Switcheroo (16 page)

Chapter
27

It turned out that her name was Mabel. 
And I know what you’re thinking, that Mabel is a Grandma’s name, but she was no
Grandma.  She was young and cute and full of life.  Had a little turned-up
nose.  She was “not too fat, not too skinny, just right,” according to Red. 
Red had met Mabel in Orby’s Grill where he’d worked as a bartender since
fleeing Texas five years earlier.  Red had sold used cars, cooked beef brisket
and loaded UPS trucks to make a living while in school in Texas.  Due to a
series of unfortunate events involving some cow-shit hallucinogenic mushrooms,
a Trans Am and a pissed-off woman, Red had left the state of Texas in a hurry. 
With six years of college under his belt, no degree and no money, he was headed
to Myrtle Beach but ended up in Knoxville, Tennessee after seeing a makeshift
poster that described it as a homeless person’s Mecca.

It turns out Red didn’t do too
badly.  He found himself living in a shelter not too far from the bus station
downtown.  He would report to the Job Corp on 4
^th
Avenue and get day
construction jobs that paid cash under the table.   This was easy drinking
money until winter set in.  Work was slow then and he needed to find something
more permanent.  He went drinking at Orby’s Place one night and never left.  He
had struck up a conversation with Orby himself that night.  It had come up that
Red had a business school background and Orby thought the boy could help him
manage the bar. This would give Orby more time to scarf alcohol and cheat on
his wife with the waitresses.

Orby was a scoundrel.  He was fat.
He was a drunk and a pot head.  He had a beard that was always in need of
trimming.  He wore an old sweat-stained Titleist golf hat, though he had never
once played golf. He drove a white Escalade with a four-inch lift kit and an
Orange Nike swoosh on the side, Starsky and Hutch style.  He kept beer in a
fridge below the arm rest and his sub-woofers were always blaring Toby Keith or
somebody worse (Red hated new country).  Somehow, Orby charmed Red and Red
agreed to work for him.  Orby did have a sense of humor.  He was generous,
paying his people a decent wage and treating them well, even when he was
blitzed (which was always).

Red started out working behind the
bar.  Red had spent plenty of time in front of bars, so working behind one was
a natural transition. He knew about bad service from experience.  He worked at
keeping customers happy.  He made tips.  He moved out of the shelter and into a
drafty loft apartment not too far from Orby’s. The electric bill ran more than
the rent, but it was manageable for Red.  He cut back on his drinking and
started waxing his handle-bar mustache again. He considered the possibility of
sending a payment on his defaulted student loans.  Life was improving.

Things went on like this for a few
years.  Gradually Orby trusted Red with more and more responsibility.  He let
Red supervise the waitresses, book bands and even make the bank deposits.
Ultimately he gave Red check signing authority and Red pretty much ran the
place.  Since Red had his shit together now, Orby’s Place made more money than
ever and both Red and Orby did well.  Their friendship grew.

One smoky night at the bar, Orby
threw his heavy arm around Red and whispered.

“Look at that one, what do you
think?” He was motioning with his cigarette toward three girls at the bar.

“Which one? They’re all nice,” 
Red shrugged.

“Well, the one in the white halter
top. She can’t take her eyes off me. Ha.”

Seems Orby was smitten.  (Too bad
it wasn’t with his wife.)  Her got the girl’s name from one of the waitresses
on duty. He immediately began obsessing about Mabel in a way that only Orby
could.  Things went into a downward spiral when he found the Mabel did not
reciprocate his feelings. He drank way too much.  He snapped at people. When he
left the bar he floored his Escalade and threw gravel wildly as the wheels
spun. His kids and his wife hated him.  He had always behaved this way, but
with the anger that was behind it now, it was worse.

Orby was giving Mabel and her
friends lots of free drinks, so this kept them coming back to the bar often. 
Orby liked this. He forgave their bar tab every few days.  He sent Mabel
flowers.  He talked to her across the bar.  Over a period of weeks he got to
know her better.  She had soft brown hair and was a pretty nice girl.  She
worked as a beautician at Emilia’s Hair and Nails; a budget day spa in an old
house on Sutherland Avenue. Mabel and her friends would all say bye to Orby
with a big show of hugging him goodbye.  He always lingered when he hugged Mabel. 
It was the best part of his day. He would disappear into his office after they
left and drink from his private half gallon bottle of Meyer’s Rum.  If Mabel
and the ladies never showed up he did not come out of his office. Sometimes he
would cruise past her trailer off Liberty Avenue to see if she was home, but he
never dared to stop.

