Good Intentions (Samogon 1) (8 page)

Shortly before three in the afternoon, Chris left the hotel and drove two blocks to a plaza of stores. He parked in front of Shelby’s Pizza Pub, a popular hangout for the college crowd, then walked next door to a sporting goods store. There, he bought a University of Charleston hooded sweatshirt and a ballcap. He had the Greek letters ΠΣΔ pressed on the front of the cap. Pi Sigma Delta was a large black fraternity.

Back at his truck, Chris put the hoodie on and pulled the ballcap down on his head.
Next, he walked across the main road to Campus Storage, a large self-storage business that serviced students from all the local colleges. Many students had units year-round that they used during the Christmas and summer breaks. Using a fake ID and paying cash, Chris rented a storage unit big enough to park a car in for one week. After renting the storage unit he returned to Shelby’s Pub and ditched the ballcap in the cab of his truck. No need to wear it and risk running into someone who was actually in the fraternity.

Chris sat at a small table at the front of the pub where he could watch the truck and street through the window.
While he waited for all the businesses to change shifts, he ordered a roast beef and turkey sandwich on french bread, topped with Swiss cheese, tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise. While he ate he watched people come and go throughout the plaza. The traffic on the street flowed without incident. Nothing stood out to Chris as being unusual. He was confident no one was following him or even aware of why he was in Charleston.

It was almost four o'clock when Chris went back to his storage unit.
He backed his truck halfway into the unit and discretely unloaded the forty-two boxes of brandy, then secured the locker with his own padlock. Afterward, Chris drove around Charleston, taking side streets, pulling into businesses, circling back, and stopping in parking lots. When he was convinced he wasn’t being followed, he hurried back to Shelby’s Pub to beat the college crowd and guarantee himself the table he had next to the window.

He took out a prepaid cell phone and called his customer.
He told the gentleman that he would arrive in town around eleven the next morning, and would be staying at the Motel 6 on the south end of the city. They agreed to meet in the parking lot of a Walmart store near the Motel 6. While they talked, Chris could hear a phone ringing in the background and then a woman’s voice: “Boiler Room Lounge. How can I help you?” Chris knew now the name of his customer’s upscale bar. Chris felt a little tired playing these shadow games, but it was, after all, his first big run without Mr. Donovan. Maybe he was overreacting, but the paranoia kept him alert. Complacency he could not afford, not with this big of a load.

The worrying, watching, and waiting kept him hungry.
He ordered a king-size meatlover’s pizza and a pitcher of beer. The slices of Canadian bacon were hickory-smoked and almost three inches around. The ample chunks of Italian sausage had a spicy bite. Thick sliced pepperoni and mozzarella cheese covered the rest of the eighteen-inch pizza. For the next three hours, Chris sat in the pub staring out the window, watching the storage facility, eating pizza, and drinking beer.

After looking up the address, Chris got in his truck and drove down to the Boiler Room to scout things out.
Surprisingly, the bar wasn’t but fifteen minutes away. Chris didn’t know if he would go in and have a drink or what he would do. It was shortly before nine in the evening when he arrived. Right away he knew he didn’t belong.

The parking lot for the Boiler Room was filled with high-end vehicles, mostly sedans.
Mercedes, BMW, Lexus, Cadillac, Jaguar, Audi―you name it, it was parked. At the front door were a doorman and two valets. Everyone coming and going was over forty years of age, well dressed and white.
Must be lawyers, doctors and corporate executives
, he thought to himself.

He parked across the street and just sat there, watching from the cab of his truck.
He didn’t have any idea what he could do or what he should do, but curiosity had the best of him and so he just sat there watching.

Chris passed his time thinking of Rochelle and remembering her father’s words
—
grab that daughter of mine and make her yours.
He wanted nothing more than to have Rochelle as his own and have a family with her. At times, though, he thought she was so smart, so beautiful, that he wasn’t good enough to win her heart, or that sooner or later she would move on to someone more promising. Other times, he knew no other man could make her happy.

