Black Box Conspiracy

Black Box Conspiracy

A Novel

By

Mark A. Paranto

Black Box Conspiracy

Copyright © 2015 Mark A. Paranto

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing October 2015

ISBN#: 978-1-329-62096-4

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or locales are used fictitiously.  Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

Special thanks to Pauline, Andrea, Danielle and Elaine.  I am who I am because of your faith in me.

Prologue

In 1994, when the cell phone craze was in its infancy, a bill was mustered in Congress to place Event Data Recorders into commercial vehicles.  These EDR’s were also known as Black Boxes.  Planes and trains were already equipped with the technology and moneyed interests wanted them placed into commercial vehicles, especially the tractor-trailers.  Old logbook regulations were routinely ignored or through creative accounting mishandled by the professional drivers of the day.

The bill in Congress would bring a control factor the planes and trains didn’t have that brought protest from many trucking concerns, including the Brotherhood of Teamsters.  The freedom to roam the interstates was being harnessed to computers.  A fact that left many involved, uneasy.

Like a snowball rolling down the mountain, an avalanche of events would coincide in determining the ‘Black Box’ bill’s fate.

CHAPTER ONE

‘One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer,’ stung the air in the dash lit interior of Rebecca MacElroy’s cab.  Tapping her clutch foot in time with George Thorogood and his Delaware Destroyers, ‘the Prairie Princess’ glided her load of fresh veal across the interstate towards the Big Apple.  Still very much a minority, and not always a welcome one, amongst her fellow truckers; she drove with the respect of any driver who’d personally encountered her.

Passing a set of Consolidated Freightways doubles, Rebecca instinctively blinked her trailer lights twice as she guided her Kenworth from the left lane back into the right.  Thanks a bunch, Cornflake! she echoed into her C.B. microphone.

Pleasures all mine retorted the CF driver, he then added, anytime... Prairie Princess, especially for a gal who carries her handle on her tail.

My Gosh, Cornflake; I do believe you’re trying to remember how to make a pass, since you obviously can’t with that old road horse you’re driving.  Rebecca chuckled while remembering that ‘Catfish’ had painted her C.B. handle on the lower left corner of her trailer door.

The airways went silent for a moment or two while all had a good laugh; then one after another took turns ribbing the CF driver into submission.  Her good humor though was stifled by a foulmouthed voice who included Yeah, but Cornflake sleeps in his own bed every day, do you Prairie Ice Princess?

Gratefully, a new, kinder voice, interceded businesslike; Eastbound...Y’all watch yourself.....You all got a big ole’ gator laying in the hammer lane at the one-fourteen yardstick..your side. Rebecca keyed her mike to respond, Thanks Westbound...You’re looking good back to K.C., haven’t seen any Smokie’s and your coops are closed.  Have a good ride.

Well thank you Darlin’, the anonymous voice replied; I try to look good everywhere they send me... You be safe now and have fun on your run, Hedgehog said that-bye now!

I hear that Hedgehog, you do the same and thanks again on that gator info.  Rebecca shook her head in thought, why couldn’t all her fellow drivers be like the CF and that west bounder; but no, that’s not human nature she chided herself in afterthought, there’s always one apple in the bunch.

This business is really on a downslide she mused; government over regulating, rate caps, cutthroat bidding to eliminate competitors.  How’d I get myself into this mess she asked herself the repeating question.  Why do I keep doing this? Rebecca echoed into the lonesome cab.  She knew; yeah, she knew; and tried to put it aside, but like all the times before, failure to block the repetitive daydream had stretched her back to March 23, 1996. Mrs. Paul MacElroy... I’m Sgt. Hugh Brisbane of the Indiana Highway Patrol, I’m calling with regret to inform you...  The telephone receiver in her hand was getting squeezed as if she could stop the sergeant from completing the statement that her husband, Paul J. MacElroy was dead.  Come on Becca!  Getta Grip!  Involuntary tremors shook her.  Reality kicked back on.

Keep that up and you’ll see him again, sooner than planned.  Lightening her grip on the big teakwood steering wheel, Rebecca forced her eyes to start sending coherent information to her previously preoccupied brain.  Perusing the gauges, then mirrors, finally; the road in front, good thing this stretch of I-70 is reasonably straight she silently chided herself.

Breathing normally again, she silently scolded herself for allowing the conversation with the trooper sergeant to creep into the foreground of thought, especially while she was driving.  Many a time she had rehashed it over her mind, sometimes while sitting and waiting to be loaded or unloaded; or on her parents’ farm while her daughter took a nap.

