy. Should I?
“Is something going to jump out at me like a jack-in-the-box?”
“No, nothing like that. But, you may be startled in a good way. Don’t worry; it’s not a prank.”
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“Ok. I’m trusting you, David.”
“Hey, I’m trusting you, too. Bigtime.”
Cindy undid the clasp-type locking mechanism and opened the box. Her eyes greeted the larger golden boomerang –
the nearly twenty-two-pound, C-shaped, lustrous, gold nugget. Wow! God only knows how much this is worth.
“What a nugget! So, this is what was buried in Dale Smite’s backyard?”
“This and a slightly smaller one were buried behind that metal shed in soft sand.”
“How deep?”
“About two-and-a-half feet.”
“Let me guess – you melted the smaller one down into coins, like the ones you sent me.”
“You got it. Eighty-eight two-ounce coins and eighty-seven one-ounce, cube-shaped ingots.”
“Have you been able to sell any of it?”
“Yes, and with no problems.”
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“Nice. Very nice, David. And, exactly how much does this gold nugget weigh?” ‘Exactly’ again. She likes to get the correct numbers for her reports.
“Twenty-one pounds, nine ounces. Melted down into coins and ingots, one could probably get half of a million dollars out of it. However, if it were sold as is – intact – it could fetch up to eight-hundred-thousand dollars. This is because gold nuggets earn a premium over the current ounce price. For this nugget, it would easily be forty percent higher than the ounce rate; most likely fifty percent higher, or even more. It’s one of the largest nuggets found in North Carolina – the largest found in almost one hundred ninety years. I really don’t want to melt it down, but selling it intact will be tricky.”
“Yeah, and don’t forget the taxman. He’s going to chop off a big slice.” She caught the tax issue just like Chantelle. Very sharp. Very keen.
“Great point, Cindy.”
“It’s too expensive and too attention-grabbing to safely sell on ebay.” Just like Chantelle. Uncanny.
“You’re right. And, it’s way too expensive for local jewelers and those ‘we buy gold’ outfits.”
“Hey, I think I’ve solved your gold-to-cash dilemma.”
“The floor is yours, Ms. Santos.” Literally.
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“Break it into about two dozen pieces – nothing over a pound
– and slowly sell the nuggets one by one on ebay. Only accept paypal or a cashier’s check.” Cindy was looking at gold nuggets for sale on ebay on her smartphone.
“I think you have solved the problem. That’s an excellent idea, Cindy.”
“It looks like most of them are way under a pound. In fact, most of these gold nuggets on here are just one to three ounces. Thus, you better break it into over a hundred nuggets. You’ll have a nice steady income stream. You won’t be able to blow it all on a motor yacht.”
“Motor yacht? What makes you think that I would blow it all on a motor yacht?”
“Oh, I just threw that out there as a frivolous, just-came-into-money male purchase. You could substitute Ferrari.”
“No, it won’t be a fancy boat or a high-end sports car, nor even a big house. In fact, there won’t be any big purchase.
None. Period.”
“That’s smart, David. I’ve already done a story on a Wilmington-area family that won the North Carolina Lottery.
They had over a million dollars after taxes. Twenty-two months later they were filing for divorce and bankruptcy. I believe it was in that order.”
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“Were you always this smart … and sexy?” David asked as he ran his right hand up her right thigh. She didn’t stop him.
Cindy felt a tingle go up her spine and the heat rising in her tunnel of love.
They were soon back on the bed for round two. She rode him fast and hard. As David looked into Cindy’s brown eyes, he knew that he was falling in love again. I could live with this woman. / I want him … to stay with me … forever.
Cindy hoped that he wouldn’t bust his load before the deepest wave of pleasure moved through her body and radiated through her brain. Mr. Scrapalski held out just long enough. Baseball in July.
<><><>
After a two-hour, post-coital nap of interwoven dreams with overlapping themes, they awoke and kissed softly.
“David, I’ve got something very serious to tell you.”
“What is it, my sexy Pinay?” [a Philippine woman] Pinay? He must have done some research on my ethnicity. That or he’s already had a Filipina girlfriend somewhere in his past. I hope that he didn’t screw some disease-infested pok-pok
[Filipino slang for a prostitute] in Newport News.
“I think I’m already ad-dick-ted to you.” Too funny.
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David just chuckled and smiled at her. “Well, your puki
[vagina in Filipino] makes me go kooky.” So silly.
