Switcheroo (21 page)

Chapter
39

Back at the house, I now had two
phone numbers that were associated with the two purloined pickups.  The dog
relaxed while I sat at the kitchen table and called Joel Axeman at LISA.  He
sent a test signal to the numbers to find the global position of the trucks. 
One was on the outskirts of Oakridge and one was moving south in the Atlantic
Ocean, probably en route to South America just as Slink had said; about to
start its new career as the stealthiest drug mule in history. What a waste.

If you have to eat two frogs, eat
the big one first. A moving target; I had to figure out a way to get a truck
that was on its way to Brazil or Colombia. There was no harm in going ahead
with plans to start the chase now.  Eventually the truck would stop moving and
I could home in on it.

I once saw a film where the
villain said, ‘When things start going badly, I like to return to zero as soon
as possible’. He then torched his house, shot his girlfriend and raced off to
shoot out the eyes of his enemies. It bothers me no end that I cannot remember
who said this.  I was searching my mind for the answer while staring at the
ceiling in my old bedroom at mother's house on Cherokee Boulevard.  Against her
better judgment, she was allowing me to stay here while I was letting Fred
Smithey crash at my place and do my inspections for LISA.  This was freeing me
up to screw up my life way faster than if I had continued working sixty hours a
week and paid my bills.  I felt like the
Ty-Di-Bowl
Man; living life on a downward spiral.

This bedroom was still cooler than
any other room in any house or apartment that I had managed to land since
leaving the nest.  Mahogany furniture. Tasteful decor.  Expensive linens. It
didn’t help. I still couldn't sleep.

I had temporarily handed over my
business to a man I had just met, hardly knew and who trusted me even though I
had broken his arm.  I needed his help while I got my pooh-pooh together to go
the South America.  I enjoy travel, but going to a continent that contains the
top five nations for kidnapping? That never occurred to me until this week. I
needed to complete this caper and get those trucks back to Tammy. I couldn't
stop thinking of the possibilities for this invention and everything that it
could become. I could be part of it or I could go back to the daily grind,
calling on past-due debtors for clients who were too uncaring or arrogant to do
it themselves. It was time to take a stand, to do something, to break out of
this routine of six field calls per day, every day, week in, week out.

I had $10,000 in cash in a shoe
box under the bed. I had withdrawn it from the bank that afternoon. Not very
smart, but that money had been in my account for too long. Mother had never
cashed any of my rent checks, probably wouldn't and it was time to put that
money to good use.  $10,000 was like $1,000,000 in Colombia, right? I hoped the
money would help buy and bribe my way in and my way out, with the truck in my
possession.  I could use it to buy favors from strangers in what would
undoubtedly be a strange land.

Having never been further south
than Miami, this trip wouldn't be easy for me.  I had gotten my plane ticket,
my passport and even some immunization shots the doc said I needed to keep from
croaking in Colombia. My last stop was at Eddie’s Trick Shop.  Halloween was
coming up and Eddie stocked a wide variety of rental costumes.  Fifteen minutes
later I left with a Catholic priest costume.  I figured, who would be least
likely to be kidnapped?

Chapter
40

As a structure, the El Dorado International Airport in Bogota, Colombia was not that different from Knoxville's McGee Tyson Airport.   That is where the likeness ended.  The people, sites
and air inside were electric with differences from a North American airport.
Spanish assailed my ears through the PA system. Signs advertising products I
had never heard of puzzled me.  I nervously rehearsed memorized phrases I had
studied on the plane. I walked past gates headed toward baggage claim with an
out-of-control feeling, like a fart in a whirlwind.  Air conditioning was not a
priority to the Colombians. I was sweating out Kentucky bourbon from the
in-flight service and looking nervously from side to side at the tan faces of
my new people. I had to make a bond.

I had few tools. Ten thousand
dollars would help. I was feeling seriously fat, with this cash everywhere on
my person.  Some was in a money belt, some in my wallet and some in my carry-on
pack. My priest costume would help.  I bought the short sleeved black shirt and
clerics collar from Party City.  I also had LISA. Not as good as NASA, but Joel
Axeman had offered to do periodic checks on the whereabouts of the missing Ford
Rangers as I homed in on them.

This is how I came to be walking
along the sidewalk at the Bogota Airport sweating my ass off, dressed as a
Catholic priest.  My eyes were darting this way and that searching for familiar
sights and finding only enigmas. I should have taken Spanish in school instead
of French.

