Switcheroo (22 page)

Chapter
42

“You just have to replace the
broken side window and make sure both batteries are charged?” I explained to
Partee one more time, as I wilted in the South American heat. Jacobo and I were
in an alley across from the coffee warehouse that I believed contained one of
Tammy’s missing Ford pickups. According to my fancy new cell phone’s GPS I was
at the location Joel had given me.

Now there was noisy, slow, redneck
breathing mixed with static coming out of my fancy cell phone.

“That is ridiculous. If you’re
lyin’, you’re dead. It’ll be easy to check though, so your life may be short.”

The call ended with a click.

I sighed and went back to watching
the building across the street.  Through my cheap drugstore binoculars, I saw
several teenage ruffians wearing baggy button-down shirts over wife-beaters.
They had their sleeves rolled up and guns tucked in at the back of their
waistbands.  I was jealous of their youthful tans, their biceps and their Miami Vice coolness.  I hated the way they wore tight loafers with thin soles and no
socks.  My feet always stank when I tried that stunt.

They all smirked and smoked and
occasionally laughed at something one of the others said. To me, this looked
like way too much security for a coffee warehouse, further proof that it was
the right building. I was hiding behind a protruding stairwell that blocked the
view of the warehouse guards. In tourist Cali, my priest disguise had been
comical in a harmless way. Now, in an industrial area, a white priest stuck out
like whore in church.  Here, hiding was pretty much my only choice. I would
have rented a car, but any shiny new car would stand out in this area almost as
much as a gringo priest.

Jacobo crept up behind me. He had
walked through the alley from the next street over.

“I brought you water, Padre,” he
tossed me a sealed bottle of water and then crouched forward, peeking at the
warehouse.

“Thanks, buddy. Hey, where is the
nearest auto glass repair shop?” I asked.

“I do not know.”

“Why don't you duck into that
office right there and ask them?”

“The guards; they will see me.”

“True, but what would they expect?
You look normal; not like me. Now go on before I make you say some Hail Marys.”

Jacobo walked off smiling. In a
moment he came strolling back.

“Mateo's Glassworks, on 3rd. It’s
that way. Six blocks.” He pointed. The sun was high so I could not tell which
way was north or south. I edged toward the building and the alley wall to
maximize the small wedge of diminishing shade.  I handed him my phone.

“Please go back in and get the
phone number. Call them and tell them you need a driver’s side glass for a Ford
Ranger truck and ask them to deliver it to the warehouse across the street.”

He nodded and took the phone. 
Jacobo walked away speaking Spanish calmly into my phone.  He laughed and ended
the call.

“He says somebody already call and
ask the same thing. They are bringing the window after lunch.” He shrugged,
still smiling but confused.

I was tired and hot, but sleep
would have to wait. Food would help. I grabbed my duffle and stood up.

Jacobo lead me down the alley away
from the warehouse. We followed the route the glassworks would take from their
shop to the warehouse. Along the way, we found a lunchtime café and sat down. 
I gave Jacobo a little money and he bought pastries and cold drinks. Waiting
under a café umbrella, we ate and drank slowly. Heat rose, shimmering off the
sidewalk. Passing traffic added to the thick air.

I made a loose plan with Jacobo
and told him afterwards he was to go home to his parent’s. I would meet him
there.  If I was successful, I needed him to guide me to Turbo, on the coast.
What a weird name for a town.  He would have to take a bus home from Turbo.

I was dozing when I heard Jacobo
kick his chair back.  Two hours had passed and the Mateo glass works truck had
just pulled to a stop at a nearby traffic light.

Jacobo was already waving at the
driver with an U.S. hundred dollar bill. This got the driver’s attention.  Then
Jacobo was motioning to him to get out of the van and asking him something
quietly.  Finally the man threw the van into park, got out, and walked
tentatively to the sidewalk.

I was already climbing into the
passenger side of the van.  I tossed my duffle over the seats and hopped into
the driver’s seat. The van was still running and I shifted it into drive as
Jacobo handed the man the hundred, snatched the Mateo Glassworks’ hat off his
head and ran. He tossed the hat through the passenger window as he passed,
heading down an alley across the street.  The driver did not pursue him, thank
goodness.

