Switcheroo (2 page)

Chapter
2

I doubted Orby’s gravel parking
lot could make the Chrysler any dirtier than it already was, so I pulled right
in. The parking area, already nearly full early on Friday evening, looked like
a big foot truck convention had been crashed by a drunken group of NASCAR
fans.  The lot was populated with three types of cars: Camaros, Mustangs and
monster trucks. Most of these vehicles featured decals and bumper stickers. 
Some were obscene ‘Drunk drivers kill 150,000 people per year, so get the fuck
out of my way.’  Some were obscure, simply proclaiming ‘3’ or ’24.’  Some were
obtuse, ‘Jack Shit for President’.  There were more than a few rebel flag
stickers and decals of little Calvin leering as he pees on a Ford or Chevy
emblem.

There was one car that didn’t fit
in; a white Chrysler LeBaron with its white top and white interior. Triple
white; a real cream puff.  Like the LeBaron in parking lot, I would stand out
in Orby’s like a whore in church.

Orby’s Place was a dirty-white
flat roofed building with no windows that in daylight had all the warmth of a
prison camp. Three jewels of neon crowned the front of this cinder block palace
at night. One proclaimed ‘OPEN’, another simply said ‘BUD’, and a larger one on
top of the roof spelled out the owner’s name in monstrous, red, cursive
letters.  The ‘E’ in place blinked on and off making it seem more exotic;
‘Orby’s Plac’. Possibly French, eh?

As I approached I heard the
strains, and I do mean strains, of Elvis’s ‘Teddy Bear’ playing loudly.  Inside,
Elvis turned out to be a fat, sweaty white guy with his shirt unbuttoned way
too far.  Evidently, his job was to play host and sing and dance badly. No one
else seemed to feel this way; the crowd soaked it up and hollered drunkenly for
more.  After finishing his unintended mockery of the King, he introduced
himself as ‘Billy Joe, not to be confused with Billy Joel’ (like we might).  He
reminded me that Billy Joel is slowly turning into Joe Cocker and will probably
eventually become him.

I moved through the crowd, close
to a hundred people, toward the bar as he broke into “Friends in Low Places”,
very fitting. Waves of smoke generated by hundreds of cigarettes drifted toward
me like a storm front as I approached the bar. I perched on a barstool made of a
three-foot tree stump with a tuft of green shag carpet stapled on top of it.  A
huge ugly white dude with bushy brown hair and a goat beard asked “What can I
get you?”

It was officially past quitting
time.

“Sam Adams, please.”

“Never made one before, is it like
a Tom Collins?”

“Not exactly, how ‘bout a Bud?”

“No problem.”

The ape put the Bud on the bar.
Then I figured out one of Orby’s endearing qualities, really cold beer.  One
tick away from frozen, delicious. Most pubs don’t have enough Freon in their beer
coolers. I polished off a Bud as I took in the lay of the land. Most of the
ladies in Orby’s were way out of my league in either the ugly category or the
weight category or both (Is that Rikki Lake over there?). Another bartender
stopped by, a small fellow with red hair and a bushy handle-bar mustache that
pretty much covered his mouth, making his expression hard to gauge. If he
smiled you’d never know, a regular Yosemite Sam.

“Mind if I smoke a cigar?” I
asked.

“Look at that smoke, are you
kidding?” He said pointing to the LA smog that hovered around the throng. He
replaced my empty Budweiser.

So I put the fire to a Thompson
cigar and joined my fellow smokers in adding to the haze. I watched the crowd,
they watched Billy Joe. Quite a few of the men were missing a few teeth. Most
of the ladies had crow’s feet you could hide a dime in. I spied a few young
ladies here and there, possibly working in the oldest profession, from the
looks of the make up and short skirts.  Rough, but I‘d seen places like this
before, and was not snobbish about being here. I’m not better than anybody
else, but I’m just as good.

There was one good looking
waitress with a white shirt tied above her waist. I’m always on the look out
for a third ex-wife.  I snooped at her in the looking glass behind the bar and
eventually landed on my own reflection.  My face a handsome cross between
Harrison Ford and a ditch digger’s shovel. I grinned, my devil beard smiling
over a dark tie and wide shoulders covered by tweed. So vain, I think this song
is about me. Ignoring my manners, I put an elbow on the table and scratched my
hairy chin, thinking.

