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2024 Duleigh Lawrence-Townshend. All rights reserved. The author asserts the right to be identified as the author of this story for all portions. All characters are original. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. This story or any part thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review or commentary.
All Aboard Andi's Dream
Chapter 18
Jarecki For Mayor
"Rosetti! Visitor!"
"If it's my mom, I'm not here," groaned Frank as he got up off his bed.
"Unless your dad liked the boys, he's not your mother," said the guard. "Hands." Frank stuck his hands through the opening in the bars that cut him off from the free world, and the guard put the heavy handcuffs on his wrists. Even though he was being chained up, Frank had a huge smile; he had plans to make things severely interesting. "You're in a good mood Rosetti, what happen, did you find a kitten to choke this morning?"
"That's one way of putting it. I have a lot of work to do outside and I finally found somebody who will do it for me."
"Oh? You have a business fucking up people's entire day back in Denver?"
"Something like that," said Frank as he stepped out of his cell and the guards put the ankle cuffs on him and latched his wrists to the waist belt they put on him.
"Let's go, people are waiting," said the guard, and they headed off to the visitation center. Walking with all that iron restricting your movement is difficult, and the guards kept up a brisk pace. Frank learned the hard way that if you don't keep up with the guards, you go back to your cell and the chance to speak with a visitor is missed.
They plopped Frank in a steel chair in front of a shaded window and eventually the screen went up. The moron that Frank called Junior sat anxiously on the other side of the glass. Things were looking up. Frank was expecting Judge Atherton to make his life more miserable that it already was, but he hasn't seen her in weeks. "How is your investment plan, Junior?"
Junior didn't look happy. "Well, we have your cousin on board. Your friend, Mister Mayor, was a big help, but your cousin's family doesn't want to invest the way we suggest."
Frank nodded. Clearly, they kidnapped Paul and Mayor Windecker helped. The little punk was a ham. He probably loved every minute of it. He probably fucked up everything so badly with his stupid "loving and caring mayor" act that the cops were out of their mind with him. But Andi wasn't coming up with the ransom demand. "Did she say that the investment figures were too far off?"
"No, they won't discuss the plan at all," said Junior.
Frank almost leaped in the air and cheered. He 'advised' Junior to request the published personal value of Paul, $157 million, knowing that the FBI would consider a ransom demand that matches that value to be a crank call. "That's a shame, but look, his wife is a mercenary bitch. She's got his money now. What does she need him for?"
"She's too busy running for office," groaned Junior.
"Look, if she keeps that up, I suggest you just cut my cousin out of the deal and drop him and concentrate on her," said Frank. "I'm sure if you brought her daughters on board she'd comply very quickly."
"Junior" stared at Frank in shock. Frank suggested Junior kill his captive, then go back and kidnap or kill two little girls. "I think that cutting your cousin out of the deal will be enough."
"Oh no, Mister Linwood, this is a great deal. It's a sound investment strategy. You just follow my suggestions and there won't be a problem."
"Junior" almost shit his pants when Rosetti used his name. Actually, his nickname was Ollie or Trey. Oliver Linwood III. Ollie's dad, Oliver Linwood II, had a very successful import business that he decided to sell one day. He also had a mildly successful automobile dealership that he decided to sell as well. The import-export business was the money maker.
Linwood imported young women and boys that could be sold domestically or exported to southwest Asia, where slavery was illegal, but there was no enforcement. North Korea and Eritrea have the highest rates of slavery on earth, but they don't have money. Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Russia, and China - that's where the money is overseas. Here in the USA, the big money was Boston, New York, Washington DC, San Diego, Los Angeles, Seattle.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Four million slaves were freed in 1865, in 1870 there were no slaves in the US, but nobody is paying attention now. Right now, there's over a million slaves in the US and the number is mushrooming. In the US, much of the slave trade is in sex workers but kids that don't take to prostitution become sweat shop labor, which is growing in the US. Meanwhile overseas, slaves are forced to work in many industries. Chances are that the electronic device or the t-shirt or blouse you bought on-line was made whole or in part by a slave. Mining cobalt, lithium, and rare earth elements by child slave labor for e-vehicle batteries is exploding in China and Africa, and nobody cares. The Linwoods could bring in the sex workers and sell them for a profit and export the run-aways and illegals and sell them for a profit, and nobody cares!
The really easy money was the other import business, fentanyl and synthetic opioids, cocaine and methamphetamine. These were the drugs of choice for Americans. Who cares if accidental opioid overdose is the leading cause of death for people ages 18 to 45? There are always more eager and willing customers where that stiff came from, and the money is good.
Oliver Linwood II made enough money to start a profitable investment scheme that looked and smelled legitimate enough, just like a modern-day Joseph Kennedy. Over the years, he made a fortune, and he planned to retire in Portugal. It was time to get out of that racket, but that idiot Adrien Lannon, the GM at the dealership and the heir apparent to the slave and drug trade, wanted to go for one more big haul before Linwood Motors became Jarecki of Portsmouth. But the shipment came over a week late.
Because Jarecki was so hung up on hands-on managing his new investment and not letting the Linwood employees run the show, the shit hit the fan and the whole bunch of them got locked up and Paul got a lot of free publicity. Enough free publicity to make Jarecki of Portsmouth the #1 Ferrari dealer in the tri-state area in a week.
"I can't bring anyone else into this. I just wanted your cousin to join our portfolio," said Oliver Linwood III.
"I'm not asking for any extra money to add an investor to the plan. The original finder's fee will be appropriate."
