Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  He turned and floated out through the swinging doors, like a balloon made of Dockers and a giant oxford shirt.

  I walked to the back of the kitchen and introduced myself to Slink. As I shook hands with him, his expression told me he knew I was not there to see about feeding my wedding party.

  “Gettin’ married, Mr. Stover? You’re gonna have to give up your life of crime then. Seems like I saw your name on a police blotter for attempted breaking and entering?”

  “Yeah, that was me. Thanks for dropping the charges, by the way. I’ll drop off some lasagna for you sometime.”

  “Don’t bother. I can make lasagna that would smoke any recipe you got,” he released my hand. “I dropped the charges because there was nothing to gain and I do not want to draw attention of any kind from the police. Even if I am the victim.”

  Slink had light brown hair and a boyish face for someone of his age, probably about twenty-eight. He had on a discolored Atlanta Braves hat and a pair of faded Levis covered by a white institutional apron. He was thin in an athletic way and his teeth were whiter than most people’s in Oliver Springs.

  “I’m here about a missing truck. You wouldn’t happen to have an old Ford Ranger in your warehouse?” I did my best Colombo imitation, but what Slink saw was probably more like Woody Allen imitating Jerry Lewis.

  “I didn’t think that was a good place to keep it anymore so I moved it. Don’t ask me where it is again or this conversation is over. I have some minor behavioral problems that... well; basically I can’t lie very well. Traumatophbia; any kind of violent confrontation makes me sick. I mean really sick… nauseous. “

  “That’s interesting since you were a football star. Isn’t football violent?”

  “Yeah, it is,” Slink shrugged. “My condition wasn’t that bad back in high school. I had a feeling I was gonna die if I got sacked. This fear gave me the adrenalin to dodge tacklers and unload the ball before I got tackled. We had a very fast-paced offense. I made all- county. But, by my senior year I was puking my guts out every time I got hit. That’s why I never tried to play college ball.”

  Slink pushed back the panic in his eyes as he remembered.

  “Gotta be tough being a criminal and all, and not being able to use violence. Seems impossible,” I mused.

  “I think of myself as a manager. My enterprise, I see as legitimate. I don’t need to justify it to you. Look at it this way,” Slink’s face was no longer pale.

  “I can prepare meals for hundreds of people each day without touching one French fry,” he gestured toward his kitchen staff. “If I’ve got something that needs doing, I manage.”

  “Would that be your friends with the red Camaro I came across in Straw Plains?”

  “You mean Elvis and Ensley?” Slink chuckled. “They were the junior varsity.”

  “They’re in jail.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There’s more where they came from, and they will not roll over because Partee controls them. And Partee will never be in jail because they would never take him alive.” Slink gags as he says this, trying to suppress a violent image that was triggering his condition. I took this as a sign our little talk was over.

  “Okay then. See ya.”

  “Not if I see you first.” He tipped his dirty Braves cap, but his expression was less than courteous.

  Chapter 25

  “Well, I was going to suggest Saffron. They have a great buffet,” Wendy was referring to a budget Indian cuisine restaurant. “Do you like Indian food?”

  I was thinking not really, it smells like a blend of armpit and feet, I can only imagine what it tastes like. I am not a fan of curry and I do not like to eat at any restaurant that sets up camp in a former Captain D’s.

  “Oh yeah, I hear they’re running a special this week. You get a free Imodium and a roll of Charmin with the buffet.”

  She laughed at my elementary school humor.

  “So this Slink guy, is he cute?” Wendy asks playfully. It was Thursday night and Wendy’s eyes sparkled in the soft lights at Calhoun’s Restaurant. Calhoun’s sits on pilings on the Tennessee River right across from Nieland Stadium. It is a busy place and so noisy that if you talk quietly at your table your conversation is safely confidential. Heck, your date may not even hear you.

  “He is not someone I would be attracted to if I was a woman. I would describe him as tall, thin and athletic. Country boy preppie meets Tommy Hilfiger, sort of thing,” I shrugged.

  “Sounds pretty slinky to me. Who would you say is your type?” Wendy teases.

