Kaleidoscope Eyes Pt. 02

I had also been successful in recognizing the woman upstairs from me: the one who was evidently fulfilling the role of 'Town Pump' by fucking anyone who had a dick and some spare time. To my way of thinking, this was awfully strange, since she was supposedly married to a man with such a prominent name here in town.

It was Ruthanne!

Yes, the slut upstairs was none other than Ruthanne Norwood. Or, should I say, Mrs. Ruthanne Simon, the wife of Boyd Simon, and evidently, the mother of Mara—after all, I had not fucked and possibly seeded any other women in this town and left them with children with multicolored eyes.

She was also the one woman in the world who had ever succeeded in winning and then breaking my heart!

****

"Well, Mister Holloway," said an enthusiastic Martha Harley, "I will take the specifications that you require for your transshipment facility and canvas the available properties in the area. When I find some likely candidates," I noticed that she did not use the word 'if'; and I appreciated her optimistic attitude, and I rewarded her with a grateful smile.

At least this professional woman was willing to roll her sleeves up, figuratively speaking, and help me. When I had glanced into an adjacent office with one large glass wall facing me, I had easily identified Dennis Chancey. Yeah, one of the assholes who had assaulted me and Ruthanne that night; and had also been complicit in trying to get me either maimed or killed. He appeared to be busy looking at RVs for sale on some liquidation web site, from what I could tell from where I was sitting, rather than showing any interest in the property needs of potential customers.

"Thank you, Ms. Harley..." I started to say.

"Oh, please; call me 'Martha'," she said, using her left hand to pull an imaginary strand of hair away from her face. I almost laughed, but held it to what I hoped would be believed as a genuine grin of appreciation as I noticed her efforts to show me her empty ring finger.

"Anyway, Martha," and her smile seemed to overtake her face entirely at this, "I appreciate your efforts so far in this matter and I will stop by to learn of your progress on...?"

"Oh, I should have enough information for us to establish a tentative schedule to travel to the sites that I find by day after tomorrow. I can call you with any updates." Here, she actually blushed, "If I could have your cell number?"

The obvious effort to flirt as she said this almost made me laugh again. I could not tell if this were really an effort to get close to me, or simply one of the tricks of the trade for female realtors to make it in an otherwise male-dominated business world. It did not matter, really; not if she could actually find something for me. After all, Mom and Dad both had given me the go-ahead to start exploring for just such a transshipment locale as I had proposed to Mom when I had been trying to find an excuse to spend some time in this little municipality for my own personal reasons.

I gave Martha my cell number and she texted me a short note so that I would have her number, as well, so that I could edit in her name in order to recognize her in any incoming calls. We shook hands and I left, walking by the office door of Dennis Chancey as he was standing there, stretching after a 'grueling' morning of net-surfing.

****

I felt the need to check my email, so I returned to the motel room and fired up my laptop that I had stashed there for the morning while I had been out on my property-hunting errand.

'At least this place has high-speed internet,' I thought to myself as I brought up the web page with Outlook 365 for my email. I absolutely HATED the "webiness" of this email system, but Mom had said that she was saving a good chunk of change over having to install and maintain (and pay for) a Microsoft Exchange email server for the company.

I had only been at it for a few minutes when I heard a knock on my room door. Somewhat leery, given the rundown nature of this motel, and its proximity to the highway, I checked through the peep-hole in the door, and then I rotated the security bar out of the way and opened the door, reaching to give a big hug to the huge man standing there.

"Well," said Darryl Crawford, "it's good to see you, too, Bud." He gave me a return hug, but lifted me off my feet with ease and pushed us both inside. I slapped him a couple of times on the back as the spring action on the door hinges caused it to close behind us.

Finally, letting me go, Darryl said with a thin smile, "Sandy said that you were going to be in town." He frowned and sat down in my room's cushioned chair. I pulled over the hard-backed rolling task chair from the small desk and sat down facing him.

He had not changed much, except for the good-looking suit that he wore now in place of the Army Combat Uniform, or ACU, in which I had last seen him dressed, over in 'The Dirt'.

"Nice threads," I told him.

