Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

“A hundred G’s could buy you something better than a Fiat, at least a new Camaro or Escalade.”

  What a kidder.

  Tomorrow night, I was to pick her up at midnight after work tomorrow and go over to her Grandma’s place the watch the truck do its thing. Kim was taking her home so I said good night with a drunken wink and left. I crunched over the gravel to the LeBaron, feeling cool but wobbling like a March leprechaun.

  Chapter 7

  It was one of the most beautiful guns I had ever seen. It was about two feet from my nose and quivering slightly. The edgy crack-head punk who was holding it did not inspire confidence and I was starting to get more than a little nervous, sweating out the smell of beer and garlic from last night’s extended happy hour at Orby’s.

  Yes, I remember getting home the night before. Even now with a gun pointed at me, thoughts of my new friend and client Tammy filled my head.

  I had locked the door to my small house behind me, brushed my teeth hard and gone to bed. Even with all these precautions, somehow a rhinoceros must have gotten into my bedroom and pissed in my mouth. There is no other way to explain the foul taste and smell emerging. After I shaved my tongue, showered and dressed in Dockers and a golf shirt, the Mr. Coffee starting doing his good work. Better.

  A small desk on the other side of my kitchen counter represented my home office. On the weekends I forwarded the office phone and fax to the house just in case. I checked my fax machine and found that there was a LISA work order there. I also had a voice mail from my contact at LISA, Lender Investigation Services Associated. Joel Axeman was his name. He said, could I please do one more call for them this weekend.

  It seems, Andrew Osgood, one of our local bankruptcy attorneys, had some delinquency of his own on a Jaguar XK convertible. Due to his slow pay history, the bank holding his auto loan wanted someone to assure the body damage repairs had been made to the Jag before they released the $15,000 in insurance money to Mr. Osgood.

  The car was parked where they said it would be, in the garage behind the attorney’s office in the Farragut Building downtown. It would be there until at least noon today, while Mr. Osgood finished this week’s work, or finished boffing his secretary or what ever he does Saturday mornings. I grabbed my briefcase with the digital camera in it and put the top down on the Chrysler and headed down town.

  This is how I ended up in the State Street garage next to a Jaguar with my hands up, staring at a punk who had a shaky grip on the Chrome 45 with the pearl grip.

  The gun was entirely nickel-plated; its filigreed engraving shone even in the dim light of the parking garage. Probably a Colt MK IV. The only way I was going to get that gun from his hand to mine was to get this mugger talking. He made it easy by speaking first.

  “Give me the camera, the keys and your wallet and step away from the Jag ‘fore I blow your fuckin’ head off.” My assailant, a kid age sixteen to twenty-five (hard to tell with gangster types). He was a wiry dude with crazy eyes and a shiny face, definitely on something. His clothes were crummy and faded, nice Nikes, though. His hat was turned backwards. He was not even trying to hide his identity. Not smart. He must be needing cash in a bad way. A joy ride in a Jag would help his morale, too.

  “Here’s my camera and my keys, but I’ve got to tell you, that’s not my car. I wish it was,” I said, nodding at the Jag.

  It was a 2010 Jaguar XK with twenty pounds of beautiful burgundy paint and a tan convertible top. This model had twenty inch chrome wheels and was sold with an optional baseball bat to keep away the hot chicks who were constantly throwing themselves at the driver of this impressive machine.

  “Stop fuckin’ with me. I saw you walk up to it. And give me the wallet!” The punk said, snatching the keys and camera out of my raised hands.

  He told me to move slowly as I reached for my wallet. He kept the gun on me while he started trying different keys in the Jag.

  “I said that’s not my car. That’s my car!” I said this, pointing over my shoulder at the grayish brown Chrysler that was white under the dirt. I have several keys on my ring and the punk was getting visibly agitated as he tried to jam each one into the Jag’s keyhole. I braced myself just in case he decided to shoot. Thoughts about getting shot and the pain it would involve flooded my head. The garage pirate glanced over at the Chrysler then back to me. I pushed back my fear.

