Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  Through an old bank connection, I got a job as an independent contractor with LISA doing field investigation work for finance companies. I got my PI license and eventually made enough money working out of my apartment to open an office. It was great work, no boss breathing down my neck and I could work with other clients in my spare time. With fifteen to twenty calls per week with LISA, I was making enough to take only a minimum of other clients. I got these mostly by referral. I had only a tiny ad in the yellow pages. On the internet, you would have to scan at least three pages of ads to find me. AAA Aardvark Investigations got most of the Yellow Pages biz. Fine with me, they could have it.

  I opened the office through the kindness of my mother. My father, a retired banker with investment savvy had built a small fortune, and then died of a heart attack in 2007. I had just been kicked off the police force. Mom softened toward me after dad passed on and leased me a small office space in The Arcade building she owned.

  It was a beautiful marble front building on Gay Street downtown. The office had twelve foot ceilings and would have rented for about fifteen hundred per month to a stranger. Mom let me have it for five hundred a month. Funny thing was, she never cashed the checks I sent her for rent. My checking account was now out of adjustment by over $25,000 because of this. I never mentioned this to mom, but I sensed she did not have the heart to cash them, thinking (correctly so) that I was barely getting by.

  I should not complain. I was doing pretty well. After two years I took my financials to the bank and bought a house in Sequoia, the same neighborhood where my mom lived. It’s a big neighborhood. My house was on the smaller, less fashionable side. Like the difference between owning a Corvette and a Chevette. Both were Chevy’s, but that’s were the similarity stops.

  I had a black and white Border Collie, Bandit, and a quarter acre yard for him to poop in. I had a humble house that no ex-wife could take. Both ex’s had remarried, so I had no alimony. Life was pretty good, except for an occasional bout of loneliness. Maybe Tammy could help with that.

  This is pretty much what I told Tammy in the back and forth discussion that lasted our twenty minute drive. I probably exaggerated a bit of the incomes and outcomes to try to impress her, while leaving out how my own flaws had contributed to the divorces.

  We pulled onto 11E and headed toward her Grandma’s house. Sitting in the passenger seat, looking small, I think Tammy was relieved that we were up to the present and I would not be talking about me anymore. I’m sure she was sorry she had asked about me.

  “So that is why I am free Saturday night.” I summarized, laughing uncomfortably at myself. A moment passed. I changed the subject.

  “They really switch places every night, eh?” I glanced at her.

  She nodded, solemnly.

  “You’re not messing with me?”

  “Nope,” she said shaking her cute little head.

  “This is not Candid Camera?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “No!” she slapped my shoulder playfully. “This is for real. You’ll see.”

  “Where did you get these trucks?” I asked. Like she said, getting serious.

  “Fast Eddie’s on Chapman Highway,” she said. “He must have had about ten more just like the ones we bought.”

  Fast Eddie’s AutoMart was known for cheap cars and easy financing. Like most of the dealer’s on the Chapman Highway strip, his front line of cars was pretty, but don’t look too far beyond. It didn’t take too long to get past the rose garden. His back line was total junk. He bought them for $1,000 or less, true mileage unknown. Then his staff mechanic would slap the cars into running order and Eddie sold them for $2,995. He would take $1,000 cash down and finance the rest on weekly payments until the loan was paid or the car’s engine or transmission blew. Most of these cars were only fit for use as a DJ’s smoke machine.

  “Do you think whoever owned the trucks previously might want them back?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why. If the old owner wanted the trucks, why would they sell them to Eddie?” She remarked. A good question.

  Right then, she pointed to the left at Grandma Tuttle’s house. It was pretty much what I expected. A tin roof farmhouse that looked about eighty to one hundred years old (I expect Grandma Tuttle did too). In the Chrysler’s headlights I could see the house was either white or light green and it had a dark green raised seam roof with no gutters. It was a small two-story with a front porch that ran the length of the house.

  Pointing me toward a hanging swing on the front porch, Tammy told me she would be right back. As I walked to the swing, the old porch creaked under my feet. I sat, and looked up and down the dark road. There was not much zoning in this area of the county. There were several houses and trailers of different types, sizes and values on this road, Old Rutledge Pike. Weird thing is, there are at least three roads in this area called Old Rutledge Pike. I think the locals do this on purpose to help hide from strangers and city folk. Most outsiders who come here are cops or bill collectors.

  The swing made a hushed squeaking sound in harmony with the crickets. In a moment Tammy came out with a cup of coffee for me and a quilt and what looked like a walkie-talkie.

  “That is the clunkiest cell phone I ever saw.”

  “It’s a baby monitor, Rust,” she smirked. “Listen.”

  I put an ear to the small device and heard quiet and relaxed breathing.

  “That’s a nice sound.” It was all that came to mind. And it was a pleasant sound.

  “Thanks, it took three minutes of fun and nine months of suffering to make her,” Tammy laughed.

  “How old is she?”

  “Just turned two in July. Her name’s Hannah.”

  There was a pause. Tammy hugged her knees under the quilt. I moved the swing with one foot. More crickets worked their night magic.

  “Do you really think you can get both trucks for me?”

