Sandusky Burning, page 5
“Stealing what? From who?” I asked.
“At Walmart. I found a credit card in the barracks parking lot. I have been broke; nobody ever sends me no money,” Sam said sadly.
“How much did you steal?” I asked, annoyed.
“I bought a bunch of groceries, fishing poles, a cooler, a Hoyt bow, a few other things. They never asked for ID. I left the store with it all and thought I was good. The guy who lost the credit card reported it, and they traced the charges. They saw me on the store camera and busted me.”
“Dear Lord, Sam, you got a dishonorable discharge for that? How fucking dumb are you?” I asked angrily.
“I was always so broke. And the credit card companies pay the customer back. I don’t understand why they came down on me so hard.”
I let that bit of stupidity go unanswered. From what I understood, military-on-military crime was a sin that would be punished severely. I learned later he also spent thirty days in the stockade.
“You had food, you had a place to live, you had a job. You had a purpose. You had respect. You needed a fishing pole and a bow to make your life complete? Are you kidding me?” I asked, raising my voice.
There was a flash of anger in his eyes, then it went away. He took another drink.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Mom is real angry. I don’t think I can stay at her place for long.”
His eyes were glassy, like he was ready to cry, but the tears never came. I took pity on him and offered him a job at the alley. He was a flawed man who would soon become a desperate man if he didn’t catch a break. Sam would see me as the guy who pulled him out of a bad situation, and that would make him feel a degree of loyalty.
There were a few empty storage rooms above the alley down the hall from my office. He cleaned one out, set up a cot, moved in there, and never moved out. There was a second-floor bathroom that was seldom used that we added a shower to.
Since that time, Sam had justified my faith in him. He did what I asked unquestioningly, most of the time. He didn’t mention my name during the times he found himself being questioned by the cops. Sure, he lost his temper and went too far from time to time, but that was his nature.
I continued along the back of the alley and hopped on my bike. It was a new maroon Harley CVO Limited, a top-of-the-line motorcycle.
I always parked around back because I didn’t want to advertise my presence on site. There were ten other spots for employee vehicles and other random vehicles I tended to acquire here and there.
My latest ones were a blue 2012 Ford Explorer and a gray 2007 Chevy Express van, which I had taken instead of cash from guys who owed me a lot of money. Cash was king, but I accepted goods and services if a customer was flat broke.
I started my bike up with a roar, rode across the parking lot, and made my way toward the campground. As I drove out onto Columbus Street, I questioned the wisdom of using the campground for some of my side operations. I could just as easily set up headquarters at the Cloverleaf Apartments outside of the campground for six or seven hundred dollars a month per unit. But this was Sandusky, and it was a seasonal economy. No one was around in the winter, it was too damned cold, so paying rent on unused apartments was a waste of money. A seasonal RV could be left at the campground year round and was much more cost efficient.
The seasonal nature of the area used to be a big economic disadvantage until a few local businesses had the vision to build indoor waterparks. It kept people coming to the area all winter, but that type of tourist was generally locked down where they were staying. A lot of the summer tourists who came to Gravity Junction stayed on the grounds at the park hotel, an offsite hotel, or at the campground. But those were mostly just a place to sleep and shower. Most of the time they were elsewhere. We operated in the elsewhere.
Waterpark tourists stayed at the waterpark. They ate, drank, played, and slept on site. Most of these parks had a colored wristband system to show who was authorized to stay there on a particular day. Having my employees do business there on the regular was too risky.
I passed Cloverleaf after I turned onto Nickle Lane. Cloverleaf was the international melting pot of a village that Gravity Junction plopped right next to a grimy trailer park and a dilapidated campground. Did anyone in human resources think this through? No, and I was glad for it.
Once inside the campground, I rode slowly up Starling, being extra careful at the gazebo. There was a woman who always screeched at speeding bikers and drivers. I saw her sitting on a stool out at the outdoor bar area and smiled at her. She ignored me, staring at her cell phone. She lost interest when she recognized I was going the speed limit and wouldn’t get a chance to scream at me.
An older white couple was pulling a little black girl in a red Radio Flyer wagon near the shower house. Grandma and Grandpa camping with their granddaughter. Things sure had changed since back in the day. It used to be that seeing mixed families was a rarity, but they had become commonplace. The integration breakthrough had been made possible by rebellious young white girls.
Some from the older generation were never going to accept blacks as equals. But what happens when your daughter brings home a black child from the hospital? Sure, there were a few stubborn old sticks-in-the-mud who would disown the daughter, but the rest adjusted. Who is going to reject a cute little baby with his own blood flowing in the baby’s veins? Suddenly the black kid is part of the family, which made it hard as hell to maintain their racial biases.
The Taj camper was at the end of the street, backing up to the fence that separated the campground from the trailer park. A destination camper, it was designed to be parked semi-permanently rather than towed to different locations. It was more of a residential trailer than an RV. At forty-six feet long, it was much longer than most trailers.
It wasn’t just an ordinary stock RV. I spent a decent amount of money having it customized. There was a layer of reinforced steel across the entire exterior, including the roof and floor. It was supposed to be able to withstand high-caliber firearm rounds, and the floor could absorb a small detonation if an explosive was planted underneath.