He glanced down and said, "Yeah. It's a shame that this material doesn't help keep the mosquitos away like my uniforms over there did." I nodded, having already experienced a couple of bites from the critters that infested the area here near the Great Dismal Swamp that covered a lot the area south of the main highway.

We sat and exchanged a few pleasantries and then settled into why he was paying me a visit.

"Look, Bud. I'll just cut to the chase here," began Darryl. "We have a major case going on in this area, and specifically in this town. Did Sandy tell you what I do now?"

"Yeah," I affirmed to him. "He said that you were with one of the investigative arms of the Virginia State Police."

"Actually," he said while nodding, "it is called the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, or BCI. I managed to find a headhunter when I came out of uniform who was able to land me this great job. I do miss the brotherhood of the Team in Third Group; but it was just time to pull pitch, as Sandy and his fellow aviators would say. After four trips to the Middle East, Household-Six," and we both smiled at the reference to an Army wife, using the old Vietnam number designator for a commander, 'Six', in her title; "told me that she and the boys needed me more that the Army did.

"And," he said with a serious expression, "preferably in one piece!"

I nodded, remembering the God-awful results in my own unit and those around me of the deadly employment of IEDs, improvised explosive devices, to kill and maim.

"I am in the part of that office of BCI called the Drug Enforcement Section, or DES. We deal with legally gathering law enforcement intelligence, and carrying out enforcement actions based on that intelligence, to help keep the Commonwealth clear of illegal drugs, at least, as much as is humanly possible."

"Yeah," I said with a chuckle, "I can see where that would be a real challenge these days."

Nodding, Darryl continued. "Not only are we dealing with a major network of 'pill mills'; but with an expanded criminal enterprise that also includes human trafficking of Latinos."

I nodded in understanding about the 'pill mills'. Criminals would buy off or pay off young doctors, a lot of whom were struggling to pay off medical school debt, to over-prescribe pain meds to folks who may have varying degrees of need. These folks would then go to certain pharmacies or 'distributors' to have their prescriptions filled. Typically, for a 90-day prescription, the person would get to keep between twenty or thirty days' worth, turning over the rest of the pills to a 'collector' who would consolidate the now-illegal drugs into a shipment used for massive street sales in the larger cities farther north in Virginia, and even beyond.

As for the human trafficking from Latin America, I was a bit surprised that it was taking place here, but not surprised about its happening in Virginia. After all, just west of the D.C. suburb of Arlington, the Virginia town of Herndon was gaining such a reputation for offering sanctuary to so many illegal Hispanic aliens that folks were joking about changing the town's name from 'Herndon' to 'Hernandez'.

"Any-Hoo," Darryl said, regaining my full attention and changing his tone from matter-of-fact to deadly serious, "I would really feel better if you could finish up what you are doing in the next day or two." Here, he paused and just looked at me.

"Hey, Darryl," I said, "you can at least trust me enough to let me know a little bit more of the details about what is going on around here. After all, I got the clearance." I said that last part with my patented convincing grin.

Darryl, however, did not smile back.

"Russ, I just gave you the gist, but I simply cannot give you any details on operational specifics about what will be happening, beginning next Friday night; we clear?" he asked with a serious look, but with a slow wink and a slight upturn to his lips.

I got the message. Finish up and get myself, and anyone else that I cared about, out of town and well clear by the next Friday in the PM.

"How bad is the situation? I mean, if you can tell me, that is." I was hoping that he could give me a bit more to go on.

"From what Sandy has told me, you are familiar with one Boyd Lamar Simon. Right?" he asked. When I nodded and gave a derisive snort, he continued.

"Well, it seems that his late daddy had inherited an extensive criminal enterprise involving his family's historic ties to illegal alcohol production and sales—moonshining, to be blunt. Lamar had stayed away from hard drugs, but had dabbled in marijuana. He had also gotten into running a string of whores who serviced the truckers; but that dried up when his girls all started to age, and the local girls coming out of high school pretty much abandoned this town and went off to college or to get legitimate work in Norfolk or Virginia Beach, or even Richmond.

"These days, following the death of Old Lamar, in addition to expanding the operations to focus on opioids, Boyd appears to have made a deal with some unsavory cartel elements on the supply end of things south of the U.S. border, and on the demand end of things up north, culminating in deals with the Russians and the Albanians operating out of New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. Their specialty appears to be the supply of young women from Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. Boyd and his crew have things arranged at several of the old tobacco and cotton warehouses here in town and out in Greensville County that serve as stopover and shipping points for these ladies."

