Switcheroo (23 page)

“No more heat, see?”  He said.

I was drenched and dehydrated;
dashboard heat in a vehicle in Colombia was the last thing on my mind.

“It is low on fluid.  Let’s get
some water.”

As his mom replaced the broken
radiator hose, Jacobo and I brought two buckets to replace the coolant.  No
danger of the engine freezing. I noticed Jacob’s mother had removed the
driver’s side door panel.

I looked at Jacobo questioningly

“She say trip to Turbo is very
dusty.  She is fixing window so we can keep dust out.”

“Cool.”

What a woman. I have got to find a
lady like this.  I wonder if Wendy Forsyth can work on a car.

After the lugging of water to the
truck and the hugging and the Spanish goodbyes, we were finally out of downtown
and moving through the outskirts of Cali.  The buildings were getting lower
with some one story, single family homes mixed in.  Strips of small stores
became the occasional free standing neighborhood grocery.  I had a plastic
bottle of water and was sweating a little less going fifty miles an hour with
the windows down, dust be damned. Jacobo was struggling with the truck’s
plain-jane factory radio trying to find his preferred station.

“This is a cheap radio, no
satellite.”

“You have satellite radio in your
car?”

“No. I do not have a car. But I
still like nice radios.”

Well, at least he appreciates the
finer things. He settled on a pop station out of Cali and I tried to tune out
the sound while Jacobo drummed his fingers on the top of the door, sometimes
bobbing his head.

After more than an hour the
station was starting to snap, crackle and pop, and I was starting to fade, too.
I received a jolt of temporary adrenalin when my head nodded forward. I snapped
awake, swerving a little.

“You tired, Padre?” Jacobo gave me
a sideways glance.

I nodded, I was beyond tired. 
Wiped out, I had been running on fumes from the stress of the shots fired and
the worrying possibility of more shots to come. I would let Jacobo drive, I had
to.  Unable to continue I pulled over and changed seats with Jacobo. I have a
vague memory of drooling onto the passenger seat for about thirty seconds, then
nothing.

Chapter
43

I woke up with that
‘I-got-wasted-last-night-and-now-I-don’t-know-where-I-am’ feeling. The feeling
took me back to college days (or maybe college daze) when a friend introduced
me to a new liqueur that tasted like water and had flakes of real gold floating
in it.  The events of that evening began as a blur that faded to black. What I
do remember was the next morning I awoke with vision that was tinged with gold
and the hot sun burned my retinas and my skin as I was lay naked in a puddle of
vomit on the campus tennis courts.

The feeling was the same, but now
I was squashed down on the seat of Tammy’s Ford Ranger and looking up into
bright halogen lights. The truck was inside. Jacobo was gone; I was alone in
the truck. This was all wrong.  The pain of kinks and cramps shot down my neck
into my back and hip.  Too much discomfort for this to be a dream. I moved to
sit up, and then froze.  I could hear voices.  I looked up again. I was in a
school gymnasium.

I was in a panic. I looked at the
clock. The green LCD read-out glared: 3:18. I took a breath of the dank air.  I
noticed the truck windows were closed.  According to William Madison, this
sealed the deal and opened the way for the previously stalled teleportation.
Where was I?

Now that my mind had cleared, I
could hear voices talking loudly and footsteps approaching. With my left foot,
I mashed the button to lock the driver’s side door. I locked the passenger door
with my left hand. I knew what I had to do. My right hand tore into my pocket. 
No keys. Jacobo had them.  I dropped the glove compartment door and tore
through it, finding a click pen.  I opened it and sat up. I saw Partee, Slink
and too other guys approaching from the stage of what appeared to be an
abandoned school gymnasium.  I jammed the pen into the clock set button on the
trucks dash.  The digital read-out began speeding ahead. It felt like trying to
pump $50.00 of gas without going to $50.01. It stopped on 3:15 and I hit it two
more times.

