Mango Bob

Mango Bob

A Walker Adventure

by Bill Myers

Mango Bob

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

Copyright © 2012 Bill Myers
. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form.

Version 2012.04.22

Author's website: http://www.mangobob

Facebook: www.facebook.com/MangoBob

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/BillMyersWrites

1

I never planned to live in a tent.

It was my attorney's idea. A way to cut costs. Save a little money, keep a low profile during the legal proceedings.

I'm not a criminal. Never needed a lawyer before. Just a law abiding citizen working for a living.

John Everett Walker. That's my name. Everyone who knows me calls me Walker.

People who don't know better sometimes call me Johnny Walker – like the whiskey. Not funny to me. It's either Walker or John.

Walker is preferred.

I'm not a tough guy. Usually don't need to be. At just shy of six feet and still lean from my days in Afghanistan, only a fool would pick a fight with me. Of course, there's no shortage of fools these days.

Back in the mountains of Afghanistan, I carried a gun and looked for trouble. These days I don't.

For the past seven years I've been in the corporate world. Working my way up the ladder.

Right now, I work for the Moreco company, a Boston based investment firm. They make their money buying and selling manufacturing plants.

I work at one of the plants they bought. The one in Conway Arkansas where they make brand name hand tools. Mostly wrenches and sockets sold at big box stores.

My job at Moreco's Conway plant is Computer Systems Manager. A fancy name for the person responsible for keeping the plant's computers up and running.

Shouldn't be a difficult job. Except it is.

Too many people at the plant using the company's computers to surf the web, update their Facebook status, search for porn.

And this causes problems. Mostly due to viruses and unauthorized programs installed by idiots.

That's when they call me. Day or night, when the computers go down, it's my job to get them back up running.

It's not my dream job. Not what I was trained to do. But at least it is a job. Something to be happy about in this sour economy.

They gave me a small office in the front of the plant. Nothing fancy. A cheap metal desk, several file cabinets, a laser printer, and three computers to monitor the networks.

It could be a lot worse. I could be working out on the plant floor. Where the giant hydraulic presses pound steel bars into hand-tools.

As I mentioned before, that's what the Conway branch of Moreco does – makes famous brand hand-held tools. The kind you probably have in your tool box at home.

Not many of these made in the US these days. Most of the manufacturers have moved to China. Because making those shiny wrenches and socket sets is a noisy, dirty and dangerous process.

It starts with rolls of heavy steel that are run through stamping presses to turn out tool blanks. The blanks are sent to the furnaces to be heat treated, followed by the acid soak, then polished in the sand tumbler, and then coated with toxic chromium oxide.

If all goes well, you end up with a tool set you can sell at a big box store for five dollars. But things don't always go well.

Get in the way of one of the carts hauling steel, stand too near a stamping press, forget your protective gear near the acid vats, and you'll be maimed or killed.

They tell us office types to stay off the plant floor. Too dangerous a place for just a casual stroll.

That's why a lot of these types of plants are moving off shore. Too many rules, regulations and safety laws to run this kind of operation in the US without eventually getting into trouble.

More about that later.

Like I said, the plant is located in Conway Arkansas. A small college town bordered by the Arkansas river to the south and the Ozark mountains to the north.

Interstate 40, the thousand mile artery of non-stop traffic running from the Atlantic ocean all the way to California cuts though the middle of town. This makes it an easy town to get to. Or to escape from.

I've only been here at the Conway plant three years. Although it seems like a lot more.

Before this, I was the computer systems manager for a fortune 500 company. The name of that one isn't important. But you'd recognize it if I told you.

I was happy there. Good pay, excellent benefits and nice people. Shouldn't have left. But I did. Reluctantly.

Moving to Conway was my wife's idea. We'd only been married three months when she told me I needed to quit the job I loved and move to Arkansas with her.

Her daddy was a land developer in Conway with lots of connections. And lots of empty houses. And she wanted to live closer to him.

She said her daddy offered her a high paying job and a new house we could live in for free if we moved to Conway.

I told her I was happy where we were. Didn't really want to move. She said I didn't understand. It was either move to Conway or she was going to leave me.

Looking back, I should have let her go. Should have said, “Go ahead, I'm staying here.”

But I didn't. And that's how I ended up in Arkansas. And after three years of being here, I ended up living alone in a tent along the Arkansas river.