I was disgusted as I heard this. While I was not a die-hard 'build-the-wall' kind of guy, I did not want to see the exploitation of anyone. What was going on called for more compassion than hard-nosed legalism, I felt. Darryl had more to tell me, though.

"Boyd's good buddies, Hamp Wells and Dennis Chancey, play major roles in the operation as well. Hamp takes care of the 'people' end of things, while Dennis manages the facilities. In fact, Dennis helps with the shell game our folks keep playing in trying to determine just where the 'merchandise', both drugs and the illegals, are kept at any given time. It would seem that he owns or leases several properties where the assets are temporarily held; and then shuffled and moved in some kind of randomized pattern."

Continuing, Darryl said, "I am part of a multilevel joint law enforcement task force that is taking these guys down. In addition to the Virginia State Police, we have the Sheriff's Departments of Brunswick, Greensville, and Southampton Counties, as well as DEA and ICE from the Feds."

Remembering something, I asked, "What about their other amigo, Sam Chaves, now serving as a Deputy Sheriff for Greensville County? You did not mention him, I noticed."

Darryl, expressionless now, said, "I guess I didn't, did I?" Without saying as much, he was sort of telling me, without actually saying anything, that Chaves was now on 'the side of the angels'; and that he actually may even be part of the operation that this task force was working on.

Then, Darryl snorted in undisguised disgust. "We would have been finished with all of this last week, but there is a holdup in the Virginia Capitol for the State Police funds. The Feds are getting tired of waiting, so they are planning to execute, with or without us State guys and gals, next Friday."

I raised my eyebrows and thought for a second. Then, I said, "Would it help if the release for those funds that you need could get hurried along in some way?"

"What do you have in mind?" asked Darryl.

"I... may just have a way to get that money moving. If you will give me some more information about that appropriation." Darryl nodded and told me the official name of the legislative package in which the money his team needed was wrapped up in committee. I told him I would let him know if I were successful with this little problem.

On his way out the door, he paused with the door open, and said, "Thanks, Russ. Sandy told me that you were connected here in Virginia, but you remember what I said. By next Friday evening, you, along with all the folks that you care about in Simonton, need to be far away from here. Otherwise, the action may spill over in a way that could put you, and them, in harm's way. Clear?"

"Clear, Good Buddy. And thanks," I said as I watched him head over to his black Suburban. I could not help but grin at the cop cliché surrounding that type of vehicle.

****

As I pulled out of the motel parking lot to begin my little journey, I noted that the Z/28 was now gone and, along with it, I assumed that Ruthanne was gone as well, probably back to wherever she resided from day to day when she wasn't fucking truckers, or living with Boyd Simon.

As much as my heart was tugging at me to locate and interact with Ruthanne; to try and learn just what was, and had been, going on with her—and what could possibly have driven her to her apparent current lifestyle—I had other things that were pressing. I knew just how to pry the money that Darryl's task force members needed out of the hands of the politicians in Richmond.

Well, let me correct that. I knew the MAN who knew how to do that—Dear Old Dad.

****

After driving north for a while, I called my father's offices from a rest stop on I-85 just outside of Petersburg to check on his schedule. Patsy, the lady who kept track of things for the Delegates with offices in her section of the Pocahontas Building near the Capitol, had known me since I was a teenager. She let me know that Dad had a working dinner that evening at the Boar's Head with a new intern—right, another one, I thought.

The Boar's Head Inn, just outside of Charlottesville, Virginia, is an almost-600-acre resort that is owned by the University of Virginia Foundation. It sits in a beautiful, romantic setting in the rising terrain just east of, and within view of, that portion of the scenic Blue Ridge Mountains east of the Shenandoah Valley.

It was just after dark when I parked and walked into the resort. If I knew the way that the mind of Delegate Donald Holloway—my dad—functioned, then he would be working on his most recent attempt at conjugal conquest in the Mill Room.

