“Don’t let me stop you. You can finish changing your tire.”
I dragged a frustrated hand through my sweaty hair.
“Can’t. I lost the lug nuts, so now I can’t mount the spare. Gonna have to call a tow truck.”
“Why don’t you take one lug nut off the other three wheels? All four tires will then have four lug nuts each and you’ll be able to drive to Sears so they can get you fixed up.”
“I am an idiot for not thinking of that,” I picked up the lug wrench to start work on his suggestion.
“Well, great thinking used to be my specialty. Now I just knit.”
“William Madison?” I looked up, incredulous.
“Yeah, how did you know?” He seemed just as amazed.
“I’m a fan. I’ve got some questions for you. Let me buy you dinner.”
“No, thanks. I just ate some lug nuts, but I’ll take a ride. My feet are killing me.”
Chapter 37
The emergency room was fairly quiet at the small hospital in Mt. Gideon. A skate board accident, food poisoning, fevers, etc. There was only one patient with lug nuts from a VW in his gut and I was talking to him.
“Any discomfort or pain?” I asked William Madison.
“None at all,” He said, shifting in the cheap vinyl waiting room chair. “I am feeling a little hungry.”
He poked his flat stomach.
Just then the doctor walked in. A frazzled resident he looked like a hung-over frat boy dressed as a physician.
“These lug nuts came from a car?” He asked, pointing to little white spots on a black x-ray.
“Yes,” I answered.
“They’re so small; I thought they might be from a riding lawnmower or something.”
“Well, it’s a cheap foreign import.”
“Okay. Mr. Madison, pumping your stomach could further damage your esophagus. Luckily, the lug nuts are too small to require surgical removal. You’ll just have to pass them. This may cause some discomfort and cramping. I have two prescriptions: one a potent laxative and the other a little something for pain. Eat lots of fiber this week. I recommend that you have a follow up x-ray in a week to make sure the lug nuts have passed,” the doctor frowned as he concluded. “Are you going to do this again?”
“No, it was a one-time thing. I just thought those lug nuts didn’t belong there,” William Madison said blandly.
“So you ate them?”
“It was the quickest way to make them vanish. Plus I’m insane.”
In the waiting room, William explained to me that he had run away from Oakridge National Labs because his invention had failed to make the trucks switch places. Madison believed that he had set them to teleport at 3:17 p.m. In his fatigue he overlooked the fact that the trucks’ cheap digital clocks used twenty-four hour military time. The trucks had been switching places in the middle of the night and he had been missing it each night. Bummer.
The doctor turned to me. “Get this man home and make sure he sees his shrink.”
So much for county hospitals. He turned and left me with young Mr. Madison. What to do?
“IHOP?” I suggested and patted my jelly roll.
Chapter 38
One day later. Monday. I was back in Tennessee and staying in my childhood bedroom (now a guest room) at Mom’s since I had let Fred Smithey move into my house. I was out of my routine getting ready at Mom’s house but Ruby’s coffee was excellent and I was refreshed for my drive to Oakridge.
Yes, Oakridge again. This case kept coming back to Oakridge. I was hoping that it would end there. Cranking my hand in party- shaker fashion, I opened the VW’s manual sunroof to the beautiful fall colors above. Then I corrected the Tarjetta’s course as I was headed off the road. I enjoyed my new CD player in this car but the new speakers I had bought sounded a little tinny. I was determined, though, to hold out another week before upgrading again just to see if this car was wrecked or burnt or otherwise destroyed.
I wormed my way into Randall Kendrick’s office again with more vague threats.
“I had a talk with William Madison. Very interesting,” I let Kendrick stew for a minute.
“You made it past that his bitch of a mother?” Kendrick oozed resentment.
“Oh yeah, and I am here to ask for more cooperation from you. It seems that the two trucks I am looking for speak to each other using satellite phones. Basically fancy cell phones. These phone records can be used to track down these vehicles. I am going to need to see your phone records.”
“No way. How could I possibly explain your presence in our records office? You need to leave now, before I call security.”
“Go ahead, and I can tell them about how you had Darin Mosley kill Tammy’s husband,” I smirked wisely.
Kendrick was looking through his desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle of pink liquid and poured himself a shot. He downed it. He peered at me past his eye luggage.
“Get the records. Explain that you need to verify some numbers on one of the experiments. I will read them in here. No one will know,” I said.
“I’ll be right back.”
Resigned, he dragged himself out of his chair and was gone.
Chapter 39
Back at the house, I now had two phone numbers that were associated with the two purloined pickups. The dog relaxed while I sat at the kitchen table and called Joel Axeman at LISA. He sent a test signal to the numbers to find the global position of the trucks. One was on the outskirts of Oakridge and one was moving south in the Atlantic Ocean, probably en route to South America just as Slink had said; about to start its new career as the stealthiest drug mule in history. What a waste.
If you have to eat two frogs, eat the big one first. A moving target; I had to figure out a way to get a truck that was on its way to Brazil or Colombia. There was no harm in going ahead with plans to start the chase now. Eventually the truck would stop moving and I could home in on it.
