Switcheroo

by Robert Lewis Clark

  I met Jacobo at the hog dog stand that morning. Nothing in Angelo’s manner or expression showed that he had a problem selling two sausage dogs and brown paper sack with a Saturday night special in it to a priest and a teenage tour guide. I overpaid for the hot dogs to cover the hot gun and then went back to bench to eat and formulate. I was not totally sure where Tammy’s truck was and needed a minute to brood. Jacobo sat quietly next to me and pretended to brood also. His boyish Latin face, free of wrinkles and worry lines, did not let him brood very well.

  “When I get this truck that I am trying to get back, I am gonna need to find you quick. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Nope, but I can just go with you,” Jacobo said.

  “That’s real nice of you Jake, but I may have to take this truck back by force. If there are men in that coffee warehouse they are not going to want me to leave with that truck. They are not going to want me to leave with a pulse. Comprende. Dangerouso. Okay?”

  “Padre Stover, I am street smart, you see. I will be okay. You no worry. Also, adding “o” to English words does not usually make them Spanish. Peligroso, is dangerous. Okay?”

  “Okay?”

  Right then my cell phone rang. Unknown number. It was Slink.

  “Dude, the trucks aren’t switching places anymore,” Slink said.

  How did he get this number? Why did he think I would help them anyway? I went with a less sarcastic response in case Partee was listening.

  Finally I said, “Okay?”

  “So we need to know how to fix them back,” Slink said.

  “Can’t help,” I said. “I don’t really know how they work.”

  I could hear rustling background noise. Then Partee got on the phone.

  “I knew there was a reason I didn’t kill you. Listen close, weasel. You call who you gotta call and line me up a fix for these trucks. We know you met with the old man from ORNL. You got one hour.”

  “Why should I help?” There, I finally stated the obvious.

  “Well I might have both trucks now. But there are other things I could take like your girlfriend’s little girl. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would you?” Partee waited, breath hissing into the phone.

  I thought of Tammy and her angelic daughter, Hannah. My stomach turned and my sweat felt cold in spite of the balmy morning air. Think fast.

  “Let me work on it, but that is not enough time.”

  “I don’t care. Call me back or I’m headed to Knoxville to adopt a kid.” The call ended.

  “Are you okay, Padre?” Jacobo said.

  “Yep,” I lied, trying to think faster.

  I had my gun, my priest costume and my new side kick, but what I did not have was wheels. It is hard to conduct surveillance with no car.

  “Jacobo, I’ve got to make a call. Can you hail a cab for us?”

  “Si. I will yell.” Jacobo stepped away.

  I hunted up the only number in my cell phone with an Ohio area code. I dialed.

  “Padre Stover!” Jacobo had a cab stopped and waiting.

  I climbed into the tiny taxi cab with Jacobo. I gave him a scrap of paper with the intersection we needed. I whispered in Spanish to the driver. We eased forward into morning traffic.

  I rolled up my window to muffle some of the street noise and started talking as soon as Ned Madison answered the phone. I went straight to a pack of lies because I knew the truth would not work.

  “This is Billy Smith from Western Union calling. I have a money transfer that was wired to a William Madison. Does he live there?” trying to sound official, I set the trap.

  “Well, yeah but…”

  “It has not been picked up and I need to contact Mr. Madison to give him the money transfer number. Is he there?”

  “Yeah, but you can just give me the number, I’m his bro…”

  “Sir, I need you to hold just a moment,” I pushed the mute button on my phone and waited a minute. I was hoping this businesslike pause would lend an air of authenticity. I smiled at Jacobo, who looked at me in with questioning eyes, but said nothing. For better or worse he was finding out who he was dealing with.

  “I’m sorry to keep you holding, sir. I can only give the money transfer number to Mr. Madison. Or you can just send him to the office, but without knowing the transfer number, he may have delays. I’m sure there are other Madisons in the system. Should I try to call back…”

  “No, hang on. I’ll get him,” then a pause.

  “Hello,” William Madison said.