The Mill Room is described by restaurant critics as 'a 4-diamond treasure'. As the resort's web site indicates, the Mill Room is 'always elegant, yet never pretentious'. The Mill Room is the perfect atmosphere for any occasion, whether a special celebration or 'just because'—or pursuing nookie, in my dad's case.

The hostess nodded when I indicated that I was here to join my dad, Delegate Holloway. "Oh, you are his son?" she asked. When I nodded, she smiled and said, "They only just got here a short while ago. Delegate Holloway is dining with his niece this evening."

For those of the general public who are not aware, for those in power in the State government in Richmond, the use of the term 'niece' is the by-now-standard, but polite, way of saying 'mistress'.

Glancing around, I noted three or more tables occupied by couples consisting of apparently well-off gentlemen—usually middle age or older—each with a much younger lady friend. A goodly number of 'nieces' were staying over that the Boar's Head this weekend, it would seem.

I spotted them exactly where I expected to find them: at a table that had a beautiful evening view of the mountains with the sun setting behind them. The table was off the main area a bit to afford a bit of privacy, what little could be had. A pretty young intern was with him, evidently enthralled with her surroundings and doting on everything that my father was saying.

She really was a stunner. Blonde, stacked, dressed to the nines for her 'evening with the Delegate'. She appeared to be early-to-mid-twenties, just slightly younger than I was, probably graduated UVA and either already in, or attempting to get into, UVA Law School.

They did not see me approach, but I alerted them with my greeting.

"Hey, Cuz," I said with a smile, now attempting to settle her down after she jumped in her seat, being startled by my statement. Dad just turned to me in annoyance, but appeared to be otherwise unruffled by my appearance. I guess Good Old Patsy must have given him the head's-up after my call earlier, so that he was expecting me. "Hi, Dad. You are looking good."

"I'm... I'm sorry," stammered the young woman, attempting to buy herself a second or two to regain her composure. "But, what did you say just now?"

"I said, 'Hey, Cuz'," I answered, while keeping my 'winning' smile in place. "After all, since you are my father's 'niece', then you are, by default, a cousin of mine. And it is always nice to meet new kinfolks."

"Russ," said Dad, "be nice. And allow me to present Ms. Sarah Forrest. Sarah, my son, Russell."

A waitress appeared with another setup of water glass, menu, utensils, and napkin. I would not be dining with Dad and his date, but I figured that I would be here long enough to have a dessert and a drink. I turned to her and said, "Carrot cake, please, and Alewerks, seasonal." The waitress nodded and went to get me the dessert and a craft beer from one of the area's breweries.

Their salads and entrées arrived shortly, followed by my cake and my beer.

I vowed internally to be on my best behavior, and I would like to believe that I succeeded. The table talk was a very nice and Sarah grew more comfortable as their meal progressed. She confirmed that she actually WAS enrolled in UVA Law School, and was just interning at the Capitol for the summer.

Once their dinner had been concluded, I just looked at my dad and gave a lift to one eyebrow.

"Sarah, Sweetie," said Dad in his pre-MeToo-Movement way of speaking to younger women, "could you give Russ and me about half an hour to speak about family matters? Then, he will be on his way and we can continue our... discussion... over the rest of the evening."

I smiled at Sarah and she sighed and nodded. She picked up the shoulder bag that she was using for a purse, gave me a, "Nice-ta-meet-cha," and left the main room, headed for the lobby, and the complementary Wi-Fi, no doubt. I had seen the bulge of what must have been a laptop in that massive bag of hers.

"How many more 'cousins' have I acquired this year?" I asked him with a grin.

"Don't be a smartass," he replied as he lifted his wineglass to take another sip. "Now, what is REALLY on your mind? And don't give me any-a-that transshipment point bullshit. Yeah, we really would like to obtain one; but, you and I, and your mother, know that the cash flow is not gonna be positioned to take on that task for another coupla years. So, what is going on with you in that shithole town you been in? And, yes, I remember that little dust-up that you had there several years ago, back when I had to haul your ass back home in an ambulance."

I had been contemplating not telling him everything, but he had a politician's knack for knowing that you were not being totally up front. I leveled with him about finding Mara, linking up with Darryl, spotting Ruthanne, and seeing one of the culprits from the night of my beating at his place of business; and another one serving as a Sheriff's Deputy.