Switcheroo Read online

  Switcheroo

  by

  Robert Lewis Clark

  Switcheroo 1st edition Kindle.

  Copyright © 2012 Robert Lewis Clark.

  [email protected]

  Published in The United states of America

  Cover photograph and graphics by Robert Lewis Clark

  Partial lyric to “White Rabbit” from Jefferson Airplane

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, places and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. They are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In other words, if you think you are in this book, you aren’t. However Turbo, Colombia is an actual place full of fun loving, hard working people who love to eat good food and drink Aquardiente (like Italian Grappa). Also, trucker vitamins do exist and they will keep you awake for forty-eight hours, guaranteed.

  To the good teachers and the go-getters who inspire us. Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Prologue: Oakridge National Laboratories, Oakridge, TN

  “One pill makes you larger,

  And one pill makes you small.

  And the ones that mother gives you

  Don't do anything at all…”

  Why was that song running though his head? Two years of twelve-hour days with Kendrick bearing down on him like a runaway train had finally yielded some results. The once mysterious barriers to the science of teleportation had been erased by his mind- numbing hard work. All the pieces were falling into place, but there had been a cost. William Madison had become physically and mentally ill from the strain of this research marathon-testing, tweaking, and advancing his invention.

  Starting out, he had repeated old-school 1980’s quantum teleportation experiments that moved atomic particles. That wasn’t really teleportation. Object A was energized, then became entangled with object B, and shot out the other end as identical object C. Flawed, because the original is destroyed in the process. Kind of the way Tom Jones destroyed The Talking Heads ‘Burning Down the House’ (also in the 1980’s).

  What Madison had really been looking for was a traversable wormhole. The process required was too large and needed too much energy to be practical. Estimates for the necessary facility were about the dimensions of Neyland Stadium. For months Madison had systematically worked out ways to miniaturize each part of the process. The device, now contained in a black box the size of a toaster, was powered by a tiny nuclear reactor. It accelerated particles beyond light speed (yes! It is possible!) using two tiny centrifuges spinning in opposing directions; then dumping their contents together, creating the bang needed to start the teleportation process.

  The resulting wormhole is very small. After a thorough scan, the object is blasted into its basic atomic form and flushed down the wormhole along with a magnetic data-stream of instructions on how to reassemble the whole mess. The object and instructions shoot out of the hole on the other end and are reformed just like Julia Child whipping up an atomic soufflé.

  Madison forced himself to move on, and installed the second device in the black security truck. Finished, he slammed the hood down. Over the past few days he had painted each of two trucks with a special epoxy which had a molecular structure that would isolate the reaction and keep the universe from turning itself inside out. At the prescribed time the reaction would happen. Madison would observe and report to Kendrick, as he always had.

  Madison’s IQ had always been burden to him, and now the weight was about to crush him. He had no friends outside the lab and zero love life. He dreamed of dropping out of the science grind and taking up something more soothing, maybe knitting. He was drunk with the fatigue of the eighteen-hour work days. He was still going, fueled by coffee and snack machine junk food.

  The time had nearly arrived. He grabbed a small cage containing a white rabbit from the lab and stepped forward. Madison opened the door of the truck and placed the cage on the driver’s seat and gently closed the door. He hoped the little bugger would come out the other end of Alice’s rabbit hole with his whiskers intact. It would all happen at 3:17 p.m. because, hey, who doesn’t like St. Patrick’s Day?

  Chapter One

  It was dark. The city smelled like an ashtray. Wait a minute, that's my sports coat. Oh well, no one would notice my cigar smell where I was headed. They wouldn't smell me if I walked in wearing a suit made of cigarette butts with ashtrays for shoes.

  I was headed to Orby's Grill; a cinder block hole in the wall down the way from several low class mobile home parks. I had the top down, flying down Western Avenue, my workday almost over, thank the Lord. It was October in East Tennessee, so I had the heat turned on just a bit to compensate for the cold coming over the windshield.

  On my prior field call, I had not been able to make contact with Travis McHenry, but had no trouble locating his home among the other mobile homes in Sleepy Acres Mobile Home Community on Sutherland Avenue. I would say trailer park, but I'm trying to be a little more politically correct these days. Words like ‘trailer’ creeping into my speech could lead to less pleasant references, like wobbly box or tornado magnet. I like to curb any thinking that judges others. Other people enjoy using terms like manufactured home or modular housing. Calling their house a trailer is like calling a flight attendant a stewardess. What some think of as slang, others take as a slur.

  There were only about twenty homes in the neighborhood, so I found my mark pretty quickly.

  This guy's place was hard to miss. Sitting between two neatly trimmed lawns with nice looking, if older, singlewides, was my destination. McHenry's was the oldest and nastiest on the cul-de-sac. It had two foot tall grass going to seed, a brown couch monster in the yard, and a dead Grand Am on blocks in the driveway.

