Switcheroo (15 page)

Slink had light brown hair and a
boyish face for someone of his age, probably about twenty-eight. He had on a
discolored Atlanta Braves hat and a pair of faded Levis covered by a white
institutional apron.  He was thin in an athletic way and his teeth were whiter
than most people’s in Oliver Springs.

“I’m here about a missing truck.
You wouldn’t happen to have an old Ford Ranger in your warehouse?” I did my
best Colombo imitation, but what Slink saw was probably more like Woody Allen
imitating Jerry Lewis.

“I didn’t think that was a good
place to keep it anymore so I moved it. Don’t ask me where it is again or this
conversation is over.  I have some minor behavioral problems that... well;
basically I can’t lie very well. Traumatophbia; any kind of violent
confrontation makes me sick. I mean really sick… nauseous. “

“That’s interesting since you were
a football star. Isn’t football violent?”

“Yeah, it is,” Slink shrugged. “My
condition wasn’t that bad back in high school.  I had a feeling I was gonna die
if I got sacked.  This fear gave me the adrenalin to dodge tacklers and unload
the ball before I got tackled.  We had a very fast-paced offense.  I made all-
county.  But, by my senior year I was puking my guts out every time I got hit. 
That’s why I never tried to play college ball.”

Slink pushed back the panic in his
eyes as he remembered.

“Gotta be tough being a criminal
and all, and not being able to use violence. Seems impossible,” I mused.

“I think of myself as a manager.
My enterprise, I see as legitimate. I don’t need to justify it to you.  Look at
it this way,” Slink’s face was no longer pale.

“I can prepare meals for hundreds
of people each day without touching one French fry,” he gestured toward his
kitchen staff. “If I’ve got something that needs doing, I manage.”

“Would that be your friends with
the red Camaro I came across in Straw Plains?”

“You mean Elvis and Ensley?” Slink
chuckled. “They were the junior varsity.”

“They’re in jail.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s more
where they came from, and they will not roll over because Partee controls them.
And Partee will never be in jail because they would never take him alive.”
Slink gags as he says this, trying to suppress a violent image that was
triggering his condition.  I took this as a sign our little talk was over.

“Okay then. See ya.”

“Not if I see you first.” He
tipped his dirty Braves cap, but his expression was less than courteous.

Chapter
25

“Well, I was going to suggest
Saffron. They have a great buffet,” Wendy was referring to a budget Indian
cuisine restaurant. “Do you like Indian food?”

I was thinking not really, it
smells like a blend of armpit and feet, I can only imagine what it tastes like. 
I am not a fan of curry and I do not like to eat at any restaurant that sets up
camp in a former Captain D’s.

“Oh yeah, I hear they’re running a
special this week.  You get a free Imodium and a roll of Charmin with the
buffet.”

She laughed at my elementary
school humor.

“So this Slink guy, is he cute?” 
Wendy asks playfully. It was Thursday night and Wendy’s eyes sparkled in the
soft lights at Calhoun’s Restaurant.  Calhoun’s sits on pilings on the Tennessee River right across from Nieland Stadium. It is a busy place and so noisy that if
you talk quietly at your table your conversation is safely confidential.  Heck,
your date may not even hear you.

“He is not someone I would be
attracted to if I was a woman.  I would describe him as tall, thin and athletic. 
Country boy preppie meets Tommy Hilfiger, sort of thing,” I shrugged.

“Sounds pretty slinky to me.  Who
would you say is your type?” Wendy teases.

“I would still follow you around.
I’d make a perfect butch lesbian,” I leaned back and gave Wendy my best leer. I
tried to do the Nicholson thing with my eyebrow.  But, after a couple beers it
probably looked like Boo Radley to Wendy.  She laughed.

“So, if you’re the butch lesbian,
that makes me the skinny hot lesbian?”

“I hope not, that could ruin my
plans for later.”

The things that had been on my
mind did not seem so important right now.   I looked at this pretty woman and
then over her shoulder out into the night. The lights from the Gay Street Bridge were dancing on the river in the inky, fall night.  The candle between us
glowed through my Cherokee Red Ale.  The heat in my cheeks was probably from
the brew; artificial but still Okay.  I needed this feeling even if it was
alcohol induced. Maybe it was real.

