Chapter 40
David heard three, rapid, loud knocks on his front door at 10:08 AM on an ultra-bright, warm-but-rapidly-becoming-roasting-hot Saturday morning. Is Chantelle already here? Did she call in sick? I thought that she couldn’t miss work today.
He looked through the peephole. It was the UPS guy. He had a small, light-brown package for him. He signed for it and closed the door. What could this be?
The return-address label was the giveaway. It was the dozen graphite crucibles that he ordered off of ebay last Sunday. Yey! Earlier than expected.
After carefully opening the cardboard box, David held the miniature, handle-less, pot-like objects in his right hand. I’ve already got the torch, tongs, ingot molds, and coin molds. So, why not do a test run? Chantelle won’t be here until after six. Yeah, that way I can perfect my technique and impress her.
He brought the box of crucibles up to his half-finished attic storeroom. One side of his attic was finished: it was his office, and when/if he got married, it would be his man cave. The side that he was on still had non-drywalled studs. There was a louver at the end wall that let in fresh air. He would use it as an exhaust vent.
David had a 2’ x 3’ metal table under the louvered vent with an extendable lamp overhead. This was to be the operating table; this is where he would melt small chunks of the elongated nuggets, and then pour the molten gold liquid into the coin and ingot molds; yes, this is where marketable conversion would occur.
The unfinished attic area was already getting hot. He switched on the large, commercial-grade floor fan, aiming it at the louvered vent. He left the door to the office open so that the cooler, air-conditioned air could be drawn into the work area.
David now had his golden fillet up on the table, along with the molds, torch, tongs, an electronic postage scale, a couple of chisels and a hammer.
Before firing up the torch, he took a photo of the semi-sacred gold fillet. This pic could get me in trouble someday, but I want to be able to remember what this beauty looked like. I’ll move the pic off the camera later to a secret flash drive and hide it.
After taking a pic of the gold nugget while weighing it on the scale (it weighed exactly 16 pounds, 7.11 ounces; the readout was in the photo), he grabbed the half-inch-wide chisel in his left hand and the short-arm hammer in his right hand. He paused for a second, realizing that once he struck the gold fillet, its pristine beauty – and ultimate high value – would be forever lost. But, he had debts to retire and projects to start, and could see no other way. And, even though you got free meals and lodging in jail, the caged life just didn’t interest him.
<thud> The chisel easily sliced into the pure gold. He picked off a small curved piece and put it in a crucible. He fired up the torch and ran the flame over the top of the gold, occasionally bringing the fire perpendicular to the gold shaving. It soon melted. He grasped the crucible with the steel tongs and poured the molten gold into a one-ounce ingot mold. Wow, I never imagined that I’d be pouring gold ingots at any time in my life. Never.
He repeated the process twenty-two more times before taking a break. David now had twenty-three one-ounce ingots of pure gold solidifying in front of him. At $1,500 an ounce, he was looking at $34,500 right under his nose. Boy, that was quick and easy. Good work if you can get it. Wait ‘til Chantelle sees this.
After David ate a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich for lunch downstairs, he returned and poured twenty-two two-ounce coins. The molds were some odd lot off of ebay from some guy in Romania. They had strange, cryptic designs and words in Romanian like noroc (luck), bucurie (joy), and dragoste (love). They also had the inscription: Au 99.99 fine. This is what sealed the deal with David. If a metallurgist tested one of their gold coins and it came up less than 99.99% pure gold, he would gladly refund the money, take it back, and re-melt it. He felt fairly confident the gold fillets were gold through and through; he saw no impurities in the solid form or in the molten pour. And, his supposition was correct. Both were essentially pure specimens.
He watched as the twenty-two gold coins cooled. Another $66,000 dollars. Combined with the twenty-three ingots, he had cracked the $100,000-dollar mark. Take this job and love it. Certainly.
