Switcheroo (11 page)

“By asking around they’re gonna
find you at Orby’s pretty soon anyway.  Look how quickly they connected you
with my house. Have you thought about changing jobs again?” I said.

“Switching jobs ain’t the answer!”
She was already upset about having to stay at Holiday Inn and this upset her
some more.  I thought she was being ungrateful. The Holiday Inn was pretty
nice, but I didn’t say that since there was no convincing her now.

What I didn’t tell her was I needed
a paying customer, but I was thinking it.  I did remind her because of the car
accident I would have to attach a new vehicle to my expenses for this case.  If
I didn’t get the truck by Monday night, she could find somebody to work it full
time and call our deal off.

“I’ll meet you at the farmhouse
Tuesday morning before work if I have not recovered the truck. We can go over
the facts of your case and go from there, okay?” I was trying to be
reassuring.  I heard her exhale smoke. It sounded like hope leaving her. I
could imagine her delicate jaw line and downcast eyes.

She sighed, “Okay, but call me if
you find anything sooner.”

She hung up.

I put on some khaki shorts and a
t-shirt and UT sweatshirt and got ready to go back down to the party. I was
going to need a car right away and had no money saved up for one.  I would have
to float myself another loan against my mother’s un-cashed rent checks.  Since
my mother had been holding these checks for so long, I had used that money
before and paid it back as quickly as possible, taking the chance that she
would not go crazy at that moment and cash all those rent payments.

Finally, Wendy came out of the
bathroom smelling good and looking even better.  Her shoulder-length hair was
still wet and she had changed into casual party attire. She began vigorously
toweling her hair dry, which made her body shake in interesting ways.

“I almost forgot to ask you if you
had any luck finding my fighting Bobcats,” I said, having been in a daze I had
forgotten about this.

She stopped toweling her hair for
a moment and looked at me. I sucked in my gut.

“Why yes, I did. The Oliver
Springs Bobcats are the most likely choice. There were six other schools that
call themselves the Bobcats but most are in West Tennessee.  Oliver Springs was the only one within two hundred miles.”

She turned the blow dryer on, but
I kept talking again anyway. I began by restating the facts regarding the case,
being vague about the true nature of the stolen item, and speculating aloud
about possible solutions.

“You know, Oliver Springs is only about five minutes away from Oakridge.  Hell, everything with this case is
somehow connected with Oakridge.  The invention, the murder, and now maybe even
the theft.  I’m going to go to Oakridge tomorrow and figure this thing out.
Really all I have to do is find the best barbeque place near Oliver Springs and I should find my missing item.”

Wendy turned off the blow dryer
and began brushing her light brown hair.  She didn’t realize I was watching.

“You didn’t ask me who wore number
thirteen at Oliver Springs.  I think that is the most important part.”

“True, but these numbers get
reused over the years, usually.  There could have been fifty guys with the
number thirteen at that school during its history.”

She looked at me, “But how many of
these number thirteens are known criminals specializing in drug trafficking?”

“Yeah?” I thought I new what she
was going to say. It was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept quiet.

“The most notorious number
thirteen at Oliver Springs was their quarterback that graduated in 2007. His
name is Stanley Allen Bailey.  The secretary in the admissions office told me
all about him.  Said he was a known seller and user and she was sure he has a
prior record.  He even sounds shady because his nickname is Slink, supposedly
because he could scramble away from pursuing defenders when he was quarterback
of the Bobcats: slinky like, see?  Now it sounds like he might be evading the
police, so when you think about it, the nickname still works.”

She just might solve my whole case
if I let her, “Pretty slick, Wendy.”

“Slink, not Slick, dummy,” she
said, misunderstanding me. “Now let’s go watch UT win, come on.”

She grabbed my hand, smiling
brightly, and we went to watch the Volunteers try to eke out another victory.

Saturday night, me, bushed on the
couch.  I could not concentrate on UT’s football game against South Eastern
Conference opponent Georgia.  I’m not sure that I would have even been into a
match up with Florida, UT’s true nemesis.   I was thinking about the
disappearing trucks, my kept woman at the Holiday Inn, my escalating expenses
and my limited clues for solving this crime.  When Tammy had teleported she had
smelled hickory smoke and saw a football jersey with number thirteen. Finding
some good-smelling barbeque or finding Slink (or both) was my best bet.

