Trent thought a lot about his time with Haylee and how much he enjoyed her company, but it was time to focus on his run to Tijuana and now the double reason for his trip. The next morning, he took a ride over to the post office in Fort Mohave to examine the contents of the box Dobson said contained $5,000. When he went in, he focused on the mailbox section. Trent quickly located it, and opened it. He found a small package which resembled a checkbook box. He took it, and made a rapid exit. He walked over to McDonald’s, with package in hand, and casually had some breakfast before going home.
When he returned, he perused the package more closely. He chuckled to himself, because from its appearance the sender was his bank, and it was addressed to him. He opened it, and sure enough, it was filled with hundred dollar bills. After making a quick count, he determined that the $5,000 for expenses was all there.
Though Dobson had provided him with firepower, he needed to make changes in the truck cab where the handguns would be stored and not found by Mexican authorities. Trent put the .45 where he had traditionally kept his unregistered .380, but he had to fabricate another flip down mechanism which appeared to be part of the dashboard for the two 9mm Glocks. He worked on that for most of the next two days. It took a number of visits to the hardware store to finally get it completed.
He wasn’t worried so much about Mexican authorities, because they knew him pretty well and often practically waived him through, because they had become so familiar with his modus operandi, and he had gotten to know some of them. Ordinarily, Trent never left the “Frontero Zone,” which was the area just across the border. They usually conducted a cursory examination of his empty trailer, checked his bill of lading, the dogs sniffed around a bit, and that was about it; however, he hadn’t forgotten the plight of Sergeant Tahmooressi who suffered with post-traumatic syndrome disease (PTSD) and languished in prison for 214 days for bringing his personal weapons across the border by mistake, and the fact that the Obama administration just left him blowing in the wind. He didn’t want that injustice to befall him. He fully realized that no one would be coming to his aid.
Going out with his load of tomatoes was usually a little more involved, because American customs and immigration officials were a bit more thorough. Other than him having to show them his passport, they seemed to be more interested in his bill of lading and the contents of the trailer itself. They usually checked in and under the truck trailer with the help of dogs that sniffed for drugs. It was not unusual for them to make a cursory examination of the cab itself, but according to Dobson, he would pass through without a problem.
Since his service in the Middle East, as the time neared for him to leave for Tijuana his anxiety level increased. This would be the first time he’d had that type of visceral response. Trent struggled with his emotions and thoughts. With what he had saved, he knew the $40,000 would go a long way toward his purchase of a small hundred-acre ranch outside of Sante Fe. That would be the culmination of a long-time dream. He thought by spring he’d be able to locate something he wanted.
Trent looked his rig over very carefully the night before he was to leave. Everything looked good, so he went to bed anxious but eager at the same time to get on the road. It seemed as though five o’clock came sooner than he’d anticipated, and when dawn broke he pulled out, heading toward Kingman.
Eleven hours later, he arrived just outside the border crossing. As usual, he parked his rig in a secure area, slung his black leather jacket over his shoulder with a Glock in its inside pocket, picked up his overnight bag, and made his way into Tijuana on foot after being cleared by Mexican authorities. They didn’t even give him a shakedown. His passport card expedited his entry. He walked to the Americana Inn, and was greeted by the attractive Desk Clerk, Maria Gomez.
“Como Esta, Maria,” Trent greeted her.
“How have you been, Senõr Trenton?” She asked formally in broken English.
“Good, if I weren’t, it wouldn’t do me any good to complain,” he said with a smile.
“Uno, uh, I mean one night?” She asked.
“Yep.”
As soon as he got his key he went to his room and freshened up before he began making rounds in nearby bars to begin collecting intel. He stopped in at the Palacio Palace, first. He sat at the bar near several Mexican locals, listening to them, but none of them ever spoke English. He knew so few Spanish words, so finally, he asked the man next to him, in English, about where he might get some action. The man was not sure what he was asking.
“Putana,” Trent said, gesticulating with his hands the form of a woman.
