My VideoChat Error: My Conclusion

"And that makes fucking her acceptable?"

"No, I'm sorry, really. I knew it was wrong, but she told me I would be able to do it anytime I wanted."

"You're a fool, Jon. Be glad I like you or you'd be dead now. Don't forget to tell Emma all about our little chat." I punched him again, bloodying his nose before I walked out the back door and disappeared again into the night seconds later. I stopped at the KFC for a large ginger ale and was back in my room about fifteen minutes later. I sat there in the dark with my eye on the dilapidated mom and pop motel just up the street, wondering if I'd see Emma's friends. I was in no hurry. I could sleep in, not having to be anywhere until tomorrow afternoon. Then I had another thought.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but knowing what was planned for me made me very cautious--determined to throw the bad guys off the trail. Yes...it would cost me a few hundred, but I thought I'd be much safer as a result. I could do the entire thing tomorrow morning in fifteen minutes or less.

I was sitting in one of the front bedrooms looking up the street in total darkness so I knew that I couldn't be seen by anyone outside. Sure enough, it was just after 1:00 a.m. when two huge limos pulled into the motel parking lot. There was a justifiable smirk on my face when I saw the four goons walk into the small office. They must have been in there for a good twenty minutes, maybe waiting for the owner to wake up, before exiting. I could tell by their body posture and rapid hand movements that they were extremely frustrated. Tough shit! Just guess how I felt every day over the past few weeks. I drew the shade and went to sleep surprisingly quickly considering all the lumps in the mattress.

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I woke around ten the following morning and walked down the hall in my jeans to the bathroom where I shaved and showered before returning to my room to dress. I said goodbye to my hostess and drove to a nearby coffee shop for a quick bite. Then it was a short drive to the A-One Travel Agency about a mile away. "How can I help you," a fortyish woman asked as soon as I had walked through the doorway.

"I need a one-way flight to Atlanta around four this afternoon," was my reply.

After a few minutes at her computer, she told me, "I have two options for you. One leaves our local airport at 4:12, arriving in Atlanta at 6:19. The other leaves from Newark at 4:29 and arrives at Atlanta about two hours later. The local flight will cost you $169.70. The other is about fifteen dollars cheaper."

"I'll take the local flight. Cash okay?"

"Always. I'll need some ID to print out the boarding pass." I pushed my driver's license and $170 across the desk. Ten minutes later I had my boarding pass in an envelope from the airline that I tucked into my shirt pocket where Fred would be sure to see it. I trusted him about as far as I could piss into a hurricane.

I spent the next two hours at the library doing some online research which proved quite fruitful. I left at 1:40 for my 2:00 appointment with Fred, knowing that I'd be at least ten minutes early. I parked around back and took the rear elevator to Fred's office. He was on the phone when I walked up to the door. Waiting there for a minute convinced me that I owed Fred a good beating. He was speaking with Dave when I stepped through and closed the door behind me. His facial expression told me everything I needed to know.

"Have my money?" I was deliberately terse so he would know how I felt.

"Uh...yeah. Sorry, but I have to go, a client just walked in. Bye." Then he turned to me as I opened my outer shirt so he could see my pistol. "Jesus, Shaun...you're armed?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I have a carry permit. Get the money. I have a plane to catch." I shook the envelope in my pocket as I spoke. Fred excused himself, returning a few minutes later with an elderly woman. She counted out the money and I signed a receipt. Once she had left the office, I removed my underwear and other clothes from the backpack and carefully packed the bundles of hundred-dollar bills into the backpack before returning the clothing on top and zipping it closed. Lifting the backpack told me what I wanted to know. It was heavy, but not so much that it would be uncomfortable to carry.

"So, tell me, Fred--how much did they offer you?"

"What? I don't know what you mean?"

"Of course, you do. I was standing outside for a few minutes and I heard a lot. Not everything, but enough--so tell me...how much did they offer you?"

Fred looked down and away. "I'm sorry, Shaun. When I wouldn't give you up for money, they threatened my livelihood. They're billionaires. They have millions invested with the firm. One word from them and I'll be out of a job and I'll never get another in the financial industry. I'm sorry...really. Please believe me. I haven't told them anything. Honest."

