After their side trip to the cemetery, Francis and Marco had searched in vain for a post office that was still open. Rain, hail, sleet, and snow might never prevent the United States Postal Service from making their appointed rounds, but closing time on Saturday would halt them in their tracks.
The only thing Francis and Marco did accomplish was getting their taillight fixed. And it was by accident. At one of the many gas stations where they stopped to see if anyone knew of an open FedEx or post office, the attendant admonished them about their broken taillight.
“No post offices open now. But what you should do is let me fix that taillight for you. You’re going to get yourself a ticket,” he said with an expression that seemed to warn he’d call the cops himself if Marco didn’t let him make the buck fixing it.
“I know it’s broken,” Marco grumbled.
“It’s Saturday night. Cops around here are always on the lookout for trouble. I wouldn’t drive around for too long with that thing.”
“Fix it then,” Marco snapped.
After the light was replaced, the attendant stuffed the money in his pocket. Impatiently, Marco pulled out of the gas station.
“I’m hungry and my leg is bothering me,” Francis whined.
“How do you think my wrist feels? It’s sore as hell. I’m lucky I didn’t hit an artery. I need to see a doctor.”
“Why don’t we stop at that diner ahead and grab a couple of burgers?” Francis suggested. “We’ll both feel better.”
Marco nodded. He steered the car into the parking lot of Madge’s 24 Hour diner. Wordlessly they went inside, grabbed a booth, and then placed their orders with a waitress who clearly was not experiencing career satisfaction.
But when the food arrived it was hot and the beer was cold. The cheeseburgers and french fries hit the spot, wherever that spot is.
Marco wiped his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. We haven’t eaten much today.”
“We didn’t sleep much last night, either,” Francis complained. “I’m tired. I wish we were home.”
Marco looked around the empty, dreary diner and then whispered, “Cheer up! We have twenty thousand dollars cash and we’re on our way to Atlantic City! Once you walk into the casino and hear all those bells and whistles and the clatter of coins spilling out of the slot machines, you’ll perk up. Believe me! Let’s turn our twenty thousand into forty!”
Francis could have kicked himself as he heard himself asking, “You think we could double our money tonight?”
“Yes! I’m going into the men’s room to rinse off my wrist. It might be getting germs. I’ll be right back.”
As Francis sat alone, the depressing surroundings got to him. The diner where Ma works is much nicer than this, he thought. Then he remembered what she had said on the phone earlier today-that at work they were all talking about the stolen wedding dresses. A wave of guilt and dread washed over him. After downing the cheeseburger and beer, he’d felt good, but that sense of well-being quickly vanished. They had to get rid of those dresses. And it looked like it would be Monday before they could get them out of their possession.
When Marco emerged from the rest room, he grabbed the check off their table. They paid the bill, grabbed toothpicks and stale mints from the bowl by the cash register, and headed out to the car. One of the lights from the parking light shone right into the backseat, illuminating Joyce’s dishwasher like a coveted prize on a game show.
Before too long they were on the Atlantic City Causeway heading east. It was already nine o’clock. Marco flipped on the radio.
“If you see anything,” the reporter was saying, “please call Crime Stoppers. Those wedding dresses have to be somewhere. Police are on the lookout.”
Marco flipped off the radio.
Neither of them said a word. But the air was thick with tension.
The neon lights atop the towering casinos in Atlantic City finally came into view, beckoning them with the promise of Lady Luck. “Gambler’s Palace. Our lucky charm,” Marco said in an effort to change the mood in the car. But when they headed for the entrance to the Gambler’s Palace multilevel parking lot, Marco slammed on the brakes. Before cars could gain entry, drivers were being asked to open their trunks. “What the…?” Marco muttered.
“Oh, my God!” Francis cried. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Marco did a quick U-turn. “When you said they might be inspecting the trunks, I thought you were being paranoid.”
“I never thought it would really happen. Maybe we should just go home. With this dishwasher in the backseat we look like idiots. I’m really tired-”
“No!” Marco insisted. “We have to get these dresses to Las Vegas. The only way is to drive them there.”
“You go,” Francis said. “I’ll take a bus home.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“What do I tell Joyce?”
“Figure something out. We’ll be back in a couple of days. I might even let you fly back. I’ll go on to California.”
“You will?” Francis said hopefully.
“Don’t sound so happy.”
“I’m not happy. Believe me, I’m not happy.”
“I know I’ve worn out my welcome with Joyce. It might even be understandable. We’ll drive to Vegas, I’ll get my arm stitched up, we’ll have Marty sell the dresses, then we’ll divide up the proceeds. Don’t forget we also have our twenty thousand dollars cash to play with. Minus what it cost us for lunch.”
Francis sank back in his seat. Marco was right. Driving across the country seemed like the right thing to do. As Marco put in a call to his friend in Las Vegas, Francis tried to cheer himself with the thought that he’d be free of Marco very soon, with at least ten thousand dollars in his pocket. He promised himself that he wouldn’t gamble the money away. He’d hurry home from Vegas and take Joyce out for a nice dinner. He’d even be willing to try new allergy pills so she could buy the dog she wanted.
The furthest thing from Marco’s and Francis’s minds was the possibility that a passenger in the car that had been right behind them in line for the parking lot had taken notice of their hasty departure.
It was Jack Reilly’s car.