Chapter 3

Special thanks to Phil Gorman 2014 for his expertise in re-editing and proofing.

Acknowledgement: I wish to give credit to 'tucson' for an idea that is used in this story. Thank you.

I still have far too much the time on my hands, and my mind still tends to wander, thinking of crazy things I could be doing or problems to solve. What clicked this time was the constant barrage of Christmas Carols, songs and, of course, the gut wrenching advertising and it is only the end of October! During a news broadcast, one of those ads nearly had me tossing my cookies. It had nothing to with Christmas, but it has a lot to do with greed. However, the news piece was about the growing number of young children, who are being fed all the crap; because circumstances are beyond their understanding, they will be left out. The announcer also mentioned, other groups that will not be able to partake in the commercial Christmas: underemployed; a large number of single parents, mostly women, with dependents; and the homeless, who I have seen wandering the streets. But what really set me off is the number of Vets, many with problems as a result of their service that are being lost in the cracks of life. And guess what? I have the means to assist and improve the lot of many in Abbotsville.

The valuables accumulated during the two 'Shootouts on Everett Mountain' are sitting, accomplishing nothing. The horde of funds in cash could lighten the burden of many and change many lives. Besides, nobody will be shooting at me, or remodeling my cabin, with small holes in and large ones out!

Who am I you ask? My name is Don P. Johnson, forty-six, single, and I have never been seriously involved. While in the Special Forces, for my twenty-five, I never felt comfortable with the thought of getting involved, for a number of reasons; first, it would not be fair to anyone, always wondering if I would return from an assignment or tour. Second, without a very clear focus on my task at hand, and the many risks, I could end up very dead if my mind wandered even for a millisecond. My profession was killing, I was a sniper, and it was a profession I excelled at. And no, it doesn't bother me, never did and never will. I looked at my job as being an exterminator: getting rid of vermin.

Now with a worthwhile goal, my mind gets into the mix. The first thing that comes to mind is throwing money at the problem usually doesn't accomplish anything, as our governments have proven time and time again. Administration gets the bulk and the needy get the crumbs. It is my intention to do some research, get some input from others on how to reach the actual individuals in need. Money is not a problem, but my hope is it does the most good for the most people. The fund will be known as 'The Carl Hendricks Benevolent Fund, ' in memory of John 'Skip' Watson's partner who ended up dead because of bad Intel. Skip would like that.

Now, with that thought placed in my mind, with whom or where do I start? Ones I know of are the Salvation Army, the Vets assistant program and four soup kitchens; but, I am sure there are more worthy causes out there. There is no way anyone is getting rich from a soup kitchen; some of the actual kitchens could use an update. The one that comes to mind is two blocks from the Vets Help Centre. It is located in what used to be a church basement. Some years ago, the church congregation closed the church and assimilated with another larger church. The building is rundown and maintenance is lacking. Rumor has it that the local riff raff have taken the main level area. It is now the centre of pushers and other malcontents, who harass the poor people in need of a good meal. With my expertise with attitude adjustments, it may be an area where I can help.

Tuesday morning I visit the kitchen and locate the manager, who also happens to be the cook, and who turns out to be a Vet, whose Army profession was being a cook, Sargent Rick Clark. When I told him I had been in the forces as well, it was like old home week. He invited me to sit and have a coffee. The kitchen staff were preparing for the lunch crowd.

"How is your kitchen doing?"

"We are doing, but would like to do more. We need more room and, of course, more donations. Every once in a while we get an envelope with a pile of cash from some unknown donor: they have no idea how far we make that go."

"It is good to hear that somebody cares. Do you have any problems other than fund raising?"

Rick's face grimaces: I've touched a nerve.

"Tell me, maybe I can help."

"I really don't think you can. We've asked the police and they couldn't do anything."

"Tell me about it, please."

"Are you aware the building used to be a church?"

"Yes, up until a few years ago."

