Switcheroo (12 page)

“Stan laughed when he told me
about it on the phone. ‘Insurance will pay for it, no big deal’ he says. He
thinks I’ll be happy in a sick way since me and his mom don’t get along.  I
told him he was done living in her house, time to grow the fuck up.  I was
really fried. Hell I paid for that house before I lost it in the divorce.  He
left and didn’t come back.  That was five years ago.”

Mr. Bailey ground the stub of his
cigarette into a small astray, which was promptly whisked away and replaced
with a clean one.

“I have reason to believe Stan has
something that belongs to my client.”

“Look, Stan has been in trouble
with the law, drugs and stuff, but he is no thief.   He’s employed and even has
a little chick following him around.  He’s got a brand new mobile home in
Wartburg, too. He’s not Beaver Cleaver, but he’s a citizen now.”

“You don’t have to sell him to me.
I’m just looking for information.  What’s his address in Wartburg? I’ve got a
few questions for him. Hell, it’s probably nothing.”  I finished my drink and
signaled the nice lady for another Gentleman Jack.

Bailey frowned and his eyes burned
into me.

“The address?” I said, breaking
the silence.

“123 fuck you avenue.” Bailey
smirked and looked away, shifting in his seat. “He’s had just about enough shit
from cops.  I don’t need his mom raising hell with me saying I got him put in
the shitter.”

“I don’t want to involve the
police.  It would be better if you tell me where he lived.”

“No it wouldn’t.  You don’t know
his fuckin’ mom. The woman’s a total psycho.”

When I looked over my shoulder
there was a middle-aged woman in a black party dress standing between me and
Stanley Bailey.  Bailey leaned in close to talk to her over the loud music
coming for the now tightly-packed dance floor.  He looked back at me like I
should disappear or die, or both.

“Where did Junior buy that mobile
home?”

“I can’t remember.  Nice talkin’
to ya’, sir.”

He said this politely for the
benefit of his new female companion, but when she glanced away his acid look
said this conversation was over.

Chapter
20

There was only one place to buy a
new mobile home in Morgan County where Wartburg, TN was located: Trailer Daddy,
Inc.  Trailer Daddy had been selling mobile homes since HUD started regulating
them in 1976.  Several dealers have come and gone in the area, but there was
not enough business in this rural area to sustain more than one mobile home
retailer.  It is customary for lenders and set-up crews to require a site map
and physical address for any mobile home sale.   Unless Slink bought it
somewhere else, there should be a map to his house in Trailer Daddy’s office.
Time for a little B and E.  I pulled into the mobile home sales center which
looked like a neighborhood of circular streets with about twenty new homes of
varying size and quality.  The older, used inventory and bank repos were behind
the office.  That is where I parked to conceal my car.

There was nothing of substantial
value in Trailer Daddy’s office, so the window locks were cheap and simple.  I
popped the latches back with a flathead screwdriver and ducked through the open
window. Using my cell phone’s screen as a flashlight, I found the service files
and a map to Slink Bailey’s home site. I copied the map on the office copier
and courteously put the file back where it belonged. I re-locked the window and
let myself out the front door, locking it behind me.  Easy.

I pushed in my Pearl Jam CD which
I listen to in spite of the fact that people my age are supposed to stop liking
them.  This is music you should give up when your teen angst fades, but at the
right volume it can bring back a nostalgic feeling that leaves you feeling not
so tired and ready for some trouble.

People in developed nations,
especially Americans, love to be in control. This is why we love
air-conditioning, credit cards, and brand new cars.  The farther out in rural
areas I get, the more I notice a loss of the sense of control I the city gives
me. My car could break down.  I could get sick and need medical attention and
my cell phone could be out of range. I could need a pizza delivered and be
unable to use the internet.  All of these things are part of living in rural
areas where most conveniences become pretty inconvenient.

Driving out to Wartburg to find
Slink’s mobile home, this was the feeling I was getting.  Even with a map and
steering a well- maintained, older car, I felt my confidence slipping. I had my
cell phone, but was it out of range? I checked.  It still had a signal. What a
relief.  I looked up to see a large deer leap into the glare of my headlights. 
I slammed on the brakes and the Crown Vic shuddered, shrieked and skidded to a
stop.  I missed the deer, but my heart was in my throat. I coasted to the side
of the road, put the car into park, and looked at the map some more.