  “I would still follow you around. I’d make a perfect butch lesbian,” I leaned back and gave Wendy my best leer. I tried to do the Nicholson thing with my eyebrow. But, after a couple beers it probably looked like Boo Radley to Wendy. She laughed.

  “So, if you’re the butch lesbian, that makes me the skinny hot lesbian?”

  “I hope not, that could ruin my plans for later.”

  The things that had been on my mind did not seem so important right now. I looked at this pretty woman and then over her shoulder out into the night. The lights from the Gay Street Bridge were dancing on the river in the inky, fall night. The candle between us glowed through my Cherokee Red Ale. The heat in my cheeks was probably from the brew; artificial but still Okay. I needed this feeling even if it was alcohol induced. Maybe it was real.

  I picked up our check and we walked out to the Crown Vic. I held the car door for Wendy. I drove her home. We pulled up in front of her neat house off Western Avenue. She said I could come in. I really wanted to. I declined though, letting her off the hook since it was a school night. I walked her to the door. We kissed and I heard Wendy’s daughter, mumbling ‘gross’ as she peeked through the blinds from inside the house.

  I headed toward home, but then I remembered that Orby’s Place is down past highway 640 on the less fashionable end of Western Avenue (though neither end is really very fashionable). Not much out of my way.

  Chapter 26

  “Hey Red, have you seen Tammy?” I leaned over the worn Formica bar at Orby’s.

  “Name’s Billy, not Red, and I’m not sure where Tammy is, she’s on break.”

  Red’s cowboy boots made him seem taller than he was, maybe five nine instead of five six. Either way there wasn’t much to him. But he had spunk and seemed to be meaner than a snake with athlete’s foot. His frown said ‘Go ahead, fuck with me and see what happens’.1 I tested him.

  “Well then, I’ll have a Bud, please.” I sat down at the bar on one of the wobbly tree stumps with the tuft of old shag carpet on top. I plunked some cash down in front of me.

  Red set a Budweiser on the bar slowly and softly so as not to break it over my head.

  “They call me Rust.”

  “Not much of nickname.”

  “Yeah, I got tired of the Russell Stover moniker and shortened it to Russ. Russ Stover got shortened to Rust by friends.”

  “Rust Over?”

  “No. Never mind. Just call me Rust.”

  “Listen, I do not want to get on a nickname basis with you. And if I did, I would not call you Rust because that’s about the most retarded nickname I’ve ever heard.” He looked down at my twenty on the bar.

  “Keep it,” I said generously. “Hey, did you build these bar stools yourself? Very creative,” I patted the tuft of carpet next to me.

  “No, I inherited them with the rest of this shit hole. Isn’t there somewhere else you can drink? I gotta tell you, you are way too old for Tammy, anyway.” Red picked up the cash. “On second thought, why don’t you sit here a while and keep tipping my staff like this. Maybe you can buy some respect. Maybe if you get pickled enough your personality will mutate into something I can learn to put up with.”

  Orby’s Place was starting to fill up with the regular crowd. Sensing pockets full of cash that needed to be separated from thirsty people, Red turned on a boot heel and headed toward a gaggle of waitresses with orders. As usual, he was dressed all in denim. I could see the
handle bars of his ridiculous red mustache even with his back turned.

  I looked around and soaked in the action at the club, letting the sights and smells permeate me (later I would have to burn these clothes). The cigar and cigarette smoke could not be stopped. Marlboro Reds, Winston’s and Swisher Sweets were being smoked with reckless abandon. Anyone seen smoking a Benson and Hedges or Dunhill would most likely be taken behind the building and flogged.

  The juke box played non-stop and seemed to get around to ‘Friends in Low Places’ way too often. A band was setting up at one end of the club. There was no stage. This could be a welcome break from the hideous karaoke.

  The big ugly bartender-the one I call Tex- brought me the occasional Budweiser. Red disappeared in the back to take care of a dispute between a waitress and a bus-boy.