"When the church was here, the parishioners were very good to us. As long as we provided for the needy we had their blessing; but, then they moved, leaving the main floor vacant. Everything was fine, for a couple of months, and then we heard dopers had squatted in the church area. We thought the police would get rid of them for what they are doing is illegal. But every time the police would come they would leave, and then they were back the very next day. Finally, the police didn't come anymore. The lowlife harasses our clients, some demand they pay them for attending our free lunch. I would like to beat the shit out of them; but, if I get arrested, then nobody would take over the kitchen. A lot of deserving people would be hurt and go hungry. I can't afford that."

"Maybe I can help."

"What can you do?"

"I will politely ask them to move."

I must have struck a funny bone for Rick actually laughs.

"Good luck with that! The police tried several times, and they are still here."

"Maybe it was the way they asked!"

"Well, I hope you succeed. With Christmas this close, I really don't need to be worrying about them harassing my clients."

Part of my training in Special Forces was hand-to-hand, and not in the gentlemanly terms. My hand-to-hand training was to disable or kill my opponent. If for some reason I got compromised on a mission as a Sniper, my adversaries would have loved the opportunity to remove my balls, and anything else they could cut off me, with a dull knife. So, it was kill or be killed. Fortunately, in all my time in the services, that situation only came up three times and, since I am here to reminisce about it, you can assume I won the altercations!

Watching Rick and his staff, provide for the needy, is an eye opener. They address many by their first names and that brought smiles to their stressed faces. Among their guests are a number of Vets, many wearing remnants of their uniforms, proud men who have fallen on hard times. Unfortunately, a number of the Vets are scruffy looking, long hair and untrimmed facial hair. This is where 'The Carl Hendricks Benevolent Fund' can help. It had me wondering if that meal could be the high point in their dismal day, and Rick and his staff were responsible for it. Personally, I'm not be a people person; I could never do it!

Before leaving I question Rick about the Vets and their hygiene. He explains that some are having problems handling money; and some need help with their grooming. When asked what would help, he suggested a supply of personal products that he would distribute to them during dinner. He also mentioned if he had the funds, that he would install multiple showers, providing them free to all. Waving goodbye to Rick, I leave the mission. Taking a look at the old church, my thought is, "What the hell! I might as well take care of Rick's problem now, and there is no time like the present." Besides, I do feel a bit pissed off that someone is trying to ruin so many people's bright moment of their day.

Outside the prior church doors, it reeks of marijuana smoke. I knock. The door starts to open; I can smell him or it before I see him. I've spent a week in a ghillie suit, crawling on my stomach, and didn't smell as bad as this; hell, I don't know what to call him!

"What the fuck do you want?"

"I am here to request you and your friends vacate the premises before three o'clock."

He looks at me and laughs, turns and hollers.

"Hey guys, there is an asshole at the door asking that we vacate the premises!"

There is a rumble of footsteps from behind the door and soon, six or seven scraggy individuals are facing me.

"You're right, he is an asshole. Tell him to fuck off!"

"Wrong answer!"

I straight-arm the first jerk, in the area between his ribs. The blood drains from his face, as he collapses. The others just look at me.

"Anybody else?"

Apparently, there is none with any fight in them.

"Please vacate the property by three o'clock this afternoon, and never come back. I have more of what your buddy got. Would anyone like to argue the point? Great, you have a wonderful day as long as it isn't here! I will be back tomorrow, hoping to find a very empty room. I strongly suggest that you don't harass anyone as you leave as that would really make me unhappy and, I assure you, I will find you!"

Before leaving the area, I empty my wallet of all the cash I have in the Mission donation box. Tomorrow, he will find a substantial wad of cash from the 'The Carl Benevolent Fund.'

The needs of the Vets and others, for hygiene products, will not leave my mind. What can I do about it? Then, it hits me: a hotel supplier, providing those small shampoo, soaps, etc. There must be a supplier in Abbotsville. There is a large edifice on Brock Street, a wholesale outlet. What the hell, I can ask! The interior consists of a counter, and boxes are piled everywhere. Somewhere in the back a buzzer sounds. I must have triggered it walking in. Then, to my left, a man appears.

