Willobee's World

by Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain

  “Yes, and yes, Trenton Willobee,” she said, smiling brightly.

  Trent could hardly sleep that night in anticipation of spending time with Haylee. He practically jumped out of bed at six, cleaned up, and waited for nine to roll around. He busied himself with wiping down Rocket One until it sparkled like sunlight glistening off the Colorado River. When he finished, he climbed on and headed down the hill. Trent arrived about fifteen minutes early. As he anxiously waited, he wondered if something had happened. He didn’t even have her phone number. He kept checking his watch. When nine o’clock came, and she was not there, he figured something must’ve gone wrong, or worse yet, he feared she might have changed her mind. It was about five minutes after nine before he saw her crossing the street. He was relieved.

  “You ’bout ready to go, Trent?” She yelled.

  “You betcha! Put this helmet on, and we’ll move out,” he said, holding it out toward her.

  Trent took Oatman road east, which intersected with Highway 95. He made a right-hand turn and passed through Fort Mohave, Bullhead City, and finally to the bridge, crossing the Colorado River, and they were in Laughlin, Nevada. He parked Rocket One near the Riverside Resort Hotel and Casino.

  “Ya wanna walk ’long the river for a bit?” He asked.

  “Sure, the weather’s really nice now, not like it will be in the summer when it’s a hundred and fifteen degrees!” She exclaimed.

  “You got that right,” a smiling Trent said.

  As they walked, Trent realized he simply towered over her, even though she wasn’t short for a woman.

  “Mind if we hold hands?” He asked.

  “Of course not,” Haylee said, slipping her hand in his big mitt.

  They strolled along the river for nearly a mile, chatting, laughing, and passing several casinos, which lay alongside of the river.

  “Sweetheart, would ya like to walk back toward the Riverside Hotel so we could take the boat USS Riverside down toward the dam?”

  “That’d be nice. I haven’t taken that boat in many years. By the way, I have somethin’ I’d like to ask,” she said as they began retracing their route.

  “Shoot, what’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve always wondered why you call me sweetheart. We are not sweethearts.”

  “Understand that, but ya see we southern boys call all girls-women sweetheart, ’cause that’s the way we grew up. I think it’s called a term of endearment. Women are special to us.”

  “So, the reason you call me that so often is just ’cause I’m a woman?”

  “Not exactly, ya see, it’s how I say it.”

  “Now I’m confused.”

  “Women are sweethearts, and certain others are sweethearts. For me, at this point, you’re a sweetheart. You’re not my sweetheart. Must be honest about it, ’cause I wish you was my sweetheart, ’cause you’re very special ta me. If you’ve ever seen birds like doves or quails talkin’ ta each other you know what they say sound’s the same, but I think it’s the way they say it.”

  “Trent, I never heard it explained like that. I don’t really know what to say,” she replied as they continued to walk.

  “You don’t need ta say a thing. We’re friends, that’s good-nuff for me,” he said as the Riverside Hotel came into view.

  “I see we’re back where we started,” Haylee said a few minutes later.

  “I’m gonna go git us some tickets. You just wait right here, be back shortly.”

  They only had to wait 20 minutes, and with tickets in hand, they boarded the USS Riverside. They decided to sit on the uncovered top deck to maximize the experience. As the boat made its way toward Davis Dam, they were treated to a local history lesson which came over the public announcement system. Trent seemed to enjoy it more than Haylee. She was much more acquainted with the historical aspects of the local area, since she had grown up there.

  “Can I git ya somethin’ to drink?” Trent asked.

  “Yes, I think so, how ’bout some white wine?”

  “No problem just hang tight.”

  Trent went down stairs to the lower deck, and asked the bartender for a cup of Chablis for Haylee, a cup of Miller for himself, and scurried back up the ladder to the top deck.

  “Here ya go,” he said, handing Haylee her wine.

  “Thanks, what’re you drinkin’?”

  “I had a hankerin’ for a beer.”