I took a final look at my
surroundings. A worn wooden basketball court.  Purple and yellow everywhere.  A
mural of a mountainside and a purple panther painted on cinderblock wall over
the bleachers.

Partee jumped forward and pulled
the door handle, tearing off the cheap chrome fixture.  He tossed away the door
handle and charged forward again. I waved at him as everything started to glow
and crackle. I could see him right through the fingers of my waving hand as it
was splintering to its basic atomic form.  His face, twisting into a curse,
disappeared as my retinas and optic nerves disintegrated and flushed down the
wormhole with the rest of me.

Chapter 44

I came to and knew I was somewhere
else. That was my second trip through the looking glass. I wondered if I was
becoming farther removed from myself, after being copied twice now. Had the
original me been destroyed in the process?  These questions welled up and began
to devour my mind like too many hot wings and beers on poker night. I shook off
the questions and looked around.  I was in the truck by the side of a dirt
road. In the light of a camp fire to my right, I could see two men struggling.          I
opened the door quietly and looked into the truck bed for something heavy. 
Just as I decided that a soup can would not do the job, I remembered my
Saturday Night Special.  It was still tucked in at the small of my back.  As I
rushed forward, I yanked out the gun. I quickly identified the man that was
not
Jacobo and whacked him on the temple with the butt of the gun.  As he fell
to his knees, I backhanded him across the face with the barrel of the gun. He
dropped with a puff into the roadside dust.

“You okay?” I asked.
            “Si, Padre. Just scared.”

Jacobo was on his knees, trying to
catch his breath.

“Yeah, I can’t blame you,” I said,
helping him to his feet.

“What do we do now?”  Jacobo said,
holding his elbows and looking down at the bleeding redneck on the ground.

“I think we just dump him at the
nearest bus station,” I said; trying to make a new plan. “First, we need to
roll the windows down on the truck before the same thing happens again.”

Thirty minutes later.  With Jacobo
driving, we rolled into Medellin, the next big city along the way.  ‘
Cisneros Station’ said the sign on the huge
train station
.

“The Metro,” He said.

“That’ll do,” I nodded.  This
would do perfectly.  He stopped in the drop-off lane behind a couple of
sleeping taxi drivers. It was four in the morning, so we hit the flashers and
parked out front. There were few people around, and no cops in sight.

I paid a piss-bum ten dollars
American for a two dollar bottle of cheap wine. Back at the truck, I pocketed
the thug’s cell phone, took his wallet and removed the cash (close to five
hundred dollars) and threw the empty wallet in the trash.  I dumped the cheap
wine liberally down his front.  Then I threw one of his arms over my shoulder
and pretended to help a drunken friend into the bus station. I set him down on
a bench, and positioned him lying down with the wine bottle in his limp hand.
To slow him down even more, I took his shoes.  Jacobo watched all this in
puzzled amazement.

“You treat him bad, but he is a
bad man. God works his mysterious ways, Padre.”

“Yeah, remember I said I’m not
really a priest.”

Maybe now he would believe me.

Chapter
45

We skirted the big city of Medellin and made our way out to the country toward coastal Turbo, Colombia.  We blew through small town after small town and a couple of large cities.  Sometimes we
were on divided four lane highways and sometimes small rural roads without even
a yellow dotted line down the middle.

It was dusk and I could see the
amber lights of a smallish town through gaps in the trees.  Jacobo told me that
Turbo was a small port town; oppressed in turn by government, drug cartels and
banana corporations.  Almost no place in Colombia was completely safe. In some
ways it was the most dangerous country in the world. It was number one in
kidnapping and probably in the top five for murder.  The wealthy, people with
government influence and folks who were cogs in the drug distribution machine
were the most common kidnapping targets.  Jacobo had schooled me on Colombia in general, stating that most of its people were like him and his folks: hard
working, good people who loved life.