The windows were also reinforced and close to being bulletproof. They could be breached with a significant amount of gunfire, but they would hold for a while. I had enemies and would have been vulnerable in a regular RV. The extra protection also provided a degree of soundproofing.
I decided to turn the trailer into a bunker when it became obvious I couldn’t rely on campground security. If somebody wanted to come on site and shoot up my trailer, nobody would be there to stop them. I had considered putting people in the booth with professional skills, but that would be expensive and a bad fit for an easygoing family recreation spot.
Directly behind the Taj, on the other side of the chain-link fence, was Trailer Alpha. That was where my IT operation was headquartered.
It was a plain, gray doublewide with a small deck built out back. On top of the deck was a small table and two lonely lawn chairs that had never been used. There was also a medium-sized shed on the north side of the backyard with gray siding that matched the trailer.
The grass needed cutting; I would have to get someone over there. That was a detail Chuck should have been taking care of. The less attention that place attracted, the better.
As I rolled up, I saw that Viktor was sitting on a chair on the porch deck of the Taj, drinking from a red cup. He looked greasy and worn out, like he was fighting a summer cold or something. I parked my bike, walking up to the deck. Viktor stood up and shook my hand. He had a sour smell to him like he was sweating out alcohol.
He was about the same height as me, but I had a good hundred pounds on him. Unfortunately, most of it was in my gut and ass. Sitting in a chair in the bowling alley all day, eating bowling-alley food, and sitting on that motorcycle throughout the summer took its toll. I had a financial interest in a gym on Milan Road but rarely set foot in it.
“You smoke cigars?” I asked.
“I do,” he replied. I unlocked the camper and went inside. If you didn’t know you were in a camper, you would think you were in a nice, furnished apartment. Full kitchen, full dining room, large bedrooms at either end, two bathrooms.
I opened the cupboard to the left of the sink and pulled out a cigar box. I was not wasting a Cuban on this guy, so I pulled out a couple of Macanudos instead of my favorite Montecristo Platinums. I opened a drawer, grabbed the cutter, and went back out.
I fixed up my cigar and handed the cutter over to him. I pulled out my lighter and lit my cigar.
Viktor didn’t know what the fuck he was doing with his. He was spinning it around like he didn’t know which end to light. I thought about helping him but decided against it. He figured it on his own after a minute.
I lit his cigar and sat back, watching him. He took a deep puff, gasped, and coughed. The cigar went out. I leaned across and lit it again. More gasping, more puffing. His face became even more pale, which I didn’t think was possible. But he was a trooper and kept at it.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Sometimes I didn’t have the small talk in me.
“Hey fellas!” came Chuck’s booming, raspy voice. It startled me a little. He had come up from the east on foot, a rare bit of walking for him. Viktor stood up. I remained seated.
“Got an extra one of those?” Chuck asked, motioning toward my cigar.
“You know where to find them,” I replied. Chuck entered the RV. I could hear him open the cupboard and mill around. He came out with a Montecristo in his palm. Just as I figured, he chose one of the more expensive ones.
“Put that back and get a Macanudo like the rest of us,” I said, annoyed.
Viktor was coughing softly, just holding his cigar in his right hand. We sat in silence for maybe ten more minutes. Me and Chuck finished ours. Viktor left his half-smoked cigar in the ashtray.
I stood up and motioned them both inside. Chuck closed the door behind us, locking the handle and then the two bolt locks above it. I motioned toward the kitchen drawers. Chuck nodded and pulled out a handheld device that looked like a walkie-talkie. Except it wasn’t, it was an RF bug detector.
Chuck flipped it on and started waving it around the RV, as I had seen him do many times. Last summer, I had Sam pick up a cheap wireless bug set online, and he planted a few in the RV. I wanted to see if the detector worked or not.
Sure enough, Chuck came in, started sweeping, and the thing went off. Chuck’s face went pale; I thought he was going to throw up. He found both of them. I let him sweat for a while before I told him they were mine. I was afraid if I didn’t, he would have a heart attack.
Once Chuck cleared the camper, he went to work wanding us. I took it from him and wanded him. After I was done, I flicked the detector off and put it down on the small kitchen table.
Chuck opened the fridge and motioned toward us. I nodded. Viktor shook his head. He took out two Great Lakes Brewery Dortmunder Golds, opened them, and passed me one. Sam would have poured me a Woodford Reserve bourbon, but I let it go and accepted the beer.
“Okay. Viktor, so has everyone adjusted to their new work duties?” I asked.
“Everyone? Who is everyone?” he asked. I stared at him for a moment.
“The Romanian National Water Polo Team. Who the fuck you think?” I asked coldly.
“Oh yeah, everyone is good. They all know their jobs and ... and do them good,” he stammered.
“No complaints so far. Well, except for Thomas Polk. Sam and me will go over that later. Ok, Viktor, and we are talking how many again?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Six girls, three men,” he replied.
“How much attention have they raised?” Chuck asked.
“I do not understand,” Viktor replied.
“Will havin’ that many Romanians together seem odd to the other workers?” Chuck asked, taking a swig from his beer. “Don’t they spread their recruitin’ around to different countries?”
