Friday, October 6th, 2006. The last working day of my unplanned "mini-vacation." Been eyeballing Kevin and Tiffany's place for a solid week now. During the day, that is. Sure was hoping to witness something noteworthy by this point. Maybe not a backhoe, but at least a Bobcat. But alas.
11:14 am. Just got off the horn with the Skeet. Oh, and by the way, we've switched vehicles. Let me explain.
Skeeter's exhibited a slavering interest in steering my British motorcar ever since... well, ever since the day l smoothly rolled outta the dealership with her. "Hands off," I told him, this in reaction to his first and only unauthorized attempt to hop in on the driver's side.
Today, though, I had to make an exception: I actually authorized him to drive 'er. Here's how that played out. Yesterday--while stationed near the swings of their neighborhood park--I saw movement in salsa guy's front yard. This after days and days of nothingness. So I went for a breeze-by to see what the deal was, trying as best I could to not attract attention, but there's the Tiffer, looking up from checking the mail, giving me the once-over. Undeterred, I continued putting along, found myself at Wendy's, enjoyed a Frosty, and then, an hour later, returned to their park and resumed my vigil. Still no activity in Kevin's backyard, his concrete slab remained stolid, unmoved by pick, shovel, heavy equipment. It seemed peaceful really, though--as it's inanimate--that's not possible. But maybe to me it seemed at peace because I wasn't. No, I was ruminating. I had once again jeopardized--if not completely blown to smithereens--my anonymity.
And I needed to make some changes.
A different vehicle for starters. "And a different glue-on beard," I mumbled to myself, taking off my sunglasses. The act of which reminded me that people in residential areas simply don't run backhoes at night, making it officially dark enough to lens cap my cameras and call it a day.
So I headed for home... well, not exactly.
As it's not in Dawn's nature to loan out her minivan, I decided to run by Skeet's first. It was there I hoped to secure the use of his truck, which, I'm pretty sure, neither Mr. nor Mrs. B. had ever seen.
"Well, what am I gonna drive?" he asked, sniffing.
"OK, ok, you can use mine."
"Your? Your what?"
"My truck. If you need to go somewhere, I'll leave you the keys."
"I dunno. Sounds kinda risky, Herb. Nah," he said, shaking his head, "I know I've got stuff to do tomorrow."
"Now hold on," I said.
"What?"
"I'm thinking. Gimme a sec."
"Time's up."
"Funny. You're a funny guy, Skeet. That's why I keep you around."
"Yeah, well you need to sweeten the pot, bud. What if you wreck my truck?"
"Ah, you know that won't happen. OK, look," I said, and then in a fit of stupidity or stroke of genius I offered the keys to Miss Daisy. "But," I added, "on one condition."
"What?"
"We meet near the other woman's place, and you wait there for a few hours, sorta monitor her activities, you know."
"No, I don't know!" he said; "I'm not sittin' aroun' all day, on my day off, just sittin' there, watchin' some lady's house. Find yourself another sap. If I'm gonna be a bump on a log, I'm gonna be a bump on a log right here at home, in front of my TV."
"Just bring a book. You'll be fine."
"A book? What?"
"OK, take some crossword puzzles, or... you'll think of something."
Silence. (Well, actually his parakeet squawked.)
"C'mon Skeet, it's only for a few hours. You know I've been making some real headway in this case. Just bring along a deck of cards, play solitaire."
"You're getting warmer," he said.
"I'm getting warmer? I don't get it."
"You know I like to play solitaire. And you know my favorite way to play solitaire." His eyebrows briefly went up, then returned to their normal crookedness.
"Oh, no. You're not--"
"Yep," he interrupted.
"Skeeter! Then what am I gonna do? I might have to take a few notes."
"Take 'em the old fashioned way, with pen and paper."
"All right," I said, exhaling loudly, " I know I'm gonna regret this, but fine: you can borrow my laptop too. But just for Yahoo! Solitaire. NO porno sites! You hear me?"
So anyway, we arranged a time to meet around the corner from the other woman's place, and I drove home.
That was last night and now today he's whittling down my bars like they're going out of style. Called me for the third time already and it's only, what? 11:14. I keep reminding him there's a lot more waiting than glory to this spy game. One good thing about the ants in his pants, though, is I'm no longer in a foul mood. Got a fresh vehicle and a fresh goatee in case I need to go in for another close-up. Only today and this weekend to keep an eye on things, and if Kevin's gonna do his own excavating, I've got a fresh attitude too. He probably won't use a backhoe--too big--not when he can drive a Bobcat right through his gate. If I see him start to dig, I can't call the police right away, either. I gotta wait 'til he hits topsoil, then call. If I call too early, it's not like the authorities can make him break all the way through--he'll just stop digging. Sure, the grave might not be a full six feet, but it's bound to be a couple feet deep.
Timing. I think when it goes down, it's gonna be about the timing.
If the police don't get here quick enough and he pulls something adult-sized out of the ground, I gotta go in, myself, alone, naked. Well, not "nude" naked, but "without a gun" naked. Maybe if I'm lucky I might even remember my tire iron and not do the stupid thing again.
Needless to say, Kevin's not called. Perhaps he's gotten in touch with our power company and the jig is up. Though I don't really think I can get in trouble over this, I mean: if there's no body under there. At worst, I plead ignorance, then change my cell number in a few weeks. I definitely think something fishy is going on with Kevin and his girlfriend, Beth. Something more than their affair. And I aim to get to the bottom of it.
Reverie broken: phone. Is it Kevin? Dawn? No. Of course not.
"Hello, Skeet," I say. "It's been ages."
"Hey."
"So?"
"Just checkin' in."
"How you holdin' up, buddy?"
"OK, I guess. Bored."
"You still playing cards?"
"Ah, I just finished another hand. Thinkin' about runnin' to the 7-Eleven."
"Hey now. You remember our deal. If you can't take it anymore, no biggie. But you gotta drive straight to my place. Then leave the keys in the flower tub."
"Yeah, but then I gotta walk home."
"Just... Just hold on. I'll be here another five six hours, tops. I told you to pack a lunch." And then I hear a voice in his background, which, I presume, is still the interior of my Minor.
"Yeah, I didn't. I forgot. I thought you'd let me hit the store at least once. Gotta piss too, Herb. We never said anything about that."
This time I definitely hear a voice. "You got someone there with you, Skeet?" I ask, growing suspicious.
"That's just your radio. It was a commercial."
I hear him change stations. It's back on music or, well, rap.
"There. How's that?" the Skeet asks.
"I'm pretty sure I heard Duane there with you, Skeet. Did I?"
Pause. "OK. Yeah."
"OMG, Skeet! What, you called him? Invited him over to your stakeout? Whaddya think this is: a Tupperware party?!"
"I told you, Herb: I was bored. I'm still bored."
Damage control. Mind racing.
FORWARD to what happened next
BACK to what happened first
OVER to HerbNation HOMEPAGE