Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (42 page)
Read Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) Online
Authors: CRESTON MAPES
Tags: #Christian fiction, #action, #thriller
Tossing the key on the table, I studied the bankbook once more, this time searching specifically for any information about a safety deposit box. When I was almost through, I spotted the number “1510” penned neatly in black ink on the bottom corner of the inside back cover.
Did I want money? Was that what this was about? Was I following the footsteps of my old man? At least he had a reason to steal; I had none. My life was okay. I was going to get away, write novels at a cottage on the beach, perhaps marry someday. One way or another, I would show the old man I was somebody, that I could make something out of this life, on my own, with or without him.
Wandering into the garage, I flipped on the overhead light and drilled the black Everlast heavy bag with a firm right. It swayed. I pummeled it with both fists, six or seven quick, hard jabs. The bag’s metal chains squeaked as it swung from the ceiling, and I watched it in a daze.
What if there was easy money to be had? Could I get away with it? No, I wouldn’t do that. I just wanted to get the scoop on a dead homeless guy with almost three quarters of a million bucks in the bank. It was a blockbuster story. That’s what I was after. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I went back into the house, threw on a T-shirt, stepped into my army-green flip-flops, and headed for the Wells Fargo at Arville and Flamingo.
As I devoured a second biscuit from Jack in the Box while waiting in my car for the bank to open at 9 a.m., I was faced with a number of tricky questions. What if the key in my pocket wasn’t to a safety deposit box at all? Or, what if it didn’t go to a box at this bank? What would I say? If the box was there, would I be required to sign in? What excuse would I give if they requested my name or ID?
Next thing I knew I was standing in the sterile lobby, grasping the key in my fist similar to the way I had only hours ago when it was covered in bum’s blood. Three tellers faced me, and there was no sign of any safety deposit boxes. Then I spotted a thin black woman on the phone at the customer service desk to my right.
“May I help you, sir?” one of the tellers called out in a high-pitched voice.
Pretending not to hear her, I headed for the black woman on the phone. She smiled and made eye contact. I waved the key at her between two fingers, lifted both hands, and looked around the room, as if to ask where the boxes were. I didn’t want to talk, just wanted her to point.
She spoke into the phone, “Just one moment,” then looked up at me. “Do you need help with your box?”
Uh-oh. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Where are they?” I glanced around the room. “This is the first time I’ve—”
“Right through that door,” she pointed, “and to your right. You’ll see them. There’s a room beyond, where you can have some privacy.”
Whew.
I sauntered around the corner, relieved to be out of sight. The small room—with its wall of safety deposit boxes—was actually a walk-in safe, the enormous, foot-thick door of which stood wide open.
No sign-in?
The silver box fronts that covered the wall ranged in size from that of a postcard to that of a large folder. Looking around, I saw a telephone and a security camera. That was it. Clean, simple, secure and—at the moment—vacant.
Unbelievable.
Scanning the numbers—1300s, 1400s, 1500s—I knew I was in luck; my soul soared. The gold key slid in like a gem and turned easily. I couldn’t believe where this was going. Swinging the little door open, I bent over, reached in, and pulled out a long, black plastic box, only about three inches top to bottom, but ten inches wide and two feet long. It was fairly light, but several items shifted as I slid it out of its slot.
Gulping back my trepidation, I headed for the tiny adjacent room, my eyes glued to the hallway, my heart thundering, and my mind convulsing with fantasies of taking the contents of the box and heading for the airport. I could be in Hawaii or even overseas, in Italy or France, by the next day. I had no ties in Vegas or in the States. All bridges had been burned between me and the old man.
Once inside the small room, I pushed the button lock on the doorknob, set the box on the wall-mounted desk, and took a seat in the leather chair. Pressing a release button at one end of the box, I lifted the lid. The cash caught my eye first, prompting me back to my feet. Hundreds, twenties, fifties, tens—scores of bills scattered throughout. I sifted through with both hands, snapping them up in a mad, rushed state of euphoria, stopping every ten seconds or so to look out the narrow window in the door.
My mind reeled.
What next?
I was giddy. No matter what else was in the box, there was cash—lots of it. If I played this thing smart, I could be set for a long time. Somehow, find out his name, withdraw the rest of the money, maybe a little at a time. Before I knew it, I could be writing books at a beach pad on stilts overlooking the Mediterranean.
Take it slow, be smart, breathe.
I could easily go to jail for this. My mind rewound to the trail of blood drops I’d left at the bus stop when I took the key. I was whisked back to the last visit I’d made to the penitentiary in Victoria to see the old man. Hotter than Hades. No AC. Putrid, overpowering smell of urine and body odor. Screaming, yelling, betting, and brawls. Wacko ward.
I could never do time.
