Chapter 89
It was a hot and dry day in New Mexico. The blistering sun blazed upon my scorched face as Mr. Kandinsky carried me off the train.
Carlsbad was a scarce little town, where parry dogs outnumbered people. We braved the hostile condition as Albert pushed me toward the New Mexico bank. The walk to the bank was cumbersome as a strong windstorm tried to abstain our advancement.
The town was mysteriously silent as I rolled passed the post office, local café and newspaper stand that lined Main Street. The citizens we did observed were a mélange of native American, black folks and illegal Mexicans.
I reflected on the dramatic contrast between the dust bowl of New Mexico and the tranquil oasis of Montreux, Switzerland.
A strong wind from the south ricocheted the tumbleweed down the street as if they were in a giant pinball machine. We finally came upon the New Mexico bank. The small bank was located in a dilapidated shopping center at the edge of town. The once bright yellow façade of the bank was showing signs of decay from blowing dust. The unimpressive building looked more like an old warehouse rather than a world-class bank. The windowless bank only has one entrance, a large, looming, yet very unattractive steel door.
The bank’s unimpressive massive front door squeaked loudly as Albert pushed open the door. I wheeled my chair inside the bank’s lobby. A dust cloud bellowed into the lobby before Albert had the chance to close the heavy metal door.
The lobby was vacant except for a standup desk in the center of the room. Three small lamps, a notepad and several envelopes were strewn across the desk. The small calendar that was embedded into the desk’s surface was dated May 15, 1984.
As I slowly inspected the bank’s dust- covered lobby, I finally realized that we were not alone. Through a cloud of dust, I gazed upon a single bank teller sitting behind a large steel cage. To my dismay I found no other customer or bank employees.
The teller was an unflattering middle-age, white woman with a spray-on tan. She was bestowed with long fake blonde hair, small breast, buffalo size butt and a long protruding nose.
A bewilder look crossed my face as I gazed into her eyes. It was obvious to me that she was impervious to any form of happiness. I pitied the poor women’s desolate, miserable and despairing life.
“May I help you?” the teller asked.
“I have a key to a safely deposit box, I would like to open.”
The repulsive teller looked down upon me unsympathetically and asked,“Do you have any identification sir?”
Albert flashed his fake FBI bag and placed it on the counter. The teller gave Mr. Kandinsky a scornful look as she typed on her computers’ keyboard. A suspicious look crept across the teller’s homely face as she cast her eyes upon my scorched face.
“Okay, please come this way,” the teller said as she opened a squeaky steel cage door.
I maneuver my wheelchair through the gate and down the hall.
A cantankerous look crossed the teller’s face as she led us down the hall to a secure room labeled safe deposit box. The room was barely big enough for the three of us. I gave the delightful teller my key. She inserted the key into a large safety box number 2112 and turned the two keys. A creaking sound bellowed from the box as it slowly opened.
Albert and I were in nirvana as we stared at the half-open safety deport box. A childlike glee crossed my face as I eagerly anticipate finally retrieving our treasure. I was suddenly baffled and bereaved as Kandinsky pulled opened the safe deposit box and reveal that the treasure was gone. Albert blew off the dust from the box. Two names were printed on the safe deposit box, Sam Tucker and Donald Walker.
Anguish and bitterness lingered in my heart as I quickly realized that Sam Tucker had lied to me. Albert’s heart was filled with rage as he screamed, “We have been betrayed again.”
Despair lingered in my soul as I wheel my chair pass the teller towards the lobby. I paused for a moment and tried to recall the last few words that Sam Tucker uttered to me before I killed him. Suddenly I was animated as I recalled the named Sam whispered to me; Donald Walker. I had a hunch that Donald might know the whereabouts of my treasure. To facilitate finding the treasure, I would first have to find out if Mr. Walker was still alive.
An insincere smile crossed my face as I realized that the teller might be able to help me find Donald Walker. Albert grabbed the unsuspected teller from behind and placed his strong hands around her throat.
“Not to tightly Mr Kandinsky, we need her alive,” I pleaded.
The teller gasp for air as Mr Kandinsky reluctantly loosened his grip. I placed my Lugar pistol against her head and confronted the teller. "where is the treasure?”
A surprised look crossed the teller’s face as she struggled to speak, “Treasure, what treasure?”
I grew tired of the teller’s uncooperative attitude as I pondered letting Mr Kandinsky strangle the teller. “The safe deposit box was empty. Did Donald Walked take the treasure?”
“You mean old man Walker.”
“You know Donald Walter? Tell me where is he right now.”
Gasping and coughing, the teller uttered, “The safe deposit box was emptied one night and I never saw Mr Walker again.”
Rage erupted in my soul as I screamed, “Did Donald emptied the box?”
“I don’t know. Some people say that he emptied the box then was brutally murdered.”
Mr Kandinsky tighten his grip around the teller’s neck. Just before Albert snapped her neck, the teller gasped, “Jane Walker?”
Albert regrettably relinquished his grip as the teller crumbled to the floor. Gasping for air she uttered, “Donald walker’s daughter, Jane Walker is still alive. She lives in a ratty old trailer park down that way, about a mile out-of- town on route 66. You can’t miss it.”