I got Red to come back and give me
another Bud. I decided he would probably know McHenry if anyone did.

“What’s your name, fella?”
Breaking the ice.

“Billy,” He said- annoyed- waiting
to see what was coming. I noticed him noticing my tie and jacket. Most of the
patrons were wearing jeans. Billy knew I was there to arrest somebody or sell
something he wasn’t buying. Oh well.

“The singer’s name is Billy, too,
I noticed.”

“His is Billy Joe; and that’s a
stage name his real name is Melvin Watkins. You notice things, must be a cop?
Nobody wears ties here.” Red gave me a Yosemite Sam smirk.

“No, I’m an insurance salesman.
Hey, do you mind if I call you Red? You look like a Red.”

“Only if you want your
insurance-sellin’ ass kicked,” he growled as he smiled a little, but not enough
to make me think he was kidding.

“Look, Billy, I am looking for a
guy named Travis McHenry. He used to work for Jenkins Construction, lives
nearby.  Do you see him in here tonight?”

“You sure you’re not a cop?” He
still wasn’t convinced. His expression showing he thought he was being scammed.

“No, a friend of mine owes him
some money and I am supposed to give it too him.  He lives in Sleepy Acres Mobile Home Park but he is not home,” I smiled through my lies and tried to look mild
mannered.

“Bud, I reckon your friend can
just keep his money.  Travis is dead, killed two weeks ago.”

You never expect something like
this.

“That’s terrible. How did it
happen?” Right now I decided to clear up my three dollar tab with a ten,
telling Red to keep the change. He lightened up and decided to straighten me
out. I didn’t care as long as I got the scoop. Maybe McHenry had credit life
insurance on his trailer loan.

“Look pal, I’m no dumb-ass hick,
so don’t lie to me that way. I’m not even from here, I’m from Texas, I’m a
college graduate and I don’t believe a fuckin’ word you’ve been saying. Start
over and tell me what you’re doing here.”

Okay. Time to level with him. 
Billy looked small in his blue-jean shirt, an apron hanging from his waist.
But, this was his turf and I’m sure he had some friends who weighed more than
his one hundred and fifty pounds.

“Billy, I’m a private detective.
No one ever believes me when I tell them that so I made up that insurance shit.
I do work on the side for a company called LISA. Lender Inspection Service
Associates.  Their client, Greenway Mortgage, wanted me to try and collect
Billy’s trailer payments or at least make contact with him.  I guess only a
spiritual medium could help me reach him now.”

I sipped my Bud listening as Billy
Joe, not Billy Joel, annihilated Orbison’s ‘Pretty Woman’. Then I spoke to Red
as he slid another frosty Bud forward.

“I’m sorry I joked, Travis could
have been a friend of yours. I was just thinking he might be here since this is
the closest pub to his neighborhood.”

“A logical assumption,” Red
showing he learned a big word in school. “Actually, Travis spent so much time
here it killed him. He died on Orby’s back porch.”

“Wow, not of natural causes, I
suppose. Did he O.D.?” Thinking of Travis’ beer and bong addictions as
evidenced by the state of his home I’d inspected earlier. Red started talking
and I started in on my third Budweiser and my cheap but effective cigar.

“No, he was beaten and stabbed to
death by some thugs he was shooting pool with,” he said.  I could detect Red’s Texas drawl now. “Travis came in here on a Friday night just like this one.  He was doing
his usual thing of flirting with all the ladies and getting drunk as hell.  Two
guys I don’t think I ever saw before came in and were shooting pool.

“There was three of ‘em riding
bikes. I do remember one of the guys in particular.  He was wearing round
glasses and was smaller than the other two. I remember thinking it was a little
odd for a thug to wear Ben Franklin eye glasses. I’m not talking Ray-Bans, but
corrective lenses.”

“Hang on just a second,” Red went
to wait on two more customers. Then he set up five drinks for the waitress with
the nice midriff. I listened to Billy Joe butcher ‘Maggie Mae’.  Red finished
filling the waitresses’ orders and came back.

“Anyway, it was really busy, like
tonight.  These three bikers were shooting pool and Travis got on the table
with ‘em. The little guy must have irritated Travis. Travis was a tall fellow,
and he did make some trouble here on occasion. I never seen them fighting or
arguing but I guess they went out the back to fight.  The back door usually
stays locked to keep people from skipping on their checks, but it was unlocked
for some reason.