I picked up our check and we
walked out to the Crown Vic.  I held the car door for Wendy.  I drove her
home.  We pulled up in front of her neat house off Western Avenue.  She said I
could come in.  I really wanted to. I declined though, letting her off the hook
since it was a school night.  I walked her to the door.  We kissed and I heard
Wendy’s daughter, mumbling ‘gross’ as she peeked through the blinds from inside
the house.

I headed toward home, but then I
remembered that Orby’s Place is down past highway 640 on the less fashionable
end of Western Avenue (though neither end is really very fashionable). Not much
out of my way.

Chapter
26

“Hey Red, have you seen Tammy?” I
leaned over the worn Formica bar at Orby’s.

“Name’s Billy, not Red, and I’m
not sure where Tammy is, she’s on break.”

Red’s cowboy boots made him seem
taller than he was, maybe five nine instead of five six. Either way there
wasn’t much to him. But he had spunk and seemed to be meaner than a snake with
athlete’s foot. His frown said ‘Go ahead, fuck with me and see what happens’.1
I tested him.

“Well then, I’ll have a Bud,
please.” I sat down at the bar on one of the wobbly tree stumps with the tuft
of old shag carpet on top. I plunked some cash down in front of me.

Red set a Budweiser on the bar
slowly and softly so as not to break it over my head.

“They call me Rust.”

“Not much of nickname.”

“Yeah, I got tired of the Russell
Stover moniker and shortened it to Russ.  Russ Stover got shortened to Rust by
friends.”

“Rust Over?”

“No. Never mind.  Just call me
Rust.”

“Listen, I do not want to get on a
nickname basis with you. And if I did, I would not call you Rust because that’s
about the most retarded nickname I’ve ever heard.”  He looked down at my twenty
on the bar.

“Keep it,” I said generously.
“Hey, did you build these bar stools yourself? Very creative,” I patted the
tuft of carpet next to me.

“No, I inherited them with the
rest of this shit hole. Isn’t there somewhere else you can drink?  I gotta tell
you, you are way too old for Tammy, anyway.” Red picked up the cash. “On second
thought, why don’t you sit here a while and keep tipping my staff like this. 
Maybe you can buy some respect.  Maybe if you get pickled enough your
personality will mutate into something I can learn to put up with.”

Orby’s Place was starting to fill
up with the regular crowd.  Sensing pockets full of cash that needed to be
separated from thirsty people, Red turned on a boot heel and headed toward a
gaggle of waitresses with orders. As usual, he was dressed all in denim. I
could see the handle bars of his ridiculous red mustache even with his back
turned.

I looked around and soaked in the
action at the club, letting the sights and smells permeate me (later I would
have to burn these clothes). The cigar and cigarette smoke could not be
stopped. Marlboro Reds, Winston’s and Swisher Sweets were being smoked with
reckless abandon. Anyone seen smoking a Benson and Hedges or Dunhill would most
likely be taken behind the building and flogged.

The juke box played non-stop and
seemed to get around to ‘Friends in Low Places’ way too often. A band was
setting up at one end of the club. There was no stage. This could be a welcome
break from the hideous karaoke.

The big ugly bartender-the one I
call Tex- brought me the occasional Budweiser.  Red disappeared in the back to
take care of a dispute between a waitress and a bus-boy.

Tammy popped out of the back door
that said “employees only” and headed to the bar.  Wearing her usual tight
black jeans and white shirt tied at the waist, she caught the eye of all the
creeps at the bar, including me. I nodded at her and raised my bottle
slightly.  She smiled in response and grabbed a clean tray to start plying her
trade.  Working the floor, weaving in and out between the drunks, sluts,
big-haired posers, dullards, fatties and toothless wonders, she smiled through
it all. The fabric apron she wore was bulging with tips by the time she made it
over to my end of the bar.

“Hey.” She sighed, putting her
hand on my arm. Then she barked out a lengthy drink order to Tex.

“I know who has the truck, but I
haven’t found it yet.” I tried to whisper loudly over the sound system.  Waves
of bass pounded us with ‘Achey-Breaky Heart’.  The volume was bringing focus to
my headache and the lyrics were driving IQ points from my head. Tammy’s
cork-covered tray was starting to fill up with a variety of cheap drinks and
dollar beers.

“I’ll come by at eleven. You can
tell me about it then. Oh, how about a ride home, too?” She tugged my sleeve as
she smiled and walked away, knowing I would wait. I had a feeling she wouldn’t
appreciate the kind of ride I had in mind.  I shook my head, to clear out the
dirty thoughts that lay around my mind, like smelly laundry in a college dorm.