Taxis were lined up out in front
of the airport, yellow cars of indeterminate make and model.

Arturo told me everything would be
all right.   He was a large brown-skinned man leaning on a faded yellow cab. I
tossed my bag in the back and sat down next to it.  Once we got out of traffic
the hot wind from all four windows turned the sweat on my face cool and I began
to feel a little better.  I watched in a daze as motorcycles and mopeds buzzed
around us like mosquitoes.  Traffic laws seemed to be only loose guidelines.
Weaving in and out of traffic, Arturo was taking me to the bus station where I
could get a ride to Cali, Colombia. Based on the information from Joel Axeman’s
phone call, I now knew one of the trucks was there. The other truck was still
in Tennessee.

Arturo spoke occasionally, but
since I don’t know Spanish, I responded with polite nods.  There would be a lot
more of this kind of conversation.  He was working his way through a cigarette
and I was wishing I had something to smoke, drink or eat.

Here I was, way out of my comfort
zone.  In Central America there didn’t seem to be any comfort or control unless
you were ultra-rich, possibly from political corruption or drug trade.  The
other 99% of Colombians seemed to cope with life; playing the cards they were
dealt.

To save money I rode from Bogotá
to Cali on a bus.  I use the term “bus” loosely as this bus had no door and,
except for the windshield, no glass in the windows.  Its color resembled the
Partridge family bus, blocky primary colors on white.  It had all the speed of
an old dude eating with chopsticks.  The ride took about a year.

Hours later, I was melting on the
vinyl backseat of another cab crossing downtown Cali from the bus station to
the American Express travel office.  I used my English/Spanish phrase book with
all the effectiveness of a high school nerd trying to charm a cheerleader with
his report card. I finally got the cabbie going in the right direction by
showing him my American Express card and shrugging helplessly.

The American Express office
suggested a reasonably-priced hotel that gave me half a chance of not being
killed and was within walking distance.  As I walked I saw all manner of local
people and some tourists/foreigners.  The locals had brown skin that was
glistening in the humid heat, especially on the ladies. This is the skin type
that is featured in American magazine ads for Corona, vodka, rum, Oil of Olay,
and personal lubricants.   The foreigners (like me) had skin that resembled
microwaved turkey skin or fish underbellies.  This is type of skin would only
be featured in the before picture of a Suzanne Summers infomercial.  I assume
that this is how my skin looked as I dragged my suitcase toward the hotel where
I could check in and wring out my socks.

“Your boy Fred Smithey is doing a
bang-up job on these call reports here, Rust.  You may be out of job when you
get back to Tennessee,” Joel Axeman told me when I called him from my cell
phone.

“You'll never get him out of that
cushy gig at Pinkerton. Unless you offer him eight-hour days, weekends off and
dental.  Guy his age needs good insurance. You know he's got a broken arm?” I
sounded a little defensive.

“Well, just get whatever you need
to get down there and get back here so it’ll be business as usual,” Joel
frowned through the phone. “I’d guess you want to check those co-ordinates
again?”

“You'd be right,” I waited,
listening to keys tap at the other end.

“Looks like your phone number’s
location is now in the coffee warehouse district in downtown Cali,” Joel read
off the names of the intersection. I scribbled the names on a folded piece of
copy paper and put it into the shirt pocket of my black cleric’s shirt.

“I can't be sure which building,
you'll have to check it out, and I still don't want to know what this is about,
comprende?” Axeman reminded me.  “Spanish joke, get it?”

“Right.”

“So what now?”

“Now, I’m gonna go change outta
this priest outfit and rest for a minute, I’ll see you, Joe.”

“Wait, you a priest, Rust?  I hope
lightning doesn’t strike this phone line. Hold on, this could be perfect. When
you screw up, you could save time and confess to yourself. Of course you
wouldn’t say your Hail Marys and then you’d get in trouble with yourself.”

“I just thought it would lessen my
chances of being killed. I heard some bad things about this country. It’s
worked so far.”

“Yeah, if things get really ugly,
try a nun costume. I’ll talk to you later. Hurry back.”

The hotel was a shade of blue you
would normally find on the wing of a parrot. In North America, you would only
paint a building this color for use as a low rent car lot or a strip club.

