Cadillac to Carolina

Death: behind the brightly smiling tulips in the choking black earth, inside a bright room directly underneath the candlelight where soft voices place themselves in darkness, on the other side of the coin that one can’t see, behind the eyes of murderers, above the heads of the saints, embedded in the red sinews of the flesh, and arm-in-arm with Marty. Ignorant as a news reporter without opinion and as innocent as a python smothering a small child, Marty Macintosh was everyone’s definition of a killer. From double-takes from strangers, wary eyes from police and obscure notions from close associates, everything about him suggested that he was a killer, a dead man walking. The casual observation could have concluded that he could have easily had the blood of at least a dozen innocents covering his hands, dripping, hot and crimson, fresh from the day’s morbid cultivation, onto the city pavement dull in the moonlight. Romantic villain and western gunslinger, Marty cut his path through the vines and branches of concrete jungles with a machete-like gaze, murdering without lifting a finger. 1

“So what you’re doing is calling me gay,” Marty was saying as he downed the remaining contents of his hip flask. The occupants of the large, round, would-be poker table roared with laughter, hysterical in ignorance of his malicious intent. He had drank little, yet he was the most intoxicated person in the entire building. “Curse it to hell, and if I can say it myself, let them die!” Darkness saw him and through the eyes of madness he saw darkness, in the corners of his eyes the smoke from lingering cigarettes and vague thoughts evaporated into the shadows as though dust in fire. His voice was emotionless, precise like a razor, cutting through the dim light of the bar. They had long abandoned their quest for cheap thrills in the cards and had since sought out emotional satisfaction from the enigma sitting amongst them. 2

Many at the table had known him for a reasonable amount of time, others had only met him tonight, but his charisma and coldness treated them all the same. He blatantly insulted those others would call beautiful, undermined those who were deemed powerful and chilled the hearts of the generous. Time dragged them on, but Marty was aloof and content, aware that the dark hour of night was looming soon upon them. It was 3:07. The all-night establishment was empty except for the substantially-sized table set before them. 3

“So he took his shotgun and said: ‘ you better get off this damn property before I make you wish that you were never born.’” A brief spasm of laughter from the constituents of the table. “So of course I replied: ‘your mother told me that once.’ Then I stabbed him to death.” Again, laughter. His lies were so unemotional and satisfying, they were entirely believable. And honestly: who really cared about the truth anymore, in this light, at this hour?4

The outrageous began. “I plan to kill tonight,” came the soft, empty voice. The table roared for a moment until they heard the broken record repeat itself with unvarying inflection and emotion. “I plan to kill tonight.” 5

Silence crept over the group like fingers of dead trees. “I plan to kill tonight.” 6

The very mention of murder was believable just in the simple expression of his face, somber and deadly, which was partially hidden beneath his black, wide-brimmed hat. It was a shot of pale skin, lips red from wine, tongue black from Oreos. He always ordered Oreos. And they always had them. And his face was emotionless. Cold and empty, it drew on the deepest feelings of those around him. Everyone stared, wide-eyed and afraid, child-like in maturity next to Marty, wild in gaiety compared to his somber countenance. 7

He stood up slowly, his skin-tight, stolen black jeans rising into vision, cowboy boots scraping the wooden floor and clunking into place, his velvety black cape encasing his slender shoulders and flowing over the edge of the chair as it was pushed backwards with a grating squeak. 8

“I…. SHALL…. KILL!” A girl, barely seventeen and drunk beyond reason, giggled and grasped for his arm. He shook her off with precise movements, and she stumbled backwards into her chair, her head lolling about pathetically until she closed her eyes and sank into silence. He stepped back, one crystalline blue eye dissecting the group of exactly a dozen. He was the thirteenth member. They were frozen, drunk beyond stupidity and incapable of motor functions, overcome with the paralysis of seeing death. For they saw it, they knew they saw it, it was standing before them, they were seeing red, legitimately believable, wavering in and out between madness and reality. His mouth, which was superceded by a dirty blonde mustache, was curved into a cruel grin. 9