"Finder's fee?" asked Oliver
"It's a common thing. It provides me with a stipend, and it secures our trust," said Frank with a shit-eating grin. "I think twenty percent would be reasonable."
"Twenty percent? For a finders' fee?"
"Ok, tell you what," said Frank with a snake-like grin. "Add my cousin's brother to the deal and we'll make it five percent."
"Time," said the guard, and the screen closed, ending the conversation.
Oliver stared at the screen in horror. He knew exactly what Frank was implying when he said that the 'finder's fee' secures their trust... it keeps his mouth closed. If Oliver Linwood III wasn't so bent on revenge himself, he would have recognized that Frank was after the same thing, and like Oliver, he didn't really care about the money. If the end result was Paul Jarecki being nullified, that's all that mattered.
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While Frank returned to a chilly jail cell to gloat over the possible erasure of the Jarecki name for at least a generation, Veronica and Josh returned to Springville from a week in Erie, PA, with Veronica's dad. They drove through the snow-covered streets to Veronica's house, two blocks away from Paul and Andi's home. There seemed to be a huge crowd of people over at the big Victorian. There were cars parked all along Howard Avenue and up Second Street alongside the Jarecki's home. "Must be a party," said Veronica.
"Maybe survivors from Paul's New Year's Eve party still haven't gone home," said Josh.
"If I didn't know Paul, I'd say that was funny," said Veronica. "Let's unpack and call Pastor John." They parked Veronica's Navigator in the street and climbed over the snow pile left by the street snowplow that blocked the driveway. Entering the chilly house, Veronica turned up the thermostat and said, "I'll get started on the driveway if you want to look at the basement and decide what to do."
"No, ma'am!" insisted Josh. "I'm a southern man born and raised on the Saint Mary's river. I grew up in the shadow of a live oak covered with Spanish moss, and was raised on grits and barbeque. We learnt that when there's snow to be shoveled, it's the man's job."
"Oh, you shoveled a lot of snow living seventy-five yards from Florida?" asked Veronica.
"Well... no. But that's what we learnt. Now seein' as they ain't no cans of Miller Lite sitting around for me to verify their fluid level or capacity, I'll go shovel. Besides, it's your house, it's your dad, you know what you want and what he needs for an in-law suite. Make your plans, then we'll go get Pastor John to fix that and the other thing."
"You're so sweet," Veronica cooed, and she took her fiancΓ© in her arms and they kissed gently.
"Besides, I love playing with your snow blower," grinned Josh as he squeezed her luscious ass, then grabbed a heavy parka, fur lined mad bomber hat, scarf, and heavy mittens and headed outside through the back door. Veronica shook her head and smiled. He's definitely a man. He loves anything that has moving parts and makes noise, which includes Veronica. He'll do all their laundry because he enjoys experimenting with the different settings on the washer and drier. He loves the snow blower and the lawn mower, and when he moved in, he brought a forty-year-old Kirby vacuum cleaner with him, and it does an amazing job.
Somehow, he ended up as a member of Doctor Kocis' pit crew for her racing 1969 Chevy Nova. Well, that's now Didomissio Racing Inc. They got an old hard frame 1972 Ford Gran Torino GT from a junk yard and stripped it down to bare bones and were turning that into a pure drag racer so Lucy could drive her Nova on the street. Veronica smiled at how Paul and Gus were turning Lucy into a 'gear head', or maybe they were letting her inner gear head out. Her daily driver changed from a staid Ford Fusion to a lively 2017 Fiat 124 Spider Abarth, thanks to excellent salesmanship on Paul's part, and seeing Andi in her Porsche 911 and Lucy in her Fiat Spider. Lucy, Andi, and Macy were planning sports car cruises through the southern tier next spring while Paul and John watch the kids...
"Honey? I want a sports car too," called Veronica, but Paul was already outside clearing the driveway of snow that had frozen to nearly rock-hard consistency. She unpacked and hung his stunning uniform in a special bag. She's going to have to get that professionally cleaned and ready for the wedding, which she also needs to plan. He wore that uniform when he proposed to her, and down in Erie PA they got dressed up and posed for pictures for her dad, Mike.
She hauled a load of laundry down to the basement and put it in the machine, then sketched what she wanted on a pad of paper. The back of her house was on a hill, so the basement opened up at ground level. There should be no problem with emergency exits. She didn't want her dad walking up and down stairs, but the way her house was designed; the rooms were all three or four steps above or below each other. It was raucous and confusing, but that's how they did it back in 1899 when her house was built.
If they could move the washer and drier, add a bathroom with a walk-in shower next to it. Reading room, kitchenette, bedroom, patio... dad should love it. That's when she noticed that the roar of the snow blower ended and from outside, she heard his Jeep Gladiator cough to life. Not for the first time Josh swore that he was going to put a block heater on his Gladiator, and as usual, Veronica heard his oath from inside the house. His Gladiator was hard to start when the temperature was below 0Β°F and on top of that, it's been sitting in an icy garage for a week.
She saw her Lincoln slide past the dining-room window as Josh parked it in the garage, then came the repeated "Chunk! Scrape! Chunk! Scrape!" of snow being shoveled off the wooden steps by hand. Veronica put a load of laundry in the washer and went upstairs and began inspecting the pantry, freezer, and fridge and put a shopping list together. As she put a menu together for the next few days, Josh stuck his head in the front door and said, "Honey, y'all better get a coat and boots on. Something's going on over at Paul's house, an' I don't think it's good."
"What do you mean?" Veronica asked.
