Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  “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.

  Chapter 17

  I was slowly waking up. There was a tugging on my arm, which was hanging off the edge of the futon. Coming out of slumber, I looked through the slits of my puffy old eyelids at the clearest blue eyes I have seen. Hannah’s eyes belonged in magazine ads, they were so huge and beautiful.

  Hannah looked at me and I remembered what was happening. Tammy and her family were here and I was on the futon in the den. A firm sleep, the futon was quite comfortable to me.

  “Pooh-Pooh,” said Hannah, smiling. She was holding a disposable diaper with pictures of cartoon characters on it.

  “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Stover.” Grandma Tuttle came to retrieve the baby.

  “Please call me Rust,” I said. A seventy-year-old woman did not have to call me mister.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rust.”

  “It’s okay. I needed to get up early.” I was to pick up Wendy at eleven. I glanced at my plastic sports watch, 6:30. “Yeah, I can handle this.” I took the diaper from Hannah and looked at her with mock seriousness.

  class=Section3> I picked her up and put her down on the rug beside the futon. I found the diaper bag, got the box of baby-wipes out and sat down next to Hannah on the floor. She was very still until I got the diaper open and then she twisted and wiggled and tried to get poop on the rug and on me. I held her down while I worked, careful not to breathe through my nose. Pretty gross. This stuff looked like about half a cup of peanut butter with some corn stirred into it. I buttoned her back up and took the foul diaper, put it inside two plastic grocery bags, knotted the bags and threw the whole package out the back door, where it joined a couple friends from yesterday. Glad that’s over.

  The beige truck was one I had never seen before. This was not the kind of pretty boy truck you parked at Cotton Eyed Joes to help you pick up chicks. There would be no mini-truck mullet sported by its driver. It looked like about a ‘78 model Jeep Comanche pickup truck, with oversize wheels and tires, and a lift kit. It had more than a little surface rust on the door panels and bed, giving it the look of a paint horse. Even several car lengths back, when it accelerated you noticed the glasspack mufflers or maybe no mufflers at all. With a 360 V-eight, it sounded like a NASCAR racer had somehow gotten loose on Middlebrook Pike. It was a terrible choice of vehicles to use to tail somebody, but after several turns I became convinced it was following me.

  The morning had been an effective one for me. I had cleaned up and gotten my remaining field reports e-mailed in to LISA. That would keep my steady pay check coming. Tammy was long on mascara, but short on cash. I would need my job with LISA after this was all over. I finished packing and headed over to Wendy’s, after a brief stop at the gas station.

  After spotting the Jeep truck in my mirror, I quickly turned right onto a side street and made several turns inside Hurley Mill subdivision, just to make sure that I wasn’t imagining things. The truck slowed way down, but even when he was out of sight, I could still hear him. He fell back trying, not to be too obvious, but it wasn’t working. If I couldn’t see him, I could still hear him. This truck was about as subtle as Ray Lewis in a ballet. The bad guys were not being very bright about their human resource selections.

  I went on my way down Middlebrook; nothing I could do. I kept an eye on the guy. He seemed content to follow for now. On the cell phone I called the Holiday Inn on Cedar Bluff and made a reservation for Tammy and her family, my house was no longer safe for them. Then I called Tammy at the house and told her to move to the hotel because they had figured out where I lived and though they were following quietly now, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t resort to violence again. Better to hide. She was not happy about another move, but not too scared either, and that was good. I tried convincing her to go by telling her Hannah would like the indoor pool. I would come back from Pigeon Forge and meet them at the hotel for lunch Sunday. I told her to go straight to the police station if she thought she was being followed on their way to the hotel. All that settled, I still had to deal with my red-neck friend, who was now tailing me without even trying to hide, as if he could.

  The key to losing a tail like this is simple. It just takes one sudden, blind turn. You know what I mean. This is how you end up accidentally losing a friend who you are trying to follow you to a party. You get stuck at a red light and they keep going, or they get away from you in traffic and next thing you know they aren’t there.

  The red light was out; this guy would not be stopped by a traffic signal. I could not beat his big motor on a straightaway so I headed out toward Ball Camp where I knew there were a few blind curves.

  Around a couple twists in the road I used all of the grip my car’s cheap tires had to get ahead of my stalker’s monster Jeep truck. When I could no longer see him in my mirror I veered to the right into a neighborhood, drove a short way and took a left behind a line of trees. I glanced to the left but could not see the truck through the trees. I could not see the Jeep in any direction, but I could hear it warble on around the bend and fade away. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I looked up and saw I was headed straight for a ditch. The rapidly disappearing shoulder received my car softly at first, letting me slide through high grass, bumping lightly over its moguls until I got down to the drainage ditch, which unfortunately was lined with huge limestone chunks (to prevent erosion during flash floods and to badly damage errant LeBarons).

  I heard metal and stone smash with a sound that struck fear into my heart and turned my bowels to water. I shot forward and sideways on impact, coming out of my shoulder belt. Finally, the car stopped moving. I was lying on my side looking up at the blue October sky, mostly okay. My hips ached from the sudden jerk of the seatbelt, but other than that I had survived an accident in a convertible. God had smiled on me, for whatever reason. Steam rose from the LeBaron’s wrinkled hood. The man upstairs didn’t like Chrysler products, but at least he had spared me.