"Can I help you?"

"Hopefully you can. I will tell you what I would like and you can tell me if you can."

He now has a big smile on his face. I must have said something humorous. Explaining to him what I need, and why, he listens intently.

"This must be your lucky day. Two days ago we had a delivery; unfortunately, the forklift had a hiccup while lifting two palettes of products lost its hydraulics and both palettes hit the cement. The insurance will cover our loss, but we have to get rid of the product, which is what you are looking for, with exception of safety razors and shaving cream, which I can give you a deal on if you take the damage goods."

"When you say damaged goods, explain."

"A number of the boxes split, I now have burlap bags of soap, toothpaste and shampoo. Some of the containers are dented, but the product is fine."

We negotiate a price and delivery. Then I realize that I don't have any money. I gave it all to the mission.

"We have a deal; I can get you the funds later today. Can you deliver this afternoon?"

"Hey, once you pay, they will be on a truck. I need the space; I have three shipments coming in later today."

I provide him with Rick's Mission address and advise him to list the payer as 'The Carl Hendricks Benevolent Fund.'

It meant a trip to my safety deposit box, and then back to the suppliers. Rick should have the product today.

The next day, I join Rick for a coffee. He looks at me weirdly.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, really. A welcome cash donation came in yesterday and, because of that we are preparing a special lunch for our clients today. And we had a delivery from a wholesaler of hygiene products paid for by 'The Carl Hendricks Benevolent Fund.' It seems more than coincidental that you and I talked about that yesterday. Did you have anything to do with it? By the way, did you happen to talk to the druggies upstairs?"

I ignored the reference to the hygiene products.

"As a matter of fact, I did! I asked them politely if they would move on and not bother your clients. By the look on your face, can I assume they left? Is there a problem?"

"None! The door to the upstairs area was left open; so, I checked this morning, and there wasn't a soul anywhere! The place is a mess, but everybody is gone."

Who says asking nice won't get things done?

Some of the remnants, from the last adventure with J. P. Morgan, are the bearer bonds, diamonds and gold wafers. The gold and diamonds should be relatively easy to convert to cash, if needed; but, my concern is about the bearer bonds. There is a pile of them in the safety deposit box. Since I am in Abbotsville, I go to the bank and retrieve one bond. I believe they are genuine. I really can't see the hoods trying to pass off one-hundred thousand dollar counterfeit bonds; however, how they got into the hood's hands is likely questionable. When I leave the vault, I ask for an appointment with the manager.

"May I ask the reason for the appointment?"

"I would like his opinion on a bearer bond."

"I believe the assistant manager, Mr. Graves, will be able to help you."

"Thank you."

"Please wait a moment; I will see if Mr. Graves is free."

A middle-aged man, dressed to the nines, comes towards me with his hand extended.

"How can I be of service Mr.?"

"Don Johnson, just call me Don. I would like you to look at this and give me your opinion."

I hand him the certificate. He looks at it and then there is a surprised look on his face.

"Please, shall we go to my office and I will check."

His office is well accented: a large window provides a blast of natural light.

"Hmmm, let me take a look at this. I have never seen one in that denomination. May I ask where you got it?"

"Inheritance."

He rolls his chair in the direction of a small bookshelf, looks for a few moments and grabs a binder, rolls back to his desk and starts leafing through it. He stops three or four times then settles on a section.

"This is the same bond, for a lesser amount. Hmmm, same watermarks too."

He holds it to the light; you can actually see the watermark image in the natural light. He rubs the surface between his finger and thumb.

"It feels right; I do believe it is a valid bearer bond."

"How would I go about getting cash for it?"

"Once you complete the ownership section on the bond, I can send it to our head office; they would send it out for collection. Assuming everything is valid, I would guess in about ten days the cash would show up in your account, less our handling fee. If there is a problem, I will personally call you."

"I would appreciate if you would do just that. I have a few things I would like to do for Christmas with the money."

"Consider it done."

