American Nazis Winter JenningsChapter 6 Gunner
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American Nazis: Winter JenningsChapter 15: Ft. Worth Redux free porn video
I’d kept the FBI-seized grey Escalade, circa 2015, while I was back in Kansas City. It had been my intention all along to stock up, go back to Texas, and fuck Bob Randolph over.
And now my stock was sitting next to me as we barreled south through Missouri, a corner of fucking Kansas, down Oklahoma and north Texas into Dallas / Ft. Worth. I smiled at Kim Rhee, one of Harold’s little whores. Borrowed for an illegal sting. I picked the youngest looking one available.
He smiled back, happy with a change of pace, a trip, an adventure. I’d taken him to Wendy’s salon and with his naturally black hair replacing the pink, he looked like the innocent schoolboy he would have been in a better life. In a better world.
Bob Randolph’s paraphilia - young, male, Asian.
Kim Rhee.
Randolph paid for it on the Chicken Stroll east of Dallas. At least that was my bet. Based on $900 money orders and Visa charges for a rental trailer. And based on personal observation - I’d seen Randolph tell a Dallas pimp that a Asian whore, was too old. Outside a seedy bar, the Bruised Rooster.
As I crossed from Missouri into Kansas, then Oklahoma into Texas, I wondered if the Mann Act were still on the books. And I wondered if it included young boys.
Well, it didn’t matter, not really. What I had planned was so illegal on so many levels, what’s one more charge? My stratagem, brilliant in its conception, audacious in its simplicity, had about 1296 Things That Could Go Wrong.
I went over it, again, with Kim. “Okay, he’ll pick you up or not. Don’t sweat it if it’s a no-go. This is only one of my plans.” One of one.
He smiled, “He’ll want me.” That’s the right attitude to take into a clandestine operation. And, I reminded myself, Randolph hadn’t been interested in that Cinnabon girl who had tried flirting with him in Dayton. I believed he lusted after a different kind of pussy.
“Probably will want you. Okay, then what?”
“Rubbers, that’s one thing I insist on.”
“Good boy. And?”
“The bedroom. That’s where the cameras are.” He nodded to himself, “And I don’t look at the cameras. Just keep him happy.”
“Okay. Most important thing?”
“Shower. I lead him in there.” While I grab Randolph’s condo keys. I already knew I couldn’t finesse his locks, way out of my league. I could find someone who could, but that would bring one more person inside the circle.
I didn’t mind Daddy and Ash knowing, certainly not. And I had to trust Ash’s Dallas friend, Agent Stella Majors. Whom I hoped never to have to meet. Gertie and Harold knew I was up to something, that I needed Kim. But neither one had any idea it involved the Gunthers. That it would take place in Texas.
I was surprisingly calm. Both Daddy and Ash helped me refine the plan. It wasn’t perfect, what is? But two professionals, seasoned ones at that, had given it the nod.
Another reason for not being all that nervous in the service - Bob Randolph was also breaking the law. Fucking a young prostitute. If things go south, he won’t have much leverage. And, I doubted a messy bedroom scene was something he’d want to share with his only client - Greta Gunther. That would be the end of his quarterly gravy train.
Plus, I was packing. My .40 caliber Heckler & Koch. For which I have a License to Carry. Which is now Open Carry. Thank you, Texas Legislature.
Not that I planned to go Wild West, not even in Texas. But there’s something that calms down a confrontational standoff when the party of the first part, me, is armed.
Secret Agent Girl. On the job.
As I drove south to Texas, I was thinking about my last conversation with Ash Collins. He’d walked with me to the garage, lifted my case into the back of the Escalade. Next, I’d pick up Kim and leave on my quixotic mission.
Ash said, “There’s more going on in the national scene than Alicia got around to. Another reason why I okayed this ... Texas thing.”
“Oh?”
“It’s the Justice Department.”
He had a sour look on his face. “My Justice Department. A quiet trend, but some appointments require congressional scrutiny so word’s been leaking out. But a lot of appointments are under the radar. Take the US Attorneys. Every administration appoints its own team.”