No matter how hard he tried, Orby
was never able to be anything more than just friends with Mabel.  He became
even more unhappy.  He ignored the Grill, which continued to make money with
Red at the helm. He began pestering Mabel for dates, and was met with polite
refusals but more hugs.  She seemed to think of him as a big, hairy, drunk
uncle.

Divorce papers were served on Orby
one afternoon while the crew was getting the bar ready to open.  Red began to
worry that the bar would become an asset of the marriage and Orby’s ex-wife
would try to shut them down.

Since he was always serving her
and her friends, Mabel started talking to Red.  Red was careful not to let a
jealous Orby notice because Orby would blow a gasket.  Red stayed behind the
bar, but sometimes he found himself leaning forward a bit.  Not being a real
tall guy even with the boots, Red stood eye to eye with Mabel.  Her brown eyes
sparkled and her personality bubbled; at least in part because of all the free
booze Orby had been pushing on her.   Red’s heart had been pretty well hardened
by life, but a very small part of it felt guilty about his growing affection
for Mabel.

Red was drying glasses behind the
bar one night when he heard yelling.  He turned to see that Mabel had just
pitched her Rum Runner into Orby’s face.  Orby clamped onto her upper arm as
she turned to leave. She left a couple broken off artificial nails in his cheek
and ran out of the bar.  Red ran after her. Red’s eyes met Orby’s for a moment
as he ran past him.  Orby’s expression was bewildered. The reddish chunks of
frozen Rum Runner stuck on his face made his wounds look even worse.

Red caught up with Mabel in the
gravel parking lot.  Under the harsh security light she told Red that Orby had
offered her a hundred bucks to ‘show tits’ as he had put it.  Mabel was an
old-fashioned name for an old-fashioned girl.  She was offended but Orby was
drunk and wouldn’t let up.  Now Mabel had stopped crying but her face was
streaked with tears and dark eye makeup.  Red told her she needed to go home
and not come back to Orby’s.  He hugged her to make her feel better.  She said
she would miss seeing him.  The next thing Red knew they

were locked in a kiss.  It lasted.
In the warm afterglow, Red opened the door to Mabel’s little six cylinder
Mustang.  He told her he would call her, everything would be okay.  She wrote
her number down on a burnt lotto ticket and gave it to Red. There was a chill
that spring evening but that scrap of paper kept him warm as his boots crunched
across the gravel lot to go face Orby.

But Orby wasn’t there.  The bar
was hopping and busy, so Red jumped back behind the bar and got his mind back
on making drinks.  He kept thinking about Mabel’s soft lips on his.  He
straightened the handle bars of his mustache with the forefinger and thumb of
each hand.

Red’s mind slammed into high gear
when the huge mirror behind the bar shattered and his right shoulder exploded
in pain. As he was going down he saw Orby with a gun in his hand, plowing
through the screaming dancers like a semi in rush hour.

Red dragged himself across the
shards of mirror toward the far end of the bar.  In the back of the under-bar
refrigerator was a Tupperware container that had the word “Red’s” written on it
in Sharpie pen. Red held it down with his boot and used his right hand to pry
it open. Red’s .38 fell out.  He had no time to wait. He forced himself to turn
around as he picked up the gun.  Orby was just leaning over the other end of
the bar about to shoot the place on the floor where Red had fallen.  Red shot
him three times in the torso and Orby disappeared backwards behind the bar. 
Red quickly went into shock and passed out from the pain.

Chapter
28

“Anyway, my right shoulder still
hurts when it rains.” Red concluded, shrugging his right shoulder. “Hell, I’m a
lefty anyway, plus I can use it to predict the weather.”

I was impressed, it was quite a
story.

“And Orby died, of course.”

“Medical examiner said he was dead
before his lard butt hit the concrete floor.”

“What ever happened to Mabel?”

“He married her,” Tammy added.