We stand, shake hands, and I leave. This could prove interesting.

Since I am in Abbotsville, I call Jayden.

"Hello Jayden, are you doing anything? Can I buy you lunch?"

"Charlize too?"

"Of course, and you can pick the restaurant."

"Great! When will you be here?"

"Twenty minutes tops. I am at the bank and, as long as the traffic is light, I should be fine."

"Okay, we'll be waiting."

The traffic is light, and I pull up to the curb where both girls are standing. Both are attired in body hugging jeans, t-shirts and light jackets. Both have their hair in ponytails: they look gorgeous! Even John Thomas perks up.

"You girls look ravishing! I would love to take you both to the back seat and do bad things with you."

"I'm game. What about you, Jayden?"

"I am as horny as you are, Charlize. Can you get a motel room, Uncle Don?"

That is a wonderful thought! A quick call to the Tulip Motel secures the same room as we had the last time. Ten minutes later, we are in the parking lot. Once we are naked, we all climb on the bed and hug.

"What have you girls been up to? How is school? Are you ready for Christmas? What do you girls want for Christmas?"

That starts the discussion. What it boils down to is they both would like to spend part of their Christmas break at the cabin. Mrs. Rose, Charlize's guardian, hopefully will agree, because Jayden will be there as well. Fortunately, she has no idea of my relationship with both girls.

With me in the centre, I keep switching from one head of hair to the other. I love the smell of shampooed hair. Both are on their sides, their soft, but firm, titties bore into my side. Now this is my Christmas! There is nothing else on my list!

Then a thought hits me: I ask the girls about possible situations for my Christmas project.

"Do you girls have some ideas about Christmas projects that I may be able to help, either with physical help or, perhaps, a small donation that would actually make a difference?"

"Jayden, that woman in our apartment building, you know, on the first floor, doesn't she do work with kids?"

"Oh, I know who you mean. Jackie Abbott, she actually decorates bedrooms for very sick kids."

"Explain."

"There are kids who are very sick, who perhaps may even die because of their affliction. What Jackie does is contact the parents and asks if she could do their child's bedroom. She decorates with happy themes with very bright colors; I've seen one of them. She does put her heart and soul into what she does. She provides everything out of her own pocket. She is really a good person."

"I am sure there is something I can do to help."

That is just a matter of money. Since Ms. Abbott is funding it with her own funds, this is a good cause; the money will be spent where needed.

"Can you think of anyone else that needs help?"

Both girls look at each other and their faces goes from happy to concerned. Something is bothering them, something not in the Christmas spirit.

"Okay, out with it!"

"There are two things, not really Christmassy."

"And they are?"

"A couple of girls in our class are having problems."

"And?"

Jayden looks at Charlize, Charlize looks at the floor. What can be the problem?

"We think they are hooking, and we don't know if they want to. There are guys that meet them after school, put them in the back seat of a black Escalade, and they drive off. There could be other girls as well. I watched one girl, Betty, being dropped off; she looked really rough, and her hair was a mess. I think she may have been crying and she walked bowlegged to the front door. I don't know what to do!"

"What I would like you to do is to write every girl's name down, whom you think may being forced into prostitution, and I promise you, I will look into it."

I don't let on, but this makes me really pissed; young school girls should never be put in a position to have to do anything against their will. I can feel my blood start to boil! Females are sacred, both young and old. I can hardly hold myself in check thinking about this!

"Is there anything else you want to ask or tell me?"

"Mary Swift is a retired school teacher. What she has been doing is tutoring young people to assist them to understand concepts of math and science. There are many pupils that have moved on to higher grades because of her tutoring. She makes it feel easy for a lot of pupils."

"So, what is the problem? Money?"

"Likely a bit of money would help with the purchase of writing materials and maybe some books; but, that isn't the real problem for Miss Swift."

"Tell me."

"There is a group of punks who charge her fifteen dollars for her to use the park bench. They told her it is their turf, and if you want to use it, she has to pay. They have even threatened her."