  “Trent, this is really nice.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoyin’ it, ’cause I am—’specially since you’re here.”

  When they returned, Trent was hungry.

  “Sweetheart, whadaya say, we get us somethin’ to eat?”

  “Yeah, I’m a little hungry. I didn’t eat anything this mornin’ for breakfast, and I bet you didn’t, either.”

  “You musta heard that ruckus in my gut. It’s tryin’ to eat itself, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ in there.”

  They decided to take a short walk over to the In-N-out Burger where a famished Trent downed a Double-Double, Fries, and Coke, and Haylee was happy with a cheese burger and diet coke. She was very weight conscious. She always preferred staying on the south side of 120. When they finished lunch, they stopped in at the nearby Tropicana Hotel & Casino where they played a few slot machines. They were interested in having fun, not winning money. Around four o’clock, Haylee told Trent she needed to get back home, because she had told her mother she would return by five. Shortly, thereafter, they were on Rocket One, heading for Oatman. When they arrived, Trent wondered about her cell phone number.

  “I know we probably don’t live more’n a mile apart, but I don’t even have your cell number.”

  “I don’t have yours either, but we should be able to take care of that right now. You have a pencil or pen?” She asked.

  “I think so, I usually carry somethin’ to write with and a piece of paper in my right saddle bag, Trent said, feeling around in the bag. Yeah, got it,” then they exchanged cell numbers.

  “Uh, Haylee, I’m gonna be heading back to Tijuana in a couple of days. I’ll be gone for ’bout two weeks. Mind if I give ya a call while I’m gone?”

  “Certainly not, please do.”

  “Don’t git me wrong, I’m not countin’ this as a date, it was just a ride to Laughlin,” he said, starting Rocket One and then slowly pulling away.

  “Wait, Trent, don’t go yet!” He stopped and looked back as she approached.

  “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “No, nothin’s wrong, I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful day,” she said, reaching up and hugging him.

  “Your more’n welcome. It was mah pleasure,” he said, holding her in his gaze.

  “Trent, about this not being a date, I think it’s okay to call it that.”

  “Does that mean we’re not friends anymore?” He asked with a grin.

  “Of course not, now get outta here ya big lug!”

  “See ya when I git back,” he said and roared off down Main Street.

  She just stood there watching him until he disappeared from sight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Trent thought a lot about his time with Haylee and how much he enjoyed her company, but it was time to focus on his run to Tijuana and now the double reason for his trip. The next morning, he took a ride over to the post office in Fort Mohave to examine the contents of the box Dobson said contained $5,000. When he went in, he focused on the mailbox section. Trent quickly located it, and opened it. He found a small package which resembled a checkbook box. He took it, and made a rapid exit. He walked over to McDonald’s, with package in hand, and casually had some breakfast before going home.

  When he returned, he perused the package more closely. He chuckled to himself, because from its appearance the sender was his bank, and it was addressed to him. He opened it, and sure enough, it was filled with hundred
dollar bills. After making a quick count, he determined that the $5,000 for expenses was all there.

  Though Dobson had provided him with firepower, he needed to make changes in the truck cab where the handguns would be stored and not found by Mexican authorities. Trent put the .45 where he had traditionally kept his unregistered .380, but he had to fabricate another flip down mechanism which appeared to be part of the dashboard for the two 9mm Glocks. He worked on that for most of the next two days. It took a number of visits to the hardware store to finally get it completed.

  He wasn’t worried so much about Mexican authorities, because they knew him pretty well and often practically waived him through, because they had become so familiar with his modus operandi, and he had gotten to know some of them. Ordinarily, Trent never left the “Frontero Zone,” which was the area just across the border. They usually conducted a cursory examination of his empty trailer, checked his bill of lading, the dogs sniffed around a bit, and that was about it; however, he hadn’t forgotten the plight of Sergeant Tahmooressi who suffered with post-traumatic syndrome disease (PTSD) and languished in prison for 214 days for bringing his personal weapons across the border by mistake, and the fact that the Obama administration just left him blowing in the wind. He didn’t want that injustice to befall him. He fully realized that no one would be coming to his aid.