“Si, si!” He exclaimed, and then, in broken English, told him to go several blocks away to find what he wanted.
Trent started walking toward a rather seedy part of town near the end of the Frontero Zone. He turned the collar of his coat up as he trekked along. He kept thinking he had to start someplace, and prostitutes were a potential conduit to the Mexican underworld. He knew it wasn’t unusual for these women to also be involved in illicit drug activity. Though he had no intention of having a sexual relationship with one, he thought he might have to, because he wanted to be convincing about what he wanted. He needed to spend some time with a putana in his hotel room. He thought he might learn about her pimp, drug dealer or both. When he approached the intersection of two streets, each corner had a putana flashing her wares. All of them looked like neon signs peddling sex. He stood in the shadows for a while trying to decide which one to approach. It was hard to tell their ages from a distance. He wanted an older woman, because she probably would have more experience and knowledge about what was really going on in Tijuana. Finally, he stepped out of the shadows and approached the first one. She looked like a teenager.
“You want to feel good?” She asked in very good English.
“No, mucho gracias,” he said, continuing his walk.
Trent crossed the street and found a woman, Consuela, whom he thought could be helpful. She looked a bit long in the tooth for the profession and not purely Mexican, but she was attractive and her English was nearly flawless. Consuela accompanied him back to his hotel. By the time he locked the door, she had already begun to undress, and he stopped her.
“This is going to cost you a hundred U.S. dollars, and you want me to wait?” She asked.
“I need company for the night, not an hour. If I give you a thousand U.S. dollars, will you spend the night with me?”
“I have to make a call, first. I can’t just disappear from my location. Where’s the cash?”
Trent reached into his pocket and pulled out ten 100 dollar bills.
“That’s quite a wad. What’s your work, robbing banks?” Consuela said sarcastically as she retrieved her cell phone from her purse.
“I’ve been saving up. We over-the-road truckers sometimes get lonesome.”
“Consuela, all night, Americana, eight-hundred,” she said and ended her call.
“We good to go?”
“Of course, but there are some rules. No kinky stuff.”
“Kinky stuff? What does that include?”
“No hittin’ or hurtin’ me, or anal sex. Condoms must be used, and no kissin’ on the mouth.” she said firmly.
“Not a problem here. I’ve always been told to treat a putana like a lady and a lady like a putana, and ya can’t go wrong.”
“Can I undress now?” She asked.
“Yep, and I think I’ll do likewise.”
Somewhere around 3:00 A.M. Consuela had sexually worn Trent out, and he lay there thinking: The things I have to do for my country. It must be true that there ain’t no such thing as bad sex. That brought about a mental chuckle. They stayed in bed and Trent began asking questions which he felt might be helpful.
“If I wanted to buy some meth, do you know where I could git it?”
“When it comes to drugs, I know lots of people and places.”
“I figured you’d know more’n me ’cause I ain’t usually out on the streets. This might be personal, but do you have what I’m lookin’ for?”
“Look, whatever your name is, I didn’t come here to answer questions; I came here to give you sex and plenty of it. I’m not a drug dealer,” she replied in an irritated tone.
“My name’s George. I’m sorry; didn’t mean to pry into your bidness. I just don’t know people in Tijuana. I thought maybe you could tell me where to go and who to talk to, a little conversation that’s all,” Trent said as he turned over toward her.
He could see her in the neon light passing through the window, and he knew he was going to have to handle the situation very delicately. Her age and experience was a downside, because she knew how to keep her mouth shut, at least when it came to inquiring about anything other than oral sex, but he knew she lied to her pimp on the phone about how much she was being paid, and it was obvious she took chances.
“Would ya have breakfast with me when we git up?” Trent/George asked.
“We’ll see. You must really want company.”
“Like I said, it git’s lonely on the road.”
“You ready for some more?” She asked.
“Yep, think I’m ’bout recovered.”
Just before 7:00 A.M. they woke up and immediately took showers, and soon after they dressed for the day before heading downstairs.
