Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  “Hey Kim, how about a slow dance? We’ll cause a terrific scandal.” I held out my hand.

  “OK,” she said, sliding out of her bar stool. “But I don’t think anyone will notice. You pretty much have to kill somebody or at least scratch somebody’s pickup to cause a scandal here.”

  She followed me to the dance floor, leaning back slightly. I was thinking that maybe some of these killings were caused by the wrong scratch being put on the wrong truck owned by the wrong Neanderthal.

  Chapter 4

  Kim and I were doing our best to dance around her belly. If I turned her away from me a little and she looked over her shoulder with her good eye, she didn’t look pregnant or disfigured.

  Right then, Tammy McHenry came by, carrying her tattered corkboard serving platter. She said hi to her dancing, gestating friend. Kim introduced me as her private investigator, yelling over the music that I was going to hammer Georgie for back child support. Tammy gave me a quick look with eyes that had a child-like sparkle, but an underlying sadness like she had just found out there was no Santa. She was very fit and pretty, a little vacant though, her thoughts elsewhere. I shook her thin white hand and then she was off with her tray to kill more redneck brain cells, and there were not many left.

  “Nice looking lady,” I remarked; more to myself.

  “What am I, chicken shit?” Kim snapped.

  Damn, one dance and she was already digging her claws in. I did not envy Georgie if I ever found him for her. Kim was losing steam after dancing with her pregnant self. The extra weight pulled her small body forward into a slouch.

  “Shut up and dance,” I said with mock anger. I dipped her and she squealed little. I almost squealed too, since the added weight of her belly sent a jolt through my lower back.

  At eleven thirty Kim and I had finished our drinks and I promised to call from the office with Georgie’s whereabouts next week. Since I was low on brain cells just like the rest of these mutts, I switched to coffee. Kim excused herself so I could talk to Tammy.

  Tammy came over to our table, tossing her apron in a nearby hamper on the way. She slid fluidly into a chair. She had on faded black jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt with a white spaghetti strap thing on under it. I managed to start talking, in spite of myself.

  “Rust Stover, nice to meet you, Tammy,” I said, doing my best Dale Carnegie imitation - How to make friends and get laid more often. “I’m very sorry to hear about your ex-husband.”

  “Husband, actually. We were gonna get divorced, but now we don’t have too. I guess things have a way of working themselves out.” She said sadly. Perhaps other people who had wronged her before had also suddenly died. Maybe she was a gypsy.

  We passed a few minutes talking about Kim’s situation. I found myself calling it a ‘case’, since I was working on it, although that implied I might actually get paid. I left out the fact that I had not had a real case in about a year and had never done any real detecting, other than spying on secret lovers for suspicious minds. I could not think of a delicate way to introduce the subject of her unreasonable, or perhaps reasonable, fear of being killed by the bikers who killed her husband, Travis McHenry. It sounded like a Springer show theme. The direct approach is best.

  “So you think these guys that killed Travis want to hurt you too?” I sounded like Cosby interviewing a six year old. She seemed slightly taken aback, so I explained. “Kim was telling me about your situation.”

  “If they find me, they will definitely want me dead if they cannot have my truck. I think they might kill me anyway even if I hand ‘em the keys.” She looked at me wild-eyed, showing a little fear.

  “What makes you think they don’t already know where you are?” I wasn’t trying to scare her, but that question came out wrong. Oops. Fear shadowed her face, interrupted from time to time by flickering light from the mirror ball.

  “Well, I’ve been careful, that’s why. Billy pays me cash plus tips and I’ve only been here for a week. I moved out of my trailer and in with Grandma Tuttle. I have no phone number, and no cell phone. Really, no one could find me easy.” She looked at me smugly, waiting for me to talk. I was enjoying watching her delicate jaw move, barely hearing what she said.

  “Why do they want that truck so much?” I attempted to arch one of my eyebrows intelligently, fooling no one.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” she said quietly. “But this could take a minute.”

