Willobee’S World

By Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain

Trenton Trent Willobee, a semi-truck driver and resident of Oatman, Arizona, who originally hailed from Macon, Georgia, is recruited by federal agents to assist them with the interdiction of drug cartels, gun runners, human smugglers, and Syrian Islamic terrorists who are pouring over the U.S. border at Tijuana, Mexico. As a former Special Forces Soldier (SFS) and trucker, he is uniquely qualified to collect on the ground intelligence for federal agencies, because one of his trucking routes often takes him to Tijuana. As time passed, his involvement grew well beyond the original scope of his expected involvement. He found himself faced with numerous treacherous and dangerous situations from Tijuana to Chihuahua City, Mexico. Interwoven into the action, adventure, and suspense is an account of the 2016 Presidential Election. With all the danger going on in his life, Trent still finds time for a romantic relationship with, Haylee Harper, a waitress at the Olive Hotel Restaurant and Bar in Oatman. He says he doesnt look for trouble, but doesnt run from it, whether at home or on the road. Since he is a big man, 6'4" and 230 pounds, it would seem that he would be intimidating, but rather, he was often underestimated partially because of his unique southern-western drawl, which often confounded those with whom he had contact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524651268

Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain

Though Dr. Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain has been the CEO of Fountain Associates Business & Management Consultants since 1984, he has always enjoyed writing. It began as an avocation, but over time, it became his vocation. Now, as the author of 11 books of an eclectic nature, most of his time is consumed by writing both fiction and nonfiction. Academically, he holds degrees in psychology, human resources management, and an earned doctoral degree (D.B.A.) in business administration. He has enjoyed post-doctoral studies at Harvard Business School, The University of Chicago Graduate School of Business, and The Wharton School. He currently resides in southern Nevada with his lovely wife Dr. Grace Mandicott Fountain. www.wendellfountain.com

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CHAPTER ONE

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T renton (Trent) Willobee rolled out of bed on a brisk April morning in his single-wide mobile home, which was set on a hill behind the Olive Oatman Restaurant and Bar in Oatman, Arizona, across the street from the Hotel and Restaurant. He made his way to the crowded bathroom and took a look in the mirror, and all he could think was: who in the hell’s that looking back at me? He thought at first his Sam Elliot Mustache and brown hair had turned black. The night before was still with him. Trent downed a few too many beers in Judy’s Saloon the night before, but he was still glad to be back off the road. Though he’d been a trucker for nearly ten years and liked it, it was always good to find the way back to his little homestead. As the Oatman sign states, Step back in time. Perhaps, that was the thing that attracted him to this old mining town. It was rustic, even anachronistic. Besides, he was still just a cowboy, and time seemed to have taken a respite in this old place. He even liked the staged mid-day gunfights in the main street, which seem to delight visitors. A few times, when he was in town, he even participated in the act when one of the regulars of Oatman Ghost Rider Gunfighters was unable to fulfill the role. Every day, when the act was going on, dozens of burros came down from the mountains and sort of took over the little hamlet. They went wherever they wished and did just about everything which came natural to them. Trent kept his rig, cab and trailer, behind the mobile home, and he had a shed where he kept his special toy— his Harley-Davidson Custom Sportster Motorcycle —which he called his straddle-sackle—Rocket One.

Though he couldn’t seem to get his 230 pound 6’ 4" frame moving, the cool morning was calling him for his usual five-mile run, so he slipped on a rather worn hooded-sweat suit and headed out the door. He took his usual route down Main Street toward Kingman, Arizona on old Route 66. He trotted about 300 yards when he thought he saw something out of place—an unattended black bag in the middle of the road. His training from Special Forces in Iraq and Afghanistan immediately kicked in, which told him to not get too near the black bag. He looked around for a tree branch or something which would allow him to keep a safe distance from the mystery container. It wasn’t long before he found a dead mesquite limb lying alongside the road which gave him some sense of security, but that didn’t stop him from removing his hooded top and covering his face and upper body. He poked the bag and it toppled over, but nothing untoward happened. It was at that point he began to feel a little relief. Then he became more curious and bolder. He began looking around the area to see if he was being watched. It just didn’t make sense that a new-looking athletic bag would be setting in the middle of Route 66 as though someone had intentionally placed it there.