  She puffed her cigarette as she said this.

  “If that other truck exists, I will find it.” I tried to look reassuring. I had no idea what she was going to show me at three seventeen AM. Hell, I was just happy to be alone with a beautiful girl after midnight.

  “What time is it?” She said.

  “One thirty,” I said. “Less than two hours to go. What do you want to do now?”

  I picked this moment to slip my arm around her shoulder.

  “You got some ideas, I suppose?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I can think of a few things.” I chuckled.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Huh?” I was dreaming.

  “I said, okay,” She said, drawing close to my face and kissing me softly.

  What happened next, as a gentleman, I cannot repeat, but I will probably tell you all about it the next time I get a few beers in me. The strength of that old porch swing was amazing.

  Chapter 8

  I was following a pair of tight blue jeans, with Tammy inside them, down a short path to the garage. It was shortly after three.

  “What was that for?” I asked, not wanting to, but having to ruin this for myself.

  “What was what for?” Tammy did not want to discuss it. After our brief porch swing episode we had held each other under the quilt and talked about the weather, beer, Orby’s Place and pretty much anything we could think of that did not involve sex or teleportation.

  “I mean, why did you decide to swing with me in the swing?”

  “Well, I really need someone on my side in this. I’m scared.” She shrugged and stopped for a moment.

  “But, I was already on your side. I’ve been hired to do a job.”

  “It made me feel safe and wanted. And besides, aren’t you even more on my side now?”

  “Well, Hell yes I am.”

  “Well then, there you go.” She pulled me toward the garage.

  What I saw inside could not have been more mundane. A cluttered garage with a black Ford pick up with front-end damage. The famous teleporting pickup truck did not impress. I
t was very dusty and one of the front tires was low. I remembered Tammy’s story about her husband driving into the trailer as I looked at the crumpled hood and driver’s side fender. My mind snapped back to the reality of how silly this all was.

  I had enjoyed myself. I had given the little lady a ride home and she had in turn given me a ride on the front porch swing. But, at three seventeen, this sham was about to come to an end. When nothing happened, could I somehow unwind this without insulting her and still be able to see her for a date.

  “So this is it,” I said, staring at the shabby little truck.

  “I know what you are thinking, but you will believe me when you see this. Please stay.” She looked at me with pleading eyes.

  I hadn’t mentioned leaving but it had crossed my mind.

  “So tell me what’s gonna happen?” Me, playing along.

  “Well, there is this shimmering aura that appears, kinda ghost-like, around the truck. Then it sort of shimmers slow, then faster. When it shimmers real fast it makes a sharp crackle, like a loud electric spark. It’s bright, so you have to look away. Then when you look up the other truck is there, just like that.”

  “Just like that, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Have you written any notes back to these guys?”

  “No, I don’t want to deal with those assholes. I just want the trucks for myself.” She gave me a serious look.

  “Can I have a kiss while we wait?” I asked, teasing her.

  “Didn’t you get enough already?” she blushed. She stepped over and gave me a peck and an awkward hug. The kind of hug a cute girl gives an old uncle. Tammy broke the brief embrace and lit a cigarette. She leaned her tired head back and exhaled before she spoke.

  “When I was a kid my momma passed away, cancer took her. Gramma Tuttle says I should know better than to smoke, but I can’t stop. If I put ‘em away all I can think about are french-fries and ice cream and anything Little Debbie makes, you know? I guess everybody has something. I really don’t drink much and I don’t do drugs. These things are my little vice.” Tammy chuckled a little, though nothing was really funny just then.

  I was watching her rest against this truck that was supposedly about to do something. I found myself thinking snobbish thoughts about what I could do with this girl. Sort of a ‘My Fair Lady’ type thing. I could hear Tammy saying ‘I’m a good girl, I am’ in her drawl. I shook my head. I couldn’t change her. I also thought she was a little young for my forty-one years. I’ve heard half your age plus seven years was the benchmark beneath which you were subject to the ridicule of your peers. And sometimes envy, if the girl in question was hot enough. That made my minimum age twenty-seven. Tammy was twenty-two and, with her youthful looks, could still make a high school cheer-leading squad.

  “…that was before Grandpa Tuttle passed on. Anyway, now I think Grandma Tuttle kinda likes me staying here. Little Hannah keeps her busy and maybe makes her feel young.” Tammy looked at me. Shit, I missed a bunch of what she said.

  “I see,” I said, while scratching my devil beard and looking thoughtful. Tammy looked at her watch.

  “It’s about to happen, you need to watch the truck now.” She stopped leaning on it and stepped back. I too took a step back, although I doubted anything would happen. I was already thinking of how I might ask to come over again tomorrow to sit with Tammy in her Grandma’s garage. They don’t call it a truck bed for nothing, you know.

  We stood silently for a moment until I could swear that truck did start to glow a little bit. I glanced at my watch, three seventeen by the dim light in the garage. I looked up and a freaky feeling swept through me. Something was happening.

