Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  “I would like a Gentleman Jack on the rocks and you can keep the change if you’ll answer a couple questions,” I said, laying a twenty on the table.

  She turned away with a nod and returned with an amber drink that sparkled at me in a friendly way. I leaned forward to talk and she did the same.

  “I’m looking for Stanley Allen Bailey, have you seen him tonight?”

  “You’re sitting right next to him,” She motioned with her head at a man in a sport coat sitting next to me. I winced. The man was looking at me with a furrowed brow, probably wondering what was about to go down.

  “Any more questions?” the lady bartender asked, moving back just a little, in case any punches were about to fly.

  “No, that’ll do. Thanks.”

  So much for the element of surprise. I turned to my left and Bailey was staring at me with a glare you would give an IRS auditor or a proctologist or a budget private eye. My plan had been to watch the guy, maybe tail him to the truck the way he’d had me tailed.

  Even though dozens of patrons were smoking in this high-class meat market, the air was reasonably clear. Bentley’s had a fancy ventilation system that removed smoky air and returned fresh, cool air. Even on a chilly October evening there was no need to run the heat. It was wall-to-wall warm bodies in here and the dance floor was beginning to fill up.

  During an uncomfortable silence which was bridged by a dance mix version of Tone-Loc’s ‘Wild Thang’, I looked thoughtfully at my Gentleman Jack, trying to decide what to say. I was not feeling inspired. Fatigue filled my mind as I turned to Stanley Allen Bailey.

  He was wearing a badly tailored, blue wool suit that was neither cheap nor expensive. His gray hair was short, a little spiky on top. His eyebrows said Jack Nicholson, but his jowls said Michael Douglas. Bailey wore a college tie. On him it said Junior College. He could have been a lot of things, but he did not look like a dangerous criminal or a former high school all-star. He did not look like someone you would nickname ‘Slink’.

  I thought a little more and remembered that my mark would be in his mid-to-late twenties now, based on his graduation date that Wendy had given me from Oliver Springs High School admissions records.

  “This is a mistake.” I chuckled uncomfortably, trying to choose my words carefully. “I’m looking for a different Stanley Bailey. Sorry for the mistake.”

  “I know another Stanley Bailey. My son,” he looked at me suspiciously, like you might look at a homeless guy begging for change for coffee, when you know he’s just scrounging for booze money. “Only other Stan Bailey in Anderson County. Are you a cop?”

  “Private. I guess I did come to the right place.”

  I told Bailey about the counter boy at Big Earl’s and how I had been directed here. I left out the part where he had called Bailey Sr. a crook.

  “Yeah, I know that kid,” his eyes looked up in thought, seeing very little. “His folks owe me money. Pay a little slow too. I run the local Grainger Finance office on Illinois Ave.”

  Grainger is a sub sub-prime finance office that makes high interest/high risk loans to people banks wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot credit application. The bottom feeders of the finance industry, pretty much legalized loan-sharks. Their attorneys studied the law in each state so they could be sure they were changing the maximum rate allowable.

  I could see why the boy from Big Earl’s hated Bailey. He probably watched his parents struggling with bills and resented Bailey for profiting from their money problems. If his folks ever paid the balance down close to being paid off, I’m sure one of Stanley’s telemarketers would call them up and offer to lend them Christmas money or vacation money. The loans are ‘evergreen’, they never get paid off.

  Bailey looked like he slept easy at night in spite of this. His customer’s would borrow at thirty percent interest from somebody; it might as well be him.

  “Did your boy go to Oliver Springs High School?” I hoped.

  “Yeah, played QB for four years, started his junior and senior years.”

  He reached into his coat and brought out a smoke. He lit it with a fancy Zippo, which he kept lighting over and over again as he spoke. “That was before he discovered weed.”

  Now he was shaking his head.

  “His senior year Stan set his mom’s house on fire. Fire department found the cause of the blaze. The kid had pot plants in his closet and he forgot to turn the grow lights off when he went to school that day. He was growing his ganja in my ex-wife’s closet, God dammit. Fire went through the attic and burnt half her fucking roof off.

