Don Bruns - Stuff to spy for

What happened to Person in Charge of the Project? I think the entire title evaporated that morning. Almost everyone on the project knew more than I did, and had taken more responsibility than I had. I looked at my cheap Timex watch. It was nine thirty in the morning. Nine thirty. The day had just started, and I was ready to go home. For good.

By noon I’d run into two more problems. The manufacturer had sent the wrong smoke alarms and we were short by twenty motion detectors. Unless we could pull them from another job site, it would be another two or three days from the time they were shipped. My head throbbed and I wanted a beer. Two, no make that three beers, back to back.

“Ready to rumble, amigo?”

“What?”

“Lunch? A little trip to see where the Fengmiester went yesterday?” He stood in the entranceway, pointing to the glass door.

“I shouldn’t leave, James. There are about a million problems with this project, and-”

“You need to get away. Come on.” Throwing his arm over my shoulder, James walked me out the door. “We’ll follow up on those addresses, stop at a little bar I know and have a sandwich and a beer. You’ll feel better. Trust me.”

I get into so much trouble when I trust James Lessor.

W e walked to the truck in a drizzle. The only problem with the drizzle was that the truck’s wiper had one speed. Very, very slow. About a month ago, during a heavy cloudburst, James had to stick his head out the driver’s-side window to see where we were going.

“We can take my Chevy.”

“No. Let’s use the truck. I mean, it’s a new business venture, this spy thing, and I think we should use it.” The idea seemed to make sense to him.

James climbed in and started the engine, black smoke from the tailpipe swirling in the wind and rain.

“I was thinking about a sign. We could stencil it on the side.”

“What? Spymobile? I tend to think that would give it away, James.”

He rolled his eyes. “Settle down, pard. Now, tell me what kind of a business everybody needs from a service truck.”

I thought for a moment. Everybody had to eat, but they bought their food from a grocery store. Or a Schwan’s truck. That didn’t work. Locksmith, auto repair, carpenter “It’s easy, Skip. A couple of years ago they even sent one to the space station to fix the toilet. A plumber.”

“I remember that.”

“Well, I’m thinking we open a plumbing business.”

“That’s your cover?”

“Lessor and Moore Plumbing. Or maybe Buddy’s Plumbing. Or-”

“I get it, I get it.” From deep in the back of my brain I remembered a quote from Albert Einstein. Somebody in college shared it with me. “If I had my life to live over again, I’d be a plumber.” I’m sure it was taken out of context. Or, maybe not.

“We’re good to go anywhere. Nobody’s going to question a plumber. Some poor schlob’s crapper is backed up or the pipes have burst in his kitchen or his drains need to be cleaned out. Everybody needs a plumber sometime in their life. Am I right?” We hit a bump and I thought the bottom of the truck was going to fall out.

“Do we want the truck permanently decorated with a sign that advertises a business we really don’t have?”

James lit a cigarette with one hand, clutching the wheel with the other. The steering on this vehicle was tough enough with two hands, and when he hit the next bump in the road the truck veered, almost nicking a car in the other lane.

“Okay, let’s get a magnetic sign. Take it off when we’re home.”

“Sure. I guess that works.”

The rain had become a downpour, beating against the glass, and the windshield was streaked with dirty water, some running off the top of our truck, some splashing up from puddles in the potholes.

“Pard, check your addresses. I think we’re coming up on one right now.” I was surprised he could see anything.

I’d written down the three addresses where Feng had gone after work. They were all within a fifteen-square-mile area surrounding Carol City. I pointed out the crossroad, and James took a right onto Palm Breeze Way. Where they came up with these names I have no clue. The romantic name of the street was quickly disproved by the run-down shacks and shanties that lined the street. Pothole after pothole caused splash after splash and bump after bump and two blocks in I thought we were going to blow the entire suspension. What was left of it. And then, like magic, the rain stopped. The sun peeked through the clouds and steam rose from the pavement.

“Right there. Stop.” A two-story cement-block building, about the size of a convenience store, sat on a solitary lot. Weeds grew up around it, and red and black gang graffiti covered the otherwise colorless structure.

“This was one of his stops?” A gentle rain had started up, filling the temporary reprieve.

“Appears to be. According to the computer.”

James pulled over to the curb into what used to be a small parking lot. He jumped from the truck and ran up to the building, never succeeding in dodging the raindrops. He yanked on the heavy metal door, which refused to open.

Getting back into the truck, he shook the water from his face and hair. Like a dog. “Padlocked. Rusty old padlock. I don’t think the place has been open for years.”

“Well, he was here.”

“Let’s hit the next place.”

“Probably about three miles.”

“We can do this.” He started the truck, and we drove down Palm Breeze Way. The shabby dwellings just got shabbier.

A left on Bianca Drive, another curving left onto Bonita Boulevard, and I saw a small laundry on the right. Chinese letters in the window, and under them the name C HEN’S L AUNDRY.

“So he had to drop off clothes.”

“Disappointing so far, eh, pard?”

He pulled back out on the road, and I glanced in my side mirror. “James, check out your mirror.”

He glanced out. “Is that gray car an Accord?”

“I believe it is.”

“There’s a lot of gray Hondas in Carol City, Skip.”

“Or, maybe Feng is hitting his stops again.”

The car hung back a couple of blocks, then turned off the road, and I lost it. “Must have been someone else.”

“You’ve got his license number.”

I thought for a moment. I’d been intimate with his car. We’d been physical, and I didn’t even have the number. “You must have taken it down, James.”

“Jeez. Great spies we are.” James banged his fist on the steering wheel. “What’s our last stop?”

“This is stupid. Let’s go to the bar you talked about and have a-” I stared hard into the side mirror, making sure of what I saw.

“What is it?”

“Gray Honda. Maybe two blocks back.” There were a couple of cars and another box truck between us. I viewed the Honda as it maneuvered behind the other vehicles.

“How would he know where we were?”

“It’s probably all a coincidence.”

“Where do I turn, pard?”

“Next street. Forty-seventh.”

He turned and picked up speed. Not much, but a little. The engine chugged along. The Little Engine That Could. There were some commercial buildings, then a rundown strip mall with three of the five businesses boarded up.

“Any sign of the graymobile?”

There were none.

“On your right, James. Right there.”

He stepped on the brakes and there was a metal on metal sound. Another problem with the truck. We needed new brakes.

“It’s a day care center.”

“So Feng’s got a kid. He had to pick him up.” James shrugged his shoulders.

I noticed the name. Recognized the name. Tiny Tots Academy. Somewhere Carol Conroy had picked up one of their pencils. I was sure she didn’t have any kids. “Keep driving.”