Switcheroo (9 page)

Chapter
15

“You’re sure you don’t mind, now?”
Grandma Tuttle sounded apologetic.

“Of course I don’t. It’ll be fun,
like camping,” I said, really smiling.

When I volunteered, as Tennesseans
will do, to take in my house guests I was thinking of Tammy and me sharing a
bedroom, spending some quality time alone.  The real reason for moving to my
house was to protect Hannah and the pick up truck, so I had to put my base
instincts aside and pretend to be a nice guy, dammit.

Tammy kissed Hannah good-bye and
touched my arm lightly and left for work. She drove her Grandma’s ancient
Pontiac Parisienne. Business as usual, in spite of brutal shotgun attacks.

I had removed the baby’s car seat
from the Pontiac and put in the back seat of the LeBaron.  I loaded Grandma
Tuttle’s ancient mauve suitcase into the trunk.  It was an old Samsonite that
would never wear out, and yet it would never be in style. Hannah put rocks from
the gravel driveway into a bucket while we loaded up.

I put the top up for Hannah and
Grandma Tuttle and they waited for me to pull the truck out. The blue pick up
without the body damage was here, so it would be a pleasant drive to Knoxville. I drove the truck and Grandma Tuttle followed, driving my car.         I drove
slowly and thought about my next move on Tammy’s case; glancing back to make
sure Grandma Tuttle was still following. One thing I really wanted to do was
recover Tammy’s truck before the police did. If the truck somehow became police
evidence, it would be impounded and kept until after any trials or legal
battles. It was tricky to go it alone, but I was convinced that these were not
high level criminals I was dealing with.

I was painfully aware that I was
behind on my LISA routine.  Tammy would have to stay on the back burner
tomorrow since I had eight more calls to make for the week.  Wendy had been
great at doing the reports for me, but the calls had to be made and pictures
taken, for there to be anything to report. I would really need to have an
incredibly effective day tomorrow to complete my regular work.

Tammy’s case was a cinch. All I
had to do was figure out who the Bobcats were and who made the best smelling
barbecue in their community, and I would have myself one more teleporting Ford
truck.

It took us about half an hour to
get to my house in Sequoyah.  I spent about twenty minutes showing Ms. Tuttle
and Hannah around the house and my small yard.  Hannah was not afraid of the
dog, which was good.  It was already early evening, past Hannah’s dinner time,
and I did not have much food in the house. I called out for Pizza which seemed
okay with everybody. My cell phone buzzed. It was Tammy.

“Did you make it okay?” she said
over the noise of loud talking and music.

“Sure, no problems.  I drove
slowly so Grandma Tuttle could keep up.” I sat down on the couch.

Hannah began taking all my CD’s
out of the rack they were in and distributing them randomly around the den.  
Then she began stacking them into a structure of some kind. She put her tiny
stuffed dog inside a wobbly house made of classic rock CD’s.  This was going to
be different.

“No, no Hannah,” Said Grandma
Tuttle, without enthusiasm. No noticeable change in Hannah. She continued
making her mess.

“Did Hannah eat?”

“I ordered pizza.”

“Try to get her to eat a
vegetable. Do you have any?”

“I got carrots.”

“Cook ‘em or chop ‘em up. They are
a chokin’ hazard, you know?”

“Right.”

“Where are you gonna hide the
truck?” She changed the subject.

“I have an idea for that, too.
I’ll tell you when you get here.”  I told her good bye and hung up.

After the pizza showed up, I spent
a little time trying to talk to Hannah.  She had a piece of crust in her hand
and was telling me a story.  She’s two years old. I couldn’t understand a
word.  She had a good deal of pizza sauce on her face and shirt by the time she
finally decided she wasn’t hungry anymore.  She took the piece she was working
on and carefully stowed it between the couch cushions.  That got me into
action. I jumped up and asked Grandma Tuttle what do we do next, what’s the
routine?  She told me it was really just about baby bath time, could they use
the bathroom?

I thought about this and then
excused myself, as if to go to the bathroom. I grabbed the bleach and quickly
scrubbed the tub, which had been in typical bachelor condition.

As Hannah was splashing in the
bath, I got the phone book out and looked up Handy Self Storage on Kingston
Pike. When I was at the bank, I had made the manager there a loan for a Volvo
and I knew that he lived on site.  Why a dude who lived in a cinder block
apartment attached to a self storage building would want a Volvo is beyond me. 
Whatever whacks his weed, I don’t care.  I got the answering machine when I
called and left a message that I would be over for a rental and to please let
me in even though it was past business hours.

