David Alan Dedin
The Night The Lights Went Out in Georgia
Thirty-Six
The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia
2016
Screeching to a stop in front of his apartment, Alan ran inside and threw his suitcases on the bed. Like he had done once before after killing Bob Gross, he rifled through his drawers and closet, and filled the cases to capacity. He then opened the trunk that he kept at the foot of his bed and made sure all his leather gear was there. After that, he gathered his toiletries and liquor bottles and stuffed them into a large, carry-on bag. Once he was done, a pile of suitcases sat by the door.
The only thing that he needed now was money –
And that was at work.
Quickly loading the old Cadillac’s trunk, Alan got behind the wheel and headed for the Heritage House.
It was close to one in the morning.
* * * * *
“Well, that was a total waste of time,” Stephanie complained. Patrick had finally gotten Sharon’s car started, and now sat in the driver’s seat, with Sharon to his right. They had lost close to thirty minutes, and Alan was now long gone. Begrudgingly, Patrick turned into the street and headed for the highway back to the Elysian Fields.
Thwack! – Sharon slapped Patrick’s knuckles with a cane she kept in the car.
“OW,” Patrick said angrily. “What was that for? And how long have you had a cane?”
RAP! RAP! RAP! – Sharon hit the dashboard. As the Chrysler approached the turn-off, Sharon used her cane to wedge the steering wheel – screech! – and forced their car to remain on the city road. Once the on-ramp had passed, Sharon pulled back her cane so Patrick could steer.
“Sharon, you’re going to get us killed!” he shouted.
Thwack! She hit him again. This time she poked him in the ribs before using her cane – Tap! Tap! Tap! – to make him change lanes and to step on the gas. She held it like a sword.
“Sharon, what’s gotten into you?” Patrick asked. “Look – I’m sorry we missed Alan at the club, but we shouldn’t have used your car! It’s not my fault.”
“NO,” Sharon mumbled, snapping her fingers and pointing ahead. An approaching sign read:
Orange Grove Ave
Keep Left
½ Mile
“Isn’t that the street that the Heritage House is on?” Stephanie asked, now hanging on the seats in between Patrick and Sharon. “Do you want us to turn there?” she asked Sharon.
YES – Sharon nodded her head.
“But why would we go there?” Patrick asked. “The Heritage House is closed.”
“But when you think about it,” Steph jumped in, “if there’s any chance at all of us finding Alan tonight, it would be at the Heritage House.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure,” Stephanie admitted, “But it’s really our only hope. I’m sure we spooked Alan, and in the half hour it took us to get the car started, he probably had time to get home, grab a bug-out bag, and hit the road again.”
“Again, why go to the restaurant?”
“Because,” Steph insisted, “there’s a chance that he might go there, too. Maybe he’s got something hidden there – money or a fake passport. If I was living on the lamb like him, I wouldn’t keep all my important stuff in one place. I’d break it up, hide some at home, hide some at work, bury some in a park…”
“That actually makes sense,” Patrick realized, flipping on his left blinkers, “But what if Alan went to the restaurant first, and then to his house? Wouldn’t that make more sense?”
Stephanie thought about this – Patrick was right. At best they had a 50/50 chance.
“It’s our only chance,” Stephanie said. “But it’s a chance we have to take.”
Nodding in agreement, Sharon watched as Patrick merged to the left. The old engine rattled as he gave the Chrysler some gas once they hit Orange Grove Road.
It was now 1:37 in the morning.
* * * * *
Pulling up to the side of the Heritage House, Alan shut the old Cadillac’s engine and parked the car near the kitchen’s exterior door. He then walked around to the front, where he let himself into the restaurant and de-activated the security system, locking the door behind him. He didn’t turn on any lights, though. He wanted the property dark, so no one knew he was there. Besides, he knew the place’s layout inside and out.
Grabbing a flashlight from behind the cash register, Alan zipped through the lobby and unlocked the manager’s office. Once inside, he knelt in front of the safe; he opened it and took out his personal envelope, which contained almost $45,000. He tucked the money into his shirt, closed the safe, then left the office.
Flashlight in hand, he went deeper into the restaurant, towards the back banquet rooms.
1:54am.
* * * * *
“There! That’s his car!” Steph said excitedly as Patrick pulled into the Heritage House parking lot and parked next to Alan’s Eldorado. Shutting the engine, Patrick put his hand over the seat as he spoke to Stephanie –
“I’ll go around the front and you stay here and guard the side door.”
“But shouldn’t we just call the police?” Steph asked.
“If we do and Alan has any money left,” Patrick told her, “then all of that money will be held as evidence. And very honestly, I’m not ready for that to happen. I know I’m being selfish, but Alan’s money is my money, and I want it back.”
Sharon hit him with her cane again – “Mmmwa, mmmwa, mmmwa!”
