Switcheroo (19 page)

“Well, what happened?”

“Well, we walked back to the Fort
carrying a bunch of heavy beer and Sharon cussed me like a dog and I haven’t
been back since.”

“I’ll be right back,” I slid off
my bar stool and went through the side door into the lobby of the theater. I
spent several minutes fouling the air and water of the Bijou’s bathroom.  I was
beginning to feel human again, but I was pretty sure that would pass, too.  I
washed my face, which still had a bit of blood on it.  Patting down my hair, I
left the bathroom a new man.

I cut through the smoke in the
dining area to the bar. Manny was still there, with a fresh drink for me.

“I got you another drink, your
usual,” Manny smiled, pleased with himself.

“What is it?”

“A New Castle Ale, of course,
silly,” Manny shook his head. Then he split to go to talk to some waitresses.

The deep mahogany glow of the ale
was enhanced by the ambient lighting of the old bar.  The soft yellow lighting
left plenty of warm shadows and dark corners.  The tarnished tin ceiling and
dark burl wood of the walls embraced me and the tiny bubbles rising through my
brew captured my attention.

Variations of this feeling kept
repeating as I poured three or four pints down my neck. Manny put another one
down.

“I joined the new health club and
was doing pull-ups. I was thinking about how the hero in the movies is hanging
from a cliff by one hand and holding a damsel’s hand his other. I can’t even
hold up my own weight with one arm, much less hold up a chick’s weight, too.

“And Harrison Ford can?” I
disagreed. “That’s just movie magic, that’s all.”

“Not true! He can do it, he has
arms like anchor chains.”

“Geritol, Zocor and piano wire,
that’s his movie magic.”

“That’s harsh, dude.”

“So, what happened to the Scout?”

“Oh, it’s still down in the bog
last time I checked.”

“And the girl?”

“She hates me.  I heard she’s a
lesbian now and her parents bought her a Range Rover.”

This reminded me that I was
without wheels and would need to go to the car dealer again tomorrow. My luck
being what it was, I planned on going super cheap with this car since the last
one hadn’t made it through the month. Ugh.  A monster wave of fatigue hit and
my head slumped forward.

“Manny, get me a cab would you?”

Rust out.

Chapter
33

A sound began to waver on my aural
horizon.  It snaked through my psyche and found its way to my core being, and
then increased its decibel level to a head-spitting volume.

I slowly realized that this sound
was only a ringing phone hammering on a bad headache.  Both things would
eventually go away. One of them I could stop immediately.

“Hello.”

“They have both trucks now, don’t
they?” Snapped Tammy McHenry. Women always know.

“Yes,” I sighed.  Telling her this
would have been hard, so I was actually relieved that she knew the trucks were
gone. But how did she know?

“I knew it!”  her anger sizzled
down the phone line.  “The guy who has been following me everywhere stopped, so
I figured that truck was gone. Oh, you have let me down!  Just like Travis and
every other man I’ve known. You screwed me and then you caved.  How much did
they pay you? A thousand? Two thousand? Ohhgg!”

The idea of selling Tammy’s truck
to Slink and Partee had not even occurred to me until just then, but it seemed
like a logical conclusion for Tammy to reach.  Unfortunately, I could not
convince her that I was still her gallant knight as I was limited to one word
sentences by my sodium pentothal / Waffle Hut/ New Castle Ale hangover.

“No.”

“No? Oh, they paid you even more? 
I see.  Well, Rust, that is just weak. I needed you, you caved.  Typical man
bullshit. ”

“Coffee,” I said involuntarily, as
though gasping for air.

“Hell no, I won’t see you for
coffee or anything else. I am screwed now ‘cause the cops think I’m a flake and
the only guy who does believe me is a weak-ass.”

“Wait.”

There had to be a one word
sentence that would explain that I had not given up.  One word that would show
that I knew how important these trucks were to Tammy, and possibly to the
entire human race.  Nothing came to me.  The old noggin was stalled. My
thoughts were doing a drunken square dance that turned into a mosh pit.

“Well, I can’t do anything but
wait, now. Although I doubt I’ll even get another chance like I had with these
trucks. Bye, Rust. Oh, and in case you haven’t figured it out, you’re fired!”
She hung up.

After Tammy’s depressing call, I
was roused by a series of calls that culminated in me finally snapping out of
it and doing something.