This was serious.  At least two
people had died and I almost made that list during my showdown at Grandma’s OK
Corral. I was ready to get back to Knoxville, get myself some new wheels and
get to Oakridge. I had enough money (in my mother’s slush fund of un-cashed
checks) to buy a used Jaguar XK8, but this didn’t make financial sense. I would
not be able to put that kind of money back into the account fast enough and I
was in no position to care for a nice car right now. A better plan was to buy a
cheap dealer trade-in.

Since tomorrow was Sunday, I would
have to go to one of the larger auto dealers. I trust these guys about as far
as I could have thrown Al Roker before the stomach staple thing. I think there
is some larceny in every car dealer’s heart.  Some more than others. There are
still a few good dealers out there.  An honest dealer will answer a
straight-forward question. “Has this fender ever been hit?” you might ask. 
“No” he might say.  Now, the whole other side of the car may have been torn
off, welded and plastered back together, but the salesman would not volunteer
that. Hey, you didn’t ask.

Chapter
19

“Old people love ‘em.  But they
really do look like cop cars,” said the hung-over car salesman at Shippler
Ford.  He had a face like an old garden implement and a personality to match,
dulled by too many happy hours.

Sunday morning was hitting me
hard, too.  It had been a great weekend with Wendy, but too much drinking and
eating all the wrong things added to Saturday morning’s car wreck had left me
feeling like a total corpse.  It was the feeling of having played in a tough
football game during which you were forced to drink beer in the huddle.

I had to agree with the salesman
(his name tag said ‘Used Car Consultant’). The ’97 Ford Crown Victoria did look
like an unmarked cop car.  I could picture the crusty old man who had traded it
in, driving twenty miles below the speed limit and giving younger, faster
drivers brain aneurisms from road rage.

I had to walk past what seemed
like miles of Mustangs, Taurus’s and Focus’s (or Foci?) to find this Crown
Vic.  It was parked with other trade-ins from the day before. It was not even
been detailed yet, although it was not very dirty.  Silver with gray interior,
it looked about twenty-five feet long.  If I was going to crash again, it would
protect me, a valid concern after my recent smash-up.

“It doesn’t have the police
interceptor,” Yawned the sales man. “But it does get about twenty miles to the
gallon. $4,995 plus tax.”

The price was right. My philosophy
of cheap transportation took precedent until I switched to a job with less
driving. Field inspection and investigation wears out cars fast. Wrecking them
ends things even quicker.

He started the engine, which had a
fairly soft V-eight sound, the muffler still intact. The salesman stared off
into space, dreaming of his next drunk, draw or day off.  I listened for
squeaks and rattles.

“Right now it wouldn’t be a bad
idea if some people thought I was a cop.  Let me take it for a spin.”

After a perfunctory test drive, I
decided to buy it with a thousand of my own money and a short term loan from my
own checking account for the rest.  It wasn’t the Blues Mobile, but it would do
for now.

When I got home with my new
wheels, I sat down at my computer and started printing out names and addresses
of restaurants: any place in Oliver Springs or Oakridge that might sell
barbeque.  I also tried to look up Stan Bailey a.k.a. ‘Slink’, no listing.  He
was probably one of those people who just had a pager or a cell.  I also
printed out Randal Kendrick’s address, my new ORNL scientist buddy. His little
girl was dating someone named ‘Slink.’ I would be surprised if it was a
different Slink than the one I was looking for. How many scoundrels with that
moniker could there be.

I grabbed my briefcase and I
hopped into my new car heading towards Oakridge.  I grabbed a CD from my
briefcase and then realized that I had bought a car with no CD player. 
Avoiding actual work, I went to Buy-It electronics and bought an in-dash CD
player.  The kid who waited on me told me I didn’t need the CD player because
any new radio had a jack for my MP3 player.  I was going to tell him I didn’t
have an MP3 player, but then he would try to sell me one and we would both know
I was a dinosaur. I like to keep that to myself.

While they installed the CD
player, I drank the free coffee in their lounge and dozed through part of a
Tennessee Titans game.

Now it was five o’clock Sunday
evening, I was tired and hungry and I had procrastinated until most of my day
was gone.  I was barreling down Emory Road along the river with my window open,
resting my elbow on the door.  Some old blues were playing through my new CD
player.  It was the kind of music that sounded just a little rough until the
singer started and then you wondered ‘why does this guy think he can sing?’   I
guess a good blues singer sort of growls out the notes. But the mood of the
song did suit my own.