"It's okay, Fred. Once I leave, I want you to phone them and tell them you saw an airline ticket in my pocket. You asked about it and I told you it was for Delta flight 287 to Atlanta at about 4:20 this afternoon. Tell them that I showed you the boarding pass. Here...take a good look." I removed it from my pocket and handed it to Fred. "You can tell them I told you that I'll be gone before they can react and they'll never find me in that huge Atlanta airport." I took the boarding pass and envelope back and returned it to my pocket. "Thanks, Fred; everything from here on out will be on me. You'll be in the clear." I shook hands and disappeared out the office door, down the rear stairs to my car. A minute later I was on the way to the long-term parking lot at the airport.

Unlike most passengers, I parked as far away from the terminal as possible. Instead of walking toward the Departures area I walked the other way--across the lot and into the wooded area then over the chain link fence to the bus stop on the other side. Five minutes later I was on my way back into the city, this time to the Greyhound Bus Depot where I took the first scheduled bus. It was headed to Chicago so I got a one-way ticket all the way to the Windy City.

I was seated as we left the city, my backpack with more than $250,000 in it wedged between the side of the bus and the side of my body. I had a smile on my face as I thought of an old saying: "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you." Thus far my paranoia had served me well, but my journey had just begun.

After an hour or so I broke out the Mid-West system map for Greyhound. Tracing our route, I saw that we would pass through Bloomington, Indiana and from there I could head south then west again and north. I laid out a route that crisscrossed several times and each time I bought a ticket to a destination well beyond where I exited the bus. Emma and company might be able to follow me, but it wouldn't be easy, not if I could help it.

I had gotten off at Bloomington the following evening and walked three blocks to a Denny's for a much-needed meal. I was on my way back to the depot when some kid with a knife jumped out in front of me and demanded my money.

"Who do you think you are...Superman?" By then my hand was on the pistol's grip in the small of my back.

"What the fuck? What's this Superman shit? Give me your fucking money before I cut you, motherfucker."

"Well...I was just wondering if you're faster than a speeding bullet." I pulled my revolver and stepped back, giving myself room to draw and maneuver. "So...tell me; are you faster than a speeding bullet? If not, I suggest that you start running now." To emphasize my point, I cocked the hammer. In the dark still night, the sound was deafening. The kid ran, dodging and weaving until he turned onto the nearest cross street. I was back at the depot looking for another bus just a few minutes later.

So, a trip to El Paso which would have taken five hours by plane and sixteen by train and three days by bus took me all of nine days. Once off the bus I walked a few blocks until I started to see virtually all of the store signs in Spanish. Most of the people in El Paso are Hispanic, but one section--the southeastern quarter--is almost completely Hispanic. That's where I was heading. Stopping for lunch, I asked the waitress if there was a rooming house in the area. She suggested an old three-story frame house about two blocks down and a block to the right. It sounded good to me so I looked first for a small local--non-national--bank where I could get a safe deposit box to rent. I'd keep a few hundred dollars with me, but my passport, driver's license and the rest of my money would be safely locked away.

>>>>>>

It was just after 4:00 p.m. when I knocked on Sra. Mendoza's door. I knew a little Spanish, but nobody in their right mind would call me fluent. After "Hola, Senora," I switched to English to inquire about a room. She did have three vacancies and offered to show the rooms to me. I liked the second even though it was smaller because it faced the rear of the house. I paid in advance for a month for the room, breakfast, and dinner, paying--of course--in cash. She gave me a receipt and I settled in. Dinner would be served at seven.

I lay in the comfortable double bed, the first time I had really relaxed since leaving home for more than an hour once I had placed my meager possessions into the dresser. I debated locking the room's door when I went downstairs for dinner, but decided against it when I realized how flimsy the lock really was. In the living room I found a collection of paperback books in English and Spanish. I selected one and sat in a comfortable armchair and began to read.

It wasn't long before others straggled in for dinner. Of the group I was the only Anglo present, but they seemed to accept me. I used the name Juan during the introductions, knowing that it was close enough to my given name that I would respond if called or asked a question.