“It’s true.  She doesn’t drink
half as much now.  Ain’t a bad cook and I haven’t had to pay for a hair cut
yet,” Red ran his fingers through his thick red mop and put his denim hat back
on.

“And Orby’s Place?  You bought it
from Orby’s widow?” I asked

“Nope. The dumb son of a bitch
left it to me in his will.  I guess he was trying to spite his wife at the
time.  Probably had no intention of keeping it that way.  I did have to pay an
attorney a hell of a lot of money to make the will stick.  His widow fought it;
he died before the divorce went to court.  His will also clouded my criminal
case because the asshole D.A. said I had something to gain by seeing Orby
dead.  It never made it to trial.  Too many eye-witnesses.  Judge heard it and
ruled it was self defense.”

“So you killed the guy and took
his girl and his business and got away with it.  Only in America. Sounds like you killed three birds with one stone,”  I sloshed some more coffee
down.

“Actually I would say I killed one
big bird with three stones.  Like I said, he was a huge old fucker.”

Red turned and walked away, a
small portrait in denim.

“A man followed me to work
today.”  Tammy spoke matter-of-factly, hugging herself as she said this. “I ran
inside but he was gone by the time Red got out to the parking lot looking for
him.”

“Why didn’t you say something
before?” Guilt was burning my cheeks.

“Well, there was nothing you could
have done anyway, so I never called you,” She shrugged.

“I can’t afford to put you up in a
hotel any more. Let me take you home. And I’ll have a look around your house. “

This was the least I could do and
never let it be said that I didn’t do my least.

We rode out to Grandma Tuttle’s
farmhouse in silence, both dog-tired.  Tammy looked beautiful in her
too-much-eye-makeup-and-hair-spray kind of way. I was thinking that these
trucks I was trying to get were never going to be in the same place at once. 
One was always where the other wasn’t.  This whole line of thought made me more
tired so I tried remembering Wendy Forsyth naked.  At 1:38 in the morning this
was enough to keep me awake until I dropped Tammy off and made it home.

Chapter
29

Eyes hurting. Legs hurting. Brain
hurting. Mouth tastes like Rhino piss.  Conclusion: grow up, Rust. You are not
in college anymore.

Liberal use of hot water, coffee,
toothpaste, floss, and mouthwash had me feeling like a person by nine o’clock.

It was Friday so naturally I
ignored my office and went straight to the problem at hand, finding the right
CD’s to take to Oakridge.  I pulled out my Afghan Wigs and my Pulp Fiction
soundtrack and headed for the Crown Vic.  Nothing like mafia rock to get you
started.  I left the dog out in the fenced yard since it was sunny and not too
cold.

I am good at handling
confrontation. It is best to be direct when dealing with difficult people who
may be combative. In case that didn’t work, my pistol was in the glove box,
always a good plan B.

Listening to songs about mafia
killings, gang violence and love gone bad helped ease my hangover. Life wasn’t
so bad.  I had a good car and some good tunes and decent prospects. 
Unfortunately, I also had no real plan.  I was just gonna knock on Slink’s door
and demand the truck, in a nice way, and hope this Partee character was not
around.

I headed through Oakridge to rural
Oliver Springs.  The area is remote, but old pine power poles with their
drooping lines let me know I was still in relative civilization.

I pulled into the short gravel
drive leading up to Slink’s trailer.  It did not look at all threatening at
this time of day.  Bright sunlight filtered through the canopy of fall color
and it looked almost homey. I stuck my cell phone in my pocket, along with a
can of mace for the dog. I tried to step lightly on the wooden steps to the
front deck.

I knocked gently on the mobile
home’s door and listened for the dog. My knock was followed by a sound that
could have been a twelve-foot grizzly bear pretending to bark like a dog.  I
reached in my pocket and fingered my small can of mace as if it was worry
beads.  I heard an interior door close and then, finally, the front door
opened.

Slink stood there in jeans and a
Fossil t-shirt.  His golf hat topped sandy blonde hair that was cut into a
short mullet -by a chick with a cigarette dangling, no doubt.  He did not look
surprised, or happy, to see me.

“You again.  You keep showing up
when Partee is away. If it keeps raining eventually you will find me with my
umbrella,”  He smirked.