She grinned. “Do you want to go to dinner early, before it gets crowded?” Cindy asked while bending over to put on her beige panties. God almighty, she’s got a killer snatch. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of that. Am I getting aroused again? Down, rover, down. Take a break. Enough already.
“Sure. I’m hungry.”
<><><>
They arrived on foot at Engorged on The Walk at 6:06 PM.
The restaurant only had four occupied tables; there were plenty of places to sit. The dinner rush hadn’t started yet.
The mid-30-ish, white waitress led them to a table with a view.
“You know, Cindy, your condo has a better view than these waterfront restaurants.”
“I know.” She paused for a second as she thought her remark sounded too boastful. “I mean, I ate at all of these river-view restaurants and bars before buying my condo.
When I walked into that condo for the first time and looked out the window, I knew this was the one for me. We Filipinas like seeing water. We are a nation of over seven thousand islands.”
“Well, it’s a definite score. Premium digs.” Digs?
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“Thanks, again, David.”
“What is this place known for?”
“Falling in love.” Cindy gave him a dreamy, puppy-love-esque smile, then looked at the drink menu with her serious reporter’s countenance.
“I’ve heard that the martinis are always good here.” I sure hope he doesn’t think I’m some kind of river-bar-hopping alcoholic.
“How about a pair of the mango-flavored ones?”
“Sounds like a winner, hard dog.” What did she just call me?
Shades of Chantelle.
They sipped their mango martinis and Cindy continued with the playful banter. She was feeling great. She knew that David was already smitten by her charms. It looked like he had a barrel capacitor strapped to his upper right thigh.
The waiter came back for their food orders. They decided to split a large lobster dish. The food was so good that their conversation ceased for ten minutes. When the engorging was complete, Cindy wiped her lips with the white cloth napkin and smiled at David.
“That tasted great,” Cindy proclaimed. “And, not too much.
I’m glad we decided to split that dish. I’ve got to watch the 369
calories. I’ve got to maintain my weight. Being on TV, you get severely judged. Being overweight can even be a career killer. I’ve already seen it happen.”
“I believe it,” David said while holding the menu. “Hey, if you want another lobster dish to-go, it’s no problem. You could put it in the fridge for tomorrow and the day after. I’ve got plenty of cash on the hip.” Gosh, I sound like a gangster. /
I’m sure he does.
“Why, I bet you do, golden boy.” Just like Chantelle would say. Eerie. Just freaking eerie.
“I can see the sun in your eyes.”
“Ah, that’s so romantic. Please don’t set me up for heartbreak, David.” I can’t prevent that; only those lousy gods can … and they probably won’t.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. I promise.”
They paid up and left. They used the Riverwalk to get back to Cindy’s condo. They passed an assortment of tourists and locals on their way, some disembarking from boats at the docks. Some were even fishing. Cindy wondered if it was legal to do so.
Cindy loved how the day had gone, and when she felt David gently grab her hand, it was pure paradise. He loves me. I can tell. He’s a decent guy, worth his weight in gold.
370
They were back in Cindy’s condo at 8:22 PM. It was another dazzling sunset. Plenty of reds in the sky this evening with streaks of orange rising from the horizon.
Cindy opened a bottle of Merlot and poured two glasses.
David walked into the kitchen and lifted one to his mouth while admiring Cindy’s sexy sampot. [rump in Filipino] I know that he’s checking out my ass. Men have no stealth when it comes to ogling women.
“Excellent decision,” David said while leering at her top.
Man, I want to feel those boobs in my meat hooks very soon.
“You really like my breasts, don’t you?” Cindy tried to act like she was annoyed, but actually enjoyed his eyes on her body too much to lodge a formal protest.
“I like the whole package.” Good answer.
“Speaking of packages, have you checked to make sure that your gold is still under the sofa?”
David walked back into the living room and felt under the sofa. He didn’t feel anything. He then got down on the carpet and looked underneath the sofa. It was gone. Oh, no! Nooo!
No fucking way!
“Oh, my God, Cindy – it’s gone!” David looked like he had seen the ghosts of Mark, Susan, Dale, and Chantelle.
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“Relax! I put it in the safe when you were in the bathroom taking a pee. Gotcha!” She certainly did.
“Touché!” David remarked with a big smile.
Cindy was laughing once again, but now it was a little more exaggerated. The alcohol had reached her brain, and saturation was occurring. She was one giddy kitty.