  I stepped out of the car and checked my watch, 10:45. There was still time to keep from looking like an idiot with Wendy. I got out my book and looked up the number for my favorite towing company and called the number on my cell phone. I sat down on the grassy hill and looked at my steaming car. There wasn’t much body damage but both the wheels on the driver’s side were twisted at odd angles and some drive-train parts were hanging down. All I could think was what a waste of gasoline. I had just filled the tank yesterday.

  Chapter 18

  class=Section4> It was eleven fifteen in the morning when the tow-truck driver dropped me off in front of Wendy’s modest, neatly-kept house. It was a small three-bedroom ranch on a street of small three-bedroom ranches. You could have any color house you wanted in her neighborhood, as long as it was beige, yellow or slate blue. The houses were all fairly new and nicely landscaped.

  You never know what someone else is seeing, but I hoped she liked what she saw. An okay-looking guy with a tidy devil beard and a touch of grey in his short brown hair. Tall, a little more than six feet and only a slight beer gut hidden under a nice tweed sports jacket. A trace of
a grin on his face. A man you would not expect to be standing in your yard with a huge flat-bed diesel truck behind him, and the steaming remains of the car that was supposed to take you to Gatlinburg lying in a heap on the truck’s bed.

  I know I liked what I saw. Wendy was looking good, as usual. She had on a light sweater and slacks and was carrying a casual leather jacket. She smiled as she walked toward me.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” She hugged me and looked at the bandage on my neck.

  “Oh, my neck?” I said touching the bandage. “That happened earlier in the week, I was tilting at windmills. Today, I had an accident on the way over. No injuries other than general stiffness. I think the motor on that old car was about to give out anyway. ”

  “Well, I’m glad you are okay. We can take my Toyota. Too bad, I was looking forward to riding up in the convertible. I even packed a wool blanket.”

  The tow truck driver handed me my credit card receipt and was about to leave.

  “Well, why don’t we rent one? Insurance will cover part of it.” The tow truck driver gave us a lift to the car rental agency and got a green Chrysler Sebring convertible, sort of a modern day equivalent of the old LeBaron. I threw our stuff in the trunk and opened the door for Wendy. I handed her the blanket.

  I’ve never been to Boston in the fall and I may never get there. Fall in Appalachian Tennessee is fine with me. Wendy and I took the Sebring down Alcoa Highway toward the Great Smokey Mountains and turned toward Gatlinburg on Wears Valley Road. This road is the ultimate for a convertible and today was the ultimate day. It was bright and sunny and sixty-five degrees. The giant oaks and smaller round maples were showing yellows, oranges, reds and russet browns. Leaves were floating down slowly in a light breeze.

  The Chrysler was more boulevard cruiser than sports car, but it handled the curvy mountain roads well enough. I took it easy, checking my mirror every now and then for suspicious cars.

  Wendy and I discussed her job and a few of my interesting cases. Somehow the talk got around to which local restaurants had been on the news last night for flunking their health inspection. She named the ones she remembered and some of the cited violations. Most of these involved dirt and grease, cleaning supplies near exposed food and food stored at unsafe temperatures.

  I was doing okay until she mentioned my favorite Japanese place. They had failed health inspection, scoring a sixty- four. Inspectors had found a container of bleach near exposed food, mold on the walls in the kitchen and roaches in the kitchen. That place was way too pricy for Clorox to end up in food. It was at least twenty bucks a plate and food was prepared for you at your table by a guy who did a chop-chop show. He was always setting the table on fire, or trying to throw a shrimp tail in someone’s shirt pocket. I always proposed a toast and gave the cook sake. The hostess would get angry about her cook getting drunk and it was fun to watch her unravel. When you left, you were fat, happy and smelling of garlic. I’ll miss that place. I can’t have mold and Clorox in my food, dammit.

  To my left there was the wide, gushing stream that ran down along Wears Valley Road year round, fed by mountain tributaries. Wendy was looking at it and I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She had her light brown hair pulled back in a pony tail and was wearing tortoise-shell sunglasses with dark green lenses. I was hoping for an enjoyable getaway with no gun fire and no disappearing Ford trucks. We pulled into Gatlinburg and went straight up the side of a mountain, pulling up to one of the two chalets that Wendy and her paralegal cronies had rented for the night. It was about 1:30 now. We had stopped at a small grocery to get beer, wine and some snacks. We had already missed lunch. Thanks to my LeBaron crash, we were late.

  “You caused me to miss out on some quality hot tub time,” Wendy teased.

  “Hot tub, huh? I didn’t bring a swim suit,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, we’ll have to improvise.”