“More conservative this time around.”
“Yes, but more than that at the staff level. You’re too young to remember the Moral Majority.”
I said, “Falwell,” to prove I could read.
“Yeah, well.”
I looked up at Ash. Black, coal black. Male. In a white country, in a white profession. Serving under a white administration. Lily.
He said, “There’s an unspoken litmus test in Justice these days. Unspoken at my level anyway. The new US Attorneys tend to be white, no surprise. But many of their staffers are also committed Christians. Which is fine. Probably illegal, but fine with me.”
“What isn’t fine?”
“There are Christians and there are Christians. Some of them are so fundamentalist, they choose the Bible over the law.” He paused, thinking, “Some of them are from fringe schools. Bob Jones University. Liberty University. Trinity Law School.”
“Trinity?”
“Southern California. Ranks at the top of the Most Devout Christian schools.”
“Oh.”
“And the movement isn’t just at the top levels - Justice is recruiting young attorneys for hundreds and hundreds of posts. Take a look at new hires who have clerked for conservative judges.”
“Like Alito and Thomas?”
“Like them, yes. But lower courts. It’s a movement, Winter. Directed by the VP, implemented by the Attorney General and his most dedicated followers. It’s far worse than it was under Reagan and Meese.”
White. Conservative. Christian. Devoutly Christian. But at the extreme end of the religious spectrum. Like those evangelical preachers who supported that Alabama candidate for the Senate. Of course I’m a fine one to talk about underage ... never mind.
Ash said, “Winter, I’m a Christian. Born and raised Baptist. Still attend, every Sunday that I can. But these new judicial appointments ... some of them are hate-driven. Blinded. Their form of religion is called patriarchal Christianity.” He paused gathering his thoughts, “I’ve voted Republican all my life. Until this last election.”
I gazed some more at Ash. I couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through to rise to where he was. Poor, black, rural Virginia. Now he was a rising FBI star. His daughter a senior VP at the Loyalist Charter.
And, in this current climate, if Alicia has kids ... well, enough speculation. Time for some action.
The first Texas challenge had been finding a suitable apartment near the Bruised Rooster. And then a cover story to explain to Randolph why Kim was Home Alone.
Those were tactical considerations. As was the proper deployment of hidden cameras. And how and when I could sneak in and flit away with his keys. And then reverse the procedure.
Another practical matter was the neighborhood pimp. If he’s anything like Harold and Pantone, he has eyes out there. Watching for competitive incursions. New prospects. New customers.
Kim would be both a freelance competitor and a potential whore. Of interest either way. Both ways.
What had seemed savvy, taut, in Kansas City began looking a little bit foolish as I drove around Ft. Worth. Too many what-ifs. Like the time and travel distance between the Bruised Rooster and the Kelton at Clearfork.
So, firmly in enemy territory, taking a hard look at my situational reality, I changed the plan. Starting with a meeting with the local fuzz, Stella Majors.
She looked competent. And smart. Buttoned down. In her mid-40s, a little thick in the torso, brown hair in a tight bun. She was a friend of Ash Collins. He trusted her, and I felt now that I had to. So I rolled the dice.
We met in the Hilton coffee shop in downtown Ft. Worth. A courtesy on her part. Kim was upstairs in our two-bedroom suite watching cartoons, playing video games. With instructions to stay put.
Agent Majors knew the broad outline of my plan; Ash had shared it. We both sipped lukewarm coffee - how the fuck difficult can it be to serve a cup of decent joe in a coffee shop? - as I outlined the new scheme.
Like Daddy, she listened. Carefully, closely. Nodded, “I like this better. A lot better. Let me make a couple of calls.”
I went upstairs to give her privacy. Watched the Roadrunner with Kim. Was I Wile E. Coyote? No, banish all negative thinking. But ... he was a schemer too.
Majors called me and I rejoined her. Someone had brewed a fresh pot.
