The Coronet

Dodge Coronet with Minnesota plates was parked right across the lot, on the other side from OId Tampa Bay boardwalk, as if trying to hide in plain sight. An impossible task for a wine red sedan of such truly American proportions. The whole car was covered in a massive layer of dust and the windshield decorated with a dozen parking tickets, that no one will ever pay.

Jack grew up collecting Matchbox models and covering his bedroom walls with glorious Mustangs, Camaros and Trans Ams. After seeing “Knight Rider” and “Gone in 60 Seconds” he was a firm believer in American Muscle. So when an opportunity presented itself he jumped on it with full post-college adolescent vigour. Nothing quite like driving different cars each day, the longer the drive — the better.

Collecting abandoned cars all around Tampa and sometimes even further afield was a joy for Jack and a lucrative business for his boss Mr Simons, who have made millions on auctions in the last few years.

When Jack collected the cars, they usually presented themselves as pure treasure troves of artefacts from a former life, once joyfully or scornfully lived. Romantic at heart, Jack found it particularly fascinating to try and imagine those lives, carefully listening to the stories that these cars had to tell.

When he first opened the squeaky door of the Coronet he was immediately struck with the sight of total disarray and an awful smell. Sure, most cars smelt of something — cigarettes, stale deodorant, food gone bad. But they only stank so bad if they were lived in for a while.

“I was hoping for a nicer welcome, dear Dodge!” — said Jack out loud. He liked talking to cars because they always listened. “Let’s see if your battery is still alive”

Over the years Jack learned a whole lot about ignition systems. Most of the modern models were so technically confusing and chock-full of electronics, that they could only be transported back to the garage on a flatbed truck, which proved to be an expensive endeavour. Older models, like this Dodge, were naïve simpletons, and it only took Jack 5 minutes to find the right ignition cables and give that rusty V8 another chance to make some noise.

“I like your singing today, my friend” — said Jack and rolled down the windows on both sides. Much more tolerable smell of exhaust was masking the stench of the interior.

There was also quite a lot of garbage all around: everything, from fast food packaging, to crushed cans of soda and beer, empty bottles of Jack Daniels, dirty blankets, pillows and even some clothes, that looked like they’ve been through a lot. Ashtray was full of cigarette butts, some had bright red lipstick on them. The mirror was decorated with a handmade necklace out of beer bottle caps and pull tabs and the dashboard had an English Bulldog bobble-head, wincing at the absurdity of the situation.

Jack had two main tasks, as usual: get rid of the majority of the rubbish and make sure the car runs okay. He could take a whole day for one car, but he had to fill up a report after his return to Mr Simons’ garage, that contained his observations regarding the technical side of things and his predictions on what needs to be looked at by those forever covered in motor oil in-house mechanics Trevor and Todd. After a year and a half of working at the garage, Jack’s reports became somewhat legendary, because they contained not only very precise technical predictions, but also a few car-related anecdotes and bits of car history trivia. Jack was, after all, a true petrol head in the most adorable sense of the word.

Vibrations of the cold engine were massaging Jack’s back, with periodical uneven cough of misfires in one of the cylinders. And something was rattling in the glovebox.

It took quite a while to pick the lock and at some point Jack was not even sure it could be done. But then, with a triumphant snap, the glovebox agreed to share its secrets. Shiny chrome of the revolver provided stark contrast with the dull muted colours of the interior. This wasn’t the first time Jack found a gun in the car he was collecting, these were, after all, the United States of America, where guns were as essential as Coca-Cola.

Unlike the rest of the interior, the glovebox was surprisingly clean. Besides the revolver there was only one other thing in there: a plain-looking pocket-sized black notebook. Jack had several notebooks like this back home, made by Moleskine. He quite liked the simplicity and the sturdiness of these and bought it after he read that his all-time favourite writer Ernest Hemingway used a similar one. Jack went through about one per year, mainly using it to scribble some amateur poetry on a lonely Friday night and doodle his favourite muscle cars when bored at the garage.

As soon as Jack got the notebook out of the glovebox, the world went quiet for a second. Gone were the chirping of the birds and the groaning cough of the tired 50-year old V8. After a brief moment, the sounds were back and Jack spent the next few minutes putting fingers into his ears and coughing loudly. He also felt this sudden wave of adrenaline rushing through his body, making his hands shake, sending shivers from his head all the way down his spine.

“How odd… Maybe the fumes are making me dizzy…” — thought Jack and killed the engine. With a relieved sigh the V8 went back to sleep.

The first page of the notebook had the traditional “In case of loss return to:” printed on it. Below, in a beautiful cursive was written Jack’s full name and home address.