Another hour past and then a curious event played out.
A black four-door Chevy Impala with government tags pulled into the bar, bypassing the valet and driving right into the parking lot. A man in his late forties exited the driver’s door. He was tall, wearing blue jeans and a simple sports coat. From the passenger-side a woman in her late twenties exited. She too was wearing blue jeans and a suit jacket. Moments later a man exited from the service door of the Boiler Room. The three of them conversed at the front of the Impala. It seemed as if the tall government man was doing all of the talking and all of the bossing around. The other man didn’t seem happy but appeared to be going along with whatever he was being told.

Chris wasn’t liking this at all.
He didn’t like not knowing if the man was his customer.
Only one way to tell
, he thought. Down from where he was parked was a payphone. Chris quietly got out of his truck and walked to the payphone. He called his customer, ready to hang up. Sure enough, when Chris heard the phone ringing he saw the man in the parking lot reach into his pocket and pull out a cell phone. “Hello?”
Click.

This isn’t happening
, Chris said to himself. He drove around Charleston while thinking about what to do. There was no way he could follow through with the sale. Chances were he couldn’t reload the truck before heading home, not with this much heat. Had he not heard that woman’s voice over the phone, had he not driven out to the Boiler Room, in just a few hours he would be in handcuffs and heading to a federal penitentiary for a long sentence.

It was almost midnight when he got back to the Red Roof Inn.
In his room, Chris took a long hot shower. He kept the lights and television off, not so much to make the room look unoccupied, but because he preferred the tranquility of the still darkness. For the rest of the night he thought of nothing but Rochelle, the only girl he had ever loved. He fell asleep with a shower towel wrapped around him as he held the Sig .380 securely in his hand.

Early the next morning, Chris had breakfast at a local diner. He ate like it was his last meal. More waffles, three scrambled eggs, sausage links, and bacon. While he ate he contemplated his situation. Thirty minutes later and after three glasses of chocolate milk, Chris ordered a plate of chicken-fried steak with gravy and two buttermilk biscuits.

The old waitress just looked at him.
“Young man, are you all right? It’s not often I see someone eat so much unless they’re starving or stressed. You don’t appear to be starving.”

For a moment Chris thought he heard Rochelle’s mother speaking to him, making fun of how much he ate and wondering if he had a tapeworm.
He looked up at the waitress with a gentle smile and said, “I’m fine. I’m just sorting things out in my mind, and I like to eat. Can I get another glass of chocolate milk while I’m waiting?”

The waitress returned his smile and nodded.

He played every scenario out in his mind. Not one involved finishing the deal. The safest plan was to just head home, but everywhere he looked now he swore he saw a cop. Every sedan he saw he swore was an unmarked cop car. Finally, he decided what to do.

He drove to the south
end of the city to the Motel 6. He pulled into a Shop-N-Go across from the motel and filled his truck with gas. He surveyed the motel parking lot—nothing. But next to the Shop-N-Go was a Ford dealership, and parked on the end of the third row of cars was a charcoal Mustang with two occupants who were watching the motel and the street in front.

In the cab of the truck Chris had a pair of binoculars that he used for hunting.
He grabbed his Bushnell’s H2O Compact optics and took them with him when he went to pay for the gas. On the way out, he stopped next to the ice machine and pay phones to hide himself from the Mustang.

He scanned the motel parking lot and spotted two older men leaving in a blue Chevy Suburban that had Virginia tags.
Nice
, he thought. Chris was able to read the room number on the door as they were leaving.

Next, he headed to the storage facility.
Again, he parked in the plaza and walked over. He extended his rental for a full month and paid cash. It was almost nine in the morning when he left the storage facility. Now it was time to drive over to the Boiler Room.

As he approached the tavern, he spotted his customer leaving the parking lot.
He followed the customer south across the city. The Walmart they agreed to meet at came into view, then they drove right by. Then they passed the Motel 6, and there in the dealership sat the Mustang and its two occupants. Two miles further his customer pulled into a city park. Chris kept going, trying to find a vantage point. He spotted an apartment complex on the opposite side of the park and quickly navigated his way over. Once there, he used his field glasses to search the park for his customer. There with the customer was an array of vehicles, including the Chevy Impala from the Boiler Room. Several law enforcement officers stood around the vehicles as if they were waiting for something to happen—like waiting for Chris to call his customer.

