by Alan Lee
“Because I’m willing to be attained, does that make me less worthy?” she asked.
I didn’t respond.
She visibly flinched. “Oh…”
“I make zero judgements, other than of myself. I don’t hold you to my standards.”
“But…I think, maybe you should.”
The red high-heeled shoe slipped off her foot and her bouncing toe moved in dangerous proximity to my pant leg. If we made contact, all hope was lost.
I asked, “Can I get the locations of your father’s holdings?”
“Yes.”
“And names and contact information of his employees.”
“Yes.”
Without breaking eye contact, she slid a small stack of papers off her glass-topped desk and laid it on my lap. Attached to the top was a check. With an impressive number written in elegant calligraphy.
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“The girl I’m dating?”
“The lesser and inferior girl you’re dating, yes.”
“Kristin.”
“Kristin? Just Kristin?”
“Just Kristin.”
“I’ll find out who she is,” Ronnie said.
“And?”
“And she’ll be in danger.” She smiled. Curvy lips. Perfect teeth. Sharp white canines.
“Ah, but your hired muscle would refuse that morbid assignment. Because he’s dating her.”
“I didn’t say I’d hire you to hurt Kristin. I’ll do it myself.”
“Wow,” I said.
“I’m the jealous type.”
“And yet you confess your fiancé runs around?”
“He’s not worth the jealousy.”
Her toe grazed my leg.
The air was thick and hot, like inhaling steam.
I stood.
“I’m fleeing,” I said.
“Why.”
“You win this round. I’m a bit overwhelmed. Prone to poor decisions.”
“Hah!” She stood and beat me to her door. Blocked it with her body. “The indomitable and stoic Mackenzie August admits to human frailty. You want me.”
“I’ve never hidden that.”
“I know. But. My spring just brightened by an entire color palette, hearing you admit it.”
“You have issues, Counselor Summers,” I said.
“Say it. You want me. I want to watch your lips move.”
“What an unusual word fetish you have.”
“Only for those words issued from your mouth.”
We were close. She smelled of perfume and coffee and breath mints.
“Ronnie.”
“Yes Mackenzie.”
“Move away from the door.”
“Yes Mackenzie.”
She did but her hand stayed on the knob.
“I’m working on it,” she said.
“On what?”
“On being the kind of girl you want to be with.”
“I do want to be with you,” I said.
“I know. But I don’t want to be a guilty pleasure. To borrow your phrase, I want to be worth it. If I find a way to extract myself from my father’s illegal enterprise, I will.”
“Your second secret doesn’t disqualify you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s your first,” I said.
Some of the energy went out of her eyes. “I know. The fiancé. I know. And my third secret?”
“I tremble at the thought.”
She opened the door and said, “Yes. Goodbye, Mackenzie. I hope you’ll see me again. Soon.”
Chapter Five
Calvin Summers owned three trailer parks, six upscale Smith Mountain Lake vacation rental homes, an Italian restaurant, two convenience stores, and a small dairy farm. All located inside Franklin County, the rural county directly south of Roanoke. An impressive list. Nothing on here struck me as sleazy or illegal. But I was willing to bet that wasn’t all he owned. Call it a hunch.
My first stop was at his property manager’s office in Westlake. Freshly built structure — it still had the hollow feeling of being inadequately furnished. Mr. Stokes’s office had nothing on the walls yet. He stood from his faux-wooden desk and shook my hand briskly, like an industrious man with much to do before quitting time. He was bald and wore those glasses that clicked together at the bridge.
“Good to have your boss back?” I asked.
“Sure, sure.” He shrugged and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Though truth be told, there’s an awful lot of freedom while he’s gone.”
“That’s precisely the reason I chose a career with no supervisors.”
“Sure, I get that, sure. Don’t get me wrong. Fine guy, fair boss. But you understand.”
“I understand.”
“What do you do, Mr. August?”
“Commercial expansion consultant. Mr. Summers would like to considerably expand his holdings, and he asked me to be involved. First things first, I’m getting the lay of the land.”
Mr. Stokes nodded and pondered the implications of increased responsibility.
I said, “I assume you know why he spent six months in prison.”
“Tax evasion. I didn’t ask a lot of questions. Doesn’t change my opinion of Mr. Summers.”
“You don’t handle the finances?”
“A little. I collect checks from renters. I submit the expenses for home repair. Things like that.”
“To whom do you submit checks and receipts?”
“Bradshaw. Tom Bradshaw, Mr. Summers’s accountant. Fine man, has an office not far from Ms. Summer’s. His attorney.”
“His attorney and his daughter,” I said without thinking as I wrote down the name Tom Bradshaw. He’d been left off the list.
“You met Ms. Summers? Holy hell, is she a treat to look at.”
“She is exquisite,” I agreed. “What properties do you oversee?”
“Rental homes, convenience stores, and Little Venice.”
“Little Venice, the Italian restaurant.”
“Yes sir. I ran into Ms. Summers once at her father’s house. She wore this little yellow bikini, you know? Walking around like it was nothing. I tell you what. Thought about that day ever since.”