Finally, he carefully picked it up and began walking briskly back to his little homestead. He knew just about everyone in town, and he didn’t know anyone who owned a black athletic bag. Then he thought it must have been a tourist traveling through the area. Regardless, he hurried along back to his single-wide so that he could examine the bag’s contents. Hopefully, he thought, the owner could be identified and subsequently be contacted. When inside his coach-trailer, he set the bag in the middle of the dining table and just stood there looking at it for a few seconds. It was a nice bag with three different zippers. He slid open the left side zipper first, but found nothing. Then, he unzipped the middle, and much to his surprise and chagrin, he discovered not one, but three black handguns including an extra magazine for each. One was a .45 caliber with which he was very familiar, and the other two were Glocks with green laser sights. One was a Glock 27 and the other was a single stack Glock 43. Both had six-round magazines. There were appendix holsters for the Glocks and a hip holster for the .45 semiautomatic. He didn’t find even one round of ammunition. He thought: Wow! What in the hell’s this all about? Then, he became very troubled as he stood back staring at the guns before him. After closer examination of the weapons, he couldn’t find a single serial number on any of the three, and there was no visible evidence of number destruction. Trent thought about the unregistered .380 automatic he’d bought off the street years ago in Tijuana, Mexico he kept stashed under the dashboard of his rig. The serial numbers on it had been filed off, but these guns didn’t even have serial numbers at all!

Trent didn’t know what to do about the contents of the bag. He thought about calling local authorities, but he figured they would just keep them for themselves. The FBI came to mind and Homeland Security, but he was concerned that they would become more interested in him than the guns he’d found. For all he knew, a damn drone might be in his future. He didn’t like the idea of agencies shadowing him as though he might be a criminal. Hell, it’s bad enough now to drive my truck. I got so many regulations on my ass I can hardly work, he thought.

He took a quick shower, shaved, trimmed his mustache, and then walked down to the Olive Oatman Hotel Restaurant and Saloon to get some breakfast. As he came in everyone was telling him hello, how are you, good to see you, and so forth. Trent smiled, waved, and sat at the counter. That’s where he usually sat—third stool down.

His favorite waitress, Haylee Harper, immediately handed him a menu. Where you been this time? she said with a big smile.

Down Mexicali way, he replied in his deep Sam Elliott voice.

He looked up at her with a smile, You know what I want, he said, handing her the menu.

Yeah, I think I do, but you can’t have that. How ’bout your regular?

If that’s all I can git, that’ll have ta do, he said with a wink.

A few minutes later she sat several plates before him, which included biscuits, gravy, eggs, sausage, sourdough toast, and black coffee.

Meal fit for a king! He said as he began devouring the delightful fare.

You always say that, she said with a girlish giggle.

After Trent finished breakfast and paid his bill, he called her over. Sweetheart, ya know ya have a standing offer to take a road trip with me anytime ya want.

Trent, I’ve got a job, unlike 94 million other Americans, and I can’t just pick up and go somewhere with ya for days. Besides, we’re friends, and I think its best it stays that way, okay?

"Yeah, guess you’re right. At thirty-nine and holdin’ I’m a bit old for ya, and I’m sure there’s a lot of young bucks ’round here that’s a lot more appealin’ than me. Heck, I’m just an old ex-rodeo guy from Macon, Georgia who speaks in Macon mouth. Even the Rodeo and U.S. Army couldn’t take that away."

"Now, Trenton Willobee, none of what you said has anything to do with it. Just for your information, I just happen to be twenty-nine and holding! The fact is I find you quite handsome, perhaps a little more than I should, because you do remind me of a young Sam Elliott—only you’re kind of a John Wayne size Sam. He’s one of my favorite movie stars, ya know. I always liked his horseshoe mustache—like yours. The offer is more than tempting, but my circumstances are different than yours," she said as she placed her hand gently on his.

He looked up at her smiling brightly, I thought you were gonna say I reminded you of Duke, now that’s my kinda guy! Besides, I think he’s more handsome than Elliott. Bet you can’t tell me a single movie that man ever played in.

Trent, you callin’ me a liar?!

Of course not, but name me some of his shows

Okay, wise-guy, what about Conagher?

Never heard of it.

Okay, surely you’ve heard of The Sacketts.

Yep, that was a Tom Selleck TV movie. Don’t remember no Sam Elliott.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing, and you’re supposed to be a rodeo star!

"Now, now, don’t git wrapped ’round your axel. I never said I was a rodeo star or champion, either. Like the Army, I did a four-year stint on the rodeo circuit, and I sure as hell was not a star!"

What about Tombstone?

As I recall, that was a Kurt Russell film. Don’t remember Elliott.

Good grief! Sam played the part of Virgil Earp!