  “Why did you pick this garage? Don’t you know there is a security camera on every row? Even if you kill me, they got you on tape.” When he looked toward the end of the empty parking level and I made my move.

  I took two quick steps forward and slapped the chrome gun out of his hand with a wide sweep of my left arm. I kept coming and brought my right foot up and delivered a kick to his groin that Al Del Greco would have been proud of.

  He dropped like a sack of feed, holding his aching nads. I almost kicked him in the head, but there really was a security camera there, so I kicked him in the stomach. Less brutal. I aimed my cordovan Bostonian at his gut twice more and then walked slowly over to where the gun lay. As I bent over and picked up the nickel plated Colt, I noticed my right foot hurt a bit.

  I turned around to look at my attacker, my prisoner now. He was balled up on the concrete floor drooling, hardly able to breath.

  “What’s your name?” I said, stooping to pick up my keys and my camera.

  “Cfedwic!”

  “What?”

  “Cedwic,” he slurred, barely audible.

  Cedric, ok. I frisked him and found a small revolver in his left sock. I dropped it in the pocket of my windbreaker.

  “Where is your car, Cedric?” I asked.

  “Downstairs, on the first floor.”

  He was starting to sound a better.

  “I’m sorry I have to do this but I do not want you getting away from me.”

  I kicked him in the stomach three more times so that I could drag him down stairs without him getting away or resisting. It was like dragging luggage.

  My eyes burned from my hangover and I was sweating out more coffee and beer as I dragged Cedric down the musty stairwell.

  His rusty ‘84 Caprice was parked across from the steps. I took the keys from him and told him to get into the trunk. He told me I could shoot him, but he would not get in the trunk. He was flopped on the chilly slope of the garage floor. In his business, he had probably seen people shot through their own trunk lids, I guess. I told him, not to worry. He wasn’t worth killing.

  I picked him up, gently crammed him into his own car trunk. I shook the ammo out of his revolver and threw the gun into the trunk. I was about to put the Nickel plate in too, when something came over me and I stuck the Colt in my coat pocket. I don’t usually do stuff like that, but I figured as long as they found a gun in the car no one would notice.

  “Don’t do this, dude! Let me go.” His screaming trailed off into unintelligible rambling. It hurt my head. I closed the trunk lid. This muffled things nicely. I could barely hear him through the old Detroit metal of the trunk lid.

  As I walked back to my car, I heard Cedric screaming at me, pleading for me not to kill him. Shooting somebody through the trunk of their own car was cold. Not my style. I was calling the cops.

  When I got back upstairs, I took two more pictures of the perfect paint job on the Jag and hopped into the Chrysler. On my cell phone I called Officer Billingsworth at KPD and left a message as to the whereabouts of the mugger, telling the dispatcher to check the security company’s camera records for evidence of the attack. I hoped that these records would not make it seem that I over reacted. I took the loaded nickel-plate and tossed it into the glove box with my police special. I had never bothered to reload my own pistol after Billingsworth had taken my bullets.

  Downtown Knoxville was pretty much vacant late Saturday morning. It was a good time for a mugging. No one would hear the victim, or the mugger, cry for help.

  Back at the ranch, my little house was in need some work. After a very busy afternoon of grass cutting, leaf r
aking and, believe it or not, car washing, I decided to check my email.

  Afterward, I typed the word “teleportation” into my best search engine and hit “go.” My internet search for “teleportation” hit five million web listings. After looking at a few, I was reminded that all I had learned to do in physics class was play spades. Most of the web sites were both condescending and nerdy. Theories on how teleportation might work flew back and forth. Then the listings quickly trailed off into a bunch of Star Trek Sci-Fi crap.

  I got cleaned up from my afternoon chores, and left to take the long way to Orby’s Place. I swung by Ashes for a bottle of wine and drank most of it at Savelli’s with fried ravioli and a salad, table for uno.

  At about nine and I drove over to Orby’s Place for the second night in a row. Imagine the Alamo made out of cinder block and neon, that’s what it looked like. Tammy must be a hell of a woman to have me hanging out in a dump like this.

