WILLOBEE’S
WORLD
WENDELL VANDERBILT FOUNTAIN
AuthorHouse™
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© 2017 Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published by AuthorHouse 11/21/2016
ISBN: 978-1-5246-5127-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-5246-5125-1 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-5246-5126-8 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016919358
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Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
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THE CREDIT UNION WORLD: Theory, Process, Practice—Cases & Application {nonfiction}
ACADEMIC SHARECROPPERS: Exploitation of Adjunct Faculty and the Higher Education System {nonfiction}
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LOVE-40 {suspenseful fiction thriller}
THE CREDIT UNION DIRECTOR: Roles, Duties and Responsibilities
www.wendellfountain.com
For Grace
CHAPTER ONE
Trenton (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 fut
ure. 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!”
Th
e 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.
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