Chapter 24
As soon as David had driven down Shipyard Boulevard far enough to be out of his line of sight, Dale walked down to the wrecked, white, now-of-paramount-concern Ford Focus. He had seen David looking down at some object in the trunk. What the hell was he looking at in there? He seemed to have handled something. But, what?
He unlocked the trunk. All looked normal. It just had the bold fragrance of L’eau d’ Intracoastal Waterway. It was already 92°F. The trunk was ripe. Whew! What an odor! Send in the crabs, there must be crabs …
Dale scanned the low-pile, tightly woven, still-wet, black carpet. It had a slight ridge in it. He grasped and removed it. He seemed to have his hands down in the center of the trunk. What was he holding? The spare tire? What’s so magical about this doughnut spare? Most people hate these things. Maybe there’s something under the spare tire.
He lifted up the black, plastic, spare-tire enclosure and unscrewed the tire-retaining bolt’s wing nut. He pulled the tire up and out with both hands. When he saw the two pieces of yellowish metal, he immediately knew why David wanted the whole car. Holy cow! That’s gold! This is why he wants this car so bad – it has gold in it. I wonder how much this gold is worth. My real payday has finally arrived.
Dale wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but he was good at figuring out people’s ulterior motives. He thought about the situation as it now stood. Obviously, David saw the gold in here. That’s pretty much a given. And, just as certain, Gerald has not seen the gold in here; thus, he knows nothing about it. They must’ve never opened the trunk after the accident. The police would have never knowingly left gold in this car; it would have been impounded. It’s a pretty safe bet that only me and David know that there’s gold in this car’s trunk. Gerald told me that the driver of this rental car died. And, his wife committed suicide later that day. So, she’s certainly not coming after it. Thus, it must be only David and I; only the two of us know. If anyone else knew there was this much gold in this car’s trunk, they would have retrieved it by now. Yeah, I would bet my life that only me and David know that there is gold in this trunk. Gerald has to be in the dark. He would never allow so much gold to sit in there. Never. Especially not in a car in which he intends to sell the trunk door. Obviously, he’s totally clueless. He’ll be back soon. Must think smart and act fast.
Dale walked back towards the house-office. He got in his burgundy 2002 Chrysler Town & Country minivan, and drove up to the white Ford Focus, keeping his van in between the sight line from the office to the Ford Focus. Please, no customers now. And please, no early arrival by Gerald or David.
Dale quickly loaded the two boomerang-shaped gold nuggets into a couple of black, four-mil-thick, plastic Hefty bags. The extra-thick trash liners were completely opaque. Even in the bright sun, the gold crescents were invisible.
He then slid the bagged gold under his minivan’s rearmost seat. Then he placed an old blanket over the bags of gold. Next, he put some milk crates that were full of tools and automotive fluids on top of them.
He scanned the lot and looked up at the house-office. There was no sign of anyone. The only creature watching him seemed to be a lone crow that was sitting on a 1968 Dodge Polara station wagon’s luggage rack, just a few vehicles down from him.
Dale then carefully replaced the spare tire, the plastic piece, and the black carpet on top. He closed the trunk and got in his minivan. He pulled up to the office, parked, and went inside and wrote a short message on a white piece of notepaper with a bold marker. It was 9:58 AM. The note read:
Back in 15 minutes (10:15)
-Dale
He taped it to the front storm door’s upper glass pane and locked up the office. He went back to the dog pen and let the German Shepherds out. They barked loudly for a minute, very happy to be out of the small fenced area.
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Dale lived less than two miles away, on Van Buren Street (as fate would have it) in the Sunset Park neighborhood in west Wilmington. His wife had died two years ago from liver disease; he lived alone. His minivan was on his concrete driveway in only four and a half minutes.
Dale parked at the end of the concrete driveway and closed the privacy-wall gate behind him. The minivan was inside the enclosure now. The whole back yard was surrounded by an eight-foot-high, wooden, double-slatted privacy wall that Dale had installed by himself five years ago. It was still in good condition. None of the gothic tops had broken off yet, and there were no splits or holes in the planks.
He walked to his metal shed and got the medium shovel, and then walked to the corner of the side and rear fences behind the shed and dug a two-and-a-half-foot-deep hole in the soft, grayish white sand. He had his golden burial pit dug in only four minutes.
Dale then placed the two, bagged, golden fillets in the pit. He quickly covered them with the sand that he had removed. Finally, Dale scattered some adjacent top sand over the excavated area along with some fallen pine needles. People get caught or found out by not attending to the small details. Don’t make a million-dollar mistake, Dale. Make it look like no shovel ever hit the ground back here. Do it right.
When he was done, there were no signs of digging. From start to finish took less than eight minutes. He looked around while putting the shovel back in the shed; the coast still looked to be clear – not one eye was seen. Success! If I play this right and be patient, I’ll have more than I need for the rest of my life. Don’t blow it, Dale. Stay steady. Keep calm.