  Her accent was distracting, but then, so was the rest of her. I settled in with my shitty coffee to listen.

  Chapter 5

  Travis McHenry had married Tammy Tuttle on an unfortunate Sunday about two years ago. This shotgun wedding had followed a brief courtship during which Tammy had been charmed from a barstool by Travis. A lanky but somewhat handsome construction worker, Travis had latched on to Tammy and actually wore shirts with collars and buttons to try to attract her.

  Travis had changed after being forced into wedlock by Tammy’s bun-in-the-oven. It wasn’t long before Tammy realized he was not going to stand the test of time. Even with a baby on the way, Travis kept going to all the trashy places he took her when they were first dating, only now he went by himself. They had settled into Travis’s single wide trailer, but Travis seemed to show no ambition or any desire to plan for a better life for his new family.

  After Hannah Grace had been born, Tammy returned to waitressing at O’Charleys. Hannah stayed with Grandma Tuttle on those evenings since Travis could not be relied on to be there.

  Toward the end of their unhappy union, Travis bought a used truck at Fast Eddie’s Auto Sales on Chapman Highway, a Ford Ranger. Eddie’s had purchased a dozen of these in an off-lease deal. Tammy liked the new truck so they traded her aging Ford Escort for a second one almost exactly like it. One was black and one was dark blue. Neither truck had a lot of features, but both were in fair condition. Good basic transportation, although not a very good family car, an opinion I did not share out loud, since Tammy’s story was going so well.

  The next weekend, Travis decided he wanted to take the new blue truck out, since it was still clean from being detailed at the dealership. Tammy and the baby went to sleep without waiting for Travis since he had been staying out later and later. He came home about four in the morning, drunk as could be and extremely angry.

  “You can’t let me go out for a few drinks with out fuckin’ with me,” he yelled, barely able to stand up. “Had to come and check up on me didn’t ya. Real cute how you switched the trucks like that. Tryin’ to mess with my mind?” He pointed excitedly at his temples, as if there was anything in there. He was crazed and Tammy had no idea what he was talking about. He was in her face and Tammy was definitely scared. She ran and got him a beer as an apology (for what she did not know) and prayed he would fall asleep in his dingy recliner.

  She had suspected he was cheating on her but was too petrified of a confrontation like this one to think about following him. Not wanting to push Travis’ temper, she told him he must have taken the black truck by accident without thinking about it. She opened the beer for him and suggested he relax in front of the TV before bed. She went to the trailer’s small master bedroom with its huge vanity tub in sight and lay back down. Ten minutes later she heard snoring mixed in with the sound of QVC playing on television. She went to sleep, relieved.

  The next day, Travis had a horrible hang over and seemed to have no memory of their conversation the night before. This suited Tammy fine. Feeling trapped, she was already trying to think of a peaceful way out of this hellish situation. Travis went to the construction site for a little over time and left Tammy to drop off the baby before work. When she went outside she noticed her blue truck was parked in the gravel space farthest from the house. She usually parked in the spot closer to the door, in case it was raining. While strapping the baby in, Tammy noticed the truck smelled slightly of nasty Winston cigarettes, Travis’ brand. (She smoked Virginia Slims). Maybe he had taken her truck. Maybe he was on drugs, really losin
g it this time.

  Several times the next week she had the feeling that her blue truck was not in the spot she had left it in. She was very busy and trying to remember where she had left the truck in the driveway seemed to give her a headache.

  The next week it all came to a head. As it turns out, Travis was cheating and the trucks were switching places. Every night at three seventeen a.m., to be exact (the switching not the cheating).

  Tammy had me really lost now. She was telling me this with a serious, beautiful face. My slight buzz made this all somewhat amusing but it was obvious to me that she believed these trucks were teleporting, switching as she put it. I was trying to feign belief, but she could tell I was not convinced. So she started again

  Here’s what happened. It was Saturday night, a week after Travis’ drunken ranting about trucks switching. After eight hours at O’Charley’s, she had picked up little Hannah from Grandma Tuttle’s and put her back to bed at the trailer before one.