Being the smallest of the ports,
Turbo was less regulated and I hoped my bribe money would go farther than in
the larger shipping towns to the east. Theoretically, Turbo was perfect for me
to sneak this truck back to America.

As we sped toward the outskirts of
town, a grayish flash ran in front of the truck. I jabbed at the brake pedal
but heard a fleshy ‘thunk’ before I could stop.  In the rearview mirror, I saw
a pile that looked like a person lying in the road. I locked the brakes down.

Jacobo and I burst out of the
truck and ran back down the road.  The motionless form of a boy lay on the
dusty pavement. Lord, please let him be all right, I prayed mentally.

I skidded to a stop and knelt next
to him. He was shaking a little and his eyes were rolled back into his head. 
His blue shirt was dark with blood on one side. Blood and dirt were smeared
down one leg. Just then several other small children ran up shouting in
distress and accusation in Spanish.  I ignored them and grabbed the boy’s
wrist. There was a pulse, fairly even.  But something else was wrong.

“Ketchup?” I exclaimed. “I smell
ketchup.”

“Huh?” Said Jacobo.

I swiped the boy’s leg and sniffed
the ‘blood’.  The smell conjured visions of Burger King.  Now, not only was I
pissed off about this prank, I was also hungry, thinking of Whoppers.

“Juan Pedro?”

“Si?” One little boy froze,
eyebrows raised, mouth in a tentative circle, sort of an ‘oh shit’ face.

Jacobo stepped forward and began
lecturing the boy in loud Spanish. The boy looked down at his bare feet in
shame. The others tried to look anywhere but at Jacobo.

“This is my cousin Juan Pedro
Martinez. My momma’s brother’s kid,” he said, frowning at the boys.

One said a single word in Spanish
and bolted, the others moved to follow. Jacobo reached out and grabbed his
cousin’s shirt. The rest ran away, including the boy with the ketchup poured
down his side and smeared on one leg.

Gripping the back of the boy’s
neck, Jacobo muscled his cousin to the truck, tough guy fashion.  At about a
hundred and thirty it was easy for him to bully his seventy-five pound
relative.

Knowing the boy would leap out of
the truck bed at the first stop sign, Jacobo stuffed him into the cab between
us.  They talked back and forth as we cruised down the truck road toward Turbo.
Jacobo talked to him like a dog that ate the newspaper and pooped on the rug.
Still looking down, Juan mumbled replies.

We drove through the rundown
downtown area of Turbo with its network of power lines on leaning sun-bleached
poles and local businesses marked by colorful, hand-painted signs. Jacobo had
me turn onto a side street and we parked at the curb across from the coastal
strip.

This area consisted of a row of
outdated office buildings, crummy bars and restaurants and cheap weekly
apartments.  A rough town.  If you were here you were most likely stuck or you
were on your way somewhere else. Leaving by boat was still safer than traveling
through Panama, according to Jacobo. The early evening street was like a hot
tunnel crowded with bicycles, motorcycles and trucks; all splashing through
potholes filled with the afternoon’s leftover rainfall.

In spite of being economically
challenged, the city of Turbo had a beautiful view of the sea. To get this view
you had to look north, averting your eyes from the shabby buildings, faded
signs, and wilting piers of the city’s waterfront.  Turbo was like a lady who
looked sexy from the rear and ugly from the front.  Jacobo spoke as we were
parking.

“Juan Pedro knows a boy whose
father is a Captain. He thinks the boy’s father will help us. He has a fishing
boat.  It is old, but big enough to hold the truck. We can lower it into the
hold using a winch and a fishing net,” I nodded, this sounded so easy.

“Okay, let’s go see the Captain.”

Following him made me feel quite
out of place.  I tried to carry myself like the priest I wasn’t but I felt like
I was wearing a bull’s-eye and a sign that said “call me gringo, stab me and
take my money’.

