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Switcheroo

Page 9

by Robert Lewis Clark


  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 h
ouse 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, du
st 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.

 

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