  Tammy awoke with a start at three seventeen a.m. The sound of tires sliding on their gravel made her ears stand on end and her eyes locked on to the digital alarm clock before she got up to run; three seventeen it said. This unexpected roar of tires ended with a huge wham as the mobile home shook on its cinder block foundation. She ran to the door to see what drunk had slammed into their house, only to find her own husband. From the trailer’s tiny wooden porch she watched the dust settle and saw two figures in her husband’s dirty black pick up truck. The hood of the Ranger was half way under the trailer, having smashed away the underpinning. Tammy heard screaming and cussing coming from the cab of the truck.

  “How in the fuck!” Travis yelled, holding his bleeding forehead. “Ow, where am I!?”

  A female voice that had also been screaming, now whispered loudly, “Travis, we are at your house, you crashed into your own house, you idiot. Why would you drive here of all places?”

  Tammy did not recognize the slut with her husband and did not want to know her. It didn’t matter. She knew what the girl was doing with her husband and that was all that counted.

  Tammy got even madder when Travis staggered out of the truck and began explaining that the tramp in the halter top and white leather skirt was actually Billy Joe’s girlfriend. He was simply driving her home because she was a ‘little drunk’ (at least the second part of that statement was true).

  This was when Tammy knew it was over and she told him so. Mentally, Tammy retreated to the safety of her mind. She tuned out Travis and the bimbo, who were both yelling again. She already had an emergency plan in mind. She would grab clothes for tomorrow and go to Grandma Tuttle’s, taking Hannah of course. She had a few choice words for Travis and his cheap whore, with the even cheaper boob job, that Tammy suspected she still owed money on. It was toward the end of this cussing tirade that she realized there was a slight problem- her blue Ford Ranger was nowhere to be found. It had been parked in the little gravel pad in front of the trailer. It was not on the street either. Time for plan B.

  Tammy really hated to wake up Ellen Fairmont, the trailer park owner-operator. But Ms. Fairmont was the closest ride available. She was a kindly sort of woman, a little too kind sometimes. She often let her tenants run behind on lot rent. She always threw out the really bad ones eventually. Tammy had rarely even used her grace period, but now needed a huge favor. Tammy asked Ms. Fairmont to give Hannah and herself a ride to Straw Plains, a twenty minute drive, at 3:38 a.m. Sunday morning. Ms. Fairmont didn’t even dress; she walked out of her trailer in her robe and slippers, equipped only with her cigarettes, keys and billfold.

  It was very rare to get stuck on Highway 640 at four in the morning, especially on Sunday, but there the three of them were. Ms. Fairmont was complaining that if they didn’t start moving soon her old ‘85 Regal would start running hot.

  As they inched around a bend Tammy saw police lights and a tow truck ahead. As they approached the front of the line Tammy noticed a blue Ford pick up truck on the wrecker. Tammy had Ms. Fairmont pull over to the shoulder behind the flashing light.

  “That is my pick up. It must have been stolen,” She frantically explained to the wrecker driver.

  It took several minutes of talking to the wrecker man and two police officers to convince them that the truck was indeed hers. Tammy wanted to know what happened, how the car got there, and why was it was being towed? The wrecker driver told her it was parked in the slow lane on Highway 640 and if it had been a different time of day, it would have been quickly smashed by another vehicle. Thankfully, a patrolman spied the abandoned truck and stopped traffic until the wrecker got there.

  “Who was in the car? The thief?” Tammy had asked the wrecker driver.

  “No one, the truck was empty.”

  Chapter 6

  I looked at Tammy. After hearing all this, I tried to give her my most thoughtful gaze. I think what really came across was a pensive impression as if I had just been spoken to by a homeless person.

  “The two trucks had switched places, don’t you see?” She tried to whisper loudly, over the loud country music coming through the PA system. She was leaning forward a bit, an expectant look in her eye.