“This is impossible…”

His initial thought was that this was some sort of a prank and Mr Simons, or maybe Todd or Trevor, were to blame. His heart was making loud thuds in his chest and the urge to leave the car was suddenly unbearable. The door made that squeaky sound again and Jack was out in the relentless Florida sun.

Page number 2 had only one line, written in the same impeccable cursive: “Don’t be scared”

Page 3 had no writings at all, but there was a small key taped to it. Jack instantly recognized it as a typical 1960s era trunk lock key.

Page 4 said the following: “I am your friend; I will help you get everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Keep me safe and don’t tell anyone about me. Now go and open the trunk”.

The rest of the notebook was empty.

Jack’s hands were shaking so violently, that it took him quite some time to get the key into the lock. He was scared, but his curiosity won — he had to see what was in the trunk. He closed the notebook, put it into the breast pocket of his old-school motorcycle leather jacket and turned the key. With a cheerful plonk the spring-loaded mechanism gave way.

Huge trunk was empty, except for a grey duffel bag.

Jack looked around. The parking lot was deserted with the exception of a couple of teenagers sitting on the bench on the opposite side. “Oh God, this is nerve-racking….”

He opened the zipper and felt another jolt of adrenaline hitting hard. “Cash…”

There were two stacks of 100-dollar bills, held together by paper bands, each saying “$10,000”.

The parking lot started spinning and Jack had to sit down on the ground near the trunk. He was feeling sick. But also excited. Sick and excited.

“Twenty thousand dollars! Basically what I make in a year. I can do so much with this!” — Jack’s thoughts were screaming all at once, trying to drown out one another.

“But there has to be an explanation! What is this?”

He went back to the notebook, although he was sure there was nothing else written in it. He was wrong.

Page 5 had a doodle of what looked like a Dodge Coronet with the trunk open. It was drawn with a black pen in a very similar cartoonish style that Jack used when practicing his artistic skills.

Page 6 had the following lines: “Hope you liked the surprise, but this is just the beginning. Money is no object; you can have as much of it as you desire. This is the page where you make your request: just put a number into the box below, put the duffel bag back into the trunk, close it and count to 60”

“Jesus…”

At that moment Jack noticed that both teenagers stood up from the bench and were now headed his way.

There was nothing on page 7 just a second ago, but now it somehow said: “They want to steal the car and the money. Drive away now”

With his heart racing and his legs weak like jelly, Jack stood up so quickly, that everything went dark for a second. His head was spinning. He quickly closed the trunk and sat behind the wheel. Interior welcomed him with already familiar vile smell.

Connecting the ignition wires made the starter come alive once again, but it was struggling to make the engine turn over. “C’mon, c’mon, start!”

“Hey there, boss, how are you today?” — said one of the teenagers, standing right next to the rolled down window. He smelt of booze and cigarettes and Jack thought for a second, that this guy matches the car stench perfectly. “What have you got there?”

Jack wanted to say something, but his tongue felt swollen and dry. He opened the notebook once again. Page 8 had one word: “Glovebox”

“Hey, me and my friend here wanted to see if you can give us a lift, it is not far from here. Help us out, will ya?” — said the other teenager, who looked like a nightclub bouncer — bulky and with a shiny shaved head.

“Erm… Well.. Hmmm…. I am in a rush; I have to be at work” — mumbled Jack. His voice sounded like he was about to cry.

“Yeah? We’ve been here for the last half an hour and you seemed quite chilled. What’s the rush, amigo?” — the first teenager was grinning through his teeth. He was chewing gum and his hands were in the pockets of his black hoodie.

“I am in a rush, I have to go now, sorry guys”

“OKAY, CUT THE CRAP! And GET OUT of the car! You will be walking today” — suddenly shouted the bouncer-type. He pulled the door open and grabbed Jack by his elbow. “C’mon, amigo, don’t make this difficult!” The other teenager went around the car and opened the passenger door. “I strongly advise to walk away, man. Walking is good for your health, ya know?” — he said.

Jack reached into the glovebox and pulled out the revolver. He pointed it towards the bouncer.

“Oh yeah? Cool gun! What are you gonna do with this, huh? You are not shootin’ nobody today, you don’t have it in ya, man!” — said the Bouncer and at the same time his friend grabbed Jack’s right hand.

The sound was deafening. It split the air like a supersonic jet, ringing out for what seemed like eternity. The bullet ricocheted from the ceiling and penetrated Jack’s chest. He fell out of the car and was lying on the ground in a massive puddle of blood forming on the warm asphalt underneath him.

* * *

After a very long and dreadful morning, filled with tears and police questioning, Todd was the one to draw the short straw. He was now standing in front of the damned Coronet, on a particularly dreary Friday afternoon. He was about to start the car, when he noticed a little black notebook, looking at him from the depths of the glovebox. He was very surprised to find his own name and address written in impeccable cursive on page 1.