Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  “Which one? They’re all nice,” Red shrugged.

  “Well, the one in the white halter top. She can’t take her eyes off me. Ha.”

  Seems Orby was smitten. (Too bad it wasn’t with his wife.) Her got the girl’s name from one of the waitresses on duty. He immediately began obsessing about Mabel in a way that only Orby could. Things went into a downward spiral when he found the Mabel did not reciprocate his feelings. He drank way too much. He snapped at people. When he left the bar he floored his Escalade and threw gravel wildly as the wheels spun. His kids and his wife hated him. He had always behaved this way, but with the anger that was behind it now, it was worse.

  Orby was giving Mabel and her friends lots of free drinks, so this kept them coming back to the bar often. Orby liked this. He forgave their bar tab every few days. He sent Mabel flowers. He talked to her across the bar. Over a period of weeks he got to know her better. She had soft brown hair and was a pretty nice girl. She worked as a beautician at Emilia’s Hair and Nails; a budget day spa in an old house on Sutherland Avenue. Mabel and her friends would all say bye to Orby with a big show of hugging him goodbye. He always lingered when he hugged Mabel. It was the best part of his day. He would disappear into his office after they left and drink from his private half gallon bottle of Meyer’s Rum. If Mabel and the ladies never showed up he did not come out of his office. Sometimes he would cruise past her trailer off Liberty Avenue to see if she was home, but he never dared to stop.

  No matter how hard he tried, Orby was never able to be anything more than just friends with Mabel. He became even more unhappy. He ignored the Grill, which continued to make money with Red at the helm. He began pestering Mabel for dates, and was met with polite refusals but more hugs. She seemed to think of him as a big, hairy, drunk uncle.

  Divorce papers were served on Orby one afternoon while the crew was getting the bar ready to open. Red began to worry that the bar would become an asset of the marriage and Orby’s ex-wife would try to shut them down.

  Since he was always serving her and her friends, Mabel started talking to Red. Red was careful not to let a jealous Orby notice because Orby would blow a gasket. Red stayed behind the bar, but sometimes he found himself leaning forward a bit. Not being a real tall guy even with the boots, Red stood eye to eye with Mabel. Her brown eyes sparkled and her personality bubbled; at least in part because of all the free booze Orby had been pushing on her. Red’s heart had been pretty well hardened by life, but a very small part of it felt guilty about his growing affection for Mabel.

  Red was drying glasses behind the bar one night when he heard yelling. He turned to see that Mabel had just pitched her Rum Runner into Orby’s face. Orby clamped onto her upper arm as she turned to leave. She left a couple broken off artificial nails in his cheek and ran out of the bar. Red ran after her. Red’s eyes met Orby’s for a moment as he ran past him. Orby’s expression was bewildered. The reddish chunks of frozen Rum Runner stuck on his face made his wounds look even worse.

  Red caught up with Mabel in the gravel parking lot. Under the harsh security light she told Red that Orby had offered her a hundred bucks to ‘show tits’ as he had put it. Mabel was an old-fashioned name for an old-fashioned girl. She was offended but Orby was drunk and wouldn’t let up. Now Mabel had stopped crying but her face was streaked with tears and dark eye makeup. Red told her she needed to go home and not come back to Orby’s. He hugged her to make her feel better. She said she would miss seeing him. The next thing Red knew they

  class=Section8> were locked in a kiss. It lasted. In the warm afterglow, Red opened the door to Mabel’s little six cylinder Mustang. He told her he would call her, everything would be okay. She wrote her number down on a burnt lotto ticket and gave it to Red. There was a chill that spring evening but that scrap of paper kept him warm as his boots crunched across the gravel lot to go face Orby.

  But Orby wasn’t there. The bar was hopping and busy, so Red jumped back behind the bar and got his mind back on making drinks. He kept thinking about Mabel’s soft lips on his. He straightened the handle bars of his mustache with the forefinger and thumb of each hand.

  Red’s mind slammed into high gear when the huge mirror behind the bar shattered and his right shoulder exploded in pain. As he was going down he saw Orby with a gun in his hand, plowing through the screaming dancers like a semi in rush hour.