  Loud country music blared and the parking lot was a repeat of last night. The only difference was the gleaming white Chrysler convertible in the parking lot doing its best to be snazzy. It was still a pretty wimpy ride by Orby’s standards: no V-eight and no four by four. This could be my last visit to this place. Tammy could be a no show. Or she could have changed her mind or her story or both.

  She was there. Looking just as pretty in a red shirt, knotted above her waist, showing a little of that midriff. I waved and sat at a table and she waved and brought me a Budweiser a moment later, without even asking what I wanted. She leaned in and said hello, told me to relax, she would be done pretty soon.

  The next two hours seemed to last for about three days. I was being pounded with the worst in country music and electric slide type wannabees. The PA was being pushed beyond its limits into distortion. No one seemed to notice me. I watched Tammy bob and weave through the increasingly busy room. I was day dreaming about that old movie The Fly, where the scientist is stuck in the spider web at the end screeching ‘Help me! Help me!’ I wondered what kind of web this beautiful siren could be weaving for me. She seemed too straight to have anything up her sleeve. Right then, she tugged on my sleeve and I looked up and saw her holding her apron. We said hello and attempted small talk for a minute. Her hair was dark and too puffy for my taste. Her body made me forget her affinity for excess hair spray.

  I asked if she wanted a drink and she told me she was ready to go to home. Works for me. We split.

  As our feet crunched on the gravel walking up to my car, she spoke.

  “Your car is nice and clean, did ya wash it today?” Tammy asked. She had her hands in her pockets and was shrugging her shoulders against the October chill.

  “Just for you. Nice, isn’t she?” I said, laughing at my own sarcasm. The LeBaron had one hundred and sixty two thousand miles on it and looked like a car with that many miles that had just been hastily washed. It had a few door dings, small whiskey dents and the leather was pretty cracked. Still, like me, it didn’t clean up too bad. I had thrown on a silk sports coat to try to impress my date, I mean my client. No tie today since it was Saturday.

  “It’s a little chilly out. Do you mind putting the top up?” Tammy asked. Whatever you say, lady.

  “You bet,” I replied. Thirty seconds later we were on our way.

  “I told you all about me last night. What about you?” This question was too wide open.

  “I’m not sure what you are asking. You mean what kind of music do I like?”

  “No, like why are you going over to my house, instead of staying home with your wife and kids on a Saturday night?” That was the meanest question anyone had asked me in a while. She smiled sarcastically when she asked, so I decided to torture her by answering the question in full. It was a twenty minute drive to Straw Plains.

  I was born into wealth. For some reason this has always caused me to be a bit of an under-achiever. My high school English professor was first one to break it to me. He said it just like that ‘Rust, you’re an under-achiever.’ By my junior year in high school it did not surprise me to hear this from Mom and Dad. Heard it before from teachers, coaches, etc. Not my first rodeo.

  How could I possibly measure up to parents, who were perfect Knoxvillians in every way? They went to all the right city and private functions, gave to all the right charities, never made a bad investment and, with the exception of their only son, had never failed at anything. I was one of those students who thought that high school would never end and I behaved that way. For me and my friends, a perfect evening was a trip to Uncle Sam’s Disco on Alcoa Highway and a half gallon bottle in a paper sack. Most of the booze we drank had an old man’s name like Johnny Walker, Evan Williams or George Dickel. I’m lucky to be alive.

  Unless I really liked my teacher, I never made better than a B or a C in most classes. I never brought home F’s. The phrase ‘does only enough to get by’ had been written on a few report cards. I excelled in sports, but the pursuit of book knowledge did not appeal to me. I was shocked when high school ended and I was forced to do something.

  Something turned out to be Vanderbilt University (Dad’s alma mater), a school I had been taught to hate by all my Knoxville peers who were, of course, Volunteers. I found a bar at Vanderbilt called ‘The Library’ and I took up a study of the brewing arts. I was admitted to a club for people who drank one of every beer that The Library served, not all in one night of course. Once a person’s name was added to the 'Around the world club,’ they were usually ready for some sort of twelve step program.