  “Stan laughed when he told me about it on the phone. ‘Insurance will pay for it, no big deal’ he says. He thinks I’ll be happy in a sick way since me and his mom don’t get along. I told him he was done living in her house, time to grow the fuck up. I was really fried. Hell I paid for that house before I lost it in the divorce. He left and didn’t come back. That was five years ago.”

  Mr. Bailey ground the stub of his cigarette into a small astray, which was promptly whisked away and replaced with a clean one.

  “I have reason to believe Stan has something that belongs to my client.”

  “Look, Stan has been in trouble with the law, drugs and stuff, but he is no thief. He’s employed and even has a little chick following him around. He’s got a brand new mobile home in Wartburg, too. He’s not Beaver Cleaver, but he’s a citizen now.”

  “You don’t have to sell him to me. I’m just looking for information. What’s his address in Wartburg? I’ve got a few questions for him. Hell, it’s probably nothing.” I finished my drink and signaled the nice lady for another Gentleman Jack.

  Bailey frowned and his eyes burned into me.

  “The address?” I said, breaking the silence.

  “123 fuck you avenue.” Bailey smirked and looked away, shifting in his seat. “He’s had just about enough shit from cops. I don’t need his mom raising hell with me saying I got him put in the shitter.”

  “I don’t want to involve the police. It would be better if you tell me where he lived.”

  “No it wouldn’t. You don’t know his fuckin’ mom. The woman’s a total psycho.”

  When I looked over my shoulder there was a middle-aged woman in a black party dress standing between me and Stanley Bailey. Bailey leaned in close to talk to her over the loud music coming for the now tightly-packed dance floor. He looked back at me like I should disappear or die, or both.

  “Where did Junior buy that mobile home?”

  “I can’t remember. Nice talkin’ to ya’, sir.”

  He said this politely for the benefit of his new female companion, but when she glanced away his acid look said this conversation was over.

  Chapter 20

  There was only one place to buy a new mobile home in Morgan County where Wartburg, TN was located: Trailer Daddy, Inc. Trailer Daddy had been selling mobile homes since HUD started regulating them in 1976. Several dealers have come and gone in the area, but there was not enough business in this rural area to sustain more than one mobile home retailer. It is customary for lenders and set-up crews to require a site map and physical address for any mobile home sale. Unless Slink bought it somewhere else, there should be a map to his house in Trailer Daddy’s office. Time for a little B and E. I pulled into the mobile home sales center which looked like a neighborhood of circular streets with about twenty new homes of varying size and quality. The older, used inventory and bank repos were behind the office. That is where I parked to conceal my car.

  There was nothing of substantial value in Trailer Daddy’s office, so the window locks were cheap and simple. I popped the latches back with a flathead screwdriver and ducked through the open window. Using my cell phone’s screen as a flashlight, I found the service files and a map to Slink Bailey’s home site. I copied the map on the office copier and courteously put the file back where it belonged. I re-locked the window and let myself out the front door, locking it behind me. Easy.

  I pushed in my
Pearl Jam CD which I listen to in spite of the fact that people my age are supposed to stop liking them. This is music you should give up when your teen angst fades, but at the right volume it can bring back a nostalgic feeling that leaves you feeling not so tired and ready for some trouble.

  People in developed nations, especially Americans, love to be in control. This is why we love air-conditioning, credit cards, and brand new cars. The farther out in rural areas I get, the more I notice a loss of the sense of control I the city gives me. My car could break down. I could get sick and need medical attention and my cell phone could be out of range. I could need a pizza delivered and be unable to use the internet. All of these things are part of living in rural areas where most conveniences become pretty inconvenient.