I peeked in on Hannah and Grandma
Tuttle in the bathroom.   There was almost as much water on the floor as there
was in the tub.   Hannah was screaming with glee and splashing like a river
otter. I told Grandma Tuttle I would be in the den unless she needed anything. 
She asked me to watch Hannah for a second, so I sat down on the toilet lid and
watched her splash bath water onto my dirty wool slacks and scuffed shoes.
Grandma Tuttle came back and asked, could I pick up some eggs and some sugar
and flour; there wasn’t much in the fridge. Oh, and some bacon and buttermilk. 
I told her, sure, grabbed my coat and took off. Buttermilk?

I hopped into the truck which I
had stashed in my basement garage temporarily and drove off to stow it more
securely. I pulled onto Kingston Pike and drove slowly around the area, making
random turns. Doubled back twice for good measure.  Satisfied that no one was
following me, I pulled into Handy Self Storage across from Food City.  I honked the blue pickup’s whiny honk for a couple of minutes, until a fat dude in
tight sweat pants basketball shoes and a dirty tee shirt came to the gate.

“Are you Wysinski?” I asked,
before he could say anything.

“Who wants to know?” He asked,
with a strong Jersey accent.

“Look, you must be. Nobody around
here talks like that, and I never met anybody born in Knoxville named Wysinski.
I made you a loan for a Volvo a few years back, when I worked at the bank. 
Rust is the name. I need a favor. I know you’re closed but I need to stow this
truck tonight.”

“Whatever,” he said, opening the
gate.  “You need a lock too?”

“Yeah, please.”

We went into his office/apartment,
I filled out a form and he assigned me a garage.  He sold me a huge Master Lock
and I walked out to the truck.  I called myself a cab while I drove the truck
back to the unit.   I told the dispatcher to pick me up at Food City in Bearden.

Half an hour later I was headed
back home in the back of a fairly new, bright orange town car. I had two
plastic bags of groceries and a Master Lock key that unlocked the biggest
scientific discover of my lifetime, or anyone else’s I could think of.

Tomorrow.  Friday.  I’d been on
Tammy’s case a week.  I went over in my mind what I would do tomorrow.  I was
now ten calls behind with LISA; so tomorrow I would mostly have to work on
their stuff.  And I would have to stay on the phone to find out who the Bobcats
were and where they played.  Saturday was dust because I had to go to
Gatlinburg with Wendy Forsyth.  Maybe I should cancel that and work on the
case.  No, that would be a total shit thing to do.  I really liked Wendy and
she’d been a huge help this week.

My house was quiet when I walked
in. Silently, I put away the groceries and wondered what I was doing playing
house with Tammy and her family.  I cracked a cold one and went into the den to
watch some TV.

Tammy woke me around midnight. I
had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on. My beer was untouched and the TV
was showing an infomercial on how to work from home and make millions by
sending three installments of eighty-nine dollars to some company.

Tammy plunked down on the couch
and leaned over on me. She touched the gauze bandage on my neck softly and then
threw her limp arm across me.  I leaned forward and turned the TV off. She was
tired and smelled like beer and cigarettes.  Maybe I could find her a better
job.  No, there I go again, trying to fix people.  Better stick to trying to
fix me.

Chapter
16

If I could quit any two things to
help improve me as a person it would be coffee and beer.

Beer, wonderful stuff. It makes
you fat, dehydrated and tired the next day.  That’s where the coffee comes in.
It creates a false sense of alertness, further dehydrates you and makes you
incredibly nervous.  Then you need some type of relaxant, usually beer. Some
people skip all these steps and just have children.  Then they do not need to
drink. Handling an infant makes them nervous and all the sleep loss makes them
feel like shit in the morning; all that without alcohol or caffeine.  I prefer
the coffee and beer. I like to suffer my ups and downs with chemistry and
without poopy diapers.

I think quitting these two vices
would make me a better person, but they are part of the simple pleasures that
make life worth living. Caesar said ‘Tis better to die than to do with out
coffee/ beer.’  Kind of a catch twenty-two.  I’m torn.

My back was sore when I woke up at
seven a.m.  This was probably a result of my swan dive into the hedge at
Grandma Tuttle’s.  Still, I was thankful; it beat a shotgun blast to the head.
Sleeping on the couch hadn’t helped. I let Tammy sleep in my bed, like a
dumb-ass. Chivalry is not dead and also not very bright.

While the coffee machine brewed up
its magic, I picked up my books, magazines and CD’s that Hannah had scattered
around the front room.  Having a house full of people was a change, but it was
not a bad one.  I was enjoying all the activity and company.

Right now though, the house was
still, everyone still asleep.  I sat at the kitchen table and tried to think. 
Today I had to get Wendy to research the Bobcats’ field of play so I could
narrow down the location of the barbecue- smelling warehouse that held our
prize pick-up truck.  This was a big place I was looking for, Tammy said the
ceiling of the warehouse was at least twenty five feet high.