  Tammy popped out of the back door that said “employees only” and headed to the bar. Wearing her usual tight black jeans and white shirt tied at the waist, she caught the eye of all the creeps at the bar, including me. I nodded at her and raised my bottle slightly. She smiled in response and grabbed a clean tray to start plying her trade. Working the floor, weaving in and out between the drunks, sluts, big-haired posers, dullards, fatties and toothless wonders, she smiled through it all. The fabric apron she wore was bulging with tips by the time she made it over to my end of the bar.

  “Hey.” She sighed, putting her hand on my arm. Then she barked out a lengthy drink order to Tex.

  “I know who has the truck, but I haven’t found it yet.” I tried to whisper loudly over the sound system. Waves of bass pounded us with ‘Achey-Breaky Heart’. The volume was bringing focus to my headache and the lyrics were driving IQ points from my head. Tammy’s cork-covered tray was starting to fill up with a variety of cheap drinks and dollar beers.

  “I’ll come by at eleven. You can tell me about it then. Oh, how about a ride home, too?” She tugged my sleeve as she smiled and walked away, knowing I would wait. I had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the kind of ride I had in mind. I shook my head, to clear out the dirty thoughts that lay around my mind, like smelly laundry in a college dorm.

  Time passed like warm fuzz through a vacuum cleaner hose. I exchanged not-so-pleasantries with various patrons. Several Buds later, a fellow at the bar offered me a Cigarillo. Not having any smokes of my own I took it and was puffing away and chatting with the guy. He stopped talking and looked past me.

  “Dude, there’s a hot chick behind you,” he pointed with the end of his beer bottle, eyes glazed and solemn. I wished him good night and turned to see Tammy sitting at the bar next to me. I looked at my watch, 11:15. She was off the clock. I switched to black coffee. She ordered a Mountain Dew from Tex. He smiled his crooked smile at her like the big ugly dog he was.

  Tammy listened, while I told her about looking for a barbeque connection with Anderson County. I told her about James Inskip and how he had led me to Slink. I explained that it had to be Slink’s old football jersey she had seen when she teleported to the warehouse. I repeated the conversation I had had with Slink.

  “He just admitted to having it?” She was surprised.

  “Well, I guess he figures the cops won’t get involved since I got caught trying to break into his trailer, and he’s probably right.” I frowned and sipped my coffee.

  “The cops think I’m nuts and they think you’re a crook. Great,” Tammy pouted.

  “I have come across one cop, name of Stratton, who is pretty sharp. He doesn’t like me but if it gets obvious enough who the bad guys are he’ll catch on.”

  “Slink has some kind of weird allergy to lying, almost like he can’t tell a lie. Traumatophbia. He says it’s a fear of violence and confrontation, and it makes him physically sick. Anyway, for a minute Slink was up front, but then he told me if I asked another question I’d have to leave. Since I was there to ask questions, I just went ahead and left. Anyway, he said the truck is not in the warehouse anymore.”

  “If he is scared of violence, how was he gonna throw you out?”

  “He has a heavy that they call Partee who takes care of the hard crime and violence. I think he is the one who is sending you the notes through the trucks. I’m pretty sure he also runs the goons that showed up at your Grandmother’s house.”

  “Well shit. Maybe he’ll trip and fall on a sharp object. Problem solved.” Tammy laughed. She was drunk with fatigue. She rubbed the corner of her eye carefully with a finger tip. I’m sure the dense smoke in the bar made her want to rub both of her eyes with her fists, but this would have made a raccoon mask out of her mascara.

  “Amen.” I raised my coffee cup in a weak toast.

  “Hey, Red,” I stopped him as he was passing by behind the bar. “I ...”

  “Is he tipping well, Tammy?”

  “Oh, he’s a good one.”

  “It’s true,” Tex was standing up for me. “I bet he’s paid twenty bucks in tips for a six pack a beer. Beats me as to why. Me, I’d just buy a case of Milwaukee’s Best and a couple bags of jalapeño pork rinds at Food City and stay home.”

  “Right,” Said Red. “That one needs a check up from the neck up. Well, I guess you’ve earned the right to sit there and pickle yourself.”

  “What were the waitress and the bus boy fighting about?” I leaned forward. The band was still pretty loud.