  Driving out to Wartburg to find Slink’s mobile home, this was the feeling I was getting. Even with a map and steering a well- maintained, older car, I felt my confidence slipping. I had my cell phone, but was it out of range? I checked. It still had a signal. What a relief. I looked up to see a large deer leap into the glare of my headlights. I slammed on the brakes and the Crown Vic shuddered, shrieked and skidded to a stop. I missed the deer, but my heart was in my throat. I coasted to the side of the road, put the car into park, and looked at the map some more.

  When my breathing had slowed to normal, I took off again, carefully watching for more stray fauna. This was not easy since there were no street lights. All I could see was the yellow line at the edge of the road and a stretch of high grass in the fan of the Crown Vic’s lights.

  I turned onto County Road 23 and began looking for Chert Pit Road, my next turn. I passed Wartburg’s only store, which was sort of a food mart, gas station, bait shack and night club all-in-one. There were still a few cars there even though it was past eleven on a Sunday night.

  On Chert Pit I turned left and drove five more miles. Darkness pressed in. The road seemed to narrow. I passed farm houses, barns, mobile homes and a few rural businesses (taxidermy, septic services, feed stores) before I came to 8605 Chert Pit, Slink’s place.

  A large single-wide mobile home sat on about two acres of land that ended at the fence of an adjacent farm. The mobile home was the only structure on the land. Nowhere to hide a mid-size pickup truck. This was a disappointment, but I pulled in anyway. The Crown Vic sank into the gravel driveway and settled next to an older Mustang and a Camaro of similar vintage, 1995-ish. I sat and looked at the front door and thought. No lights were on; my head lights shot a garish slice of light onto the front porch and beige vinyl siding. This Slink guy had to be involved, there were too many coincidences. My feet did not want to get out of the car. I turned the car off and sat, allowing my eyes to adjust. I still couldn’t see a thing. So I turned the lights back on and headed toward the porch.

  Sixty seconds of knocking felt like an hour. There was no sound that I could hear inside the house. No peeking out of any of the mini-blinds.

  I went back to the car, grabbed a flash light and my trusty tire iron, and headed back to the porch. This case was frustrating me and the Gentleman Jack was giving me courage. Since I have been breaking into abandoned bank repos for several years now, it seemed only natural to go get my easy ‘skeleton key’: the tire iron.

  Before trying to break in the front door with the pry bar end of the tire iron, I tried the door and found it unlocked. This surprised me, but then I thought maybe the residential lock was so cheap that anyone that really wanted in was getting in, so why lock your door and get it broken?

  I opened the door and as I moved forward I did hear a noise inside. It sounded like a couple of small kids running down the hall in my direction.

  I backed up, bringing the flash light up just in time to see a nasty black dog running at me with teeth gnashing. It was a dirty trick that this dog did not bark when I pulled up or at least when I knocked. I took that as a sign that he was a trained attack dog, another reason the door had been left unlocked.

  Adrenaline took over and I was up a tree in front of the house before I even knew what happened. A quick assessment showed no serious damage except torn trousers; which I had done myself on the tree bark. Man’s so-called best friend was at the base of the tree pacing back and forth, snarling a low growl that I felt more than heard.

  After twenty minutes the dog settled down but he did not leave. He growled whenever I shifted, trying to get more comfortable on my tree branch. He leered at me in a way that made me have to pee. I noticed that the headlights of the Crown Vic were beginning to fade. This was not going well.

  My heart was beating normally now that I was not in immediate danger. I was safe as long as I did not try to climb down the tree or fall asleep and fall out of the tree on my head. I patted my jacket pockets and there was my cell phone, thank God. I began thinking about what to do and who could help me. There was only one person I could think of who had all the resources I needed. Lt. Stratton of the KPD. I felt for my wallet in the darkness, found his business card and then tried to get some light on it. The movement sparked renewed interest from my guard dog. His growls were very impressive.

  I finally turned on the cell phone and used the dim light from its small screen to commit Stratton’s number to memory. He answered on my third attempt.

  “This better be fucking good, it’s past midnight and it’s Sunday,” his angry tone made it clear he knew who was calling.

