In my line of work I get calls at all hours. So when I ripped the top off the eighth cold gold of the night and the phone buzzed simultaneously, it wasn’t a shocker. I let it ring for a minute as I always do, and then I let out a winded and hurried “HELLO?” That’s my deal. I say it with a slight panicked tone, so if needed I can get off the phone quick with a “Hey man, gotta go, my toilet’s jammed.”
Or a “God damnit, my dog just shit on my bean bag.”
This call was different. I’ve had ’em before. They come from a blocked number and they’re always very serious. You see, I’m kind of a freelance investigator, mixed with a little bounty hunter, and peppered with a little special ops. Roll those three little things into a miraculous doobie of get the info, get outta my way, and get it done. Yeah, I’m what the CIA called “a loose nut.” I got their God damn loose nut. Come and try to get it, Obama.
“Jack?” the voice said at the other end.
“Yeah, what?”
“We need you, guy.”
Let me clear something up for you kids. First off, my name ain’t “Jack.” It’s the code name I gave these government pencil pushers long ago. Long before aging hipsters started naming their kids Jack ’cause they thought it sounded “kinda tough.” God, are you kidding me? Why don’t you go on TV and get another tattoo that represents your fight against your own stupidity, your dead goldfish, how you’re so deep, or how the portrait of your dead great grandpa you never met is gonna let everyone know “Look out, world, I’m an individual.” Yeah, you sure are. An individual piece of hammered dog shit. Back when I got tattoos they didn’t mean shit. They mighta meant I got the herpe sores so bad right now, or it burns so much when I piss that I gotta distract myself with the pain of this shitty anchor tattoo.
“Whatta you guys need this time?” I said.
“Well, Jack, it’s these skateboarders.”
“These what?!”
“Skateboarders, Jack. We need you to tail ’em
over to Europe.”
“Why do you want me to tail these ’boarders?”
I say back.
“Uh, Jack, we just do. We been checking these guys out for a while. We need to know what the big deal is. What’s the draw? We assume it’s drug-related. Maybe liquid LSD in the Sharpies they sign the autographs with? Maybe the kids lick the signature when they get home and—booya—little Johnny’s trippin’ balls.”
“OK,” I say. “Read you loud and clear.”
All he really had to tell me was that it was skateboarders. Back when I was a kid those scumbags would take a usable pair of roller skates, cut ’em in half, and nail ’em to a 2-by-4. What a waste. Probably would have won me a free Coke or two shootin’ the duck down at the Roller Boogie. Man, I used to hold that leg out there like there was no tomorrow.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Gimmie the names.”
“OK, Jack, we got a Howard, Mariano, Malto, Puig, Gonzales, Anderson, Schaaf, Bledsoe, Brophy, Jensen, and Carroll. They travel with some other sketchballs posing as photographers and such. Be on the lookout for their leader. He goes by Smyth.
“Where these bags of dung headed?” I say.
“The poster says the UK, Sweden, Germany, and France.”
“Typical,” I say, “try to keep us guessing.”
I spot these boneheads instantly on the plane. They were arguing over the latest issue of “I’m a grown man playing with a little wooden roller board.” Then they go into, “Hey, man, if I take this whole pill is it gonna knock me out? I’m scared.” Man, I’ll tell you what you skateboarding imbeciles, gimmie the whole damn bottle. I can’t take being on the same plane as you.
Not gonna bore you with what happened next. Put it this way: Two God-forsaken weeks of “Let’s play twinkle toes up on the hand railing” or “Let’s see if we can scratch our boards up on that giant curve.” Oh, and something is going on, for sure: kids lined up by the dozens to watch these skaters play jump and spin on a perfectly good bench made for sitting. With the amount of gas these guys pass, the drugs could be in something they eat, slowly getting the kids hooked on some sort of dope they expel through their backsides. I wasn’t about to follow that path.
They called it the Four’n Legion Tour. It was more like an infectious lesion that I couldn’t stop scratching. I found myself dazed and bewildered by their nonstop laughing, joking, and jibber jabber. Like a deer in the headlights, like the enemy trapped within the crosshairs of my scope, I couldn’t turn away. I found myself whispering “Do it” when one of them was trying to spin and drag his board across some piece of stone, waiting to see if his feet would connect in time. And that was when I realized it: they had gotten to me, and I didn’t even know it had happened. I grabbed the nearest cab and had him high tail it to the airport. On the flight back to Tampa I knew there was only one thing to do for now: Get drunk and get this hell tour outta my mind. Oh, but I’m not done. I’ll be waiting for you, FOURSTAR. I’ll get my mind straight and I’ll get my report.