"And you know that how?"

"A month ago I was having a problem in math. I tried to beat it myself, but the concept just wouldn't register. I knew of Miss Swift's group, and went to talk to her. While I was there, a punk came up to her with his hand out, she paid him with a five and a ten. He just took it, laughed at her, and left. I asked what that was for and she said I shouldn't worry about it. She did help me. I don't think it is right her having to pay."

And it isn't! Now I have three projects: one can be settled with a donation to a very good cause from the Carl Hendricks Benevolent Fund; but, the other two will take a bit of recon work. Still, I am sure I will able to come up with a painful solution for the predators.

One of the three situations, that the girls brought to my attention, is solved with an envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash dropped into Miss Jackie Abbott's mailbox. The girls will likely hear about it, and I can easily provide more cash.

It has now been two days since I talked to Jayden and Charlize. Today, a visit to the park is in order. My goal is to locate Miss Swift and her learning centre. She has to be good if Jayden is shouting her praise. In my mind, I wonder who in the hell would bother a woman helping kids? But first, I have to find her. After buying the local newspaper, I stroll through the park. It really wasn't hard to locate Miss Swift. She is sitting on a park bench with four kids, of the younger set, listening to her. A smile crosses my face, as the students are nodding as she explains something. She is getting through to them!

After a good twenty minutes, five of those were taken up with the local paper. If it wasn't for the ads, there wouldn't be a real reason for the paper. A group of three males come down the same walk I had used. They stop in front Miss Swift's group, one goes to her, hand extended, and Miss Swift looks at him in disgust and hands bills. The smart ass makes comment.

"See, that isn't hard. See you tomorrow."

Under my breath, I comment 'Not if I have anything to do with it.' Dropping my newspaper on the bench, I follow the trio. On the way out of the park, they seem to harass five more groups, who all hand the leader cash, extortion. Out of the park, they all climb into a late model Toyota. I record the licence plate. It may take some time to find the head of this snake.

It took me ten minutes to get to Jayden's school. Parking across the street, in a strip mall parking lot, gives me a view of the front of the school. Now it is just a matter of waiting for the Escalade. The sound of a buzzer fills the area; school is being dismissed for the day. A horde of students pile out of the school: it is mass confusion. Then the Escalade appears and parks by the curbside. The engine continues to run; I can't see any of the passengers because of the privacy windows. Four young girls appear from the crowd, a male jumps from the SUV and leads them to the back door. Once inside, the Escalade drives off.

I have a plate number. My intention is to follow the vehicle. It takes some doing, considering the students, a number of school buses and, of course, parents picking up their children. I do manage to keep the Escalade in sight. Then it turns right into what appears to be a residential neighborhood. Not your concept of a hooking paradise. I follow and the unit turns left into what appears to be an estate. I pull to the curb and watch. The Escalade stops and not only the four I watched get into the unit, but two other girls as well depart the unit, and even at this distance they look very young. All are herded to a side door and disappear. More info for my little black book: I record the address and house number, 47 Wandering Place, Abbotsville. There is more going on here than prostitution.

My problem is I have no contacts in Abbotsville; no one I can turn to for information. Maybe Skip can help. John 'Skip' Watson is a former CIA agent. He is now a private investigator. I befriended him and he got me tangled up with a hood by the name of J. P. Morgan, who is no more. There is a good chance that Skip will have a contact in Abbotsville.

Once at the cottage, I email Bill with the plate numbers; his sources will provide the ownership information. Second is an email to 'Skip, ' asking him for a knowledgeable contact in Abbotsville. Now it's a waiting game. Still at the laptop, I pull up my bank site and log on to check my account. Low and behold, there is a sizable deposit of ninety-five thousand dollars! The bank's fee was five percent. The deposit has me wondering if the IRS will be notified. How in the hell can I explain the cash? Another email to Bill: if anyone knows the ramifications, he will. Paying taxes really doesn't matter, it is free money; but, will the large deposit draw attention as possible money laundering?