Perched upright on the edge of the chair like a kid who was just served a double helping of chocolate cake, I put the money down on the desk and sorted through the items remaining in the box. Most intriguing were two rings that had wound up together in the same corner. One featured a humongous solitary diamond on a gold band; the other was a white and gold men’s wedding ring. Each contained an engraved inscription that I would need steadier hands and a magnifying glass to decipher.
As I placed the rings with the money on the desk, a sudden wave of anguish came over me. The stuff in the box was personal. It dealt with peoples’ lives and history and secrets and loves.
It was none of my business.
But since when did my curiosity and greed ever succumb to my guilt?
I came to several newspaper and magazine clippings, folded and paper-clipped. I smoothed them out. They were business articles, some dating back twenty years, from the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution, USA Today, Atlanta Magazine,
and
Business Week.
That’s when I recognized the dead homeless man from the bus stop.
He was heavier in the pictures, and flashier, but it was him—the common denominator in almost every photograph. He wore expensive suits, a slick hairstyle, and a big, plastic grin. Schmoozing with the big dogs. Looked to have been some kind of business mogul in Atlanta.
Most beautiful of all, I had discovered his name: Chester Holte. Maybe, just maybe, my ticket to paradise.
Voices, beyond the door. I slid the stack of money and rings to the side of the box, out of view. Through the window I watched, almost breathlessly, as the black woman escorted a short, elderly man into the vault of safety deposit boxes, eying me through the glass as she turned the corner. I set the lid on the box and waited, feeling the heat in my face and wiping the perspiration from my brow.
Less than a minute later she was at the doorway again, telling the man to let her know if he needed help but peering in at me once more, eyebrows lifted, before turning to head back toward her desk.
Rattled and running on empty after zero sleep, I needed to get out of there. But when I looked back down at the clippings, I stopped. It was a photograph of the man’s wife. Her name was Candice. A tall, shapely, striking brunette, pictured in sequins in one photo and a formal gown in another, with a glowing smile, arm-in-arm with her husband.
My curiosity was in overdrive. What was all this stuff doing in this box? Was it all he had left of his past life? I was sitting on one powder keg of a story, if I chose to pursue it. How did a rich, big cat from Atlanta—married to a sleek gazelle—end up on the streets of Sin City, apparently of his own choosing, with money to burn?
Movement distracted me. The old man, oblivious to me, was tucking an envelope in his coat pocket and shuffling toward the exit in his beige walking shoes.
Something else in the box piqued my interest, confirming that Chester Holte had some business savvy, indeed. Opening up a number of stiff, white stock certificates, I was flabbergasted to learn that he had been the proud owner of hundreds of shares of Atlanta-based stocks, including Coca-Cola and Home Depot. There had to have been enough value in those shares alone for him to have retired a wealthy man.
As I gathered everything up to leave, a different clipping fluttered to the floor—this one sickeningly different from the others, especially its large, severe, blocky headline on soft, yellowing newsprint:
HOLTE PLANE DOWN, WIFE LOST
The photograph showed rescue boats and searchlights scouring the rolling Atlantic. A door to my heart opened, ushering in a heavy robe of shame.
The article was six years old. He had tried valiantly to save her, clinging to part of the Cessna’s wing, disregarding his own fuel burns and fighting savagely to hold on to the love of his life in the frigid waters. But he could not hold on. And Candice had slipped away.
I found Candice’s obituary next. A long one. I put it in my pile of things to take home.
I’d had all I could take for one sitting and didn’t want to press my luck.
About to close the box, I stopped and stared at the impressive stack of money, rings, and other articles, letters, and paperwork I’d set aside to take home.
Don’t do anything stupid. Think it through.
Hesitantly, I returned the money and stock certificates to the box.
I’ll take the rest home, study it, and bring it back.
Snatching up the rings, letters, and clippings, I closed the box, returned it to its slot, held my breath, and gave the woman in customer service a confident nod as I glided breathlessly out of the building.
It was already sweltering. I would need sleep sometime that day, before the night shift.
As I headed west on Charleston I noticed a young, hunchback woman walking in the direction I was driving. The sun shone hard on her back, casting a crisp, stark shadow on her path. She wore a black windbreaker and carried a gallon jug of water in each hand. A quarter-mile farther an old man and woman sat in old lawn chairs at the side of the road beneath a pink blanket they’d hung to protect themselves from the coming sun. Maybe that had been their daughter back there, bringing water for the day.
I’d never taken the time to think about homeless people as human beings before and wondered about the man I’d found at the bus stop. Where did he live? Where were his clothes and possessions? How had he made all that money?
Something had happened after his wife died.
What?
Why had he chosen to live like a bum? Why Las Vegas? Why would someone want to kill him?
I knew me, and I knew I had to find out.
***
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