Chapter 8
Mark didn’t want to risk being seen in a restaurant by Susan. So, he just drove over to the Sea Merchants grocery store on Cape Fear Boulevard and picked up some frozen food to heat in the microwave back at his motel room. The store was only a few blocks away, and it was on the same side of US 421 – not on the North End side where Susan’s motel was.
As Mark passed along the cold-beer aisle, he paused. Oh, why not. Might as well celebrate a little after that horrendous and humiliating ordeal. He grabbed a six-pack of Guinness and proceeded to the cash register.
The white, mid-30s, female cashier had that quintessential Carolinas’ beach look: dyed blonde hair, even though her hair was naturally blonde; overdone tan, bordering on mutant; ridiculous boob job, appearing to be softball implants; white short shorts, two sizes too small. And for some odd reason, she was curious to know more about him.
“Down for the weekend?” she asked like a small-town detective trying to crack a missing-dog case.
“Yeah, just doing the annual beach visit. How did you know I was a tourist?”
“Oh, we locals can spot you guys a mile away.”
Mark chuckled. “Is that so? Well, have a nice evening.”
“You, too, mysterious stranger.” What did she just call me? Is there something weird about me? … or, is this place just totally whacked?
Mark drove back to his hotel room. He cooked his frozen pasta dish in the microwave, wolfed it down, and popped open a Guinness. How will this night go?
He looked through the slits in the old, wide-style, metal blinds. The TV was on CNBC. The price of gold was going up. And, the sun was going down. It was 8:08 PM.
Mark heard the old refrigerator’s compressor kicking back on. He became lost in thought as he sipped his Guinness Extra Stout beer. Well, boy, tonight’s your night. You can’t screw this up. This is prime time. This night will determine the rest of your life. Well, possibly. There’s no margin for error. You have to extricate those two boomerang-shaped gold nuggets from the Dodge Neon trunk, and place them in the trunk of the Ford Focus without Susan – or the police – or anyone, for that matter – noticing. Zero tolerance for being seen.
He looked at the kitchen clock. When would be the best time? hmmmmm … Midnight? No, she might be out drinking in a local bar and return about then. 3:30? Yeah, that should be a safe time. Still plenty dark, and just about the whole island will be asleep. The bars close at 2:00. Gosh, I hope I can stay awake that long. I’ll make some coffee. Yeah. I’ll put the beer drinking on hold. If I’m the least bit drunk, I know I will fuck up this operation. I can’t blow it. Not this one. Not this time.
The room came with complimentary coffee packs and a cheap coffee maker. He plugged it in, loaded it up, and got it brewing. He was sipping his first cup o’ java as darkness fell on the barrier island.
He began to think back to when he first met Susan at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee. She was just an 18-year-old freshman; he was a 21-year-old senior, almost 22, at Appalachian State University in Boone. It almost seems like a different life.
Mark and some college buddies were doing some hiking in the Nantahala National Forest. One of the guys wanted to see his sister, who was attending WCU. The friend of the sister was Susan. Sparks and rockets flew when they first made eye contact. Those were some fun times. Gosh, she looked so hot in those spandex hiking shorts that day. Where is that day? Does it still exist in some alternate universe?
Mark reminisced about the first time he visited Susan’s parents on the Cherokee Indian Reservation in Qualla (just north of the intersection of US 74 and US 441). It was such a perfect fall day. That simple log cabin. They were so proud of Susan. The 3.98 high school GPA. The academic scholarship to WCU. The first one in her clan’s lineage to attend college. A model commuter student. Never goofing around with any boys. A bookworm, really. And now we’re at this space and time …
Susan wasn’t totally shy, but she kept to herself. She had never dated anyone before Mark.
Mark recalled how Susan’s mother was so keen; she could always see the real problem. Her dad was such a hard worker, driving a logging truck on those dangerous mountain roads, even during icy conditions in the dark, cold winter. He had to put the chains on the tires himself, despite having an essentially nonfunctional left arm, the result of a breech birth.