For a Yankee like me, trying to
decide if a South American sea Captain is honest is like trying to detect color
with your nose. We were jammed into a crowded water front tavern that was
attached to the Costa Del Sol Hotel. I could not understand anything the
Captain said. Juan Pedro and Jacobo were doing all the talking in Spanish, fast
Spanish without any interpreting.  The Captain was extremely smarmy, but so
were all the other sailors in the tavern.

“The Captain asks, where do you
want to take the truck?” Jacobo said.

“South Carolina.”

The sea Captain shook his head and
said a few words.

“He doesn’t know where that is. He
says Miami would be good,” Jacobo said.

“Miami has too much Coast Guard
and U.S. Customs presence and I’m running low on bribe money.  South Carolina is another five hundred miles from Miami but it will be easy to get the
truck ashore.”

More discussion between Jacobo and
the Captain.  Juan Pedro interrupted. First he received a scowl and then a few
coins from the Captain. As the discussion continued, I watched Juan Pedro go to
the bar where he bought a small bag of candy.

“Padre, he says to go past Miami takes more fuel than he can carry. A stop in the Caribbean would be required.”

“So this means he’ll do it?”

“He says yes, for $1000, plus fuel
and repairs.”

“Repairs?”

“Yes, he says his boat will
probably not make it all the way without fixing.”

“Uhgh,” I said, and stared into my
beer. I didn’t like it,but what choice did I have?

“Can we leave now?”

“The Captain says he has a date
with a woman, we cannot leave tonight.”

“Tell him a thousand dollars
sounds good if we can leave in the morning,” I managed, and then headed to the
pisser.

New math. Mass quantities of draft
beer pulled through tubes and taps that have not been cleaned since the 1950’s
plus salty pork, rice, peppers and black beans equals horrible hangover.  This
is similar to an equation I tried out repeatedly in college. Back then it was
really cheap beer, plus hot wings equals mind numbing headaches and
spontaneous, scorching gastric anomalies.

My back was killing me, too.
Against Pedro and Jacobo’s advice, I had slept in the bed of the truck. 
Although the truck bed was hard, the tropical night air suited me. The tropics
would be a great place to be if you were homeless, but a canvas beach chair
would be a better place to sleep. The word “bed” should not used to describe
the back of a truck. My mind was rested, but my limbs were zombie stiff.

My presence had gotten the
mysterious disappearing truck through the night still in my possession.  I
grabbed my phone just as Jacobo walked out of the back door of the Captain’s
house with a mug of strong coffee, a blessing.

I called home and squeezed a burp
in before Mom answered.

“Mom, it’s Rust. I need your
help.”

“Do you need bail money?” She
said.

“Very funny. No, nothing like
that.  But this is important.  One of my clients is going to be in danger now
that I have recovered some of her property. Can she, along with her baby and
her Grandma, stay in the guest house for a few days, just ‘til I get back?” I
added weakly. “They won’t be any trouble.”

“If I must.  Here, talk to Ruby
and give her the details, I was just on my way to the club.”

I gave Tammy’s phone number to
Ruby with instructions for her to come right over. Things were moving fast.

I felt a tinge of sadness as I
handed over a roll of American dollars to Jacobo.

“Good-bye, Padre.”

“Good-bye, Jacobo. You are a good
boy. I can’t thank you enough for getting me here. If you find yourself in Knoxville, Tennessee, look me up,” Grabbing his shoulder, I shook his small hand.

“I would do that. You are fun. All
the priests here are boring. All Latin and incense. And none of them have guns.
”

I was amazed to be on the boat
with Tammy’s Ford pickup and heading in the general direction of the States. 
It all sounded good. I was in a wobbly Captain’s chair, periodically glancing
at a gauge that kept us on course. The Captain from Turbo (Turbonean?
Turbite?)was asleep in a hammock.  I looked past him to the open hold that
usually would have contained fish, but was now housing a small Ford truck
wrapped in fishnet.