Patrick handed her his iPhone, so she could communicate –
“what about me what should I do in all of this”
Patrick sighed. “Sharon, I’m sorry, but physically you wouldn’t be any help. What I need you to do now is to stay in the car and call 911 if something should happen to Stephanie or myself. I’ll leave you my phone.”
“Hmmph,” Sharon grunted, crossing her arms across her chest. She clearly was not happy with this new development.
“What should I do?” Stephanie asked.
“Stay guard by the side door,” Patrick told her. “I’ll go around front and see if I can get his attention from there.” The two got out of the car, leaving Sharon in the passenger seat. Patrick gave Sharon his phone.
“But what if Alan knows we’re here and tries to make it to his car?” Stephanie asked, once they were outside the vehicle. “If he gets to his car, we’ll never catch up to him.”
Patrick nodded, having already anticipated this. He produced a switchblade, which he used to flatten the Cadillac’s tires – PFFFFFFFT! “Better?”
“Much,” Steph said. “So, what’s our plan if we catch him? Are we going to call the police then? After you get your money?”
“One thing at a time, Steph. I’m honestly making this up as I go along.”
“Okay.”
“You ready?” he asked.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
Sharon watched them separate as she sat alone in the car.
2:01am.
* * * * *
Walking through the little hallway behind the second serving line, Alan used his flashlight to move deeper into the dark restaurant. The envelope of cash was tucked safely in his shirt, but like any good grifter, he never kept all his money in the same place. He had another fifty-grand stashed in a banquet room ceiling, which would give him a total of 95k to start a new life somewhere, albeit a frugal one.
Like I’m going to be alive that much longer, anyway.
Leaving the hallway, Alan found himself in a large back hallway. The place was almost completely black, and it felt like standing in a cave. His footsteps echoed softly in the darkness, as he was still wearing his club clothes – including heavy black boots. His flashlight beam darted side to side ahead of him, stopping when he found the room marked “maintenance,” where he opened the door. Flashlight in mouth, Alan struggled to drag out a large 14’ ladder –
The back ceilings were close to 18 feet tall, and a ladder was required to access Alan’s second stash. He dragged it to the banquet room to his left.
2:04am.
* * * * *
His own flashlight in hand, Patrick stood under the exterior awning and peered into the darkened Heritage House lobby. The beam shot side to side, and he saw nothing but dust, vacant chairs, empty coat hangers, and a flyer for tomorrow’s Pride. Inhaling deeply, Patrick knocked three times loudly on the locked lobby doors. In the quiet restaurant, the sound echoed audibly through the empty dining rooms –
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
2:05am.
* * * * *
Startled by the knocking, Alan – perched on the ladder’s top few rungs – accidentally dropped a ceiling tile onto the tables below – CRASH! He grabbed the ladder to gain his footing – and to avoid dropping a second envelope, with fifty thousand in small bills. As soon as that envelope was safely tucked in his shirt, Alan skirted down the ladder, and into the room’s dark corner.
He waited for a moment as the knocking returned a second time, louder –
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Silence.
2:06 am.
* * * * *
Outside the quiet restaurant, Stephanie heard the ceiling tile’s crash. It was small, faint, and around the corner…but it was just enough to make her leave her post, and sprint to the rear of the restaurant to investigate.
Sharon watched her from the car –
2:07am.
* * * * *
Flashlight off, Alan carefully backtracked through the dining rooms until he reached the front buffet line. Crouching down, he watched Patrick’s flashlight slowly pan through the restaurant like a prison tower spotlight.
There’s someone out front, Alan thought. I need to leave through the kitchen.
Once the light was safely past him, Alan doubled back into the dishwashing room, where he carefully opened the back door an inch. He saw that his tires had been slashed, as well as a waiting Chrysler. Closing the door, he quickly returned to the restaurant’s auxiliary banquet rooms.
That seemed the safest place to hide.
2:12am.
* * * * *
Sitting in her New Yorker, Sharon watched as the back door opened, then closed. But even in the dim parking lot, she could tell that the door hadn’t fully locked – which meant that she had a chance. Opening her glove compartment, Sharon placed its contents one-by-one onto the dashboard – Kleenex, gloves, a plastic babushka, a couple of road maps, and an extra package of pads – until she found what she was looking for, in the compartment’s very back.
She tucked the gun inside her bra.
Grabbing her keys and cane, Sharon pulled herself from the passenger seat. She hugged the car until she reached the trunk, which she opened. Quickly unfolding her wheelchair, she sat down with her cane on her lap.
She swiftly wheeled to the restaurant’s unlocked back door.
Opening it, she wheeled inside.
2:15am.
* * * * *
Continuing around the restaurant, Patrick shined his flashlight through every window he passed – nothing. He thought he’d heard something fall a few minutes ago, but again, so far, everything seemed in its place. He rounded the corner to the restaurant’s second side, and walked up to the banquet room entrance – which was locked.