Dinner was surprisingly good--arroz con pollo--chicken with rice that was as tasty as it was plentiful. I accepted seconds once I saw that others had helped themselves. It was after dinner that I spoke with someone who helped to save and change my life. "I'm Miguel," he said as he extended his hand for a firm shake. "You interested in some day work? I pay cash at the end of every day. How much you earn depends on what you do."

"What kind of work? I assume this will be off the books."

He nodded his agreement before continuing. "I run a construction gang. We're putting up a couple of office buildings now. Ever do any construction work?"

"No, most of my experience is in management, but I can do manual work. I handled all of our yard work, even some concrete, for years. What would I need to wear?"

"Jeans, a denim work shirt and steel-toed work shoes. You can probably get everything but the shoes at Goodwill. Make sure you get some decent socks if you decide to work. I recruit workers every day and most days I can't get enough."

"I would think you could pick up a lot of Mexicans. I know they're great workers."

"In the old days; now the Border Police keep them away. You don't have to tell me now. Oh, I'd get some sunscreen or a bandana for your head. Someone as fair as you will get a really bad burn."

I told him I agreed and we returned to our rooms. Once there I checked my face in the mirror. As part of my paranoia I had bought a trimmer at WalMart and used it to trim all the hair on my head and let my beard grow. Already I had accumulated about a quarter inch of grayish black stubble on my face and I had become accustomed to shaving my entire head every morning. If only I could do something else to change my appearance.

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I spent a good part of the day at Goodwill, picking up two denim shirts and two pair of jeans, although I had to roll up the cuffs in one pair because they were too long. I got three pair of decent white socks and one of the clerks directed me to a discount shoe store where I got a good set of work boots with steel toes. I had walked much of the way around the city, stopping at a Tex-Mex restaurant for lunch before going to a branch of the library to buy a few paperbacks.

So began my career as a day laborer. After breakfast the following morning I accompanied Miguel and three others in his truck to the job site. Miguel divided us into three groups. I was with four others under the leadership of Sancho who led us to a set of wheelbarrows. Our job was to pick up bricks at the edge of the site and bring them over to where the wall was being built out of concrete blocks, the bricks making the facing of the new building. When I asked, I was told that we were erecting an eight-story office building.

We were building the wall at the rear of the building first and I could see at least a dozen cylindrical forms of rebar lying nearby, I assumed for additional supports for the building. Even I with my limited experience knew that a large building needed strong reinforced concrete pillars seated on bedrock to support it. Most of the cylinders I saw looked to be at least forty feet long by about three feet in diameter.

I had carried five barrows of bricks when I saw a problem so I asked Sancho where I could find Miguel. "Why? You got a problem you can ask me."

"No, it's not a problem. It's something personal."

"Then, I think you can find him over by the latrine."

"That's good. I can use the latrine and it's on the way to the bricks. Sra. Mendoza's coffee is going right through me." Sancho laughed even as he agreed. He patted me on the back as I wheeled my barrow past him.

Sure enough, I found Miguel just stepping out of the Porta-Potty. "Miguel, maybe I'm wrong but I think I can see a problem unless time isn't important on this job."

"Time is important on any job, Juan. Tell me."

"Either there are too many men laying the concrete blocks or not enough bringing the blocks and bricks to them. They spend more than half their time just standing around."

"I'll take a look. Go in and take care of your business and don't say a word of this to the others on your crew. They don't know you and they'll think you're a squealer. I'll deal with it. Thanks." He walked off toward the wall, but not before patting me on the back. I went in, ignoring the odor and emptied my bowels before walking back to the huge stacks of bricks. I noticed a major change in the organization as soon as I returned. I placed my bricks neatly in the pile and returned for another load.

I spent the entire morning working like a mule, but at lunch I found a small café just across the street where the food was pretty good and the prices even better. I was invited to join the others at a big table. I enjoyed the lunch and the company even better. Fortunately, nobody asked about my background or where I came from.