Once her parents voluntarily agreed to take in Lil’ Becky, she pursued her late husband’s profession.  She had promised herself not to dwell upon his demise.  As life or fate would have it; Men; Man; any man in fact, could sometimes trigger the thought and she knew not why.  Driving her rig though, now there’s a first, and damn glad she hadn’t started ‘THE CRYING’.  She had cried once before while driving and had put herself and Lil’ Becky in the ditch along the farm’s winding driveway.

Heck.....she almost said aloud...I didn’t even make it out of my parent’s driveway... she chuckled now as she thought about it, and then experienced a whole body shiver, as if she had strolled butt naked into her reefer with a whole load of ice cream aboard.  The goose bumps and convulsive shivering subsided, Rebecca thought to herself, can’t take that chance girl; no more negative thinking, besides I gotta get this load a moving.

After dropping her load of veal down in the meat market near Greenwich Village in Manhattan, Rebecca found herself listening on a payphone to her broker, who wanted her to reload in New Jersey, a hot load for Jacksonville; and could she handle it. She affirmed all of it with a positive note; she hung up and spun around while jamming her notebook into her leather vest pocket.

A half a step, a partial stride, and walked into a chest.   Hairy, muscular, definitely sweaty, and suspenders that stated in black ‘STIHL CHAINSAWS’ on the brightest orange suspenders she’d swear she’d ever seen.  The slight collision rocked her back on her gold-tipped Tony Lama’s.  The chest backpedaled a step, Rebecca looked up... and up; and swore that this is largest man she’d ever laid eyes on.  She started to apologize but was interrupted by a bellowing voice, Honey, I sure hope you drive that fancy large car of yours, better than you waltz in those shiny shit-kickers of yours!

The chest; adorned in mirrored sunglasses perused past her eyes, chest, thighs, then dropped to the handmade ostrich boots.  Using her mother’s inherited quick wit. She changed tactics on the fly; from apologies into some chastising of her own; for she was, in the ‘Rotten Apple’.  Well Excuse Me! she wailed while staring up into the smiling, bushy beard, but if you wanted to smell my perfume, you didn’t have to sneak up on me... You coulda waited until I got downwind!

Ooh…Sassy Lassie; you must be the legendary ‘Prairie Princess’, Mrs. Paul J. MacElroy, the mirror sun-glassed beard boomed, High-cotton’ on the two-way... Jack Riley to you.  His oversized right hand extended out; looking, hoping for the introductory handshake.  Taken aback by the large man’s demeanor; she stole a glance at the big right hand, now fully extended; and placed her own into the mismatched handgrip.

Jack Riley...Jack Riley?  Hmmm...I don’t seem to recall that name and that handle of yours....High-cotton?  It don’t ring a bell neither.  They both went quiet.  She broke the awkward silence between them, Well, if you say you knew Paul well enough to know who I am, I guess he musta liked you!  The still perspiring Jack Riley let go; realizing his sweaty palm must not feel real pleasant, the results of manhandling forty-eight thousand pounds of prime Hereford beef.

Behind the mirrored sunglasses, emotions were beginning to overwhelm the spirit that occupied the large physical being, the Adam’s apple in his throat felt like a watermelon.  The puzzled look from the five foot two inch Rebecca, still stunned by the presence of the six foot ten inch ‘Paul Bunyan’, thought she heard him mumble something; I can’t hear you! she shouted over the din of seven million people making their noise of life.  Riley shifted his stance to act as a human sound barrier.

Yeah...I knew Paul real well, Riley rasped in a hoarse whisper.  When Paul first started trucking, I was flat-bedding like he was... and we ran together many a night.

‘I’m not gonna cry’ Riley urged the thought, but the swelling in his tear ducts told a different story.  I turned left off I-eight-oh towards Fort Wayne, Riley continued, but had changed his focus, still hidden behind the shiny specs; from Rebecca’s Kelly green eyes to the payphone on the wall behind her.  The same night ‘Pitchfork’ didn’t come home to you.

Staring in shock, she stammered, You.... You were with him on his last....last run?

Mam, if I’d known; I’d never pushed him to keep me awake.  I should of let him lay down at the service plaza on the ‘Buckeye Pike’ just like he said he do, when I ran into him back in the ‘Keystone’.  Riley stole a quick glance to see those mesmerizing Kelly greens expressing a pained and confused look, so he continued; Rebecca....I know you like a sister, it kept me awake, having Paul tell me all about you, your home, and your dreams.