He shut off the torch, turned off the fan and light, and went downstairs. I’ll let those babies cool in peace. He glanced at the digital satellite clock over the fireplace; it was 3:03 PM. Three hours until her sexiness arrives.
He went to his bedroom, took off his shoes, and took a nap. He had a dream that he was living in another gold house – a house literally made entirely out of gold.
However, in this dream there was a villain who always seemed to be in a black mist, had a super-sized oxy-acetylene torch, and was always extorting money from him, which he paid by chipping off pieces of his house. He resented it, and was always thinking up a scheme to have him eliminated. It was maddening.
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At 6:36 PM he awoke to someone lightly knocking on his front door. That’s got to be Chantelle!
He jumped up and answered the door in his bare feet.
“Hello there, pretty lady.”
“Hello, golden boy,” Chantelle said with a French-Spanish smile as wide as Hispaniola. “Nice house. Might I come in?”
“Why, of course. I guess that I got lost in your mesmerizing beauty, girlfriend.” David had zoned-out on the zigzag pattern of black stripes on her red, mid-thigh-length dress.
“Oh boyfriend, you just want a blow job. I know you. I know your balls are blue and as tight as piano strings. C’mon, let Chantelle see that proud, ivory, tube steak.”
As the front door shut, Chantelle went to her knees and unzipped David’s jeans. She pulled down his dark-blue, speedo-style briefs, and David’s half-hard kielbasa sausage flopped out.
“Nice donger, dude,” Chantelle said in an affected, over-the-top, Southern-California-sounding dialect. “I remember that bulk of bologna. Yes, sir, I do.” Bulk of bologna? She’s on her game … again. Where did she hear a [San Fernando] Valley accent? Oh, wow … Here we go again. Woah!
“You’re too much, Chantelle. Where do you <gulp> come up with <gulp> this stuff?”
“Just relax, my love; you’re getting all flustered,” Chantelle said as she took a momentary break from her felatio of felicity. He’s really loving this, I can tell.
David just shut up and enjoyed it. Man, she is good. Bryan Ferry was right: Love is the drug.
After six minutes of all variations of lip slides and tongue licks, he could take no more. When the tip of his wonder worm touched Chantelle’s left tonsil, he erupted. He shot his man lava straight down her throat. He convulsed hard five times. Chantelle took it all without missing a single beat. She literally drained him. When she was done, there was no need for him to go to the bathroom. His urethra was completely cleared and as clean as a polished whistle.
“Well, that was one hell of an entrance, my fair lady. How much do I owe you?” David asked in a ludicrously transactional tone.
“Oh, I’ll get sweet payback later. I’m going to ride you to market and back.” Woah! Where did I put that Viagra pill?
“Ok, I hear ya, princess. Are you hungry?”
“I just inhaled a cream-filled, American, one-eyed steak,” Chantelle said while laughing. Wow! What a description.
“I heard that. Well, we’re off to a great start. Let’s ride it all the way to victory lane. Hey, is the gold still in your car, under the passenger seat?”
“Uh, something happened, David.” Chantelle looked so very sad, simply pitiful, as she bowed her head down. Is something amiss? Have the gods turned against me again? Has something gone horribly wrong? Is that why she gave me that fantastic blowjob? Was it to soften my rage at what she is about to tell me?
“What happened? Did someone steal the gold?!” Blood was draining out of David’s face; he was turning white.
She looked back up at him with a big smile. “Gotcha!” She certainly did … once again.
David breathed a sigh of relief. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Relax, it’s right where you left it. I put a towel over it to hide the plastic bag.”
“Excellent. Great thinking. You’re one smart, sexy, young lady.”
“Thanks. It’s so nice to hear that, David. No one has ever said that to me.”
“Oh, come on now.”
“No, really. Just you.”
“Well, I mean it, princess. Say, is your car unlocked?”
“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?”
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.
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.
“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.
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.
“Very astute, David.”
“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.”
“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 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.
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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 …
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.
“When do we go into production?” she asked.