I once saw a film where the villain said, ‘When things start going badly, I like to return to zero as soon as possible’. He then torched his house, shot his girlfriend and raced off to shoot out the eyes of his enemies. It bothers me no end that I cannot remember who said this. I was searching my mind for the answer while staring at the ceiling in my old bedroom at mother's house on Cherokee Boulevard. Against her better judgment, she was allowing me to stay here while I was letting Fred Smithey crash at my place and do my inspections for LISA. This was freeing me up to screw up my life way faster than if I had continued working sixty hours a week and paid my bills. I felt like the Ty-Di-Bowl Man; living life on a downward spiral.
This bedroom was still cooler than any other room in any house or apartment that I had managed to land since leaving the nest. Mahogany furniture. Tasteful decor. Expensive linens. It didn’t help. I still couldn't sleep.
I had temporarily handed over my business to a man I had just met, hardly knew and who trusted me even though I had broken his arm. I needed his help while I got my pooh-pooh together to go the South America. I enjoy travel, but going to a continent that contains the top five nations for kidnapping? That never occurred to me until this week. I needed to complete this caper and get those trucks back to Tammy. I couldn't stop thinking of the possibilities for this invention and everything that it could become. I could be part of it or I could go back to the daily grind, calling on past-due debtors for clients who were too uncaring or arrogant to do it themselves. It was time to take a stand, to do something, to break out of this routine of six field calls per day, every day, week in, week out.
I had $10,000 in cash in a shoe box under the bed. I had withdrawn it from the bank that afternoon. Not very smart, but that money had been in my account for too long. Mother had never cashed any of my rent checks, probably wouldn't and it was time to put that money to good use. $10,000 was like $1,000,000 in Colombia, right? I hoped the money would help buy and bribe my way in and my way out, with the truck in my possession. I could use it to buy favors from strangers in what wou
ld undoubtedly be a strange land.
Having never been further south than Miami, this trip wouldn't be easy for me. I had gotten my plane ticket, my passport and even some immunization shots the doc said I needed to keep from croaking in Colombia. My last stop was at Eddie’s Trick Shop. Halloween was coming up and Eddie stocked a wide variety of rental costumes. Fifteen minutes later I left with a Catholic priest costume. I figured, who would be least likely to be kidnapped?
Chapter 40
As a structure, the El Dorado International Airport in Bogota, Colombia was not that different from Knoxville's McGee Tyson Airport. That is where the likeness ended. The people, sites and air inside were electric with differences from a North American airport. Spanish assailed my ears through the PA system. Signs advertising products I had never heard of puzzled me. I nervously rehearsed memorized phrases I had studied on the plane. I walked past gates headed toward baggage claim with an out-of-control feeling, like a fart in a whirlwind. Air conditioning was not a priority to the Colombians. I was sweating out Kentucky bourbon from the in-flight service and looking nervously from side to side at the tan faces of my new people. I had to make a bond.
I had few tools. Ten thousand dollars would help. I was feeling seriously fat, with this cash everywhere on my person. Some was in a money belt, some in my wallet and some in my carry-on pack. My priest costume would help. I bought the short sleeved black shirt and clerics collar from Party City. I also had LISA. Not as good as NASA, but Joel Axeman had offered to do periodic checks on the whereabouts of the missing Ford Rangers as I homed in on them.
This is how I came to be walking along the sidewalk at the Bogota Airport sweating my ass off, dressed as a Catholic priest. My eyes were darting this way and that searching for familiar sights and finding only enigmas. I should have taken Spanish in school instead of French.
Taxis were lined up out in front of the airport, yellow cars of indeterminate make and model.
Arturo told me everything would be all right. He was a large brown-skinned man leaning on a faded yellow cab. I tossed my bag in the back and sat down next to it. Once we got out of traffic the hot wind from all four windows turned the sweat on my face cool and I began to feel a little better. I watched in a daze as motorcycles and mopeds buzzed around us like mosquitoes. Traffic laws seemed to be only loose guidelines. Weaving in and out of traffic, Arturo was taking me to the bus station where I could get a ride to Cali, Colombia. Based on the information from Joel Axeman’s phone call, I now knew one of the trucks was there. The other truck was still in Tennessee.
Arturo spoke occasionally, but since I don’t know Spanish, I responded with polite nods. There would be a lot more of this kind of conversation. He was working his way through a cigarette and I was wishing I had something to smoke, drink or eat.
Here I was, way out of my comfort zone. In Central America there didn’t seem to be any comfort or control unless you were ultra-rich, possibly from political corruption or drug trade. The other 99% of Colombians seemed to cope with life; playing the cards they were dealt.
To save money I rode from Bogotá to Cali on a bus. I use the term “bus” loosely as this bus had no door and, except for the windshield, no glass in the windows. Its color resembled the Partridge family bus, blocky primary colors on white. It had all the speed of an old dude eating with chopsticks. The ride took about a year.
Hours later, I was melting on the vinyl backseat of another cab crossing downtown Cali from the bus station to the American Express travel office. I used my English/Spanish phrase book with all the effectiveness of a high school nerd trying to charm a cheerleader with his report card. I finally got the cabbie going in the right direction by showing him my American Express card and shrugging helplessly.