She said, “We’re set. Go see Franklin Moss, he’s the assistant manager. Doesn’t know any details, just that you’re FBI. He won’t blab.” She stirred in another sugar, “Better not.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t want to have to call in Hostage Rescue.”
“You won’t.”
By 2 that afternoon, Kim Rhee and I were official residents of the Kelton at Clearfork. We had scored a two-bedroom furnished apartment around the corner from Bob Randolph.
I unpacked, leaving a few feminine items - lacy undies - on my bed. I staged Kim’s bedroom to look typically young teenager messy. We went shopping for toys, books, electronic games, more props. Groceries and wine and beer and booze. No telling how long this would take.
Vanessa and I are pretty tidy, but I didn’t want that look for Randolph. Digital devices, games, magazines, local papers. And swimwear for Mr. Kim Rhee. Board shorts, skimpy Speedos, denim. I was Gunther-bait in Kansas City. So, Ft. Worth, meet boy-bait.
I didn’t have to tell Kim how to flirt. How to make his availability known. But I did caution him, “Don’t be too eager. Don’t push things. We have as much time as it takes. Be coy. Let him chase you.”
There aren’t that many swimming pools in the Forgotten Northeast. Maybe none. But Kim’s not knowing how to swim became a blessing of sorts. School was out for the summer and the few Kelton kids who lived in the complex seemed friendly enough.
One of the after-work dads taught Kim the basics. So at least he probably wouldn’t drown.
Cover story. Keep it simple. Kim is adopted. His mother, Cathy, is divorced. She’s a consultant. Something to do with library science, could there be a duller topic? Works long hours.
I wasn’t really worried about conversational gaffes. Kim is so young; anyone would believe him. Especially, I hoped, Mr. Robert Randolph. Plus Kim has been dissembling almost all of his life. Probably since he learned to talk.
It took six days to reel him in. Randolph spotted Kim our first evening at the Kendall. Since Randolph’s office is in his apartment, that meant he spent a lot of time in the complex.
I used the first day to install hidden cameras. In Kim’s bedroom, in his bathroom. Then, just in case, in the living room. I tested them, retested them. Then forgot about it. They would work or they wouldn’t.
I talked with Stella Majors twice that week. Just ‘no new news’ conversations. Courtesy calls.
Pilar: Boobs and electric trains?
Walker: Intended for children, but men play with them the most.
Bob Randolph made his approach on a Monday morning around 11. Kim had been flirting, playing with him. Slowly. Carefully. Randolph knew I was out all day, often until 9 or 10 at night.
Kim gave me a detailed report each night before we went to bed. I knew the questions for him to ask, but he didn’t need a lot of prompting. Smart kid.
I stationed myself in a vacant fourth floor apartment that overlooked the L-shaped pool. Thank you Franklin Moss for being such a cooperative citizen. I couldn’t hear the poolside conversation, but it wasn’t that difficult to decipher the signals when Randolph smiled and pointed toward his own condo.
Kim was prepared. We’d gamed out various scenarios. I watched him shake his head, then smile up at the man. Shyly point to our place. Randolph looked around, just two other kids and a bored mom. Who may or may not be paying attention.
Randolph headed back to his own place. It hadn’t worked, my plan, or he was playing it cool. Not wanting to be seen walking away with jailbait, he’d show up at Kim’s door later.
The latter.
I scooted downstairs and positioned myself at the corner of our building. Waiting. And waiting.
I wasn’t worried about Kim’s physical safety; nothing in Randolph’s folder hinted at violence. Plus Kim had an emergency alarm - just pull the pin and klaxons would be blaring.
My concern centered around Kim’s being able to actually seduce the fucker.
Then the porch light popped on, my signal. Randolph was in the shower!
I was in and out in under 20 seconds, Randolph’s keyring in my fist. He’d been kind enough to leave the keys on the kitchen counter. The negative was that their absence would be visible. Kim just had to keep him in the bedroom suite.
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