Mark remembered having a drink of moonshine with him one spring evening many years ago. He loved that stuff to the chagrin of his wife. He would say the damnedest things.
“Mark, where do you think we go after we die?” her dad had asked him out of the blue.
Mark just blurted, “No idea, sir.” He was just being honest.
Her dad then talked about transitions, phases, and continuation. He closed with, “Don’t be afraid of death. It’s just the start of another journey in another realm.”
He remembered how he would sit back and grin and repeat, “Yeah, remember that?” This was usually around midnight. It didn’t matter if your statement was about something in the past, present or future – the reply was going to be, “Yeah, remember that?” That’s when Susan’s mom would tell him to get back in the house. She was never amused.
Mark’s mind had drifted almost three hundred miles west of where he was. But then his cell phone chirped. It was the text-received audio notification. And just like that, his thoughts were right back at Carolina Beach in an instant. The brief text read:
Message 456
Your payment of $89.05 has
been credited to your account.
Thank you for your business!
Whew! I thought that was Susan. Mark sighed with relief, and walked over to the coffee maker. He poured cup number two and sat down by the side window. He saw headlights drifting by. Some loud tourists were walking on the sidewalk.
He then glanced at the TV. He flipped through the channels, stopping on The Weather Channel. No rain forecast for tonight or tomorrow. Excellent! I’d hate to have to do this trunk transfer in the rain. That would suck goose eggs, regally!
Then he twisted in the chair and let his chin rest on his right hand. Do I really need to move the gold from the Neon to the Focus tonight? If Susan hasn’t opened the trunk yet – which it certainly appeared that she hadn’t by the way she acted with her male hookup – then why would she open the trunk before returning to Charlotte? Couldn’t I just go back to Charlotte and wait for her to return with the gold in the Neon’s trunk? Then I could remove those gold fillets on our own property at a time of my choosing. Am I making this more urgent, more difficult, and more risky than it need be? Think, Mark, think.
However, this line of thinking was almost immediately T-boned in its tracks by another train of thought as a horn beeped. No, don’t be stupid, Mark; don’t let this chance to be bill-free slip away. Imagine, no more debt! None. Nada. Nil. Zilch. Paying cash for a modest house. No mortgage ever again. Paying cash for a new vehicle – that cool electric one – with no monthly payment. The gold is right there – its current location is known. If you go back to Charlotte all kinds of things could happen. One, the car could break down at any mile on the return trip. It’s a wonder that it made the two-hundred-ten-mile journey down here without crapping out. If it should break down, at some point, invariably, the trunk will be popped open by Susan or a mechanic. Two, what if Susan buys a large item and/or wants to hide something from potential thieves? Guess where she will likely put it? In the trunk! Three, what if she runs over some broken glass and gets a flat tire. Pop goes the trunk! There are broken beer bottles all over the curbs down here. Four, what if all she does is open the trunk for a second just to see if the tent is still in there? Another losing situation. She’ll wonder why the tent is all wadded-up and pushed to the back of the rear seat. Next, she will pull it out. Heck, what if she wants to go camping at the state park? Voila! Susan will be the golden girl; I’ll be the dim-witted dunce once again. And, I’ll never be able to go back in time and replay the scenario. She’ll haul off with the gold and never return to Charlotte. She’ll taunt me with postcards from Paris.
Mark heard a siren passing. It sounded like it was a few blocks west, somewhere in the neighborhood. Probably a drunken domestic dispute, he supposed. He was nervous. He reached for his mug of coffee. It was a quarter full and lukewarm.