It was almost three weeks later that Miguel asked me to join him for cervesa which even I with my limited Spanish knew was beer. I willingly joined him after we had dropped the others off at the boarding house.

We had just taken our first drink of ice cold Modelo when Miguel spoke. "Juan, you are obviously not the typical day laborer. I can see that you are a thinker and an organizer. Also, you have a Hispanic name even though your knowledge of Spanish is very limited. I have a strong feeling that you are either running or hiding, or maybe even both. Don't worry about me ratting you out."

I took a deep breath before speaking then I told Miguel what had happened--how I had been tricked and blackmailed, how I had been forced to dress as a woman, and even about the party and my role. "I got my revenge on my boss and my assistant when I set him up to erase all the business files. I read online that he was fired and the entire branch was closed. I'm sorry that others were hurt, but that couldn't be helped. I still have the main players to deal with, but I'm a patient man."

"What do you have in mind, Juan?"

"Well, if I could I'd like to get a new identity so I could move about more freely--get a driver's license and maybe even a passport. Then I could train for another kind of job. I'm thinking of becoming a long-haul truck driver. That's a job that could take me near them and then away quickly. What would I do to them? I haven't exactly worked all of that out yet, but there will be some severe payment--maiming, maybe even death, hopefully involving a lot of pain. They'll deserve it for what they put me through."

"I agree, Juan. I have a lot of friends in the area. Some of them are even honest," he said with a laugh. "Let me see if any of them can help you." We had another Modelo before leaving for Sra. Mendoza's for dinner. I offered to buy, but Miguel would have nothing to do with it.

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Miguel pulled me aside as we walked onto the job site early in the following week to whisper, "Juan, I want you to accompany me to a party Saturday night. There are some people I want you to meet. I know you don't have any plans you can't break."

"Okay, what can I bring?"

He laughed. "Well, most of the guests will be Hispanic...Mexican descent, so that should tell you something." It did; I bought an expensive 1500mg bottle of tequila--reposado--the good stuff that cost me more than $100. I had the store gift wrap it and I hoped I'd make a good impression. I had bought a new pair of khaki slacks, two new golf shirts, and a pair of cordovan loafers one Sunday so I'd have something decent to wear if an occasion arose, and I was pretty sure that this party qualified. I was pleased when I saw that Miguel was dressed similarly as we stepped into his truck.

Miguel drove me to an elegant Spanish style home up in the hills. He knocked on the door and it was answered almost immediately by a maid who told us that Senor Oliva was out on the rear terrace with the other guests. He introduced me to Senor Oliva who thanked me for the gift and told me to call him Tom. "And over here is my daughter, Ana." Miguel had told me about Ana--how getting to know her would be important--but he hadn't prepared me for her physical being. She was tall--much taller than the typical Mexican, but then she had been raised here in Texas. Her skin was a light tan and flawless, her hair straight black that hung to the middle of her back. She extended her hand and I shook it gently, noticing its fine bone structure.

"Come, Juan," she told me. "Let's get a drink. I see you brought a bottle. I hope it will be something I'll like." We stopped at the bar and she ordered two shots of tequila.

She handed one to me then a lime and saluted with a toast. I sucked the lime then the salt on the glass before unloading the ounce of tequila into my stomach. "Ah...that's my favorite, by far," she told me.

"I'm glad because that's what I brought, but you're obviously better at this than I am. A few more like this and I'll fall asleep. That would never do." Ana must have thought that was funny because she laughed as she led me to a chair in the shade. I still kept the shaved-on-top, beard on the bottom look. I'd seen a barber this morning about a shave and beard trim and I was glad I did. We talked for a while before she told me that she had to greet some other guests. I did see her several times during the party and we even spoke several times, but that was all. I told Miguel on the way home that I didn't think she liked me.

"Don't sweat it, Juan," he said just as we pulled up in front of the boarding house.

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Work progressed and as it did, I found that my soft body became hard with muscles I never knew I'd had. I still worked hard all day, but I was rarely exhausted when we returned to the boarding house. I was also pleased that I had a good relationship with everyone on the crew. Okay, not quite everyone as I learned early one Wednesday morning.