  “William, I had to lie to get past the gate keeper. This is Rust Stover calling, we met last week, remember?”

  “Yeah, thanks for taking me to the emergency room, by the way. Oh, and for the pancakes, too.”

  “My pleasure. Listen, I need more help. The two trucks have fallen into the hands of some very bad people and they are threatening my client and her little girl. The trucks are no longer teleporting any more and unless I can get them working again… well, I don’t know what these guys will do. I need to call them back; I gotta to assume that they are serious.”

  “The initial power for the matter accelerator comes from the truck’s battery. Do both trucks have a good battery?”

  “Yeah, they both run.”

  “Has either truck been damaged recently?”

  “Well one of them was in an accident, but they have switched since then. Wait, the side window was knocked out of one truck.”

  “There you go. The trucks were coated with a thin rubber polymer I engineered to keep the teleportation reaction from swallowing up more matter than it should. The tires are rubber and do not need to be sprayed and the windows have a rubber coating for the safety glass. Without that glass, the process is no longer contained. Sounds like it is stalling. This is actually a good thing because if the reaction continued to expand outside of the truck it could cause a major event.”

  “Event?”

  “It could turn our universe inside out or possibly just make a huge implosion. I never really got to test that scenario,” he said somewhat nonchalantly..

  “Is it even safe to be near these trucks?”

  “It’s perfectly safe. I would replace the window as soon as possible, the trucks may be trying to switch every twenty-four hours and you don’t want to be nearby if they successfully connect and that window is not fixed.”

  There was dead silence on the line.

  “Have you been knitting while we talked?”

  “Just a little. I should go, bye.”

  He hung up.

  Chapter 42

  “You just have to replace the broken side window and make sure both batteries are charged?” I explained to Partee one more time, as I wilted in the South American heat. Jacobo and I were in an alley across from the coffee warehouse that I believed contained one of Tammy’s missing Ford pickups. According to my fancy new cell phone’s GPS I was at the location Joel had given me.

  Now there was noisy, slow, redneck breathing mixed with static coming out of my fancy cell phone.

  “That is ridiculous. If you’re lyin’, you’re dead. It’ll be easy to check though, so your life may be short.”

  The call ended with a click.

  I sighed and went back to watching the building across the street. Through my cheap drugstore binoculars, I saw several teenage ruffians wearing baggy button-down shirts over wife-beaters. They had their sleeves rolled up and guns tucked in at the back of their waistbands. I was jealous of their youthful tans, their biceps and their Miami Vice coolness. I hated the way they wore tight loafers with thin soles and no socks. My feet always stank when I tried that stunt.

  They all smirked and smoked and occasionally laughed at something one of the others said. To me, this looked like way too much security for a coffee warehouse, further proof that it was the right building. I was hiding behind a protruding stairwell that blocked the view of the warehouse guards. In tourist Cali, my priest disguise had been comical in a harmless way. Now, in an industria
l area, a white priest stuck out like whore in church. Here, hiding was pretty much my only choice. I would have rented a car, but any shiny new car would stand out in this area almost as much as a gringo priest.

  Jacobo crept up behind me. He had walked through the alley from the next street over.

  “I brought you water, Padre,” he tossed me a sealed bottle of water and then crouched forward, peeking at the warehouse.

  “Thanks, buddy. Hey, where is the nearest auto glass repair shop?” I asked.

  “I do not know.”

  “Why don't you duck into that office right there and ask them?”

  “The guards; they will see me.”

  “True, but what would they expect? You look normal; not like me. Now go on before I make you say some Hail Marys.”

  Jacobo walked off smiling. In a moment he came strolling back.

  “Mateo's Glassworks, on 3rd. It’s that way. Six blocks.” He pointed. The sun was high so I could not tell which way was north or south. I edged toward the building and the alley wall to maximize the small wedge of diminishing shade. I handed him my phone.

  “Please go back in and get the phone number. Call them and tell them you need a driver’s side glass for a Ford Ranger truck and ask them to deliver it to the warehouse across the street.”

