Willobee's World

by Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain

  Within minutes he arrived at the bar where he originally crossed paths with the two from the Middle East. He went in, ordered a beer, looked around, but didn’t see the two guys he was looking for, but he did see two “people” he thought were human. Ordinarily, he didn’t stare at others, but this was an exception. He became transfixed with this very strange looking couple. The tall “female” appeared to be in her mid-sixties. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, because he had never seen a human being with that many tattoos, piercings, and hardware hanging from the face. She wore a white print sundress and high-heeled sandals. Regardless of age, he thought the dress would have looked nice on an attractive woman, but this skinny ink-plastered individual had so much blue and green ink on her skin that it almost appeared to be painted on with a brush! She had tattoos on her face, neck, arms, hands, legs, and feet. About then, he had a very scary thought. He began wondering what she looked like naked! That actually scared the hell out of him! He was able to observe her in close proximity while sitting at the bar, because she and her weird “companion” asked the bartender for drinks over the counter with a request that they be delivered to their table. The “male” came close to Trent. His face was a mess with ink and hardware. Trent couldn’t tell much about the rest of his body, because he wore nice slacks, spiffy shoes, a sport coat, and dress hat. Strangely, he was carrying a black small bulldog in his arms. He looked younger than his partner. It was easy to see that these two had money. Trent figured it was more than likely drug money. That probably explained the age difference. The “dude” had a good thing going and a ticket to ride.

  Trent ordered another Cerveza and curiously watched the ink-and-hardware people at their table. They appeared to be waiting for someone as they sipped their drinks. After about 20 minutes, the man came back to the bar and asked for another round. The bartender accommodated, and he returned to the table drinks in hand. Trent was gulping down his Cerveza when a fellow joined the bizarre couple. Trent knew immediately that this guy was from the Middle East. After they finished their drinks, the three of them left the bar. So, Trent drained his Cerveza, paid, and quickly followed. Once outside, he began trailing behind them. They appeared to be heading toward the little adobe meeting house. When they and he arrived, it was pitch dark. The only light emanated from a small window on the side of the building which had been covered over by a heavy cloth. He took a quick look around, then hunkered down just under the window. He removed his listening device and ski mask from has bag. He could hear discussions going on in Spanish, Farsi, other Middle East dialects, and even English. He could hear discussions about weapons, drug-tunnels, and Syrian terrorists. His legs were beginning to ache from crouching for so long. It was then, he also heard a loud voice behind him speaking in Farsi. He understood the threatening language. Trent’s interpretation of what the voice said was unexpected and chilling.

  “You dead man!”

  Trent felt cold steel press against the back of his head as streams of light sliced through the night, exposing him in his crouched position while a quarter moon dangled high above. He slowly rose to his feet his hands held high, then with the maneuverability of a fighter jet, he spun around and quickly knocked the gun from the hand of his attacker, but suddenly a knife flashed in the night, and a life and death struggle ensued. Trent subdued him with one crushing blow to the throat and he began choking and fell to the ground with a thud. That commotion brought the inhabitants of the house pouring out with weapons and flashlights in hand, reminiscent of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave only in reverse. The dancing shadowy figures seemed to be everywhere, like fire flies on a warm summer’s night. Trent was thankful it was dark and he was wearing his mask, because they couldn’t get a clear shot at him or make out his identity, but that didn’t stop them from firing handguns sporadically in his general direction. He took refuge behind a garbage dumpster, and began returning fire. Sparks were flying from the ricocheting bullets meant for him, but he knew he was outgunned and outmanned. He had to get out of there fast! He began retreating from behind the dumpster without firing another round and was soon out of sight by dodging behind houses and buildings while fleeing under the cover of darkness as the sounds of excited voices and gunshots gradually diminished in the distance.