“That sounded like a threat,” I
said in mock surprise.

“Yes, if I use metaphors it helps
with the vomiting.”

“Vomiting?”

“Uh huh.  I could punch your
lights out, but this would bring on a fit of nausea that would last the rest of
the day.  This is why we are just talking. You may as well come in.  And you
can put the mace away, Byron is in his room.”

“That’s what you call a man-eater
like that, Byron?”

“He’s named after Screamin’ Lord
Byron, you know, David Bowie?”

“Right.”

I was familiar with David Bowie’s
Screamin’ Lord Byron. Screamin’ had an aversion to confrontation, too.  It was
evident because he hid behind a couch while the intruder, who had just fallen
through the ceiling of his dressing room, asked for a favor to impress his
date. Screamin’s reply: ‘Go away’ was spoken through his hands which were
covering his face.

I stepped inside Slink’s mobile
home, which looked like many of the ones I had inspected.  Dirty carpet,
probably from Byron’s muddy paws.  Wall board instead of dry wall. Seven and a
half foot ceilings. Fake wood cabinets.  Everything built with cost in mind.

“You want a Coke?” Slink said,
heading to the kitchen.

“Sure.”

I looked around while Slink opened
a two liter and tossed ice into two glasses. He had a small TV and VCR combo on
a glass stand.  I sat down on a sectional sofa that was a unique blend of blue
with brown smudges and stank of cigarette smoke. Slink handed me my drink and
sat down in a tan recliner.  He took a big swallow and set his glass on a
table/lamp combo that wobbled under the weight.

“You gotta tell me where the truck
is. You know it belongs to my client.”

“Actually, one of them belongs to
her husband.”

“Who is dead, by the way. It’ll be
hers once it’s out of probate.”

“True.”

“You give me the truck and we both
go our separate ways.   I’ll inspect homes, drink, and smoke cigars and try to
chase women, etc.  You go back to cooking barbeque and doing whatever it is
that you do.”

“Except I don’t like making
barbeque.”

“What’s not to like?”

“You ever seen what comes out of a
barbeque pit when you drain it? It’s one molecule away from toxic waste.  It’s
enough to make you turn vegan.”

“Well, how is having two trucks
that switch places gonna help with the barbeque thing?”

“It will help me quit my day job.
The fastest growing business in Anderson County is drug sales and I am doing
pretty well at it.  I really want something more than this.”  He gestured
around the small den with its bent mini-blinds and it’s cute but
nicotine-stained curtains.

“You know I can’t keep anything
nice here because my customers are always coming over.”

“I started out buying some weed
through a friend of Partee’s.  Then I started growing it in my closet and
selling it to friends. I don’t even like the stuff anymore but it is making me
money. I have so many people wanting different drugs from me that I can’t meet
the demand.  Partee’s connection is a small player and his connection isn’t
that much bigger.  I see that the only way I’m gonna succeed is go straight to
the source, Colombia. I see myself in a big house just having to kind of
oversee things. You know, manage. Partee will handle the distribution once the
drugs are here and he would handle any dirty work that came up.  I would only
have to go to Colombia one time to set things up.”

“Let me guess. You want to send
one of the trucks to Colombia?”

“Bing!”

“Bingo?”

“Yep.  I want to be the opposite
of Scarface.  A quiet person sitting on a pile of cash, who will live to be a rich
old man.”

I didn’t feel well now, not at
all. A sudden fever hit me and I was sweaty and weak.

“Why tell me all this?” I said
shakily.

“Because pretty soon you’ll be
telling me where the other truck is. The drug I gave you will lead you to tell
me and by the time you come to, I will have the truck. You will be lost in the
wilderness or maybe even dead, if I can find Partee.”

My consciousness was beginning to
fade.

“How? Ya drank from the sss…ame
bottle.” Losing it now.

“The drug is sodium pentothal and
it was already in the glass. Truth serum is the slang they use on TV. It is a
little precaution I take when Partee is not around.  The only way I can
overpower somebody without puking.”

Sodium pentothal is spy shit. Not
the kind of thing I’d expect to find in a drug peddler’s shabby living room.
And that was the last thing I remembered.