Jeff Strand: Graverobbers Wanted: No Experience Necessary

Graverobbers Wanted

(No Experience Necessary)

Jeff Strand

Chapter 1

"I'M NOT GOING to tell you kids again to knock it off! If I have to turn this car around and cancel my stakeout, there'll be no TV for the rest ofthemonth ! "

"It's July twenty-eighth. The month's almost over," said my daughter Theresa with a grin. She's been alive for eight years, and a smart-ass for six-and-a-half of them.

"Don't be cute. Now I want you to behave yourselves. I bought you nice new coloring books and crayons, so use them!"

"Can I color on Kyle?" asked Theresa.

"No, you may not."

"Even if I stay inside the lines?"

My wife Helen says that Theresa takes after me, and as happens more times than I can count, she's right. That's why I try to let Helen handle as much of the childraising as possible. It's better for society that way.

"I'm not going to tell you again," I warned. Then I used language I shouldn't be using in front of children (at least, children with a tendency to repeat colorful phrases in front of their mother) as I realized that I'd just missed my turn. "Okay, that's it. Tomorrow morning both of you are being shipped off to that munitions factory in darkestPeru ."

"I didn't do anything!" Kyle, my six-year-old, protested.

"Then you get to go to the factory where they'll feed you every few days. Your sister has to scrounge up bugs."

If Helen were around, she'd have said something like "You're only encouraging them." But she wasn't here. This was a very good thing, considering that I was about to dump my children off with my irresponsible friend RogerTanglen while I went to videotape an adulterous husband in the act. While I'll admit that I'm not always the best judge of what activities Helen will and won't approve of, this seemed like an above-average candidate for the "won't" category.

But there was nothing else I could do. Helen was working at the hospital, and the babysitter canceled at the last second for an emergency appointment with her palm reader. So if I wanted to obtain proof that Jake Ballard was playing sink-the-salami with a woman three cup sizes too large to be his wife, I had to do something with the kids. Roger worked weekend shift as a customer service representative for a small mail-order cheese company and had nothing to do during the week except play Minesweeper on his computer, so he was readily available.

I guess I could have postponed the job, but I desperately needed the money. I don't want to bore you with the details and reduce your opinion of me this early in the narrative, but suffice it to say that there'd recently been an event that involved the expiration of my car insurance, the accidental smashing-into of a very nice automobile, a frantic deal with the owner of the very nice automobile, and a wife who didn't know anything about it.

My kids were quiet for the rest of the drive, which was impressive even though it only lasted another three minutes. I pulled into a parking space in front of Roger's first floor apartment.

"I won't be gone more than an hour," I said.

"Kyle's a pig," Theresa informed me.

"I'm pretty sure he isn't a pig. Now, if you're both good, we'll go out for ice cream when I get done, okay?"

"Hooray!" shouted Kyle.

"I want both of you to avoid acting like monkeys while you're with Roger. He has a boring life and wants to keep it that way."

"Kyle really is a pig, Daddy."

"I am not!" Kyle insisted. I was inclined to agree with him, since he was probably the thinnest first-grader at Chamber Elementary, but sisterly insults don't require a strong adherence to logic.

"Yes you are. You're a bigsnorty pig." Theresa made some amazingly skillful snorting sounds at him. Kyle began making snorting sounds back. It was a snorting extravaganza the likes of which I'd never heard.

"If I hear one more snort you can forget about ice cream," I said, raising my voice to what passed for Very Stern Daddy mode. "I have to get going, so please be good."

Theresa's expression turned serious. "I'll be good, Daddy. I was just playing."

"Thank you. That's what Daddy likes to hear. Now give me a kiss."

After dropping them off with Roger, I drove out of the apartment complex and ten minutes later turned ontoWebster Street .Webster Street is one of the nicer areas in Chamber, which is one of the nicer towns inFlorida . It has about thirty-five thousand people, a couple of decent movie theatres, a bookstore where the owner calls me whenever anewFlip the Weasel cartoon collection comes out, nice schools, nice parks, nice restaurants, and a guy who mutters memorable television quotes while wandering the streets giving the finger to unsuspecting motorists. If you're ever looking to relocate, you could do much worse.

As I passed the residence of Mr. Ballard, I noted that the only car in the driveway was a red Pontiac Grand Prix. So theWhoremobile (as Mrs. Ballard lovingly referred to it) hadn't arrived yet, and wouldn't for another fifteen minutes if his mistress kept to her lunch hour tryst schedule.

I drove four more blocks down and parked my car at the end of the street. I'd bought it a few years ago, and it was exactly like the sleek black convertible I'd always wanted in college, except that it was gray, boxy, had a roof that wouldn't convert, a smashed front end, a floor covered with about an inch-thick layer of candy wrappers, and "Wash Me!" written in the dirt on the back windshield.

After scooping up Helen's video camera, I got out of the car and began to jog, cutting through a few backyards until I stood behind the Ballard residence. There were a couple of trees, one of which contained atreehouse that looked like I could bring it crashing to the ground by spitting on it. According to Mrs. Ballard, if I hid in thistreehouse I'd have a perfect vantage point of the bedroom window where the escapades were to occur.

I glanced around to make sure nobody was looking, put the camera strap around my neck, and climbed the rickety ladder up into thetreehouse . It was well-stocked with comic books, soda cans, and a custom-made Quadriplegic Barbie. Returning my attention to the bedroom window, I looked through the eyepiece of the camcorder and saw that as long as they didn't close the curtain I was indeed going to have a great seat for the show.

About a quarter after twelve I heard a car pull into the driveway. About two minutes after that I saw Mr. Ballard burst into the bedroom with a certain "vicious, backstabbing, silicone-addicted slut" who was already half-naked. I began videotaping, feeling like an amateur pornographer. Not that that's such a bad feeling.

They were on the bed in no time, and decided to make my job even easier by staying on top of the covers. In the amount of time it takes me just to fumble out of my shoes, they were going atit.Good Lord were they going at it. The acrobatics involved were stunning, and both ofthemhad to be double-jointed. I couldn't believe I was witnessing actual human bodies accomplishing these miracles of flexibility—it was like a combination of performance art and freak show.

I've always been in pretty good physical shape, but this display made me feel woefully inadequate, a sexualdoofus . Maybe on the way home I'd pick up some literature on the subject.

The problem is that while I was staring slack-jawed at the astounding feats taking place in the bedroom, I was neglecting other important elements in the situation, such as the three angry-looking guys who were now standing at the bottom of the tree.

"See anything good?" asked one of them.

I was so surprised that I dropped the camera. I let out a cute little noise, something like "Uugghck," as the strap did its best to strangle me. I got things quickly under control, but my upper hand on the situation was effectively shot to hell.