  Well, improvising turned out to be me wearing a pair of plaid boxers that I had brought to sleep in. Further improvising was the safety-pin Wendy insisted on using to fasten the fly closed so someone wouldn’t make an unwanted appearance. She did this after I put them on, inadvertently activating the launch sequence. Wendy noticed my arousal and after rolling around on the bed a little she relieved my stress without intercourse. Use your imagination. For a moment I forgot that I had a client who had no money checked into a one hundred dollar a night hotel in Knoxville. I also forgot that I had no real idea of how to finding her trucks and turn into a paying client.

  Our little make-out session made it easier to do what I did next. We walked downstairs through a huge open den with a twenty-foot ceiling. I had still not met anyone in our party, and the den was empty.

  I soon found out why. Everyone was in the basement. Only the front side of this basement level was underground. The back had two sets of French doors, opened on the view of a valley with the Smokey Mountains beyond. There were at least five ladies, accompanied by various husbands and significant others hanging around two indoor hot tubs and a pool table. These paralegal people apparently knew how to party. Okay with me.

  “Everybody, this is Rust,” Wendy said holding my hand. “Rust, this is everybody.” Immediately I was slapped on the back several times and shook several hands, instantly forgetting the names that went with each smiling face. This bunch had started before noon and was already buzzed, so I figured I could learn the names later.

  It was not a good way to meet a dozen new friends. I was wearing a T-shirt and my pinned-together boxers and I was not drunk like everyone else there. Wendy grabbed my hand and tugged me toward one of the hot tubs. She was dressed in a well-fitting one-piece swimsuit. I found myself stealing glances at what I had been trying to grab earlier. She hopped in one of the hot tubs that contained one of her paralegal friends and a blob that I could only assume was the lady’s husband. I knew as soon as I got into the hot tub I would need to stay there because my boxers were going to cling to me. So I took three Budweisers out of the cooler and set them on the shelf behind the hot tub. This would save getting in and out and in and out. I sucked in my gut as I tossed my shirt aside and hopped in the tub.

  Once in the hot tub holding an open beer and a beautiful Wendy sitting next to me I felt more comfortable. I was introduced to William J. Lunt (the blob) and his skinny yet unattractive wife, Blanche. They turned out to be super-nice people. I spent quite a while talking to them while my fingers, toes and the rest of me pruned up from the extended, hot soak.

  “You’re a beer man, huh?” William said with his friendly drawl. He had the southern drawl of a southern football coach who has never had a winning season.

  “I enjoy a cold one every now and then,” I was wondering if this guy was a drinker. He was holding what appeared to be a glass of ice water.

  “I don’t like it, never have. And coffee, I never liked coffee either. I like gin with a splash of soda, can’t beat it.” He nodded, agreeing with himself as he took a swig. He had a pint glass with ice cubes and gin; not much soda. It would take a lot of that to pickle this fat man. I hid my distaste. In my book, gin was one notch above drinking mouth-wash or cologne or disinfectant.

  “I don’t like beer, it gives you a gut. Makes ya’ feel bloated,” He patted his flabby belly. “This is not a beer gut.”

  He didn’t say what it was made of, but I was guessing probably McDonalds and Taco Bell.

  This guy was nice enough, but the sight of him with no shirt on was going to keep me from enjoying any fast food for at least a week. Bummer.

  I decided now would be a good time to listen, learn and do what I do best: drink beer. In a little while, I got to know Blanche Lunt, who was a friend of Wendy’s worked for a law firm in Sevier County. William Lunt was a civil engineer in Sevier County. They lived in Seymour, Tennessee.

  In these conversations I said things like ‘And what do you do?’ or ‘Tell me about that’. Sometimes it all it takes a simple ‘I see’ or ‘you don’t say’
to keep someone talking for ten more minutes, especially if they are drunk.

  I was surprised when the subject got around to me.

  “You know Rust is a private detective,” Wendy said, nodding slyly at me. I flashed on her brown eyes, eyed her floating cleavage eagerly, and then looked up. Everyone in the hot tub looked at me inquiringly.

  “Well, I’m really more what you would call a field investigator. It’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot more exciting than paralegal work. Tell me some stuff,” Blanche wanted some good chat I guess. Her mascara on one eye had started to run and she was definitely drunk.

  “Well, what I do mostly is report on collateral for lenders who are going to foreclose or repossess their loan security. I do get a chance every now and then to do some real detecting.”

  I told them the story of how I hurt my neck on Monday. I added in a couple extra redneck thugs and more shotgun blasts. It was an interesting story to begin with, but I exaggerated the details. When I got to the end there were two more party-goers listening. So I had no trouble getting a young lady to pass me another cold Bud from the cooler. I glanced at my sports-watch. I had been in the hot tub two and a half hours. Wasn’t there a thirty minute limit?

  “Wow, you’re a regular Magnum P.I. What is it these cowboys are trying to take from your client?”

  “I can’t really say; it’s confidential. Perhaps when it’s all over and in the newspapers, I’ll share it,” I said, sounding matter-of-fact.

  I was starting to really prune up and I needed to go to the men’s room. Now I felt that everyone was sufficiently drunk enough not to notice a man with wet clinging boxers walking through the room.

  I told Wendy this and she said, “Oh, let me get you a towel.”