I checked in giving my real name
with the word ‘Father’ in front. Paid for two days, using some of my cash. 
Finally in my room, I flopped onto my bed, sweaty and with my head spinning
like fluff in a bagless vacuum. I needed a drink but had brought nothing with
me.

The nice lady at the American
Express travel office suggested I get in touch with a local tour guide/Spanish
interpreter/assistant. She gave me the number of an agent near my hotel.  The
agent turned out to be a hot dog vendor down the street from the hotel.  This
was a good place to start since I was hungry.  I heaped questionable relish
onto an even more questionable Colombian hot dog and talked with my mouth full
while Angelo listened and nodded.

Finally he muttered some Spanish
and shrugged his shoulders.

I got out my English/Spanish
dictionary and said, “Interpreter guia auxiliary.”

He nodded and held up a finger,
then turned away to talk on his cell phone. Other hungry people were waiting
behind me and starting to grumble by the time he put away his phone.  Angelo
gestured to a park bench nearby and hit me with more rapid fire Spanish. I
headed to the bench, thinking that to use my dictionary to figure out the
response of others would involve actually knowing where one word ended and the
next one started.

Thank goodness help was on the
way. The sun was high. After I sat cooking on a bench for thirty minutes or so,
Jacobo Marin showed up. He was to be my new best friend. This young local spoke
good English and he cheerfully accepted a week’s pay, in advance, to help me
for two days. One day to locate and steal Tammy McHenry’s truck and one day to
get it to the coast.  There was a nice way to say these things to Jacobo,
without saying “stealing” or “dangerous.”  I told him that someone had a
vehicle that belonged to me and I needed to get that truck to the coast and
locate a boat and someone crazy enough to ferry it to America.  Jacobo understood and didn’t seem worried.  I was hoping that grossly overpaying
him implied some risk, so he would not be surprised by my next question.

“I am gonna need a gun for
security.  Can you help me get one?”

“Angelo the hot dog vender has
connections, hang on.”

He moved away and interrupted a
hot dog transaction to whisper into Angelo’s ear. Angelo looked at me the way
you would look at a priest who wants to a gun. Then he shrugged and nodded to
Jacobo, who headed back to me.

“He says meet him here at seven in
the morning and bring $100.”

“Okay.”

“What city do you want to travel
to?” said Jacobo.

“I don’t know.  Someplace small
with no customs agents, but with a little bit of shipping or maybe fishing. The
truck weighs about 2 tons so we will need to find a fairly big boat.”

“We should go to Turbo on the
central coast.  It is the first coastal town on the Atlantic coast near the
Panamanian border.  My uncle lives there. It is a small fishing village, very
low profile,” Jacobo said, giving me a sly look.  He was starting to speak my
language.

Chapter
41

After a restless night I awoke and
put my smelly priest costume back on.  Clean socks and T-shirt, etc helped
some. I covered it all with too much cologne, grabbed my duffel and checked
out.

I met Jacobo at the hog dog stand
that morning.  Nothing in Angelo’s manner or expression showed that he had a
problem selling two sausage dogs and brown paper sack with a Saturday night
special in it to a priest and a teenage tour guide. I overpaid for the hot dogs
to cover the hot gun and then went back to bench to eat and formulate.  I was
not totally sure where Tammy’s truck was and needed a minute to brood. Jacobo
sat quietly next to me and pretended to brood also.  His boyish Latin face,
free of wrinkles and worry lines, did not let him brood very well.

“When I get this truck that I am
trying to get back, I am gonna need to find you quick. Do you have a cell
phone?”

“Nope, but I can just go with
you,” Jacobo said.

“That’s real nice of you Jake, but
I may have to take this truck back by force. If there are men in that coffee
warehouse they are not going to want me to leave with that truck.  They are not
going to want me to leave with a pulse.  Comprende. Dangerouso. Okay?”

“Padre Stover, I am street smart,
you see.  I will be okay.  You no worry.  Also, adding “o” to English words
does not usually make them Spanish. Peligroso, is dangerous. Okay?”

“Okay?”

Right then my cell phone rang. 
Unknown number.  It was Slink.

“Dude, the trucks aren’t switching
places anymore,” Slink said.

How did he get this number? Why
did he think I would help them anyway?  I went with a less sarcastic response
in case Partee was listening.

Finally I said, “Okay?”