Haylee, I don’t want ta muss up your apron on this. Okay, you’ve convinced me you know ’bout some of his movies, but did you know that older actor, Robert Mitchum, used to do the voice for the Beef Council commercials and Sam Elliott took over that part and now does the voice, as well as the voice for Ram trucks?

Trent Willobee, I think you’ve got a mean streak in ya. You’ve just been jerkin’ me around. Of course, I know that and more, too!

"Maybe sometime we can have a cup of coffee, and you can tell me ’bout those circumstances you mentioned. I’m in town for a few days, so I’ll be back in."

You better! Oops, got another customer. Trent looked over and caught glimpse of an impatient middle age balding man at the far end of the counter as he was leaving.

As Trent walked back up the hill behind the Oatman Hotel, his thinking returned to the bag full of guns. Once inside his place, he checked the one zipper he’d neglected to open, but found nothing. He just stood there scratching his head for a little while. He couldn’t understand what this was all about. He was very conflicted about what to do with the weapons. He finally stuck the bag up on the top shelf of his closet. Over the next several days, when down below in town, he listened intently to conversations which might give him a clue about the guns, but no one even mentioned losing or leaving a bag in the middle of old Route 66.

The third day back, he went to the shed and fired up his Harley-Davidson Sportster and drove over to the restaurant for breakfast. He sat in his usual location at the counter, and Haylee greeted him with a menu.

The usual? She asked with a smile.

Yep, that’ll do me just fine. You don’t look so busy today. Fridays are usually a lot busier when I come in, he said, looking around.

Got it, let me turn in the ticket, and I’ll be right back with a hot cup of coffee.

Good, thanks, sweetheart.

On her return from the cook’s pick-up station with coffee in hand she said, "I think a lot of the locals and tourists are in Laughlin at the chili tasting contest. You know how popular that always is. This year it’s a three-day event—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday," she said.

I probably should’ve gone there today, but then I wouldn’t have got to see you, would I?

Oh…Trent, what am I gonna do with you? She said with a giggle.

I don’t know…but I sure hope it’s good, he said with a smile.

Did I hear the sound of your bike when you came up?

That ya did, I’m ridin’ my straddle-sackle, Rocket One, today. She purrs better’n a cougar kitten. Just love it, and speaking of—

Haylee stopped him in mid-sentence. Just heard the bell. Your food’s up. Let me get it before it gets cold.

You tell ole Jeb back there he makes a man’s breakfast too fast. Can’t even have a decent conversation.

Sorry ’bout that, she said on her return while splaying the counter with plates of food.

I was gonna ask ya to take a ride with me.

"Now, Trent, we’ve been through this sort of thing before. There’s only me and Jeb working today, so what makes you think I can just pick up and leave?"

"Goodness gracious, hold on a minute. I know you’re closed on Sunday. I thought maybe you’d like to ride over with me on my straddle-sackle to the 66 Diner in Kingman, and we could have breakfast together tomorrow, that’s all."

Uh… I’m sorry, Trent, I didn’t mean to react that way, but I’m having some issues right now.

You never know… I might be able to help… I’m a good listener.

Let me think about it, ’cause I’d have to make some arrangements.

You’ll have to do that mighty fast, ’cause I gotta date with some boxes of beef tomadoes in Tijuana on Tuesday morning, so I have to leave on Monday. Back to work. Gotta make a dollar or two, and it might be awhile before I git back.

Okay…okay…pick me up out front of the restaurant here at nine o’clock. I’ll solve my problem in the meantime. I think I’d like a bike ride for a change. It should be fun, she said with a smile.

Make sure you wear some jeans or slacks and don’t forget a jacket, gets a little chilly on the road. Sweetheart, you made my day. See ya tomorra!

The next day Trent pulled up in front of the restaurant on his bike, and sure enough Haylee was wearing jeans and a jacket.

Trent handed her a helmet, and she reminded him, Arizona law doesn’t require me to where one.

I know they don’t, but I do, so you just stuff that dark head of hair underneath it.

Where’s yours? She asked.

You wearin’ it.

She climbed on the back of the bike, and they were off. Even though the old road had a lot of snake-twists, turns, ups and downs, the time flew by, and before they knew it, they rolled up in front of the 66 Diner and Restaurant in Kingman.

That was fun and fast! Haylee said with a big smile.

Glad you enjoyed it. Let’s go in so this old growin’ boy can get some grub.

They picked a corner booth with a little privacy and the waitress seated them quickly with menu in hand.

She’s purdy good, sweetheart, whadaya think?

I’ll make some mental notes, and perhaps I can improve at my job, she said with a hint of sarcasm.

Now, Haylee, you know I didn’t mean nothin’ by my comment.