I woke from a blissfully ignorant
doze to Saturday’s harsh reality.  Oh that warbling, beeping sound, make it
stop.

“Hello.”

“This is Detective Stratton
calling. Could I speak to Russell Stover?”

“It’s me,”  I rasped this out as
one word, like ‘smee’.

“Seriously?  You sound like some
old dude today.  Let me guess.  Smoked and drank to much last night?” I could
hear his sarcastic smile through to line.

“Yep.”

“Knew it.  Well, your lungs
weren’t all that got smoked last night.  Oakridge P.D. found your car parked on
the side of Illinois Avenue at three a.m., torched.  They said it was charred
black front to back, and still smoking.  Remains of three melted gas cans were
found.  I had it sent to the Knoxville impound if your insurance adjuster needs
to see it.”

“Bummer.”

“So did you have a hot date last
night?”

“Funny,” not really what I was
thinking.

“You want to tell me why all this
bad shit is happening to you?”

“Later.”  I could not face
Stratton right now. I hung up.

Where I really needed to be was the
kitchen, where any good day begins, but I ended up in the bathroom.  After a
fierce battle with my gut and the invading New Castle Ale, my Waffle Hut meal
finally gave up the ghost and split. I wiped my chin, stood up, washed my face
then shuffled to the kitchen.

Aspirin, Pepto, coffee, coffee,
coffee.  I was feeling better, but the sight of my pearly white UT coffee mug
still freaked me out a little.  It had previously been like a good cast iron
frying pan, never once washed.  Grandma Tuttle had changed all that with one
SOS pad. Thinking of Grandma cracked the wall of numbness and guilt began to
leak through.

The phone rang again but was now
sounding more like a plain old phone. Still annoying though.

“Hello, there.” Now up to two
words per sentence, baby steps.

“Andrew Chandler, here.  Good
morning to you.”

“Morning, Andrew.” Two words were
much easier, even natural.

“Pinkerton has e-mailed and said
that you were not successful in recovering the purloined truck and now the
enemy has both trucks. Most unfortunate.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” the sympathy in
Andrew’s voice sounded genuine. “That’s why I called.  You know there may be a
way you can locate both trucks in hurry.  An astral phenomenon or energy
transfer of this magnitude must leave some kind physical quantum fingerprint,
if you will.  Something that can be measured and maybe tracked.”

“You’re right,” Wheels were
beginning to turn.

“Yes, Rust. But I do not know what
it is that you would need to look for.  I just think there must be some kind of
tell-tale sign when the trucks switch places that would allow you to locate
them.”

“What next?” Give me something,
anything.

“I think you should try to track
down the young scientist who crafted this device and quiz him on how you can
locate the trucks.”

“Good idea,” I moaned. Andrew said
goodbye.

“Later, Dude.”

I passed out one more time.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. I know
that as hard to read, but imagine having to hear it with a rhino of a
hangover.  I stared at the receiver; the number calling me was my own cell
phone number. Still in a stupor, I answered the phone.

“Hello,” I gargled, back to one
word sentences again.

“Now who’s the bitch? We got your
trucks, your cell phone and your car. Used that wannabe cop car for a weenie
roast last night to celebrate.  Don’t even think about trying to trace this
call because your phone ain’t no phone no more. Goodbye asshole.”

I was trying to think about how to
say good bye and also cuss him using only one word, but all I could hear was a
rushing sound and then a metallic crunch, a sort of a grinding under foot
sound. Oh, well.

Chapter
34

A new day. It was late October.  I
sat on the back porch with my dog and my pearly white coffee mug.   My big
chance. I could not continue to inspect mobile homes and not find Tammy’s
missing trucks for her. I thought and thought.  I thought about how I was going
to make all this right.  I needed wheels.

Bandit followed me as I shuffled
into the house.  I went to the laundry room. I removed the dog’s dirty old
bandana and tied a clean one around his neck.  He seemed pleased enough.  I
showered, shaved my face and my tongue and braced myself for my continuing
adventure.

“Hi, Jim,” I said to the car
salesman.

“Name’s Bernie.”

“I bought a Crown Vic from you
last week and you said your name was Jim. What gives?” I asked angrily.

“I can’t have my ex-wives knowing
how many cars I’m selling so I give every other customer a different name. 
How’s the Crown Vic doing?”

“It burned.”