He headed to the kitchenette area, ditched the stale, old java and poured another cup. It was 9:59:59 when he flipped the TV to the local 10 o’clock news. He watched the tall, blonde-haired, Caucasian, female news anchor as she recited the lead story:
“A Greensboro man was caught onboard the Fort Fisher-Southport Ferry tonight with twelve pounds of highly processed cocaine on his person. This is the largest coke bust in New Hanover County in the past three years.” Well, possessing gold is not illegal anymore. At least I have that going in my favor. If I did get pulled over and searched, what could they do? ‘Yeah, it’s gold, officer, and it’s in my rented car’s trunk – so what?’ ‘Well, sir, where did you get it?’ ‘I found it.’ ‘Where did you find it?’ ‘Why do you have to know where I found it?’ ‘If you found it on private or government property, then it’s not legally yours; we’ll have to take it from you.’ Mark soured on this train of thought and actually frowned.
Mark looked at an ultra-thin, vertical crack in the wall. Has there been seismic activity down here? I thought that the only earthquake area in the coastal Carolinas was in the Charleston vicinity.
He then got up and examined the crack closer. It was actually a long strand of black human hair. That’s either a first-rate optical illusion, or I’m losing my mind. Mark feared the latter might be the correct answer.
He flipped the channel to ESPN. An international soccer game was on. They called it a friendly, but cleats grinding into ankles didn’t look so amicable. It was Germany vs. Russia. The second half had just started. The score was 1-1. It looked like the game was being played in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California. He noticed the characteristic wide shallow bowl shape of the single-tier stadium and saw some palm trees blowing in the breeze. It was a signature SoCal scene. He turned up the volume and focused on the match.
“Schweinsteiger. Müller. To Özil. Over to Gómez. Back across to Schweinsteiger. He dribbles to his right and turns. Schweinsteiger from distance with power. He scores! Oh my, what a blast! Schweinsteiger goes top-left shelf from twenty-six yards out in the eighty-ninth minute. Shades of Giovanni van Bronckhorst there, Jim. That was a laser-guided long-range missile that found its Deutsch Mark.” Schweinsteiger. That’s about as German as it gets.
Mark remembered their trip to Los Angeles. That was when a new Susan emerged – one that he didn’t like. She was never happy on that trip, no matter where they went, or what they did. What did she want? Why couldn’t she be happy? We had a nice middle-class life in America. Ninety-plus percent of the globe would kill for our lifestyle. How did such a dirt-poor Native American girl come to feel that she was entitled to a gilded jet-set lifestyle? Where did it come from? Most certainly not from her parents; they were happy with virtually nothing.
Well, these were Mark’s thoughts. You can be sure that Susan’s thoughts on the matter were a bit different. Very much different.
The ebb and flow of the soccer players going back and forth in waves on the TV screen lulled his mind into a more relaxed, less panicked state. He took another sip of his black-jolt liquid. He could feel the caffeine. He had drunk enough; he needed to stop. He wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon, maybe not for twenty-four hours. His pores were wide open. So were his eyes when he glanced at the dresser mirror. Man, I look wigged-out as hell. He felt restless.
Mark got up and walked around the bed. I should drive by the Neon to make sure it’s still there. Or, wait, how about just walk to the Neon and then drive it over here? Would it be better to make the gold transfer in this motel lot or somewhere nearby? No, too risky. It would just be my luck for Susan to look out, or go out, and notice that the car is gone. She’d then call the cops and report it stolen. Game over, Mark. You lose. A recon run, though, in the Focus is a good idea. It’ll pass some time. I’ve got to do something. I’m going nuts just waiting here.
Mark got into the white Ford Focus and tootled over to Carolina Beach Avenue. The LED clock on the dashboard read 11:16. Interesting, the numerals 4, 5 and 6 are the only ones which have the same number of LED segments as their face value. I wonder if anyone else has ever noticed that. Why do I notice such trivial, non-revenue-generating things? Well, it can soon be my already-paid-for hobby.
He noticed an equal assortment of adults and teenagers out on the sandy sidewalks. Hordes of buzzed 20-somethings were staggering in the street. As he headed north, the throngs thinned out.