I know… I was just pullin’ your chain.

Now, you’re acting like a girlfriend or a wife, he said while perusing the menu.

Trent, I just realized I know very little about your personal life. You’ve been having breakfast at the restaurant for the past three or four years when you’re in town. For heaven’s sake (she paused) you’re not married and have bunch of kids somewhere do you? She said in an excited tone.

What kinda question’s that?

Do you?!

The waitress walked up to take their order. She took care of business and sashayed back to the kitchen.

Trent, I’m waitin’ for an answer? She said impatiently.

Well, what if I do have a wife, kids, and even a girlfriend or two? You made it clear the other day that you just wanted us to be friends. I know I wanted things to be different, so I like the idea of at least havin’ your friendship. What’s wrong with that?

"Nothing, but you did not answer my question." She said while staring into his azure eyes.

Of course I’ve been ’round and done my thing, and I ’spect you’ve had some good times, too. Most men my age wanna have a wife and kids. I nearly got married twice, but my good sense took over. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. Since I’m not a preacher or a priest, when it comes to kids, I probably have one or two runnin’ ’round someplace, because the truth is, speakin’ plain; I’ve known at least a woman or two with spring-loaded legs. Does that clear things up a bit?

Yeah, it does, she said, looking down. I’m a little embarrassed for pryin’ into your personal life, but golly you didn’t have to be quite so graphic.

"Sorry ’bout that, but I don’t pussyfoot around, and I don’t lie. The truth is I don’t like liars, but I’d like ta talk ’bout those circumstances, issues ya spoke about the other day. Like I said, I’m a good listener," he said, looking deeply into her crystal blue eyes.

"Trent, as things are now I don’t have the luxury of not having a job, and I thank God every day for what I do have. I went to the Mohave Community College M-C-C while I worked and earned my A-A—associate’s degree—but that was before…that was before, uh, my mother…had a stroke. Now, I’m about all she has. She needs and depends on me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not an invalid, and she’s able to get around with her cane, walker, and sometimes her wheelchair. The fact is she’s an independent cuss!"

Whada ’bout your dad? Can’t he help?

Believe me; if he were still alive…momma would be taken care of like a queen, ’cause he was a great husband and father.

What took him?

A drunk driver on Highway ninety-five—head on collision.

I, uh, really don’t know what ta say, but I’m awful sorry ta hear that kinda story. As a trucker, I see fatal accidents a lot. In fact, too often it’s not only drunks or druggies but people texting on their phones.

Sorry, folks, it took so long to get your breakfasts, but we’ve been right busy today, the waitress, Kortnie, said as she began delivering their meals.

Don’t worry about it, Kortnie, I’m a waitress, and I know how it gets sometimes, a smiling Haylee replied.

I appreciate your understanding. If there’s anything else you need, just give a holler, she said and headed back toward the kitchen.

"Haylee, sweetheart, you know I’m an ole southern boy from Macon, Georgia, but you’ve never said where you hail from. Tell me a little ’bout yorself, Trent said.

"Well, I was born in Bullhead City, Arizona where I graduated from Mohave High School. Not long after that, we moved to Oatman. Unlike you, I’ve not traveled all over the place. My mom was a stay at home mom, and dad worked as a house framer. He was a terrific carpenter. Guess ya might say I’ve lived a somewhat sheltered life. Dad, Mr. Harper, was pretty strict, so I didn’t date a lot. Though about a year before he died, he let up a little, and I did get serious about a former high school classmate, but that pretty much ended after dad was killed. Joel was a great guy. He joined the Marines a few years ago and was sent to the Middle East. While there, because of an I-E-D, he lost an arm and leg, and never returned to the area."

I’m real sorry to hear that ’bout Joel. I saw a lot of it myself. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m still all in one piece, thank the Lord.

Four years earlier…

In the summer of 2012 Trent was reading the classified ads about trucks and trailers while he was holed up in his single-wide in Oatman. He came across a rather sad one about a woman trying to get someone to take over the payments of her deceased husband’s practically new rig. She only wanted $5,000. At that point, Trent had been driving truck since he got out of the Army, but he wanted his own cab and trailer. He liked the company for which he worked, but he wanted to be on his own. He was a saver. He even put a little money aside when he was on the rodeo circuit, and that was tough to do. While in the Army, he saved half of every penny he was paid, which included combat pay. In his opinion, there was nothing to do in Iraq or Afghanistan—nothing to spend money on. The locals weren’t beer drinkers, and he was not about to even consider trying to mess around with the women of the Middle East. As far as he was concerned, that was a no-no. As a Special Forces Soldier (SFS) he worked a lot with and around them, and he knew it was very dangerous. He was more interested in staying alive and having the backs of his brothers in arms. As far as he was concerned, the key to everything was staying focused.