  Red dragged himself across the shards of mirror toward the far end of the bar. In the back of the under-bar refrigerator was a Tupperware container that had the word “Red’s” written on it in Sharpie pen. Red held it down with his boot and used his right hand to pry it open. Red’s .38 fell out. He had no time to wait. He forced himself to turn around as he picked up the gun. Orby was just leaning over the other end of the bar about to shoot the place on the floor where Red had fallen. Red shot him three times in the torso and Orby disappeared backwards behind the bar. Red quickly went into shock and passed out from the pain.

  Chapter 28

  “Anyway, my right shoulder still hurts when it rains.” Red concluded, shrugging his right shoulder. “Hell, I’m a lefty anyway, plus I can use it to predict the weather.”

  I was impressed, it was quite a story.

  “And Orby died, of course.”

  “Medical examiner said he was dead before his lard butt hit the concrete floor.”

  “What ever happened to Mabel?”

  “He married her,” Tammy added.

  “It’s true. She doesn’t drink half as much now. Ain’t a bad cook and I haven’t had to pay for a hair cut yet,” Red ran his fingers through his thick red mop and put his denim hat back on.

  “And Orby’s Place? You bought it from Orby’s widow?” I asked

  “Nope. The dumb son of a bitch left it to me in his will. I guess he was trying to spite his wife at the time. Probably had no intention of keeping it that way. I did have to pay an attorney a hell of a lot of money to make the will stick. His widow fought it; he died before the divorce went to court. His will also clouded my criminal case because the asshole D.A. said I had something to gain by seeing Orby dead. It never made it to trial. Too many eye-witnesses. Judge heard it and ruled it was self defense.”

  “So you killed the guy and took his girl and his business and got away with it. Only in America. Sounds like you killed three birds with one stone,” I sloshed some more coffee down.

  “Actually I would say I killed one big bird with three stones. Like I said, he was a huge old fucker.”

  Red turned and walked away, a small portrait in denim.

  “A man followed me to work today.” Tammy spoke matter-of-factly, hugging herself as she said this. “I ran inside but he was gone by the time Red got out to the parking lot looking for him.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” Guilt was burning my cheeks.

  “Well, there was nothing you could have done anyway, so I never called you,” She shrugged.

  “I can’t afford to put you up in a hotel any more. Let me take you home. And I’ll have a look around your house. “

  This was the least I could do and never let it be said that I didn’t do my least.

  We rode out to Grandma Tuttle’s farmhouse in silence, both dog-tired. Tammy looked beautiful in her too-much-eye-makeup-and-hair-spray kind of way. I was thinking that these trucks I was trying to get were never going to be in the same place at once. One was always where the other wasn’t. This whole line of thought made me more tired so I tried remembering Wendy Forsyth naked. At 1:38 in the morning this was enough to keep me awake until I dropped Tammy off and made it home.

  Chapter 29

  Eyes hurting. Legs hurting. Brain hurting. Mouth tastes like Rhino piss. Conclusion: grow up, Rust. You are not in college anymore.

  Liberal use of hot water, coffee, toothpaste, floss, and mouthwash had me feeling like a person by nine o’clock.

  It was Friday so naturally I ignored my office and went straight to the problem at hand, finding the right CD’s to t
ake to Oakridge. I pulled out my Afghan Wigs and my Pulp Fiction soundtrack and headed for the Crown Vic. Nothing like mafia rock to get you started. I left the dog out in the fenced yard since it was sunny and not too cold.

  I am good at handling confrontation. It is best to be direct when dealing with difficult people who may be combative. In case that didn’t work, my pistol was in the glove box, always a good plan B.

  Listening to songs about mafia killings, gang violence and love gone bad helped ease my hangover. Life wasn’t so bad. I had a good car and some good tunes and decent prospects. Unfortunately, I also had no real plan. I was just gonna knock on Slink’s door and demand the truck, in a nice way, and hope this Partee character was not around.