  Going out with his load of tomatoes was usually a little more involved, because American customs and immigration officials were a bit more thorough. Other than him having to show them his passport, they seemed to be more interested in his bill of lading and the contents of the trailer itself. They usually checked in and under the truck trailer with the help of dogs that sniffed for drugs. It was not unusual for them to make a cursory examination of the cab itself, but according to Dobson, he would pass through without a problem.

  Since his service in the Middle East, as the time neared for him to leave for Tijuana his anxiety level increased. This would be the first time he’d had that type of visceral response. Trent struggled with his emotions and thoughts. With what he had saved, he knew the $40,000 would go a long way toward his purchase of a small hundred-acre ranch outside of Sante Fe. That would be the culmination of a long-time dream. He thought by spring he’d be able to locate something he wanted.

  Trent looked his rig over very carefully the night before he was to leave. Everything looked good, so he went to bed anxious but eager at the same time to get on the road. It seemed as though five o’clock came sooner than he’d anticipated, and when dawn broke he pulled out, heading toward Kingman.

  Eleven hours later, he arrived just outside the border crossing. As usual, he parked his rig in a secure area, slung his black leather jacket over his shoulder with a Glock in its inside pocket, picked up his overnight bag, and made his way into Tijuana on foot after being cleared by Mexican authorities. They didn’t even give him a shakedown. His passport card expedited his entry. He walked to the Americana Inn, and was greeted by the attractive Desk Clerk, Maria Gomez.

  “Como Esta, Maria,” Trent greeted her.

  “How have you been, Senõr Trenton?” She asked formally in broken English.

  “Good, if I weren’t, it wouldn’t do me any good to complain,” he said with a smile.

  “Uno, uh, I mean one night?” She asked.

  “Yep.”

  As soon as he got his key he went to his room and freshened up before he began making rounds in nearby bars to begin collecting intel. He stopped in at the Palacio Palace, first. He sat at the bar near several Mexican locals, listening to them, but none of them ever spoke English. He knew so few Spanish words, so finally, he asked the man next to him, in English, about where he might get some action. The man was not sure what he was asking.

  “Putana,” Trent said, gesticulating with his hands the form of a woman.

  “Si, si!” He exclaimed, and then, in broken English, told him to go several blocks away to find what he wanted.

  Trent started walking toward a rather seedy part of town near the end of the Frontero Zone. He turned the collar of his coat up as he trekked along. He kept thinking he had to start someplace, and prostitutes were a potential conduit to the Mexican underworld. He knew it wasn’t unusual for these women to also be involved in illicit drug activity. Though he had no intention of having a sexual relationship with one, he thought he might have to, because he wanted to be convincing about what he wanted. He needed to spend some time with a putana in his hotel room. He thought he might learn about her pimp, drug dealer or both. When he approached the intersection of two streets, each corner had a putana flashing her wares. All of them looked like neon signs peddling sex. He stood in the shadows for a while trying to decide which one to approach. It was hard to tell their ages from a distance. He wanted an older woman, because she probably would have more experience and knowledge about what was really going on in Tijuana. Finally, he stepped out of the shadows and approached the first one. She looked like a teenager.

  “You want to feel good?” She asked in very good English.

  “No, mucho gracias,” he said, continuing his walk.

  Trent crossed the street and found a woman, Consuela, whom he thought could be helpful. She looked a bit long in the tooth for the profession and not purely Mexican, but she was attractive and her English was nearly flawless. Consuela accompanied him back to his hotel. By the time he locked the door, she had already begun to undress, and he stopped her.

  “This is going to cost you a hundred U.S. dollars, and you want me to wait?” She asked.

  “I need company for the night, not an hour. If I give you a thousand U.S. dollars, will you spend the night with me?”

