Chapter 12
Mark rolled up next to their Dodge Neon at 2:28 AM. The streets in that area were now deserted. Only a dim, flashing glow could be seen on the window blinds of room 120. Susan is probably passed-out again with the TV on. Well, this is late enough. It’s showtime, Mark. Let’s do this – do it right.
Without further pondering, Mark leapt out of the Ford Focus and quickly walked to the other side, opening the passenger-side rear door. Then he opened the trunk of their Dodge Neon. He looked inside, way up inside the trunk. Thank God! Yes, it’s still here. Whew!
He grabbed the tent and pulled it down. It slid towards the rear of the car. That’s right, come to papa. Then as he lifted the tent, the gold fillets fell out on the trunk’s black carpet. Ah, yes! There’s my golden couple. Wow, what sexy curved objects they are. Oh, how I’ve missed you, my lovely objects of supreme desire.
Mark then walked back to the rental car and grabbed the smaller suitcase. He placed it in the Neon’s trunk, off to the left side. He then filled the smaller suitcase with the two slender, C-shaped pieces of gold. He looked around, trying not to look any more suspicious. Well, no problems so far.
The larger semicircular gold nugget barely fit. He placed the gold-filled suitcase in the back seat of the Ford Focus, next to the empty larger suitcase and closed the door. Finally, it’s in my car. At last, Allah, it’s in my possession. I’ve got it back! Yey!
He then quietly closed the trunk of the blue Dodge Neon and walked over to his white rental car. I’ll transfer these suitcases to the trunk somewhere else. Maybe do it at the Mount Bourbon Inn tomorrow morning in broad daylight, after I put my clothes in the larger one. Yeah, that’s it; that’s the plan.
Mark cautiously closed the rear door and trotted around the car. He jumped in, started the engine, and eased down Carolina Beach Avenue. He never looked back. Nirvana is my next stop, sweetheart! One way. Express.
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He was only going 28 MPH in the 25 MPH zone on Canal Drive when the traffic signal at Harper Avenue suddenly turned yellow. And then, it suddenly turned red. What an ungodly short yellow light! This must be a rigged ticket stop.
He jammed on the brakes and nearly skidded into the intersection. He knew at this time of night the cops were out in force, looking for drunks. I absolutely cannot be pulled over. No way. No how. It can’t happen. Period. I can’t run a red light!
As the car came to a complete stop, he heard a ripping sound and then a thump. The smaller gold nugget in the smaller suitcase had suddenly lurched forward as he braked and tore through the fabric area at the top; it was protruding through the suitcase. You’re kidding me! This is not happening! C’mon, gimme a freakin’ break!
Mark continued to his motel room with no more problems. He parked the car and pushed the gold nugget back into the smaller suitcase. Now the gold was no longer visible. However, the ripped hole was obvious to anyone who studied the suitcase.
He locked the car, re-checked that he had locked all the doors, and re-checked one more time. He glanced at the car one last time and walked towards his room. The crescent moon was now unobscured. They say that it’s damn cold on that moon. Oxygen-starved. Cratered to hell. Probably gold-less, too.
Once inside he went to the fridge and grabbed a cold Guinness. Ah, the taste of victory. All things considered, you’ve done well, my boy. Mission very well accomplished.
He was almost giddy. The wall clock said 2:43. What a night! What a successful night. I won! Ha-ha! I won, suckers! Markie-boy has scored a golden sack trick!
He switched the old tube-style TV back on, and hypnotically flipped through the channels, riding waves of endorphin-released euphoria. Adrenaline was still being secreted. He was still victoriously jacked-up.
His surfing stopped at TCM, Turner Classic Movies. No movie-interrupting commercials on this channel. Perfect.
An old black-and-white movie was running. It looked like a film noir. He leaned back in the chair as he sipped the thick, dark, Irish stout. Maybe they’re having a film noir marathon. I love this genre. I feel like I’m in one of these movies right now.
The movie was Detour, and it was the last twenty-three minutes of the 1945 Edgar G. Ulmer classic. Gosh, it’s Detour! Man, I wish I would’ve caught this from the beginning. But then, maybe I would’ve ended up like that poor schlep Al. So ironic that this movie is on right now, on this particular night, saturated with suspense.
The movie’s setting was now Los Angeles. Vera, the femme fatale, was now blackmailing Al, the piano player. They get into a heated argument. Somehow Vera dies. The phone cord was wrapped around her neck. Al didn’t realize it. What bad luck this guy has. He’s now hitchhiking again. And here come the cops. The End.
It was now 3:08. He heard a gust of wind blow an empty beer can over, outside in the parking lot. Well, thankfully, no one is blackmailing me. My ‘Vera’ is totally clueless. And, I haven’t killed anyone, intentionally or by accident. I’ve really done nothing wrong. I can rest easy. I removed found gold – gold that no one even knew about – from my/our own car and put into another legally rented car. No offense there. I didn’t steal it; it doesn’t belong to anyone. Well, I guess that landowner owns the gold, but he never even knew he had it. So, he’s certainly not missing it now. There’s certainly no warrant out for my arrest. Or, is there? Of course not! Let’s cease with this irrational paranoia right now.