  The truck began a slow pattern of white flashing that grew out of the bluish aura surrounding it. My pulse quickened as this flickering increased its speed. My bladder tightened, and the flicker became a steady white light so intense that it crackled. It brightened further like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel that near-death people claim to see. I closed my eyes and still saw light through my eyelids. The sound was that of a giant bug zapper working overtime on a hot June evening. Then it stopped, leaving nothing but the ringing in my ears. My vision cleared and I focused on the truck, the light had gone.

  What I saw defied any explanation I could think of. The truck had somehow repaired itself. The fender and hood were straight and the paint was free of blemishes. Right then I noticed that the truck was blue and I really began to lose it. I looked at Tammy as if this was what I expected and did my best to try and appear sort of bored with the whole thing.

  “So that’s it, huh?” I had my hands in my pockets and was gently rocking from heel to toe, trying to comprehend what I had seen. I felt a little light headed. I had been shocked by what I had seen, and shocked that she was telling the truth. This girl really had something.

  “Now do you believe me?” she asked.

  “Yup,” I said, at a total loss for any words. A few seconds passed quietly.

  “I need to get both these trucks. I cannot hide here forever. Eventually, these guys are going to get both trucks if we don’t do something. You have got to think of a scheme or a plot or something. This is my ticket out of this life. Without Gramma Tuttle, I got nothing and she ain’t getting any younger,” she was looking at me now.

  After I got it together, we talked about a strategy and decided we would stage a mock drop off to draw out the criminals, or at least their errand boy. I needed somewhere to start. It was so late, and I definitely wasn’t thinking clearly after having sex for the first time in months and seeing these two trucks switch places.

  I could only manage a slightly dazed kiss on the cheek and I got in the LeBaron and started the engine. Tammy stood by, her hands on my door.

  “Why three seventeen?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

  “Could be the inventor’s birthday, March seventeenth? Oh, and that’s St. Patrick’s Day,” Tammy shrugged and turned to walk back to the house. She waved her small hand at me over her shoulder.

  On the drive home, I thought about what had happened. After the trucks had switched I had given the truck a quick once over. Nothing unusual at all. I had opened the door and the truck contained a note the same as the one Tammy had shown me at Orby’s the night before. Tammy was going to miss her Sunday deadline for producing the truck. I needed to think.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday. Four forty eight a.m. and I rolled into the house and hit the sack, stopping only to remove my contacts and brush my teeth. Sleep was instantaneous and merciful. I had one of those really great dreams, where something really wild is happening but it’s okay because you know it’s a dream. So you’re thinking ‘I gotta tell somebody about this in the morning.’ Unfortunately, I remembered no details when I awoke.

  I began to reflect on the previous night’s events, which also seemed like a dream. The trucks really did switch. Now what was I gonna do. I had no real plan to find the missing truck and about twenty field calls to do for LISA starting Monday. I needed to work today. It was noon. Too late to get an early start, oh well.

  By two o’clock I had eaten a turkey sandwich at home, had three cups of Starbucks, and cleaned up to head out. Again, the weather was in the mid-sixties and seemed warmer in the bright sun. Top down in the LeBaron, my destination was Fast Eddie’s Auto Mart.

  I passed about half a dozen used car lots on Chapman Highway before I pulled into Eddie’s. On the north part of Chapman you were never far from a pawn shop, a liquor store, a cheeseburger joint, a used furniture store and any number of auto dealers who would let you make weekly payments on a sled with no warranty and a sketchy title history.

  Eddie’s system was simple. Let the bank lend the money on the front line. A high interest finance company handled the second line. Anything in Eddie’s back row you could finance on weekly payments to Eddie himself. All payments were due by noon Saturday or ‘you walk to church on Sunday’ per the sign in Eddie’s office. Eddie reminded
every customer of this when he had them sign their loan papers. I had handled a few of his front line cars and some of his floor plan financing when I was at the bank. He was a jovial guy, a true salesman. He never met a stranger and he had carved out a good living. Eddie’s lot was one of the oldest on this strip.

  His office was an old mobile home with a stick-built addition and a large covered porch. Several people were on the lot looking at cars, with salespeople in tow. A salesman greeted me, looking past me at my Chrysler. Sizing up my trade in, I guess. I knew he was figuring it would need to be put in the back row if they acquired it. I didn’t need long to size this guy up. In need of some bridge work, hair too long, belly too big and pants too short. He took a business card from his frayed oxford shirt pocket.

  “Is Eddie in?” I asked.

  “Be here in about an hour, but he won’t stay. He’s headed to Gatlinburg for the evening.”

  “I’ll be right back then.” I walked back to the LeBaron. I drove to Auto Zone and bought a Haynes manual on Ford Ranger pick ups. By learning everything that was normal for these trucks, maybe I could find out what made these particular trucks special.

  Eddie had not changed much. He was a little thinner, more gray at the temples, but he was just as animated. He had a Muppet quality about him. When he spoke and moved, you expected Frank Oz to jump out from behind him at any second. He sat behind a desk cluttered with post-its, credit applications, deals and trade magazines. Stacks of deal packets were on the credenza behind him. A few had fallen over and were partially covering his computer keyboard.

  After we reacquainted ourselves, I got down to the business at hand.

  “A client of mine bought two Ford Ranger pick ups from you recently. I needed…”