“Offer still stands for breakfast.” Trent/George said.
“Well, I am a little hungry,” she replied.
“You should be after last night, ’cause you earned your money,” he said with a smile.
They chose a corner table, and an eager waitress seemed to just appear at their table. Trent felt sure the waitress knew Consuela and that she was a working girl. Consuela wasted no time in placing her order as did he. Trent wanted to talk, but she was not much interested in a discussion.
“’bout last night, I was hoping you could connect me with someone who’d git me a little meth.”
“You don’t look or act like the type who does drugs of any kind,” she said confidently.
“Don’t let my looks fool ya. I’d like to take some other things back ’cross the border and not necessarily for me.”
“You’re very fit and strong. Drugs don’t help. Sure, I know some mules, but are you sure you want to mess with them?”
“I would just like to score a little meth, hash, or weed. What’s so strange about that?”
“Alright, I’ll give you some names, but you never heard them from me, okay?”
“Shor, buckin’ broncs couldn’t pull your name outta me.”
“If those buckin’ broncs did, I’m not Consuela, George.”
“Well…give me some names.”
“These hombres are not easy to locate, and they are very dangerous. You probably will never see any of them. You’ll end up asking some of their dealers for the stuff, but if you mention their names, the dealers will get you what you want.” Just mention Alvarez, Burboa, or Sinaloa. They bring a lot of stuff from Guatemala, Columbia, and other South American countries every two or three weeks.”
“Where do I start?”
“How’d you find me?”
“Good point, and speakin’ of findin’ you, how’d I go ’bout doin’ that agin?”
“As it is said in poker, it’ll be the luck of the draw. I might be busy,” she replied.
“I guess it’d be silly to ask for a phone number.”
“Yes, it would. If I’m around, I’m around. Usually, I work the same corner every day.”
“I don’t normly do this type of thing, but I enjoyed our time together. Maybe I’ll see ya agin. It’ll probably a few weeks before I git back this way, but when I do, I’ll try to look ya up.”
“Thanks,” she said, picking up her purse and began walking out of the hotel restaurant.
Trent sat there musing while having more coffee. She had been helpful, but it was like pulling teeth, and he didn’t know whether or not he’d gotten enough information to satisfy Dobson and his associates. So, he went to the desk and asked the clerk, Maria Gomez, if he could have a late checkout.
“Of course, Senõr Trent, one o’clock,” she said, smiling brightly.
“Gracias, Maria.”
Trent went to his room and packed his overnight bag. He needed to get back to the streets and throw around the names “Consuela” had given him. He walked past the Palacio Palace to the Tequila Sunset Bar. The place was dark and dingy. The clientele seemed to match the décor. He pulled up a stool at the bar by two men who appeared to be locals. The heavyset bartender asked him in poorly spoken English what he wanted to drink.
“Corona, gracias, amigo,” Trent replied.
Trent knew he was not going to be able to converse with the bartender. The guy could hardly speak any English. He listened and concentrated on the two men at the bar. They mostly spoke Spanish and an occasional English phrase or two. Finally, Trent got the man’s attention next to him by tapping him on the shoulder.
“Habla Ingle Por favor, amigo.”
“No, poco,” he replied by showing a little distance between his thumb and index finger.
“I do,” his friend said.
“I’m trying to contact my amigo Sinaloa.”
“You must me joking. He has no friends. To find him, you would have to risk your life. He does not like gringos. What do you want with him?”
“I have a bidness proposition.”
“Bidness? That man does things no one talks about, because they want to live. I do not suggest you try to contact him, if you care about your life.”
“I’m willin’ to take the chance. Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know…he could be anywhere. A few weeks ago I heard he was somewhere along the border to Guatemala. He could be in Mexico City. We hear that a lot. He doesn’t come to Tijuana, others do.”
“What others?”
“People who deal drugs, smuggle foreigners across the border, and run guns. If he’s your amigo, you know that.
“There’re two other men I would like to meet—Alvarez and Burboa. Can you help me with them?”