  On closer inspection, the high grass actually helped the home’s curb appeal by obscuring about one hundred quart bottles of Bud and countless pizza boxes that littered the yard. At the front of the gravel driveway, there was a huge dent in the underpinning and bottom of the house under the kitchen window. Somebody had obviously overshot the driveway. Travis was no
t home. The door was unlocked, so I peaked in.

  Just to show prosperity hadn't totally passed him by, Travis had a cable box on top of an ancient television. The kitchen reminded me of a certain cologne: Ode de Shitte. Since the power had been shut off, his refrigerator was truly scary. Fur grew on leftovers and the milk jug appeared to be filled with cottage cheese. The floor was littered with stale Cheerios and scratch-off lotto tickets. McHenry was a real winner.

  Judging by the expiration date on the milk, I'd venture to say the home had been abandoned for at least two or three weeks.

  Since it was now dusk, I cranked the LeBaron (yes some people still drive them) and pointed the headlights at the mobile home. The car's beams plus the street light were good enough for me to take some charming pictures of the property. I polished off my report for the lender who was my client's client. I left a note with the bank's phone number in an envelope on McHenry's door, just in case he showed up. Doubtful. That was it, I left. Seventy-five bucks for fifteen minutes work, not bad.

  Most dead-beats hang out at pubs right outside their own neighborhoods, so I headed to the nearest one I had seen on the way there: Orby's Grill. Not just an excuse to have a beer, there was a twenty- five dollar bonus for each call where I made customer contact and possibly collected money. This wasn't the most glamorous form of investigation, but it helped cover overhead between more interesting jobs, of which there were none.

  There was one exciting thing about my visit to Orby’s; it was my last call of the night.

  Not taking my time on my way to Orby’s, I spotted flashing police lights in my mirror. I glanced down at the speedometer- the needle was dropping- but was still far above the speed limit. Begrudgingly, eyes rolling, heart filled with joy, I pulled over. I rolled my window down, which felt silly, since I had the top down on my 1990 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. A sporty and elegant car for old guys in its day, it was now a turd-on-wheels.

  The patrolman walked slowly toward the left side of my car. A hulking example of Knoxville's finest, he looked like a black refrigerator in my rear-view mirror. Shucks, no cameraman following him, I won't be on “COPS” next week.

  Officer Billingsworth introduced himself, and asked for my license and registration. This guy was about six foot four. His tight, rolled up sleeves revealed what looked like a side of beef hanging off each shoulder. I decided to behave myself and handed him my wallet.

  “Russell Stover? Like the candy, huh? ”

  “Yeah, but my friends call me Rust. Want to be friends?”

  Officer Billingsworth didn't like that, “Look, smart-ass, I'll ask the questions if you don't mind. Where's your registration and insurance? ”

  “In the glove box,” I braced myself. “But I wanted to tell you before I opened it, there is a gun in there.”

  “Freeze!” Billingsworth said as he stiffened, right hand un-holstering his police special.

  “Whoa, I have a private investigator's license and a gun permit. Check the wallet. In fact, I used to be in the force for a few years before the mayor had me canned for giving his mother twenty parking tickets. I know, you’re thinking that showed poor judgment. In hindsight, I definitely agree. I don't believe we’ve ever met. You must be new to the force.”

  “I was with the Atlanta P.D. until my wife got transferred to Knoxville. Wait a minute! Just shut up and get out of the car. Now!”

  I got out slowly and leaned against my car, wondering if it was getting my Dockers dirty. Meanwhile Billingsworth scowled as he riffled through my glove box. He pulled my registration and insurance card along with the six-shot paper weight that had been on top of them. I did as I was told and kept my hands on the police cruiser’s hood.

  “What are you carrying a piece for and where are you going with it in such a hurry?” He eyed my P.I. license suspiciously.

  Uh oh, a two-parter. Billingsworth being the great thinker, and all.

  “I'm working. I'm looking for a guy named Travis McHenry, maybe you know him. My client, LISA, contracted me to contact this guy about his delinquent house payments. Since you are a law officer, maybe you could help me find him.”

  “Maybe you could shut up for a minute...”

  “But you asked me a question.”

  “I said, shut up! Now I pulled you over for speeding, sixty-five in a forty-five. I feel like bustin’ your gun-toting smartass, but your permit is legit and there ain’t no law against having a smart ass mouth. Don’t move. ”

  Billingsworth took my wallet, registration, insurance card and side-arm back to the cruiser my tax dollars had helped to purchase. It was much shinier and better maintained than my own sorry excuse for a car.

  He came back with a ticket carrying a one hundred and thirty dollar fine, my pistol (now without the bullets) and more free advice.

  “Don’t let me see you speeding around here anymore. A man was killed driving on this road just two weeks ago.”

  I signed for the ticket and got back in my car. I waited until my wheels were safely rolling to say, “Thanks and enjoy the bullets.”

  My rearview mirror was dirty and as I said, it was dark, but I thought I saw Officer Billingsworth make the sports symbol for ‘we’re number one’ with his index finger. Maybe.

  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.