  It was here that I drank with a few dormitory pals. This allowed me to write truthful letters home saying that I was spending a great deal of time at the library.

  At the end of the first year it was obvious from the results that I had not been at an actual library. Strings were pulled, endowments were made and I was allowed a second chance. I joined a fraternity, which was supposed to get me ‘into school’ according to my folks. All it did was get me into more trouble. My drinking and partying had no structure until I joined the fraternity. I now had one hundred and ten new friends for whom life meant acting out as many Jimmy Buffet songs as possible before flunking out or graduating. They had a very fancy marijuana garden in the attic. Did this count as botany? They had a fortress made of empty kegs in the back yard. It was really fun but not what I needed.

  After a second year of poor grades, Vanderbilt sent me home to Knoxville and I was informed that what I really needed was the army.

  I can’t say enough about the Army, so I won’t even start. I didn’t like it and they didn’t like me. I was discharged after two years with no skills beyond the ability to blow up things and people. I have yet to use these skills, although I have been tempted.

  In college at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, life was somewhat different. I worked at a furniture upholstery shop in the afternoons picking up and delivering furniture, and went to school in the mornings. This working structure helped me with my under-achieving problem. I felt a lot better spending twenty dollars of my own money than I would have spending twenty thousand dollars of my dad’s money. It was in my junior year that I met Debra, ex-wife number one. I met her at a place I had found on campus to replace my old haunt, The Library. She was a waitress at Old Campus Inn on Cumberland.

  Waitresses have no choice; they have to talk to you. Since I had used up all my self-esteem by 1983, I kept going in there and hitting on her until we started going out. She was a beautiful girl, with a generous figure and a wonderful artsy quality. Two years later we were married and things changed. The generosity of her figure grew Twinkie by Twinkie and her artistic intellect turned to argumentative insecurity. Big words, big hips, lots of bitching.

  We were divorced after three years that felt like ten and I lost the house in Lyons Bend that my parents had given me. I still drive past that house occasionally and get angry because it is so nice. The den was bigger than the whole first floor of my current home.

  I was twenty-six and a telephone
collector at 1st National Bank in Knoxville. It was a horribly repetitive job that I viewed as a stepping stone to a higher paying, equally repetitive job at the bank. I was working insane hours for what I thought was very little money, while wishing I was making insane money for very little work.

  Over the next few years I worked my way up to a profitable loan officer position and eventually attracted the attention of Terry Black, Vice President of retail lending. I began playing tennis and golf with him on weekends and eventually got to know his darling daughter, Michelle.

  She was a tennis player herself. I won’t bore you with the details but we hit it off. After a one-year courtship, we were married in a huge wedding at the Cranberry House on Kingston Pike. My parents were proud of me for a brief moment. The successful job and the beautiful wedding… they got caught up in the fanfare. It was really just a set up for a bigger fall. I had over-reached my under-achieving bounds and was about to be taken for a ride.

  I had a few hobbies: golf, racquet sports, and the occasional poker game. Michelle had a hobby too: shopping. I had a pretty good job at the bank, but early in our marriage I found it hard to keep up with her shopping binges. She could trade cars, buy a wardrobe and furnish a room all in the same weekend. This, combined with our new house in West Hills and her taste in restaurants, was a total strain on our resources. I could not ask my folks for any more help and I would not let her ask her father, my boss, for help. When the credit cards were all maxed out, I canceled them.

  When I told her we had to sell her Porsche 911, she told me we were through. She needed more freedom. What she needed was a new sugar daddy, or sucker I would say. Her father made up a reason to fire me at the bank and I lost another beautiful house to divorce.

  I went to police academy. Why? Hey, chicks dig a uniform, right? I know that this doesn’t sound too sharp, but I had seen enough domestic problems of my own to mediate other peoples’, ya know?

  After some mistakes and a couple of years on the force I wrote the Mayor’s mother twenty-five parking tickets and had her car impounded. It was parked in handicapped parking across from the City/ County building just about every day for a month. Her only handicap was alcoholism, and she totally disregarded all my tickets. The Mayor’s wrath was unstoppable. I was released from the force.