Rescuing a Snow Angel Ep. 05

If Fish was complicit, then he would warn Worthington and they would find another means of retribution against the Texas Grifters. Then I'd be in their crosshairs! In either fuck'n situation, I saw myself as fucked. A mangled ex-Airborne Ranger surprising a Green Beret once, was one thing. But driving out to an isolated farmstead and taking on an armed platoon of Green Berets ... that was just like something David Morrell would have written in First Blood, for that Rambo character. Not even Rambo would be thinking he could pull off stopping that many Green Berets from a mission against the grifters; fuck, Rambo would be out in front of the pack leading the charge!

Fuck! Maybe that's what I should do. Drive out and join Worthington's charge!

Somewhere out of the past, the words of a damned old Ranger cadence began singing out around the room.

I want to be an Airborne Ranger ...'

I felt myself becoming entangled in a Möbius loop; just circling around and around without an exit plan. My head began to spin as my breathing accelerated. Sweat beads rose and trickled down my face as I found the room darkening. I spiraled into another panic-induced blackout.

I awoke with the sound of insistent knocking on my door. It kept pounding without end.

"Jimmy! Jimmy! Open the door, if you are in there, open the door!" Sally's voice kept crying out from the other side.

Picking myself up off the floor, I shuffled across the room, unlocked the door, and stood facing one fraught-looking lady.

"Why didn't you answer my call?" she asked, with angst sounding in her voice. "When you didn't show up for work this morning and didn't call me back, I thought there was something wrong."

"Guess I overslept, Sally. Sorry about being late for work," I lied. She just stood looking quizzically at me, taking in my appearance. Groggy as I was, still I realized she saw through the lie quickly as I was standing in front of her fully dressed, in yesterday's clothes. She let the lie go and changed subjects.

"Did you—speak with my Daddy?" she picked up a new subject for discussion.

"Hum, no—I wasn't able to reach him. What day is it?" I found myself answering and asking at the same time. There had been times in my blackout stages that I'd missed a whole day before I regained a sense of time.

"Tuesday! Have you been drinking?" she asked, looking around the room for signs of bottles.

"No." I sighed, "Just going through some... troubling thoughts."

She looked at me, pensively, for a few moments before speaking, "Daddy used to have some of those days, too."

Again, changing subject, she asked, "Did your troubling thoughts have to do with Chris?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Sally." I answered truthfully, since Fish had told me not to reveal any details about the raid.

"Well then, did you hear the news about him? Someone broke two of his ribs and he was in the hospital emergency room yesterday. To make matters worse, the cops raided this place and took the foreman to jail for theft; that's what the television is saying this morning. And you say you slept through that, too?"

With the cat out of the bag, I motioned for Sally to come in for a debriefing.

"I was here when the arrest was made," I acknowledged, "I saw this guy named Hardon being shuffled out in handcuffs and leg chains to a car and then driven away. Sally, your dad and I have been working with the State's Fraud Division, concerning Hardon, but I can't add anything else beyond that. Sorry."

Her eyes widened, as a shocked look spread across her face. "Then he must have beat up Chris, too!" she exclaimed attempting to connect what happened between the two events. Wrong assumption, I noted, but an assumption I was not going to correct.

"This sure was bad timing for Daddy and his buddies to go to Texas! As usual, he didn't leave any numbers to contact him, so we'll have to wait until he calls. Then I will fill him in. Is there anything you need help with while Daddy is gone, Jimmy?" Sally's animated voice asked.

I smiled. I wanted to say, 'I really need a soft hug with those warm, naked breasts poking against my chest.' But I fought off the temptation to ruefully verbalize my thought.

"Sally, as far as the accounting business, we are okay. The state has all the documents it needs from us. So, if your Dad goes 'missing in action' for a few days, everyone concerned will be just fine." I said instead, still focused on those firm orbs that seemed to want to escape for some fresh air.

My blackout seemed to be my guardian snow angel looking out for me. Worthington and his band of brothers had left by convoy the previous day via an unknown route, so I had no way of tracking them. I had missed any opportunity to try and reason with Worthington about not going after the grifters as a result. The state news channels were playing up the story and, as usual, government agencies were taking credit for the arrests as a major undercover sting operation. Mortenson's hospital record and the fact that he claimed he didn't know who 'attacked' him, gave him a cover for what was to come.

