Chapter 9 - Stranded Without a Rental Car
Two hours after Eric’s desperate phone call, a heavy tow truck pulled into the parking lot of the budget motel.
Eric, alerted by the rumbling diesel engine, sprinted out of Room 14 in his bare feet. “Hey! What are you doing?! What are you doing to that car?!”
A burly tow truck driver in a reflective vest was rapidly securing chains around the wheels of the sleek BMW 7-Series convertible that Eric had rented at the Miami airport before driving down the Overseas Highway.
“Repo order from Enterprise Prestige Collection,” the driver said without looking up, tightening the winch with a loud, mechanical clank. “Payment method on file was reported as stolen credit line. Company revoked the rental contract and flagged the vehicle for immediate emergency recovery.”
“No, no, no! You can't take the car!” Eric shouted, grabbing the driver’s arm in desperation. “All our luggage is inside! We’re stuck in Key West! How are we supposed to get anywhere?!”
The driver shoved Eric's hand away with a hard, warning glare. “Touch me again, buddy, and you’ll be riding to the hospital before you go to jail. Your bags are sitting on the curb. Step back from the winch.”
Patricia and Megan stumbled out of the motel room just in time to watch the gleaming black convertible hoisted into the air.
“Our car!” Megan wailed, clutching her hair. “Eric, our luggage is in the dirt! The car is leaving!”
“Stop them!” Patricia screamed, waving her arms wildly at the driver. “We are VIP customers! We demand to speak to your supervisor!”
The tow truck driver climbed into his cab, slammed the heavy door, rolled down the window, and gave them a cold, unimpressed look. “Take it up with the corporate fraud division, lady. Have a nice walk.”
The truck roared to life, pulling out of the gravel lot and leaving a cloud of gray exhaust hanging in the thick, suffocating heat.
Eric, Patricia, and Megan stood on the cracked asphalt beside seven massive designer suitcases, surrounded by the roar of highway traffic. Megan collapsed onto the ground, sobbing hysterically into her hands, while Patricia leaned against a rusty lamppost, gasping for air.
Eric looked down at his ruined leather loafers, his empty wallet, and his dead phone.
They had no rental car. They had no credit cards. They had no checking accounts. They had no flight tickets.
They were stranded at the southernmost point of the United States with fourteen dollars, seven suitcases of useless resort wear, and an impending criminal indictment waiting for them at home.
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The only way out of Key West was a twelve-hour, grueling Greyhound bus ride to Miami, followed by a two-day cross-country bus journey back to Minneapolis—a journey they would have to fund by pawning Megan’s designer sunglasses and Patricia’s gold jewelry at a rundown pawnshop two blocks away.
The golden boy had finally run out of gold.
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