Bill's first reply provides names and addresses of the vehicle owners. Hell, there are no shell corporations, but actual real names! Both names mean nothing to me. My salvation will be Skip's reply. I desperately need an individual with actual information. However, the next email was from Bill answering the financial question. His info said I could be taxed on part the money, the interest portion; but, since its source was an investment, a paper document that can be tracked, then, in his opinion, it would not cause anyone to look at it as laundering. He suggested that if there were more funds from the bonds that it be directed to the account he manages for me. He may be able to invest it, in a vehicle with less tax. I still haven't heard from Skip.

Finally, there is a reply from Skip,

'What have you gotten involved with this time? More crispy critters? I have two contacts for you; both are very informed about Abbotsville and all the low life. Len Porter, a reporter for the Abbotsville Times, and Ray Twayne, a detective with the Abbotsville Police department. I worked with him a few times: he is a good detective who takes no shit! I have called both and mentioned you may call. If you need help, call. I owe you. Skip.'

Len Porter has a bi-line with the Abbotsville Times. I have read him a couple of times, it's usually investigative reporting. I call him and arrange for an appointment for tomorrow at three. It is a start. The two names I have are Al Grey and Leroy Rush and, of course, the address where the Escalade dropped off the girls. Before the meeting with Porter, I attend my bank, visit the safety deposit box and remove more bearer bonds. From there I go to 'post it' and package the bonds. Bill is going to get a surprise. I forwarded twenty-five certificates to him. That should be interesting.

Len's and my meeting place is a restaurant across from the newspaper. I arrive at two-forty-five, order a coffee, and wait. It is obvious that this is the area of choice for the newspaper staff; the gist of the conversations is all about today's edition. The coffee is not the best; but, it will have to do. I watch the main door; but, my problem is I have no idea what Len looks like. Then a well-dressed, large man and, by large I mean he has to be at least six foot three and built like the proverbial brick shit house. He scans the patrons and his gaze sets on me; then, he walks towards me.

"Hello, are you Don Johnson?"

"Guilty, you must be Len Porter."

He extends his hand and sits down.

"I got a call from Skip; he says you are a good shit and that I should help you, if I can. May I ask how you met that wild man?"

"I don't know how Skip would describe our meeting; but, I would say we have similar interests in vermin."

"You do know my Skip! How can I help you?""

"I have two names, who I am sure are not the bellwethers of goodness and light. I hope you can shed some light on them."

Handing him my two-name list, he appears to study them, and then looks up at me.

"Two of Abbotsville finest! Al Grey is a petty punk, involved with minor extortion, selling illegal cigarettes and petty muscle. He runs with a gang lead by Hugh Prosser. The world would be a lot better without them; I speak hypothetically, of course. Now Leroy Rush, how in the hell did you come across him? He is a real peace of work too! He is an enforcer, of the worst kind, and has been connected with three murders, nothing proven though. I believe he is involved in prostitution, but have nothing to confirm it. Rumor has it he is intimidating young girls to become 'Auction Girls.' Rumor also has him connected with Dwayne Riser; a shady, but very rich, real-estate developer."

"And this address, 47 Wandering Place, Abbotsville."

"Now you are getting my interest! That is the private residence of Dwayne Riser. Why are you interested in that?"

"One more question and then I will tell you what I know. What are 'Auction Girls?"

"This is only information from the street, nothing I can actually prove. Young girls are enticed, or deceived, into becoming 'Auction Girls.' The story goes their young bodies are auctioned off nightly, to the highest bidder, for three hours of the girl's time. Each girl is apparently dressed in very revealing outfits, each is placed on a pedestal, and a high-resolution camera takes intimate close-ups of them. The images are sent to tablets, which are on every table. Their vaginas are exposed to extreme high definition close ups and, if the young lady happens to be a virgin, she is asked to spread her lower lips to expose the membrane to the camera. They are also required to turn with the rears facing the camera and spread their cheeks exposing the size of their anal openings. Rumor has it virgins go for up to thirty five thousand."