“It wasn’t until quitting time we
found him out back beside the blue dumpster.  This was about two a.m., but
there is a security lamp out there. I knew as soon as I saw him there was no
sense in calling an ambulance. He was laying face down in the gravel with a big
wooden stake sticking out of his back. It turned out to be a cue stick broken
in half.  The police told us he took a blow to the head and was missing a
couple teeth too.

“The weirdest thing is they stole
his truck,” Red acted like this was so obviously weird.

“Why is that odd? A car is stolen
every ten seconds in America.”

This was getting a little more
interesting, I puffed some more and drank my Bud.

“Well, he drove a shitty little
Ford pick up. Two wheel drive, and it’d been wrecked. I thought it was a little
odd. All those late model Camaros, Mustangs and Big trucks and they steal a
McHenry’s old Ford.”

Red looked at me like ‘you gotta
admit that’s a little strange.’  However, criminal stupidity never surprises
me.

“They took the keys off him?” That
would not be too weird.

“I guess, but his wallet was still
in his pocket with the cash still in it.  Weird, huh?”

Yep. I just thought of something. 

Red opened four more Buds sliding
one to me, three to the waitress with the mid-riff. She thanked Red and she
twirled around quickly with the Buds on a worn tray with a cork top.  I forgot
what I just thought of, she was a hot one.

“Red…”

“I told you not to call me that,”
Red folded his arms and looked at me crossly.

“That waitress just called you
Red. I thought of it first,” I countered.

“We’re friends. You and I aren’t
yet and not likely to be.” I think Red snarled but his huge mustache obscured
all facial expression.

“How bout twenty bucks?” I offered
an olive branch.

“Okay, you can call me Red,” He
conceded, snatching the twenty and stuffing it in the tip jar with a single
motion.

“Red, is that pretty waitress of
yours single? I know its pretty low to hit on the help, but she is
exceptional.”

“Buddy, you can pick ‘em can’t
you. That’s Travis ex-wife Tammy. Actually, his widow, they were never really
divorced.  They split up right before he was killed. He drank and caused her
trouble at her old job. She got fired from O’Charley’s and I felt sorry for her
and offered her a job here. Travis followed her here too, but we have a lot of
troublemakers here. He fit right in.”

“Oh,” The plot thickens, I
thought, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey,” I got his attention once
more. “You said that’s the strangest murder you’ve had lately. There have been
others?”

“Oh yeah, the other most recent
was actually Orby Schultz’s murder, about two years ago.”

“Wow, not the Orby?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Man, who killed him?”  I had to
ask.

“I did,” Red replied and went on
about his business.

Chapter
3

After Red left to go make more
shitty drinks, I smoked and thought.  I considered ordering a mixed drink,
switching gears. But, I was a little frightened by the liquor selection, which
included a big clear plastic bottle with a white label and the words ‘Russian
Vodka’ in black letters on the side. Better to order something bottled outside
this place. I had the big ugly guy bring me another Budweiser.

Most of the calls I had made for
LISA (Lender Inspection Service Associates) had been routine.  Checking out
repossessed homes and putting customers on the phone with LISA’s client, the
bank or mortgage company who had financed the house, boat, or car in question.
I finally had an interesting one to report.  Instead of another abandoned home,
I had a murdered customer.

With a solid beer buzz, the
thought of returning to the east part of west Knoxville and a quiet night at
home staring at the dog no longer appealed to me.

Though I love their vibe with the
Old English bar and tin ceiling, The Bistro was too far to drive now after a
few beers.  I decided to carry on here a little while before going home. 
Riding the storm out, talking to the locals. Giving a shout out to my peeps. I
looked around. Well, maybe not my peeps, but some peeps, anyway.

I slurred a ‘how ya’ll doing’ to
the girl next to me.  Light red hair and a tight black dress; she was kind of
pretty. When I said hi, she turned and I noticed two things. She was pregnant
and she had an eye patch. I tried to think of something smooth to say but what
came out was not. Smooth, that is.

“Are you sure you should be in
here with all this smoke in your condition?” I regretted this as soon as I said
it, as I saw her inhale the smoky air for a sassy rebuttal. I braced myself.