My Möbius strip broke; and the logical flow of action became clear to me: take no action! If asked, claim no knowledge of the events, and let the Green Berets, led by Rambo Worthington, answer the call to arms and right an egregious wrong for a fellow comrade. Taking no action, turned out to be the right decision on my part. Funny how that works out, sometimes.

The national news carried a story a week later. It ran for three days on all the local television news. It revealed that the FBI and Texas Rangers were investigating what was described as a Mexican Cartel attack on a remote rival gang's stash-house. The announcer described neighbors as saying it was a swift and violent superior force that swooped down in the dead of night and riddled the house with heavy, automatic weapons fire. By the time the police arrived at the scene, the apparently well-trained team had breached the house, pummeled the occupants senseless, leaving them bound, and with a number of broken bones among them.

The precision military-like force was in and out of the house in less than fifteen minutes. Police described it as a war zone and noted that it was miraculous that none of the victims were mortally wounded. In the hasty retreat, the Cartel gang left a large number of full cash boxes amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars, all cash. As well, the Texas Rangers reported there were several incriminating accounting documents linking the victims to grifter scams being run in several other states. The FBI had taken the lead in the follow up and ongoing investigation into the mysterious incident deep in the heart of Texas.

Two days after the Texas Grifters made national news, Fish called me asking for Worthington. When I responded that he was unavailable, he didn't seem surprised. Fish proceeded to inform me that Hardon saw the Texas news while in jail and called him asking for a plea deal for information on the Texas Grifters. Seems he saw a way to reduce his sentence by ratting out a now, obviously-defunct brotherhood of grifters.

By the time his case came up for sentencing in September, he pled guilty to four counts of fraud and embezzlement and had to make full restitution of Mortenson's losses on all three construction projects. The state liquidated Hardon's fancy house, his cars, his boats, and seized the safety deposit boxes that hid funds he had ripped off of the grifters.

Dick Hardon, categorically denied any knowledge of beating Mortenson as well as denying that a large box of cash, resembling the ones found in the Texas Grifters' case, was found buried in his backyard, next to a large barbecue pad. Ironically, it contained just a little over the amount needed to repay Mortenson's settlement.

Worthington returned—four days after the Mexican Cartel incident occurred in Texas. Sally was glad to see him back, obviously, and excitedly filled him in while we sat in his office that Friday morning. She asked if he heard about Chris Mortenson getting beaten up and the arrest that went down at the hotel renovation. He looked at me, shaking his head, and replied that he hadn't heard about Chris or Hardon's arrest. But the Colonel did mention seeing something about a big attack deep in Texas not far from where he and the boys were camping.

"Camping?" Sally cut in to his remark, "I thought you were at a convention, Daddy?"

"No, Sugar," the convention is next month, he said flatly. "The boys and I had planned to go fishing since last summer and it seemed just as good a time as any to make a trip out west."

"Oh! My bad! I told Jimmy you went to a convention in Texas," she giggled.

"So, it's Jimmy, now?" Worthington's poker face displayed no emotion as he looked me dead in the eyes. I could see more being said, than what was actually spoken. I sat, without a response, as Sally's face reddened at her father's remark.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed. "There's nothing, I mean, well, that is his ... well, he has been here for a while, and I think it's time we stop being so formal around here!" she blubbered.

Worthington's response was classic as he faced me again, "So, Jimmy it is, then. As long as Jimmy and you behave yourselves!" he announced, as he turned to look at Sally. Some of the frost in his stony appearance faded, for Sally's benefit, no doubt.

"Count on my good behavior, sir!" I nodded, in answer to the unspoken question about adherence to our unwritten warrior code left floating in the air between us. The air seemed to be filled with radio static, 'Reading you 5 by 5, Roger, WILCO, Birddog out.'

Sally, flustered and oblivious to the unspoken line of communication between us, only seemed a bit ruddier as her cheeks took on a glow all the way up to the top of her ears. It reminded me of the pinkish glow that rises up from Gabby's and Carmen's breasts to their cheeks as they begin to glow from a different kind of blubbering. I found myself wondering if Sally responds the same way.