  When he finally got back to his hotel room, it was very late. He was exhausted and collapsed upon his bed. As he lay there, his thoughts raced and rambled. Left my bag, no identification, just a bag. Crude listening device, not professional, nothing to tie back to me. These crazies are going to bring Syrian and ISIS terrorists into the U.S., using drug-tunnels and ground transportation to cross the border. Mexicans helping and American border agents! Our government doing nothing to stop refugees from Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras! These diaper-heads are intermingling with these people. Dear God, they plan to bring in teams to assemble dirty bombs, biological chemicals, and nuclear devices! Dobs, I gotta get this to Dobs, but will he do anything? Can he do anything? Do our people even care at the top?! Big cities are in grave danger like LA or even Sin City, that would really make a statement. This has gotta be stopped! We must stop this…we must stop this…we must….

  Finally, fatigue got the best of him, and he dozed off. He still had his Glock in hand and fully clothed, but sleep swept over him like a mountain sunset. After about four hours, suddenly, the sounds of a vacuum cleaner sent him upright on the bed. He sat there for a minute or so as he got his bearings, then jumped up to splash his face with cool water. He checked the time and then headed for the shower. Trent knew he needed to get back on the road. There was much to do. He had promised Slinger he’d meet him, even though he knew he wasn’t going to get involved in illegal activity, but he wanted to keep his word. As he was dressing, he could still hear the laughter coming from the terrorist meeting place, as one of them said with derision, “Americans all have watches, but we have time.”

  By nine that morning, Trent was well on his way to Albuquerque. He didn’t push it the way he normally did, because he was going to stay over an extra day at the Quality Inn at 40 and 17 for his rendezvous with Slinger. Since he was in no hurry, he pulled in at a truck stop just south of phoenix to call Haylee before a famished lunch crowd came pouring into the restaurant. She was still prepping for lunchtime customers when her cell rang.

  “Hey darlin’ it’s me!”

  “Of course it’s you. I keep tellin’ ya there’s no way I’d ever not recognize your voice. I’m very glad you called, ’cause I’ve been worryin’ a bit, you know. Everything go okay and you’re alright?”

  “Yep, all went well, ’cept I gotta powerful hunger!”

  “Can’t you stop somewhere and get somethin’ to eat?”

  “Shor ’nuff, I’m at a truck stop now. I’ll do that in a bit. Just wanted to give you a call first.”

  “Now I’m really impressed! You choosing me over food?!” She laughed.

  “You laugh all you want, Haylee-Girl, but you’re special,” he said in a serious tone.

  “Oh, Trent, you know what I mean, don’t you?” She asked with concern.

  “Of course I do! I was just rustlin’ your feathers,” he laughed.

  “You can stop rustlin’ my feathers anytime now!”

  “You and Kit okay?”

  “We’re fine, but I’m really missin’ you. When you think you’ll get back?”

  “I really miss you, too, darlin’. Should be back day after tomorra, but it’ll probly be late.”

  “I seem to get more impatient every time you put that truck on the road. It’s like three or four days turn into a week!”

  “Don’t you be worryin’ yor purdy little head, ’cause it won’t always be like this.”

  “Trent, I wish I could talk longer, but I still gotta lot to do in the next few minutes.”

  “Don’t wanna hold ya up, I know the lunch bunch are on the way, so I’ll sign off for now.”

  “I love you,�
�� she said.

  “Right back at ya, sweetheart,” Trent replied.

  Trent began to wonder if he should continue to work with Homeland Security. He wanted a different life. He even wanted to quit driving truck, but he couldn’t, not yet anyway. He sat behind the wheel for a few minutes ruminating before barreling on toward Albuquerque and Slinger. He reached his destination around five o’clock that afternoon and promptly checked in at the hotel. As dusk fell, he took a walk over to a restaurant next door, had dinner, and returned to his room. Since he had some downtime, he began writing his report for Dobson. He wanted to see Haylee as soon as he could when he returned home, and the more he did now, the less he’d have to do then. He turned on the TV and searched for a national news channel. As he was writing, he heard a lot about the 2016 election for president of the U.S. There was an old socialist, Bernie Sanders, who was actually a member of the U. S. Senate railing away about Hillary Clinton having bad judgment, and that she was not qualified to become the first female president. He continued writing and chuckling to himself about how delusional this old man was. The fix for her to be the Democrat nominee had been in since 2008.