After watching for thirty minutes Chris made the call.
As the customer’s phone rang, the tall officer from the Boiler Room waved his hands in a circle and the rest of the officers gathered around, ready to roll-out at a moment’s notice. Chris could see a cord dangling from the customer’s cell phone and running to something in the trunk of the Impala. A recording device no doubt.

“Hello?”

Chris smiled and tried to disguise his voice without being obvious. “Yeah, it’s me. I made it a little early, but we might have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” asked the customer.
Agent Daniels was standing beside him, listening with growing concern.

“When we were leaving the motel this morning, my partner noticed a pair of cops sitting across the street.
Can’t imagine they’re watching anything or anyone else except us. We might have to forget our business today.” Chris kept his field glasses trained on his customer and the tall lawman as he played his game over the phone.

There are two of them,
Daniels noted. He wasn’t expecting that. It didn't matter—he had enough agents to handle five moonshiners. The customer shrugged his shoulders at Agent Daniels gesturing for what he should say. “Make the deal,” Daniels stressed.

While the customer replied back to Chris, Daniels radioed his surveillance team at the motel.
“2-36, be advised our moonshiners have made you. A possible two suspects at your location who we believe exited the motel just earlier ago. Sit tight for further instructions.”

“Copy that.”

“Did they follow you out or are they still parked there?” It was all the customer could think to say while he pondered ideas to convince Chris to go through with the sale.

“They stayed there after we drove out.
I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll leave word for the front desk to give you a spare key to the room. If the cops are gone, they must not have been watching us. The whiskey is in the room.” Chris continued his instructions. “Back-up to the room, load your truck, leave our money in the dresser drawer, and head out.”

“I want him there when the money exchanges hands,” demanded Daniels.
He then instructed his surveillance team. “2-36, clear out of there.”

The customer pressed Chris to alter the pickup as Daniels demanded.
“I’m not comfortable picking this stuff up without you there. Moreover, I don’t think the money will be there if housekeeping comes in and finds it. I’d prefer you be there.”

“Look, we’re going to do this my way.
I will call you at seven tonight. If you haven’t picked up the load by then, we’re pouring it all down the shower drain and heading back to Virginia. If you want this stuff, this is how you’re getting it.”

Daniels ran his hand through his hair.
His suspect just revealed a little bit more about himself—he was from Virginia, so Daniels thought.

“2-36, give me all information on any vehicles at the motel with Virginia tags.”

“Sending it to you now,” responded the surveillance team.

“Agent Martin, go to the motel and get the manager to give you guest information on anyone out of Virginia.
Do it now.” Daniels was not going to let his ghost slip away if his informant couldn’t seal the deal.

“On my way
, boss,” hollered Martin as she scurried off to her car.

Daniels looked at his informant and nodded.

“Okay, we’ll do it your way. What’s the room number?”

“116,” Chris
told his unsuspecting customer.

“No need to wait until seven tonight to call me back.
Call me in a couple of hours. I’ll be out of there by then.”

“Will do.
Be careful.”

As Chris hung up, he realized that his customer hadn’t even asked where exactly the surveillance team was or what kind of car they were in.
The man needs to work on his role playing skills
, Chris thought as he destroyed his prepaid cell phone and chucked the pieces out the window. And with that, Chris was heading for the highway and heading home. The brandy would just have to sit for now. He wasn’t sticking around to see how things unraveled. He couldn't care less. His little ruse was simply to buy some time to gather some information and to escape arrest. He turned his thoughts to the potential loss of $50,000. The Donovan family needed that money—
he
needed that money.

***

As Chris arrived at the farm, Rochelle ran out to meet him. She had been eager for him to return since the moment he left. As she neared the truck, she could sense that Chris was bothered. She took a quick look in the back of the truck and saw it was empty and figured he must have made the sale.

Standing still with her arms folded, she waited for Chris to come to her.
“What’s wrong?”

“It didn’t happen.”
Chris headed for the work shop. Rochelle reached out to him but he kept walking. She watched him for a moment as he walked by then followed after him.

