Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
James stood in the darkness on this unusually cold spring night, only the flickering light from his lighter illuminating the space as he lit his cigar. Nighttime was his favorite time of day. Of course it had its hazards, but it was the best time to conduct business. Nas’, ‘Got Yourself A Gun’ played as he leaned against the old 1950 Buick. The clanking, ruckus, and loud bangs from hefty boxes being loaded onto the back of several trucks was a customary rocky song.
The cool breeze felt good wafting through his hair. He spat his half-smoked cigar onto the ground, stomped it with his thick soled black boot, then checked his watch.
“Archer!” one of his guys called out, clad in a black skull cap, jacket and attire. “Got a missin’ delivery. Case of Hennessy.”
He marched over to Calvin who stood atop one of the army-style truck bed, his gloved hands holding a piece of crinkled paper as he flashed a tiny flashlight on it.
“Where’s it goin’? Alaska or Alabama?”
“Alaska.”
“Look in the right storage shed, marked L-14. Leonard just got ’em in two hours ago. Must not have all been loaded.”
The man nodded, slipped the folded paper into his jacket pocket, and got off the truck to head back inside the dark warehouse with his flashlight in hand.
James knew where everything was at any given time. That was his job. His business. His operation. His lover. His baby. He protected it with all that was in him. He watched over it like a hawk. Surveillance cameras had been installed everywhere in this remote area of metropolis, a few miles past the quirky town of Crestone. There were security measures in place for trespassers, the police, and whoever else decided to try their hand at venturing onto his private territory. On the outside, the warehouse appeared to be a big storage facility for cardboard box distribution and sales. His clients would be moving companies, grocery chains, and the like. The sign said it: WILDE PACKING MATERIAL.
However, it was just a front for his real commercial dealings: smuggling alcohol for dry and moist towns, cities and villages around the country. His main exports were cigarettes and tobacco products, and on occasion, rare cigars from South America. He was prepared for pop-up audits, police officers, and the like. Some of the cops were well paid off to leave matters alone. Every now and again, he ran into one that wanted to be a lone cowboy, and depending on the circumstances, said herdsman would not arrive in time before things were stored away in the cloak-and-dagger spaces. If he did, there were two options: walk away paid, or end up lying six feet under. It didn’t matter to James either way. When presented with a problem, he always had a solution. He hadn’t gotten this far by being an idiot.
Minutes later, about twenty of his men were firing up the slew of trucks, ready to make the drop-off to runners—the guys that drove the goods into town. There were boats waiting at the River Grande and Arkansas River which sailed the items to their final destinations, and several private planes in wait for loading and delivery. He had about a dozen regular ol’ Joe drivers that made monthly runs as well, driving clear across the country to complete the mission. This didn’t include the fleet of truck drivers he hired to have the provisions onboard as they traveled the country. He vetted everyone involved, including the small-scale distributors, with the help of his assistant, and he was selective about who he let in his group, on his team, and definitely, who he kept close enough to be a part of what he termed, ‘the family business.’
Once the vehicles set out one by one, he made his way to his Buick and slipped inside. The entire interior flooded with electric blue lights. He reached over and turned on his music system. JID’S, ‘151 Rum,’ blared out the JBL Arena speakers. Lighting a cigar, he made his way up the desolate road full of dust until he was on the main highway with nothing but him and his thoughts for company.
As he headed back to his home in Cherry Creek, his phone flashed, and the Bluetooth made an announcement: ‘Incoming call from Women’s Correctional Facility.’ Caller: Irish. He hit ‘ignore’, and kept on driving—now with the music even louder…
Honey sat in her hotel room staring at a painting of a limp pink flower on the wall. The sun had just set and all of her camera equipment was now back inside the bags as if it were waiting to go back home, too. She tossed a glance at all her shit and shook her head. This was far from over. She’d spent the day humiliating herself—as she’d done the day before, and the day before that.