Neither Mortenson, Worthington, nor I, spoke any more about the incident involving Hardon at the lot. And certainly not about any connection to the Texas Grifters. We did restructure Mortenson's internal accounting practices for his local bookkeeper, after we determined that she had no connection to Hardon or the grifters. I mapped out a plan for separate shipping and receiving duties to be handled by different employees and who reported directly to Mortenson. As well, I outlined suggestions for an improved, industry 'best practices' model for construction management operations for future endeavors.

Life seemed to be settling in for me — on the better side. I was getting more sleep, when the twins allowed it. I continued to stay at the hotel renovation as home base even though the construction process picked up its pace and the project was slowly getting back on track. By November, Mortenson moved me to one of the new townhouse apartments; as my current quarters were about the last of the renovation sections to commence. It was clearly a gesture of good will on his part — forgiveness for cracking two ribs in return for getting him off the state's murder trial agenda. Had he barged into the office intending to confront Hardon, he would have come face-to-face with two armed men instead. One Green Beret against two armed, plainclothes detectives — would have meant facing double murder charges.

Somewhere in the process, the pretext of overwatch for vagrants and vandals was dropped. I told Chris that I would look for another place to stay, not wanting to freeload off of his generosity. The stability of mind that the new, high-dollar apartment offered me, was way more valuable to my psyche than anything I provided for in Mortenson's scanty security services. But he refused to accept my leaving, for now. In his words, I helped save his business and that was worth more than my time in residence cost to him. It worked out. The new suite was straight out of an architectural magazine's dream: two bedrooms, small office area, and an open-floor plan. The view from the living room was out over the park, giving it the allusion of being back at the orchard when I spent my time with Willow - learning how to please girls.

I finally got around to reading my contract with Worthington, the one months ago Sally had rightfully chastised me for not reading. It put a smile with a double grin on my face. Salary plus ten percent of all fraud cases—minus expenses—resolved in our favor. By the time the courts were through with Hardon paying Mortenson, plus audit and legal costs; I had enough bonus money alone to replace my 1967 Chevy 150 and make a down payment on one of Mortenson's condos - if I wanted to.

The air was turning crisper each day as the north winds brought down the Canadian jet stream. Autumn had arrived in one fell swoop as the first heavy frost coated all the trees in the park, turning them into a riot of golden and brownish-red ladies dressed in their finest garments. Then by the handfuls, the winds swirled through the limbs plucking away the garments and scattered them through the park with a rustling sound. It was hard to believe nearly a year had passed since I had signed on with Worthington.

With the Rambo-like episode behind us, now I'd find myself sitting at my desk and often glance up to watch the leaves being swirled around in the wind and dance with delight across the park benches. It was on one such day, that I spotted a lady pushing a stroller through the park and stopping to sit down. Warmly wrapped, she bent down and faced the stroller away from the wind. Pulling up blankets around an infant and rearranging them ever so carefully, her head seemed to do a three-sixty swivel as though waiting for someone, a father perhaps.

I got back to work, but found myself glancing up again as she stood up and pushed the stroller to the end of the park and out of sight. Guess Daddy didn't show! Bet he gets no pussy, tonight. Wicked, Jimmy, got to kept those kinds of thoughts quiet, I admonished myself. You haven't a clue about what you just saw—so don't assume—you know where that leads.

The next morning, laden with papers and a cup of coffee, I observed a young woman with a stroller struggling to enter the front door. Quickly, I nudged the door open and squeezed back into it so she could wheel the stroller inside.

"Thanks," she said, "so kind of you to help. I'm still getting used to driving this thing." Her smile seemed so friendly, as though she belonged here.

"Looking for someone?" I asked, just in case she needed directions.

"Yes, I'm going up to see Mr. Worthington or Sally first, if she's in HR. By the way I'm Gina, Gina Anderson."

"Ah! So, you're Gina! I've been guarding your post waiting for you to return," I smiled, putting a face to the name on the desk plaque opposite mine. I think I saw you outside in the park yesterday, waiting for someone.