“So we need to know how to fix
them back,” Slink said.

“Can’t help,” I said. “I don’t
really know how they work.”

I could hear rustling background
noise. Then Partee got on the phone.

“I knew there was a reason I
didn’t kill you. Listen close, weasel.  You call who you gotta call and line me
up a fix for these trucks. We know you met with the old man from ORNL.  You got
one hour.”

“Why should I help?” There, I
finally stated the obvious.

“Well I might have both trucks
now. But there are other things I could take like your girlfriend’s little
girl. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would you?” Partee waited,
breath hissing into the phone.

I thought of Tammy and her angelic
daughter, Hannah. My stomach turned and my sweat felt cold in spite of the
balmy morning air. Think fast.

“Let me work on it, but that is
not enough time.”

“I don’t care. Call me back or I’m
headed to Knoxville to adopt a kid.” The call ended.

“Are you okay, Padre?”  Jacobo
said.

“Yep,” I lied, trying to think
faster.

I had my gun, my priest costume
and my new side kick, but what I did not have was wheels. It is hard to conduct
surveillance with no car.

“Jacobo, I’ve got to make a call.
Can you hail a cab for us?”

“Si. I will yell.” Jacobo stepped
away.

I hunted up the only number in my
cell phone with an Ohio area code. I dialed.

“Padre Stover!” Jacobo had a cab stopped
and waiting.

I climbed into the tiny taxi cab
with Jacobo. I gave him a scrap of paper with the intersection we needed. I
whispered in Spanish to the driver.  We eased forward into morning traffic.

I rolled up my window to muffle
some of the street noise and started talking as soon as Ned Madison answered
the phone. I went straight to a pack of lies because I knew the truth would not
work.

“This is Billy Smith from Western Union calling.  I have a money transfer that was wired to a William Madison. Does
he live there?” trying to sound official, I set the trap.

“Well, yeah but…”

“It has not been picked up and I
need to contact Mr. Madison to give him the money transfer number. Is he
there?”

“Yeah, but you can just give me
the number, I’m his bro…”

“Sir, I need you to hold just a
moment,” I pushed the mute button on my phone and waited a minute.  I was
hoping this businesslike pause would lend an air of authenticity.  I smiled at
Jacobo, who looked at me in with questioning eyes, but said nothing. For better
or worse he was finding out who he was dealing with.

“I’m sorry to keep you holding,
sir.  I can only give the money transfer number to Mr. Madison.  Or you can
just send him to the office, but without knowing the transfer number, he may
have delays.  I’m sure there are other Madisons in the system.  Should I try to
call back…”

“No, hang on. I’ll get him,” then
a pause.

“Hello,” William Madison said.

“William, I had to lie to get past
the gate keeper. This is Rust Stover calling, we met last week, remember?”

“Yeah, thanks for taking me to the
emergency room, by the way.  Oh, and for the pancakes, too.”

“My pleasure. Listen, I need more
help.  The two trucks have fallen into the hands of some very bad people and
they are threatening my client and her little girl.  The trucks are no longer
teleporting any more and unless I can get them working again… well, I don’t
know what these guys will do.  I need to call them back; I gotta to assume that
they are serious.”

“The initial power for the matter
accelerator comes from the truck’s battery. Do both trucks have a good
battery?”

“Yeah, they both run.”

“Has either truck been damaged
recently?”

“Well one of them was in an
accident, but they have switched since then. Wait, the side window was knocked
out of one truck.”

“There you go.  The trucks were
coated with a thin rubber polymer I engineered to keep the teleportation
reaction from swallowing up more matter than it should. The tires are rubber
and do not need to be sprayed and the windows have a rubber coating for the
safety glass. Without that glass, the process is no longer contained.  Sounds
like it is stalling. This is actually a good thing because if the reaction
continued to expand outside of the truck it could cause a major event.”

“Event?”

“It could turn our universe inside
out or possibly just make a huge implosion. I never really got to test that
scenario,” he said somewhat nonchalantly..

“Is it even safe to be near these
trucks?”

“It’s perfectly safe. I would
replace the window as soon as possible, the trucks may be trying to switch
every twenty-four hours and you don’t want to be nearby if they successfully
connect and that window is not fixed.”

There was dead silence on the
line.

“Have you been knitting while we
talked?”

“Just a little. I should go, bye.”

He hung up.