Looking at this half man-half bear turning away from her, Rebecca watched as Riley pulled off the mirrored Ray=bans, wiping his eyes.  Astonished, Rebecca sensed from the convulsions in the big man’s upper torso that he was starting to cry.  No, Jack Riley, No! she screamed Don’t do this, or I’ll end up joining you and we’ll have Greenwich Village’s finest pickpockets relieving us of our wallets while we sniffle in our hankies!

The convulsions turned into heaves and then a roar of laughter erupted from Riley, still bent over.  Noticing the glasses still in his hand, she observed as he slowly twisted, arising; belly still rippling with laughter, hazel eyes gleaming like the sea.  Sometimes grey, sometimes brackish blue, but with the beautiful smile Jack was sporting, they were like a briny, green ocean.

Smiling back, Rebecca again shouted upwards to a now erect Riley, Look here Jack Riley, I gotta get over the GW bridge and pick up a load for Jacksonville, so..... Interrupting her, he barked, Florida!  All right!  Got myself a load going to Savannah....I’d...I’d really like to ride down towards the ‘Bikini’ with ya.

Rebecca barely squeezed in, Yeah, me too.  Jack couldn’t hide his excitement; Look, you get your load over in the ‘Garbage State’ and meet me down at Josie’s.  Josie’s? queried Rebecca, You really don’t think I’m going to drive my shiny ride into that dirt hole.  Jack hesitated, then offered, I’ll buy dinner, Okay?  Well....I guess so, she meekly agreed, then fervently added, If I’m napping when you get there, you better let me sleep.

That won’t be a problem, Mam, Jack quickly responded, I’ll need a nap myself after driving all night to get here and finger-printing all that beef.  They parted with another mismatched handshake, leaving the awestruck Jack Riley to watch Rebecca stroll across 13th street; unlock the driver’s door, and execute a vertical two-step up into the big Kenworth’s plush air-seat.

Standing, hands on hips, ‘High-cotton’ watched, admiring the rig and its driver, as Rebecca guided the long hooded tractor trailer out into the intersection, swinging wide to the right to turn left expertly, albeit slowly, for it was tight.  When she knew her trailer tandems were on a line to clear the corner, Rebecca quickly glanced toward the payphone, still being guarded by the towering Jack Riley.  Tooting air horns, echoed loudly, muting all other sounds; signaled the Prairie Princess’s departure, as she headed north, finessing through New York City’s late morning traffic.  Son of a....damn, Riley quietly mused, standing exactly where she had left him. My God, Paul...he thought, speaking out loud to his departed, kindred spirit, She’s beautiful.... she’s even more than you could ever describe....no wonder you always pushed yourself to get home.

Working her way through Manhattan, Rebecca gave thought to the unusual meeting of Jack Riley; she hadn’t in four and a half years of trucking, met anyone who had known Paul.  Actually meeting someone who, not only knew Paul, but had run with him.  Talked with him, even if it was about me, or Lil’ Becky..Dang it, Paul...Who’s this ‘High-cotton’ and why am I having dinner with him, Rebecca questioned her own thoughts.  Dinner at Josie’s; oh God, I hope he doesn’t think this is a date, Rebecca’s thought process had gone into overdrive.  I know what I’ll do, I’ll demand separate checks; giggling, Rebecca reminded herself that it’s been over five years since she had even touched a man, Poppa not included; no wonder I don’t know what to think or how to act.

###

Her head snapped up off the pillow, straining her eyes through the pitch black sleeper, panic raced up her spine.  Throwing her short legs over the side of the mattress, Rebecca reached out with a groping hand, grasping the curtain that separated the cab from the sleeper berth.  Sliding it slightly open, allowing the beam of manmade light to gently reorient her eyes as well as her bearings.  Unsure of where in the hell she was, Rebecca opened the curtain fully; gathered her senses, looked up at the stereo’s clock and clenched her teeth. 6:41 PM glowed from the upper console, Dammit! she said aloud, that Jack Riley was supposed to meet me.  Turning the bunk light on as she replaced the curtain back to its privacy mode, Rebecca’s thoughts as she started to dress were on Jack Riley. Hope nothing happened to him, but I can’t sit and wait all night for him.