2

When you live in Arkansas and work at a tool plant, you drive a pickup truck. Usually a four wheel drive. Not that you need four wheel drive. It doesn't snow much this far south.

But the locals believe there's no sense in having a truck if it doesn't have four wheel drive. So everyone drives a four by four. Including me.

Mine is a Toyota Tacoma double cab. White with tan interior. Bought it new, and it's taken me places you'd never expect to go in a pickup truck.

And that's where all this 'living in a tent' got started. At my truck.

See, it was lunch time at the plant and I was in the parking lot heading toward my truck when a stranger, clipboard in hand, approached.

Thought the guy was going to ask me to sign a petition. Or perhaps give me a humanitarian of the year award.

No such luck.

“John Everett Walker?”

Since only a few people know my full name, I'm figuring this means trouble.

“Yep, that's me.”

He nods toward my truck, “Nice truck. Ever think about selling it?”

I've been asked this before. “No, not interested in selling. Had it since new, pretty much plan to keep it.”

“Well if you decide to sell, give me a call.” He hands me a sheet of paper.

As I reach to take it, he says, “You've been served”, and hands me a folder of documents.

I shake my head in disgust. “You like doing this?”

“No, not really. But someone's got to do it. Don't take it personal.”

I shake my head and turn toward my truck.

“Wait. I've got something here from your wife. She said to give it to you after you were served.”

He was holding a white envelope.

3

I put the papers in my truck and open the envelope from my wife.

Inside there's a typed page with the following message:

Walker,

It was good while it lasted, but now it's time to go our separate ways.

Please review with your attorney, and let's get this resolved quickly.

My attorney says we shouldn't contact each other until this is over. So if you call, I won't answer.

I'm trying to make this as painless as possible.

You're a good man, and I'm better for knowing you.

Vicki

She's divorcing me.

You'd think I'd be shocked about this. But surprisingly, I'm not. Even before we were married, I was pretty sure it wouldn't last long. She just wasn't the kind of girl that took 'till death due us part' seriously.

I probably shouldn't of married her. But in my defense, she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, she was interested in me, and marriage, even a short one, didn't seem like such a bad deal at the time.

Of course, that's 'love is blind' thinking on my part. It happens to all of us sooner or later.

And now she's ending it.

She's been out of town on a business trip with her father for a week. And apparently she'd used that opportunity to work with an attorney to set this up. Good for her.

As far as I'm concerned, if she doesn't want to be married any more, I'm not going to force her to be.

My only problem is I don't have an attorney. But as it turns out, right across the street from where I'm sitting is a huge billboard advertising 'Bobby Poole, Attorney at Law'.

I pull out my cell phone. Dial his number.

He answers on the third ring. No secretary to take messages or screen his calls. This makes me wonder. But hey, I've got him on the line so I tell him about the process server and the papers.

He says “My schedule's open for the next hour. If you can come over now, I'll take a look.”

Apparently he's not busy at the moment. I don't know if that's good or bad. But it works for me. It's my lunch hour. I figure what better way to spend it than with an attorney.

Bobby Poole's office is about three miles across town. In the Paradise shopping plaza. It's a part of town most law abiding people avoid. On the wrong side of the tracks, as they say.

When I arrive, it's clear the Paradise shopping plaza has seen better days. Boarded up store fronts, empty beer cans and wine bottles, broken glass in the parking lot. Not the kind of place you'd want to take a date.

The Poole law office is sandwiched between a bail bond service and a pawn shop. Both have signs saying, “remove mask and leave guns outside before entering.”

Luckily I've left my mask and gun at home today.

OK, that's a joke. I don't own a mask. And my gun is safely locked up at home.

4

According to his billboard, Bobby Poole is known as “Bobby the Bulldog.”

He's the guy guilty people call when they get caught. I find out later he's known as a 'fixer' by local drug dealers and gang bangers. He 'fixes' their legal problems. Using every trick in the book. Some legal. Some not so legal.

The local cops pretty much hate his guts. None of this is my problem. Yet.

I open the door to Bobby's storefront. My first impression is not good. A real dump. Worn out furniture and the place smells like the inside of a down and out casino.

A receptionist desk, but no receptionist. A row of beat up plastic chairs line the wall. The carpet has a permanent furrow leading to the back office. Imagine the DMV office without the charm.

My office back at the plant is nicer. Not as big, but definitely smells better.

Thinking about my job at the plant reminds me I won't have my office much longer. Corporate management has decided to relocate the plant to Mexico.