I was driving toward the
warehouse, wearing the smelly cap down low. I pulled my clerical collar off and
shoved it into my pocket.  This was going well. If there had been two of them I
would have had to brandish my gun; not something I would have enjoyed. I didn’t
want to give legit men-of the-cloth a bad name.

I took the long way, going around
several blocks, making an improvised stop at a Spanish quick-rip for beer. I
rolled up my black tunic and collar and stuck them in the duffel bag. Now I was
just wearing a white t-shirt and the Glassworks’ cap. As I pulled up in front
of the coffee warehouse, the security crew looked mildly surprised and curious
when they saw a Gringo was driving the Glassworks’ van.  I stopped, waited and
finally hit the horn. A moment later the huge sliding door went up.  The door
man waved me in and I pulled the work van inside and cut the motor. I got out,
leaving the van in neutral.

Opening the rear doors of the van,
I took one frosty cold beer out of the box and slide it into the front pocket
of my black slacks.  It was a brand I didn’t know but I did know the word
cerveza
.
The logo on it was an anchor and the
cerveza
in it was nearly five
percent alcohol by volume.  At the rear of the warehouse, I saw Tammy’s truck.
The driver’s side window was taped on the outside and cardboard on the inside.
I took the new glass out and shoved it under one arm. I put my duffel over one
shoulder.  I snatched out a tool box at random for authenticity. I had no
intention of actually repairing the window.  I lumbered toward the back of the
warehouse with all my junk, looking like Steve Martin in
The Jerk.

I felt a chill of icy condensation
down the front of my leg.  Normally, in this kind of heat, this would be welcome,
but today the effect chilled me and added to my nervousness.

I had made it this far without
having to respond to any Spanish. I was following the doorman to the truck. He
was making no effort to hide the automatic pistol that was tucked into the back
of his belt.  We walked past aisle after aisle of pallets stacked head-high
with crates of coffee.  We were almost there. Almost to a very plain, blue Ford
Ranger with broken side glass. It looked beautiful to me.  Right now the score
was bad guys, two, Rust, zero. I was about to tie the score by stealing this
truck.  The doorman pointed to the truck and muttered something in Spanish to
which I responded a simple “Si.”

I set the glass, the duffel and
tool box in the truck bed and opened the truck door as if to appraise the
situation.  From the tool box, I removed a flat head screwdriver and stuck it
into my t-shirt pocket. Then I pulled the cold beer from my pants pocket and
opened it. This created an instantly recognizable crack that echoed a bit in the
warehouse.   The doorman turned at the sound, surprised, and then he smiled
slyly.

“Cervaza? Encendido el trabaho?”

“Si.” I did not have a clue what I
just said yes to. I needed to get rid of this guy before I screwed up.

“Mi cerveza es su cerveza,” I improvised
in Sesame Street Spanish.  I pointed to him and then to the van and finished
with a gesture offering to share.

He smiled as he turned and walked
quickly toward the van.  I sat down in the pickup’s driver seat and pretended
to work on removing the interior door panel, giving myself time to get up my
nerve.  I put the screw driver down and retrieved my key ring from my pocket.
Two Ford keys on my ring, I tried the first one and was surprised to hear an
electronic beeping that reminded me the door was ajar. I quickly removed the
key and looked up just in time to hear ‘Crack’.  About five beers opened nearly
simultaneously, echoing nicely.  Great timing.  I pulled the door quietly
closed and inserted the key again. It turned. I got out my cheap gun and laid
it on the seat.  I took one more breath and then cranked the truck.

Waves of laughter were echoing up
to the high windows of the warehouse. This was not enough sound to cover the
clatter of the truck’s starter. Several heads popped out from behind the van
and looked daggers at me with their beady, thuggish eyes.

The instant the engine caught I
hammered the gas and headed toward the open space between the pallets and the
Glassworks van.  This space was quickly filled with cartel crew members who
were clawing at the smalls of their backs to pull guns as they slipped and
slide in beer spilled when they dropped their drinks. They were screaming at me
in Spanish. I’m assuming things like ‘Stop or you die, Gringo!’