  I headed through Oakridge to rural Oliver Springs. The area is remote, but old pine power poles with their drooping lines let me know I was still in relative civilization.

  I pulled into the short gravel drive leading up to Slink’s trailer. It did not look at all threatening at this time of day. Bright sunlight filtered through the canopy of fall color and it looked almost homey. I stuck my cell phone in my pocket, along with a can of mace for the dog. I tried to step lightly on the wooden steps to the front deck.

  I knocked gently on the mobile home’s door and listened for the dog. My knock was followed by a sound that could have been a twelve-foot grizzly bear pretending to bark like a dog. I reached in my pocket and fingered my small can of mace as if it was worry beads. I heard an interior door close and then, finally, the front door opened.

  Slink stood there in jeans and a Fossil t-shirt. His golf hat topped sandy blonde hair that was cut into a short mullet -by a chick with a cigarette dangling, no doubt. He did not look surprised, or happy, to see me.

  “You again. You keep showing up when Partee is away. If it keeps raining eventually you will find me with my umbrella,” He smirked.

  “That sounded like a threat,” I said in mock surprise.

  “Yes, if I use metaphors it helps with the vomiting.”

  “Vomiting?”

  “Uh huh. I could punch your lights out, but this would bring on a fit of nausea that would last the rest of the day. This is why we are just talking. You may as well come in. And you can put the mace away, Byron is in his room.”

  “That’s what you call a man-eater like that, Byron?”

  “He’s named after Screamin’ Lord Byron, you know, David Bowie?”

  “Right.”

  I was familiar with David Bowie’s Screamin’ Lord Byron. Screamin’ had an aversion to confrontation, too. It was evident because he hid behind a couch while the intruder, who had just fallen through the ceiling of his dressing room, asked for a favor to impress his date. Screamin’s reply: ‘Go away’ was spoken through his hands which were covering his face.

  I stepped inside Slink’s mobile home, which looked like many of the ones I had inspected. Dirty carpet, probably from Byron’s muddy paws. Wall board instead of dry wall. Seven and a half foot ceilings. Fake wood cabinets. Everything built with cost in mind.

  “You want a Coke?” Slink said, heading to the kitchen.

  “Sure.”

  I looked around while Slink opened a two liter and tossed ice into two glasses. He had a small TV and VCR combo on a glass stand. I sat down on a sectional sofa that was a unique blend of blue with brown smudges and stank of cigarette smoke. Slink handed me my drink and sat down in a tan recliner. He took a big swallow and set his glass on a table/lamp combo that wobbled under the weight.

  “You gotta tell me where the truck is. You know it belongs to my client.”

  “Actually, one of them belongs to her husband.”

  “Who is dead, by the way. It’ll be hers once it’s out of probate.”

  “True.”

  “You give me the truck and we both go our separate ways. I’ll inspect homes, drink, and smoke cigars and try to chase women, etc. You go back to cooking barbeque and doing whatever it is that you do.”

  “Except I don’t like making barbeque.”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “You ever seen what comes out of a barbeque pit when you drain it? It’s one molecule away from toxic waste. It’s enough to make you turn vegan.”

  “Well, how is having two trucks that switch places gonna help with the barbeque thing?”

  “It will help me quit my day job. The fastest growing business in Anderson County is drug sales and I am doing pretty well at it. I really want something more than this.” He gestured around the small den with its bent mini-blinds and it’s cute but nicotine-stained curtains.

  “You know I can’t keep anything nice here because my customers are always coming over.”

  “I started out buying some weed through a friend of Partee’s. Then I started growing it in my closet and selling it to friends. I don’t even like the stuff anymore but it is making me money. I have so many people wanting different drugs from me that I can’t meet the demand. Partee’s connection is a small player and his connection isn’t that much bigger. I see that the only way I’m gonna succeed is go straight to the source, Colombia. I see myself in a big house just having to kind of oversee things. You know, manage. Partee will handle the distribution once the drugs are here and he would handle any dirty work that came up. I would only have to go to Colombia one time to set things up.”

  “Let me guess. You want to send one of the trucks to Colombia?”