He made a quick phone call to Mrs. Zabrowski, and with ad in hand, he decided to check out the situation the lady described, so he fired up Rocket One and found his way to her place in Laughlin, Nevada. Trent walked up and rang the doorbell, as he looked around to get a gander at the cab and trailer. She greeted him and asked him in. After introductions, he had a seat and they discussed the rig.

Mr. Willobee, I’m in a bind, and I want to be right up front about it. Blaze, my husband, bought this truck and trailer new. He only made two over the road runs before he suffered a massive heart attack. He died right here in this house at age 52. That truck and trailer had been his dream for years, but now his dream has become my nightmare. I have no use for it, and I certainly can’t make those payments. I deal Blackjack here in Laughlin, so I’m not flush with cash. When he financed it, they only gave us 48 months to pay for it, but I don’t want the repo man to get it or ruin my credit. Since you’re a trucker you know that the only way for that thing to make money is for it to be on the road. It hurts me to have to do this, but I have no choice, she said as her eyes welled with tears.

Ma’am, I ’preciate your honesty, and I can’t really tell you how bad I feel ’bout your husband’s passin’. That truck was a part of him, and now you have to even let that go. I know that’s gotta be hard.

Yes…it’s like I’m not a dream weaver… I’m a dream killer, she said, reaching for a tissue.

Gosh, ma’am, this has taken me a little by surprise. Can you tell me ’bout the truck?

Yes, of course, it’s out back, and you can take a look at it. Blaze was really particular about what he bought. The cab’s a Kenworth with a seventy-three-inch sleeper, and the trailer is a fifty-three foot Wabash. He wanted to be able to haul refrigerated product anywhere in the United States, Mexico, and Canada.

They went outside, and Trent immediately fell in love with that outfit. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It really was a new truck and trailer. The cab was ruby red with white and blue flames painted down the side.

Ma’am, can we take her for a little ride?

Of course, let me get the keys.

They took State Road 163 toward Las Vegas. He went through all fourteen gears like a kid playing with a new toy. The first 20 miles or so was an uphill climb on a very winding road. When he got to the first rest stop, he turned around and headed back. Upon their return, Trent raised the hood, checked all the fluids, and was impressed at the sparkling clean ISX Cummins engine.

Ms. Zabrowski, I really want that truck, but I don’t feel good ’bout takin’ it.

If you don’t mind, call me Darcy, ’cause there’s somethin’ about you that makes me think Blaze would be pleased. I can’t explain it, but it’s something I feel.

Darcy, you drive a hard bargain, a smiling Trent said.

A few days later and two visits to the bank, Trent became the owner of his new rig. It didn’t take long for him to pick up more business than he’d expected. Even though fuel prices skyrocketed during most of the four years between 2012 and 2016, his business grew like a well-nourished field of Mojave Indian alfalfa.

CHAPTER TWO

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I t was four in the morning in Oatman when Trent did his last walk-around of his rig. For him to get to Tijuana, Mexico on time, he knew he would have to leave by five. It was a nine-hour drive, plus fuel stops, but he would still be within the 11-hour federal rule which dictated a rest period. By the time he arrived and took on his load, it was getting late. Customarily, he decided to spend the night in Tijuana. He parked in a secured truck holding pen, called the shuttle at the Americana Inn, and spent the night before loading up and heading to his first stop, Phoenix, Arizona. There he unloaded the tomatoes and picked up a load of celery, which he delivered to his destination in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

By now he’d been on the road for nearly a week, so Trent was looking forward to a relaxing evening in Albuquerque. He’d been on the cheap all the way so he decided to treat himself. He parked about a half-mile away, not far from his hotel and the Sandia Peak Tramway which he took two miles up the mountain to the High Finance Restaurant & Tavern. Trent had made this trip many times, and he liked the experience, ambience, and food. When the sun began to set, the mountain glowed like a sunlit copper kettle. Trent made his way to the bar. He quickly checked the menu and ordered a Miller Lite. Shortly thereafter, a man wearing a dark blazer sat next to him.

What did you do with the guns?

A surprised Trent whipped around and quipped. "You talkin’ ta me?" What guns and who’re you anyways?"

You know what guns; stop playing games, Willobee.

Seems like you ’head of me. You know mah name, but I don’t know yours.

"We could sit here and engage in verbal gymnastics all evening, but I’m sure you want to eat, drink,