He again used his flashlight to search the interior hallway, and aside from a ladder in one of the banquet rooms, everything seemed normal.
Flashlight in hand, he continued around to the back of the building.
2:18am.
* * * * *
In the darkness of the dishwashing room, Sharon used Patrick’s cell phone as a flashlight. She wheeled past the Mangler, past stacks of unwashed bustubs of dishes, then into the kitchen, where she shut her light and listened – someone was coming.
Gun in hand, she waited in the darkness.
2:19am.
* * * * *
Rounding the back of the building, Patrick quickly came up to Stephanie – “Why are you here? I thought I told you to stay by the kitchen door!”
“You did, but I heard something crash,” she told him. “And it came from the back of the restaurant, so I came around to investigate!”
“Did you find out what it was?”
“No.”
“Crap,” Patrick muttered. “Maybe it was a distraction to throw us off. C’mon, Steph – let’s get back to the kitchen entrance!”
The two friends bolted down the restaurant’s rear side, then around the corner where the Chrysler waited by the Cadillac.
“Shit!” Patrick muttered, on seeing Sharon’s seat was empty. He shone his flashlight onto the kitchen door, which was ajar.
“C’mon, Steph! I think she’s inside!”
2:21am
* * * * *
Coming through the front dining room, Alan paused at the windows to see if anyone was outside – nothing. He then crept down the front buffet line, and into the kitchen – where he hoped to escape through the side door. Even in the darkness, he saw Sharon in the shadows, waiting. Before he could speak, Sharon had raised her gun at him –
BLAM!
2:22am.
* * * * *
The flash of gunfire briefly illuminated the open door’s threshold, as Patrick and Stephanie rushed into the dishwashing room. No longer worried about being clandestine, Patrick used his flashlight to quickly illuminate their way to the kitchen, where they saw Sharon – literally – with a smoking gun, and the firearm’s kickback sending her wheelchair & wig sailing back into a large shelf of chafing dishes – CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! – which sounded like whirling hubcaps when they clattered on the floor.
But Sharon was undeterred, and swiftly raised her gun again –
BLAM!
This time, the bullet ricocheted off one of the stainless-steel prep tables, then pierced the gas line to the restaurant’s stove – Sssssssssssssssssssssss!
But Alan was still unscathed.
2:24am.
* * * * *
“SHARON, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Patrick yelled, coming to her side and attempting to take the gun away. But she refused to let it go – click! – and cocked it towards his face.
“I wnnnnnnna klllllllllm!” Sharon mumbled, aiming towards Alan, who had taken refuge behind the walk-in refrigerator. She fired again –
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
But he’d used the refrigerator door as a shield. When he looked around to see if the coast was clear, the door’s exterior was covered in bullet holes.
Sssssssssssssssssssssss!
Alan grabbed a nearby chafing dish as Kevlar.
“ALAN,” Patrick called, coming up behind Sharon’s wheelchair. “ALAN, WE NEED TO TALK!”
“I HATE it when people say that!” Alan called back. “Have the old lady put down her gun and kick it across the floor to me!”
Sharon cocked her pistol again.
“Alan, I don’t want to hurt you!” Patrick yelled. “And I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, either!”
“Then LEAVE,” Alan told him. “And leave me to be, so I can get on my way!”
“I can’t do that, Alan!”
“Why not?” he asked.
Sssssssssssssssssssssss!
“Because I won’t let him leave!” Stephanie piped up. “And I’m not going to let you leave either. Not again, not ever!”
Patrick thought on his feet. “Alan, do you know who this is?” He gestured towards Sharon.
“No – am I supposed to?”
“It’s Sharon Donovan, our old manager from Checker’s!”
Alan hesitated before responding – “Well, she looks like shit…”
Sssssssssssssssssssssss!
“Alan, it’s Stephanie,” Steph said. “Please…just let us talk to you! Put down that chafing dish and Sharon will put down her gun!”
Sharon glared at Stephanie – no, I won’t!
“Alan, I miss you!” Steph cried. “And I know Patrick misses you too!”
Sssssssssssssssssssssss!
“Is that supposed to tug at my heartstrings?” Alan asked. “Well, I don’t miss you.”
“Alan, please…let’s just talk,” Patrick begged. “I know we’ve had our differences – and we’ve had some very dark times because of them – but I miss you, too…and my life doesn’t feel complete without you!”
“Neither does mine,” Stephaine added.
“So what do you want me to do?” Alan asked angrily, coming around the prep table still holding the chafing dish. “Do you want me to just buckle, because you have a few kind words to say?”
“We want you to come home,” Stephanie pleaded. “Be with us. Be with the two of us again!”
Sssssssssssssssssssssss!
FUCK THIS SHIT, Sharon thought, raising her gun again. She fired at Alan, which ricocheted off the chafing dish and further damaged the gas line –
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
And the new trio gasped once they realized what was about to happen next…