  “Bing!”

  “Bingo?”

  “Yep. I want to be the opposite of Scarface. A quiet person sitting on a pile of cash, who will live to be a rich old man.”

  I didn’t feel well now, not at all. A sudden fever hit me and I was sweaty and weak.

  “Why tell me all this?” I said shakily.

  “Because pretty soon you’ll be telling me where the other truck is. The drug I gave you will lead you to tell me and by the time you come to, I will have the truck. You will be lost in the wilderness or maybe even dead, if I can find Partee.”

  My consciousness was beginning to fade.

  “How? Ya drank from the sss…ame bottle.” Losing it now.

  “The drug is sodium pentothal and it was already in the glass. Truth serum is the slang they use on TV. It is a little precaution I take when Partee is not around. The only way I can overpower somebody without puking.”

  Sodium pentothal is spy shit. Not the kind of thing I’d expect to find in a drug peddler’s shabby living room. And that was the last thing I remembered.

  Chapter 30

  I felt really good. I saw the sky and the clouds moved slowly and kind of winked at me. Then they flowed past like an inverted river made of cotton balls. I turned my head and the trees on the side of the road did their own version of the wave, but without yelling and cheering like a football crowd. The only sounds I heard was the light breeze blowing in my dizzy ears and a few birds chirping away the afternoon.

  This dreamlike like state lasted for a few minutes, then I began to realize that while the azure sky was beautiful, I was cold. And then there was a distant feeling. It started like that nagging feeling that one has forgotten something, like maybe leaving the iron on or not taking your multi-vitamin. The feeling grew; bigger than forgetting to pay a monthly bill or a forgetting a loved one’s birthday.

  Then it landed full in the lap of my mind, the mental equivalent of wetting one’s pants while standing in front of a classroom chalkboard trying to spell phenomenon. It was a realization. I was sure that I had told Slink where the truck was. I tried to rub my eyes, but my hands were taking their sweet time on the way to my face. I settled for closing my eyes tightly and opening them again. I repeated this several times. When I opened them there was a blurry head in my view.

  “Man, he’s gone now. Try to sit up.” I latched on to his arm. It was in a cast. Sitting up took me a minute. Mental clouds were clearing.

  “Fred Smithey, right?” I slurred.

  “Right, Fred Smithey,” he sounded reassuring. “Mr. Chandler hired m
e to follow you. I’m sure you know this now so there is no harm in telling you. Pinkerton wouldn’t like it though, you know, interfering with the subject of the investigation.”

  I looked up at Fred. He looked a little less pasty-faced but he had a huge cast on his right elbow. He still had his shabby old dude look. He had on a loose sweater with a shirt and tie. His suit would not fit over the cast. I sat there, rubbing my temples.

  “Okay, I won’t tell anybody you saved me. How long has Slink been gone?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Not very long.”

  “Yeah, whatever he hit you with wore off pretty fast.”

  I clutched my coat pocket. No phone.

  “You gotta car, right?”

  Fred nodded.

  “Good. And a cell phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, because it is all starting to come back to me now.”

  Riding in Fred Smithey’s rented Chrysler, I was formulating a plan. I used Smithey’s cell phone and holding it to what was left of my head. Trees and power lines passed by. I had rolled my window down. I needed a drink. I needed something to smoke. I needed the most expensive picture from the Waffle Hut menu. What would that be, about $6.99, maybe? None of these things were available and I had no time.

  “Handy Self Storage, Can I help you?” A woman answered.

  “Wysinski, please.”

  “This is Mrs. Wysinski. The mister is not feeling well today.”

  “I need to talk to him. It’s an emergency.”

  “Call 911 then, he is laid up.”

  “I know he is there Mrs. Wysinski, I just need him for ten minutes. Will you put him on the phone?”

  “Okay. I didn’t want to say it, but he is a little drunk. He started drinking again after he thought he saw a truck that was wrecked but it was not really wrecked. He says the truck repaired itself. He’s worthless right now.” She blurted. Her Jersey accent sounded like a chainsaw on a chalkboard to my southern ear.