  Trent spent nearly two hours working on the report, because he had a lot to say that Dobson and his people needed to know. Just replaying the mental tape which ran in his head angered him, and that fueled his efforts to write in great detail about what he had learned in Tijuana. He turned in before midnight and had a good night’s sleep.

  He was up early and went out to his truck. Got on the CB in search of Slinger. He made several attempts to reach him, but to no avail. Finally, he called him on his cell, and that worked. Slinger was about three hours away, and Trent agreed to hang around until he arrived. Trent busied himself with truck maintenance while he waited. He was under the hood when heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “Howdy, partner,” Slinger said.

  Trent looked up, wiped his hands quickly, and they shook.

  “Had any lunch?” Trent asked.

  “Not yet, I wanted to get here as fast as I could. Didn’t wanna keep ya waitin’.”

  “Let’s take a walk over ta the restaurant over there, and I’ll buy lunch,” Trent said, pointing toward the Goodness Grill.

  Trent’s order practically took up the whole corner of an isolated booth.

  “Ya mind if I have this little part over here?” Slinger said with a chuckle.

  “Sorry ’bout that ole friend, I’m a bit hungry, no breakfast,” Trent replied with a big smile.

  “You haven’t changed a bit when it comes to having a hefty meal,” Slinger remarked.

  “I’m still a growing boy, Sling,” Trent said while munching down on one of his two double-cheese burgers with all the extras and a large plate of fries.

  “Mind if we talk a little business?” Slinger asked.

  “Not at all, that’s why I’m here. Shoot!”

  “You familiar with Columbus, New Mexico?”

  “Yeah, course I am. That’s a little border town Near Chihuahua, Mexico.” Trent replied.

  “Right, it shares a border with Puerto Palomas,” Slinger said, leaning over the table and lowering his voice.

  “What about that place?” Trent asked quietly.

  “I’m sure ya know ’bout all the crime and drugs that come across the border. They have tunnels running under the fence, and illegals come into the U.S. unnoticed.”

  “That’s common knowledge. The govment and just ’bout everybody knows that,” Trent said.

  “That is my point, people know, but nothin’s done ’bout it,” Slinger said.

  “Look Sling, I been thinkin’ ’bout the drug thing, and man I just can’t do that. Drugs are killin’ our young and old alike. I know they’re gonna git into the country, but I don’t wanna have that on my conscience.”

  Trent, I’m not talkin’ ’bout runnin’ drugs. We can make good money workin’ for the State Department,” he whispered.

  “State Department? Doin’ what?” He asked in a hushed tone.

  “It’s a little complicated, but it’s legit.”

  “Ya got some kinda govment contract or somethin’?” Trent asked.

  “No, everything’s on a cash basis. I found out ’bout this from a friend in Chihuahua, Mexico. He put me in touch with an operative guy of the State Department. All I have to do is use my truck like a taxi for Syrian refugees who come into New Mexico using the tunnel system which runs from Puerto Palomas to Columbus. They all have passports, but the media’s not to know ’bout them gettin’ in. The government don’t want people to know ’bout how many and where they are settlin’.”

  “Sling this thing sounds real fishy. How much they gonna pay ya?”

  “This is the good part—two-thousand dollars a person,” he said, leaning over and whispering to Trent.

  “I got some questions. If they got passports, why they gotta sneak into this country? How many they want you to haul ’round?” Trent asked.

  “Like I said before, people are not to be told ’bout them. It’s a government secret. They want me to take two-to-three-hundred to different places. That’s where you come in. I only have thirty days to get these people to the cities and towns where I drop ’em off. I can’t do that by myself. I need your help,” Slinger said in a pleading tone.

  Trent looked up at Slinger, “Sling, you come up with some of the most craziest schemes I ever heard of. Don’t ya even have a question or two ’bout this whole bidness? I mean how you know they gonna pay ya? If it’s a secret, don’t ya have a little concern ’bout ya stayin’ alive? If govment people are gonna do somethin’ this illegal, what makes ya think you gonna be left ’round? Ya know dead men don’t talk.”

