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CHAPTER FIVE Chip stepped out of the front door and into the warmth of the near noontime sun. It felt good as it soaked into his skin after the coolness of the mobile home. Unlike some of his neighbors—who complained that their mobile homes were always hot inside—Chip’s was usually cool. Which was a good thing because the cost of keeping a mobile home cool, or at least livable, was way out of his price range. And his neighbors’ as well. Only a few had air conditioners; the rest had to settle for open windows and prayers for a cool breeze. Chip could never figure out why his place never got too hot. Maybe it was just the way it was placed, maybe it was angled just right so that the sun never directly struck its beckoning glass windows. Or maybe it was sitting on an ancient Indian burial ground, Chip thought, and it’s all one big cold spot, like they talk about in those ghost hunter shows. He trotted down the steps to the driveway and approached the Valiant. Spots of dust and road dirt were clearly visible on its bright orange body. Yep. He’d need to run it through the car wash before going to work. He’d probably need gas, too. Kill two birds with one stone. He put both hands down on the trunk lid and felt the warmth seep up into his palms. The Valiant was parked beneath the carport, of course, but it still got a little sunlight. It wasn’t the warmth that was the real concern, however. It was the sun damage. Chip spent a lot of time keeping the Plymouth in good condition. He couldn’t afford another car and, if this one failed another HubCap inspection, he would be out of a job. Chip stepped around to the driver’s side of the vehicle and opened the back door. A warm hug of trapped heat rushed out to greet him. There was a crumpled Kleenex on the back seat and some lettuce shreds and tortilla crumbs from a passenger who had insisted on going through the Jack in the Box drive-thru for tacos. They had been kind enough to buy Chip some tacos, too, which he had gladly accepted. Chip was always surprised at how often riders who wanted to go through the drive-thru offered to buy him food and he almost always said yes. It was like a bonus tip! Chip gingerly picked up the Kleenex, averting his eyes, trying not to think about what could be on it, and tucked it into the plastic bag he’d brought from the kitchen. He brushed the lettuce and the crumbs from the seat onto the driveway and inspected the upholstery. Good enough. He didn’t have to vacuum. It was then he noticed the item on the floor of the back seat on the passenger side. It appeared to be a bowling bag. Chip stepped back and closed the door. He moved to the other side of the Valiant, his eyes scrunched up in thought. Who had left that there? He didn’t remember seeing anybody get in with it but that wasn’t unusual. He was usually in the driver’s seat facing forward when a fare got into the back. But a bowling bag? That’s a pretty big item for someone to forget and leave behind. He opened the back door, passenger side, and looked down at the bag. It was a bowling bag, all right, and it seemed to be made of genuine leather. Images of bowling balls and pins had been etched into it with some kind of tool and, it seemed to Chip, that it had been done by hand … not by some machine or mold. The bag’s tan hide seemed to be old (Vintage, Chip thought, recalling his eBay marketing class) but overall it was in decent shape. Whoever owned it had taken care of it. Probably oiled it regularly and repaired any splits or tears. The handles were leather, too, and were tied together with what looked like gift ribbon, light blue, like something you’d see at a baby shower. Chip reached down, looped his fingers through the handle (feeling that dog-damaged ring finger lock into place) and lifted the bag off the floor. Judging from the heft of it, there was indeed a bowling ball inside. He turned around and set it on the porch behind him and then stood back and looked at it. Who could have possibly left that behind? he thought. And why haven’t they contacted me to see if I still had it? He stepped forward and tilted the bag, left and right, hoping to see a name tag or ID of some sort. A luggage tag maybe. Nothing. Just a collection of bowling icons tooled into the leather: Pins in various states of being knocked around, bowling balls sliding down the alley toward their target, X’s indicating strikes and /’s indicating spares. I hate to open it, Chip thought. It felt like a violation of some kind. But he knew that, sometimes, travelers tucked their business cards into their luggage so, in case a tag got torn off and the luggage was lost, someone would find that card inside and get the property back to its rightful owner. So maybe, just maybe, there was a card or tag inside the bag rather than outside. He pulled out his keychain and opened the tiny pocketknife that was clipped there. He ran it under the light blue ribbon, and it split apart easily. Tossing the now useless ribbon aside, Chip grabbed the zipper tag on one side of the bag and slid it across and over the top of the bag. The zipper slid easily, and Chip was impressed that a bag that old had a zipper that still functioned so well. More evidence it had been well taken care of. Chip pried open the bag and a knot of cellophane wrapping popped up. Why would they put their bowling ball in a plastic bag? Chip thought. He grabbed the knot and lifted. Must be a kid’s ball, Chip thought. He knew that most bowling balls weighed between 14 and 16 pounds, but this ball was ten pounds at best. But as he looked through the murky cellophane bag, he suddenly realized that there wasn’t a bowling ball in the bag at all ... |
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