  “Shit, what do they always fight about? Stolen tips. Girl found this note on her table.” Red pulled a rumpled napkin from his jeans and tossed it on the bar. It said, Thanks for not asking if I wanted another Sweet Patootie. You saved me a tip.”

  “She’s screaming at Ernie saying he wrote the note and I’m thinking there is no way Ernie would think up something like this. Even if he was dumb enough to steal a tip, I don’t see him writing the words Sweet Patootie on a piece of paper. He’s not really the criminal type either. He lives with his mother and drives a ‘74 Dodge Aspen.”

  “What is a Sweet Patootie, any how?”

  “Triple sec, gin and orange juice. I had to look it up. We usually call it a Grass Skirt here.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, I sided with the boy. He told me there was no tip to steal. All he found was the note. It really pissed Sandy off. But she’s a bitch anyway.” Red shrugged.

  “True, she is a bitch,” Tammy chimed in without even thinking. Definitely a hostile work environment here.

  “You told me last time I was here that you were the one who killed Orby.” I was curious. Red must be pretty slick to get away with murder and admit to it.

  “Well, like most troubles, it involved a woman,” he looked away. The band had taken a break so we could actually hear him confess.

  Chapter 27

  It turned out that her name was Mabel. And I know what you’re thinking, that Mabel is a Grandma’s name, but she was no Grandma. She was young and cute and full of life. Had a little turned-up nose. She was “not too fat, not too skinny, just right,” according to Red. Red had met Mabel in Orby’s Grill where he’d worked as a bartender since fleeing Texas five years earlier. Red had sold used cars, cooked beef brisket and loaded UPS trucks to make a living while in school in Texas. Due to a series of unfortunate events involving some cow-shit hallucinogenic mushrooms, a Trans Am and a pissed-off woman, Red had left the state of Texas in a hurry. With six years of college under his belt, no degree and no money, he was headed to Myrtle Beach but ended up in Knoxville, Tennessee after seeing a makeshift poster that described it as a homeless person’s Mecca.

  It turns out Red didn’t do too badly. He found himself living in a shelter not too far from the bus station downtown. He would report to the Job Corp on 4th Avenue and get day construction jobs that paid cash under the table. This was easy drinking money until winter set in. Work was slow then and he needed to find something more permanent. He went drinking at Orby’s Place one night and never left. He had struck up a conversation with Orby himself that night. It had come up that Red had a business school background and Orby thought the boy could help
him manage the bar. This would give Orby more time to scarf alcohol and cheat on his wife with the waitresses.

  Orby was a scoundrel. He was fat. He was a drunk and a pot head. He had a beard that was always in need of trimming. He wore an old sweat-stained Titleist golf hat, though he had never once played golf. He drove a white Escalade with a four-inch lift kit and an Orange Nike swoosh on the side, Starsky and Hutch style. He kept beer in a fridge below the arm rest and his sub-woofers were always blaring Toby Keith or somebody worse (Red hated new country). Somehow, Orby charmed Red and Red agreed to work for him. Orby did have a sense of humor. He was generous, paying his people a decent wage and treating them well, even when he was blitzed (which was always).

  Red started out working behind the bar. Red had spent plenty of time in front of bars, so working behind one was a natural transition. He knew about bad service from experience. He worked at keeping customers happy. He made tips. He moved out of the shelter and into a drafty loft apartment not too far from Orby’s. The electric bill ran more than the rent, but it was manageable for Red. He cut back on his drinking and started waxing his handle-bar mustache again. He considered the possibility of sending a payment on his defaulted student loans. Life was improving.

  Things went on like this for a few years. Gradually Orby trusted Red with more and more responsibility. He let Red supervise the waitresses, book bands and even make the bank deposits. Ultimately he gave Red check signing authority and Red pretty much ran the place. Since Red had his shit together now, Orby’s Place made more money than ever and both Red and Orby did well. Their friendship grew.

  One smoky night at the bar, Orby threw his heavy arm around Red and whispered.

  “Look at that one, what do you think?” He was motioning with his cigarette toward three girls at the bar.