“Look, babies on crack cocaine are
born every day in America. If I want to get out of the house for just one night
it is not gonna kill this baby, okay?” She looked at me with wide eyes (Uh,
just one eye, actually) and red-flushed cheeks.

“Maybe that came out wrong. I meant
to say, what is a pretty girl like you doing here at Orby’s?” I closed my eyes
and grinned a dumb looking Jack Nicholson Joker smile.

“I guess I’m a little too nice.
That’s how I ended up this way,” She said and shot a downward glance at her
gestating bulge, then rolled her good eye. “I don’t know why I like this place
anyway. I guess it’s kinda like returning to the scene of the crime since I’m
pretty sure I got knocked up in one of the ladies’ bathroom stalls.”

Great, now I’ve got that picture
is stuck in my head. She gave a weak smile.  My new pregnant friend lightened
up a little.

I found out that her name was Kim
Robinson. We talked some more and Kim told me that she came to see her friend
Tammy here tonight. Also, she was excited because she just traded her truck for
a Camaro, which was much easier to get in and out of with her expanding belly. 
She rubbed her belly lightly as she spoke to me.

“Where is your husband tonight?” I
said hopefully, but knowing she would say she was unmarried. At least she knew
who the father was, I found out.

“I never got married. I used to
drink some before I got pregnant. I ended up drunk here one night and screwed
Georgie Parker in the ladies’ room. Our first date, not even really a date, and
I get pregnant.  We were supposed to get married, but after football season
Georgie disappeared. I moved back in with Momma in Claiborne Estates. My sister
and her son live there too, so I’m hatin’ life. That’s why I’m here, to get out
of that God-awful trailer for a couple hours.”

She looked down and showed me her
long auburn lashes.  Her hair curled nicely around her thin jaw. I could see
what Georgie was thinking.

“And the eye patch?”

“That happened the same night I
got pregnant. Georgie and I were in last stall in the ladies’ room going at it
and well, you know those big hooks you hang your coat from?”

“Ouch,” I cringed at the thought.

“No kidding. Anyway, when I got
stuck in the eye with the coat hanger, Georgie mistook my screams for pleasure
and he went ahead and finished me off. I lost the eye,” she shrugged.

I remembered Georgie Parker.  He
had been a local high school football hero. West High School.  He got a full
scholarship to the University of Tennessee as a line backer.  He was a big
fellow, but fast too.  They put about thirty more pounds on him and he broke
the school record for most tackles by a freshman.

Then Georgie went from hero to
zero. He flunked out of school his first semester and was dropped from the
team. It was later revealed that his high school SAT scores were fake. He paid
a “friend” to take the test for him. Goodbye football hello factory job. 
According to Kim, factory work didn’t suit Georgie either (due to alcoholism
and just plain laziness, per Kim). He soon skipped town.

“What are you drinking?” I asked
offering her a refill.

“Virgin daiquiri.”

How ironic.

“Get the lady another and another
Bud for me,” I said to the big bartender, who was starting to remind me of Tex
Cobb, only his nose wasn’t as pretty.

“Where is Georgie now?”  I asked.

“Are you kidding? I haven’t seen
Georgie in three months. His folks don’t even know where he’s at.”

“So once you were disfigured
Georgie left you. That’s cruel.”

“No, the patch never bothered him.
I think he thought it was cool.  He stayed around a bit, but as soon as I
started showing he skipped town. Now, I’m really scared because I can’t work
much longer and I can’t find him to get any child support money out of him.”

She took her daiquiri from the
goon and I got another delicious cold one.

“Why don’t I help you find him?” I
offered.

“What are you a cop? You kind of
look like a cop.”

She looked at my jacket and tie.

“No, I’m a private investigator,
I…”

“No… I don’t have any money to pay
you and you probably can’t find him, so you can forget that,” she said and
looked at me sassy again; one hand on her narrow hip.

“I tell you what. I’ll check with
the credit bureau and see if he’s inquired anywhere. It costs me three bucks. 
I won’t charge you unless I find him and you don’t have to pay me until you get
your first child support payment.  There is even an attorney in my office
building who can file the judgment on Georgie for you.  What do you say?”

Kim thought just a moment as she
gently rubbed her belly. I noticed she had chewed her straw up a little.

“OK, but no money for you until I
see some first. Deal?”

She seemed pleased with her new
drunken detective.