When my breathing had slowed to
normal, I took off again, carefully watching for more stray fauna.  This was
not easy since there were no street lights. All I could see was the yellow line
at the edge of the road and a stretch of high grass in the fan of the Crown
Vic’s lights.

I turned onto County Road 23 and
began looking for Chert Pit Road, my next turn.  I passed Wartburg’s only
store, which was sort of a food mart, gas station, bait shack and night club
all-in-one.        There were still a few cars there even though it was past
eleven on a Sunday night.

On Chert Pit I turned left and
drove five more miles.  Darkness pressed in. The road seemed to narrow.  I
passed farm houses, barns, mobile homes and a few rural businesses (taxidermy,
septic services, feed stores) before I came to 8605 Chert Pit, Slink’s place.

A large single-wide mobile home
sat on about two acres of land that ended at the fence of an adjacent farm. 
The mobile home was the only structure on the land. Nowhere to hide a mid-size
pickup truck.  This was a disappointment, but I pulled in anyway.  The Crown Vic
sank into the gravel driveway and settled next to an older Mustang and a Camaro
of similar vintage, 1995-ish.  I sat and looked at the front door and thought.
No lights were on; my head lights shot a garish slice of light onto the front
porch and beige vinyl siding. This Slink guy had to be involved, there were too
many coincidences.  My feet did not want to get out of the car.  I turned the
car off and sat, allowing my eyes to adjust.  I still couldn’t see a thing. So
I turned the lights back on and headed toward the porch.

Sixty seconds of knocking felt
like an hour.  There was no sound that I could hear inside the house. No
peeking out of any of the mini-blinds.

I went back to the car, grabbed a
flash light and my trusty tire iron, and headed back to the porch.  This case
was frustrating me and the Gentleman Jack was giving me courage.  Since I have
been breaking into abandoned bank repos for several years now, it seemed only
natural to go get my easy ‘skeleton key’: the tire iron.

Before trying to break in the
front door with the pry bar end of the tire iron, I tried the door and found it
unlocked. This surprised me, but then I thought maybe the residential lock was
so cheap that anyone that really wanted in was getting in, so why lock your
door and get it broken?

I opened the door and as I moved
forward I did hear a noise inside.  It sounded like a couple of small kids
running down the hall in my direction.

I backed up, bringing the flash
light up just in time to see a nasty black dog running at me with teeth
gnashing.  It was a dirty trick that this dog did not bark when I pulled up or
at least when I knocked.  I took that as a sign that he was a trained attack
dog, another reason the door had been left unlocked.

Adrenaline took over and I was up
a tree in front of the house before I even knew what happened.  A quick
assessment showed no serious damage except torn trousers; which I had done
myself on the tree bark.  Man’s so-called best friend was at the base of the
tree pacing back and forth, snarling a low growl that I felt more than heard.

After twenty minutes the dog
settled down but he did not leave.   He growled whenever I shifted, trying to
get more comfortable on my tree branch.  He leered at me in a way that made me
have to pee. I noticed that the headlights of the Crown Vic were beginning to
fade.  This was not going well.

My heart was beating normally now
that I was not in immediate danger. I was safe as long as I did not try to
climb down the tree or fall asleep and fall out of the tree on my head.  I
patted my jacket pockets and there was my cell phone, thank God.   I began
thinking about what to do and who could help me.  There was only one person I
could think of who had all the resources I needed.  Lt. Stratton of the KPD.  I
felt for my wallet in the darkness, found his business card and then tried to
get some light on it.  The movement sparked renewed interest from my guard dog.
His growls were very impressive.

I finally turned on the cell phone
and used the dim light from its small screen to commit Stratton’s number to
memory. He answered on my third attempt.

“This better be fucking good, it’s
past midnight and it’s Sunday,” his angry tone made it clear he knew who was
calling.

I gave him a rundown of why I was
there; reminding him I was still looking for my client’s missing pickup truck.
I told him that the door had been open and that I was treed by a large,
apparently vicious dog. I did not tell him that my plan had been to break in.

“He might be vicious, but he’s a
slow ass dog,” Stratton said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if he was worth a shit,
you woulda been calling me from a hospital bed.”

Stratton wrote down the address
and hung up without another word.