“You know they told us never to
ask people how the cars we sell them are doing. Now I know why,” he gently
rubbed his forehead.  Another day, another hangover. “So, now you need another
car?”

“Yes, I’d like to see the cheapest
thing you have that will crank. Cars are only lasting me one week now. I can’t
afford to spend a lot.”

“That’s gonna take some walking,
the nicer stuff is at the front.”

We passed the F350's, F250's and
the F150's. Explorers, Edges, and Fiestas. Then a nice array of imported
trades.  Finally the Rose Garden.

“These will be at the auto auction
this weekend if we don’t sell ‘em by Thursday.” He gestured toward the back row
of pitiful rides.

“How about that Black VW? Does it
run?”

“Sure. Let me get a battery
charger.”

“It’s got a dead battery?”

“I’m just assuming here,” he came
back and gave the car a token crank. Sure enough, dead as a duck in Dallas.

Bernie began hooking the red
battery charger up to the black Volkswagen sedan.

“You know, I don’t recognize the
model,” I wondered.

“They call it a Tarjetta,”  Bernie
said falling into the driver’s seat and cranking the V-dub.

“Like a Jetta?”

“Sort of.  It’s a Mexican model. 
Tarjetta.”

“Sounds exotic.”

“It is, Tarjetta means cardboard
in Spanish,” Bernie said over the whining engine.

“That doesn’t inspire confidence,”
I said, loudly. “The belts squeal.”

“We prefer the term ‘sing’.
Anyway, that’s why it’s here in the back row.  Nineteen fifty takes it and the
singing fan belt is no extra charge.” He spoke with effort, through his
hangover.

“It’s got no radio.”

“Good thing the belt sings,” He
quipped.

I began writing him a check before
he even finished laughing.

Chapter
35

Fifty jobs worked, times my fee;
less what I paid Wendy to type up the reports would get the old check book
going again.

I made it to Friday.  I had been
on the road for nearly three days straight photographing and documenting mobile
homes, some vacant and some occupied by delinquent borrowers. This got me out
of hot water with LISA and into some green.  I tried mending things with Wendy
by means of some flowers delivered, along with a check, and was able to get her
to type and email the reports.

Joel Axeman from LISA had me on
the phone, praising me for a change.

“It’s like when you first started
working for me three years ago.  These reports and pictures are great and the
turn around time was awesome.  Way to catch up.  Good thing, I was ready to can
you, honestly,” Axeman said enthusiastically.

“Thanks, Joel, I guess,” I
mumbled.  I was in a pile on the futon in my home office.  My blood was
polluted with bad quick shop coffee, trucker vitamins and pastries with
questionable expiration dates.   There were bags on the bags under my eyes and
my gut was in a twisted knot of beef jerky and heat lamp corn dogs.  Staring at
a windshield for three days and fourteen hundred miles had done it. My mind was
toast and my body felt like partially hydrogenated oil.

“I figure you’ve probably been
distracted by some chick or some delinquent alimony or something, right?”

“No, actually I have a rash that
won’t go away,” I was anxious to get him off the phone. It worked.

“Little too much info there,
Rust.  I gotta call holding. I’ll send some more work Monday.”

The Tarjetta had run like a
singing top all week.  I was waiting to see if it would be wrecked, burned,
stolen or otherwise made unusable before I had a radio installed in it.  I had
been listening to my armband head phone radio that I bought to wear years ago,
for jogging. It had never been used until this week.  Listening to a lot of
public radio and horrible local sports shows had cleared my head.  I was making
a plan for next week, but I needed help.

I called on the one person who was
perfect to help me, even though he probably despised me.

“Really I think I’ve been entirely
too nice to you, considering you broke my arm,” Fred Smithey said.

I wanted to make one more run at
getting Tammy’s magical Ford Rangers back to her.  In case it didn’t work out,
I wanted to make sure my business was taken care of while I was gone.

“It’s only for a week and it’ll be
easy.  You’ll make money while you’re on vacation.” I was trying to get him
excited about the opportunity.  It was like trying to make accounting sound
interesting.

“I didn’t mean to break your arm.
I thought you were trying to kill me and even then I was only trying to scare
you away,” I was pleading.

“Can you get me tickets to the Alabama/ Tennessee game?”  He asked.  I was making headway.

“I might be able to, yes,” I said,
thinking this would be a hard one to do without spending big money.