  I gave him a rundown of why I was there; reminding him I was still looking for my client’s missing pickup truck. I told him that the door had been open and that I was treed by a large, apparently vicious dog. I did not tell him that my plan had been to break in.

  “He might be vicious, but he’s a slow ass dog,” Stratton said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if he was worth a shit, you woulda been calling me from a hospital bed.”

  Stratton wrote down the address and hung up without another word.

  I had plenty of time to think out here, in the dark woods, waiting on my tree limb. Three hours to think, as it turned out. Many questions came and went in my mind. How did Slink find out about these trucks? Why would a supposedly doped-out loser like him want a teleporting truck? Would Tammy McHenry ever have sex with me again? Would I care, now that things had sparked with Wendy? Why did Peter Gabriel leave Genesis? Would Stratton have jumper cables with him? The Crown Vic’s headlights were almost out.

  The dog was asleep at the base of the tree. I was cold. I went ahead and started shivering just to get a head start. I turned up the collar of my tweed jacket and stuck my hands under my arms. That did not help. I had stayed awake, but my ass was asleep from the pressure of the tree branch. The temperature continued to drop; I shivered. If I wet my pants would it help me to stay warm? (More questions.) I was watching the last embers of my headlights, when I realized that the sky was getting lighter. Two police cruisers and, thankfully, an animal control vehicle pulled into the driveway. I waved to Stratton when I saw him with the Morgan County cops and the dog catcher. The beast was netted and put into the truck. I climbed slowly and stiffly down from the tree. Feeling very embarrassed, I walked up to Stratton to apologize when he began talking.

  “You have the right to remain silent...”

  “What the...”

  “Any thing you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, you have the right to an attorney...” Stratton continued but I stopped listening. Trespassing or breaking and entering. They had me. But this was complete bullshit.

  “Hey!” Stratton noticed I had zoned out.

  “What, huh?” I snapped out of it.

  “Are you gonna come quietly or should I put the cuffs on ya? Stratton sounded tired.

  “Quietly, I guess.”

  “You got that gun on you?”

  “No, if I did I wouldn’t have been stuck in that tree.”

  “Don’t make threatening statements. They don’t help your case. You’re in enough trouble.”

  Stratton reached for a cigarett
e. He lit it, put his lighter away and checked my ankles and belt for a gun, dumping ash on my coat as he did.

  He led me to the police cruiser to take me in for booking.

  “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Actually I did,” Stratton threw his spent cigarette out the window. “If this Stanley Bailey guy is a criminal, his lawyer could use any leeway I give you against us later. Say we violated his rights, presumed guilt, that kind of shit. If Bailey really did steal that truck you want back, you’ll thank me for arresting you because we’ll be able to prosecute him. If he didn’t steal it, then shame on you and you should be arrested. Either way you should be arrested, so quit whining.”

  class=Section6> It was a long ride to the police station in Oakridge. As I saw other cars, street lights and traffic signals, I began to feel safer than I had out in the extreme rural with a snarling dog below me. I was watching Stratton talk on his radio through the wire and plexiglas shield that separated the front seat from the backseat in his unmarked police cruiser. He finally cut the volume on the squawk box down and spoke to me.

  “What is your PI racket anyway, insurance, divorce?” He asked.

  “Trailers, mostly,” I said. “I inspect delinquent and abandoned mobile homes and report back to mortgage companies. Sometimes car and boat loans. Not a glamorous form of investigation but it pays the bills.”

  “There is no glamorous form of investigation.”

  “Yeah, I guess not,” I could read nothing from the back of his head.

  “Listen, you need to stick to trailers and stay the hell out of whatever it is that you got your nose in now. The two guys that attacked your little girlfriend...”

  “Client.”

  “Shut up. Those two guys are serious thugs. The house we picked you up at belongs to a suspected drug dealer and you broke into his house and didn’t even have a gun on you. Are you drunk?” Stratton added sarcastically.

  “Not anymore,” I admitted, remembering my Gentleman Jack.