  He nodded and took the phone. Jacobo walked away speaking Spanish calmly into my phone. He laughed and ended the call.

  “He says somebody already call and ask the same thing. They are bringing the window after lunch.” He shrugged, still smiling but confused.

  I was tired and hot, but sleep would have to wait. Food would help. I grabbed my duffle and stood up.

  Jacobo lead me down the alley away from the warehouse. We followed the route the glassworks would take from their shop to the warehouse. Along the way, we found a lunchtime café and sat down. I gave Jacobo a little money and he bought pastries and cold drinks. Waiting under a café umbrella, we ate and drank slowly. Heat rose, shimmering off the sidewalk. Passing traffic added to the thick air.

  I made a loose plan with Jacobo and told him afterwards he was to go home to his parent’s. I would meet him there. If I was successful, I needed him to guide me to Turbo, on the coast. What a weird name for a town. He would have to take a bus home from Turbo.

  I was dozing when I heard Jacobo kick his chair back. Two hours had passed and the Mateo glass works truck had just pulled to a stop at a nearby traffic light.

  Jacobo was already waving at the driver with an U.S. hundred dollar bill. This got the driver’s attention. Then Jacobo was motioning to him to get out of the van and asking him something quietly. Finally the man threw the van into park, got out, and walked tentatively to the sidewalk.

  I was already climbing into the passenger side of the van. I tossed my duffle over the seats and hopped into the driver’s seat. The van was still running and I shifted it into drive as Jacobo handed the man the hundred, snatched the Mateo Glassworks’ hat off his head and ran. He tossed the hat through the passenger window as he passed, heading down an alley across the street. The driver did not pursue him, thank goodness.

  I was driving toward the warehouse, wearing the smelly cap down low. I pulled my clerical collar off and shoved it into my pocket. This was going well. If there had been two of them I would have had to brandish my gun; not something I would have enjoyed. I didn’t want to give legit men-of the-cloth a bad name.

  I took the long way, going around several blocks, making an improvised stop at a Spanish quick-rip for beer. I rolled up my black tunic and collar and stuck them in the duffel bag. Now I was just wearing a white t-shirt and the Glassworks’ cap. As I pulled up in front of the coffee warehouse, the security crew looked mildly surprised and curious when they saw a Gringo was driving the Glassworks’ van. I stopped, waited and finally hit the horn. A moment later the huge sliding door went up. The door man waved me in and I pulled the work van inside and cut the motor. I got out, leaving the van in neutral.

  Opening the rear doors of the van, I took one frosty cold beer out of the box and slide it into the front pocket of my black slacks. It was a brand I didn’t know but I did know the word cerveza. The logo on it was an anchor and the cerveza in it was nearly five percent alcohol by volume. At the rear of the warehouse, I saw Tammy’s truck. The driver’s side window was taped on the outside and cardboard on the inside. I took the new glass out and shoved it under one arm. I put my duffel over one shoulder. I snatched out a tool box at random for authenticity. I had no intention of actually repairing the window. I lumbered toward the back of the warehouse with all my junk, looking like Steve Martin in The Jerk.

  I felt a chill of icy condensation down the front of my leg. Normally, in this kind of heat, this would be welcome, but today the effect chilled me and added to my nervousness.

  I had made it this far without having to respond to any Spanish. I was following the doorman to the truck. He was making no effort to hide the automatic pistol that was tucked into the back of his belt. We walked past aisle after aisle of pallets stacked head-high with crates of coffee. We were almost there. Almost to a very plain, blue Ford Ranger with broken side glass. It looked beautiful to me. Right now the score was bad guys, two, Rust, zero. I was about to tie the score by stealing this truck. The doorman pointed to the truck and muttered something in Spanish to which I responded a simple “Si.”

  I set the glass, the duffel and tool box in the truck bed and opened the truck door as if to appraise the situation. From the tool box, I removed a flat head screwdriver and stuck it into my t-shirt pocket. Then I pulled the cold beer from my pants pocket and opened it. This created an instantly recognizable crack that echoed a bit in the warehouse. The doorman turned at the sound, surprised, and then he smiled slyly.