“Keep you warm all winter, eh, Mr. Stokes?”
“By God, it did.”
I smiled. Better than punching him in his teeth.
“Who manages the trailer parks?” I asked.
“The mobile home lots each have a superintendent. Don’t recall their names. Wayne Cross oversees them all. Deals with water, sewer, disputes, things like that.”
Wayne Cross was on my list. The superintendents were not.
“In your professional opinion, Mr. Stokes, is the enterprise run well?”
“The enterprise, sir?”
“Mr. Summer’s business. Run efficiently? Effectively?”
He nodded. “Oh, sure, sure. Tight as a drum.”
“You’re satisfied with your salary? You’d assume Mr. Cross is too?”
He smiled modestly. “My salary is about what I’d get from other property management offices. Got no complaints. Can’t speak for Mr. Cross, though.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Not well, no sir. He’s one of them Franklin County boys, Southern to the bone. Big guy. Loud truck. Know the type?”
“I know the type.”
“Keeps the mobile home renters in line, such a big fellow, you understand me.”
I asked, “Do you ever have trouble with the convenience stores? Or the restaurant?”
“No sir, not a thing. Stores get burglarized now and then but that’s common.”
“Big moneymakers?”
“Again, I’m not the expert on that. I don’t balance the expense and revenue books. But I had to guess, I’d wager the restaurant breaks even and the convenience stores are a gold mine. Just my opinion.”
“What do you know about his dairy farm?”
He made a big zero with his thumb and fingers. “Zi
p. Don’t know a thing.”
Thusly we continued. How often were the rental homes occupied? Were there any regular renters who stayed long periods of time? How many different managers had the restaurant employed? Had any employees recently quit that he knew of? And so forth. Finally, near the end, I caught him off guard.
“If I wanted to steal from Mr. Summers, how would I do it?”
His swivel chair righted itself, its occupant sitting up straight. “Steal?”
“Mr. Summers wants to grow his business. I’m looking for weak areas. How would I steal from him?”
“Well, now, I don’t know that you could.”
“Sure I can. There’s always a way. How would I?”
“Got no idea.”
“Let’s get creative.”
“I suppose…hm, maybe you could rob his tenants?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to steal from them. I want to steal from Calvin Summers. And for him to never know about it. How would one of his employees do that?”
“Has one of his employees done that?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“I reckon the restaurant manager could skim food? Short the cash register? Same with the convenience stores.”
“Let’s say that happened. And you found out about it. What would you do?” I asked.
“I’d report them.”
“To Mr. Summers.”
“Yessir.”
“You’ve never had to?”
“No sir, I haven’t. And it’s a mighty weird question.”
“Have you ever fired anyone?” I asked.
“Not me, no. I helped evict a few mobile home renters. I’m sure Little Venice has released employees.”
“Could you collect a rental check from a vacation home at the lake and not report it?” I asked. “Cash it yourself?”
“I would never.”
“I know. But could you?”
“I suppose. But the rental calendar is monitored by both his accountant and Ms. Summers. Or I guess I should say, her receptionist. They’d know.”
Stokes’s desk had no photographs of family. No souvenirs from fancy vacations. A spartan workplace. “Do you live nearby?” I asked.
“Burnt Chimney. Ten-minute drive.”
“How long do you plan to work for Mr. Summers?”
“Long as he’ll have me. I enjoy it. Pays the bills.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stokes. You’ve been very helpful.”
* * *
Two of the trailer parks were near Rocky Mount. I visited both, the first of which was off Highway 40, named Ferrum’s Fields. As far as trailer parks went, Ferrum’s Fields looked upper-middle class. The majority of yards were clean and mowed, no rusted cars out front, no hanging doors. No decrepit dog cages, no junk piles. These were double-wides with decks and screen porches.
The second park, however… Hard to look at. Like a third-world country. Half the units were set on cinder blocks and suffered from sunken or busted floors. Pit bulls, feral in appearance, held on thin chains. Thirty-year-old antennas, broken trucks, hanging shutters, elderly couples staring vacantly from plastic lawn chairs. Piles of empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The scent of sewage.
My gut clenched.
The name of the park was Happy Hills.
When was the last time Calvin Summers had been here?
I supposed it wasn’t his responsibility to enforce quality of life standards or a work ethic, but certainly part of this disaster belonged to him. This looked like every bad stereotype of deep Appalachia. Like Deliverance.
I circled the lot three times, feeling heavier in my soul each circuit.
A man stepped out of a trailer near the exit. He wore boots, boxer shorts, and a gray tank. Desperate was his need for a razor, deodorant, and a toothbrush.
He flagged me down and I lowered the window.
“Help you?” he said. “Lookin’ for something?”
“Wayne Cross. He around?”
“What’cha want with Wayne.”
I took a guess. “You’re the superintendent of this fine establishment.”
He didn’t answer.
“How often does Wayne come by Happy Hills?”
“The hell kinda question is that,” he said.