"Nope, Not me in the park GI. It's freezing out there and that's no place to be sitting with an infant. But yes, I am Gina in the flesh—with seven pounds extra now!" her voice seem to light up the lobby. "Want to see?" she asked, as she reached down and uncovered the tiniest body I'd ever recalled seeing.

"Boy or girl?" I asked, leaning over to peer into the stroller.

Her smirk and chuckle combined into one, as she raised an eyebrow and scanned my face, possibly looking for the word 'dork' to be stamped on my forehead. "Don't get out much do you, GI?"

I wasn't expecting a smart, sassy retort to my question and found myself speechless for just a moment. That pause really set her into high gear.

"Well, firstly, you are obviously a GI Joe, from your comment about guarding my post. And secondly, if you were born on this planet, you should know that tiny packages like this one riding in a blue stroller wrapped in blue blankets, wearing blue booties, and blue stocking caps are — boys. Girls usually show up in pink, mostly." She giggled.

"Sharp as a tack, just like Sally said you were," I ate my humble pie, as I got dressed down. She was right about not getting out much. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I vaguely recall, now, that blue means boys and pink is for girls. Not ever being around infants much at any stage of life had covered over an obvious lack of parental training. Not that I was ever going to need it. I was sure that wasn't on my horizon event. After all, how could I pick up a wiggling infant as tiny as her little one and hang on to it with so few working fingers?

"So, you would be the blue-eyed Frank Sinatra look-a-like, Jimmy Rawlings, that Sally keeps gushing over when we get together, yes?"

I nodded, getting lost in the fact that she'd revealed that Sally seems to have a crush on me, just like the twins had said; a fact that I readily dismissed — it was just professional after all, and I had the father talk with the Colonel and his daughter already.

"Got to run Mr. Rawlings, diaper time!" she chimed in, "And remember, when you have one of these of your own, make sure to have an extra diaper over the top when you change the bottom diaper, if it's a boy! I learned that the hard way!" she called out, as she wheeled the stroller away.

I watched as she turned the corner and headed for the restroom area. I was left puzzling about the diaper comment until it hit me. as I pushed the OPS door open.

The following day the mystery woman and stroller reappeared in the park. Today, her gaze seemed focused on the Worthington Building. It wasn't long before she stood up and pushed the stroller around the building and out of sight. Something didn't seem right about the way she kept surveilling the building, but I couldn't put a finger on it and went back to work. Pulling out of the parking lot after work I drove around the block to the nearly-finished restoration of the old Radisson Hotel into a modern condominium complex.

"Jimmy," came a soft voice behind me. I knew the voice. A year ago, it spoke to me, filled with vile anger; wanting to know if I'd fucked her when she was asleep.

I turned to see the vagrant that I had saved from freezing in the icy storm on Christmas eve; the same woman standing in the park with the stroller, was now standing three feet away.

"Hello, snow angel." My reply came out a little like a frog caught up in my throat. "I've been thinking about you, Rachel," I added.

"Are you mad at me?" her soft, hesitant words were spoken hardly above a whisper.

"Did you do something wrong to make me mad at you?" I asked, brushing aside her question. It came out a bit testy, too strong, I thought.

"Yes, I broke your trust in me. I'm sorry Jimmy." Her eyes were brimming with tears; that broke my resolve. No one should be standing in an empty parking lot crying — that just isn't right.

"You have a child, now?"

Sniffling, she replied, "She's in the car — with my boyfriend, Eric. Her name is Kathrine Anne; named after my mom.

"Are you happy?" I managed to ask. I didn't know what else to say, as I watched her wipe away some of the tears brimming from her eyes.

"I think so, Jimmy. That's the best answer I can give you now. I'm in the twelve-step process, Jimmy. You are on my list of people to make amends to. I'm really, really sorry that I took advantage of your kindness. I was an asshole for treating you the way I did, after you saved my life. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Please?"

I'd lost so many comrades and that weight of loss lives hung around my neck like an albatross for so many years. Finally, I managed to rescue a snow angel, nearly frozen to death in the hotel's empty parking lot on Christmas Eve. I got one miracle right; I saved a life. And even that was stripped from me the following morning as she left without saying goodbye. It's no damned wonder I fight demons nearly every night.