He pulled up alongside their blue sedan. It was still in the exact same spot next to the sidewalk. It looked like Susan hadn’t driven it since he last saw it. He thought about opening the trunk and taking a peek, but his saner track of thinking won out.
Mark looked up and noticed that all of the lights were off in room 120. It looked like a vacant room. Was Susan already asleep? Or, was she out partying somewhere on the island? Should I switch cars? No, don’t be foolish. Stick to the plan. He quietly drove away.
When he reached the North Pier, he found a vacant spot in the sand lot. He parked the Focus and cut the engine off. He sat in the car for a few minutes, just thinking if it was safe to walk out on the pier. Well, Susan’s car is back at the motel. This pier is a mile and a half from her motel room. Susan would never walk this far alone at night. Yeah, it’s ok to venture out.
Mark got out of his white sedan and walked up to the pier’s entrance, which was actually a switch-backing series of ramps that led up to a basic American-fare greasy spoon. He passed through the eatery with his head down. Most of the dozen-or-so people were teenagers playing video games. So far, so good. He walked out the door and was on the pier.
It was a totally different scene outside. The ocean wind was blowing salty air across the pier from left to right, north to south. There was a lot of chatter amongst the older folks. Every time someone landed a fish, heads turned. These amateur fishermen were getting their money’s worth. As he walked out the 700-foot-long, wood-planked pier, he saw what they had been catching: spot, shark, eel, mackerel, flounder, croaker, shad, crabs, some jellyfish and even a fairly large squid. Gosh, the sea has so many strange creatures in it. I’m glad that I don’t swim in it anymore.
He continued to the very end of the pier and walked back about twenty feet, and parked himself in a vacant wooden bench made of 2 x 8s. He looked far down the beach and saw a multitude of street lights and blue-lit windows. Somewhere down there, Susan, my ex-wife-to-be, is sleeping in her motel room. Actually at that moment, Susan was about ready to leave The Sea Twitch Restaurant with the bass player.
Mark started to focus on the sea swells as they passed by the pilings. The lights under the pier’s planking created an optical illusion: When one looked down in certain areas, it looked like you were seeing the ocean’s sandy bottom. Was it really only four feet deep this far out? No, it has to be deeper than that. It was.
A ship’s light several miles out to sea caught Mark’s eye. He remembered that many shipwrecks had occurred off the North Carolina coast over the years. The Graveyard of the Atlantic, they called it. Wonder how much gold went down with those sailing ships. I bet most of it is still down there in assorted octopus gardens. Well, my gold is on dry land. In a dry trunk.
He looked at his watch; it read: 1:11. A pair of seagulls were circling and screeching overhead. They eventually alighted on the pier and began to have bird sex. Sex is going on everywhere. Damn, I’ve got over two hours to kill. Maybe I should just do it now. Being out in a motel parking lot at 3:30 AM will just look suspicious … very suspicious to a passing cop.
A sudden gust of wind almost lifted him off his seat. Maybe that’s a sign. Maybe I should just go and get it over with now. Get those sexy gold crescents in the right trunk – in my trunk – in my possession!
He got up and began to walk back down the pier towards the beach. He passed through the restaurant and on to his rental car. He unlocked it and sat down in the driver’s seat. What a situation. Must stay mentally sharp. Don’t assume anything, Mark. Mind, don’t go dense on me tonight. Not tonight.
He looked back at the car’s rear seat. It was totally free of all objects. Nothing but a clean bench seat. I need a special piece of luggage for the gold. A hard-shell suitcase, or maybe a matching set. I’ve got it: I’ll drive to the 24-hour Super Wally World at Monkey Junction. Yeah, that’s it! That will pass some time, too. And calm the nerves.
As he passed by the Dauphin Reign Motel, he noticed a light on in Room 120. She’s probably screwing some guy from one of these bars. Mark would never know that his thinking was right on the money – as good as gold.