“No. Gravity Junction has many workers from the same country sometimes. It makes recruiting easier, and there will be less homesickness.”
“Okay. They are all staying at Cloverleaf?” I asked.
“Da ... yes. We have them set up in basement-level apartments, as you asked. The girls are in two apartments and the men in the other. The fourth apartment is empty,” he said. He was sweating a little, taking a long pull from his drink.
“I have Sam checking in from time to time, but I need you there too. There may be communication gaps that could use some translating. Stop by tomorrow. Make sure they are keeping the place clean. No drugs. No outside guests. The only people who are entering that wing besides them are people I authorize to be there. Understood?” I asked.
Viktor nodded. He took a drink, tilting his head back, finishing it.
The train horn could be heard faintly outside. That meant it was around 8:30 p.m.; I felt the vibration as it approached.
There was a rumbling within the trailer that gradually built. It wasn’t powerful enough to knock my beer bottle over, but I grabbed it off the table anyway. The train passing by always killed whatever conversation was happening. The rumbling decreased, and then it was down to a slight vibration again. The train horn sounded from farther away.
“Do you have anything stronger than this?” Viktor said, pointing at my bottle of beer. “Do people get drunk off of that?”
I glared at him for a moment, then pointed to the cupboard by the fridge. He got up, studied the liquor selection, and pulled out a bottle of Absolut. He brought it to the table and poured it into his red cup.
“Rocks are in the freezer,” I said.
“Rocks?” he asked, puzzled.
“Ice,” I said impatiently.
“No, thank you,” he replied, lifting the cup in a sort of saluting motion and taking a long swig.
I took a final swig of my beer, stood up, walked over, and tossed the bottle in the sink. I peered out the windows through Venetian blinds to see if anyone was around. I saw the guy at 31 walking up the street carrying a bag of garbage, heading toward the dumpster.
“What do we know about the stiff at 31?” I asked, sitting back down.
Chuck cleared his throat. “Interestin’ you should ask, Randy. I mentioned before he works for the government; we talked a little last season. I had a chat with him at lunch, and it turns out he works as a federal. Bragged about havin’ a security clearance. He is workin’ from his camper on a laptop,” Chuck said.
“Any dealings with him last year beyond a conversation or two?” I asked.
“Not really. He was always kind of a familiar face. His family was around all the time last year, comin’ and goin’ from the campground to the park. He has been up here for weeks now. I haven’t seen his family at all. I think he is having domestic troubles.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. Last year he never came up alone, except to maybe open and close the camper for the season. Now he lives here solo,” Chuck said, finishing his beer.
“So, somebody is most definitely having marital problems,” I said, shaking my head in mock sadness.
Chuck laughed. Viktor didn’t laugh at first but decided to when Chuck did. It was an odd, almost mechanical sound.
“Does he drink?” I asked.
“Yeah, had a few beers with me. He was on the clock at the time.”
“Shit, you are an expert on that, Chuck. Take a closer look at him,” I said.
“Sure, should I use Data?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking I see some opportunities here. Get with Data,” I said.
“Will do,” Chuck replied, getting two more beers from the fridge.
Brady 2
9:15 p.m.
I was returning to my camper from the dumpster, which was located about forty yards north of my site. Campground employees came by on work carts a few times per day to collect garbage bags left out by the street, but since it was evening, I walked it there myself.
The dumpster was within sight of the fishing pond. The campground had dug the pond and stocked it with different fish species, including catfish, bluegill, and perch. It was “catch and release,” so they were supposed to be thrown back. Unfortunately, a lot of the campers let their kids fish there alone, and when they caught a fish, they were unable to remove it from the hook properly. Occasionally a kid would rip the hook out through the side of the fish’s head and throw it back as if it could somehow recover from that type of trauma and live to be caught another day.
The most unusual part of the campground layout was its vicinity to the train tracks. They ran just north of the pond, coming so close to it that a train passenger could probably cast a line from the caboose. There was a fence around the pond, but otherwise, there was nothing between the campground and the tracks. If my kids were younger, I would have been concerned about one of them toddling out onto the tracks.
Instead of returning to the camper on Starling, I decided to loop around and walk down Sparrow. The seasonal campers were to my right, with the transients to my left. The campground’s transient sites seemed to be at about a quarter capacity. At the height of summer, all of the sites would be booked.
I cut through the back of lot 51 and entered onto my site at 31. The people at 51 weren’t out; otherwise, it would have been bad etiquette to cut through. I went in and washed my hands in the kitchen sink. My red plastic cup was on the kitchen table, still half full of frozen margarita, sweating water rings onto the surface. I made it from a mix earlier and then added a few ounces of Cuervo so that it would have more impact. It did, indeed.
I turned on the stereo, pushed a button to broadcast it to the outside speakers, and walked out with my drink. I grabbed a few pieces from the small stack of firewood stored beneath the camper and arranged them in the pit.
I sat down and selected a music app on my phone. I was able to connect to the stereo via Bluetooth. After selecting a 1990s alt-rock station, I adjusted the volume so it couldn’t be heard beyond my lot.