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Dale was back at the Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage house-office in just sixteen minutes from the time he left. No one was in the parking lot waiting. No one was on the porch. Perfect. David is not back, and Gerald is not here yet. Excellent! Couldn’t have gone any better.
He took the note off the storm door, wadded it up and threw it in the rubber wastebasket. I think I can safely assume that no one dropped by. There are no messages.
He sat back in Gerald’s desk chair and popped open a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink. He started to think of the possible upcoming scenarios. Gerald arrives at one o’clock. I tell him that David did indeed show up and looked at the car. I’ll tell Gerald that he was acting very odd, like he was high on drugs. Yeah, that’s it; I’ll characterize David as an insane, high-tech, Triangle-area dope fiend. I’ll tell Gerald that he wants to buy the whole car for twelve hundred dollars. But then Gerald may ask me what I think his motivation is. I’ll tell him that maybe he thinks there’s something über-cool about the 2011 Ford Focus. Who knows? I’ll pawn him off as an eccentric hipster type. Maybe Gerald will just say, ‘Sure, you can have that submerged car for that price.’ Or, maybe Gerald calls David and asks for a little more loot. Maybe they settle on fifteen hundred or sixteen hundred. Certainly. Why not? It’s in both of their interests to get a deal done. Gerald will never get that much money in parts from that car, given its history. David will obviously go insanely high with the offers in order to get that whole car, believing that there is still over a million dollars of gold in the trunk. He’ll never stop making offers. The deal will go down at some price. However, David could give himself away; he could actually surpass the price of a brand new Ford Focus. No, he’s not that stupid. If Gerald didn’t accept three thousand, I don’t think David would go any higher. It would be too risky. He would try to get into the trunk of that car some other way. Maybe poison the dogs one night. And get the shock of his life. But, what would Gerald think if an ultra-high offer is made by David? What happens then? What if David isn’t rational and offers a crazy amount for the car? Say, four thousand. What then? Gerald would get suspicious and declare: ‘No sale.’ He’d check every square inch of the car. But, he would find nothing and maybe let the sale go down. Well, assuming David isn’t watching him search the car. No, Gerald wouldn’t search the car with David present. Gerald would send him away for an hour; he’d employ some delaying tactic. Maybe Gerald will really believe my crazy characterization of David. At some point that Ford Focus will leave the junkyard. At some point the trunk will open. And to David’s grand dismay, the gold will be gone. Long gone. He’ll be willing to bet the farm that the gold is still in there. He may open the trunk when that smashed Ford Focus is on the flatbed tow truck, just a mile down the road. Or, he may open it in Raleigh in his driveway. It won’t really matter; the result will be the same: He will be on the golden warpath. What will be his method of redress? Will he first come after me? Or, go to Gerald? Would he really tell Gerald that there was a boatload of gold in that trunk at nine in the morning? I really doubt it. He’ll be gunning for me. And when he calls or arrives, I’ll just play dumb. In fact, I’ll play dumb with both of them. What if he goes to the police? So, what? It’s not illegal to own gold nuggets in this country. Even gold bullion ownership was made legal again in 1974. All forms and types of gold are legal to own in America. So, would he claim that we stole it from someone? From whom? From him? Oh, please. ‘Prove it,’ the police would say. ‘And, precisely where did you unearth these unusually thin gold nuggets, sir?’ Yikes. ‘Whose property were you on?’ Gulp. The police would ask him: ‘How did thirty-eight pounds of raw gold end up in a previously submerged wrecked rental car’s trunk – a car in which the driver died?’ They would press him. ‘And, exactly what do you know about this gold, sir?’ Gulp. ‘Please speak into the microphone, Mr. Scrapalski.’ ‘No dice, bro. You want the police to question you in a small room under a bright light for hours and hours? I didn’t think so, sport.’ Going to the cops just makes David look like a suspect in that driver’s death. No, David has no leverage using the law; it would just make him look loony, or worse. He is too smart for that. Will he use a firearm as recourse against me? Will the gold fever hit him that bad? He doesn’t seem like the killer type, but one never knows how someone will act when there’s over a million dollars right there for the taking. Hands on it one minute, then suddenly snatched away with their dreams and schemes five hours later. He’ll most certainly be choleric. He’ll be devising a recovery plan. For sure. Would he distance himself and hire a hit-man to off me? But, he has to know where the gold is before I die. He can’t just have me snuffed-out without knowing the gold’s new location – which I will never divulge. He’ll never find it. He’s going to be one frustrated SOB, to put it mildly. Better be prepared; David will be rottenly pissed when he sees nothing but black floorboard under that spare tire. Better practice your stoic face now. It’s gonna get crazy one way or two ways. All ways, most likely.
Someone was knocking at the door. Oh, shit! Which one is it: Gerald or David? Let’s deal with Gerald first – alone. Please not both of them at once. That would be a nightmare.
Dale cautiously slouched over to the door and looked through the highest glass pane from an acute angle. Thank God, it’s just the UPS man.
A giant sigh of relief from Dale. He then opened the door and signed for the parcel.