The clock clicked. 3:11. A time to kill. Marty shot his gaze in the direction of the bartender, who was slowly reaching for the phone to call the police. He began striding swiftly directly at him, prepared to do anything. The bartender, groggy with sleep and afraid for his life, slipped as he reached for the phone. He stumbled backwards, and unable to stop himself from falling, fell back onto the shining butcher knife protruding dangerously from the knife rack which had fallen earlier to the exact level perfect for killing him. It was slow: blood pooled around his choking form, he gurgled in vain to the drunks. No one heard him: the door slammed as Marty Macintosh strode out into the pitch-black street.10

~11

His newspaper crinkled under his boot as he strode into the welcoming darkness. In the flickering, would-be-romantic streetlight, it read ‘April 13th, 1929’. Above him like the clouds of heaven, a glowing of the city lights drifted down into the unlit alley, a light that was eternal. Like a ghost drifting out on a lake, a payphone made itself visible along the walk. 12

A tone. “Mr. White?”13

“Please rendezvous at the designated location.” A Cadillac to Carolina. “I will be waiting.”14

Click. The train would not be operating, so Marty hailed a cab. The grandeur of New York was the perfect backdrop for death in the morning. He felt his medication in his pocket. He would not be needing it. Power was running rampant in his veins, he could feel the watching eyes as he strode down the middle of the empty street. They knew his face, yet they also knew that to kill him was to do the impossible. They indeed intended to take his life. They had seen what had happened when you approached Marty Macintosh. 15

He replayed the thought in his brain. It sounded like a joke. He was a joke. But he could not doubt himself, he had never doubted. Being in New York was only a façade. He belonged in the windows of the sleeping bigots, the minds of the rich and famous, the halls preserved in history and the days growing dark, not this crude matter. 16

He stepped into the light. Music and laughter issued out from a club across the street, and deeper in secret hallways, passwords were muttered behind hidden, smiling faces. 17

But this was not the place were he belonged. No, he belonged where he had always known he did: the nightmare in the minds of those who sought to kill him.18

A siren drifted through the jungle like a lamentation of creatures in the undergrowth as he got into the cab.19

“Where to?” 20

Marty Macintosh gave him an address on a small slip of paper, and they were off.21

~22

Not a word had passed between Marty and Mr. White the entire night, the entire stop at the gas station in New Jersey, the entire rainy day drive, not a word. They had previously discussed at length the nature of Marty’s travels. And Mr. White saw the action as a professional obligation, a debt of sorts. He would, after all, rather chauffer someone around the country than take the alternative, which was prison. A convicted German spy, he had been imprisoned during the war but, with Marty’s help, had managed to do the impossible and escape.23

Those actions were fit for another story. In this one, a pink Cadillac drove up to Ewin Motgomery’s Mansion in the waking twilight. The South Carolina location was pleasantly situated along the coast, and the briny deep swung its salty condolences their direction.24

Mr. White spoke. “They are gone.” Marty’s blood began to boil at the thought of 'them', but he remained composed. For now.25

“Let them be. They will be dead by morning.” Marty’s hand reached for the door handle. 26

He gave a sarcastic glance underneath the brim of his hat to his espionage associate. Mr. White smoothed his long gingery mustache and chuckled softly. 27

~28

The glare of the red sun shone brilliantly on the West window of the mansion, perfect like polished crystal, the breaking waves reflected like the lives of others on the surface of eyes. The house was still and serene, watching in silence the secret events and individuals that contained themselves within its wizened walls. The steady rhythm of the breaking waves was broken by a violent crash. A crowbar ungracefully interrupted the surface of the perfect window, destroying any sort of vision that was contained within its mysterious surface. Leather gloves protected from the deadly shards. The crash echoed out across the sea and was lost in the gray clouds. With lithe motions, Marty jumped into the house.29

A silent observer within the room would have noticed the red light blotted out momentarily as a caped figure tread through the air that was thick with emotion and onto the velvety carpet. 30

There it was. The mirror was in a direct position to catch the red sun as it sank to rest behind Marty. For a moment, the mirror and Marty exchanged curious stares across the Victorian grandeur of the room. Glinting in a seemingly innocent manner, the person’s face that now gradually filled it turned it into something vile.31

A click penetrated the light-filled room as Marty flicked out a switchblade. Chaos was running around in his mind like a wild bull, and anger and revenge pulsed quickly and heatedly through his body, through his skull, through his mind. He desired not to destroy something, nor someone. Marty desired to destroy what had become to be known as consciousness.32

Marty looked into the mirror.33