“Here’s my card. Write your name
and number here and I’ll call you next week when I find him.  Better write down
his date of birth too and last known address.”

I handed her the small pad I keep
in my coat pocket, kind of like Barney Fife. She wrote like a cheerleader.

“You seem sure you can find him.
You must be pretty good,” she said; her neatly plucked brows rose slightly.

“I’m really not that good. Trouble
follows a guy like Georgie. Should be easy to find. He’ll turn up.”

It sounded like I said ‘turnip’. 
I needed to slow down on the beer.  I was starting to feel good about getting a
hot chick’s phone number until I remembered she was a pregnant pirate-looking
girl.

“Hey!” She looked at me with
sudden realization. “Maybe you could help my friend Tammy.  She thinks someone
is trying to kill her.  I ain’t sure I believe her, but she has been acting so
strangely.  She…”

“Tammy McHenry?”  I asked,
hopefully.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

Now that is intriguing. Tammy; a
pretty girl widowed out of her soon-to-be ex-husband and now the killers are
after her.  I was starting to feel like a regular Sam Spade. The beer was
working its magic.

“Who would want to kill Tammy? I
mean look at her,” I said and stole a free look across the room at her elfin
features and tiny stomach muscles.

“The people who killed her husband
want her truck…”

“She drives a real fancy truck?” 
I wondered.

“That’s the crazy part; it’s a
piece of crap,” Said my new pregnant pal. “It’s actually a Ford Ranger. It
ain’t even a four by four. I don’t know why anyone would want it bad enough to
kill. It really sounds kind of nutty to me, but Tammy says that truck is
special.  She has definitely not been acting right since her husband got
himself murdered. She lost her job at O’Charley’s. Now she has to work here.”

Kim rolled her eyes over the
general nastiness of Orby’s.

“You know Travis was a drinker and
a sorry excuse for a husband. I don’t know if he beat her or what, but she
hasn’t really been the same since she married him.  I went to high school at
West with her, you know. We had a lot of fun.  Now look at us,” she shrugged.
True, Kim was sad, slouching and pregnant; not to mention sporting an
eye-patch.  I peeked at Tammy as she nervously smoked a cigarette at the bar,
noting that make up hid dark circles under her eyes.

Kim stopped talking to see if I
was going to comment.  Really, I was even more interested now.  Generally the
more needy and nutty a woman is, the more I’m attracted to her. I have two
divorces to prove it.

Kim looked up at me while she
sipped her third virgin daiquiri.  I continued my brilliant line of
questioning.

“Does she have any kids?” I hoped
not.

“Yeah, she has a little two year
old girl. Stays with Tammy’s Grandma while Tammy works.  Hey! You’re not
thinking of trying anything on Tammy? She has enough trouble with out some
wanna-be cop trying to put moves on her right now.”

She was good at this complaining/
lecturing thing. That cop comment was hurtful, though. Now I know why Georgie
ran off.

I pretended to be insulted by her
accusation, although she was right.

“Nothing further from my mind,” I
said, straightening my tie in an indignant Rodney Dangerfield fashion. “I was
just curious.”

“What time does she get off work?”
I started again.

“Come on! Her husband was just
killed.”

She still doubted my motives.

“I just want to talk to her about
her case, that’s it. A free consultation.”

I sounded like the ambulance
chasing attorney in my office building, but this would be an improvement over
her current impression: Dirty Dog.

“She gets off at eleven, but no
funny stuff,” She smoothed over now. “I’m waiting to take her home, she can’t
drive her truck, you know. She has it hidden.”

I glanced at my watch it was ten
thirty-five. I’d wait for Tammy to finish, see if I could have a minute with
her. A quiet moment passed between Kim and I, but not too awkward. Billy Joe
began to murder Clapton’s ‘You Look Wonderful Tonight’. Couples sweated and
swayed against each other under a cheap mirror ball that was way too small for
the huge room.

“Hey Kim, how about a slow dance?
We’ll cause a terrific scandal.” I held out my hand.

“OK,” she said, sliding out of her
bar stool. “But I don’t think anyone will notice. You pretty much have to kill
somebody or at least scratch somebody’s pickup to cause a scandal here.”

She followed me to the dance
floor, leaning back slightly. I was thinking that maybe some of these killings
were caused by the wrong scratch being put on the wrong truck owned by the
wrong Neanderthal.