Chapter 42
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?
“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 here 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?!
“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!”
“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.
“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?
“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? 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.
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.