“Hombre, you’re looking for trouble. You should not talk about these names.”
“No, I just wanna talk ’bout some transportation bidness with ’em.”
“Whatever you want to transport is not good,” he said and turned away.
Trent finished his Corona, thanked the two men, and left the bar. He was able to verify what he had been told by the putana. That was enough for his first trip, and he was still in one piece. Trent knew he was treading on treacherous ground, but this was only the beginning. The next time he had to make contact with drug dealers or whatever may come his way. He had his route to run and time to make up.
Five hours after leaving Tijuana, Trent pulled into a rest stop. He was tired. He needed sleep. The night before had caught up with him. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and he could hardly wait to sack out.
When he awoke, it was nearly four in the morning. Nature called and he took care of business in the rest stop bathroom. Afterward, he knew he was back on schedule and would be in Phoenix in a few hours. He was hungry and looked forward to one of his favorite truck stops a few miles outside of the city limits. When it came into view, he was ready for a cup of coffee and huevo rancheros. Moments later a tall thin man dressed like a trucker plopped down next to him at the counter.
“Is your report ready?”
Trent didn’t even look over. He knew he was one of Dobson’s people.
“Not yet, but I’ll have it when I git back home,” he said, staring across the counter.
“If you want to get paid, I have to have it,” the man said.
“Look, jackass, I been risking mah life on this damn deal, so don’t screw with me. You people will git it when I git home, so leave me the hell alone so I can eat my breakfast,” Trent said quietly.
“Put your report in the mail box the day after you get home, check the mailbox five days later, and hopefully your intel will entitle you to your money,” he said curtly and left.
Trent was so pissed he could hardly enjoy his meal. All he could think about was the word entitle?! After the tall guy walked out, he just continued sitting at the counter and nursing his coffee. Finally, he paid the bill and returned to his rig. When he climbed aboard, he suddenly felt very alone, and then he thought about Haylee. Her dark hair, blue eyes, and feistiness brought a smile to his face. He looked in his wallet, found her number, and called. She answered right away.
“Hey, Haylee, it’s Trent.”
“You don’t have to tell me who it is, I’d know that deep voice anywhere,” she said with a giggle.
“Hope you don’t mind me callin.’ It’s ’bout time for work, and I didn’t want to bother ya.”
“I still have a few minutes. How’s your trip been?”
“Differnt.”
“Why is it different?” She asked.
“I guess ’cause it made me think ’bout bein’ in Iraq.”
“That was a long time ago. Doesn’t sound like good thoughts,” she said.
“Yeah, you right ’bout that on both counts.”
“Is there somethin’ I can do for ya?” She asked.
“Ya did already, ya answered the phone. Good to hear ya voice.”
“I didn’t know I could please a man so easy.”
“Like I told ya, you’re very special. Think maybe we could have dinner together when I git back?”
“Sure, sure we can. When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
“Lordy, I can’t ’member that,” Trent replied.
“Don’t know how good I’ll be at country cookin’, but I’m sure willin’ to try.”
“I really ’preciate you wantin’ to do that, but I’m a bit afraid to meet your momma yet.”
“I thought maybe I could come over to your place and do the cookin’.”
“I hadn’t thought ’bout that, but I have to clean up the place some, ’cause you know us bachelors ain’t all that neat. Guess you caught me by surprise, hadn’t figur’d on somethin’ like that.”
“Guess I want you to taste my cookin’ rather than ole Jeb’s at the restaurant. I’ll go online and look up some country recipes. Will you be here by Sunday?” Haylee asked.
“Yeah, should get in Saturdy ’bout noon.”
“Trent, I just want you to know, I’ve missed ya.”
“I’d be lyin’ if I said I hadn’t missed you. So, I’ll be seein’ ya in a few days.”
After the call ended, Trent sat there thinking about the putana and what he’d done. He felt certain Haylee wouldn’t understand or accept his behavior, regardless of his reasons. He knew his methods of operation would have to remain unsaid.