  “Cervaza? Encendido el trabaho?”

  “Si.” I did not have a clue what I just said yes to. I needed to get rid of this guy before I screwed up.

  “Mi cerveza es su cerveza,” I improvised in Sesame Street Spanish. I pointed to him and then to the van and finished with a gesture offering to share.

  He smiled as he turned and walked quickly toward the van. I sat down in the pickup’s driver seat and pretended to work on removing the interior door panel, giving myself time to get up my nerve. I put the screw driver down and retrieved my key ring from my pocket. Two Ford keys on my ring, I tried the first one and was surprised to hear an electronic beeping that reminded me the door was ajar. I quickly removed the key and looked up just in time to hear ‘Crack’. About five beers opened nearly simultaneously, echoing nicely. Great timing. I pulled the door quietly closed and inserted the key again. It turned. I got out my cheap gun and laid it on the seat. I took one more breath and then cranked the truck.

  Waves of laughter were echoing up to the high windows of the warehouse. This was not enough sound to cover the clatter of the truck’s starter. Several heads popped out from behind the van and looked daggers at me with their beady, thuggish eyes.

  The instant the engine caught I hammered the gas and headed toward the open space between the pallets and the Glassworks van. This space was quickly filled with cartel crew members who were clawing at the smalls of their backs to pull guns as they slipped and slide in beer spilled when they dropped their drinks. They were screaming at me in Spanish. I’m assuming things like ‘Stop or you die, Gringo!’

  The truck whined as it gained speed, a four cylinder giving its all. I saw the fear appear on their faces as I got so close that they scattered. I heard the first shot fire. I ducked behind the dash and veered to the left toward the van. Jamming the brakes as I skidded up to the van, I hit the rear bumper with a thud. As soon as I felt the hit I floored the accelerator again. The rear wheels smoked. Way too slowly the van and the truck rolled out into the busy street.

  More noise as a car slammed into the van and more shots were fired, aimed at the rear of the truck. The truck spun to the left and would have stopped in the middle of the street but I just kept the pedal do
wn and continued in that direction. In the rearview mirror I could see the crew take a few more wild shots before throwing up their hands. The truck was smoking and the handling was not good. I set my cell phone on the passenger seat and began following my GPS directions to Jacobo’s parent’s house.

  Streets flew by as I tried to keep it between the sidewalks; squinting through the steam from the engine and stealing hasty glances at small screen on the phone.

  Taller buildings started to fade to blockier, shorter structures and then I saw the building number I was looking for. There was no way they could know where I was heading but I was still cautious. I hid the truck in an alley behind a dumpster and hopped out. There were a couple bullet holes in the truck and its engine was ticking like Big Ben. Coolant ran out past the front tire, pooling like green blood from an alien wound.

  After grabbing my priest tunic and collar, I backed away from the truck, shaking my head, and hurried to the front of the alley. I flipped the glass works hat in the dumpster and smoothed out my sweaty hair. I hit the stairs at run, sliding into my shirt on the way up to the third floor, apartment 318.

  As I was breaking into a sweat for the umpteenth time that day I thought about Jacobo. He was super helpful. Even though my cell phone’s GPS would get me to the coast, my Spanish/ English dictionary was useless. I needed someone with Jacobo’s ace Spanish and congenial smile. Lining up a boat to haul this truck to the states would be impossible without him.

  I knocked and Jacobo’s mother opened the door with a flurry of Spanish, punctuated by the word “padre.” I glanced at my sweaty priest costume, smiled back and said “Kappasa?” More Spanish. I just nodded as she pulled me into their apartment. I kept smiling as I shook hands with a short older fellow, Jacobo’s dad.

  “They are excited and proud to have American priest here. I told them I was guiding you on a mission,” Said Jacobo. He walked into the small den carrying a cardboard box with a backpack slung over his shoulder.