I was feeling a little smug. 
Things were going my way now and I was even getting to drive the boat, which
was kind of cool.  But it had been slow going, taking five days so far. We had
stopped at the East end of Jamaica for fuel and minor repairs to the engine.
Now my VISA card was smoking almost as much as the boat’s diesel engine.

My cell phone rang, snapping me
out of my day dream. Unknown number, uh oh. I made a correction with the wheel
to get to needle on the gauge back to the correct heading.

“Yeah.”

“This is Partee. I’ve got the
girl,” he growled.

I could not immediately reply. My
bowels turned to water and I think I peed a little.

“This will be an easy trade or the
girl dies.  Where are you?”

“South of Miami. Don’t you hurt a
hair on her head!” I screamed, waking the Captain who sat bolt upright, eyes
rolling wildly and looking for a fight. Yelling only made my strength fly away
faster. The thought of Tammy’s little angel Hannah in the hands of a goon like
Partee - I couldn’t bear it.

“She’s fine. We got her watching
‘Saved by the Bell’ reruns on TVland.”

Hardly age appropriate, I thought.
What should I expect from these lowlifes, though? “Listen, I know some people
in Miami. Call me when you get there and will make arrangements or the girl
dies.”

My mind raced; spinning.  I called
Mom’s number, she would be sick with worry.  I hoped she and Ruby had not been
hurt during the kidnapping.  Ruby answered.

“Honey, Hannah is taking a nap.
Tammy just went to work.”

I zoned out, as I heard myself
tell Ruby not to worry, false alarm.

Partee had just said the girl, I
immediately thought Hannah.  I dialed Tammy’s cell number.

“I just pulled into Orby’s. Rust,
Ruby is really great, I love staying at your Mom’s house. Have you got a line
on my other Truck?”

“Yeah, it’s in Oakridge.  Listen,
be careful. If you see any suspicious characters, call me and I will have Fred
Smithey come by.”

“I am going to Orby’s, everybody
who comes through the door is suspicious. Besides, Fred Smithey wouldn’t be
worth a darn at stopping these guys, they’re pros.”

I was about to hang up, but that
stopped me.

“How do you know Fred Smithey?” I
asked.

“He’s been sniffing around here
drinking after work and he has been hitting on my friend Kim.”

“Pregnant Kim?” Oh God.

“Yeah, she sees him as the old
fatherly type that she can snare to help raise this kid. He sees her as someone
with awesome baby boobs. Remember she ain’t married.”

“Fred is married!”

“Not for long.  I think she has
been spending the last couple nights at his place,” she said.

“He’s staying at my place!”

“Look’s like you got a lil’ love
nest.”

My stomach was turning again. I
was definitely going to buy new sheets.

“I gotta go,” I hung up.

My mind thought in circles and
then reached around and began eating itself. Partee was bluffing? I was about
to arrive at a conclusion when my phone rang.  The caller ID: Wendy Forsythe.

I hit the green button. I tried to
say hello, but the sound that came through the phone pushed that away. An
almost inhuman wail started and eventually got so loud it distorted the tiny
speaker, but I never pulled the phone back.  Guilt, washed over me like salt
water over a slug.  Somehow I had been followed to Wendy’s house.  I cared
about Wendy, Partee was not blind to that fact.  A whole new rage flared
through me.

I listened to Wendy, between gasps
she explained that her daughter, Briana, had gotten off the bus according to
the school bus driver, but had never made it home.  She was sobbing
hysterically, trying to talk but little of what came out made sense.

“I know what to do now.  Don’t
worry, I’ll get Briana back.” Wheels were turning. I hung up.

I called Jacobo’s parents and left
him a message for him.

My phone rang again: Willie
Crandle.

“Willie, this is a terrible time.
Can I call right back.”

“Oh, so you’ve heard?”

“Heard, what do you mean?”

“You know, from the bank.”

“I don’t know. What happened?” My
face was hot with frustration.

“Rust, you are about $15,000
overdrawn.  The bank called me because they couldn’t reach you.”