Slipping into her boots, she stepped down into the semi-lit dirt parking lot of Josie’s, taking care to walk around the potholes that could swallow a small four-wheeler and up the steps into the diner.  Making use of the rundown ladies room facilities as quickly as possible, Rebecca stole a fractured look at her hair and face in the broken mirror, straightened her tan leather vest and turned the corner into the dining area.  All the heads at the counter seemed to turn, as if by signal, that a woman was entering the predominately male domain.   Forgoing putting on any makeup, Rebecca had put her New York State of Mind, game face on; she met each gaze with one of her own.

Locating a table without dirty dishes, crumbs, and a full compliments of both salt and pepper; Rebecca took a seat with her backside to the wall.  She’d heard of this place from other drivers, hoping it would be more rumor than fact.  So far; at least what she could reckon, rumor was winning, hands down.

Their conversations toned down at the counter, the patrons, now and then; took turns stealing a peek towards the lone occupant of the far wall table.  My name is Sheila, snapped the button bulging, bottle blond, pay them no mind and they’ll leave you be.  The gum snapping waitress gestured with an exaggerated over the shoulder, thumb action.

I’ll keep that in mind, Sheila; stated a wary Rebecca, adding, coffee and a menu will do for now.  All we got honey is the meatloaf special, the waitress stated, snapping her gum with a loud pop, and the breakfast menu, okay?  Wow, Rebecca thought...this place is like a bad dream.  Staring back at the counter, she was matching her hard gaze with one being sent her way with ‘Lust in his eyes’.  Meatloaf special, coffee, and is the water drinkable? asked a cautious Rebecca.

Why sure honey, Sheila giggled, we make our coffee with it, O.K.   Yeah...I guess, a glass of ice water to wash it all down, please.  Sure thing honey, cracked the waitress in between gum pops as she shuffled back towards the kitchen in her one size too small, faded pink, button down dress; accenting her wiggling hips for the delight of her cheap tipping regulars.

Noticing ‘Mr. Lust in his eyes’ was continuing his optical onslaught, Rebecca squirmed in her seat, shifting her attention to the big front window, soaking in the lights reflecting from the New Jersey Turnpike.  Thinking of what an old trucker had told her; that Josie’s is older than the ‘GREENSTAMP’; when the older US Routes 40 and 130 were the main drags.  Well, it sure looked it, inside and out.

Her contemplations were rudely interrupted by a sudden, stifled cry from Sheila and a loud crash.  ‘Mr. Lust in his eyes’ had grabbed a handful of the waitress’ left buttock as she passed him carrying Rebecca’s meal and drinks.  Ejecting up from the old wooden chair, she shouted, Hey!  I really don’t need you to be screwing around with the only sit down meal I’m goin’ to get today!  Sliding back down into her chair, she watched as ‘Lust in his eyes’; yeah, no more mister, he had blown the respect part; duck walk his oversize paunch toward her table. 

Bloodshot eyes, tobacco stained teeth, greasy hair; a real winner ....Rebecca mused silently, as he leaned over and placed his grubby hands on her table. Look here, Miss Prissy truck driver-et, you don’t like it here, you can take those fancy boots back through the same door you came in at....snarled the one now known as just ‘Lust in his eyes’.

The thigh muscles in Rebecca’s left leg tensed, as she calculated a gold-tipped addition to his family jewels.  The light behind Lust in his eyes’ faded into a giant shadow. A startled Rebecca leaned back.  A churlish declaration boomed from the hulking silhouette, If I was you as ‘Lust in his eyes’ was lifted by his collar completely off the floor, I’d feel real lucky just to walk to that door, know what I’m a saying."  Rebecca was stunned.  She watched in amazement as the body of ‘Lust in his eyes’ got tossed like a ragdoll in the direction of the very door everybody seemed to want to go out.

He landed on his hands and knees, scrambling on all fours; he neglected to rise, but continued his outbound journey crawling through the now infamous portal.  Letting some of the light on his smiling face, Jack Riley turned to the table asking, Is this seat taken, mam?

Yes....Yes it is... a somewhat recovered Rebecca remarked, adding, Driver I met today in New York was supposed to meet for dinner, not a midnight snack!  Easing his big frame into the small, worn chair; Riley ignored the playful sarcasm and twisted with a shout in the direction of the clutter behind the counter; Hey Sheila...When you’re done with that mess, could you bring me two of whatever this here lady trucker is having.

"I’m sorry Becca...I was told 17th street in New York, but