I stared at my dog, Bandit, while
I pondered my hectic schedule and my aching back.  I took Excedrin for my back
and a Claritin for my allergies so I could ride with top down today. I showered
and by the time I was dressed and ready, Tammy’s Grandma was awake and making
eggs and bacon.  I told her I had to run it was almost eight.  She handed me a
bacon, egg and cheese biscuit wrapped in waxed paper. I headed out.

I stopped for morning coffee at
Texaco in Bearden.  I knew the clerk there well, since I stopped for coffee
almost anytime I needed gas, which seemed like every other day.  I needed it
today if I was going to do eight to ten LISA calls today. I had carefully
mapped my route from Greenback to Johnson City.  Over three hundred miles. 
This is why I don’t invest in flashy cars, the flash never lasts.

I learned this in high school when
I was rewarded with a brand new car for average grades and modest athletic
achievement.  A red Ford Mustang with genuine white fake leather interior.  A
real cream puff.

Shortly after I got the car, I
took it joy riding down Hines Road, with a couple football buddies on board. It
was a dirt road that provided a lot of fun with skids, hills and turns.  During
an out of control power slide, the three of us all yelled at the same time, “A
ditch!”

A ditch indeed. The Mustang slid
sideways and fell ass end first into a large drainage ditch. It took us twenty
minutes of jamming dead wood and brush under the rear tires, sweaty pushing and
wheel spinning to get the car back on the road.

This didn’t really damage the car
badly, but it was the beginning of a loss of respect for the newness and
cleanliness of it.  Not much pride of ownership after that night. By the time I
got out of high school, the Mustang had one hundred thousand miles on it. It
had been to Florida twelve times and New Orleans twice.  It had more whiskey
dents than Dean Martin’s head.

When the motor blew while I was in
college, my dad asked me how often I changed the oil.

“Every week.  Some leaks out and I
add more, so I figure it all gets replaced after a while, right?”

With some decent CD’s in the disc
changer in my trunk and a Styrofoam cup of Texaco’s finest in my cup holder, I
hit the road.

I headed south on Alcoa Highway toward the Smokey Mountains and my first field call of the day.   I left the
top up for the time being so I could work on the phone.  I love doing two
things at once, like watching pro football on TV while the washing machine is
running, or reading a magazine while sitting on the can.

I needed to call Lt. Stratton to
check on my two thugs from the shoot out at the Tuttle Corral, but I called
Wendy first.

“Are you ready to head for the
mountains?” I sounded like a beer commercial.

“You bet. I thought for a second
you were calling to cancel. You aren’t going to cancel, are you?” There was an
edge to her question, despite her flirty tone.

“No, I wouldn’t miss it for all
the gold in China.”

“There is no gold in China,” Wendy said.

“It’s an expression.”

“No it isn’t. Better safe than
sorry; that’s an expression. You know, ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’?” She
said.

“Whatever. Listen, I need a favor.
I’m going to be on the road for the rest of the day.  Can you look up something
for me?”

“Okay, what?” she asked.

“I need to know which high school
football team in East Tennessee has a Bobcat as its mascot. You won’t believe
it, but this Bobcat thing could be the key to the whole caper I’m working on
right now.”

“Can’t you search on your own
computer or smart phone?”

“Why do I need a smart phone when
I have you?”

“I’ll work on it on my smoke
break.” She sighed.

“You don’t smoke.”

“No, I don’t.  That’s why I have
extra time to do little crap like this for you.  It’s gonna cost you all the
gold in China.” She laughed and hung up.

I called Stratton next, he was not
glad to hear from me.

“I have a hard time believing that
your client is into physics and not psychedelics.  Both your attackers have
prior busts for drug offenses, among other crimes.” He ran down the laundry
list on each and I began to feel lucky I was alive.

“Dude number one, Elvis Dilfer. 
He listed an address in Wartburg, Tennessee, but it’s bogus.  Eight prior
arrests: three DUI’s, two drunk and disorderlies and three for drug
possession.  The last time, he was caught with enough coke to be considered
trafficking and he did eighteen months of three years at Blanchard State Penn.  This deal here is a parole violation for use of stolen firearm, grand theft auto and
associating with another known felon, Ensley ‘Chip’ Corbin.”

“Goon number two?” I said, as I
pulled onto I85 toward Johnson City.

“You are correct, sir.  He listed
an address in Oliver Springs, turns out to be a weekly hotel. He served twenty
four months for B and E, released in 2007.” Stratton rustled more papers. “Same
charges against him and also a parole violation.”

“What about the Camaro?” I
inquired.