  “I have to make a call, first. I can’t just disappear from my location. Where’s the cash?”

  Trent reached into his pocket and pulled out ten 100 dollar bills.

  “That’s quite a wad. What’s your work, robbing banks?” Consuela said sarcastically as she retrieved her cell phone from her purse.

  “I’ve been saving up. We over-the-road truckers sometimes get lonesome.”

  “Consuela, all night, Americana, eight-hundred,” she said and ended her call.

  “We good to go?”

  “Of course, but there are some rules. No kinky stuff.”

  “Kinky stuff? What does that include?”

  “No hittin’ or hurtin’ me, or anal sex. Condoms must be used, and no kissin’ on the mouth.” she said firmly.

  “Not a problem here. I’ve always been told to treat a putana like a lady and a lady like a putana, and ya can’t go wrong.”

  “Can I undress now?” She asked.

  “Yep, and I think I’ll do likewise.”

  Somewhere around 3:00 A.M. Consuela had sexually worn Trent out, and he lay there thinking: The things I have to do for my country. It must be true that there ain’t no such thing as bad sex. That brought about a mental chuckle. They stayed in bed and Trent began asking questions which he felt might be helpful.

  “If I wanted to buy some meth, do you know where I could git it?”

  “When it comes to drugs, I know lots of people and places.”

  “I figured you’d know more’n me ’cause I ain’t usually out on the streets. This might be personal, but do you have what I’m lookin’ for?”

  “Look, whatever your name is, I didn’t come here to answer questions; I came here to give you sex and plenty of it. I’m not a drug dealer,” she replied in an irritated tone.

  “My name’s George. I’m sorry; didn’t mean to pry into your bidness. I just don’t know people in Tijuana. I thought maybe you could tell me where to go and who to talk to, a little conversation that’s all,” Trent said as he turned over toward her.

  He could see her in the neon light passing through the window, and he knew he was going to have to handle the situation very delicately. Her age and experience was a downside, because s
he knew how to keep her mouth shut, at least when it came to inquiring about anything other than oral sex, but he knew she lied to her pimp on the phone about how much she was being paid, and it was obvious she took chances.

  “Would ya have breakfast with me when we git up?” Trent/George asked.

  “We’ll see. You must really want company.”

  “Like I said, it git’s lonely on the road.”

  “You ready for some more?” She asked.

  “Yep, think I’m ’bout recovered.”

  Just before 7:00 A.M. they woke up and immediately took showers, and soon after they dressed for the day before heading downstairs.

  “Offer still stands for breakfast.” Trent/George said.

  “Well, I am a little hungry,” she replied.

  “You should be after last night, ’cause you earned your money,” he said with a smile.

  They chose a corner table, and an eager waitress seemed to just appear at their table. Trent felt sure the waitress knew Consuela and that she was a working girl. Consuela wasted no time in placing her order as did he. Trent wanted to talk, but she was not much interested in a discussion.

  “’bout last night, I was hoping you could connect me with someone who’d git me a little meth.”

  “You don’t look or act like the type who does drugs of any kind,” she said confidently.

  “Don’t let my looks fool ya. I’d like to take some other things back ’cross the border and not necessarily for me.”

  “You’re very fit and strong. Drugs don’t help. Sure, I know some mules, but are you sure you want to mess with them?”

  “I would just like to score a little meth, hash, or weed. What’s so strange about that?”

  “Alright, I’ll give you some names, but you never heard them from me, okay?”

  “Shor, buckin’ broncs couldn’t pull your name outta me.”

  “If those buckin’ broncs did, I’m not Consuela, George.”

  “Well…give me some names.”

  “These hombres are not easy to locate, and they are very dangerous. You probably will never see any of them. You’ll end up asking some of their dealers for the stuff, but if you mention their names, the dealers will get you what you want.” Just mention Alvarez, Burboa, or Sinaloa. They bring a lot of stuff from Guatemala, Columbia, and other South American countries every two or three weeks.”