  I understood what she was trying to tell me, no problem. I simply did not believe her. So young, so beautiful, but tragically mistaken or possibly insane. The death of her husband must have driven her to delusions. I could not believe that Tammy found something that Einstein had overlooked.

  “Don’t you think he could have taken both trucks somehow and only brought one back, or maybe you were correct in your first assumption that your truck was stolen after you got home with the baby? Or maybe he let his girlfriend use it?” I tugged at my beard and gave a thoughtful look as I said this.

  “No. I ain’t finished yet. This happens every night at 3:17 am. Every single night. Wherever these two trucks are, they switch places at 3:17. It doesn’t matter if they are in motion or sitting still. We didn’t notice the first couple weeks ‘cause they were just setting in the driveway and we were usually asleep by then.”

  She sighed, somewhat exasperated. I’m sure this is when Kim told her she was going nuts and Tammy feared she was about to hear it again.

  “These people who want my truck had Travis killed. But one of these trucks ain’t worth nothing without the other one.” She looked away, drawing heavily on her Virginia Slim. There was enough second hand smoke in the air on a busy Friday night at Orby’s that the cigarette seemed like a waste of money. Like a fish drinking Dasani.

  “The truck is hidden now,” she started again. “They don’t know where it is. Every morning this week I have found a note in the truck. They put a new one in the cab every day and I get it in the morning when they switch. ” She pushed a crumpled sheet of paper across the rough tabletop.

  -Leave the truck in the Sears parking lot at Oakridge Mall. We will take further action if the truck is not recovered by 9:00 Sunday morning.-

  I looked her in the eye, holding the note. If this was a fantasy of hers, it was an elaborate fantasy. Crooks that wanted the goods now and enjoyed retail shopping. Meet at the mall?

  “I’m scared, mostly for Hannah. If they find out the truck is out at my Grandma’s, they might come after it, and us. But, I really want both trucks. Can you imagine what they would be worth? If I could figure out their secret and sell it, oh man. This could be me and my baby’s meal ticket, see?”

  Her doe eyes were hopeful. I was stuck thinking this girl must be really desperate for someone to believe her. She was desperate enough to be talking to me about this, a field investigator who’d never done any real detective work, searching for his Maltese Falcon. Part of me was a little ashamed when I told myself I would humor this girl and agree to help, just to see her some more. That little ashamed part of my psyche was getting its teeth kicked in by my libido. What the hell. I started my spiel.

  I told her that if we could come to an understanding, that I would help her. For a fee, of course. My mother’s boyfriend
is a retired nuclear physicist from Oakridge National Labs. He would know how to squeeze some dough out of a discovery like this, if it was legitimate. If it was not legitimate, I would try to make it somehow lead to sex with Tammy. I explained this to her, leaving out the sex part. Then a few questions.

  “Who knows about these trucks switching?” I asked.

  “No one but Kim, and now you. I don’t think Kim told anybody. I’m not sure she believes the switching part, but she knows the people that killed Travis are really after me.” She looked at me worriedly. “She was just tryin’ to help by telling you. You seem trustworthy. I tried to file a police report. The officer they sent made me feel stupid. He said if both trucks keep showing up at my house, how could they be stolen? Also, I don’t know who Travis may have told. We didn’t talk much after the crash and it was only a week later he was killed.”

  This was all starting to sound like a bad Spielberg movie.

  “I have to be straight with you, Tammy. This is all pretty hard to believe.” She looked down as I spoke, suddenly interested in her cigarette.

  Her eyes flashed back up, “Come over and watch the trucks switch, then you’ll see what I mean.” She seemed hopeful again.

  I missed the rest of the sentence after the words ‘come over.’ Then I came to my senses and started talking business.

  “If what you say is true I’ll take the case on a contingency, thirty percent of whatever you sell the trucks for. If I don’t find it, I’ll bill you only for my expenses. Do you want to put me on the case?” I said casually, but I was actually very interested.

  “Great, but thirty percent is too much, even if it is a dangerous job. This could make me millions. I’ll pay you … $100,000.”

  “It’s all fiat money.”