About fifteen minutes later I pulled
up to Big Earl’s, an Oakridge tradition.  They were known for having great
country cooking, served with a smile and for their good barbeque.  Big Earl’s
was very crowded. Since I was alone, I sat on a stool at the lunch counter and
looked for a waitress.  A young man set a glass of ice water down in front of
me and took my order. He was thin and had a few visible tattoos on his arms,
but his eyes were clear and serious.  The tag on his apron said ‘Chris’.  Big
Earl had built his business by hiring kids straight out of juvenile hall.  He
gave troubled teens a chance to straighten up and be responsible.  Working for
Earl was considered a wise decision for a youngster with a criminal record, a
second chance.

Big Earl was a father figure to
these kids, many of whom had no one else to look up to.  Big Earl was rumored
to be a millionaire, but he lived modestly. Of course I ordered the barbeque
pork plate. This was served with any side dish you liked, as long as it was
slaw, barbeque beans and fries. Chris set the food down in front of me with
little flair and a polite ‘anything else?’ I said just more sweet tea and
proceeded to smell my dinner, as he went to get the tea pitcher.

The key to great barbeque is sauce
and time.  The time is to slow smoke the meat on low heat.  Smoked pork
barbeque cannot be whipped up. It cannot be micro-waved. It is usually better
to start cooking it the day before you actually want to serve it.  The sauce is
even more important.  There as many recipes for it as there are people who eat
it. Most really good recipes are closely held proprietary secrets.  The owner
of a good restaurant may have a manager who can make the sauce from premixed
spices but he won’t let anyone know the whole recipe.

A truly good sauce has balance. 
Bad sauce can be all heat and no sweet, too bland or too vinegary. The same
characteristics in harmony create a treat for the senses.  This sauce was good
but short of that.  It was good enough, so I pretty much cleaned my plate, even
though I would likely have to sniff a lot more barbeque to find my mark.

My belly full, I waved slowly for
my ticket. Without making much eye contact, Chris stuffed a greasy handwritten
ticket under the edge of my plate and told me to have a good night.

“Wait a second,” I said, as he turned
away quickly. “Do you know a guy named Stanley Allen Bailey?”

“Yup,” Now he was looking me in
the eye.

“How do you know him?” I laid down
a twenty dollar tip on a six dollar ticket.

“My parents owe him some money,”
he said sharply. “Don’t really care for him that much, piece a shi...well, I
mean, he’s a crook if you ask me.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He hangs out at Bentley’s a lot,
like all those suit types. Or at his office.”

He shot a nervous glance over the
counter full of empty tea glasses.

“Thanks Chris,” I said. He was
refilling drinks before I even finished speaking. It was good for a kid like
Chris to stay busy and work late, keep him out of trouble.  The ceiling at Big
Earl’s was high but not twenty feet high. I went back toward the restroom and
took a quick peek into the kitchen and store room. There was no place big
enough in this restaurant to hide a truck.

I drove by a few other little
barbeque places on my way to Bentley’s.  Gracie’s, The Red and White Checker,
Old Sarge’s all with damn fine barbeque, but none of these buildings were big
enough to hide a prize pig, much less a pickup truck.

Discouraged, I pulled into the
mall across from Bentley’s parking lot and stopped the Crown Vic. Bentley’s was
a tasteful stucco building with just-so landscaping and a breezeway for the
valet to let you out of your car.  Screw the valet; I wasn’t out to impress
anyone.  So I waited for a break in the early evening traffic and dashed across
Illinois Avenue looking like the old Frogger video game.

The façade was trimmed in pink
neon with “Bentley’s” written in pink cursive neon glaring at me through the
nightclub’s dark tinted windows.  Ignoring the valets and bouncers, I paid my
cover and walked in.

If it is possible for a place to
be posh and seedy at the same time, that was Bentley’s.  They have an excellent
dinner menu and wait staff, but there are condom machines in the bathrooms,
along with an old dude in a black vest who brushes your coat, sprays you with
Halston and then tries to bleed you for a tip. There were a few couples eating
dinner or enjoying a dance, but for the most part, Bentley’s is what you might
call a pick up joint (or a meat market, if you want to be crude).

There was a strange mix of people
at the bar:  young executives getting blitzed before the work week, older men
out to cheat on their wives, and women both young and old looking to score in
the same way.

I took a seat at the bar and
decided to speak to the only people in the place whose motives were clear to
me, the bartenders.  They were out to get these people smashed in a hurry and
to make good money doing it.  That made sense and it kept the taxi drivers
busy, too. Go, economy, go!

I sat down and almost instantly a
napkin appeared on the mahogany bar in front of me and a calm voice asked “What
may I get you, sir?”

This lady bartender was not a
knock-out but not bad.  She was not the kind of person you would notice unless
you needed a drink or information. I needed both.

“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.