I had plenty of time to think out
here, in the dark woods, waiting on my tree limb. Three hours to think, as it
turned out. Many questions came and went in my mind. How did Slink find out
about these trucks?  Why would a supposedly doped-out loser like him want a
teleporting truck?  Would Tammy McHenry ever have sex with me again?  Would I
care, now that things had sparked with Wendy?  Why did Peter Gabriel leave
Genesis?  Would Stratton have jumper cables with him? The Crown Vic’s
headlights were almost out.

The dog was asleep at the base of
the tree.  I was cold. I went ahead and started shivering just to get a head
start.  I turned up the collar of my tweed jacket and stuck my hands under my
arms. That did not help. I had stayed awake, but my ass was asleep from the
pressure of the tree branch.  The temperature continued to drop; I shivered. If
I wet my pants would it help me to stay warm? (More questions.)  I was watching
the last embers of my headlights, when I realized that the sky was getting
lighter.  Two police cruisers and, thankfully, an animal control vehicle pulled
into the driveway.   I waved to Stratton when I saw him with the Morgan County cops and the dog catcher.  The beast was netted and put into the truck. I
climbed slowly and stiffly down from the tree.  Feeling very embarrassed, I
walked up to Stratton to apologize when he began talking.

“You have the right to remain
silent...”

“What the...”

“Any thing you say can and will be
used against you in a court of law, you have the right to an attorney...”
Stratton continued but I stopped listening.  Trespassing or breaking and
entering.  They had me.  But this was complete bullshit.

“Hey!” Stratton noticed I had
zoned out.

“What, huh?” I snapped out of it.

“Are you gonna come quietly or
should I put the cuffs on ya?  Stratton sounded tired.

“Quietly, I guess.”

“You got that gun on you?”

“No, if I did I wouldn’t have been
stuck in that tree.”

“Don’t make threatening
statements. They don’t help your case. You’re in enough trouble.”

Stratton reached for a cigarette. 
He lit it, put his lighter away and checked my ankles and belt for a gun,
dumping ash on my coat as he did.

He led me to the police cruiser to
take me in for booking.

“You didn’t have to do this, you
know.”

“Actually I did,” Stratton threw
his spent cigarette out the window. “If this Stanley Bailey guy is a criminal,
his lawyer could use any leeway I give you against us later.  Say we violated
his rights, presumed guilt, that kind of shit.  If Bailey really did steal that
truck you want back, you’ll thank me for arresting you because we’ll be able to
prosecute him.  If he didn’t steal it, then shame on you and you should be
arrested.  Either way you should be arrested, so quit whining.”

It was a long ride to the police
station in Oakridge.  As I saw other cars, street lights and traffic signals, I
began to feel safer than I had out in the extreme rural with a snarling dog
below me.  I was watching Stratton talk on his radio through the wire and
plexiglas shield that separated the front seat from the backseat in his
unmarked police cruiser.  He finally cut the volume on the squawk box down and
spoke to me.

“What is your PI racket anyway,
insurance, divorce?” He asked.

“Trailers, mostly,” I said. “I
inspect delinquent and abandoned mobile homes and report back to mortgage
companies. Sometimes car and boat loans.  Not a glamorous form of investigation
but it pays the bills.”

“There is no glamorous form of
investigation.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” I could read
nothing from the back of his head.

“Listen, you need to stick to
trailers and stay the hell out of whatever it is that you got your nose in
now.  The two guys that attacked your little girlfriend...”

“Client.”

“Shut up.  Those two guys are
serious thugs.  The house we picked you up at belongs to a suspected drug
dealer and you broke into his house and didn’t even have a gun on you.  Are you
drunk?” Stratton added sarcastically.

“Not anymore,” I admitted,
remembering my Gentleman Jack.

“Look come by my office after you
make bail and give me the facts on your girl’s stolen truck and I’ll get her
file back out and look into it for you.” This made me smile a little in spite
of my captivity.

“And don’t be thinking we’re pals
or anything.  That girl is a hot little number and I might need to ask her a
few more questions.  That’s the only reason I’m helping you.  Here’s where you
get off,” he said, skidding into the Oakridge P.D. parking lot.

I ducked my head and exited the
cruiser. I was as I bracing myself mentally for time to screech to a halt while
I was processed and waited to make bail.