Cindy got the gold fillet out of her bedroom closet safe. They both ran their hands over the golden boomerang as they kissed and stripped each other’s clothes off. They fondled and caressed each other while looking at the gold nugget on the carpet. She squeezed David’s sausage as he fondled her breasts. It was Eros d’ Aurum (Golden eroticism).
After twenty-two minutes of missionary-style coitus, Cindy was out like an over-sexed lamb. David carried her into the bedroom and tucked her under the covers. For some reason, David wasn’t drowsy at all; to the contrary, he was wide awake.
He flipped on Cindy’s wide, flat-screen TV and started to channel-surf. He stopped at ESPN to get the baseball score on the crawl at the bottom of the screen. Damn, Cindy’s Giants are beating my Pirates 2-0, but it’s only in the fifth inning. Plenty of time to erase a two-run deficit.
He looked out the main river-view window. It was dark now.
Car lights twinkled over the Memorial Bridge. She’s really got 372
some place here. I’d love to sell my house in Raleigh and move in with her. I could get a lab-tech job down here. Even if it paid ten or twenty percent less, it wouldn’t matter – we wouldn’t have a mortgage or any car payments. David was lost in his future fantasy.
He gazed at Cindy, who was sleeping so peacefully on her soft bed. Need to stay on her sleep schedule. If I stay up all night, I’ll feel like crap when Cindy wakes up. Always seem to have bad headaches when I have less than six hours of sleep, especially after drinking wine. It will be a crappy morning, and an agonizing drive back to Raleigh. Hey, I’ve still got some sleeping pills in my glove compartment! Yeah, that’s it.
Sure enough, he had one SleepPhast pill left. He gulped it down and chased it with the last glass of Cindy’s Merlot. Ah, this should knock me out real soon.
He flipped through the TV channels. In the lower-right corner of The Weather Channel, it said that it was 9:39 PM. There would be a 50% chance of rain tomorrow and a high of 96.
Whew, it’s like a sauna down here in the summer, but the other three seasons are nice. Winter is mild. I could live in this condo with Cindy in a heartbeat. I could pay her a hundred thousand dollars, so she doesn’t think that I’m just some gold-laden freeloader.
David then flipped back to ESPN to get an update on the Giants-Pirates game. The score ticker at the bottom of the 373
screen stated that the game was now SF 2 PIT 2. Ah, yes, we’ve already tied it up! C’mon Bucs!
At 10:10 he thought that he heard a noise out in the interior, common-to-all-residents corridor. He opened the door. He didn’t see anything but a row of closed doors on both sides.
Maybe I’m just hearing things. Or, maybe I just don’t yet know how this building creaks at night. All old buildings groan, especially ones built on sandy soil, like this one.
Yeah, it was probably just a settling moan.
After he resolved the noise issue to his satisfaction, he had another unnerving thought: lost keys. Don’t tell me I’ve lost my keys! No! No freaking way!
David exited the condo, leaving the door unlocked. He walked out to his car and looked at the ignition, the seats, under the seats, and even in the glove compartment. No sign of any keys. He then looked in his right hand. There they were. I am going nuts!
The SleepPhast-alcohol interaction was intensifying. He was becoming more delusional. He soon thought that Cindy had left her car keys at the restaurant, even though some swiftly fading part of his mind – that rapidly shrinking part known as reason – remembered that they walked there.
His inane thought avalanche advanced. I’ll do her a big favor and retrieve her car keys like a good boyfriend should. The restaurant may not be open until eleven tomorrow morning.
She may need to drive to the TV station in the morning. I 374
guess I could drive her, but there may be stuff in her car that she needs for work tomorrow. (Cindy had already told David that she had tomorrow off, and that she never drank alcohol on work nights, as she never wanted to be hung-over on camera; however, this data was inaccessible in his current state of mind.)
A delusional David began walking around in the parking lot, crawling through a latticework of thoughts. It’s much better to get those keys right now. After a shift change at the restaurant, the keys may get misplaced, or mysteriously disappear. Yeah, I really need to get her car keys now. I’ll just leave her a note. But, how will I get back into the condo once the door locks? I need to borrow her condo keys for twenty minutes while she sleeps. She won’t need them. I’ll be right back. It’ll be ok. She’ll thank me later for doing this.
He walked back up to her condo, entered, and tiptoed into her bedroom. Cindy was in deep-sleep mode. He saw her purple purse on the dresser. Gosh, I hate going through her purse, but she’ll understand.