“Ahh… numerical? Or you could respond with a date from the calendar?”
He didn’t answer.
“Does the name Calvin Summers mean anything to you?”
“Means nothing to me and neither do you.”
“I’m grieved to hear it. How quickly can we get Wayne here?”
“You a cop?”
“I am not. I’m here on behalf of the owner, Mr. Summers.”
“Probably time you moved on.”
“Not going to invite me in?” I asked.
“Invite you into where?”
“Your home. You know, hospitality?”
“No I don’t know.” He smacked the flat of his hand against the roof of my spaceship. “Get on. Folks here don’t like strangers.”
I dropped my car out of drive and into park. “I have a couple water bottles in the back. Want one?”
“You got about half a minute, ‘fore I call the dogs.”
I got out of the car. Stepped into the dirt. He retreated a pace. I moved in such a way that he could see the pistol clipped to my belt, small of my back.
“I’m here because the owner asked me to be. He wants to make improvements.” I retrieved my wallet and put three twenties into his hand. “And you could make my life a lot easier.”
“Big fucker, ain’t ya. What do you do?”
“I help businesses expand. Right now I’m looking at yours. I’d be grateful for suggestions.”
“Suggestions? Shit. Burn it all down. Get all new mobile units.”
“That’s an option. But. These are homes to the people who live here.”
He looked quizzically at the bills in his hand. “Wayne know about this?”
“Not yet. Talking to him next. Anything you say to me, he’ll never hear.”
“Wayne’s fine. Hates this fuckin’ place but he’s fine.”
“You don’t know the name Summers?” I asked.
“I know it. Met him once. Fancy shoes, fancy hair, bullshit like that.”
“That’s him. What do you do here?”
He nodded to the park, which would buzz with flies once the temperature rose. “Keep all them people occupied. Keep ’em dumb until they die.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Keep their cable on. Bring ’em cigarettes. Their shine. Their pills. Toilet paper. They don’t move much. Then one day soon they’ll fuckin’ die and I’ll get someone take their spot.”
“How do they pay for their rent and for your services?”
“Government checks. Sign ’em over to me. Or Wayne.”
I said, “So this is essentially a rest home.”
From hell.
He nodded. “Last stop before the grave.”
“Everyone here is elderly?”
“Most. Or sick or stupid or something.”
“How do you fill their prescriptions?”
He grinned. Not a good look. “Said I get them pills. Didn’t say no prescriptions.”
“So they come here. And never leave.”
“Some of ’em, yep.”
“And you take the checks issued by the government, and handle all their needs.”
“That’s about it.”
I did some quick math in my head.
If the average Medicaid and Medicare check was a thousand bucks, and I guessed maybe a hundred residents lived here, then he was taking in one hundred thousand dollars a month. No idea what he was spending; not much, based on the evidence. Ballpark — seventy-five percent of the income. That left twenty-five thousand dollars for the superintendent, Wayne, and Mr. Summers to split. Each month.
Extremely profitable side business.
Except almost none of Happy Hills was legal.
&
nbsp; I bet Calvin’s name wasn’t officially attached to any of it. Or maybe he had built-in protection.
“Police ever give you trouble?” I asked.
“Nah. Matter fact, they send folks our way often as not. I keep troublemakers quiet.”
“With medication and liquor.”
“This here’s Franklin County.” He spit out a plug of tobacco. I hadn’t realized he was dipping. Must be swallowing the juice. “We use shine.”
“Moonshine. Produced locally.”
“Yep.”
I said, “And you live here, rent free, and keep a modest percent of the profits.”
“You got it.”
“And somehow you fall asleep at night.”
“It’s a living. These people don’t gotta stay here.”
“What about a health inspector?” I asked.
“Hell, everybody’s got a price.”
* * *
I used the drive-thru at McDonalds in Rocky Mount. Parked, sat with my eyes closed, and tried not to think about what I’d just seen.
And also I drank a chocolate shake.
I knew places like Happy Hills existed. A large percentage of rest homes and mental health facilities were essentially cleaner versions of Happy Hills. Done legally and with more powerful drugs.
But still.
Part of what churned my stomach was Scott. That was his name. Scott who? Just Scott. A man almost as unhealthy as the park he oversaw. Dead-eyed Scott. Hell, everyone’s got a price.
Ronnie had never been to Happy Hills. I’d seen her working at the Rescue Mission; she had a heart. A soul. She would never approve of Scott or his methods or of Happy Hills. She’d quit first.
I hoped.
Chapter Six
Manny and I got breakfast at Scrambled, a downtown eatery. Despite the morning chill, we sat at an outside table because we were intrepid. I ordered the famous vanilla French toast, because I was a glutton. He ordered the eggs and sausage, because he forsook carbs and liked to feel superior.
The waiter brought our food and went back inside.
“The waiter,” Manny said. “Name’s Seth.”
“So he told us.”
“Hombre’s a wanted man. Fraud and missing child support.”
“Yikes. Seth struck me as responsible.”