“And can I stay at your house?”

“Okay.” Weird old dude staying in
my house? No problem.  Fred was mostly harmless.

“And can you get some Viagra for
me and the wife?”

“Are you serious?” I was shocked
because Fred seemed like the quiet sensible type you would not expect to even
have a penis, much less try to use it on a woman.

“You broke my arm.  I am
considering what you ask.  These are my requests. Call me back if you can come
through,” Fred hung up.

He was sounding more like the
Sultan of Swing than a sultan in a sling.  When a guy like me has to pander to
the likes of Fred Smithey it is a good time to hit the road.  Even Bandit
looked at me like I was a worn-out screw-head.

I let Bandit out into the back
yard, checked to make sure he had water, stuck a pen in my shirt pocket and
left.

Thirty minutes later I was in
Oakridge, at Sound Emporium, a low rent version of Buy-It’s car audio section.

Oakridge didn’t have any national
chains when it came to car stereos and I was in a hurry.  The Hispanic salesman
took my keys and agreed to fill the hole in the dash with radio / CD player and
add some better speakers for $199 plus tax. I took my briefcase and CD wallet
from the car and called a cab to take me to Oakridge National Labs.

The cab let me out in the line of
cars to go through security.  They searched my case. I thought one of the
guards was eyeing my Led Zeppelin sampler, but he left it in the briefcase. I
was given a visitor’s badge and began to walk in the direction of Randal
Kendrick’s office building.  A nice security officer offered to let me a ride
on a government golf cart.  It was still warm in the afternoon in late October,
so I jumped on the rear bench seat to save some calories.

I entered Kendrick’s building and
stood waiting for the receptionist to notice me.  This took a long time since
she was of the fair persuasion. Finally, she sensed a presence.

“Mr. Stover to see Randall
Kendrick,” I said confidently.

“Do you have an appointment?” She
chirped.

“No, I’m sorry.  It couldn’t wait.
Can you tell him it’s about Darin Mosley?”  I knew the name of his dead
security officer would get his attention and it should induce him to talk to
me.

The nice lady spoke into her
headset telephone and then said, “He can see you.” She handed me a second
visitor’s badge with further clearance.

“I am almost sure that I have
nothing to say to you.” Randall Kendrick barely looked up from his reports as
he spoke. His suit and graying temples with his cheater magnifying glasses down
on his nose all spelled control, but his right hand shook slightly.

“You were much nicer last time,” I
feigned surprise.

“The last time I saw you I was
suffering from an unfortunate overdose of Prozac and bourbon.  Today I am
feeling much better, or was, until you got here. Please leave or say something
and then leave. If you have to talk, make it quick.”

“The boy that made those trucks
switch, I need him.”

See if that is quick enough.

“I won’t give you that information
and if I did, it wouldn’t help. His mother is a ball- busting iron maiden, very
protective of her son.  She has a restraining order against Oakridge National
Labs and its personnel.  Says I caused her son to have a nervous breakdown. You
throw one chair and it’s like you’re branded as an asshole for life after
that...”

“I have to talk to him. I am
missing both trucks now and my client wishes to get them back.  I am
dedicated.  I would like to save us both time by not having to go to the police
about your relationship with Darin Mosley and his crimes.” I raised an eyebrow
and waited.

“You can’t prove anything and you
know it.”

“You’re right, but I am a good
story teller and the embarrassment of an inquiry right now could be the last
nail in your career’s coffin.”

“You are a pain in the ass,
Stover,” Kendrick’s upper lip was sweating now. He looked at me the way one
looks at a turd in a hot tub. He scratched out a note on a legal pad. “I hope
this woman eats your lunch. Get out before I call security.” He broke his gaze
from mine and became fascinated with his computer screen. I could see his
internet browser was logged into LandsEnd.com.

“Try more bourbon and Prozac and I
think you’ll be fine.”

I picked up the note. The name
Sally Madison Mt. Gideon, Ohio was written on it.

A cab took me back to downtown
Oakridge and left me at Sound Emporium where I picked up the VW.  This Mexican
German car now had a killer Japanese CD player in it.  To complete the cultural
melt down of this V-Dub I popped in my Zeppelin CD.

I ate a bean burrito and drank a
coke on the way back to Knoxville. I cranked the stereo up and then cranked the
manual sunroof open to release any of the burrito’s after effects.