  “Sure I’ve had questions, but I have answers. Think of it, Rodeo Man, we could make several hundred thousand dollars over a very short time. They’re gonna pay up front, not upon delivery. Look, if we don’t do it, somebody else will. Why shouldn’t we make that money? When it comes to me stayin’ alive, I can take care of myself, and I know for sure you can.”

  “It don’t bother ya that you’d be breakin’ the law?” Trent asked.

  “The way I see it, if the feds are doin’ it, I ain’t breakin’ the law. So, how ’bout it, you in or not?”

  “I’m not sure I see it that way, when you gotta have an answer?”

  “Yesterday,” He whispered loudly.

  “Gimme a few days, and I’ll let ya know.”

  “Okay, but I have to know soon. You gonna eat that?” Slinger asked, pointing at a large slice of apple pie on the table.

  “You can have it, ’cause I’m as full as blue tick on a hound dog’s ear.”

  After they parted, Trent reflected on the news he’d been listening to and hearing on TV about the thousands of Syrian refugees the Obama Administration was forcing upon various states throughout America. He mused about Slinger’s proposition, because that could be one way of bringing these people into the country without causing citizens to be distressed about their arrival. It would be a way to increase the number of Syrians without creating more media frenzy than that which was already happening. Trent knew there were illegal Syrians in Tijuana, because he had already been in combat with them. He was perplexed and distraught, but his thoughts would not let him rest as he rolled on down the highway.

  Hell, I don’t know who ta trust. Is Dobson on the level? Has my whole damn govment gone rogue? Now, even Slinger has me wonderin’ ’bout him. He wants an answer, the guy in Tijuana wants an answer, and I’d like to have some answers myself. Gotta git home, clear mah head. This shit’s drivin’ me nuts!

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What’re you doin’, girl?” Kit asked.

  “None of your business, Momma,” Haylee replied with a smile.

  “You been runnin’ ’round here, cleanin’, and primpin’. You’d think the king of England w
as gonna visit. You don’t even know when he’s gonna get back in town. All this fuss is silly!”

  “Might be to you Momma, but not to me,” she said with a light-hearted grin.

  “For heaven’s sake, he’s just a truck driver.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong! He’s so much more than a truck driver.”

  “Okay, okay, you’re smitten with him. I get it, but I’m not used to this. It was always your dad, me, and you. Now, all of a sudden, this fella has swept ya off your feet. I know a thing or two ’bout that stuff. Don’t forget, I was here long before you was born.” Kit replied.

  “You sure have a short memory, don’t ya, Ma?”

  “What’re you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “You’re the one who kept tellin’ me I should have a boyfriend, right?”

  “I don’t remember sayin’ you should have a man-friend!”

  “Ma, now you’re splittin’ hairs. He’s only 39, not 59! At least he has a job, a business where he can make some money. Doesn’t that count for somethin’?!”

  “Don’t pay no attention to me. Guess I get a little worried, that’s all. He seems like a good enough fella, as long as he doesn’t call me Miss Kitty again.”

  “I think one thing’s bothering you is that’ll I’ll desert you, but, Ma, that will never happen. Where I go, you will always be with me. If Trent wants me, or any other man for that matter, it’ll be two for the price of one.”

  “You hold on a minute. I can take care of myself. I ain’t never gonna be a mother who stood in the way of her child’s happiness.”

  “Momma, you’ve always made me happy, and that’s the point, and if Trent should want me to make him happy, that just means I’m woman enough to do both,” Haylee said, as she reached down and gave her mother a loving kiss and hug.

  “Hay, I just hope you know what you’re doin’. He’s a man, and ya know what he’s after.”

  “Sure I do, and it’s more than just sex. He wants a ranch, kids, animals, love, and the things most good men, like dad, wanted. I’m not tryin’ to compare him to dad, but he has the same kind of qualities that daddy showed me every day of my life.”