“Reported stolen from a car lot in
Oakridge two months ago. These lazy car dealers let the goons test drive the
cars alone. The dudes take the car to Wal-Mart, have the keys copied and then
return the car.  They come back late at night and the steal the car using the
copied key, easy.”

“Sounds easy, yea..”

“Rust, what are these two thugs
doing shooting up an old lady’s house and chasing her waitress granddaughter?”
Stratton sighed with the frustration built on years of this type of shit.

“I told you Tammy has these trucks
that tel…”

“Don’t say the word teleport or I
will end this call.  I need you to level with me before I start digging into
this. It feels like a waste of time.” He was raising his voice.

“Okay, you got me, it’s not
teleporting.  Oops, I said it. I’m sorry. Don’t hang up.  Look, I need to work
on this a little more and call you back. Bye now.”   I hung up before he could
object.

The day progressed as a blur.  I
used thirty-seven pictures on the digital camera at ten stops finishing about
6:30.  I would have to stay up late typing to get the all this e-mailed to LISA
on time.  Whatever happened with this little teleport caper, I was going to
need the LISA business when it was over.

Only my third call was
interesting, not really in a good way.  Just not boring or routine.

Most seventies porn movies and
horror films start this way.  I pulled into the drive of a house trailer in Johnson City, skidding slightly as I stopped on the gravel drive.  The place looked a
little rough, an unused lawnmower shoved under the front porch.  I took my
photos of the house first in case the resident asked me to take a hike. Then I
knocked on the door.

A girl with light brunette hair,
an attractive cat-like face and wearing a slinky nightgown answered the door.
Not a housecoat, I mean a string-strapped pink lacy thing that barely covered
her hips.  It was almost see-through and I liked what I saw until she put her
hand on her hips and displayed her hairy armpits.  Not just ‘Oh I forgot to
shave today’, but nasty, braidable hair.

She said my mark was not home and
when I explained to her that I was not a cop, she invited me to come in and get
high. I had noticed the unmistakable odor of pot when the door opened. It’s no
longer the high-flying seventies and I consider myself older and wiser now.  I
thought for a moment about Tammy and the porch swing and decided: no. I am not
really that wise, but I am grossed out by long armpit hair.

I got home at around seven Friday
drained and found my house totally changed.  Every fixture and piece of furniture
had been cleaned. The kitchen was unbelievable, even the chrome pieces under
each stove eye had been scoured.  Laundry was done, dishes were washed, dust
was dusted and all the rotten food I had been saving in the fridge was gone. 
The empty card board containers that once held six packs of beer had been
removed from the fridge. The remaining beer was stored neatly in the door.  I
reached for one, but thought better of it as Grandma Tuttle came up the
basement stairs carrying young Hannah.

“I suppose you starched my shirts,
too, huh?” I smiled, joking.

“Well, I didn’t know if you liked
a lot of starch or not.  I could have them ready for work on Monday though.”
She was serious.

“I’m kidding. I can starch my
own,” I said and began filling up the Mr. Coffee with fresh grounds.

I was in for a long night of
grinding out overdue inspection reports. Grandma Tuttle turned toward the den.

“Hey, you haven’t seen my UT
coffee mug, have ya?  It’s my favorite.”  I liked that it held nearly two
regular cups of coffee.

“I had to let it soak; it was so
stained.  It’s in the dish drainer.” She pointed.

“Oh, I didn’t recognize it. I
thought it was orange and brown.”  Turns out it was orange and white, go
figure. I thought about Grandma Tuttle living alone with no man.  Maybe it was
a treat for her to have someone to clean up after. I had not asked what
happened to Grandpa Tuttle but he was obviously gone, probably passed on.  The
ladies always outlive us.

“You know, Grandma, I changed my
mind.  If you are not too busy, I would love it if you would starch some shirts
for next week. Medium, please,” I smiled gratefully.

“I’d be happy to, Mr. Stover.”

“Call me Rust, please.”

When the coffee was done, I sat
down at the computer with my notes, my camera and my java. My dog lay on the
floor nearby watching lazily.  Two hours later I had five reports down and had
sent an email to my LISA liaison that I would be sending the other five reports
sometime this weekend, the calls were done.

I was dying to go to sleep, it was
past eleven, but I wanted a head start on tomorrow.  I tossed a wool blazer and
some Dockers in the garment bag and threw my shaving kit together.  I added a
couple Trojans, because you never know.

When I came out of the bathroom in
my shorts and a t-shirt, Tammy had just walked in.  Smoky smell and smoky
voice, she was hotter than ever.  We talked for a minute and then said good
night. All the while, I was thinking that common decency said you don’t fool
around in bed with a girl while her grandmother and toddler were sleeping in
the next room.  Damn that common decency.