The truck whined as it gained
speed, a four cylinder giving its all.  I saw the fear appear on their faces as
I got so close that they scattered. I heard the first shot fire.  I ducked
behind the dash and veered to the left toward the van.   Jamming the brakes as
I skidded up to the van, I hit the rear bumper with a thud. As soon as I felt
the hit I floored the accelerator again. The rear wheels smoked. Way too slowly
the van and the truck rolled out into the busy street.

More noise as a car slammed into
the van and more shots were fired, aimed at the rear of the truck. The truck
spun to the left and would have stopped in the middle of the street but I just
kept the pedal down and continued in that direction.  In the rearview mirror I
could see the crew take a few more wild shots before throwing up their hands. 
The truck was smoking and the handling was not good. I set my cell phone on the
passenger seat and began following my GPS directions to Jacobo’s parent’s
house.

Streets flew by as I tried to keep
it between the sidewalks; squinting through the steam from the engine and
stealing hasty glances at small screen on the phone.

Taller buildings started to fade
to blockier, shorter structures and then I saw the building number I was
looking for. There was no way they could know where I was heading but I was
still cautious. I hid the truck in an alley behind a dumpster and hopped out. 
There were a couple bullet holes in the truck and its engine was ticking like
Big Ben.   Coolant ran out past the front tire, pooling like green blood from
an alien wound.

After grabbing my priest tunic and
collar, I backed away from the truck, shaking my head, and hurried to the front
of the alley. I flipped the glass works hat in the dumpster and smoothed out my
sweaty hair. I hit the stairs at run, sliding into my shirt on the way up to
the third floor, apartment 318.

As I was breaking into a sweat for
the umpteenth time that day I thought about Jacobo.  He was super helpful. 
Even though my cell phone’s GPS would get me to the coast, my Spanish/ English
dictionary was useless. I needed someone with Jacobo’s ace Spanish and
congenial smile. Lining up a boat to haul this truck to the states would be
impossible without him.

I knocked and Jacobo’s mother
opened the door with a flurry of Spanish, punctuated by the word “padre.”  I
glanced at my sweaty priest costume, smiled back and said “Kappasa?”  More
Spanish. I just nodded as she pulled me into their apartment.   I kept smiling
as I shook hands with a short older fellow, Jacobo’s dad.

“They are excited and proud to
have American priest here. I told them I was guiding you on a mission,” Said
Jacobo.  He walked into the small den carrying a cardboard box with a backpack
slung over his shoulder.

“Well, that’s true, in a way. It
is a mission of a kind. I will definitely be in hell if I can’t get this truck
back to the States.”

I peeked into the box.  Two
blanket rolls, bottles of water, peanut butter, crackers and oranges.  Glancing
at the water, I remembered the truck and its leak.

“We're gonna need a lot more
water. The truck is leaking coolant. Do you have a bucket?”

Jake's mom left and came back with
a small bucket. She spoke to Jacobo.

“Mother says she would like to see
the leak. She used to work on tractors and farm trucks before she moved to the
city with father.”

I trudged down the stairs behind
Jacobo and his folks. The heat of the stairwell did not bother them. Their
bodies sliced through the air as if it was, well, air, but the humidity pressed
on me like a vise.

The four of us emerged and
followed the alley to the truck. My radar was up, scanning for any
scary-looking banditos, but none were visible. Paranoia was healthy after the
earlier events: grand-theft auto, shooting and what not. I struggled to be
cordial since Jacobo and his folks knew nothing about all these events.

Jacobo’s Mother opened the truck
door and popped the hood. She swatted at the rising steam and squinted at the
wounded motor. I peeked. Green coolant was oozing from a radiator hose, no
doubt nicked by a bullet. She touched different hoses and spoke to Jacobo.

“She say you do not need a heater
in Colombia. She will take the hoses from the heater and use them to replace
the radiator hose.”

As I watched her, I was impressed
with the street smarts of this woman.  She removed the hose that lead from the
heater core to the motor. She took the end of the hose that exited the engine
and looped it back around to the engine on the other side, bypassing the heater
core.