Time passed like warm fuzz through
a vacuum cleaner hose.  I exchanged not-so-pleasantries with various patrons. 
Several Buds later, a fellow at the bar offered me a Cigarillo.  Not having any
smokes of my own I took it and was puffing away and chatting with the guy.  He
stopped talking and looked past me.

“Dude, there’s a hot chick behind
you,” he pointed with the end of his beer bottle, eyes glazed and solemn.  I
wished him good night and turned to see Tammy sitting at the bar next to me. I
looked at my watch, 11:15. She was off the clock.  I switched to black coffee.
She ordered a Mountain Dew from Tex. He smiled his crooked smile at her like
the big ugly dog he was.

Tammy listened, while I told her
about looking for a barbeque connection with Anderson County.  I told her about
James Inskip and how he had led me to Slink.  I explained that it had to be
Slink’s old football jersey she had seen when she teleported to the warehouse.
I repeated the conversation I had had with Slink.

“He just admitted to having it?”
She was surprised.

“Well, I guess he figures the cops
won’t get involved since I got caught trying to break into his trailer, and
he’s probably right.” I frowned and sipped my coffee.

“The cops think I’m nuts and they
think you’re a crook. Great,”  Tammy pouted.

“I have come across one cop, name
of Stratton, who is pretty sharp.  He doesn’t like me but if it gets obvious
enough who the bad guys are he’ll catch on.”

“Slink has some kind of weird
allergy to lying, almost like he can’t tell a lie. Traumatophbia. He says it’s
a fear of violence and confrontation, and it makes him physically sick. 
Anyway, for a minute Slink was up front, but then he told me if I asked another
question I’d have to leave.  Since I was there to ask questions, I just went
ahead and left.  Anyway, he said the truck is not in the warehouse anymore.”

“If he is scared of violence, how
was he gonna throw you out?”

“He has a heavy that they call
Partee who takes care of the hard crime and violence.  I think he is the one
who is sending you the notes through the trucks. I’m pretty sure he also runs
the goons that showed up at your Grandmother’s house.”

“Well shit.  Maybe he’ll trip and
fall on a sharp object. Problem solved.”  Tammy laughed. She was drunk with
fatigue.  She rubbed the corner of her eye carefully with a finger tip.  I’m
sure the dense smoke in the bar made her want to rub both of her eyes with her
fists, but this would have made a raccoon mask out of her mascara.

“Amen.” I raised my coffee cup in
a weak toast.

“Hey, Red,” I stopped him as he
was passing by behind the bar. “I ...”

“Is he tipping well, Tammy?”

“Oh, he’s a good one.”

“It’s true,” Tex was standing up
for me. “I bet he’s paid twenty bucks in tips for a six pack a beer.  Beats me
as to why.  Me, I’d just buy a case of Milwaukee’s Best and a couple bags of
jalapeño pork rinds at Food City and stay home.”

“Right,” Said Red. “That one needs
a check up from the neck up.  Well, I guess you’ve earned the right to sit
there and pickle yourself.”

“What were the waitress and the
bus boy fighting about?” I leaned forward. The band was still pretty loud.

“Shit, what do they always fight
about? Stolen tips.  Girl found this note on her table.”  Red pulled a rumpled
napkin from his jeans and tossed it on the bar.  It said,
Thanks for not
asking if I wanted another Sweet Patootie. You saved me a tip.”

“She’s screaming at Ernie saying
he wrote the note and I’m thinking there is no way Ernie would think up
something like this.  Even if he was dumb enough to steal a tip, I don’t see
him writing the words Sweet Patootie on a piece of paper. He’s not really the
criminal type either.  He lives with his mother and drives a ‘74 Dodge Aspen.”

“What is a Sweet Patootie, any
how?”

“Triple sec, gin and orange juice.
I had to look it up. We usually call it a Grass Skirt here.”

“Oh.”

“So, I sided with the boy. He told
me there was no tip to steal. All he found was the note. It really pissed Sandy off. But she’s a bitch anyway.” Red shrugged.

“True, she is a bitch,” Tammy
chimed in without even thinking.  Definitely a hostile work environment here.

“You told me last time I was here
that you were the one who killed Orby.” I was curious.  Red must be pretty
slick to get away with murder and admit to it.

“Well, like most troubles, it
involved a woman,” he looked away. The band had taken a break so we could
actually hear him confess.