Once in the work shop, Rochelle inquired about what happened.
Chris took a mere five minutes to sum up all that transpired in the past twenty-four hours.

“Well, there’s no reason to mull over it.
It’s done. You were able to keep the brandy, so all’s not lost.” Rochelle wrapped her arms around Chris, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Come in the house and eat. Mom has meatloaf on the table leftover from lunch, much more than she and I can eat.” She took his hand and led him back to the house.

Across the road, parked up a service path was a leather-clad rider on a red Ducati motorcycle.
He watched the young couple walk hand-in-hand toward the house, then he pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket and dialed a number. A minute later he hung up. After Rochelle and Chris entered the house, the Ducati rider sped off.

Rochelle prepared a plate for Chris, two large slices of meatloaf with gravy, mashed potatoes, and asparagus.
While Chris ate, Rochelle sat across from him watching him. Her mother walked in and, seeing Chris, she gave him a gentle kiss on the top of the head like she always did her daughter.

Louise Donovan was still mourning her husband.
Her cheerful spirit was lost and she appeared to have aged twenty years in the past thirty days. She spent a lot of her day in the bedroom sleeping while her daughter handled the cooking and cleaning. Her husband’s passing was an emotional toil that was getting the best of her. This afternoon, though, Louise wanted to have her talk with Chris about the farm. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

“This farm has to generate income to pay taxes and to
pay off the mortgage. I’m too tired to think about going back to teaching. Besides, a part-time teacher’s salary won’t pay the debts and sustain the two of us.”

“Momma, don’t you worry.
Everything will be all right,” Rochelle said, trying to comfort her mother.

“Be still,
I’m speaking with Chris and don’t try to patronize me. He’s the one who has to work the farm, not you. I know you mean well, child, but this falls on Chris.”

Rochelle was hurt by her mother’s strong words.
Like her father had done before, her mother was looking to Chris and it hurt. She wanted so much to be the one the family turned to, but her youth and lack of experience prevented her from understanding that when it came to the farm, Chris was the one the family had to turn to because he was the only one that knew how to farm.

“Ms. D., the corn will pay for some of the taxes.
I’m also willing to front you the money to pay the taxes now against a fair share of the corn at harvest time.”

“And what about my husband’s other source of income?
Do you intend to continue with that?”

Rochelle was surprised that her mother knew about her dad’s moonshine, but not Chris.
After all, it was all being done right there in front of her. How many times did Chris come and go with truckloads of fruit? How often did the sweet corn not find its way to market after being harvested? How often did he or Mr. Donovan make unexplained road trips that sometimes lasted two days? Not once did Louise ask her husband what he was doing or where he was going. She just accepted it and minded her own business. Richard was doing what he was supposed to be doing—taking care of his family.

“I do, Ms. D.
And I have been.” There was no other answer to give. The patriarch was dead, and now the matriarch was head of the family. “The $6,000 I gave Rochelle weeks back came from that source of income.” He thought if he were truthful with Ms. Donovan that she would relax about the money if she knew there was a steady source of income already coming in. But nothing and no one could get her to relax about the death of her beloved.

Louise turned to her daughter.
“Rochelle, if you don’t already know you will now. Ever since your daddy brought us out here from Atlanta, he had been distilling moonshine and selling it. I didn’t know what he was doing the first three or four years, but I figured it out later. Your father was very good at keeping his business to himself and I expect you, Chris, to do the same.”

Rochelle sat there quietly, not divulging that she already knew or that she was helping Chris.
But her mother wasn’t stupid or naive. Louis suspected Chris had already told Rochelle, but chances were she didn’t know Rochelle was helping Chris or she certainly would have said something.

“Chris, you have my trust just as Richard had.
I don’t expect you to really change anything regarding how the farm runs. I expect you to keep me informed about the farm and what else can be done.” Louise stood up and hugged her daughter, then looked to Chris. “I want you to come up with a plan to utilize more of the land for income and talk to me more later this week.”

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Chris.

Rochelle liked how Chris respected her mother. And despite being hurt earlier by her mother’s words, she was at ease knowing that her mother was trusting Chris and that she knew about the moonshine. Louise just wanted the family taken care of.