The American Express office suggested a reasonably-priced hotel that gave me half a chance of not being killed and was within walking distance. As I walked I saw all manner of local people and some tourists/foreigners. The locals had brown skin that was glistening in the humid heat, especially on the ladies. This is the skin type that is featured in American magazine ads for Corona, vodka, rum, Oil of Olay, and personal lubricants. The foreigners (like me) had skin that resembled microwaved turkey skin or fish underbellies. This is type of skin would only be featured in the before picture of a Suzanne Summers infomercial. I assume that this is how my skin looked as I dragged my suitcase toward the hotel where I could check in and wring out my socks.
“Your boy Fred Smithey is doing a bang-up job on these call reports here, Rust. You may be out of job when you get back to Tennessee,” Joel Axeman told me when I called him from my cell phone.
“You'll never get him out of that cushy gig at Pinkerton. Unless you offer him eight-hour days, weekends off and dental. Guy his age needs good insurance. You know he's got a broken arm?” I sounded a little defensive.
“Well, just get whatever you need to get down there and get back here so it’ll be business as usual,” Joel frowned through the phone. “I’d guess you want to check those co-ordinates again?”
“You'd be right,” I waited, listening to keys tap at the other end.
“Looks like your phone number’s location is now in the coffee warehouse district in downtown Cali,” Joel read off the names of the intersection. I scribbled the names on a folded piece of copy paper and put it into the shirt pocket of my black cleric’s shirt.
“I can't be sure which building, you'll have to check it out, and I still don't want to know what this is about, comprende?” Axeman reminded me. “Spanish joke, get it?”
“Right.”
“So what now?”
“Now, I’m gonna go change outta this priest outfit and rest for a minute, I’ll see you, Joe.”
“Wait, you a priest, Rust? I hope lightning doesn’t strike this phone line. Hold on, this could be perfect. When you screw up, you could save time and confess to yourself. Of course you wouldn’t say your Hail Marys and then you’d get in trouble with yourself.”
“I just thought it would lessen my chances of being killed. I heard some bad things about this country. It’s worked so far.”
“Yeah, if things get really ugly, try a nun costume. I’ll talk to you later. Hurry back.”
The hotel was a shade of blue you would normally find on the wing of a parrot. In North America, you would only paint a building this color for use as a low rent car lot or a strip club.
I checked in giving my real name with the word ‘Father’ in front. Paid for two days, using some of my cash. Finally in my room, I flopped onto my bed, sweaty and with my head spinning like fluff in a bagless vacuum. I needed a drink but had brought nothing with me.
The nice lady at the American Express travel office suggested I get in touch with a local tour guide/Spanish interpreter/assistant. She gave me the number of an agent near my hotel. The agent turned out to be a hot dog vendor down the street from the hotel. This was a good place to start since I was hungry. I heaped questionable relish onto an even more questionable Colombian hot dog and talked with my mouth full while Angelo listened and nodded.
Finally he muttered some Spanish and shrugged his shoulders.
I got out my English/Spanish dictionary and said, “Interpreter guia auxiliary.”
He nodded and held up a finger, then turned away to talk on his cell phone. Other hungry people were waiting behind me and starting to grumble by the time he put away his phone. Angelo gestured to a park bench nearby and hit me with more rapid fire Spanish. I headed to the bench, thinking that to use my dictionary to figure out the response of others would involve actually knowing where one word ended and the next one started.
Thank goodness help was on the way. The sun was high. After I sat cooking on a bench for thirty minutes or so, Jacobo Marin showed up. He was to be my new best friend. This young local spoke good English and he cheerfully accepted a week’s pay, in advance, to help me for two days. One day to locate and steal Tammy McHenry’s truck and one day to get it to the coast. There was
a nice way to say these things to Jacobo, without saying “stealing” or “dangerous.” I told him that someone had a vehicle that belonged to me and I needed to get that truck to the coast and locate a boat and someone crazy enough to ferry it to America. Jacobo understood and didn’t seem worried. I was hoping that grossly overpaying him implied some risk, so he would not be surprised by my next question.
“I am gonna need a gun for security. Can you help me get one?”
“Angelo the hot dog vender has connections, hang on.”
He moved away and interrupted a hot dog transaction to whisper into Angelo’s ear. Angelo looked at me the way you would look at a priest who wants to a gun. Then he shrugged and nodded to Jacobo, who headed back to me.
“He says meet him here at seven in the morning and bring $100.”
“Okay.”
“What city do you want to travel to?” said Jacobo.
“I don’t know. Someplace small with no customs agents, but with a little bit of shipping or maybe fishing. The truck weighs about 2 tons so we will need to find a fairly big boat.”
“We should go to Turbo on the central coast. It is the first coastal town on the Atlantic coast near the Panamanian border. My uncle lives there. It is a small fishing village, very low profile,” Jacobo said, giving me a sly look. He was starting to speak my language.
Chapter 41
After a restless night I awoke and put my smelly priest costume back on. Clean socks and T-shirt, etc helped some. I covered it all with too much cologne, grabbed my duffel and checked out.
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