He found her large, silver ring of keys, and then re-zipped her purse shut. Cindy didn’t even stir. David looked at her, smiled, and quietly closed the door to just a crack.
On the dark-stained, mahogany-red dinner table, David composed a short note on a white sheet of paper; it read: Cindy, I went to the restaurant to
retrieve your car keys. I took your
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condo keys so that I could lock and unlock the front door. I should
be back by 11:00 PM at the latest.
Love U, David
David drew a heart-shaped face at the bottom of the note. It looked like something that an eleven-year-old might add to a Valentine’s Day card.
He then laid the pen down, turned the TV and lights off, and made a quiet exit.
<><><>
Cindy awoke at 1:11 AM and was a little surprised that David wasn’t beside her. She got up and walked into the living room. It was almost completely dark, save for street light coming in between the blinds. A slow drizzle was softly pelting the river.
“David? David, are you here?” No reply. All she heard was the refrigerator’s compressor kick on. Where is he? Why did he leave?
She started turning on some lights, eventually getting to the dining area. Then she saw David’s note on the table. “Oh, my God!”
Cindy immediately went to her bedroom and got her purse.
She looked all through it. Gosh, he really did take my keys.
Why did he think my car keys were missing? We never even 376
used my car. My car keys are on the ring of keys that he took! They’re very obvious. Is he mental? What was he thinking? Did he just want to drive my car? But, why? He has his car here. This is crazy!
She put on some jeans and a white top and went down to check on her car. Thank God, my car is still here – and all locked up. But, his car is gone. This is so weird. Very strange. Where is he right now? Where did he go?
Cindy went back inside and called him. No answer; it went to voicemail. She left a voice message:
“David, please call me. I hope you’re ok. I’m not mad, just please call me when you get this message. Thanks, dear.”
She then texted him essentially the same message. She kept staring at her smartphone. No call or text reply was coming in. Nothing. Silence. What should I do? Should I call the police? Is all of this just an elaborate ruse to give him some cover while he goes and fucks some other woman down here? He’s got enough cash on him for a high-end escort. No, he would never take my keys for something like that. I can tell that something’s seriously wrong with him –
something’s not right with his head. I can feel it; his mind is off. Does he have very-early-onset Alzheimer’s? Or, maybe he’s unconscious somewhere. Oh, dear …
She made a cup of coffee, thinking that she was going to need to be up for a while. Her head slightly ached from the martini and the wine. She threw down a couple of aspirins 377
and wondered if the gold nugget was still in her condo. Did he take his gold nugget with him?
She walked back into the living room. She didn’t see it on the carpet or on any piece of furniture. Cindy kneeled down and looked under the sofa. There it is. This is even stranger now.
What in the world is going on?
Cindy got her laptop going on the dining table. She went to the Channel 8 website. Her heart and lungs nearly shut down when she saw the newest story in the Breaking Local News section that read:
Motorist drowns when his car goes off
the Riverwalk into the Cape Fear River.
A man lost control of his car while going
down Ann Street around 10:45 PM tonight
in downtown Wilmington. He was later
pronounced dead at the scene after
rescue divers removed him from the
sedan. Witnesses say that the driver
was a white male. However, the driver’s
identity has not yet been released.
The news article’s accompanying photo was a partially submerged, white, 2011 Ford Focus attached to a red tow truck’s winch cable. That’s David’s car! He’s dead!
Out of breath from sobbing, she glanced out the window. A lone cyclist in an orange outfit rounded the corner. They made eye contact for a fleeting second. Then her cell phone started ringing.
378
379
About the Author
Mike Bozart was born in Newport News, Virginia on a steamy afternoon in July of 1964. After graduating with an Earth Science degree from UNC-Charlotte in 1986, he started doing safety-oriented technical writing.
Former residences in North Carolina include Raleigh, Greensboro, Wilmington, Carolina Beach, High Peak (Etowah) and Asheville.
Charlotte is his current residence. He has also lived in downtown San Francisco (early 1990s).
Mike has written numerous, compact, surreal Secteur de Tryke-
branded poem-stories, and 133 (as of 7/19/18) meta-real ‘pshort pstories’ under the Psecret Psociety heading.
Gold, a summer story was rough-drafted between May 23 and July 11, 2013.
The author is remarried (Sharon) with a son (Kirk).
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